Today’s walk was a quick tramp down highway 22, over to a neighbour’s place. Conditions ran the gamut as sun, wind, and clouds competed for superiority — leaving causality the poor pedestrian who finds himself at odds with balm and bluster, and tempting him to accept rides offered by pitying driversby. Indeed, Dirletonians are kind folk. But to drive is to miss March’s competing smells: thuja, woodsmoke, and manure.

The window-thermometer gave up the ghost, I remember, succumbing to January’s worst, as we all thought we might do. It fell into a snowbank, and disappeared. Yet this fate is all but forgotten now. Outside, we can plainly see that it is warm enough, as can our impecunious tenants — the squirrels in the roof, the mice and voles in the walls — most of whom have given their notice, at least for the next little while.

Well, November has come and gone, and with nary a sound from this corner of the ‘web… except that perhaps of gently falling snow. And that pleasant clatter of hail on a tin roof, and — hark! — the warm whine of tires spinning out in snow drifts. In other words, welcome to winter.

But we’ve done our share of coming and going too, moving house from the banks of the much-beloved Kemptville Creek to a cozier, quieter location up near Fitzroy Harbour, by the Ottawa River. Pleasant country, to be sure.

I’m glad to say that we’re finally “connected” again, and by that I mean that our dial-up internet is up and running. Although — in what I took to be an indication of how few dial-up accounts they set up these days — there was a high number of administrative errors made by Bell during the process, from blatantly wrong billing addresses, and “set up” accounts that simply weren’t, to incorrect dial-up numbers. I don’t know, maybe this is standard fare when dealing with telecom people…

But all that is behind us now. And like the slow, slightly painful return of feeling to one’s extremities after having shovelled snow for an hour with no mits on, I’m feeling a little more human now that I can read the news again, news that I can’t imagine having gone without for the last little while. I now know that the local hockey team has lost six in a row, that somebody or another is pushing for more peace-talks in the middle-east, and that — according to this — yes, it is in fact snowing outside right now.

Could be that one of the more misunderstood joys of rural existence is being out of touch, at least globally speaking. Of course, other kinds of contact fill in the gaps, like getting to know nearby mechanics, postmasters, and antiques dealers. Neighbours with snowplows are handy too. Especially today: about 20 centimetres of the white stuff, and all that on top of a good layer of ice! So, by the time you get the driveway cleared, and the snowplows have trundled by, you then realize the car doors (all five of them) are frozen shut. So close…

Anyhow, keep warm out there.

Regards,
RT

* * *

Well, the water levels are low around here these days. Just take a look at the creek:

While it hasn’t quite run dry, it’s been reduced to a scant trickle. The once healthy flow has been replaced by stagnant pools and bare rock. For comparison’s sake, I’ll show you an image of the same stretch that was taken back in November of 2006, which looks significantly moister:

Seems to me that the difference is quite clear! Here’s another comparison between now and then — last year there was a good flow beneath the bridge:

While this year things look a little different:

I’m not sure if this is a widespread problem, however… you’d have to ask our friends at the Canadian Hydrographic Service about that. But I’m finding this local aridity to be a bit of a drag… do I depend on the creek for bloggable material, you might wonder? Well, yes, I would say, yes I do — over the years it has been the subject of many a post. Admittedly, I can now walk up the creekbed (a new experience), thereby traversing on foot paths only accessible in the past via canoe (or snowshoe).

As it turned out, this change in the water table proved fortuitous; it was while on a pleasant stroll up the creek just the other day that I discovered something small but promising — which I took back home, cleaned off, and now present to (taking full advantage of the power of optics):

Well, I thought that a magnified view might clear things up a little but it appears to be quite useless. Here’s a proper closeup:

“Yes, but it’s just a rock,” you say. Right, but see those shiny bits on that otherwise benign piece of quartz? I seem to have (literally) struck gold, right in our little creek. So for the rest of the week I’ll be out panning… and all going well the next post on this old blogthing will be from Vegas!

Only one person did (and it wasn’t me).

Now, James Joyce’s Ulysses is routinely listed near the top end of those “best books ever written” lists, and yet here, in a room full of graduate students who all study English literature, it only received the faintest gleam of recognition. You can draw your own conclusions from that, I suppose.

But back to the quotation for a second: this tactic of arresting audience attention by using a brazen and cheeky passage right off the top seems a little off-putting to me; isn’t it the literary equivalent of advertisements that rely on pictures of scantily clad women to sell unrelated products?

~

On a side note, there’s a recent and good article in the Boston Globe by Anthony Kronman that addresses the subject of “directionlessness” in the humanities. And I quote:

Conservatives who bemoan our schools’ disengagement from spiritual questions often point a finger at political correctness, a stifling culture of moral and political uniformity based on progressive ideals. But to blame political correctness reverses the order of causation. The culture of political correctness is only a symptom, a discouraging response to a larger sense of directionlessness in the humanities.

…and again:

An important goal in humanities departments everywhere is not only research, but instruction, teaching, encouraging students to become comfortable talking and thinking about the Big Questions.

It seems to me that a significant problem with focusing on research and abandoning the Big Questions is not only that it gives pedagogy a short shrift, but it also makes for research that is dead boring!

This happened to coincide with the uproarious sound of geese calling; I think we can figure out what was going on here. We saw a big group of turkeys the other day too — it’s the time of year when any sensible fellow is doing what he can to stock up his freezer for the coming winter.

Now, I recently had an interesting encounter with what I believe was an Eastern Towhee. I happened upon the thing during the morning stroll out back; I was playing fetch with the dog, and it was happily chirping away, perched about 4 metres up in a tree. As I approached it, hoping to get a closer look, it quickly flitted to a nearby branch — which happened to place the trunk of the tree in between it and me, thereby obfuscating my view. And so I continued ’round the tree, looking up at the bird again. And again, it immediately chose another perch, conveniently hidden to my eyes by the tree trunk. This game continued for a few minutes, the both of us circumnavigating this tree, basically playing hide and seek. Eventually one of us lost interest, though I can’t quite remember which one of us it was now.

But in view if this article here from the Boston Globe, I’ve been thinking a little differently about avian intelligence. Crows, apparently, are just as adept as chimps when it comes to making and using tools.

Speaking of birds, have you ever been buzzed by a biplane? Probably not since World War One, right?

There’s a bustling marina in Collins Bay (near the aforementioned Amherst Island), and an equally bustlesome airfield too, by the looks of it. During our brief visit, several pilots appeared to be seeing who could fly low enough to scare the fish.

Another leftover from the Amherst pictures:

After relying on Lake Ontario for a week’s worth of washings, one begins to suffer from what might be called “the Itch.” Needless to say, I was glad to have a real shower back at home. But on the plus side, there were sailboats everywhere:

So, Lake Ontario: good for boats, bad for baths.

Of course, as far as Ottawa’s status as the national capital goes, it was touch and go there for a while. Anyhow, lately I’ve been noticing a few signs suggesting that I’ve been in Ottawa for too long (or is it just long enough?). You know, these sorts of things:

• I now like Schawarma,
• I know where to find a place to eat downtown that’s actually open past 9:00 (or should I say 2100h?),
• I also know where most of the largest potholes are (some of which are so blatantly bad that if they damage your car, the City will cover the mechanic’s bill!),
• the names of myriad neighbourhoods (Glebe, Westboro, Centretown, Market, Sandy Hill, etc.) no longer confuse me,
• I now appreciate treat two-way streets as a rare luxury, and actually dream about light rail (seriously!),
• I enjoy listening to CBC radio (it’s not just for old people anymore), and finally
• I don’t mind giving government contracts to my friends, then overlooking it when they send in exorbitant bills for non-existent work, because I know if I crack jokes in court I’ll get off scot-free!

OK, so the last one is a bit of a stretch, but you get the idea.

I’m still waiting.

But the present day lack of focus aside, NwP been an enjoyable experiment in observation, narration, and idea curation.

Speaking of things that happened a year ago, it was Jemima’s first birthday earlier this month. You can see her here, assisting with the blog and what not:

Such a helpful kitten! Of course, it’s hardly fair to call her a kitten at this point. Time was, however, she was quite a little bundle. Now, what would a blog be without cat pictures? Here’s one of Jemima and some of her siblings when they were a few months old:

I can’t really tell who’s who in the photo; as you can see, they all look quite similar. Abyssinians are certainly a fun breed — wonderfully curious, spunky, and friendly. Maybe a little too smart for their own good, sometimes. Also, they get kind of crazy while they’re in heat… but really, who doesn’t?

Lately I’ve noticed an increase in the number of pigeons around the place. While their cooing is pleasant enough, they seem to think it’s okay if they just go ahead and poop on the balcony — which is not so pleasant. ‘Specially when you go out there at night. In bare feet. You get my drift.

It’s hard to begrudge their company though, espescially on a day this nice. I’m wondering if this sentiment is not shared by the locals, however. Today, I noticed a notice posted by the elevators. It listed a few timely suggestions, such as

1) PLEASE DO NOT THROW ANYTHING OFF YOUR BALCONY AS THIS IS EXTREMELY DANGEROUS AND WILL EVENTUALLY LAND ON SOMEONE’S BALCONY

Other stuff too, like no barbeques. No cigarette butts either. Number four caught my attention, though:

So it could be that the feathered folk at IPT are in for some rough times ahead. You have to wonder, though, if pigeons do get discouraged sometimes.

The Factory’s museum-like second level contains a few works in progress, along with spare parts and other car stuff. Flick on the fluorescent lights, and auto relics appear in the dusty gloom. The place seems to be caught somewhere in between order and chaos, depending on where you look.

The cars are lifted up to the second level through here:

Now, this looks like a couple of body panels from an old E-Type. The back end rests a few feet away.

Back outside, British motoring’s finest are well represented: Triumph, Austin-Healey, and MG. Not to mention the Jags scattered about, albeit in various stages of (dis)repair, along with a couple of Land Rovers that look like they had at one point or another been abandoned along the banks of the Congo River.

Anyhow, they’ve got some right fine specimens lined up along County Road 43 as well; it was nice to see a couple Sprites, as well as a handsome TR6. It’s hard to drive by the lot without pulling over and kicking a tire or two. At risk of heartbreak, of course, when you inevitably realize that gem you noticed last visit has mysteriously disappeared, and is no doubt gracing the garage of some lucky fellow (or lady).

You know the saying, “they don’t make ‘em like they used to;” but when presented with these beauties, you can’t help but wonder why?

There are some interesting ruins down along Bolton Road that’ve caught my eye once or twice, and it turns out that they have a bit of history that goes along with ‘em… A ways back, the story goes, the fellow who lived here got himself married. Simple enough, right? Well, he figured that he liked it that way, and decided to just keep quiet about things — no ceremony, no party, no fuss. Well, somehow the folks in the neighbourhood got wind of it, and they thought they’d stop by sometime after dark when the new bride & groom would be getting settled down for the night. You know, kick up a fuss of their own.

I guess things got started off well enough, with some of the fellows hooting and hollering, banging on a few pots and pans, and all of that; the only thing was that the man of the house, after hearing the racket going on outside, decided to come to the door with a shotgun and fire it off into the dark. As you’re probably guessing, somebody got killed. Next day? Well, the unlucky groom got shipped off to jail.

Not sure what happened after that, really. To be honest, I don’t know much about the whole ordeal except for a little bit of hearsay. But there isn’t much left of the old homestead now. Aside from the one corner- section of the exterior wall, there’s a bit of the foundation intact, along with a few beams and sections of the garden wall out back. You know, it’s a nice spot — quiet, nestled in the bend of a small creek.

On a side note: we came across some deer bones nearby, which looked as if they’d been picked clean long ago. Only half the carcass though. Hunters’ work, I suppose.

[N 44^o 54' 32.6", W 75^o 44' 12.9"]