Personal Weight Training Program: Pick Up a Ton and Move it Several Times

Each fall the firewood arrives. Four cords usually.   And I stack them all.

Wood comes by the truckload.

A cord of wood is four feet by four feet by eight feet and is dumped in a heap on my door step each fall. Each piece of wood weighs an average of ten pounds. Every ten pieces that pass through my hands is 100 pounds. So 200 pieces of firewood equal one ton and each cord has hundreds of pieces. Quite a fast way to build muscle.

The challenge.

Partially stacked, neat and tidy. Much more to go.

But wait, there’s more.  The wood is carefully stacked outside until needed in the basement wood stove. Each piece of wood is then lifted from the stack to the wheelbarrow, lifted from the barrow and tossed down to the basement door, tossed inside the basement, stacked in the basement and ultimately carried to stove to feed the fire.  That means a ten pound chunk of firewood has been lifted six times. So each 10 pieces really equals 600 pounds of weight lifting and 200 pieces provides a handy three tons of exercise.

The end result., a happy, well fed stove. No heat as cozy wood heat.

Should I say, move over Mr. Muscleman Atlas? Sure why not.


Tiny Road Kill. It Ain’t Just Raccoons that Get Splatted by Your Car

Roads take a big toll on wildlife.  We have all seen the numerous raccoon corpses, dead skunks, the odd fox and, once in a while, even a deer that really was caught in the headlights.

However, there is a whole other class of road kill people rarely notice.  It is all the small creatures that come to grief on car grilles and windshields. On my bike rides even I have to look closely to see them but they are there.  The butterflies, dragonflies, woolly caterpillars, grasshoppers, praying mantids, tiny songbirds and assorted frogs and reptiles lying by the wayside. All of them just trying to get across the road unharmed.

Monarch butterfly that will fly no more.

Birds come to grief due to their belief that they can dart past a speeding vehicle at two feet off the ground. Another foot or two of height would save them but they persist in these dare devil low passages. Nature did not design wild critters to accurately measure our unnatural speeds.

Skinny young garter snake looks alive. It’s not.

Praying mantids seem to take to the roads in the fall with disastrous results. Snakes are trying to get back to their hibernation places.  Frogs love to dance on the pavements during the rain, mostly a dance of death.

This year, thankfully, there have been many more monarch butterflies than last year. However that also means more dead beauties by the road side.  Along with grasshoppers and dragonflies, butterflies are killed in large numbers by drivers who never notice the micro collision.

Praying Mantis headed for certain death on a country road.

There’s not much anyone can do about this death toll among the tinier beings among us but at least we might spare a melancholy thought for that faint smear on the road that was once as alive as you or I and also had some place it was going.


Horses in Costume and Deep Fried Pickles. The County Fair is Here Again

Each September the everyone flocks to the county fair, which has run pretty well continuously from 1831 and is still one of the best country fairs going.

Just doing our part to help the bees. And hoping to beat that other horse dressed up like Cleopatra.

With your ticket, parking is free in the ball field.  You head for the dog show where pooches are judged on such attributes as shortest tail, longest ears, best trick, finest couture. Next comes the food trucks with all the usual delectables such as funnel cakes, poutine and Mrs. Mini Donuts.  Stoke up there for  the lawn tractor pull, the barrel racing and the cattle show, both beef and dairy. So many youngsters learning to be future farmers so we can all continue to eat.

Gals and horses, lots of them here, this one trying for the best time on the obstacle course.

The entire hockey arena is dedicated to prize vegetables, giant pumpkins and baking, all the pies and cakes and preserves safely behind glass.  Art and photography entries line the walls. In another room the amazing skill of the county quilters gets shown off in a crowd of intricate quilts. If you have a baby and are local, you can enter the baby show.

A tabby and her library, all fine needlework.

In the poultry barn, llamas, sheep, goats, piggies, ponies and an immense Shire horse are all available for petting. Beside the champion roosters, turkeys and bunnies, there are newly hatched ducklings and yellow baby chicks chirping under their heat lamp. A great hit with the young set.

Town meets country. We need lots more of this.

If simple fun is your objective you can play bingo in the curling rink and dance to golden oldies in the Crystal Palace, the only one remaining on the continent. Oh, and don’t miss the wrestling and the demolition derby.

Awwww, ducklings!

End the evening with a fistful of candy floss and shrieking on the midway. Then home to live down the sugar high and swear off deep fried anything for another year.

A vintage tractor proving it still has the chops in the tractor pull. And a real man behind the wheel.





Sandhill Crane Baby is Now Huge

How fast they grow.  The little fuzzy yellow chick from the spring, the chick that barely came up to mom and dad’s legs, is now a towering young crane,  as big as its parents.  From a distance, you can’t tell the three apart.

Junior is now four feet high with a six foot wingspread.

The only thing lacking now is the distinctive red patch on baby’s forehead.  I don’t know what initiation the youngster must undergo to earn this badge of adulthood. Perhaps by next year, when the family comes back from Cuba or Florida after the winter, junior will have its adult papers. 

Hey, look at my wings, Dad. Just as big as yours.

Though junior can certainly fly, the family hangs about the wetland where the chick was hatched.  They spend mornings out in the cow pasture in front of the house digging about in the grass with their powerful beaks. What they find to eat in the dirt and gravel I can’t imagine, but they sure enjoy themselves. Junior is not above begging treats from indulgent parents.

Feed me, Mom. I’m tired of digging for myself.

I know when  they are there from their trilling cries as they chat together.  Driver’s sharp enough to spot the brownish plumage in the field sometimes screech to a halt and sit watching. Or a camera will emerge. The cranes don’t even mind me climbing the fence and walking close, making me suspect they must have human friends when they vacation in the sunny south. 

It’s only a deer, kid. Ignore that last remark.

They certainly ignore the cattle that share the field and the hordes of Canada geese fattening themselves on new grass before migration. Even when deer show up, they carry on as usual.

  This lucky chick will stick with mom and dad right up until mom gets ready lay eggs for a new season.  Only then is junior forced to leave home and fend for itself, a rude shock no doubt. Not a fan of responsibilities, it may wait five or six years before finally starting a family of its own.

Bye, bye all. See you tomorrow if we get hungry again.

Meanwhile, it is the pampered child of two efficient parents who have managed to fend off predators and raise it to the hulking bird that could almost look after itself if it had to.  Only why bother when mom and dad find the food and take it south for fun in the sun while blizzards blow up here.

Barn Roof is Back On Thanks to a Fire Truck

Finally the barn roof is fixed. After the big wind on May lifted a corner, then folded back a big section like it was paper, the question rose.  To fix the old barn or let it sink into the ground like so many others. These barns are not used much any more so when the roofs go and the barn boards fall off, slow destruction follows even though the great beams inside, often a century or two old, stand firm, true and strong.

So long as they’re kept dry.

Gaping hole torn by the wind.

My old barn has been around since the 1860s and has stood up to every storm including hurricanes.  So I harried the insurance people and got in the repair folk.  I thought they might just fold the roof back in place.  But not so.  The section has to be dismantled, the ancient axe-hewn rafters put individually back in place and new steel hammered on  All by a fellow hanging off the ladder of a retired fire truck.

Hundred and sixty year old rafters, still strong and sturdy, go back to hold up the roof again.

For two days I watched one man hammering, the other man running the ladder controls, responding to hand gestures.  A little to the left, a little higher, watch out for the gap. So now the old gal has a shiny new waterproof roof section and another chance to last a few years longer even though the hay mow is empty and the milking stalls contain only dust and pigeon droppings.

I admire the ingenuity of the workmen and am glad to discover that fire trucks can still have a life of their own after they retire from the front lines.




Glass Door Bonk! Woodpecker Down

Every so often, I hear the telltale thwack of skull hitting glass and know another bird has mistaken the sliding doors for a portal to wonderland.  It’s a signal for the house predators to come running and me to check for feathered KO victims.

Uh, where am I? What happened?

The latest was a downy woodpecker showing all the signs of a goner for sure, laid out like a done in prize fighter ready for the stretcher.  Some of this cases never get up again.  I’ve found little corpses of robins, starlings, warblers and, yes, woodpeckers lying below assorted windows.  So there was nothing to do but wait.

Oh, my aching head!

Eventually, though, the spark of life began to revive.  The bird managed to lever its head up enough to contemplate the mystery of where it was and why the sky was spinning.

Several more minutes of stunned reeling ensued, utterly oblivious to the drooling cats a couple of feet away. This is a critical stage. I have seen birds get this far then give up the ghost, keeling over for good.  Woody here seemed on the cusp.

It doesn’t pay to be too dizzy to fly.

I think I even recognized this one, part of the cadre of local woodpeckers, both the downy and hairy varieties, devoted to my peanut feeder.  This was one of the young ones, not too wise yet to the hazards of a woodpecker’s life, including invisible ones, like glass.

Suddenly, the little creature shook itself, got steady on its feet and swiveled its head around to a horrified awareness of its audience.  Swift, panicky fluttering got it to the deck rail where it had to rest again.  When the audience didn’t pursue, it calmed enough to shrug off the close call and go back to what it had undoubtedly been doing before — chasing mama to beg for food, the birdie version of the hulking teenager who simply won’t leave home.

Oh my GAWD, it’s a cat. With a camera!

Mama, an inveterate enabler, gave in and started feeding junior freeloader bits of peanut she saved her fully fledged youngster the trouble of pecking out of the feeder for itself.

Feed me, Mama. This is great. I’ll never have to get a job of my own.

She would not get approval from Dr. Phil. Unless it was her way of saying she was so glad young knucklehead had yet again managed to stay alive.




Sandhill Cranes Show off Baby

They’re back.  The pair of sandhill cranes that nested in my wetland last year and drew birders with their chick, have done it again this year. Since parents birds get very cagey, there have been only glimpses of the new little crane far back in the trees. 

Mama and chick pause to ponder the new feathers of a youngster growing up as fast as it can.

Now, however, they are ready to parade the baby out in the pasture where there seem to be plenty of treats to grub for in the grass. They must have fed their baby prodigiously because it has shot up from a fuzzy little yellow thing to a tall adolescent starting to get feathers.  And it is only June.

I don’t know what happened to last year’s baby because the cranes appeared late last fall without it.  Sandhill crane babies hang about with parents for almost a year so I fear that youngster came to grief.  Since sandhills are ground dwellers, every sort of predator, from ravens and gulls to coyotes, bobcats, raccoons, owls and eagles do their best to make a meal of the young. Luckily, I don’t have any alligators.

Now that this year’s baby is getting so big, its parents have calmed their nerves. They forage unconcerned beside the herd of cattle and walk along the fence by the road paying little attention to traffic–unless a vehicle slows.

I’m looking forward to lots more visits. Perhaps I’ll even manage to get a picture that isn’t fuzzy because it’s from the end of my zoom range. That would be up close and friendly.  Ha!


Anybody Remember Arbour Day?

The celebration of Arbour Day has likely long vanished from overcrowded modern curricula, but for us, at the village two room school, it brought much excitement. Arbour Day happened early in May. It meant a school day like no other.

No lessons  inside, for the outdoors was our realm.  The first half of the day was spent in the school yard, which included our makeshift baseball diamond, garter snake pit and wild grape tangle, cleaning up and tidying. It meant extracting candy wrappers from the long grass, sweeping the front and back steps and getting the old dead leaves out of the cellarway.

Then, at noon, the real fun began. Everyone piled into the teacher’s car and perhaps a farm truck and off we drove, in highs spirits, to someone’s woods where we tumbled out to devour the picnic lunches in our lunch pails.  Bologna sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, home made cookies (never the shame of store bought), hunks of cheese, a jam tart or even a piece of Johnny cake. Then we were turned loose.

Arbour Day, according to our friend, Wikipedia, was started during the Napoleonic Wars by a Spaniard who thought a day of festival would induce folks to plant trees for the good of their health and perhaps distract them from the invading armies. It must have been a roaring good festival for the idea caught on.  Arbour Day got imported to nearly fifty countries around the world, including Canada, for the purpose of planting trees and appreciating nature and inducing young folks to take an interest in the tidiness of their school grounds.

Delicate wild violets hid themselves among the shadows on the forest floor.

Our little band totally missed the tree planting part, probably because the neighourhood was already overrun with trees.  Instead, we ran free through the underbrush in search of bird’s nests and wildflowers. As country kids, we were already connoisseurs of the earliest bloomers.  It was somewhat of a contest to see who could spot the first trillium, the first wild violets,  as they meant spring and balmy weather was trying to arrive. Yellow adder tongues with their spotted leaves were prize finds.  Bloodroot which bled  delightfully gruesome red sap when plucked, white Mayflowers, Jack in the pulpits, all cried out new growth and coming summer fun.

We were ordered not to pick the wildflowers but, of course, we all came back with a fistful which usually drooped so badly so fast we guiltily abandoned them before loading up for home. We did, usually, refrain from picking trilliums after the grim warning that picking would kill them for the leaves came with the flower, leaving the plant to starve and die.

Flushed with sunshine and fresh air, our hair full of twigs, our shoes muddy, our hands trying to conceal rips in our clothes from the brush, we headed merrily home, wishing every day could be Arbour Day.

I still wish that. In good weather anyway. And think being dropped in the woods for a bracing spring afternoon would do a lot of folks a lot more good than they might possibly imagine from the house bound clutches of their couch.


Acres of Dandelions, Acres of Gold. Is it Finally Spring?

Wind, cold, damp and even sleet and ice made spring seem just a rumour.  Brown grass, bare trees,  and lots of mud.  The only things growing were the potholes.

Yellow glory underfoot. You gotta respect the dandelion.

Then a few days of sunshine, temperatures that didn’t require a coat and, presto, you look out one morning and realize, somewhat stunned, that the world has turned green.

Green and yellow. Almost before blades of grass can rise, the dandelions rush to bloom.  Bloom in every possible place as fast as they can, as though aware their only chance for reproduction is to beat the arrival of the lawn mowers and the weed exterminators.

Like most of us here, dandelions are immigrants, likely arriving with the first sack of grain, or stuck to the boots of Samuel de Champlain. They’ve adapted so well the whole continent is their playground. And defied every attempt to put them down. Dandelions are the earliest of spring flowers, even beating out forsythia and lilacs.  They provide swathes of enthusiastic yellow on our reviving lawns and sweeps of gold out in the pastures. They provide the first food for famished bees coming out of hibernation. They can fill our salad bowls with nutrient laden greens.

Their name is from the French dent-de-lion or tooth of the lion as their jagged leaves suggest. The French also call them pis-en-lit or wet the bed, a testament of the plant’s use as a diuretic.

Quick to bloom, quick to seed. Ha ha, beat the lawn mower once again.

I feel bad cutting down their eager yellow heads but the grass must be cut before it’s too thick for the mower.  I am angrily pursued by the bumblebee that guards bee the nest under my stairs.  It thinks I’m ruining the buffet after a long lean winter and deserve the business end of a stinger. If I were urban, guilt would set in.  Here, I point to the acres of pasture carpeted in yellow and tell the bee to go feast elsewhere.   Yellow dinners await as far as the eye can see.

Ha ha, bring on the lawn mower. It only helps us to fly to new homes.

Bright blooms swiftly become ghost globes of dandelion seeds, each with its own little parachute, each waiting to sail on the wind to some new home.  They’ve beaten the cattle who will soon be along to munch and trample. They will blithely take any hostility now as they make way for the main act when it comes to weeds, the lawless, unkillable thistles which will soon be four feet high and snatching as much territory as they can, fierce spines keeping the cattle away.

How joyfully I’d trade no thistles for an endless dandelion season.




Beginning of the End for the Grand Old Barn?

The barn has stood since the 1860s, built of massive axe hewn beams pinned together with big wooden spikes. Built before the era of concrete foundations, it sits on large rocks hauled in from the fields.  It was probably built by one Patrick Farrell who owned the land way back when the land was worked with a team and single plow.

The beams would have been carefully chosen, carefully hewn and carefully seasoned so as not to warp after the barn was up.  There would have been a barn raising since the heavy beams, fitted in sections while still on the ground, needed a crew of neighbours to raise and daring skywalkers, without safety kit of any kind, to fasten the frame together after it rose  high in the air.  The rafters are long poles stripped of bark, the cladding barn boards hammered directly onto the beams.

The barn still in good shape but empty of all life and use.

Afterward, there would have been a dance and a whole lot of food and probably swigs of the harder stuff in the dimmer corners. 

For over 15o years the barn has held horses, cattle, pigs and every variety of farm animal. Loads of hay for winter fodder, drawn by sweating teams ,came through its central bay, lifted into the vast twin mows by a hay hook and tackle that still runs on its track high under the roof ridge. It sports a shell hole where a former owner blasted a marauding skunk a century ago.

The huge empty hay mow once crammed to the rafters with fragrant hay.

The barn has stood up to all the fierce County winds and faced down Hurricane Hazel. But the wind last week, up to 120k, took one corner of its roof and peeled it gapingly back.  Unused for at least forty years now, the barn has not found a place in modern life.  It’s mows are empty, milking stations full of cobwebs, cavernous lower regions housing only barn swallows for life.

Now the question is to fix the roof or let the barn join the ranks of others of its kind which can been seen about rural roads, roofless, open sided, sinking to the ground. These old barns have fallen out of use except to provide barnboard for fashionable city bars or faux rustic home decor.  They cost too much keep up.  With no bales of hay and livestock filling them, they seem to give up and deteriorate all the faster. 

Left to the weather, this once splendid barn dies a lingering death in a modern world where it has no place.

My barn once had three others like it within sight, all now long vanished. It is the last for miles on my road. Shall I finally let mine join them? The wind has made the first tear in its weakening fabric. Without action, the storms will soon start picking off the weathered boards and rust eat at the two steel cables preventing the central beams from bowing apart. Its century and a half of faithful duty make a silent reproach as I weight its fate and feel my pocketbook clenching tight.

Thrift or sentiment, which will win? Even I can’t tell.