Fly Another Day

Dragonflies spend a lot of time flying over water, but like helicopters they don't do very well if the try to land in water. Helicopters sink, dragonfly wings become adhered to the water surface and they become stuck. Their only hope is to make it to shore before a lurking muskellunge takes a fancy to them.

Last evening I was floating on the lake in my nattily appointed yacht; five feet of inflated made-in-China plastic goodness. In the middle of the glassy Washademoak I spotted something struggling on the surface of the water (note: it wasn't Julian....he does quite well on the stand-up paddleboard!). As I got closer I could see that it was a dragonfly. I love dragonflies. They have to be the coolest of all insects, though praying mantises are also quite fascinating for their sexploits. Dragonflies look cool, make nice accents to Tiffany lamps, and fly better than any Apache attack helicopter ever could. Plus they eat mosquitoes, for which I am eternally grateful.

I scooped up the beleaguered dragonfly from a near certain death and offered her a ride back to shore. she looked up at me with her gorgeous green eyes and said "cncusgabbykln ruiavb  vjrgabbyv urbvvb jckjvk jsbirgittenv  nnviawnibzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz". I blushed.

I transferred her from my hand to the plastic gunnel of the H.M.S. Mootha but she couldn't seem to get a proper grip and kept falling back into the boat. I then let her rest on my finger but it quickly became apparent that it was going to be really hard to row the boat with a knuckle-duster insect ring. I transferred her to my big toe where she happily watched the shore grow closer while I rowed.

Now, here's a dilemma. How do you get out of an inflatable boat with a dragonfly on one foot. Under the best of circumstances it's a challenge to get out of that thing. Self-levitating reminds me of mom struggling to stand up when she used to go cross country skiing. Lots of hilarity and radical body Scottish. I knew I couldn't get out of the boat without crushing my four winged friend, so I enlisted Julian to help. He took the dragonfly from my toe and place it on terra firma. I grunted and groaned while managing to extricate myself from the boat.

My pet dragonfly needed to dry her wings before she could fly another day. I hope that she's back in the air today, free from bondage, and fighting evil (mosquitoes).

'Strife In My Life

There are three ways to classify plants:

1) the botanist's way, using Latin
(i.e. Lythrum salicaria )

2) the populist way, using English
(i.e. purple loosestrife)

3) The Ian way, using whatever is at your disposal
(i.e. that purply thingy).

Recently I saw a purply thingy in my garden, co-mingling with my variegated weigela (that stripy leafy bushy thing). I was intelligent enough to know that I didn't plant it, but dumb enough not to know what it was....though I had my suspicions.

I looked it up on-line and, sure enough, it was the dreaded purple loosestrife. My initial reaction was verbal. Bastard! My secondary reaction was violent in nature....must....kill! I grabbed its delightfully square stems and yanked it from my hallowed ground. Did I mention that I grabbed it with my teeth (see picture)? And I growled and shook my head from side to side like a Rockweiler clamping on a Sheltie's neck.

The purple loosestrife is no more. I done kilt it. Now I have no strife in my life, or garden, except for some unvulgar Lysimachia vulgaris which I planted on purpose. Not familiar with Lysimachia vulgaris? It's that yellowy thingy that seems to grow with ease and abandon. You can see it in two places in my garden, right next to all those greenish things.

Athletic Supporters And The Cup

Julian has never, ever followed in my footsteps as far as I'm concerned. As per usual, he's in the lead (note: with a few exceptions). Yesterday, Julian had a personal best in his running. The old record for running to Nan's Store and back (one mile) was six minutes and forty-five seconds. Oddly enough, we both shared that record and it stood for about five years.

The record has fallen. It is now 6:41 and I expect that won't stand for long. To the best of my knowledge, Julian is currently the fastest person in the Nielsen/Varty families. Gup, in his army prime, some seventy years ago, did a six minute mile. No one else in the family has come close. Uncle David couldn't run a mile but he likely has an app that could. Me Mootha hiked a four thousand foot mountain in her youth, but she was never a runner. Dana probably doesn't own sneakers. Jason can do it....on a quad. Erik could run the mile but I don't think he could do it as quickly as Julian. Doug owns a crisp cabinet...nuff said. Our favourite Nielsen, David Kersey, might have been a challenger in his prime. Todd can run with Godspeed, but not as fast our little devil.

So, well done Julian. To cap it off Julian did 40 push-ups later that evening. That was also a personal best. I did 57 the night before. I'm still king of that domain....for now.

Beetle Tales Dipped In Butter

This bad boy of the beetle world was flying around our property last week. Normally I don't see many beetles in the yard, mostly for lack of looking, but when something looking like an armoured Tim Bit flies past your face, you can't help but notice.

I have no idea what this beetle does for a living. It might feed off dung in which case it was on the wrong side of the fence. It might eat pine trees in which case it found Mecca.

Beetles are curious. They carry their own steel plated exo-skeleton, yet they can fly. They're like Grumman Avengers. I wouldn't want to be avenged by one. Imagine enlarging one to human size. Many of those sci-fi movies I've never watched feature giant insects. It makes me wonder if there are some very successful entomologists in Hollywood.

When this beetle arrived in our yard it sparked a conversation about lobsters. We had joked about eating this beetle, then I made the point that a lobster is nothing more than an over-sized underwater beetle. Think about it. Lobsters look and behave like insects. So do shrimp....and we love them. We butter them up and then wolf them down. Aaaaaoooooooooowww.

If you were starving to death, would you eat a beetle? I would. Okay, let's up the ante....would you eat an earthworm? I'm not sure I could do that, but there used to be a show on television where the contestants would. Fear Factor. Of course many of them gagged and hurled immediately afterwards. If people will eat insects for money, surely they would eat them for survival. Thankfully we're not there yet as a society, at least not in the western world. Perhaps one day we'll all go to the McDonald's drive-thru and order a Big Mac and flies. Maybe we already have, and we simply didn't know it.

A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

This is what Cambridge-Narrows looked like just one hour and fifteen minutes before the tornado touched down. It was a gorgeous evening and I was enjoying a paddle around the lake on my stand-up paddleboard.

I returned home about a half hour before the tornado struck as I could see some dark clouds to the west, though there was no real indication of what was to come.

This image is a good reminder that weather can sneak up on you and catch you by surprise. In general it's not of any great concern because we're quite mobile most of the time, but as a windsurfer it's good to watch the weather. When you're on the water you're at the mercy of the weather gods, and they're a miserable bunch of overlords.

Mootha And The Bike Path

One of the most intelligent decisions the City of Fredericton ever made was to convert the old railway lines to bike paths. One of these paths is located a scant two hundred feet from where my Mom lives (Pine Grove, Woodstock Road).

Since Mom took possession of a new wheelchair, or perhaps it took possession of her, we've been expanding our horizons in terms of four-wheel adventuring. The other day we went to Wilmot Park and watched the kids wading in the pee pool. Mom's wheelchair handles sidewalks rather well, and the odd speed-bump is usually met with a chuckle. Mom seems to enjoy getting jostled around. When you live in a nursing home, even the slightest diversions are welcome.

Recently we discovered the paved bike path that offers shade, scenery (plants/birds/people) and a spectacularly smooth surface. The pavement is gorgeous. Smooth pavement is something with which most New Brunswick drivers have little experience. Try driving where I live! I dare say that the bike path is my new favourite place, at least to take Mom. It's my plan to take her for a spin every chance I get, weather permitting. Mom seems keenly aware of her surroundings when out on the path, so that can only be good.

I'm thinking that perhaps we should install a bell on her wheelchair. That could be useful when we overtake pedestrians and bikers. Mom's wheelchair, the Escalade, is capable of some pretty impressive speeds. Perhaps we could install a revolving red light and a siren, then make citizen's arrests (got ya!). I'm not sure who or what we would arrest, but I see it as a good way to collect money...and since we haev'na got ony, it could prove to be very popular.

Who Is This Woman?

o

She's tanned. She's jogging. She's employing a personal trainer. She hasn't taught a voice lesson in three weeks.

Who is this woman?

If you guessed Silvy Moleman you might, strictly speaking, be correct. If you guessed Wendy Nielsen, you would be correct!

You might remember that I put up an image of Wendy jogging a week or two ago. Now she's enlisted Julian to be her personal trainer and he's ruthless (but working for Wendy's benefit).

Yesterday Wendy put in a performance worthy of the coveted Varty Cup. Under trainer Julian's watchful eye and encouragement, Wendy was able to jog from our driveway to Fred Jenkins' driveway, take a breather, then jog a bit more. It was an all-time personal best!

Wendy's personal trainer has set a goal for her: jog from our driveway to Nan's store. That's exactly half of a mile. Wendy came very close to accomplishing that yesterday. There is a bit of an incentive to accomplish this feat, apart from the obvious encouragement from Julian and me. There is a timeline. Julian has challenged Wendy to complete this challenge before Wendy goes to Toronto on August 18.

I think it's doable but only through dedicated training. Wendy's personal trainer is not cutting her any slack so I'm optimistic that Wendy can do it. This reminds me of the old joke: a young singer asks her New York voice teacher 'how do you get to Carnegie Hall'? The teacher replies 'practice, practice, practice'.

That's already been checked off Wendy's list, and I expect a jog to Nan's store will be next. Before that, though, Wendy is off to train her own students at her St.Andrews Opera Workshops. 'Opening throats and minds' as she likes to say. Will she be jogging in St.Andrews during her ten day stint there? I'm guessing 'yes' because she knows her personal trainer will be watching from afar.

I love it when the hunted becomes the hunter, or the teacher becomes taught. It's healthy.

Cambridge-Narrows Summer Time-lapse

16 hours compressed into 33 seconds. It was a phoggy start to the day but definitely a photo phinish!

Tornado In Cambridge-Narrows and Whites Cove

That rather large piece of Harold Jones' building (sitting in the pond) used to be part of the building that you see in the picture below. They are now approximately 300 or 400 hundred feet apart. That was the power of the tornado that we experienced on Saturday evening.

The tornado struck around 7:30 p.m. in a location just two miles from where I live. Just 25 minutes prior to the tornado, I was paddling my stand-up paddleboard on the lake. The weather was hot, humid and sunny. I did see some dark clouds approaching so I decided to return to shore. Good call. We experienced a thunderstorm and heavy rain at our place, but there was no indication that a tornado was in the neighbourhood. Later that evening Julian mentioned that people were talking about a tornado. I was skeptical.

On Sunday morning I drove down to Harold Jones' place. I am no longer skeptical. Only a tornado or a hurricane could have done the damage, and we haven't had any hurricanes yet this year. I also saw video footage on cbc.ca that someone shot of the tornado. Funnel cloud. Spinning. Touching ground.

Yup. Tornado. It's the first one in my 49 years in New Brunswick. The weather is certainly 'odd' these days. Floods in Calgary and Toronto. Tornados in Cambridge-Narrows. Are these sure signs of the apocalypse?

Perhaps, but I'm not ready to crack open the bible just yet. I'll need to see some locusts first (gypsy moths need not apply).

Add More Fleur Rouge

Looking around my garden, it's obvious that I need more red flowers. My red lily told me this, and I was listening.

Next spring I intend to plant more perennials with red blossoms. More lilies, roses, astilbe and whatever else I can find. I've got plenty of yellows at the moment, and a good smattering of purples. I don't have a lot of whites, but I have enough.

So.....take note, Ian....and don't forget. Next year....red!

Eraser Plants Works For Me!

Walking past these roadside plants the other day, I couldn't help but note that they looked like the erasers that you find at the end of pencils. I have no idea what they are. It may remain one of life's mysteries, or I could ask Gup or Andy Dean, two of eastern Canada's most noted botanists.

The Four Octave Range

 



Do you want to piss off a Canadian opera singer? I can think of two ways:

1) the first way is to make any mention of a certain Canadian singer. To protect her identity, I will refer to her simply as Canada's 'Queen Of Opera'. Oddly enough, the 'Queen' has never been a member of Canada's operatic Royal Family, though the media portrays her as such. Hackles tensed.

2) the second way is to mention Mariah Carey's four octave range. I've never seen the collective hackles of the opera community raised any higher than when discussing Ms.Carey's so-called four octave range.

A four octave range can be found on a keyboard, for sure, but is extremely rare in a human being. In canine/human terms, imagine the love child of James Earl Jones (Luke, I am your father) and a sheltie. Maybe, just maybe, that baby could do it.

So, sorry, Mariah, the experts say you don't have a four octave singing voice, so stop perpetuating it.

Canada Lily

It's Canada lily season. Everywhere you go, you see them growing. In gardens, ditches, along bike paths. I've got a few in my garden, though they have yet to prosper. I'd like to add more, and I will. I've slowly been building a list in my head of the plants that I'd like to add to my garden. All I need is time, money and a strong back.

Two out of three ain't bad.

Exercise: The Tables Have Turned

There was a time when I was the athlete in the family. That was then. The new reality is that Julian goes for a fast run every couple of nights (sub 7-minute miles!). He eats well and he does push-ups before bed.

Wendy has now added some jogging to her morning walks. She does yoga occasionally.

Me? I'm a wreck....almost. My back is keeping me from having most forms of fun. I can't run. I can't bike. I can't even sit down for any length of time. I can barely windsurf at the moment. Gardening has been curtailed. All I can do is lay on the sofa which is great for blogging. And whining. And noticing spider webs on the ceiling.

What to do? What to do? Today I'm going to see a physiotherapist. We'll see if that helps.

Until I recover I'll exercise vicariously through my family, and keep an eye on my expanding paunch. I should mention that I can still do push-ups. Last evening I did 50 continuous push-ups, though my arms never actually reached the ground.

Trailer Taxation

Make no mistake, Cambridge-Narrows is for sale, and the only people buying are trailer dwellers. Tin troglodytes, if you will, who are smarter than they look.

There's a surplus of inventory for sale along the Washademoak Lake. Nothing much seems to be selling but I have noticed a trend with those properties that do sell. The trend is to not build a home or cottage, but to put a mobile trailer on the land.

It's ugly, for sure. It's also a clever way to beat the taxman....for now. If I understand New Brunswick property tax law, these lakeside land owners will be paying tax on their land but not on their dwellings because they have wheels on them. It doesn't matter that they never move and they have decks around them that literally tether them to the land. They have wells and septic systems.

Let's face it, they're cottages. They're the cottages of the 21st century, but they're untaxed in the old reality. Those that put $40000-$80000 trailers on their land use the roads, lake and community infrastructure just like those of us with cottages/homes here, but they're not paying for that privilege.

It looks like the provincial government may be investigating the possibility of taxing these people which will make our current government even more unpopular, but are their potential actions justified? I think so.

Why should trailer owners not pay their fair share? Here's two scenarios:

Scenario 1) the owner of a lakefront cottage (no basement, sits on concrete slab) sitting on a one acre lot pays $1500 a year in property tax. The cottage is worth about $60000 and the land is worth $100000. The cottagers spend every July and August weekend at the lake.

Scenario 2)  the owner of a lakefront trailer (sits on concrete slab) sitting on a one acre lot pays $800 a year in property tax. The trailer is worth about $60000 and the land is worth $100000. The trailer owners spend every July and August weekend at the lake.

The difference is minimal except when it comes to taxes. The old argument was that the trailers were mobile and taxing them would have to depend on their location which would be impossible to monitor. The fact is that these trailers are not mobile, so let's stop pretending that they are.

The same goes for trailer parks. The taxes that the trailer park owners pay are in no way consistent with the manner with which their tenants use our community's resources. Not even close. I say that it's high time that the playing field be leveled. There will be a lot of whining, but fair's fair.

H.Erb's Herbs: What's In A Name?

What a fortuitous coming together of both name and passion. Howard Erb, or H.Erb, loves herbs. He grows them. He sells them. No business has ever been more aptly, or memorably, named.

What other businesses could give them a run for the money, at least in terms of names?

How about Paul Orks' Pork? Or Charlie Hickens Chickens? Stephen Tools Stools (like a sample??). Henry Ells Bells.

They're all good, but fictitious. Howard Erb is real. So is H.Erb's Herbs.

Quite honestly, it might be the best business name ever. To make things even sweeter, both Howard and Marilyn Erb are wildly passionate about herbs, and they're unbelievably generous; with information....and herbs.

The Duchess Of Hazard

As I write this, I'm wearing my 'Daisy Dukes' so I have no right to call Wendy a hayseed. Daisy Duke was a character in the television series The Dukes Of Hazard. Daisy was the 'girl next door' who also happened to have legs that wouldn't quit. Her shorts were called 'shorts' for a reason. Those famous shorts became known as Daisy Dukes.

I'm wearing Daisy Dukes because I had a long pair of jeans which had a growing tear above the right knee cap. The tear likely started as an abrasion, no doubt from the kneeling and praying that I do. Or it could have been the gardening. I took the scissors to them and turned them into shorts. Living in the country, I can't just go out and buy a pair of shorts, so I made them myself.  This is how country living works.

We don't have fancy department stores, restaurants, or amusement parks. We can't ride on the Ferris wheel, or come close to barfing on the Zipper. When we need entertainment, we make our own.

Hay bale!

When I see a hay bale, I think of four things:

1) I must climb it and pose
2) What does one of those suckers sell for (thinking about beachcombing the one in the lake)?
3) Weetabix el grande
4) Jeez, I hate horses.

My back has been sore lately so I encouraged Wendy to climb it and pose, which she did with aplomb. She just looks like the Duchess of Hazard sitting up there, don't you think?

Local Turtle Spotted...I Mean Painted

I'm clutching at straws this morning. I suppose I get that from Me Mootha, though she more often is chomping on straws.

When one clutches at straws, they make a desperate attempt to hold onto something that barely exists. This morning, I didn't have an image for the blog, so I started looking through older images.

My turtle image was taken about three weeks ago and didn't make the blog cut at the time. This morning it's all I had.

I'm not sure if I've ever seen a turtle on our property before, or in our lake for that matter. I'm pretty sure it's a first. I'm happy to see them though I don't really want them nipping at me while I'm swimming. If I'm attacked while swimming, I want it to be some more regal than an animal that gets a nutty chocolate cluster named after it. Mmmmmm....I love Tu.......blah, blah, blah. Been there, done that.

No, I want to be attacked by a blood thirsty, man-eating muskellunge. Well, not really. This is why I never swim in Big Cove. I heard that someone caught one there.

Lily Of The Varty

The world needs more lilies. There would be no wars if everyone had lilies in their yard, of that I'm convinced.

Could you wake up in the morning, smell the lilies, and then do any of the following:

- fly a jet into the World Trade Centre

- use chemical warfare against your fellow countrymen, countrywomen and countrybabes

- drive while drunk

- walk into a school with a gun and start shooting

- force others to watch Live At 5 at knifepoint.

No. I seriously doubt any of this would happen if we all lived in a place surrounded by beautiful lilies. The world 'lily' itself is soft and gorgeous. The letter 'L' flows serenely off the tongue with round,smooth edges. If the world was full of echinacea, for example, then things could be different, perhaps murderous. Heckinacea. Yeckinacea. Disrespectinacea.

For now, let us think of lilies. Ahhhhhh. Ommmm.

Hay! Somebody Could have Been Killed

It's a rather odd image, wouldn't you say? Far from beautiful, further from captivating. What's odd is that there looks to be a bale of hay....in the lake. What the hell is it doing there?

You can't see it in this image but there's a hay field high above the lake, on the other side of the trees. The field has a gentle slope up near the Lakeview Road but steepens dramatically as you head toward the lake.

We've just experienced a few very hot days with no precipitation. Ideal haying weather. Clearly someone was out cutting and baling hay. Clearly someone doesn't understand the concept of 'the wheel'.

Wasn't that one of the fundamental discoveries made by cavemen thousands of years ago (and perfected by the Flintstones)? Have we learned nothing?

Recipe: take one five hundred pound (and round) object, place on incline, then push gently. Wait for a few seconds. Fret a bit. Yell 'timber'. Hope no one was 'in the way'.

This bale of hay started its journey somewhere in the hay field. It probably rolled down the field, through at least 100 feet of woods, across the beach and into the lake. Had someone been fishing on the shore at the time, they likely would have been killed.

Wouldn't that be a pathetic way to die? Fishing along the shores of the Washademoak, run over by a bale of hay. Didn't see that one coming , did you? It's not unlike the real tragedy in Lac Megantic. Some things in life you simply can't anticipate. Human error, no matter how seemingly simple, can have catastrophic consequences. Fortunately there were no human hay bale injuries, but I wouldn't be surprised if the lake is home to a few flounder now.

Dig This

I've started walking most mornings. It's a great way to exercise, enjoy the landscape, and find things you want to pilfer.

Pilfer? Make no mistake, it's stealing. Using the word pilfer makes it sound like a gentler way to steal.

I found some wild roses growing in a field. I thought that I knew who owned the field and I spoke to them about buying a couple of rose bushes from them. They said they sold the land to one of New Brunswick's utilities sometime ago, and that the utility doesn't even know they own it. They're suppose to keep it mowed which they haven't. This is why the rose bushes are thriving.

He said that I should just go dig them up. I'm tempted.

The only problem is that my back is bad at the moment and I don't want to do any shoveling. I would need to enlist 'the boy' to do the shoveling. Strictly speaking, this would be his introduction to crime. Theft under $40, punishable by two years less a day. That's his penalty, other than hanging out with his father.

Me? I'd likely go to the big house for my crime (criminally influencing a minor).

Wait a minute! I could plead that I was unduly influenced by my father. If I remember correctly, he pilfered some lady-slippers from the UNB woodlot when I was a boy. I could likely use this as a defense in court, that I was psychologically traumatized by me-old-man-knickin'-an-orchid.

Perfect! I'm off the hook. Julian.....get my shovel!

Vintage Hinckley

If you can't roll over in the morning and see your wife's lovely face, then at least you should be able to look out your window and see a Hinckley yacht. This is my version of heaven.

Such was my morning mourning of yesterday. No Wendy, but there was a vintage 1950 Hinckley yacht anchored across the lake from my lakeside estate, Narrowleaf.

Did that not sound wonderfully pretentious?

I am familiar with this yacht. She's lived in the channel from the Washademoak to the St.John River since I moved here. I used to motor past her in Maud regularly. She used to have a white, wooden hull but a few years ago she was retrofitted with what I believe to be a fiberglass shell. She looks magnificent. If I had the money, I'd buy a Hinckley and moor it out front for aesthetics. That's what Martha Stewart does in Seal Harbor, Maine, with her Hinckley Picnic boat. That's what many boat owners do. So few people use their boats regularly. I'm rambling.

Hinckley good. SeaDoo bad. End of story.

The Village Idiots Play Cambridge-Narrows Community Days Variety Show

Success! The Village Idiots debuted a new original song, Mayor Blair's Blues, last night at the Cambridge-Narrows Community Days variety show.

The performance went exceptionally well, but don't take my word for it. Check it out yourself.....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fYxxYsMLEeg

Flower Power

I could have bought a new car, perhaps a Corvette.

I could have taken Wendy on a trip to New Zealand.

I could have bought Julian a 1950s Gibson Les Paul.

I could have developed a crystal meth addiction.

I could have bought a used Hinckley Picnic Boat.

I could have attended missionary school...for 10 years.

But no...I decided to spend my retirement funds on rhododendrons. I decided, the other day, that I should count the number of them on our property. Take a guess. How many do you think I have?

If you said 117 then you'd be...................wrong. It's actually 34, still a respectable number. They're all quite young at this point, but some day I hope that 'spring in the Narrows' will be every bit as delicious as 'summer in the province'. That should have read like 'summer in Provence'.

In addition to my 34 rhoddies, I also have about 7 azaleas but they don't seem to fair as well. Of course, I only have myself to blame for buying Scottish azaleas.

What's Up, Dock?

Have you ever seen the television show Extreme Makeover? Typically some poor people get their house renovated by a team of slick builders/designers hired by even slicker Hollywood types. While the renovations are happening, the po' folks are put up in some swank hotel while they await their domestic conversion. Inevitably, when they're brought back, the chubby children are yo-yoing up and down as though their Ritalin prescription had long since run out. The chubby mother is always teary-eyed. It all ends with the family hugging the chisel jawed host.

The next week? A new chubby family, a new group hug. This is how television works. Find a formula Holstein, then milk it.

We're getting a bit of an extreme makeover here in Cambridge-Narrows. Our village wharf, which we had to call a 'dock' in order to get federal funding, is being re-fronted. The crew arrives every morning and starts their ratta-tat-tatting. I dinna mind the din as it muffles the sound of the sheltie's incessant yapping. Plus it's the sound of progress. The wharf, I mean the dock, was in dire need of some love.

When the last spike has been tatta-tat-tatted, I'm hopeful there will be a grand re-opening ceremony. The mayor could give a grand speech, the type that would be quoted for years afterwards. There will be other dignitaries (perhaps the Federal Minister Of Fisheries, Oceans, Ice Cream, Knee High Socks and Docks, or maybe the executive assistant to the deputy fire chief of Lower Jemseg??). Maybe the Village Idiots could write a song (Sitting By The Dock Of The Lake). The mayor would invite someone from the apartment building to smash a beer bottle, in lieu of Cranpagne, on the dock's edge (been there, done that) to make it all official, then the mayor would invite us all to go for a swim, but not before we enjoy a lengthy group hug.
 ,

Derelict House Thoughts

If tacos can walk, surely a house can talk, right?

The house in this image is located about one kilometre from my place. In the twenty-one years that I've lived in Cambridge-Narrows, I've never seen this house occupied. I've never seen anyone give it a sideways glance, other than me.

So what's the story, morning glory? Better yet, what's up, buttercup?

This house must hold a story or two, perhaps even some secrets, but how to make it talk? I'll have to start talking...asking questions....but this might involve talking to 'locals'. Let me think about this. I'll have to weigh the danger of engaging 7th generation Loyalists against my desire for investigative enlightenment.

What you askin' all these question fer, boy? Git git.

Oh, what the hell....I'll just ask Ken Appleby. He knows everything, and he's just a first generation Idiot.

Did Your Hear? Summer Has Been Cancelled

I remember about a decade ago a summer in which every day had some percentage probability of precipitation. It was horrid.

You couldn't, with any inkling of certainty, plan anything outdoors. The thong-wrapped, shower cap crowned boogie man was always right behind you, crying on your shoulder, and you couldn't outrun him. So as not to be sexist, the boogie man in a shower cap can be interchanged with meteorologist Nindy Day, reigning terror in her granny's 'modesty' bathing suit. Imagine that.

This summer is shaping up to be 'one of those' summers.

The moral of the story:

1) don't summer in New Brunswick.

The rebuttal to the moral:

1a) what 'summer' in New Brunswick?

We've had some nice summer days so far, to be fair, but there's always the threat of fun-ruining rain. Almost every morning starts off bleak and grey. Sunsets? Forget about it. Every day ends grey too. It's just plain weird....very unsettling. The stock market has been wonky and interest rates are on the rise. These are trying times. Thank goodness the Super Store avocados have been superlative lately.

Christmas In July...Barely

Happy Canada Day!

Alright, so now it's July....and we all know what that means: finally a four letter month that starts with 'J...U...".

What about June, Ian?

Doh!

Okay, what it really means is Christmas in July. To the best of my knowledge, Christmas In July is a name given to a series of tack shops that sell Christmas ornaments all year long. Their customer base is comprised of morons, dolts, mental midgets, the cerebrally idle, and quite possibly my neighbours. There's one of these shops in Bar Harbor, I believe.

Well, one must do something when it rains.

So, if there was Christmas In July, say on Canada Day, what would I ask Satan (not a typo) for? I'd  ask for a mooring ball boat. Lo and behold, voila and abra-cadabra, look what's right in front of my place this morning!

Thank you, Satan. You're way better than Santa. All I got for Christmas in December was a book about golf jokes (see below) and some freeze dried egg salad sandwich powder, the type Chris Hadfield favours after a studio session in space.

(As a couple approaches the altar the groom tells his wife-to-be, "Honey, I've got something to confess: I'm a golf nut, and every chance I get, I'll be playing golf!" 

"Since we're being honest," replies the bride, "I have to tell you that I'm a hooker." 
The groom replies, "That's okay, honey. You just need to learn to keep your head down and your left arm straight!" )

Why is there a mooring ball boat fifty feet off my shore? My 'siren' is in Italy, so it was nothing femininely nefarious. Last evening the mooring guy from Belleisle was about to move my mooring ball when his transmission conked out. Thinking quickly, and working in a strong southerly wind, he dropped a mooring block as an anchor and averted the inconvenience of a shipwreck. His boat was about to go up on my shore.

In all likelihood he'll repair the transmission this Canada Day morning and move my mooring ball closer to shore. As I said, Christmas In July.  I've been wanting to have the mooring ball moved for years.

Ho, ho, ho (see golf joke).