Revisiting my memories

 

 

The view from the picture window of the “Cabin on the Hill” at Bon Echo Provincial Park makes me want to cry. And not just because of the way the sun sets on the 300-foot rock face on fire at the end of the day – a scene that has inspired countless artists to honour its beauty in their work. I get emotional because this particular panorama reminds me of when I was 16 years old, swimming across the lake, climbing that cliff with friends, dining on blueberries and jumping off ledges into the cool, black water below.

I learned to waterski on this lake. My dad never stopped teaching, even during the summer. At 6am he’d wake my sister and me and we would dress quickly to join other puffy-eyed characters on the beach. The water was smooth as a mirror at that time of day. The only sound, an occasional loon call. On a school day, we teens would long for a few extra minutes of sleep. Not at Bon Echo. We were up at the ‘crack of sparrow fart’, ready to start our day.

We ran in packs, to the soundtrack of “Synchronicity” by The Police. At lunchtime we would run home to our respective campsites to scarf down ham and cheese sandwiches or a plate of camper’s charcuterie left behind for us by our parents: cheddar, kolbassa and dill pickles atop Ritz crackers.

Our bellies full, we would head back to the main beach for sunbathing, floating on rafts and spouting the wisdom of young people who would one day rule the world.When the sun finally dipped behind the rock we would pack up our towels and rush home to eat camp dinners with our families: beans and wieners, Kraft dinner with tuna, grilled burgers and corn on the cob. We sped through washing the dishes because at 6pm we were due at the camp ball diamond where Mrs. Watson organized a game six days a week. Our parents brought lawnchairs and socialized on the sidelines. Afterwards we took our sweaty, sandy bodies to the lake for a moonlit swim or headed to the showers to wash up.

Dressing in hoodies, jeans and sneakers, we would meet after dusk at a designated campsite for marshmallows over the fire. Sometimes we played pranks on each other, like waiting until someone had been in the outdoor shower long enough to be fully soaped up – then turning the water off and watching from the bushes as the screaming ensued.

It’s no wonder Bon Echo is one of my favourite places in the world. It’s a magical place on its own but for me it holds a big piece of my childhood.

-30-

Many hands make short work..or something like that

 

 

The noise woke me at around 3am, two nights in a row. It sounded like someone was rolling a large garbage bin down a driveway – except we were at the cottage and we didn’t have a garbage bin. Or a driveway. On the third night I sat straight up in bed, straining to make sense of the weird noise. I have heard squirrels doing construction on a maternity ward in my attic (sounds like tiny hammers and saws), as well as woodpeckers, foxes, loons and raccoons, chattering at each other pre-dawn. This was a new sound though. I talked it over with the Farmer at breakfast.

I struggled to describe the noise I had heard.

“I heard it too! Thought it was thunder at first. Are the raccoons in the recycling again?”

Our Golden Retriever Fergus had also heard the noise. He was up before dawn, pacing, growling and ready to bolt as soon as someone opened the door. Once outside, nose to the ground, he circled the house three times before he gave up, distracted by an enticingly chewable stick.

“No idea. The recycling was untouched. The porch fridge had little muddy handprints on it – a sign that the raccoons had been trying to get into it – but no other evidence of tampering.

Since our new neighbour began removing trees from his property in order to renovate his cottage, we had all kinds of new wildlife visiting our place. Fergus had an unfortunate meeting with a baby porcupine that resulted in a trip to the vet to get six quills removed from his muzzle. When we set live traps to catch the porcupine family (which is a near impossible feat), we caught a mama and teenaged raccoon instead. They are strong enough to bend metal, so we didn’t leave them in there long. I threw a blanket over the cages to stop the coons from snarling and the Farmer sprung the doors with a long pole. Raccoons can be vicious when cornered.

We didn’t relocate the racoons because there were three babies sniffing around the cages and scurrying up the nearest tree. So now we are host to the whole family. They were sitting in the middle of the road the other night when we came home from dinner, playing tug of war with an earthworm. I hope they don’t get hit by a car. People don’t often realize the lasting effects of cutting down an entire acre of mature trees in one go. It doesn’t give the animals long enough to reorient themselves. They wander around dazed and confused for a bit until they find another suitable home.

I thought about this as I approached my compost bin with a load of corn husks. The sliding door on the top of the bin had been pulled open and bent in half. Muddy handprints covered the side of the barrel where tiny hands had worked hard to roll and spring it open. I’m going to have good soil this fall thanks to those raccoons who keep stirring up my compost.

The Farmer is an eternal optimist

 

Farmers hope for the best and prepare for the worst. They are the ultimate optimists. They prepare the soil, plant the seeds and hope the crop will grow, even if it was washed out by floods or shrivelled by drought the year before. And so, the Farmer is buying more chicks, even though our little flock was wiped out last year by some kind of stealthy predator. 

We will do what we can to keep the raccoons out of the chicken coop this year. We will cover the space with chicken wire and install a door that even the most dexterous fingers will not be able to open. We will keep a light on and the radio will play all night. But even then, we might lose a few birds to the coons. Because if they want to get in, they will. 

Of course, theoretically, we can trap and get rid of the raccoons, but they are smarter than most of the traps. So, in the end it is up to luck. We just hope that the raccoons have found something else to eat this year, so they will leave our chickens alone. At least for the 12 weeks that we need to grow them. 

I am not a huge fan of chickens, because they peck my ankles. Every time I go in to feed them, they swarm around my feet and peck me – and we never let their feeders run empty. It isn’t as if they are starving or even hungry. They are just socially awkward. They have no idea how to make friends with the hands that feed them. 

Chickens are also cannibalistic. If one of their lot gets wounded, you have to pick him out and put him in his own quarantined space, or his friends might eat him. How is that for nature at its most brutal? Disgusting. I prefer turkeys. They are polite, softly cooing around you as you fill their feeders. They also respond in unison sing-song gobbles when you speak to them. Turkeys are cool. 

Last year after our flock was destroyed, we were left with a handful of chickens and one lone turkey. After the chickens went to market, Turkey Lurkey was alone. We gave him to our daughter who raises laying hens and she snuck him into her coop under cover of darkness. When the sun came up the next morning he was pretty much accepted into the fold. We ate him for Easter. 

Growing your own food is risky business, but it’s worth it (I say as I watch my husband roll out the chicken wire, from my safe vantage point on the porch).