For the birds

Am I a bad person because I choose which animal in nature I want to feed?

There are all sorts of critters in our backyard, gophers, chipmunks, rabbits, raccoons, skunks, and squirrels that come in grey, black and red. We also have garter snakes and toads. Moles, voles and rats as well. And of course, we also have birds. At certain times of the day, the bird traffic resembles the streaks of red or white light of cars on roads, streaks of yellow, brown and red darting from tree to tree with the accompanying squawking, chirping and tweeting.All creatures deserving of food.

The squirrels, cute as they may be, really are a major nuisance. At this time of the year, they gather their nuts. Their preferred method is to climb to the top of the oak trees, snip off tender shoots with leaves and acorn and drop them to the ground, where the acorn shell breaks and the meat is easily and readily accessible. Clever and destructive.

Our cars have been completely dented, our driveway looks like it has a carpet of broken brown shards. All this to say that there many of THEM around, and only two of US. And they are winning: they chase the birds away, they destroy our bulbs, they destroy our cars. So when it came to time to buy a bird feeder, it had to absolutely be squirrel proof. And so we bought one and to our delight and amusement, the squirrels would find the “door shut” as they clung to the feeder or jumped on it, their weight doing the trick. So we enjoyed the birds comings and goings until the chipmunk and red squirrels entered the scene. They are light, they are quick and they are clever.

The squirrel proof feeder is no longer a sanctuary for the birds. The weight of the lesser squirrel like creatures is not enough to lower the “door” to the seeds. So you can see them perched with their snouts in the hole, filling their cheeks full of seeds. So we devised some contraption to keep them away. It is working for now. But as I said before, they are clever and it is just a question of time.

I really do not want to feed THEM. I want to feed the birds. Am I a bad person for segregating, favouring and supporting who I want to feed in the wild?

Tea or coffee?

I was visiting H who had recently returned from a long trip abroad. I like H. She is no nonsense, practical in every aspect, organized to a fault, and just very pleasant to be around. We chatted at the kitchen counter and she offered me something to drink, suggesting that she had just made two fresh batches of a popular brand of flavoured teas. Both had exotic names and smelled delicious. Supposedly meant to be iced teas, they were tepid, which is how I prefer my beverages. I asked to sample both. As it is often the case with tea, I find that their fragrance is far more interesting and complex then their taste. This was no exception. I inquired as to the names of the flavours and continued to enjoy them along with H’s recounting of her adventures.

I was thrilled when I realized that I could buy the teas at a mall very close to where I live. Determined to get some, I walked into the store, greeted by a very cheery young woman. I looked around the store, amused by the names of the tea mixes, and the colours of the tins. I love tins, but that’s for another time. As I was a neophyte in what the store could offer, I just went to the counter to order the one I preferred from H’s tasting. Ah, the young cheery woman said, that’s one of our most popular. How much would I want and had I seen the specials on the window? And would I be interested in a caraffe with that which would give me some percentage off in my next purchases until the end of summer. By now I had constructed a spread sheet in my head, if you get this you save that much, but with the sale on you could get half as much for a third of the price. And the spoons, the pink ones, not the white ones, were on sale as well. I picked up the caraffe, a 4-tin sampler, and the pink-on-sale spoon, and proceeded to the counter behind which the precious canisters of tea were lined up.

I asked what 100 grams of tea looks like in terms of volume, as I had no idea whether I could brew 10 or 100 cups with that amount. The cheery lady assured me that the tin was complementary with 100 grams of tea. I nodded and asked the price of that ever popular blend. Onehundredninetythree dollars per kilo she said, and I asked her if she could really say that with a straight face. I gulped. My spread sheet in the clouds was going into tilt: that’s two point two pounds for onehundredandninetythree. How much was coffee a kilo? and meat, or cheese, or kale, or chocolate or anything other than tea, for that matter?

What I had expected to be a 20-dollar trip to the popular tea place, ended up being a 99-dollar one. I do have a nice caraffe and some very nice tea. And I admire and am grateful for H’s generosity for offering me not one, but two glasses of that ever popular tea. I do question, however, my and H’s common sense.

Don’t expect two glasses of tea if you come and visit; one, with lots of ice is all you’ll get.

Road Trip – an opportunity to learn

Whenever we go on a road trip, I am the passenger. I like it that way. This allows me the freedom to look at my surroundings, noting and commenting on clever licence plates, wild turkeys just hanging out in the field, or remarking on a particularly interestingly shaped tree, which usually just stands alone in the middle of the field. And there are the crop fields, of course, of which, I am sad to report I can only recognize two: sunflowers and corn. You see, I am a city girl. Born in the city, raised in different cities of varying sizes, I feel right in a city. Cities have logic, they have grids, they have signs, they have parameters and etiquette. This I understand. Out in the “country”, I am looking for markers that will allow me to understand, to relate, to belong. Sure there are directional and numerical signs for highways, speed limits, rural roads, townships and local businesses; there are even plaques announcing commemorative plaques up ahead. But where are the signs for the fields? Let me explain myself. I should also add I can recognize artichoke and pineapple fields as well as rice paddies. But these are rare in rural Ontario.

I mean, when you are driving on secondary or tertiary roads out in the country side, would you be able to answer what crops are being cultivated along the road? Of course, anybody that has read about what crops are grown in Ontario could manage an educated guess. Barley, canola, rye, flax, soybean, and a myriad of other crops are grown in Ontario. And then of course there are potato fields and apple groves and so much more. But back to my original question: can you identify the crops being grown along the road?

I noticed that as we drove along, there were “signs” placed at the edges of the fields. Aha! there was something I could relate to – a sign that would educate me. So I pulled out the binoculars from the glove compartment and read the signs. To my disappointment, the first one, a triangular shaped one written in black letters on a white background, was a series of numbers and letters, indicating (I guess) a type of pesticide. So when the next shape of sign came up in the distance, I picked up the binoculars again. A name of a seed supply company, I presumed, but nothing else. Of course by the now, those versed in rural signage are LOL at my ignorance. I concede. I am ignorant in the identification of what those signs mean, and as I mentioned before, of crops, except for sunflowers and corn. I do dare you to raise your hand if you can identify the fields….

My thinking is as follows. I suspect a lot of the people travelling along the smaller highways are city dwellers like me. Would it not be grand if along the road, there were signs that would tell you what is growing? Leave the pesticide signs where they are, the seed supply company signs as well. But how about a “Radishes”, “Soybean”, “Potatoes” ? They don’t have to be fancy signs, just a piece of plywood with writing using left over paint. I know, as if farmers don’t have enough to do to…

So for now, thank you farmer for putting food on my table despite my ignorance. I am just musing on how much smarter I would feel, if I could point at a field and say: hey, look at that – soybean, wheat, canola – field, instead of I wonder what is growing there.

A year ago – why you need memories

A friend of mine, C, suggested we try the Crazy Inflatable 5km run. Two red flags should have gone up immediately: Crazy and Inflatable. But not to be shamed by not participating, my answer was a resounding Sure! So I paid whatever the enrolment price and sent out emails inviting other of my friends to join me and C to this fun fun fun run. K volunteered her 25-year old volleyball player, L, to join us. That was an additional red flag, that I promptly ignored. I was at that time, 2 and 1/2 times older than she.

The day came, August 19, 2017, and my husband drove me to the site that boasted 12 inflatable structures, a 5km run in a forested farm field, and a small corral where the eager beavers would start in 15min-waves their crazy inflatable 5km run. It had rained the night before, so the field was a mix of mud, grass, mosquitoes, and general humidity rising from the damp earth. Did I mention that it was excruciatingly hot already at 9:30? The structures, inflated to their two-storey height glory, were ready; some with puddles of water in the creases, but those were quickly evaporating with the sun and the heat of the day. I don’t like heights, and it hit me then that as you climb the two-storey structures, you eventually have to come back down. Thankfully, it was all done with slides. I hated slides when I was a kid. I still do now.

A 5km run is easily done under 30 minutes. I have run many of varying lengths. The added attraction here were the obstacles. I will not bore you with the details of having L and C wait for me, as I struggled not to face-plant as I left the structures, as I walked heavily through the mud and created a culicidaecide. For the uninitiated, that means killing as many mosquitoes as you can. I was caught in a “valley of inflated tubes”, falling on my back, feeling much like a bug, struggling to get back on its legs. The oddest things go through your mind: Kafka, and how deranged was he to come up with an opening scene that strangely mimicked my predicament? My leggings were soaked, my bra was chaffing my torso, my hair stuck to my neck. My feet were being slowly ground smooth by the mud and water in my runners.

By the time I reached structure 11 of 12, I decided to walk around its perimeter, so that I could regain my strength to climb the last one and arrive at the FINISH line, by gracefully sliding along my sisters-in-arms.

It was fun once it was over. It was fun looking back at the pictures. Will I do it again? Unfortunately, this year, that run was not offered in Ottawa where I live. On the bright side, I don’t have to come up with an excuse for not signing up.

Memories are important. I laugh every time I look at the pictures, most of them featuring my butt prominently, while I try to drag it up some slippery, inflated steps. But I am glad C talked me into joining her. Why else would one go through this, if not to have the memories?