Not Quite Kingsbrae

I thought I'd post a few updated images of my gardens. These images were taken last week (June 24 approx.).

Folly Fest 2014: Julian's First Foray Playing At A Music Festival

For a number of years now Julian has been saying 'I can't sing'. Well, here he is singing at Folly Fest 2014, a three day music festival in the Village of Gagetown. I think he's proven himself wrong. He's singing a song called California Stars, originally written by Woody Guthrie and popularized by Wilco. Julian's musical partner was 'local sweetheart', Audrey Eastwood. I say 'local sweetheart' because that's how the local Gagetown newspaper referred to Audrey a few weeks ago. I think she was mortified by the reference (though it's kinda true...heehee). Audrey played the ukulele, Julian played the guitar....and Julian was a singer....

I wonder if he'll admit that now?

Damn...I Was Hoping For A Jackalope Sighting

Almost every morning I go for a 4.8 kilometre walk. It's a healthy way to start the day and also nice to get in touch with the world around me. I almost always see something or someone of interest: birds, animals, yokels, potholes, beer cans, coffee cups, etc.  On the morning that I shot this video I had a close encounter with something furry. It was a most pleasant rendezvous, although I suspect that we were both highly suspicious of each other's next move.

Signs Say A Lot About People

'Visitors Welcome'. This is the sign that sits at the roadside end of Howard and Marilyn Erb's driveway. At the other of the driveway you'll find Howard and Marilyn, two of the nicest people you'd ever meet.

Howard and Marilyn grow and sell herbs on their property and they're always eager to share insight as to how herbs can make your life better, or at the very least make soups and salads more delicious.

Howard and Marilyn are always giving visitors new recipes to try and often free herb samples with which to experiment. More than anything they give you their time, sharing their enthusiasm about not just herbs, but life itself! When we have friends visiting us, we often take them up to the Erb's property because, as the sign says, visitors welcome...and they mean it. Signs say a lot about people.

In contrast, take a look at the three signs which 'welcome' people to my neighbours' property. If you knew nothing about my neighbours, I wonder what conclusions you might make based on the signs alone. Signs say a lot about people.

Les Jardins Du Homme Libre (Fils de Patter)

Take a look at all of these images, soak in the veritable rainbow of colours, admire the azaleas, revel in the rhododendrons, and then consider the fact that the blooms you see are already 30% past their peak. These images were taken on June 20 in the garden of our photographer friend. Let's call him 'Homme Libre' to protect his identity.

Homme Libre told us that we arrived four days after the peak (June 16) of what we now call 'the greatest show on Earth'. Monsieur Homme Libre has something like five or six hundred azaleas and rhododendrons in his gardens. It is to be believed.

I believe! I believe!!

La Wendy, El Guppo and I were spielbund, spillband, spoolbound....bound by spelling. We felt like little fleshy pink Smarties, high on LSD, in a juicy bag of technicolour Skittles. It truly was a candy shop for our mind's eye.

Homme Libre and his gardener, Anne du Jo, have done a spectacular job of creating an oasis within an oasis. They deserve high praise (hence the LSD reference) for hard work and creative planning. If the world of gardening had two celebrity gardeners to give a 'two green thumbs up' rating (a la Siskel and Ebert, in a living sense), then I'd mention it here. I looked up 'celebrity gardeners' on Google in an effort to reference someone/anyone, but I didn't recognize a single name. Curious. The world has celebrity chefs (J.O), celebrity celebrities (J.Lo), celebrity athletes (M.J.), and even people famous for being famous (M.B-G.), so why not celebrity gardeners?

I hereby nominate Homme Libre and Anne du Jo for the coveted Pelle d'Or award. Of course I made that award up, but that in no way diminishes the deservedness of these two soil toilers/petal pushers. They are as brilliant as the azaleas and rhododendrons
that I photographed. I thank them for a most pleasant experience that has lasted far more than one fine morning in June.

The Real Monarchist League Of Canada

Having a royal family is one of the most ridiculous notions that I can imagine. Though it may have made sense 'back in the day' when the king or queen actually had powers, in society today it is an utter waste of money. The security costs alone to 'protect' the royals is staggering. What are we protecting them from anyway? The answer: lunatics. It's the lunatics who are keeping them alive, I'd argue.

In any event, down with the royals, I say. All royals, not simply the Camillalot crowd. <cue the whinny of Duke the studio stallion in 3...2...1....NOW!>.

I say that we worship the monarch butterfly. Let's take the money that we spend on the royals, and put it into habitat preservation for the monarch butterfly.

People....rise up and plant milkweed before it's too late!

The Canadian Canaries: A Beautiful Couple

Lately I've been seeing a pair of goldfinches on my morning walk. They flit about the bushes like school children on a playground. They're not easy to capture motionless. I was lucky to get these two to pose for about 15 seconds. Snap, snap, snap went my camera, and then off they went to bluer skies and greener pastures.

They're a handsome couple. The male goldfinch is as close to a Canadian canary as we get. Stunningly beautiful. The missus ain't too shabby either.

Hip Hop Replacement?

There are three types of people in life: those who do, those who watch, and those who ignore. We are, on any given day, all three of these people. In fact, we live our entire lives as these three people. It's the balance between these three identities that allow us to be categorized as doers, sloths, armchair athletes, leisurologists, bass players, etc.

About a month ago Julian had the pleasure of witnessing his 10 year old cousin perform a dance 'routine'. I call it a routine but it was far from that! It was more of a one-of-a-kind expression of artistry and youthful exuberance, based on Julian's description. Julian was quite impressed. In particular, Julian was impressed with Max's ability to do 'the worm'. 

From Wikipedia: The Worm, sometimes referred to as the dolphin or the caterpillar is a dance motion often associated with breakdancing and "funk" subculture in which a subject lies in the Prone position and forms a rippling motion through their body, creating a wave reminiscent of a worm crawling. This can be done either forward or backwards, by shifting weight from the upper body to the lower body (backwards) or vice-versa for forwards. The worm was performed at some punk rock shows in the 1970s, was popularized widely during the 1980s "funk" period, and continues to be associated with breakdancing.

The move has been used and popularized by WWE wrestler "Scotty 2 Hotty" as his finisher maneuver.

I included the last sentence in this Wikipedia definition just in case my brother reads this blog. He'll appreciate the Scotty 2 Hotty reference, as I believe he was a fan of S2H.

Yesterday we had a Nielsen family party at our place. Max offered to dance and I was very receptive to his offer (hoping that the worm would be part of the dance). The family gathered around the sun room, except for Grampie Paul who passed out on the living room couch, and Max unleashed his concentrated fury on the carpet. Among his many moves was the coveted worm. Julian, among others, would practically convulse with delight every time Max did the worm. This got me thinking...

Why just sit there and watch, when you could try it? Of course with my bad back, the worm wasn't going to happen. I challenged Max to teach the worm to Julian. I challenged Julian to accept Max's offer of instruction.

There are those who do the worm (Max, Julian, Erik). There are those who watch the worm (Ian, Wendy, Chantal, Linda), and there are those who ignore the worm (Paul). I'd much rather be a doer, but my back is not soft and subtle like a worm. It's brittle like those worms you see baked and flattened in the middle of the highway. This is why I must live vicariously through Julian. He did not disappoint.

Iris, Therefore I am

When I bought my Cambridge-Narrows house in 1992, it came with a few things that I liked (some perennials, the view, the lingering odour of tasteless nouveau riche decor), and some things I didn't like (the carpeting!, the vinyl siding!, the lingering odour of tasteless nouveau riche decor). One of the notable likable items was a patch of yellow and purple bearded irises that continue to bloom to this very day (see today's image). That's twenty-two years of enjoyment. Makes me wonder why anyone buys annuals that give one season of colour, then croak.

I'm not really dissing annuals because they can be quite spectacular, but they have the investment value of fireworks, more or less. My irises look better this year than ever before. I'm not sure why but perhaps they like having a winter that lasts six months, a spring that never sprung, deluges of rain and no wind. Or perhaps it was the fertilizer.

Hey! What do you know about irises? I know very little other than I see wild ones growing in wet fields and ditches. They're commonly known as blue flag, but where did they come from? Are they native? Let's root around for some answers.

This calls for Wikipedia!

The iris (plural: irides or irises) is a thin, circular structure in the eye, responsible for controlling the diameter and size of the pupil and thus the amount of light reaching the retina. The color of the iris gives the eye its color.

Oops. Let's try again...

Iris is a genus of 260–300 species of flowering plants with showy flowers. It takes its name from the Greek word for a rainbow, referring to the wide variety of flower colors found among the many species. As well as being the scientific name, iris is also very widely used as a common name for all Iris species, as well as some belonging to other closely related genera. A common name for some species is 'flags'.

Irises have inspired artists such as Vincent Van Gogh. They've become the provincial flower for Quebec (and I thought Quebec's official flower was a bouquet of Poutine canadensis). The fleur-de-lis, seen in French illustration, is a stylized iris. You'll see it on the Quebec flag as well in the logo of the NFL's New Orleans Saints. I think the honourable Scouts ripped it off too. It's all over North America.

I'm happy to announce that there are about 30 species of irises native to North America. This makes me feel good because so often it turns out that some of the most beautiful and/or invasive flowers were introduced by those god-damned Europeans (thanks, Dad!). I used to wonder if North America, pre-Columbus, pre-Vikings, pre-Bill Varty was simply a vast floral nothingness. I envision millions of buffalo eating fields of fiddleheads, and perhaps a Vesey's Seeds teetering on bankruptcy, but not much more.

Cute, But Would It Make A Good Slipper?

For a number of years we've had chipmunks on our property. I'll be damned if I can tell whether they're male or female (I really do wish the buck chipmunks had antlers or some tell-tale marking), so we've gotten into the habit of naming all of 'our' chipmunks 'Chippy'. This, I should mention, is not an original idea.  Everyone calls their chipmunks Chippy. No one has ever nicknamed a chipmunk Andrea, Robert or Colleen. It's Chippy or nuthin'.

What about Chipweena, Ian?

Oh, yes, it is true that one year we named one of the Chipmunks Chipweena, sensing that it might have been a girl chipmunk. What's really interesting about chipmunks is not whether they're male or female, and it's not that we hand feed them either, rather it's Wendy approach to befriending rodents. Chippy is a rodent, after all, and Wendy hates mice. One day I asked Wendy why she loved chipmunks and hated mice...

Ian: Wendy, why do you hate mice, yet adore chipmunks?

Wendy: If I can see me wearing them as slippers, then I like them.

Wicked Weather Watching

There isn't a Canadian alive who hasn't been disappointed by a meteorologist's forecast, particularly a long range forecast. The term 'long range forecast' has a number of synonyms or equivalents, the most notable being 'semi-blind guess'. That's being generous, if you ask me.

The only weather forecast worth a grain of salt is the one that you give yourself when you look out the window. The forecast is good for about five minutes, beyond which it's pretty much a crap shoot.

Last summer I was paddle-boarding on the mighty Washademoak Lake. I could see storm clouds a' brewin' so I decided to get off the water and seek shelter in my house. Twenty minutes later a wicked thunderstorm blew through the area. Little did I know that a tornado touched down just two miles from my home, destroying some buildings. Trees were snapped with the fluid ease of a crooner's fingers.

The picture you see in today's blog was not taken by me, though it was taken from the balcony of my 17th story Toronto condo. The tall building in the centre of the image is the new 78 storey Aura condo (Canada's tallest). A photo credit needs to go out to J.P.Raftery, Professor of Voice and (now) noted urban landscape photographer. This image was taken around the same time that a tornado ripped through Angus, Ontario, just one hour north of Toronto. To the credit of meteorologists, I believe tornado warnings were issued for southern Ontario, so there is worth to short term forecasts. Still, there's nothing like sticking your head out the window to see what's headed your way. I think today's image is stunning because it tells a story, creates suspense, but doesn't give away the ending. It makes me wonder if Toronto is still standing after the storm passed. I checked, it is. <sigh>

That Ain't No Muskrat!

 I was laying on the couch last evening when I spotted something furry on the dock. I assumed that it was a muskrat because that's what I might typically see at this time of the day. It very quickly became apparent that 'that ain't no muskrat'.

The creature that I had spotted was long and somewhat slender.Not chubby enough to be a muskrat, and the tail was too bushy. I grabbed the binoculars for a better look. It was eating fresh water clams. I called for Wendy to come have a look.

"Wendy, come have a look!"

(I told you that's what I said). Wendy came through and took a look. I went and fetched my camera. I snapped a picture from the sun-room, then I went outside in an attempt to sneak up on the cagey, bloodthirsty beast. I wore sneakers in case I had to flee for my life!

By this point I had ascertained that it was either a weasel or a mink, though I was leaning toward mink because of its size.

 I crept silently toward the front of my property, using trees to shield my presence. The mink was ambling along the front of my shore, where the water meets some low-flying shrubbery. Ultimately, and much to my surprise, I was able to get within ten feet of the mink and it still didn't know I was there. I was, quite honestly, stealthier than the mink! The mink was laying among the branches of a shrub, shielded from view, somewhat, by the leaves of the shrub. I was able to watch the mink cleaning it's fur, and I felt like some sort of peeping Tom/voyeur/Edgar Degas. This went

on for a good five minutes. I actually got bored so I started making chipmunk noises and rattling some brushes to see if I could get the mink to move into open view.

I finally signaled to Wendy that I needed back-up so she left the sun room and joined me, a mere ten feet from Minky. I decided that I would work my way around the other side of Minky in an attempt to flush it out, back towards our dock. At first Minky tried to hide under the rocks, but eventually Minky made a run for it. Wendy got a spectacularly good view, no more than eight feet away in clear view.

Minky went under our concrete dock and tried to hide but I flushed Minky out again by kicking gravel in the water. Minky swam to the end of the dock. It was at this point that I heard Wendy say something that I wasn't quite prepared to hear.

"Oh oh, here comes Chippy," she said. Stupid, beautiful Chippy no doubt heard me rustling in the bushes and making chipmunk noises, the same noises that I make when I feed Chippy peanuts. 'Damn', I thought. 'What am I going to do now'? Minky would love Chippy just like I do, except Minky would not feed Chippy peanuts. Minky would feed Chippy...to himself! I made an aggressive move toward Chippy to scare him away. It seemed to work, though he may have been a bit cheesed off with me. Still, I'd rather have him angry with me than inside a mink's belly. I turned my attention back to Minky.

Minky clambered to the other side of the dock and tried to escape towards disGraceland but I headed him off at the pass, since Chippy was last seen heading in that direction. Minky backtracked and made his/her way back towards the original hiding spot in the bushes. It was at this point that Minky gave us the slip and we gave up.

We weren't 100% sure whether Minky was a mink or a weasel but we researched the two when we got back to the house. Weasels tend to be smaller and they don't swim, so this pretty much ensured that we had been dancing with a mink. Having a mink in the yard was quite a thrill though it makes me nervous for Chippy and also for the hooded merganser nesting in our oak tree. Minky would happily eat Chippy and/or the duck eggs or ducklings. It's a cruel world, but that's the way things have to be in....

.....Mutual Of Oromocto's Wild Kingdom.

I'm Ian Varty, see you next week.

A Turkey-free Thanksgiving In June

On August 4, 1992, Wendy, Julian and I moved to the location that you see in today's image. Things were much different back then. Julian, for example, was only 6 months old. Wendy was an operatic gun for hire. I, now fighting back tears to write these words, had hair.

The property we bought in Cambridge-Narrows was beautiful, or so we thought. It featured a handful of arthritic Mugo pines, two obese globe cedars, and a satellite dish big enough to receive transmissions from Ork. Aside from these distractions, the location-location-location was perfect.

The house was clad in wide ass vinyl, an unnatural shade of bleached blue Smurf. It was hideous so we got rid of it in 2001, replacing it with delicious eastern cedar shingles. We also built the boat house in 2001, then sold the boat promptly afterwards. Doh (!), but it worked out just fine anyway.

Today the house and yard only vaguely resemble that which we originally bought. Everything looks better. Much better! Progress, inside and out, has evolved over the years. It's a satisfying feeling to love where you live, and I consider myself exceptionally fortunate to call this place home. I wake up every morning, look outside and feel inspired. Lucky me. This morning it's pouring outside and everything still looks magnificent.

He sees the world through rose-coloured glasses.

Ultimately, I do, though I occasionally peak around the sides of my r.c.glasses for a dose of reality. It reminds me of how fortunate I am. I then slip back into my rosy bubble and try not to read the morning news, though I must. It's hard to fathom what some people must see when they wake up, if they sleep at all.

Lupinus Maximus

 It's that time of year when the lupins take over the fields and ditches of Cambridge-Narrows. It's a glorious sight although it's worth mentioning that the 'lupin show' seems to be less spectacular than it was a decade ago. Perhaps we're just becoming accustomed to the show, or perhaps lupins are cyclical and they're in a downswing due to insects or soil issues. I don't know.

In any event, they're a sure sign of late spring and they make me happy. Ahhhh.

Rooster Tales

Enough is enough!

I like fast cars, fast motorcycles and supersonic jets as much as the next wanker, but I wouldn't want them racing around the Super Store parking lot while I'm loading my kids and my groceries into my car. Ditto for fast, noisy powerboats. N.I.M.L. There's a place for thousand horsepower, offshore race boats....

It's called offshore, Not In My Lake. Get it, Foghorn?

Some 'joker' on my lake feels the need to drive a 100 decibel, thousand horsepower rocket along our (often) peaceful shores. The sound this boat makes, acoustically, is just shy of a thunder clap. When this boat passes my property, constipated people are suddenly 'cured', but no one speaks of this miracle because....

"I can't hear you!"

It's deafening. It's appalling. It's unnecessary. It's infantile. Conversation on shore is killed for about 30 seconds while Foghorn and his chicks roar down the lake. Come to think of it, I've never seen a woman on this boat. Hmmm.

It makes me wonder who is driving this boat and why context doesn't seem to register on their brain. It's true that there are some people who just don't get it. Somewhat oddly, this power boat reminds me of an evening that I spent at a café in Oromocto a few years ago. Every Thursday evening a group of budding amateur musicians show up for open mic night at the Sour Grape coffee shop. Open mic suggests that anything goes but there's an unwritten rule that coffee shop music does not involve a tractor trailer load of amps. It involves tastefully appropriate music and the sharing of talent.

In walked Cory.

One evening a fellow by the name of Cory showed up at the Sour Grape. While Mr.Bojangles and the other pluckers sat in a circle and Kumbaya'ed their way toward enlightenment, Cory set up a one man show in the corner or the café. When he was finally ready to play, he unleashed a sonic fury that was likely heard in Maine and Quebec! He didn't stop with his one song either, it appeared that his intent was to play his Stratocaster at 10 for the length of his concert. It finally ended with the café owner pulling the plug and threatening to call the police.

For whatever reason, Cory didn't understand the quaint notion of 'context' or 'sharing'. Neither does this powerboat owner. It's all 'me, me, me'.

In my experience, people behave in this manner for a reason, though that reason is often buried under layers of feathers. It may be impressive to watch a 120 foot long rooster tail fan out behind this boat, but I think we need to look at the front of this particular rooster for answers. Something is missing. Hmmm.

Sweetness And Light

Day 15 without refined white sugar...and still feeling fine! Isn't it odd that this display of sugar was found in Canadian Tire? They sell sugar in Canadian Tire! Sugar, apparently, is now considered a hardware store item. I think this speaks volumes as to the level of our sugar addiction. You can't avoid sugar, but it is possible not to eat it.

Jillass: The Movie??

You might remember seeing a video this winter which involved Wendy riding a GT Sno-racer over a jump. It ended with a colossal face-plant and much hilarity. That video has garnered 648 views on Youtube so far. We're all quite chuffed with the popularity of Wendy's antics, but it begs the question 'what's next'?

The stars of the Jackass movie series kept upping the ante by partaking in more outrageous stunts. Wendy is keenly aware of this fact and she's considering her options, and double checking her healthcare coverage.

When Wendy was a full-time singer her opera contracts often stated that she couldn't partake in downhill skiing and motorcycle riding. She's no longer 'suffering' under the unrealistic tyranny of the opera contracts, and she's free to do anything that she likes....even ride a skateboard in a pool! She would never actually do that, though, or would she?

Wendy Nielsen: A Caring Community Member

Wendy and I go for a daily walk...almost daily! It's not easy to do anything every single day, but we try. When I take a walk it's all about getting exercise, but Wendy takes it to another level. She often takes a plastic bag with her and gathers litter along the way. She is a community-minded citizen.

So much for the uppity image of the high-strung Diva! 

Agreed. From the stage of the Metropolitan Opera to the ditches of Cambridge-Narrows, she's never sold out. She's still 'little Wendy Nielsen from Harvey Station'. She's not above picking up trash on the side of the road. She isn't self-conscious about being a ditch bitch to the litterers of our community.

Personally I refuse to pick up other's trash. I'm more interested in dealing with the problem at the source.

Oh, gawd, you're not still talking about 'The Plan', are you?

You mean the one where I hide in the bushes, waiting for a litterer/scumbag to chuck his fast food wrappers out the window, then jump on my BSA motorcycle and chase him down, then beat him with a shovel handle? Yes, absolutely, I am! 'The Plan' is still simmering in my Neanderthal brain.

Unk, you go get 'em with shovel handle, and maybe you bonk em in face with your large sloped forehead too. Gawd, you are such a troglodyte!

I know who I am. I know what I am. Teach a man to litter and he'll litter for a day. Beat him with a shovel handle and he'll stop immediately. Problem solved!

You weren't a nun in a former life, were you? I can picture you giving piano lessons to a young child, yardstick twitching in your angry hands. 

Alright, alright, maybe I'm going a bit over the top, but I've got no patience for litterers. None. There's no question that Wendy is a better community minded citizen than I am. She's more charitable, that's why she's being honoured in this morning's blog. Most people would have no idea that she helps to keep our community looking beautiful.

Harold Jones, who had seen Wendy flailing in the ditch, had thought she was going after beer and pop cans because the singing/teaching wasn't paying the bills <wink wink>. I told him that he was right, bid him 'fare well' then went back to hiding in my favourite bush. Waiting, waiting, waiting...

Insect Apprehender

I've made no secret in this blog that Wendy is an avid bird watcher, so it was rather reassuring when she said 'there seems to be more birds around the yard this year', because I was thinking the exact same thing. There have been some years where there has been very little feathered activity. This year may be the best we've experienced since moving here 22 years ago.

There may be a number of reasons for the increase in bird life. For a few consecutive years running, we had merlins in the neighbourhood. They pretty much killed the local bird life, literally and figuratively.

I think my landscaping activities may have made a positive contribution to bird life. My gardens are diverse, offering an appealing habitat to both birds and insects. And humans!

There's definitely an abundance of insects this year, and that has to be good for the birds, though it's driving me crazy. I wish a bird would show up that would catch flies!

Et voila!

Yesterday's sighting was a pair of flycatchers. Very attractive birds with a unique song. They were checking out the bird house that Julian built about 15 years ago. I suspect that it won't work for them, mostly because of its location. I think it gets too much direct sunlight thus making it more like an oven than a house. I should move it. Yes, perhaps that will be my project this summer....move the bird house. The sooner, the better. I'll do it this morning!

Hadrian's Wall

In AD 122, some Roman dude called Hadrian had an idea...let's build a wall across the north of England to 'separate the Romans from the Barbarians'. The Barbarians lived north of the wall. North of the wall was a dangerous place. Today it is known as Scotland, which I suppose is where Barbarians came from originally (and perhaps still do).

Hadrian used soldiers to build the wall that is named after him. You'll see in today's image another rock wall. I can't decide whether to call it Ian's Wall or Julian's Wall. I 'ordered' its construction with Julian doing the majority of the building/heavy lifting. We built it last week and I managed to put some perennials in place just yesterday. It looks really good and enhances the property. It's just one of a number of rock walls that I'm currently building.

My father is a rock wall builder of note, so it must be a genetic predisposition that has me building walls with Julian. There's no question that I'm also interested in keeping the Barbarians out. In the game of 'rock, people, psychos', rock always wins especially when 'people' use 'rock' to keep out the 'pychos'...aka the Beerbarians!

The Business Of 'Fair' Trade-in (Car Version)

I'm currently on the hunt for a new car, but when I say 'new' I mean new to me, not brand new. It's widely known that buying a new car is one of the worst investments a person can make because the vehicle loses value the minute you drive away from the dealership. Go buy a new car and then try to sell it for what you paid. Good luck, fella, you're going to need it.

You should buy a new car if you're rich, stupid, or both. I have bought a new car before, but I wasn't rich so you know what that made me! I've since come out of the fog and now I only buy used vehicles.

I've been thinking lately that my car is getting long in the tooth so the idea of finding a 'new-to-me' car is starting to have some appeal. Ideally I'd like to get one more year out of my Ford Focus wagon because, quite frankly, I like the car. Last week I happened to notice a 2007 Ford Focus wagon for sale at a dealership in Fredericton. My Focus is a 2005 with 226 000 km on it. The Focus for sale was a 2007 with 78 000 km. In general I don't want to buy a car that old but there were three factors that took me to the dealership:

1) 2007 was the last year that Ford made the Focus wagon, so if I wanted another one then 2007 was my best bet and this particular car had very low mileage.

2) my car needed some work, so it was questionable whether I should pump more money into it.

3) the dealership in Fredericton offered, in print, to buy my car from me (even if I didn't trade it!).

Another appeal to this particular used Focus wagon was that we could afford to pay cash for it. I'm not a fan of owing money. With the exception of a big ticket item like a condo, I'm not much inclined to set myself up for monthly payments. So Wendy and I went into the dealership and test drove the Focus. We liked it and we agreed that we'd buy it. There was just one little issue still hanging....the trade-in value of our car.

The used car manager took our car for two loops around the dealership, then he met with the salesman, with whom we were dealing, privately. After about fifteen minutes, our sales guy came back and offered us $200 for our car. That's not a typo. Two hundred. Now, I'll be the first to admit that our car needed some love, but $200?? Wendy and I told the salesman that $200 'wasn't going to work for us'. He left the office to talk to the used car manager to see if he could get us more for our trade. Wendy and I were left sitting in the salesman's office, so what did we do? We burst out laughing. The idea of $200 for the car that gets us from Cambridge-Narrows to Fredericton three times a week was hilarious.

I know someone who once spent $250 for a haircut and dye job (not Wendy, thankfully). I know someone who sells a pair of jeans for $300. For god's sake, yesterday I saw a lawnmower for sale for $200 at Sears! That lawnmower was just like my car...four wheels and a motor. Well, I suppose there were some differences between my car and the mower. My car, for example, has heated leather seating, a sun roof, a CD player and a rear view mirror! The mower had none of this, though it did have a lovely mulch bag.

The salesman came back to us with a much more reasonable offer the second time....$400. Four hundred dollars can get you a lawnmower with racing stripes AND a mulch bag, or our car, I suppose. Wendy and I looked at each other with that expression that said 'we're outta here'. We thanked the salesman for his time as he was very pleasant and professional, then we hopped into our decrepit Ford Focus wagon, crossed ourselves, and laughed the whole way home.

As an addendum to this story, we took our car to our local mechanic, spent $850 on our car and now it drives like a dream. Sure, it has some rusty spots that I'll have to beautify, but it gets us from point A to point B in relative safety and comfort. Certainly better than any $200 lawnmower ever could!

What The Ladyslippers See And Hear

Imagine a sunny Saturday evening in June. The light is low and warm. The oblique nature of the light creates a delicious mood as it is filtered through the grey bark pines of my property. Shadows abound in the wooded area of my property, behind which a placid lake says nothing.

Idyllic, right?

Wrong!

Knowing that this year's crop of ladyslippers was bathing in such beautiful light, I decided to take my camera in order to capture such a  glorious moment. I walked into the wooded area of my property and stopped three feet shy of my wild pink orchids. They looked stunning...the best that I've ever seen them. But wait! I heard a noise.....

I looked up to see my neighbour sitting on her deck. She was saying something to me. She was speaking in angry tones. She told me to 'fuck off'. She called me an 'asshole'. She said something condescending about me taking pictures of my 'pretty flowers'. Again she told me to fuck off and she called me an asshole. I take my pictures, ignoring her presence beyond that initial second when our eyes met. She kept talking at me until I left. To her I said nothing. I made no gestures. I simply took pictures and breathed. Apparently that was too much.

My neighbour is a sick woman.

Taking this in the context of what happened in Moncton a few days ago (the killing of three Mounties by an angry, deranged lunatic), I can see some similarities. The events in Moncton have me thinking about the full spectrum of anger induced behaviour. I believe my neighbour has anger management issues. She has misplaced anger from which she can't seem to walk away. She's been angry with me for almost eight years now. We can trace the superficial reason for her anger back to one event, but it doesn't address the underlying reason for her unhappiness/mental illness. Like the killer in Moncton, it would appear that her anger is being untreated. I feel sorry for her because it's a crime to waste such a beautiful evening. It's a crime to waste one's own life. It's a crime that no one helps her.

Now, imagine the evening of Friday, June 23, 2006.  You can't, can you? Let me help. It was a  hazy,warm evening, typical for that time in June. The lake was gently rippled from a wind that was barely perceivable. It was an evening not unlike the one I experienced two nights ago but this time a different sound was heard. It was the sound of a chainsaw. My neighbours had a large tree wash up on their shore after the spring freshet. To their eyes the dead tree was an affront...an eyesore. They decided they had to get it off their property at all costs. So what did they do? They cut it up with a chainsaw and pushed the pieces out into the lake. One might surmise that they deemed it okay for the tree pieces to be on someone else's property, just not theirs!


Watching my neighbour pushing the large logs out into the lake made me furious. He was a power boater. he knew better. It was a dangerous and irresponsible act. There were boaters on the lake that evening, and had a water-skier hit one or more of those logs, then you can imagine the consequences. I watched in disbelief as the logs were floated out into the lake. I went down to the front of my property and asked incredulously of my neighbour, "Earle, what are you doing?!' He replied, "I didn't know what else to do with them." That's precisely what he said. Verbatim. I threw my arms up in the air in disgust, marched back into my house and pondered what needed to be done.

He could have burned them, stacked them, had them trucked away, left them alone, etc. He had options but because he and his wife only think of themselves, they took no regard for the safety of others, or for the sanctity of others' property. I phoned the RCMP and reported my neighbour's activity. The RCMP promptly contacted my neighbour and told him he'd better get those logs out of the lake, which he did. I offered to help retrieve the logs but my offer was curtly declined.

Since that time on June 23, 2006 I have been verbally assaulted and threatened many times by my neighbour's wife. Every year. Multiple times. I have a number of witnesses who can attest to this, the least of which is Earle Beers himself, but he's not doing anything to help anyone. I mean that in the broadest sense. And through it all, the beautiful ladyslippers continue to watch silently like the sad spring blossoms of Moncton.

Whiskey In The Jar, Oh?

The accordion is becoming a mainstay in our musical arsenal. Wendy, as predicted, is getting a handle or two on it quite quickly. Julian, on guitar, goes from strength to strength. He can do pretty much whatever he wants. Now, if we could just find a singer who was normal....

Sugar Ho: Week One

I've been sugar free for one week now and I'm happy to say that it's been easy. Not just easy, but a blessing of sorts. By cutting out refined sugar, I've cut out 99% of the garbage foods that I might normally consume and replaced them with healthy, fibrous fruits. My goal is to go sugar free for one month but I've already convinced myself that it's going to last much longer than one month.

The secret to cutting out sugar, for me, is two-fold:

1) take control of buying and making your own food.
2) make a public announcement of your intentions to go sugar free.

Point number one gets you involved in becoming a control freak, if you're not already one. You must manage and micro-manage every aspect of your eating. Going to restaurants and/or friends' houses is best outlawed. God only knows what sugary atrocities lurk in their cooking.

Point number two is helpful to me because once I announce something it's 'game on'. I'm too stubborn to let a proclamation die prematurely. If I say one month, I don't mean one day shy of one month. When I say 'avoid something', I mean fatwa. This is a fatwa on sugar, make no mistake. It's a wholly war....I'm wholly committed. It's a war I'm not fighting alone.

A year and a half ago I was wandering aimlessly around the Queen Street West district of Toronto. I happened to notice a sign in the window of an apartment building on a nameless side street. The sign said something like '200 days without sugar'. It made me wonder who was behind the sign and, more importantly, why. I happened to stumble past this apartment building again this winter and noticed that the days without sugar was up in the 500 range. This made me even more curious. I wanted to know why this person was 'off the sugar' and why he or she needed to announce it to the world. This morning I found out the answer....

http://www.torontosun.com/2013/08/05/parkdale-mans-efforts-to-be-sugar-free-are-sweet

Though I refer to myself as a sugar ho, I'm small potatoes compared to this guy. Nevertheless, I find that eating one cookie makes me feel like eating another...and another. I never personally added sugar to my Raisin Bran in the morning the way this guy did to his Frosted Flakes, but I do have a problem with the way that sugar is added to my cereal by the manufacturer. I deem it unnecessary, and thus the fatwa was born.

I'm not yet ready to proclaim anything beyond this month's goal yet, but I'm liking the way I feel and I think that the writing is on the wall.

Signed,

Ian 'not in the running to be Canada's sweetheart' Varty

Insomnia. Finally, A Solution!

Exhibit A: Once a week we receive a flyer in our mail called the Sussex Herald. It's a smallish newspaper filled with ads, public service announcements, and topics of general interest to the people of Sussex and surrounding areas.

Exhibit B: On the cover of this week's issue was the headline 'How to help cure your insomnia on Page 29'. Although the cure to insomnia was offered on page 29, the authors of this publication also offered many other cures for insomnia long before the reader ever made it to the article on insomnia. Let's take a look.

Exhibit C: on page 3 you can read about three piece cookie tins. Yawn. Hmmm...why would a cookie tin need three pieces? Wouldn't you just need a barrel and a lid? Maybe the third piece is a cookie shovel (this is rural New Brunswick after all...we like our cookies). Not sure about the shovel though. Again, yawn.

Exhibit D: Page 9 gives us the low-down on a soapbox derby in Petitcodiac (about 20 minutes from Sussex). Like most of my readership, I'm a rabid soapbox derby enthusiast but because of my height I have a hard time Dove-tailing my ass into a soapbox. For this reason and this reason alone, this article is making me sleepy.

Exhibit E: The Restoration Fund Quilt Draw Winner article on page 16. Getting sleepy yet? I am, but since it's a short article I haven't yet nodded off. I need something just a tad less interesting. What could that be?

Exhibit F: Crokinole Club update on page 25........eyes..........getting.........slitty.......... I'm now laying on the floor in the fetal position with a pillow under my head. My insomnia is almost cured but I need one more knock on the head.

Exhibit G: Marigold Planting Invitation on page 26. It's an article about a good cause, nevertheless......Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Twitch. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

We finally lost Ian. He's asleep on the floor. Totally zonked. He never did make it to the insomnia article on page 29. Looks like he found another cure!

Divine Intervention?

There's no way that I can prove the existence of a God, or disprove the existence of a God in this blog. I'd need a bus full of religious pilgrims and a cliff to prove that! I can, however, prove that if there is a God, then that God is not perfect. Let's use Hymn Sing as an example.

There's a weekly performance of something called Hymn Sing at my Mom's nursing home, basically an hour of gospel hymns punctuated by some loving words about hell-fire and brimstone. I don't actually know the hell-fire part, but that's my guess. I can't stand hymns, so I've never actually endured the eight hours of fun that is packed into an hour-long session.

Let's assume that you take the existence of Hymn Sing as proof of a God because, let's face it, there wouldn't be Hymn Sing without a God or, at the very least, the concept of a God. Sooooooo.....when Hymn Sing is cancelled, what does that tell us?

It tells us that if there is a God, then that God is not perfect. It tells us that God is capable of creating Hymn Sing (vengeful) but then realizing that a terrible mistake has been made (fallible). In conclusion, still no proof for the existence of God, but we have proof positive that if God does exists, then God is not perfect. Merciful? Clearly, from time to time.

Eagle-Eye Nielsen Spots Two Black Scoters

I really should tell this story on recycling day because it's a story that I keep telling over and over. It's my favourite bird watching story and it involves my favourite bird watcher...Wendy.

Many years ago Wendy and I were driving along the road in south central New Brunswick admiring the flora and the fauna. Getting swept up into the moment, Wendy decided to delve a little deeper in the fauna and try to ascertain the exact species of the bird that was flitting before her eyes. The conversation, though brief, was most entertaining. Here's how it went:

Wendy: what's that black bird with the red wings?

Ian: It's a red-winged blackbird.

The conversation ended abruptly with an outburst of laughter. I can't remember if we were both laughing, or just me. In any event, we both laugh about the story now. Since that time, Wendy has become a legend in our family, at least in terms of her ornithological pursuits.

Yesterday, Wendy was sitting in the sun-room looking out the window at the lake. "What's that dark thing in the water?", she exclaimed before answering her own question. "Oh, it's just a dead-head", she replied. I sat mute on the couch, but not for long. It would be unusual for a dead-head to be in the water at this time, so I craned my neck around to see what the fuss was all about. Using all the technology available to me without actually getting off the couch, I eyeballed two ducks floating on the far side of the lake. To Wendy's credit, they did look like a stick floating in the water.

To Wendy's credit, the binoculars confirmed that she spotted not two black ducks, but two black scoters....a somewhat unusual sighting for our inland waterway. I have seen black scoters on our lake before, but only twice in 22 years. Wendy's keen feather-finding eyes spotted two male black scoters. As they were on the other side of the lake, I magnified today's image 500% in order to see some detail, albeit pixelated. The black scoters are rather nondescript except for their comical orange beaks. They look like the creation of a practical joker, a malevolent god, or a small child with scissors, a glue stick and a bird book. To my eyes they look like a cross between a black duck and a puffin.

If I was given the task of naming them for all eternity, I would not have named them black scoters because no one, not even Audubon, knows what it means to scote. It's not even a real word. I would have named them tangerine-billed black quackers. Far more apt, don't you think?

Next Stop: Cirque Du Soleil?

All of my blogs feature a photograph, usually one that I have taken or one that involves me. I'm sort of like Oprah...you know, always on the cover of her own magazine. Though Oprah and I have much in common (hairy, black, female), that's not what I want to talk about today.

Today, I don't want to talk. I want to let this picture stand alone, on its own two feet (so to speak). I'm not going to tell you what was happening. This image is for you to figure out.

Sugar-free Turtles

The only turtles I'll be enjoying in June will be looking like this fella that was trying to cross the road in Lower Jemseg. Turtles, when crossing the highway, are extremely confusing to motorists. We're so accustomed to seeing holes in the road that we're rather perplexed to see something on top of the road that isn't a hub cap, a Tim Horton's coffee cup or a bag full of McDonald's afterthoughts.

I had to lay down on the road to get this picture. Turtles are only about three inches tall, so photographing them can be a challenge. I was worried that he might charge (attack) me, as I've been watching a lot of African wildlife videos lately. I was looking for tell-tale signs of an attack: stomping of feet, rearing up on hind legs, jumping on my back and biting my windpipe, etc. Thankfully I walked away from the encounter, but only through my expert ability to size up danger.

Ian, if you're 'playing' in the middle of the highway, then turtles likely aren't your biggest worry. 

Oh, you mean that I might get hit by a car or truck?

Gawd no, you fool. I mean you might fall into a pothole, hit your head on the lip and not be able to crawl out. Or you could drown! 

Surely if I fell into a New Brunswick pothole full of water, someone would come along in a boat and save me?

Maybe, but there are so many pothole lakes in New Brunswick that there's always the danger that you might fall into one that was less populated with boaters and cottagers. There's also the chance that the pothole lake might be filled with turtles that might snap you to pieces with their powerful jaws. Ah...wishful thinking. What a blog that would make!

Oh Gawd...It's June

There are three people who live in our house. Two of them are constantly talking about their 'guts', the other person is Wendy. Wendy doesn't talk about her gut because she hasn't got one. She does, however, talk about how much Julian and I talk about our guts. Her commentary is usually accompanied by a head shake or an incredulous look. She does this because Julian, though he doesn't have a gut, talks as they he's built like a long haul trucker. You know the build: stunty legs, massive overhanging gut, double chin.

I'm entertained by Julian's talk of his gut. Wendy is not so amused because she thinks Julian actually believes he has a gut. I'm amused because I think Julian knows he hasn't got a gut, but he talks like he's got the biggest muffin top this side of Tim Horton's. I'm amused because I do the same thing.

I do have a gut, you know. Sure, because I'm tall and thin I'm able to hide it, but when my accordion-like frame compresses, I turn into a kettle drum.

Of course I'm exaggerating. I DO NOT look like a kettle drum. I look more like a woman who's about four months pregnant. You know....I've got the bump! The challenge, for me, is not to go 'full term', that's why I've decided to abstain from eating refined sugar for the month of June. Sugar is everywhere. It's in places where it shouldn't be. It's not killing me, but it's sustaining 'the gut'.

Often, in my house, we talk about the size of the gut. There's no point in Wendy trying to convince us that we don't have guts, so the conversation devolves into the magnitude of our guts.At least that's the conversation that Julian and I have. I believe, we all have an intrinsic sense of our bodies, that others can't truly appreciate. We know when we're on the fatty side of normal, and we know when we're on the lean side (not that that happens very often). I feel semi-bloated at the moment, and that's why I've taken the drastic measure of getting off the sugar.  It's going to be an interesting month.

I hope that I feel better by the end of June, although I think the negative effects of sugar may work more insidiously over longer periods of time. What I really need is not one month of sugar-free living, but a life of healthy eating. It's tough though. Who wouldn't want to eat a cinnamon roll instead of a prune? And cinnamon rolls are everywhere: in the mall and restaurants and grocery stores and gas stations. A day doesn't go by without a cinnamon roll approaching you. Ditto for cookies.

For those of us who are weak, it's a death sentence. It's not a physical death sentence, unless 'the oh-bee-dees' takes you, as it's more of a psychological death sentence. When you feel bad about yourself, you eat more cinnamon rolls. The next thing you know you're huge and feeling even worse (and panting when you walk to the bakery). I'm lucky in that I have a body type and metabolism that makes it difficult for me to put on weight (except between my teats and my doodle-doodles).

So....how do we measure the effect of a weight management plan (I refuse to call it a diet) on our bodies? Today's image shows Wendy taking a very unscientific measurement of my back fat using barbeque tongs. Like I said, very unscientific. I suspect after one month only I will notice how I feel. If I still feel like a bloated whale after one month of being refined sugar free, then I may have to descend to the gates of hell. Yes, I'm threatening to do the hundred mile diet in July, but we'll see how my sugar-free life pans out. Sugar free should be easy. Eating food grown within a hundred miles of my house is difficult, unless you like turnip greens and oats (which I don't).

I had steel cut oats and blueberries for breakfast this morning. Healthy and tasteless. Gawd how I miss those sugary little bastard raisins that come in a box of raisin bran. Two scoops of gastro-intestinal misery in ever box. I'll never go back to raisin bran because as much as I enjoy the fibre and the fruit, I can't stand the thought that I'm being poisoned by big sugar. I'll never sell out to 'the man'. The man has a ship full of refined sugar. I have a mask and snorkel, a waterproof hand drill and a will to live life on my terms, not theirs.

Stay tuned, my readership of three and a half sweetie pies.