The earth quakes in Hope Ness

In the 40 years since I first came to live in Hope Ness I’ve seen, heard, and felt a lot of memorable natural occurrences: a few specially intense, zero-visibility blizzards; the sky turning green over nearby Hope Bay as a tornado approached; a ball of lightning rolling across the kitchen floor after the house was struck; the explosive crack of a thick, old hardwood beam as the old drive shed collapsed under the weight of snow; half a dozen deer caught nibbling on my rows of beans in the glow of my flashlight. They ran off, and we continue to co-exist peacefully.

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But I never heard and felt the earth rumble and roar, as in an earthquake. Never, that is, until yesterday evening, December 13, 2019. And yes, it was a Friday. But just a coincidence, of course.

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A hard morning frost, joyful wild apples, the soul’s journey, and Putin’s plan.

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Hope Ness, late October, 2019. The heart cries out with joy at the sight of such a tree.

A hard frost covered ground-level Hope Ness this morning as the dogs and I went for our early-morning walk. ‘Early morning’ is a relative thing though: as one day follows another it gets a little later and dusk a little sooner as the sun goes south. The dark, clay-loam soil I turned up in the front field a couple of weeks ago was white with the fragile lightness of frozen dew as the sun began to rise above the line of the woods to the south-east. Continue reading

Old Man Apple Tree

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This old apple tree has seen better days, but none better than this, if one takes into consideration its defiant struggle to stay alive, and much, much more. I call it heroic, glorious, the way it stands there still, among the rocks and the tall grass just beyond the far side of the garden.

Its wonderful abundance of blossoms suddenly awakened after a long cold and wet early spring season virtually cries out, “look at me, world, I’m still here, I’m still alive; and not only that, I’m beautiful.” Continue reading

I do (gardening); therefore, I am

DSC00552I look out my window and watch the winter storm blow in and get steadily worse. I don’t have to go on-line to check if the roads are closed: that’s obvious enough. The line of the forest trees to the west has all-but disappeared behind the blizzard. After just a couple of hours, drifts have filled in the driveway I blew clear yesterday.

At my age now, I should be celebrating every moment as a gift. Surely, there’s no sense in looking forward to better weather, or to a spring season still a couple of months away, at best — let alone the early summer, when I may have a modest crop of strawberries to pick from the 100 dormant plants I just ordered from a nursery. Continue reading

Making the best of a Canadian winter, mindfully

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I hear spring flowers and blossoms are starting to bloom in Victoria, on Canada’s Pacific Ocean, west coast. But everywhere else in this country, known for its long, cold, snowy winters, such a thing is still the stuff of day-dreams. The reality of spring is three months away here in Hope Ness, Ontario, halfway between the Equator and the North Pole; more if spring is late this year like it was last. Continue reading

Morning surprise is thought provoking

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A stoat, or ermine, caught in my live trap, soon to be released back into nature

I got quite a surprise when I checked the live-trap this morning in the basement cold room where I store produce from last summer’s garden. I’ve been setting the Havahart trap with pieces of squash for several weeks to control an over-abundance of red squirrels getting into this old farm house. So far, I’ve caught seven of them, which I take down the road, far enough I hope that they won’t return.

But this morning, when I saw the trap door had dropped and I took a closer look, I was amazed to see a pure white creature that looked far more like a small weasel than a squirrel. The long, sleek torso was the big difference, though, otherwise, there were many similarities as you can see. Continue reading

Walking after sunset

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After Sunset, 5:00 pm, in Hope Ness, Canada, December 15, 2018

Sunset comes early in Hope Ness, Canada a week away from the winter solstice. If I don’t feed and walk the dogs before sunset it will soon be too dark. I admit, however remote, the prospect of running into some member or members of the local wildlife community concerns me. Is it possible, with the unseasonably mild weather in the past few days, one of the black bears living in the nearby woods may have postponed hibernation?

One of the larger members of the weasel family, fishers, are in this area. An “exceptional predator,” according to Canadian Geographic, they are one of the few animals to prey on porcupines, and a host of other small animals, including even baby deer. They have a frightening, chilling scream when aroused. Their range extends from coast to coast in the forests of Canada. It historically included here, in what used to be called the Saugeen or Indian Peninsula, more recently, the Bruce Peninsula. But fishers must have been hunted, trapped or run out of existence here, until they were introduced again years ago to control porcupine damage to local woodlots. It’s fair to say they’ve flourished.

So did coyotes — and the stray dog, coyote hybrid known locally as coydogs — for a long time. It was common here in Hope Ness up until a couple of years ago to hear coyotes yipping and howling in the nearby woods as they began their evening hunts. Lately the woods have been quiet. Coyotes have lately been heavily hunted, sometimes by the pick-up truckload, as nuisance animals known to attack livestock. But to virtual extinction? That can’t be good. They have their role to play in nature’s wildlife balance. Whether or not a pack of coyotes would take on an angry, aroused, fisher, I do not know. I just know the silence in the woods is ominous

My little cockapoo dog, the irrepressible Sophie, wouldn’t stand a chance against a fisher if one ever came that close on our evening walks; or, I daresay, coyotes. My big German shepherd, Buddy, would put up a good fight to defend her, but regardless of the likely outcome in his favour, I’d rather that didn’t happen.

Deer hunting season is over now, both regular rifle for a week in November, and musket for a week just passed, as well as bow. I heard a few shots fired fairly close by. I turned around and headed back to the farm with the dogs. So, that’s how we got into the habit of taking our evening walks through the relatively small window of opportunity between sunset and the darkening sky.

In the time it takes to get to my touchstone and back daylight has just about gone. Today was special though: unlike most days this time of year, it was at least partly sunny, rather than overcast. And then on the way home the sky above was a beautiful rose after sunset. But it was receding toward the western horizon, over beyond the woods fairly quickly.

I thought, maybe I should just let it go, enjoy the passing moment. But then I thought again, grabbed my camera off the kitchen table, went outside, and took that photo you see above, to share with you my cyber friends, wherever you may be in the world.

 

Tracks in the snow

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Buddy woke me up early this morning with barking that tells me he’s picked up on something around or near the farm. My thoughts were of critters from the woods come to feast on the compost pile in the garden closest to the house.

But an hour-or-so later after the ever-so-important, two cups of coffee and the morning feeding of the dogs, the tracks in the fresh snow near the end of the driveway where the road comes to a dead end, told me differently. Continue reading

A conversation with the sun

 

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Another cloudy day in late October with the front field to cultivate before it starts to rain, as forecast. I’m out beside Mr. Massey Too, checking his fluid levels before connecting the cultivator, when I get that feeling, you know, like somebody’s looking at me. So, I look up right where that feeling is coming from, just above the treetops of some tall spruce, and there it is, the sun – a faint light in the clouds, so faint that I can look right at it, face to face, as it were.

I get the sense the son wants to tell me something; so, I say, “What? What’s up? What’s on your mind?” Continue reading

Sing out for life

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With the sun now fallen below the equator, the mornings have come later with seeming haste over the past several weeks, as if anxious to move the season along toward winter.
It will come soon enough with all its challenges, I tell the sun, in hopes of seeing spring again. I cannot let go easily of this life. My spirit has not journeyed through the cosmos for God knows how long, and awakened to find myself alive on this little jewel of a planet, to welcome death; or, for that matter the end of the world. It is a gift, and to be alive for this brief moment, to be given the mind and body of a being set free to be joyful on the Earth is a wonderful miracle.

Like the children at the well, I could not contain myself. Maybe I was one of them, dancing around, coming closer, drawn by a certain delight we saw in the holy eyes, and the generous smile, in the empathy that made him one of us. No, he said, don’t chase them away, don’t diminish their joy in any way. Rather, be like them, and you will surely be in Paradise.

No, I am not one to let go of this life easily, or, God forbid, happily, in the name of supposed “end time” prophecy, the big lie of these terrible, lying times. Neither was he who wept in the garden at the imminent prospect of death. He loved life too, though he saw only too well what the future held, and tried to make another miracle to save the world.

And now?

“Oh, my dear friend,” I sometimes feel like crying out to the sky when the rain falls, “what have they done to you?”

Actually, it’s depressing to be alive in the last couple of years and wonder if the creeping madness of an unfolding tyranny can be stopped. Where are the “checks and balances?” How can so many people not tell right from wrong? How can people who should know better, who must have some knowledge of history, surely, continue to enable evil? Haven’t we been here before?

Sometimes, I think I’ll just stop watching the news. Just let it go. What can I do anyway, one small voice? I might be, probably would be, a lot happier. And there is something important to be said about going out into the world with wonderful happiness, like the children at the well.

But then I think that the best thing that could happen now, perhaps the only hope, is that as many voices as possible, millions and millions of them, are raised in unison, singing out another Ode to Joy for the sake of the world and life on Earth.