A SOJOURN OVERDUE - THE END OF FEBRUARY, SPRING BECKONING

As a public school kid, I had a crush every spring. As a high school student, the same. As a unattached writer for quite a few years, I had a crush from early March to whenever the apple of my eye let me know there was no way in hell. Yet even with love lost, I’ve long been respectful of this time of the year, and always feel invigorated to explore and trundle about, shaking away the crust of relative hibernation. What better than getting poetic and walking through these freshly decorated trees above the Bog. There’s something important to learn here.....and I’m still questing. If there is a meaning of life, I know it is to be found somewhere in this precious woodland......in the atmosphere above this gently, subtly haunted place on earth.

Although possibly, a too early postmortem of the past winter season, I must admit an eagerness to see green earth again, and watch the tightly wound coils of maturing ferns that fill in this beautiful Muskoka lowland. I do recall my mother Merle, insisting that I “not wish away time,” as it was “too precious for a child to waste.” Merle was a lover of life without question. It became particularly acute in her 40's, when a doctor suggested her health was seriously failing. She worked hard, over many years, to lower her blood pressure, lose a massive amount of weight, and both see and enjoy life in so many different ways. Merle survived well into her eighties and to her final moment, had a confident smile that she had lived up to what she preached. I often think about this when I’m wandering through our neighborhood bogland, stopping to listen to the chickadees and woodpeckers at work and passtime, and waxing poetic about life and afterlife. Indeed, I don’t want to miss anything here......it’s all so important to the sense of well being.

Most folks pass this Bog by, every day, without the slightest notice. Even when they walk here to get their mail from the neighborhood drop-off, they would sooner read their mail on the return trip, than glance into the snow-laden gallery, which provides such a vision of solitude and enchantment. These folks have given up on their inner child......the child that would run free in this same woodland if given a chance.....celebrating liberation from the overseer.

There is the unmistakable aura of spring, manifesting in its peculiar splendor, just beyond the vision that greets us this morning. It is so spectacular for the soul, to be exposed to this grand potential for renewed life......as the power of regeneration vibrates beneath our feet.....on this final day of February 2011. I am not so foolish as to wish this day away. It is as precious as all the others. Symbolic in that it concludes the most dangerous months of the winter season, by calendar at least. From early forecasts, it might also appear that midnight will see March enter as a lamb.....and depart, well, as a raging lion. I shall celebrate whatever nature brings, as it is the architect of the future. Through blizzard and calm, windstorm, and rain, I will venture here to find Muskoka as spirited and effervescent as always. And when those tight rings of rich, green ferns, begin to unfurl into the patches of spring sunlight, forgive me the indulgence of feeling restored and enthralled, about all the possibilities for new adventure.

There is still a gentle flurry of snow settling upon the bogland at this time of writing. It is such a picturesque scene, and I’m sure Merle would have put Mozart, on her old record player, to enhance the vision. I don’t have a record player today but I can still hear Mozart. I can still see the old girl sitting on her chair by the window, looking out at the treetops catching the heavy new snow. And sense her contentment that “life is good.”

I wonder how many people in Muskoka, feel the same about the seasons as I do. If this neighborhood is any example, then I fear the answer is “not enough.”

To truly protect the environment, in this region in the future, as development stresses continues to increase, its defenders must be aware of this disconnect of the general population......who have become desensitized to the hinterland that houses them.

THE MORNING ESCAPE INTO THE WORLD OF THE BOG

After listening to the news this morning, and wondering aloud to my wife, Suzanne, if we were approaching another world war, with all the profound change in the Middle East, and then learning of the terrible earthquake in New Zealand, I feel it as almost an act of cowardice to amble down this frozen path, of The Bog, toward my Muskoka Walden.

Even as a die-hard news seeker, there are times when it all seems too much, and in this new age of citizen reporting, putting us in the news only minutes after a serious event, we are placed much closer to actuality than ever before. It’s a lot harder for any one to say “I didn’t hear about it,” these days. Whether you listen to the news regularly or not, with the “breaking news” interventions throughout the day, even if all you want to hear is music, there’s simply no avoiding the truth of the hour, realities of the day, and implications for every day after that......all thanks to an expanding media force, in the hands of citizens around the world......certainly a most remarkable change from even five years ago. Some would say it facilitated all of the Middle East region rebellions ongoing. From New Zealand this morning, only hours after the powerful earthquake, the world knows about the extent of the catastrophe......not because of the work submitted by reporters and television crews but by images captured by ordinary folks with camera phones etc., who want the global community to know about the tragic turn of events. Hopefully the increased exposure will draw aid faster.

It is an incredible late winter morning here, with the bright sunlight dazzling off the snowscape, and the long shadows reaching out over the bog, from the naked hardwood stands on the embankment. There are woodpeckers whacking old pine trees in quest of breakfast-bugs, and the chickadees are chirping away at a nearby birdfeeder. The squirrels are making rather merry in the tree tops, and venerable old crows call out loudly over the still sleepy neighborhood. All is well in this woodland oasis. Looking out over this winter scene in transition, watching daily, as I have been,...... the sun becoming stronger. Melt water running beneath the canopy, now heavier and capable of eroding the ice from the underside, as the warmer temperatures by afternoon, will melt away the top layer of ice. There is a lot going on here at this moment. It is the decline of one season, the age I feel in my old bones, and the gradual emergence of a spring atmosphere. The temperature will rise well above freezing, for the next several days, and much of this canopy will be fractured and concentrated over the unfrozen ground.

Standing out here, admiring the natural grandeur afforded these Muskoka woodlands, I’m still immersed by worry, about the course of world events, and how the ill effects will reverberate here.....as they will without question, throughout this more intertwined global economy. There are people in this community with family and friends in New Zealand, who will be devastated at this moment, worrying about their well being. Yes, there is a feeling of guilt standing here now, benefitting from this peace on earth, in this gentle, calming sanctuary. Yet there’s something important within this tranquil place, some wonderful aura that attaches to your soul, and makes you appreciate the spirit within, this land, your heart, to make peace with whatever difficulties arise. The recognition that the spirit is strong and dynamic to the changes we face.....if we allow it to rise to the occasion. How many of the self-professed weak, have risen to huge accomplishment, when faced with enormous challenges. I have great faith in the human spirit to prevail.....despite what evilness it encounters.

I wish, at times, during these woodland hikes, I had the privilege of chatty company. What a pleasure it would be to have Thoreau to opine with, while staring out over this beautiful snow-laden landscape. How marvelous, to have Robert Frost for a journey through these snowy woods. Imagine the insight, having writers like Washington Irving, and Charles Dickens kicking along this same trail, discussing affections for life as art; their thoughts about the role of tragedy and epic change upon the international landscape. While I might prefer the old Bards to help me understand, and prevail upon my own writing with insight and illumination, I will gladly seek the word of all those sage folks, who have wisdom-enhanced outlooks upon the future.....and who have dealt with adversity....and been inspired by its essence of success. When they look out at this future change of season, they see and respect the inherent power of change, and react accordingly to circumstance. If there is a flood as a direct result of this change of season, they will know how to react in advance. Their wisdom has allowed for a pro-active way of living, expecting that at any time, adversity might bump into them again, as a matter of rightful, natural course......not as a perceived inconvenience, but as reality collides perpetually with vulnerable mortality. That’s life for you!

It is a refreshing start to the day, to wander these narrow, frozen paths, to nowhere in particular. It is as haunted as it is enchanting, as truthful as it is mysterious, and yet the truth is clear......that the bitter cold of winter is in decline, and the days will continue to get warmer....... and the melt water will increase the stress, and rage beyond our view, along all these little creeks and waterfalls, criss-crossing the uneven lowland. It is the kind of scene Tom Thomson might have found interesting for an art panel. The kind of poetic place on earth, that might have inspired E.J. Pratt, G.D. Roberts or Bliss Carmen, no strangers to Muskoka. Maybe I will be the only serious observer of this place today. Maybe even tomorrow, except for the few youngsters who venture into the bog as a minor adventure, on the way home from school. I can tell they’ve been here because of the cast-off apples and bananas, half-eaten sandwiches and cracker crumbs dropped into the old snow. I’m just glad they have taken a few minutes at least, to visit this wondrous place......where crows and blue jays call out through the day, hawks sweep overhead, deer and moose amble into the lowland on warm and sunny afternoons. It is a place of spirituality.....a place to re-awaken to the power of nature.....a place for non-poets to be poetic when no one is looking.....a place to hear the voices in the wind, a place to sing what you wish to sing......a place to be contented and at peace. Away from the news for awhile, but never distant from an actuality....we simply can not escape. Reality can not be out-run. Even here. Although, admittedly, I have often tried.

A WEEK OF MELT AND FREEZE, AND BACK AGAIN - BUT A WINK OF SPRING

For the past day the snow has been melting quickly. I always worry about sustaining melts at this time of the year. Although we don’t have a huge amount of snow, it’s enough to create that seasonal malady.....the flood watch. We have had very few instances of high water at Birch Hollow, over the past twenty-two years but there have been nervous times when our neighbors’ problems became our own. We have been unceremoniously awarded all the run-off water they don’t want hanging around their properties. From roof and basements, the run-off water, some of it by actual pump, has been directed toward our modest homestead. I have walked down our backyard path only to be met by shin-high water, building up against the side of our house. Seeing as I have thousands of old books in my archives, any moisture contamination could cost me dearly. So exiting the run-off away from the building is imperative. Acting fast is necessary to avoid the water rising above the concrete block foundation. We are built on a cement pad so we don’t have a basement, as such, to worry about. Once the water passes up over the blocks however, seepage is more than likely to occur.

The problem has been, in the past, that the water starts building up in the hours between midnight and first light. Anticipating the problem, I have to dig trenches in the snow, well in advance, to exit it down the lane, instead of allowing it to pool behind the house; and then draining through our family room. I’ve asked the neighbors if it would be possible to re-direct their respective run-off during the spring melt. They comply for awhile and then, without warning, the hose is re-located, and the tell-tale gurgling tells me I’ve got to start trenching immediately.

I love the early spring. The first warm days when you can hear, outside of the run-off from my neighbors’ pumps, the collapsing layers of shattered crystal-ice. Over in the Bog, you can hear the near-rapids in the little creeks, and what were, days earlier, only fairy-falls, have become rushing torrents, washing through the lowland. You can’t deny the feeling of being gradually unfettered, as if the winter has set the soul free at last. It is the 14th of February, Valentines Day, and yes I forgot about it.....but was reminded just how forgetful I was becoming. Suzanne doesn’t seem upset when I forget about these special occasions.....as long as, before the day is out, I redeem myself as a good husband. We will, as usual, spend the evening here, at Birch Hollow, thanking God we have this wonderful homestead in the Muskoka hinterland......and two young lads, who feel exactly the same.....and cherish the region as their grandparents, and great grandparents before them.

The cats are particularly animated this morning, as an old grey squirrel has been sitting in the bird feeder, nibbling on the leftover seeds of the winter feed. They’re not too sure what to make of the squirrel we call Seymour. They prefer watching the chickadees that come in the morning and then in the early afternoon. Seymour doesn’t really care that he’s being watched. He’s got more important things on the go. The cats eventually turn their backs on the squirrel-kind, and get back to licking paws and scratching.

It hasn’t been a long or particularly cold winter. Certainly not as snow-laden as we have become used to in Muskoka, and the sunshine has been incredible......at a time when we expect it to be overcast and snowy most of the time. It is a great attribute of winter to be sunny, especially for all those with light deprivation issues. Yet no matter how moderate the winter, how much warmer it was than the year before, how little snow, or fewer blizzards, by the middle of February, after a November start at inclement weather, we’re all anxious about the arrival of spring. There is a joyous wonderment when you step out into the warmer air, and hear the constant drip of melt water from the declining snow-cover. It’s easy to wax poetic, about the rejuvenation of our gardens, the lilacs and the raspberry canes outside my office window.

Writing has always been inspired-onward by the arrival of spring. When I was a kid, growing up in Burlington, and then residing in Bracebridge, the spring was the time to be creative.....to get out and explore....seek adventures.....get so many soakers as to drive mom nuts! I loved channeling water as a kid, and all the experience I got in my old neighborhoods, is becoming of considerable use today.

I could sit here all day and write, and never feel constrained or without subject matter. Winter is a great time to muster here, with this excellent view down onto The Bog, and writing, while a witness to countless wind and snowstorms, is like chatting with a friend. It is all so beautiful and compelling.

For more than two decades, the lilacs and raspberry canes in the front garden, have been my harbingers of the seasons. There are still clumps of snow caught up in the lilac arches, and many of the raspberry canes are held down by the snow of the past week. Soon they will rise again and the sun will engage that spectacular restoration of life juices, feeding the buds of May. These plants were rescued from the old family cottage on Lake Rosseau, at Windermere, that was torn down some years back. It had been my wife’s family homestead built by Sam Stripp. We spent the late summer and fall living at the cottage prior to moving to Gravenhurst that cold October. When we moved here, in 1989, I insisted we bring along as many lilacs and raspberry canes as we could, without destroying the integrity of the old cottage property. I brought a few more back, after Suzanne’s father sold the cottage, and later the family home, in the Village of Windermere, following his death. Our property here at Birch Hollow is full of memories, transplanted as live plants on all sides of the house. When I watch out at these garden residents, I think back everso gently, and peacefully, to those other times in our lives, which we cherish in memory.....and watch in actuality, still thriving from the first roots of homestead heritage. It is without question, a poetic comfort to us oldtimers, and we trust our boys, one day, will maintain this plant heritage as well.....and to share with their children the stories of the good old days.

I have been sitting here for the past hour without too much to show for it. My tea is now cold and the cats have moved from the window sill to the pad on the wicker chair at my side. It’s time to take Bosko out for a run......and to listen for a while longer, the joy of the spring melt.....that has come a little early this year.

THE HIATUS FROM POLITICS - THE PEACE OF THE HINTERLAND

Back in the mid-1990's, while researching the mystery of Tom Thomson’s death, on Algonquin Park’s Canoe Lake (in July 1917), our whole family turned onto camping and canoeing, in one of the finest parks in Canada. We had a hell of a run, and between Tea Lake and Rock Lake we spent many fascinating vacations hiking trails (Booth) and paddling many different waterways. I always seemed to feel better overall, as soon as we hit Dorset on the trip to the park. Touching the water at Canoe Lake was magnificently spirited, and everything that came after was a joy on earth. What oppressed us at home, was dissolved out here. The first couple of miles paddling the canoe, evaporated all the politics and economics of the homefront. We may still have been poor either way but out in that canoe, on a beautiful lake, just took the stresses and cast them aside for those wonder-filled weeks.

If I have any regret today, with our boys now fully occupied in their own music business, here in Gravenhurst, it’s the fact there’s not much time to travel to the park ,let alone canoe through the summer. It’s their busy time in Muskoka, and in the antique trade, of which we have been longstanding members, our best hunting-gathering time is also from April to Thanksgiving. We host four or so major sales during this time, plus on-line business, and it definitely makes it harder to get back to back days anymore, to even think about an overnight camping excursion. I know the boys miss it. I’m hoping they will do the same with their youngsters one day, because it is a life-enhancing experience.

I have always operated my life on a “rewards” basis. I will work hard and long, and get the job done, but at the conclusion, I must be able to reward myself with something. It hasn’t mattered what my occupation, or the task at hand but having something to look forward to, while working away at something stressful, gives me an objective worth achieving. When I played sports, particularly hockey, I looked forward to the game, then hated it after the opening face-off. I was the goalie and it was a solitary, lonely, high stress position. I not only was a clock-watcher but while tending the net, I made oh so many plans for activities immediately following. The better I felt about post game fun, the better saves I made. It was the same with writing, way back in the early years with various Muskoka media. A lot of the stories I had to work on, were painfully boring....such as business features and personal interest stories.....some that put me to sleep during the interview. Not to be disrespectful but I just couldn’t get interested in a guy who made a wooden bowl.....something that has been done for centuries without the need for news coverage. When I’d get to the task of writing up the story, gads, if I didn’t have a strong plan for reward, after the fact, the story-line would suck big time. Then I’d have a guy with a wooden bowl and my publisher (usually his friend) angry that there was no enthusiasm in the piece. I hate that kind of work but it made up more than half of the projects we were asked to write-up. Even sitting through a municipal council meeting, meant I’d have to plan a really nice reward for myself afterwards, because these events were traditionally void of anything interesting.....unless a councillor fell off his or her chair in slumber.

I don’t take on projects these days that will necessitate any added reward at the end of the project. Everything is self-assigned, and in reality, writing jags now are the reward for work on something else......like mowing the lawn, cleaning the gutters, wangling around the crawl space or shovelling the driveway. It is a joy and a wonderful release, like getting into a canoe, when I sit down here to compose something or other. Of course wandering over into the woodlands is usually a mainstay reward these days as well. When I get frustrated with the news of the day, politics, economics and phone interruptions I can’t stand, a walk with old Bosko through the woods, here at Birch Hollow, is just perfect for mellowing-out. While I wish I was a little closer to those beautiful Algonquin lakes, and could easily slip the bow of the canoe into the sparkling water, standing here on the hillside, above the bog, is still a soothing respite.

Today is one of those beautiful winter days in Muskoka, when the deep cold and clear sky is the perfect relief for what might ail the voyeur. Listening to the sounds of the still-trickling waterfalls, at junctions of intersecting creeks below, and looking out over the snow-laden cat-tails, frosted grasses and leaning birches, makes this for me, a heaven on earth. A writer’s paradise where there are no deadlines and no word counts. No boundaries that tell me how I must present a story, such as one on a bowl maker, or how I should write-up a local political story that annoys me. What goes on in my mind during those spirited vigils, is evidence of a joy for creativity, I still possess, afterall these years calloused by the profession. It is writing for blogs like this one, that provides my daily treat.....an honest relief from the etching of urban, business, economic and political existence. Even writing about my Walden here, at Birch Hollow, is like the first full paddle of a canoe out onto a mirroring lake, where the traverse has never been mapped, and the destination, never fully determined. I might just paddle off into the eventual sunset, and that would be pretty darn rewarding.

My reward now is to sit here for awhile longer, watching the wee birds at the feeder outside my office window. What a friendly encounter between food-provider, and welcome guests.