Weekend Photos

We had company this weekend: Cuppa's sister and husband. We took a ride out to Wheeler's Pancake House and Sugar Camp at McDonald's Corners (see on map in new window — zoom in and out as desired). We've been there before, more than once, but it's a nice place to take visitors. It was a pleasant drive followed by a fine breakfast in a wonderfully crafted building.

There's a neat, little museum on the property. Since Cuppa is still nursing a sprained ankle, she sat placidly on the porch under the flowerpot while the three of us poked our noses hither and thither. Below Cuppa's picture is a photogenic shed (if that's possible for a building) that I've also captured previously (in this post).





Afterwards we drove our visitors about. One stop was here at the old Sawyer's House in Heron Mills (mapped here).



BIL is quite a shutterbug and has a wonderful new camera, so we next stopped at Almonte where he snapped away to his heart's content. But this photo is mine, taken on Cuppa's little camera. Of course, I did the usual post-processing.



Of course, we did pay our respects to The Smudge. This is a recent photo taken by Mom of the wee princess wrapped in her froggy towel.



Update: After posting this blog, I decided to add this photo of my SIL walking towards that old, long abandoned house.

A Wolfman No More

I was recently disheartened to read Tossing Pebbles in the Stream's post entitled Living with the Animals. His rural neighbour had shot two wolves of the dozen or so that were in his backyard on the previous night. According to the neighbour, "Wolves are vermin," and they eat livestock. Although he didn't have any livestock, anti-wolf feelings apparently still run high in rural regions, and this guy used his trusty gun even though it was illegal for him to do so.

Several years ago, I read Barbara Kingsolver's, A Prodigal Summer, a novel that I liked a whole lot. The themes were environmental in nature, and in one of the main plot lines, a ecologically-minded forestry lady attempts to disabuse her lover, a western rancher, of his views about evil wolves. Of course, she was unable. Old views die hard after all, no matter how uninformed they may be.

As distasteful as the above account may be to most, it does provide me with a segway into the humourous anecdote below. I don't know if I can actually relate it in a funny way: probably not, but I can tell you what happened, and perhaps it will raise a chuckle.

First, you need to know that about six years ago, I owned several T-shirts with wolves emblazoned on the front. I'd been quite taken with the critters since I had seen Never Cry Wolf many years previous. It so happened that I was wearing one of these wolf shirts when I entered a shop in a New England village while visiting a friend in New Hampshire. The three of us, me, Cuppa, and our kind host, ambled around the store for a bit, but when we were about to leave, I was asked perhaps the oddest question of my life.

The curious saleslady asked, and I kid you not: "Oh, I love wolves. Do you have one?" Really! That's what she said!

What does one say in reply to such a question? In rather stunned monotone I mumbled something like, "No, this shirt is just a souvenir of our trip out west last summer."

As the three of us puzzled and giggled over the incident in the aftermath, in great mirth I asked our host if keeping wolves as pets was common in New England. Cuppa opined that I should have said that I had several back home. I thought that I should have replied that the wolves on the T-shirt were actually a picture of my mom and dad.

Oh the clever things that I could have said and should have said, but I had been too flabbergasted at the time to think of any sort of witty reply. Besides, I was a touring Canadian and wanted to be nice and respectful to the locals and also to represent my fellow countryman well. And who knows? Maybe she did keep wolves as pets. I dunno; maybe she even ran with them at night.

I hereby thank the lady, however, for we have howled over the incident many times since. Not only that but it now turns out that she has unwittingly supplied me with that ever so precious commodity — blog fodder. Nevertheless, I now wear very plain and unremarkable T-shirts.

Fumble-Fingered Grampa

The Smudge and I enjoyed (and I use the word loosely) a milestone hour and a half last night. Yes, Grandma and Mom went out for a book club meeting and left Grampa to babysit. It was time for the old guy to step up to the plate because Dad was also busy elsewhere.

Grampa managed to change her diaper but didn't do so well with an article of clothing called a Onesie. He managed, with some difficulty, to remove the wet garment from the baby's body, but he wasn't able to get the clean one on. That's right, his best effort resulted in getting said Onesie stuck over her face. Therefore, seeing that the Wee Smudge really detests having her face covered and that she wasn't in the finest of humours to begin with, Grampa decided let her go topless until the ladies got home. It was hot enough anyway, so it seemed like a prudent decision.

However, it wasn't very nice for two distinguised ladies to laugh at a poor, old, five-thumbed grampa's pathetic attempts like they did when they got home after their pleasant evening out. Smudge certainly wasn't laughing about it. Most certainly not! Nor was I.

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In any event, Mom took this pic not long ago, and I helped her convert it to black and white. She may put it together with a cast of the wee Smudge's feet that she had done this week. She's to provide the printed photo, and the footprint people will frame it together with the castings.

A Shout and a Giggle

It was almost six o'clock in the morning and all was still ... until I hear my beloved crying out my name: faintly and from some distance.

She sprained her foot this past weekend when she stepped off of deck sooner than had anticipated. It's quite bruised, and she's not very mobile to put it mildly, and when I heard her call, I thought she desperately needed my help. So, I yelled, "Hello!!" You see, I was shouting to let her know that I had heard her and would soon be there to assist her in her moment of need. Her need must have been on my mind, for I have been called to assist my fallen lady twice this summer: once after a fall from her bicycle and then again this past weekend.

Except I had shouted rather loudly right into a sleeping woman's ear. To say the very least, she awoke quite startled, and her exclamations of panicked protest cause me to follow suit. Of course, I had either been dreaming or heard something else through the open window that I had misinterpreted. I don't know which.

We enjoyed a good giggle over that, and the cat enjoyed receiving his morning tuna somewhat earlier than usual. And then we went back to sleep.

I Like. You Like?

This past weekend took us three hours east to visit Cuppa's brother and his wife. They have an incredible house in an incredible spot, nicely nestled in the woods. The photo below is taken right from the deck where we sat for many a pleasant hour. Below that is the same photo after applying a certain amount of artistic license.





On Saturday we drove to Whetung on the Curve Lake Reserve. Cuppa and I had been there several times, but neither BIL not SIL had discovered the place yet. The girls were happy after purchasing some bling. Or do beaded necklaces classify as bling? They're neither shiny nor bejeweled after all. But they like and I like. You like?

Not Quite ...

... Maybe This Weekend

The kid came over yesterday and had us all on the edge of our seats. You see, she came very close to rolling over. Her hips certainly came around but the shoulder resisted. It was pretty funny really — three adults all on the edge of their seats over so ordinary an event. I took some pictures like the one below and then switched to video mode along with Thesha (scroll down for clip). There we were with two cameras rolling hoping to catch that historic moment. Alas, it was not to be. Not today. I wonder if it will happen this weekend when we are away. Whatever transpires, we certainly had a grand time today — on her three month birthday.

Have a good weekend folks.

Happy Birthday

Time flies! The baby is three months old today.



She has different habits than most. Typically, she'll go to bed around midnight, get up once for sustenance and then sleep until almost noon. Once she gets up, however, she's up for almost the whole day. Oh, she'll take the occasional cat nap, especially if she's being held, and almost never if she isn't, or if, heaven forbid, you should dare to put her down if a miracle has transpired and she has fallen asleep in the arms of a loved one, like ...



But she's awake for most the day and jabbers a lot, some of which is captured on the video clip below. She's a vocal one for sure. If she's not happy, she let's us and the neighbourhood know in no uncertain terms. Yes, she has a most powerful set of lungs. But she smiles a lot and has even begun to laugh. I heard one first-hand yesterday for the first time; it was about three syllables long. I wanted more and went through various ridiculous contortions to obtain one, but alas ...

So Happy Birthday, Little Smudge. You can celebrate with a wee dram of .... milk. Lucky you.

The Almonte Celtfest

This past weekend marked the tenth anniversary of the Almonte Celtfest and our second. We stumbled upon it last year and had a wonderful time. While there was no group that could quite match last year's headliners, The Elders, from Kansas City, there was still a lot of talent, and we had a splendid time.

They expanded the program to Saturday evening this year. Unfortunately, the weather wasn't co-operative. You don't see many people in the first picture below, do you? That was early and, of course, more people did show up but not nearly as many as Sunday afternoon when the weather was much nicer and The Hill was crowded.



Cuppa and I never go to pubs, hardly ever anyway, but we did head off to JR's to hear Celtic Moon after the concert in the park on Saturday night. They're an excellent new group. They have slightly different sounds or styles depending on who they feature on a particular song. When the fiddler leads they have a Celtic sound, but when the guitarist leads it's somewhat bluesy. When the bass guitarist is featured, it's more of a rock vibe. But it's all good. They were a highlight for me, and I hope they'll come back to Celtfest next year.

I had planned to take a lot of pictures and clips on Sunday, but The Hill got crowded, and I lost heart. The two pictures are of the first group to perform, The Barley Shakers. They're a wonderful bunch of local musicians, not as polished as some of the other performers, perhaps, but quite talented nevertheless and a whole lot of fun. I hope they become regulars too. Below the photos, there are two video clips, one of the Barley Shakers and the second of some local step dancers. There were lots of fine fiddlers at Celtfest, but the Quebecker who fiddled with this group was something extra special.

A Random List of Innie Traits

To continue the topic of my previous post, following are a number of random claims about introverts or innies from my reading of the book, The Introvert Advantage by Marti Olsen Laney. Although I jotted a few notes earlier, I no longer have the book to verify what I have written below. The points are in my own words and represent my understanding of some material from the book and are sometimes more from my recollection than my pithy notes,, Therefore, I cannot always complete even a limited verification, and I confess that I don't purport to claim that Olsen actually said any of these things; they are my take or what I think that she said.

Innies tend to be low-energy creatures and require reflective time to re-energize, especially after expending energy in an outie environment.

We will tend to be slow in thought, word and action. We will even tend to walk slowly.

Because of our long neural pathways, we often need some sort of a hook to dredge up stored information, and it may even be that we have trouble finding a particular word. Open-ended questions such as, "What movies have you seen recently?" will tend to be met with blank stares. However, "Did you see Harry Potter and what did you think of it?" will probably contain enough of a trigger to bring various thoughts and recollections to the surface.

It seems that innies may tend to hum, whistle or sing to themselves. I know that I do. Believe it or not, she sees it as a way to create energy. Since I no longer have the book, I can't explain how that is supposed to work, not for the life of me.

We are poor at small talk but will often converse at length on topics of substance that we may know something about.

Talking can be harder for introverts because we like to reflect before we speak. Extroverts, on the other hand, will tend to use speech as a pathway to thought; talking will often help them to clarify what they think.

Although I suspect that all people do this to some extent, it is probably also true that innies will more frequently tend to mentally replay scenes and think of things they could have or should have said at the time.

Introverts tend to have only a few good friends. While an outie may consider you a friend after a short, casual conversation, an innie won't likely consider you an genuine friend until he or she has known you for a while and shared some meaningful moments with you.

However, innies tend to be very loyal friends.

We innies are not antisocial people, but crowds may make us uncomfortable. It's difficult for us to cope with all of the external bombardment. Look for us on the balcony or in the cloakroom of the next party that you attend. Remember, unlike outies, who will be stimulated by crowds, we get our energy from quiet reflection. It may be totally opposite for an outie; he or she may become easily bored when there is not much activity going on and actually require external stimulus to feel energized.

There is actually a gene called D4DR (I think that was the name) that can be long or short. Introverts seem to have the short variation, which appears to make one sensitive to dopamine. Therefore, we don't need to experience the same number of external stimuli as an outie to get a hit (for want of a better expression).

We tend to explore a subject of interest in some depth while an outie will tend to dabble more superficially in many topics. This is also true in social situations where outies may be seen enjoying many, brief conversations while innies will more likely have longer conversations with fewer people.

I'm an Innie

This guy has recently been reading The Introvert Advantage by Marti Olsen Laney. I first alluded to it back in March on this post called Introversion. I had seen a short feature on the news, and it interested me. I mean to say, I don't have that much longer to figure out who I am and why I am that way.

Laney calls us Innies, and we're that way because our brains are wired differently. Our neural pathways are different than those of Outies. They are longer, take a different route and involve different neurotransmitters.

You can see it on the following diagram from Olsen's book (no you probably can't, but if you click on it to see an enlarged view it in a new window, you can). The introvert's response pathway to a stimulus takes a longer route, has 7 stops, and ends up in a different place compared to the extrovert's shorter, 5-stop pathway.



Basically, if understand it at all (and I'm weak on technical stuff), outies require dopamine for stimulation and get this by being active. Innies, however, tend to feel good when acetylcholine is in play: "It affects attention and learning (especially perceptual learning), influences the ability to sustain a calm, alert feeling and stimulates a good feeling when thinking and feeling." You see? Outies tend to require social activity to feel good while innies require a calmer, more reflective environment to feel good. Isn't that interesting?

So, you see, we innies are simply wired differently. It is my understanding that introversion has nothing to do with nurture or being shy; it has to do with internal wiring. Introversion and shyness, apparently, have little or nothing to do with each other. Shyness has more to do with fear than with basic personality, and it is quite possible for extroverts to be shy. I was somewhat surprised to learn that.

What does it mean or matter? Well, the ever-perspicacious they say that knowledge is power. Sometimes we wonder why we are the way we are and we may think ourselves either odd or lacking or both if we are different than the majority. When we understand that we are not flawed but just different, we may learn to relax and breathe easier when we are placed in a typical outie situation: like one of the damnable social events that outies love so much. And we will certainly find ourselves, in outie-favored situations because they rule by majority. You see, seventy-five percent of people are extroverts.

It is by default and not by flaws in the nurturing process that we are different. If we're innies, we may have been programmed by society to think of our differences as fundamental flaws, but they are not. We innies are simply made differently, and we have their own set of strengths ... and weaknesses. As do outies.

Well, that's enough for one post. I think a major rule of blogging should be an adaptation of the KISS principle: Keep it Simple and Short, and I guess I have already violated that principle to some degree. Perhaps I'll follow this up at some point. I'm not sure.

My Travel Bug is Toast

We sat in the park drinking coffee. Or, I should say, by the park in our car drinking coffee while it rained.

I looked way off to my left and saw the bridge of the highway crossing over the river. That highway is part of the Trans Canada Highway, and it made me a little wistful that morning.



Turning to my right, I opined to my dear one that I'd like to be travelling somewhere along that road or some such road. Except I didn't really mean it. What I meant was that it would be nice to be on the road in that moment: nice to be exploring something new or something barely remembered. What wouldn't be so nice would be to have to pack up and live out of suitcases in motel rooms for another month or two. No, that would really be too much of a good thing.

Some people, live for that good thing, however. I think of that kid in the old Ford (see post below) and how he had probably given up much to travel, for he had picked up a certain travel bug.

The bug really infects some folks. I once knew a father who despaired of his thirty-something son never settling down. He'd work just long enough to fund another trip. Second last thing I heard was that he had tried to cycle down the east side of Africa. The very last thing I heard was that he had to give it up because many of the locals weren't exactly friendly or sympathetic to his cause. I seem to remember dad telling me that the kids were fond of throwing rocks at that crazy white man.

I do understand that it would be easy to fall prey to the travel bug. Given unlimited funds, I could possibly be bitten. Maybe. But the other part of me thinks that I would get tired of it sooner rather than later. It ain't reality. Not really. Overdoing travelling would be like overdoing ice cream. After a while, as much as you like ice cream, you crave ... I dunno ... toast and peanut butter, I guess.

Chance Encounters

We had one of those freaky chance meetings occur on our recent trip. The first half of the occurrence took place on the day that we drove up the coast to Squamish. That was the twelfth day of our holiday, the day that we stopped at Porteau Cove Provincial Park on the mainland coast for a picnic lunch. I described some of it back here in Rambling and Roving. I also posted a number of photos that day, but here are two photos looking seaward from Porteau Cove that I rather like and eagerly share again.





What I didn't mention back in my Sea and Sky post was that we met a very interesting fellow at Porteau Cove. He had the hood of his old Ford up, and I asked if he was having troubles. It turned out that he wasn't; he was just exercising a little preventative caution with his old jalopy. He appeared to be in his early thirties and must have been bitten by the travel bug, for not only had he been to many places, but he had pulled out the passenger seat of the old Ford and had a makeshift bed in the form of piece of foam angled from there into the backseat. He was travelling around that week, and that was his bed.

He was an interesting guy, had lived here and there and travelled hither and thither. At that point in time, he was living across Georgia Strait on Vancouver Island. On the next week, he was scheduled to take an Alaskan cruise with his grandmother, who was 87 and wanted to take this trip before her clock ran out. That was also to be the week that we were to cross over to The Island, and he seemed more than happy to offer up a few travel tips.

Fast forward ten days: we're on The Island but heading leisurely to the ferry to take us back to Vancouver where we would spend the weekend, our final days of the trip, with the girls. We opted to take the non-expressway along the coast. It was a pleasant drive, and at one point we pulled into a little park overlooking the sea. We had our scenic look, got back in the car and made for the exit.

Suddenly, I stopped. I turned to Cuppa and asked if that was the very same guy that we had spoken to on the previous week. She hadn't seen him, and I wasn't sure that I had either, but I had spotted something that resonated out of the corner of my eye in passing, so I backed up. It was, indeed, the very same guy! How weird is that: same stranger, ten days later, hundreds of miles and a ferry ride distance from the first meeting?

Once again we chatted. He had enjoyed a wonderful cruise with his grandmother. One day they took a helicopter ride to a glacier, and they surprised grandma with a birthday cake. How neat! We told him of our trip, and we parted, probably all shaking our noggins over the coincidence.

It was an interesting chance experience times two. I love it when things like that happen. Too bad we didn't get a picture or his name or think to inform him that he might someday be the subject of this blog.

The Palm Trees of BC

While it's possible that something further may come to mind, as far as I know now, this will be my last post about our recent trip to British Columbia. While I was blogging about the trip, I did mention that that we had seen palm trees. Indeed, there was one right outside our motel room window in Tofino. However, having enough on my plate to blog the basics of our comings and goings, I never quite got around to following up with photos of some of the trees — until now. The first, below, is the view across Denman St from the Starbucks which we frequented. The next two are closer shots of the same trees, focusing on their odd, hairy trunks.







This was the one (actually a group of palm trees) that was right outside our motel room in Tofino, and there was another in the same yard, obviously a different variety.



So there you have it: proof that there are palm trees in The Great White North. As you can see, that part of Canada isn't at all white. Winter temperature, at least on average, remain above freezing. I might presume that micro climates right by the ocean where the trees were all located allow them to survive the occasional general dip below the freezing point.

Cross-posted to Rambling and Roving.

The Smudge Report

I think I've been pretty restrained for a long time now. I mean to say, when did I last show a photo of The Smudge? I took this yesterday. Is she not the sweetest?



I lifted the next one from Thesha's blog. It was taken on June 26th, after our long flight home from Vancouver.



The girl became and more alert during our hiatus. Although she was beginning to smile then, she now smiles often and freely and begins to try to use her voice. There are a few smiles and a few vocalizations in this clip, but, of course, she tends to clam up as soon as the director yells, "Roll Em." Who knows whether that her first laugh was recorded in this clip or whether it was a complete fluke?

Busy Bums

Oh, I guess that title is no longer politically correct. They're homeless people after all. I know that, but Busy Bums works for me, so I'm sticking with it. I could refer to then as Vagrant Mendicants (in fact I just did — is that better?), but I'll keep my title just the same. In point of fact, much of this post will show that they are not really beggars but workers of a different sort, but I'll also keep using the phrase, Vagrant Mendicants, because I like that one too.

Cuppa and I are not city dwellers, so encountering the many Busy Bums or Vagrant Mendicants of Vancouver took me aback for a while. I do feel sorry for people who have fallen into this condition. Some say that they have a choice, and I suppose they do at some level, but I also suppose that they don't at some other level. They are the misfits who, for whatever reasons, do not get along in the world that is normal for the rest of us. So, I try to look kindly upon these folk and don't mind putting my hand in my pocket for them every now and then.

I must also confess that in some odd way, I grew to rather admire at least some of them. I speak of those who worked, or so it seemed to me, all the livelong day, pushing their carts, checking out the bins, and collecting containers. It really was work! Many of them were at their jobs for much of the day. I was impressed because I couldn't endure the hours of walking and pushing the cart that they put in. Most of them never even bothered to ask for a handout.

Taking The Girls' lead, however, we did what we could. We rigorously recycle containers here in Ontario, but they're refundable in Vancouver. Rather than returns bottles and cans themselves, The Girls always place them strategically for the Vagrant Mendicants to find, and we were more than happy to follow their lead.

In fact, one morning, when Cuppa and I partook of our morning trudge to Starbucks for the expensive swill that they call coffee (sorry fans, I just can't dig their brand, and you have to admit that it is expensive), we stopped to place our offering of returnable containers in our usual spot next to dumpsters that were sure to be checked regularly. It was not what one would normally call a pleasant morning, for it was raining (what else would it do in Vancouver?), but there was an industrious and Busy Bum already up there sifting through the refuse. Believe it or not, he was singing. How impressive: singing on a dreary morning when his only job was to sift through dumpsters to try to earn a few measly dollars to get him through another day and night.

I'd say that there's something impressive about that man in particular as well as the many who diligently pushed their carts to and fro all day long. As the saying goes, "There but for the grace ... go I." Except I wouldn't have the determination and stamina to do what they do. No, I don't have the strength to survive as a Busy Bum ... or Vagrant Mendicant.

Living Small

What an adaptable lot we humans are!

I was reminded of that on our recent trip which found four of us living cheek by jowl in a small, two room apartment. I don't know the square footage, but it seemed to be smaller that the combined area of our living room and dining room, which are not large in themselves. Not at all.

We managed quite well, the four of us. Even with the kitchen almost at the foot of our futon, when the girls got ready for work, we barely stirred. At night, when it was time for Mom and Dad to go to bed, they simply took their laptops, iPods, and books into the bedroom and managed quite well for an hour or two before they also conked out.

Not only do I find human adaptability to be impressive, but that particular living situation that we were in for three weeks also serves to remind me that we are rather consumptive critters. It seems to be in our natures to not just take what we need but what we want, and we tend to want an awful lot an awful lot of the time. We want monster homes and roomy vehicles and myriad treats and doodads, and the getting often doesn't seem to satisfy but causes us to want more.

The treats, such as the occasional trip, really do help to make life enjoyable, but how many do we need and at what cost, I wonder. In my mind the essential stuff of happiness is to be found in having sufficient for our needs, both physical and spiritual. Treats are good, but that's what they need to be — enjoyable extras and not staples of happiness.

We are quick to tell our children that too much candy isn't good for them, and it is this guy's opinion that the same applies to adult goodies. I think that many of us could make do with less, but I don't just think that. I also think that some of us would actually be happier living with less.

Lost Lagoon, Lost Lady, Lost Luggage

On our last day in Vancouver, we took a final walk in Stanley Park. On the previous evening, Althegal had mentioned that The Lost Lagoon was a pretty place and wondered if we had seen it yet. She had given us an idea of its general location, so we set off to find it. As it turned out, the lagoon was, indeed, a little bit lost because we had some trouble finding it. Even after obtaining directions from a passing cyclist, we were thwarted by various access paths being temporarily fenced off. On good days, I have a bit of a nose for directions, so I kept on heading where I thought it might be, and I eventually saw it off to my left and exclaimed to Cuppa that we had found The Lost Lagoon.

Unfortunately, even on her very best day, Cuppa has no sense of direction. In point of fact, I have never come across any mortal with a worse sense of direction. So, when I pointed out that the lagoon was no longer lost, she wailed rather desperately, "Yes, but where are we?" You see, because of her lack of directional sense, she becomes a trifle rattled when she doesn't know exactly where she is and how to get home from there. Did I say "trifle rattled?" That, my friend is a trifle of an understatement.

But I did get her there, and we sat at this lovely spot for a while and looked at the fountain, the geese and ducks (see top photo), and even two swans that paddled by (see next photo).



As lovely as it was, however, the apprehensive lady was not really enjoying herself (see her anxious posture below).



So, I didn't keep her there very long before beginning to guide her back home: except I took a route other than the one we came in on, along interior streets rather than the familiar path by the bay. This did not assuage her perturbed state in the least, for she became more lost than ever. It didn't help too much that I was reasonably sure of our position because unwilling was I to state it categorically with 100% assuredness. There were times when she was rather desperate to ask someone of our whereabouts, but I refused. I am a male and have some pride after all.

Well, it turned out that I did know where we were and was able to escort her ladyship back to the safe confines of the apartment. It was all quite straightforward really.The next day, however, when we arrived in Ottawa after a long flight which included a transfer in Toronto, we discovered that one of our pieces of luggage didn't make the transfer and was headed to Halifax. It was my luggage as a matter of fact.

The triumvirate was complete: Lost Lagoon, Lost Lady, and Lost Luggage.

Cross posted to Rambling and Roving.