The thing about letting the dog run the mouse out the door is she might keep going to the next barn. The dog I mean, the mouse will always come back.
It’s going to warm up. A light rain falls. My grandchildren have come to visit and they remind me time isn’t forever. I kick myself for not cherishing every moment. Lost in anger and differences, most in my youth, fuel, to make it this far. It’s not about becoming wiser or learning the err of my ways. It could never have been different. But now to see my granddaughter walk among the garden, my guard dropped, to be finally thankful for a long awaited gift.
We have plenty of firewood. We get it early. We call it next years wood.
It takes sweat and stamina to cut, chop and finally relax in front of a fine fire.
The dogs were a sniff in the bush. Catching scents, running hither and yon. I envied them. I also envy the way they can sleep anywhere. Dreaming of slow rabbits and bird calls,
Lisa did the cutting, not every woman can handle a chainsaw with a 24” bar, while I hauled the blocks. Maynard caught a rabbit and displayed it proudly. Willow enjoyed the bush as usual. Very fine day.
Daisies and Yarrow
A busy Canada Day Weekend for Lisa and I. Our son Hunter and his wonderful girlfriend Bree were out from Calgary to take in the festivities with their friends. We put up a higher fence around the garden in and attempt to dissuade the deer from eating our vegetables.
Lisa stopping on a cutblock to admire the daisies.
Lisa busied herself further making wooden signs for our daughter Maddy’s quickly approaching wedding. Lisa is very handy with power tools and can whip together almost anything. This spring she made me a a potting bench, complete with a sink, from the old leftover cedar siding from our renovation a few years ago.
Driving Willow crazy.
This morning we escaped the ruck of the crowd in the valley bottom and got behind Swansea. We followed the creek a ways then turned mountain side. Crossed a few cutbacks covered in daises, kept up until the road ended in a spot we haven’t visited for awhile.
Always happy, even if sometimes one step behind.
Willow looked and dug for rodents. I took a few photos. Found a spring crisscrossed with moose tracks. Lisa harvested small new prickly pine cones. We picked a couple bouquets of wild flowers for home. Willow hunted until her tongue hung out of her mouth.
Very fine day.
“Yes I am. It’s on my resumé,”
said my neighbour,
after he was told
My fence even half not up
still tomorrow should
It’s good not to be a connoisseur of anything. It allows us to drink bad beer and wine, eat all the the extra parts of the animal, enjoy Jughead and Crumb, figure a fine is sometimes worth it, tell bad jokes, unpolitically correct or just in bad taste, share stories about birds, flying, laughing. . . those superior bastards.
Plus what would we do without sub standard music? Shite, we would all be listening to Brahms and Taylor Swift.
My boss likes to say, we ain’t building a piano. He doesn’t say it to me. He knows I haven’t seen a piano since keyboards. But for the other guys. . . those old fucks.
Storm clouds with nothing in them, neither rain or wind. Most go west to east and jump the mountains. It’s the northerners you have to worry about. They care little for geography, and will flatten a garden in a minute.
Exaggeration isn’t just bullshit.
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.