"Deckadence" in Nanoose Bay

On the right day a ferry trip from Horseshoe Bay to Nanaimo is more than a necessary mode of transportation. It is an eye full of boats, mountains, islands, the distant city of Vancouver all embraced by a sparkling sea. Today was such a day and we took it all in,  right at the front, on the top deck. We pretty much had the place to ourselves as passenger traffic was still light to due high ferry prices and a long string of bad weather days. 
 The west coast had been pounded with rain such that the Fraser River was flooding and its long line of brown outflow could be seen far out  against the blue green ocean.
  Our GPS guided us directly to Nanoose Bay and then down side roads where deer didn't even bother to look up as they munched on people's lawns and gardens. We found Carey, a friend of Jan's from high school, and her spouse Annabel's house at the end of a lane surrounded by forest and fronted by ocean. 

                           A brief  nature walk to a local lake 

was a good excuse to build up an appetite for food and drink on the back deck. 










The deck sits above the tree top level of the huge firs and cedars which climb the steep slope from the shore. I felt my ADHD kick in as my concentration went from fine wine, to elegant cheeses, to massive trees, to the ocean, to passing vessels, and to the conversation that I was trying to follow.

  Supper was prepared by Annabel who used to cook for Fettucine's, an Italian restaurant of note back when it was on Bank Street in Ottawa. Tonight, a masterfully barbecued flank steak with pepper corn sauce paired well with the right wines, was complemented by potatoes and brightly coloured snap beans, whole carrots, and tomatoes. This led way to succulent desserts 

of strawberry rhubarb pie with whipped cream along with (why have to choose?) profiteroles and ice cream. 











The coastal air was fresh and cool  as we settled into bed with Diva, their cat. It's her bed. 

She was there first and had no problem with sleeping between us.












West Coast people seem to know when to get up as opposed to Ontario people who generally set their alarms for sometime in the late middle of the night. So after a none too early start to the day we found ourselves out on the deck with one of Annabel's fresh made lattes and a couple of swiped sections from Carey's Globe and Mail. Now a vacation for me usually involves a " news fast". Normally I am as much an information junkie as the rest of us especially if it involves stock prices, but when on holidays the last thing I need to either start my morning or end my day is reading about the world's terrors and tragedies knowing full well that I can do little to directly affect them.  This fast, this deliberate attempt at not knowing, has become part of any vacation travel. Still, my hand had, by reflex action, snared the Business section.
  We basically sat around the deck with our mouths open like baby robins waiting to be fed until Annabel presented us with breakfast. I've eaten a lot of eggs over my life time but Annabel's version of scrambled eggs means that the whole notion needs renamed. I might over time be able to get the recipe from her but I will need her to do the cooking. They are that good.
  The phone rang, a friend was asking for a bit of dog sitting so Annabel who also had had a dog grooming business a few years back, went and picked up a french poodle named Rosie.  We now had their own dog Dorey, plus Rosie.

 It was time for some serious walkies.
  First we had to tie our shoes. Carey gave us a new "how to" that I still employ. Most of us start with a little right over left and snug it down - kept that. Then we make a bow and hold it with our left hand. Keep that too. Now we go over top and through the loop that you just created. Buzzzt wrong! Try going UNDER the bow and through the loop. Why? Because if you do this properly the bow should lay perfectly at ninety degrees to your foot and apparently/theoretically be less likely to come undone than the normal bow that after a few steps often ends up parallel to your shoes. The first few days I found it difficult to make this work. Now this version is the automatic one. You have officially been challenged. Give it a go.
 At the first stop, Rathtrevor Beach, Carey and Annabel kept the dogs on the extensive boardwalk while Jan and I ran around the huge beach with our arms spread out like we were in some kind of cosmetic or deodorant commercial. 

  We discovered some sort of algae or kelp that shone like sheets of gold in the sun and watched an eagle as it investigated a diminishing tide pool.
   As it had been way too many moments since breakfast we redivided the crew into two cars and headed off in search of lunch. I got to go with Annabel and Rosie.  Annabel has the coolest Mini Cooper ever. Amongst other after market features is a Mini Mouse doll stuffed into the coffee mug holder. De rigueur I`m told. Annabel knew how to drive it and I knew how to hang on.
 The Black Goose started out in 1921 as a building designed by one of Canada's great architects, Samuel Maclure. 

The fact that on a sunny day it  happens to overlook Rathtrevor Beach was also not lost on us. It is a self described English/Scottish pub-styled restaurant and has the menu to match. We sat outside on well cared for picnic style tables and ordered both the English and Scottish Ploughman's lunch along with a pheasant and pistachio pate. The other real find of the Black Goose, Annabel had been holding out on me until the drink order. 

 They have Innis and Gunn on draft! Two pints please! 

After lunch more serious walkies ensued. The next beach was Parksville which was followed by yet another beach boardwalk.

Finally there was some looking around in shops and at The Old School House Art Gallery that Carey's parents had helped to foster in Qualicum Beach. All this of course was just a ruse to fill in time to the next meal.

Supper was incredible - local striped shrimp, Alaska cod with incredible homemade peach salsa, a rice with beets and nasturtium dish, an avocado salad. We didn't even make it to dessert before I humbly asked if they would adopt me. I could tell by the way that the food particles flew out of their noses that this was going to be a hard sell.









One of the real pleasures of cigar smoking is being able to share some quiet time puffing along with someone who knows and appreciates cigars as much or more than you do. Annabel went out of her way to share with me her collection of cigar bands and some of the stories that went with them. She also managed to  reference the magazine Cigar Aficionado a few times in the process. 

  I was impressed, but then she had to choose. I displayed a number of offerings. She went for a Cuban made Montecristo platinum1999 series. Good pick. I settled on a the classic Cuban made Montecristo No4.

We sat out on the deck watching the cruise ships go by as the sky darkened. An espresso was followed by a fine bourbon with just a touch of water. The smoke and the conversation drifted quietly in the night air. Pure "deckadence."

Sorry I Ate the West Coast Part Two (or, How To Make a Man Bag)

I must confess that going to the Tomahawk wasn't my idea. Louis, a good friend and a man often described as a "foodie", sent me an email that in effect said, "Hey, if you are going to Vancouver you've got to check out this restaurant that was on Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives".
Now according to the Urban Dictionary a "foodie" is,
"A person that spends a keen amount of attention and energy on knowing the ingredients of food, the proper preparation of food, and finds great enjoyment in top-notch ingredients and exemplary preparation" Yup that would be him. That would make me just a simple "cookie" and an enthusiastic but uninformed "eatie".
 Louis is also a man who doesn't like things to go to waste. He volunteers at a thrift type store and has a giant shed full of stuff that often gets recycled in creative science projects for kids. He has also just had his 65th birthday.
 So in Louis' honour my wife, Jan, and I present a recipe:

"How to Make a Man Bag"

Ingredients

2 Tomahawk diner placemats

2 Tomahawk diner headbands

1 stapler

25 staples

Method

Staple the sides of the 2 placemats together with 3 staples per side.

Staple the bottoms of the 2 placemats together with 11 staples.

To add handles, staple a headband to each side of the openings at one end.  Use 2 staples per headband end.

Repeat on the other end of the bag opening.

Optional Ingredient

Fold in 1 Tomahawk diner rubber duckie.

Garnish with yellow tissue.

Let set overnight, then serve to your unsuspecting friend.

Sorry, But I Ate the West Coast - Part One - Following the Mouths of the Famous

  Somehow, some people have managed to become famous by eating. I don't mean speed eating or over eating to the point where you become the world's biggest person, just normal eating and telling people how much you like it. As far as I know being able to open your mouth and shove something edible into it and then say "Yum!" isn't on any university curriculum but it should be. Just turn on your TV and there will be some sort of "food channel" where people make a very fine living making things and going yum. There are even shows about people who don't even make their own stuff - they just go around eating other people's stuff and going yum. Sitting at home you can't even smell it yet alone be able to tell if that yum is genuine. I wanted to be the Yum Meister so I decided to follow in the foot steps and the mouths of the famous.
 One of the more popular food programmes is Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives with Guy Fieri on the Food Network. One of the most famous places to eat in North Vancouver is The Tomahawk. It was just a matter of time before the two got together. If you missed the episode you can easily catch up on it on Youtube. If you do, you will get to hear Guy go gaga over Yorkshire pudding, beef dip and gravy. That's fine but you will notice that he is eating in the kitchen with the chef, and that's not the typical dining experience for most people.

 First, you have to get in. They have a parking lot, but not huge. We got the last two spaces. Once inside the door be prepared to wait. A lot. We were told one wait time but it got supersized.  There is a trick to the waiting period that we learned by, well, waiting around. It seems that they seat groups as whole groups so if you ask for a table for six you get to watch while three tables of two get seated before you. One woman in charge of a group who had been waiting for quite a long time before we even got there asked for her group to be split up so that they could get seated. The woman who was in charge of taking your name, handling the check out, selling the souvenirs  and pretending to be interested when the 87th customer in a row mentioned that they had seen the Guy Fieri review,  was adamant that once they had been given the whole group number they were going to be seated as a group. We got in before they did.
 While you are waiting for a server you can spend your time being bedazzled by a homemade museum. It is festooned with everything related to aboriginal culture. Most of it seems to be genuine fine quality artifact and art, some of it seems to be more kitsch than culture,  and there are even a fair number of items that seem to feature racist caricatures that in other establishments would have been removed by the politically correct police some time ago. The latter category may be why you aren't allow to take pictures.  Regulars, I gather, love it and don't want anything changed. Newbies can make up their own minds.
 Now for the food. Mr Fieri had already covered the supper stuff and although it was pushing noon we opted to go for the breakfast menu.  Marg, our Vancouver friend (and guide to this experience), said that there was no choice, I had to have the Yukon.  Straight forward enough but apparently there was an upsell option concerning the type of eggs that I could choose. I find this vexing. If it wasn't for Marg I would have gone through enough consternation just sussing out the main choices, now it seemed that I had to pass some sort of moral ethical test concerning the environmental genesis of my chicken embryo. I think that a regular egg means that mom was kept in a cage and fed some sort of chicken food which may or may not have been good for me. The term free range gives me this picture of the chicken mom scratching in some dirt and eating the occasional grasshopper as well as some sort of chicken feed that may or may not be good for me. Organic means that mom might be in a cage but she gets fed something certified to some standard that it is to some specific degree chemical and pesticide free. Nice to have choices but that's a lot of decision making about something that comes out of a chicken's bum when I haven't even had my coffee yet. 
   My meal consisted of huge amounts of Yukon bacon over fried eggs over toast over a large helping of home fried hash brown potatoes. I'm not really too sure what Yukon bacon is as it looks like regular bacon mated with back bacon, fried to very well done. As my wife, Jan, is not a bacon person, she went for the french toast. Four big slabs and maple syrup. She managed to mumble out a "very good" between forkfuls. I am usually suspicious when I see large quantities of food offered. Often volume means poor quality but luckily that's not the case here. Just good food and lots of it.
 While you are lining up to pay at the counter you can peruse the souvenirs such as they are. If you neglected to wear your colourful cardboard feathered headdress while eating you can pick one up for the next time you need an outfit to wear to work on "Casual Fridays". You might even cheap out and scoop a couple of placemats -they have a cartoon drawing of Canada and say "Keep Smiling", so they can be used for all occasions. If you are into more upscale mementos you could go for the t shirts that say, "KEEP SMILING" or the ever adorable yellow rubber duckie with the painted feather headband that also in block letters announces "KEEP SMILING". Like the eggs, its your choice.
 Well I don't have a nifty car like Guy to drive off in to end the review but if any of his camera crew reads this I'm ready for my line and close up on 1...2....3    "Yum!"  Ken

Pond Elephants

 According to Wikipedia, a white elephant is an idiom for a valuable but burdensome possession of which its owner cannot dispose and whose cost (particularly cost of upkeep) is out of proportion to its usefulness or worth. The term derives from the story that the kings of Siam (now Thailand) were accustomed to make a present of one of these animals to courtiers who had rendered themselves obnoxious, in order to ruin the recipient by the cost of its maintenance. -I couldn't have said it better myself.
 ^{Only  two survived the ice and snow of winter, but only the 49 center made it through the harrows of an all too early spring. By the second week of March we were breaking records on a daily basis. I have a habit of recording the weather in my journal. On March 13 is was a record +16 C whereas the average for that date would have been +5.On the official day of spring (March 20 here) it was 25 degrees as I watched the last of my fancy gold fish succumb to having emerged from its winter's nap too early. You see winter isn't as stressful for fish as you might think. Protected against supercooling winds by a layer of ice (with at least a small air hole in it for gas exchange) they go to the bottom and metabolically shut down. It is the spring that causes them problems. Their immune system is usually at its weakest,while parasites have already emerged.  Suddenly warm temperatures will tempt them to eat but the enzymes needed to digest their food have not kicked into gear. In general large fluctuations in water temperature are a death sentence to most fish. Most fish that is except for the 49 centers. Sometimes they are just called "feeders" and are sold to be torn apart by piranhas and other predatory tropical fish. The are always the cheapest fish in the store and are crowded into large tanks with signs on them saying that you can't "pick" your fish because its not worth the shop keeper`s time. Last fall I insisted on picking one anyway because I liked its unusual colour - red spots on a white background, paid my 49 cents and tossed it into the pond to see how it would fare. By the end of March the temperatures were diving to minus 9 at night and rocketing up to plus 18 the next day only to fall again but the 49 center was still hanging in there as sole occupant of its 800 gallon domain.
  About a month ago a neighbour knocked on our door and wondered if I could help out his friend. It seems that he had these fish which had outgrown their aquarium and wondered if I would take them. When asked what kind of fish they were he answered, "Koi". Well I didn't know anything about koi except that I had heard they could be expensive so being a man who enjoys a bit of thrift I said that we should arrange it for me to have a look at them. It could be the problem was that my neighbour's first language isn't English or it could have been that their original owner was desperate to get rid of them but about an hour later my neighbour arrived back at the door without his friend but with two koi splashing around in a small bucket. Apparently this was a done deal. Not being a koi fancier I didn't know what I was looking at. They were white with black splotches on their backs. They sort of looked like ugly cows but it seems that they were my ugly cows now. They came with a warning that the previous owner thought that they didn't like people and would freak out anytime anyone approached their aquarium. Fine. I did the proper release method into the pond and they immediately went and hid under the rock shelf that hides the pump. And they hid and they hid and they hid. 
 The articles on the net kept going on about how friendly koi are and that they would eat from your hand so after an entire week of not seeing them I began to wonder if they had been scooped up by a raccoon or heron. I reasoned that if they were still there maybe if they had some buddies they would follow the buddies and come out and play where I could see them. If there are 49 center koi I didn't find them. Koi it seems come in all sorts of colours and patterns that all have fancy Japanese names to go with their fancy price tags. I ended up with two gin rin and some sort of butterfly koi so that my free koi now had sixty something dollars worth of play pals. When released into the pond they mulled about in the centre until the cows came out, herded their new buddies up and took them back under the shelf - for another week.
 Since I wasn't too busy not seeing my fish I had time to spare to do some research. It seems that you have to feed koi. This was a bit of a revelation as I had never really bothered to feed my cheap goldfish. They had been very content to eat the algae and pond plants and aquatic insects on their own schedule. So after a pit stop at the pet shop I now had $36 worth of flakes and pellets that I was supposed to throw at them several times a day. I did the whole bit even soaking the stuff first before making my offering. No response. The koi remained hidden while the 49 center raced around shoving everything it could into its mouth.
 Back to the research. Apparently water lilies and koi are not a good mix. The koi root around in the pots looking for worms and make a mess of things. I managed to give away one lily before climbing into the pond and lifting out the two special bushel baskets filled with special aquatic soil and the remaining three lilies. Let's see -three lilies at $35 a piece plus containers and special planting medium. -lets say about $125 worth headed to the dump. On the bright side I found out why the koi had not been eating. Although the top water was at 58 F the rest, let say for example at crotch depth was considerable colder which meant that it was just too cold for them to be eating and much too cold for me to have chosen to wear a bathing suit instead of my insulated chest waders. 
  The water in the pond decided to go cloudy and green so I wasn't about to see my fish even if they ever did come out from under the rock shelf. This is normal at this time of year but it had already been through this cycle and had cleared. Now what? Well it seems that if you have koi you have to have a pond filter. In thirteen years of pond ownership we have never had a filter as goldfish basically don't put out enough poop to bother with. Koi do and you have to clean it up. Something called a pressure filter costs $338.99 after tax. If you need hoses to attach it that will be about two bucks a running foot. You will need lots. 
  Okay, fine now a least all I had to do was install the filter and my problems would be over. According to what I saw in the manual I should be able to do this myself if I just take my time and work carefully. All was looking optimistic until I got to page 3 where it said IMPORTANT-The maximum operating pressure is 0.04 Mps (0.4 Bar or 5.8 PSI) What the heck did that mean? It meant that if my existing pump was too strong it would blow my new fangled filter (with its extra special algae killing ultraviolet light and maybe a decoder ring included) to bits. Problem- I had not installed the original pump nor had I made its acquaintance in over a decade so I had no idea what I was dealing with apart from the general perception that it seemed like it was a pretty strong pump. Back into the water. Thirteen years of slime and rust had erased any sign of a name but oddly there was a sticker on it that looked all but brand new and on it was a model and serial number. Back to the internet.
  You guessed it. I needed a new pump. So tax in some $283.79 later I had a new one. Matches perfectly with that new filter I had recently purchased or so the guy said. All set now. Smooth sailing. Too easy mate.
  Installing the pump was going to involve more than a casual pop into the pond. A quick splash in and a look see wasn't going to cut it. No, for this a proper draining was in order. Ladling it out with a bucket was going to take forever, however for a mere $108.76 plus tax-lets call that $122.90 shall we, plus a 50' length of hose (on sale for 29.99 plus tax) better still to get two lengths in case I wanted to fertilize the front lawn with fish poop water as well.
 Even with the sump pump emptying the pond took some time. I really don't know how big it is, as it is an odd shape and very hard to calculate. Perhaps my water bill will give me a clue.
 Perhaps it would have been wisest to have netted the fish before entering the pond but by the time there was only a foot or so remaining enough stuff had been churned up that they were impossible to see. I had learned by bitter experience that getting into the pool rarely went as hoped. The rocks are covered in a green slime that defies your best attempt at grip. You bum scooch along the edge as best you can  then at some unplanned moment physics takes over and you go on a short but violent rock water slide to the bottom. Getting out involves some sort of humiliating grovelling in scum. Your clothes are in for at least a double washing or a good burning. The solution at least in part is to sacrifice a good long towel or two over the intended path of entry. It seems to provide more grip but don't use anything that you might ever want to see again.
Once in I was of course in danger of stepping on the koi. However by this point I really didn't care. Somewhere along the line I had gone over to the dark side. This was now about me against the project. This was going to be a properly working koi pond whether it had any koi alive in it or not. Maybe if I stood on a few of their little heads it would smarten them up and they'd get a bit more with the programme. Now fully focused I connected the bits and pieces with relative ease.
 Clambering out I now had to refill the pond to the point that the pump could be tested, but not too full in case it didn't work. It sort of did. The old pump took about 1000 watts to run it. The new one takes 150. That's just not going to be the same. The original pump was so powerful that the stream had to be cut into two and a second less visible less attractive fountain head was added to deal with the extra force. The new pump put most of the water to the secondary fountain head and a trickle to the main one.
 Cutting time. The area behind the start of the waterfalls had had 13 years to fill in with bushes, vines, and wayward tree branches . It took four large yardwaste bags worth of cutting to clear the area enough so that I could do what came next.
  Shovel time. Only those who have tried to dig in dry Ontario clay will fully appreciate this but for those who haven't it is much like trying to dig a hole in a sidewalk with a spoon. The old water system would have to be unearthed in the hope of controlling the water flow and a three foot hole would have to be dug to hide most of the filter from the gaze of the neighbours. That took two complete days and $9.65 for something called a ball valve.
  The next day I hooked up the filter with hardly any swearing at all.  I filled the pond, and added the two bottles of  bacteria boost  ($29.99). Two days later the water was crystal clear and if the fish hadn't been hiding you could have seen them.
 Some facts in brief
  Peas- fancy grade sweet petite to be exact are so far the only food that these creatures will touch. A large bag which is twice the size of the official koi food costs $3.79.  They will even briefly come out of there hidie hole to eat it. The 49center loves it too.
 Colours and patterns- If you are going to buy some koi you should probably do a little research first. It turns out that the ones that look like cows (or if you scrunch up your eyes - little blotchy short snouted white elephants) are probably the valuable ones whereas what I picked out only demonstrated how much I didn't know about the subject.
 Size - If you manage to do your job well these characters will just keep on growing no matter what size container you have them in. 
  It may well be that one day I will be standing on your front porch  with a bucket  filled with splashing, colourful fish. Oh don't worry, I`m not going to charge you for them. They`re a gift.  Ken}

Almost a Tiger

Something was wrong with Time . It was supposed to be my time, my
turn, but there seemed to be a problem.  When I looked up, the punt
was heading into the stratosphere in slow motion.  When I looked down
field, the defensive hoard was charging at me in fast frame. I looked up - the
ball now coasted leisurely like a hawk caught in a thermal. I looked down - too
many, too fast, too soon.  I finally cradled the ball and started to
pivot to the left just as one of the attackers became airborne. I
didn't make many yards unless you count the ones that I was driven
sideways.
 Early sixties, late spring, Hamilton, home of the Tiger Cats.  How I
got to training camp that year was more a matter of minor influence
peddling, and self promotion than it was of any real proven track
record.  You see, I had convinced myself that I was just like Garney
Henley, that good things could come in small, fast packages. I saw
myself as the new  phenom who would be running back kicks and
sprinting over the goal line to the roar of the home town crowd.
 It was a chance to play with my heroes of the game.  Perhaps it was
a little different then  because these were the days before the
multimillion dollar salaries, running shoe endorsements, and media
hoopla that generally puts sports heroes out of the reach of the
common sports fan. Most of the players were very approachable, heck
Bernie Faloney was a phys. ed. teacher at my high school and Frank
Consentino coached the rival football team. Maybe working two jobs
just helps to bring you down to earth.
  We were in an offensive huddle and this time the quarterback
Bernie Faloney gave me the nod. "Go out ten yards and then turn
around."
  "Turn left or right?"
  "Just turn around."
   I caught the ball all right because that pig skin was thrown so
hard that it punched into my stomach causing my hands to involuntarily
cover it. I have often wondered  how my life would have been different
had I spun off that first tackle and then put on the jets to zig zag
down the field and sprint across the goal line. Would I have had my
own collection of Grey Cup rings, and lived in a city where like
Cheers everyone would know my name ? Unfortunately, the instant that I
was being impaled by the ball some guy who had the size and speed of a
Mac truck and most probably a cute nick name like "The Crippler",
slammed me into the ground. I was lucky to have held onto my insides,
never mind the ball.
 Given my lack of size, I knew that my stint as a defensive lineman
wasn't going to be pretty.  There were some terribly intense people
who wanted on that Tiger's line. Some were top rated American college
players and some were already pros or even team regulars like Angelo
Mosca who prowled along the sidelines looking like he couldn't wait to
test out anyone who was showing real promise. The guy across from me
was from the US college leagues and he wore some cast affair on his
forearm. At the "hut", I found out why. His forearm came up and
connected with my jaw. My body twisted as I flew backwards. As I lay
face down the first person to run up my back was the ball carrier.
After him came everyone else involved in the play. Probably from both
teams.  As I lay there struggling to push my shoulders off the ground,
Vince Scott came over and offered some advice. "Son, you've got to
learn to back up!"
 In the end they never actually cut me from the roster so much as I
just knew not to come back. Not getting to wear the uniform didn't
stop me from remaining a loyal fan. Every year when the smell of lilac
fills the spring air and I know that the new crop of lads are out
clashing in the field, I close my eyes, play back the memories and
smile.  After all, I was almost a Tiger.
 Fact File
 Vince Scott- member of the CFL Hall of Fame, selected an All-Eastern
Guard 10 times
 Angelo Mosca-member of the CFL Hall of Fame, 9 Grey Cup Games, CFL
All Star 63, 70, elected an Eastern All-Star Defensive Tackle 5 times
 Frank Consentino -Tiger Cats 1960-66 including 63 and 65 Grey Cup
Championships
 Bernie Faloney- CFL Hall of Fame member Schenly Award in 61 for Most
Outstanding Player, Grey Cup record for most completed passes, most
yards thrown, most touchdowns, career-1,493 pass completions, 24,264
yards, 153 touchdowns
 Garney Henley-CFL Hall of Fame Member, defensive back, wide receiver,
20 punt returns for Hamilton Tiger Cats, 1960-75 career receiving
yards 4,657
 Ken McLeod -no officially recorded yardage

Confessions: This isn't over

 My grandmother Pirie used to say to me (with relative frequency) "Tell the truth and shame the devil." So I guess I'd better fess up ...immortal soul, clean conscience and all that. . So here it goes...... I chase squirrels.
  I just can't help it. I'll be sitting there with a fresh brewed coffee, reading the morning paper, the sun glinting off the fresh fallen snow when out of the corner of my eye I detect unnatural movement at the bird feed. "Squirrel!!", I yell to no one in particular and leap off  my chair.
 In the old days I would have suffered cold wet feet and risked frost bite but over the years I have learned, oh I have learned. My easy to slip into black rubber boots are in their appointed place by the sliding door. Slip,slip and then the all important click, click of the lock on the door. If this is one of my regular marauders this may be the end of the chase. Click, click I go again pointedly. The enemy holds its ground, inverted on the feeder chugging sunflower seeds like some uni student at a kegger. Clearly this one needs training.
  I slide the door open and leap out onto the deck. The enemy changes his stance and perches on top of the feeder. I step closer and clap my hands. Hand clapping is the ultimate weapon. I have tried snowballs but I can't throw worth a hoot and the basic building material isn't always at hand. Besides I'm not out to injure anything, just to move it along. For some reason the clapping works on a great number of animal species : squirrel, cats, dogs, raccoons, though if you have really big animals in your yard like mountain lions or bears I'd probably recommend trying something else. (Probably doesn't work with deaf animals like snakes either) Exceptions aside it works a charm on squirrels. However it has to be delivered properly. You just can't sit inside dozing on the couch and randomly clap your hands in hopes of maintaining some sort of homeland security. There is a definite method to this. Read and learn. Read and learn.
 The squirrel maintains its perch and waits for the next gambit. I close the distance a bit and clap once more. It leaps to the nearby small pine tree and does a poor job of hiding. I close the distance yet again and repeat the single clap. The squirrel now goes to the neighbour's maple tree where it climbs to an unreachable height, then turns to make its chirping noises at me. This is the critical moment in the game. Depending on how cold it is, and how I am dressed (some mornings not so much) and how likely it is that the neighbours will see me trespass on their property I approach the tree and begin to clap furiously. If all goes well, the enemy leaps from the tree to the fence and begins to scamper away. The really bold ones go all the way down to the end of the block where the fence makes a 90 degree turn but sit on the final fence post waiting for me to go back inside. I never blink first at this point. Until I see that furry tail go around the corner I will stand there with frost building up on my eyelashes while trying to ignore Jan's pleas of "Get back inside here before someone sees you!" I always stand my ground.
   There is fair bit of science in my approach. There have been many a text written on conditioning and every good animal trainer knows that it works. If it didn't, the big Hollywood animals like the lions and grizzly bears would eat all of those expensive actors instead of rolling around with them and then playing dead. I know that if I am consistent with what I do that the squirrel will eventually become so conditioned to the routine that all I have to do is get up and go to the sliding door and give it a good couple of clicks and the squirrel will scamper away right around the bend of the fence. Unfortunately each and every squirrel that finds one of my bird feeders has to be trained and there seems to be an unending supply of new recruits.
 Now I know that some "liberal" thinks will say things like, "The squirrels need to eat too." Yes they do. They need to eat squirrel food. I buy bird food. It says so on the bag. It does not say bird and squirrel food, just bird food. Some will say, "Just put it somewhere where the squirrel can't get at it." There is no such a place.
  As a somewhat  cruel spirited Christmas present Jan gave me some sort of squirrel feeder. It was basically a suet mix filled with various seeds normally associated with bird food and then pressed into the shape of a large acorn. How "cute".  It had a piece of wire embedded in it which had a loop at the end so that it could be hung from a tree to feed your furry friends. Not immediately my favourite gift but it had potential.
 I had heard that squirrels have trouble navigating clothesline, because to them it acts like a bungee cord. Armed with this knowledge I used a step ladder to hang a three foot  length of clothesline from not only the highest branch that I could reach but the one that extended itself the most. I tied the clothesline to the metal loop and declared "Game on!
  The first four days were nothing short of delicious. I sat glancing over my morning paper at a small gathering of the furry faithful that had come to drool at the offering which swayed pendulously before them. Their entire crew seemed engaged in a group brain fart while dribbles of coffee quietly escaped the corners of my smile.
  Then something happened. I won't go into the horrific details of how the nibbling took place but I will say that the last I saw of the "acorn" was its severely  gnawed and truncated body being dragged under the low lying branch of a pine tree. Someone had clearly lied about the clothesline bit.
 Spring and Fall bring fresh horrors to the squirrel war. In the Fall these rampaging rodents dig holes in  manicured lawns and even in  flower pots in order to bury acorns which they have no hope of ever finding again. In the Spring they prove me dead right by fruitlessly digging holes at random for their stored treasures while somehow managing to make off with every tulip bulb that was planted six months ago. A set of uninsulated light weight boots should be left by the door throughout both seasons.
  Summer brings peace to the land. The bird feeders are not filled, the lawn and flower pots have been repaired and replenished. I wear my flip flop sandals that have pictures of squirrels embedded on the soles and calmly drink coffee from my mug on which a squirrel asks," Could you direct me to the nearest bird feeder?"

The enemy comes to the yard now only to drink from the pond, which I allow because both sides need to rest and recover........... because this isn't over.
 Thanks grandma, I feel much better getting that off of my chest.   Ken

Singing in the Dark

Today, the G&S Choir sang at Golf's Steakhouse.  During my solo, the power went out.  Jan and I put together this song, to be sung to the tune of "Singing in the Rain".

I was singing my refrain,

Just singing my refrain,

What a glorious feeling,

But the lights didn’t remain.

We were singing for crowds,

But it got dark up above,

The sun’s in my heart

But my song got the shove.

The gloom didn’t chase

Everyone from the place

I’m glad you couldn’t see 

All the panic on my face.

The guitar couldn’t strum

The piano wouldn’t hum

What a glorious feeling

To be backed up by a drum.

I’m singing my refrain,

Just singing my refrain,

We blocked all the exits

So the crowd would remain.

It’s so dark on the stage

That we can’t see the page

So we're singing, singing….

A capella!!