Last light catches rain.
Perhaps when I get old (er), I said to Lisa, I’ll keep the camera nestled in my lap while sitting on the porch and take pictures of clouds.
Lisa said, sure, reassuring like I’d just slipped off.
Lettuce, self seeded, beside the compost.
The garden is still behind but showing promise. The beans came up like gangbusters. Not like other years. The cabbage is doing the best out of what was planted. The weeds are kicking ass, until tomorrow. That’s when I’m heading out there like a pimp with my angry hoe.
A few early black cherry tomatoes.
Just words. My friend, said, he wanted a shirt that said, free speech is more important than your feelings. I agree. The problem is, if you want the shirt, you have to be on the internet and buy it from the white supremacists.
A pterodactyl or blue heron, one or the other, flies into the storm.
Fathers Day. I was lucky. Phone calls and even a few Instagram tributes. It was pretty nice. Better than being like most of the dads on Instagram . . . already dead.
Tomorrow, I’m heading out there like I said. That’s the trick, and probably what makes a good father.
Very fine day.
A wild turkey. Too late for Easter and too early for Thanksgiving!
Got the garden in. Better late then never, yet I’ve been later. It all seems to work out, despite my foolish worry and woe.
Wild flower. Venus’s Lady’s Slipper Orchid.
A robin who was singing into the sun turns his back for the camera and scratches it’s ass.
It was good to get out and catch up with the garden. Despite good intentions I am once again behind. Spring always seems to sneak up.
The garden needed digging. The garlic, planted in the fall is not yet up, it could be because it was trampled by the deer before the ground froze. It is hard to say if it will come up. The weeds got shaken and tossed to the side. Tomorrow I plan on running a rototiller through the garden and maybe get a few spuds in the ground. I’ve started a few plants inside, but they are not ready to be put out.
I think we should prepare for another dry one.
During the week Lisa and I headed behind the mountain along the creek. There is more yahoos in the bush then ever. We saw some people shooting down the road. We weren’t in their line, but somebody could have easily been. Before I could think, I was out of my truck and asking them what the hell they thought they were doing. They apologized, which I didn’t give a damn about.
Lisa calmly asked, once I got back in the truck, if my new thing is giving people carrying high powered rifles shit?
The sun felt good today. My head has been clogged with a cold. The first one I can remember in years. My arms are sunburnt and scratched from pulling out the old raspberry canes. Very fine day.
Jupiter peaks around. The Teapot’s down there above the ice.
I keep telling myself I can write whatever I feel like, but usually I don’t. It’s got me into trouble in the past.
I’m employable only because I can lift more than fifty pound. They keep me around because I can lift a lot more. Not that I’ve written anything but the truth. As I told our current MLA when he came after me, ‘what the fuck do people care what I think anyway’. I was trying to satiate him, but he saw a fight and an opportunity to crush a perceived enemy, not even really an enemy, but someone not sharing his message.
These men are a dime a dozen. Everything, especially politics, has become religion where if you can’t agree you go to war.
I should have been a roofer. Putting roofs over people’s heads is an honourable trade. I would only espouse the virtues of small town politicians who championed the most roofs, overlooking the money they received in kickbacks, much more than a roofers wage. Just guys saying yes.
It is interesting to note the small time politicians who have had the biggest impact on local communities don’t live there anymore. They were happy until they were voted out or retired. After that. . . they move. The towns; each campaign they devoted their love to, and changed in there image, in the rearview mirror once they stopped collecting. Meanwhile we stay and clean up their mess.
Hey man, I’ve seen it over and over. That’s the burden with being in any one place for a long time, I guess.
It’s an imaginary world. Sometimes we’re deep in the bush other times dreaming at night.
Willow slept most of the day after the cold night. The cold can take it out of you. It’s like exercising without moving. It strips the body, leaving only what’s needed.
Being older, it takes on greater meaning. Sometimes wisdom is just concurrence letting things be. Then again, I’ve never been more prepared for a fight. That’s the old man talking.
Cold water. Ice. Temperatures dipping. Snow. Knee deep. Frost bite. Dim light.
We’re all warriors until we slip on a patch of ice.
The garden gate.
Here it is the start of February and the temperature is 8°c., in a month it can go as low as -40!
A warm wind rolled in yesterday. The snow has mostly melted in the valley bottom, leaving puddles on the frozen ground.
Willow with a full coat of hair, looking worried, while winter seems to be coming to a premature end. “Did I grow this hair for nothing?” she was heard to say.
I had three people mention gardening to me today. It seems too early to consider. Still I looked at seeds online. Willow and I even strolled out to the garden. The deer have really trampled my garlic rows. Hopefully the plants won’t be effected. There is deer shit from asshole to tea kettle (asshole to tea kettle, was a saying my father regularly used. It means a lot and afar).
The forecast is calling for cold temps.
It was a good day to hang out in the wood pile.
Cooper’s and Papa’s axes.
Cooper burying the potatoes I just dug.
Frost behind the mountain, along the creek, as soon as sight is lost of the valley bottom. The leaves are changing. The potatoes are in. Most of the tomatoes ripened on the vine. The onions are pulled and dried.
Lisa and I were deep in the bush Monday morning with our grandkids. It was chilly when we walked the cut block and the road in and out. They took turns calling Willow.
Dog tries to steal babies tomato. Scarlett, says, ‘fuck you Willow’. . . not really.
Cooper threw rocks over the bank, liking the way it sounds hitting the snags and boulders on the way down. Scarlett walked the whole way in her moccasins.
Hiding out in the carrot patch.
Lisa and I get to show them something they don’t see everyday. Their hands get cold and sometimes hurt grabbing the wrong prickled branch pulling themselves up. They get to see trees living and some old stumps. They already know roots make the best walking sticks, berries with crowns are good and everything light green smells fresh when you crush it between your finger tips.
I just want them to love being here.