A Good Tag

I was tagged by Lynn at State Street. I kinda like this meme.

1: Black and White or Color; how do you prefer your movies?

I know that it's trendy or arty to choose b&w, but I remember the days of b&w, and I think that we'd all pine for colour if it were taken away.

2: What is the one single subject that bores you to near-death?

I guess it's not a subject exactly, but I quickly tire of Conservative ranting. They're angry people for the most part with ideological fixes for every known ill, but not one of them works from what I can see. But I guess that I'm doing a little bit of liberal ranting there. See how irritating it is? :)

In the interest of full disclosure, I just took this test and discovered that I am about as liberal as you can get. In the interests of further disclosure, however, other tests have pegged me only slightly to the left of centre.

3: MP3s, CDs, Tapes or Records: what is your favorite medium for prerecorded music?

Since I purchased my iPod and since I subsequently got tiny, cute, convenient, portable speakers for it, I'd have to go with MP3s. Perhaps I am lazy, but It's so darn convenient to find your album/playlist of choice with the turn of a little dial as opposed to hunting for and through a pile of CDs. The other day, for example, when I was preparing a roast, I ported the speakers downstairs and selected Josh Groban with a flex of the finger; the day before, I chose Great Big Sea just as easily.

4: You are handed one first class trip plane ticket to anywhere in the world and ten million dollars cash. All of this is yours provided that you leave and not tell anyone where you are going … ever. This includes family, friends, everyone. Would you take the money and ticket and run?

No, I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't. What's a life without the companionship of your beloved and your scions? Maybe that's true wealth? Mind you me; I sure would like to be a little wealthier and be able to travel hither, thither, and yon on a whim.

5: Seriously, what do you consider the world's most pressing issue now?

I rather think that it's global warming. There are those who think that it's already too late, and that severe repercussions are inevitably looming. On a optimistic note, however, I recently heard it opined that When the USA really gets it, they will really get it, and great progress will be made. They'll need some enlightened leadership for that to happen. Al Gore where are you?

6: How would you rectify the world's most pressing issue?

The irony wrt global warming is that The Greens are radically against nuclear power. I understand this to an extent, and I would almost certainly be part of the NIMBY crowd on this issue, but it might be the only viable interim option: a breathing space until better solutions are found. Fifty percent of American electrical production is from coal. That's unfortunate: very unfortunate.

7: You are given the chance to go back and change one thing in your life; what would that be?

I would take more English courses in university, take the English option at College of education, and opt to continue to teach English rather than become a department head of geography. And I'd probably stay at that rural school while I was at it.

8: You are given the chance to go back and change one event in world history, what would that be?

I'd have to be careful here. When I changed my personal history in #7, above, I pretty well changed it in a way that wouldn't much alter the basic course of my life. I wish there would have been a way for the Jewish people to regain a homeland without all of the war and struggle that has ensued. The Brits and the UN didn't handle it very well, but I doubt if anything would have worked. However, since we're in the realm of fantasy, I would have found a way for it all to have happened peacefully with good will all around. Hey, it's my fantasy!

9: A night at the opera, or a night at the Grand Ole’ Opry: w–hich do you choose?

Oh heavens, that's hard. I visited Nashville, briefly, a long time ago, and none of the local kids at that time would have countenanced the Opry. However, to go to the Opry, I'd, by definition, be on vacation, and that's pretty darn enticing. You see, I can find Operas closer to home, so I'll choose The Opry for now —— with reservations. Now, if the Opera in question was in Paris, or Rome, or even New York, I'd probably make a different choice.

10: What is the one great unsolved crime of all time you'’d like to solve?

I would like to track down and have imprisoned the perpetrator of this confounded meme. Just kidding —— see the title.

11: One famous author can come to dinner with you. Who would that be, and what would you serve for the meal?

Well now. I greatly admire Barbara Kingsolver, but I have heard Maeve Binchey on the radio and she is quite a joy, and then there's Bill Bryson, also an interesting and entertaining chap. Of the three, I think I'll go with ... the Apostle Paul. (How's that for a leap?) I would really like to know, without all of the theological filters that probably screw up everybody's interpretation, what he truly believed regarding The Christ. My stipulation would be that he'd be taught modern English in his translation to my time and place ... or me Greek if I were to go back there in time.

I think that I'd want to expose him to something typically modern and germane to North American culture: a great grilled cheeseburger with really good fries, I think: not McDonalds or other such fare but really good stuff. What about a coke to wash it down? I'd have to make very different choices for any of the other three.

12: You discover that John Lennon was right, that there is no hell below us, and above us there is only sky —— what'’s the first immoral thing you might do to celebrate this fact?

I already suspect that John was right, but I fail to understand how that would affect my morality. I think I'm pretty moral and would stay that way.

I am tagging the following people, but please don't feel obligated if you're not in the mood: Gina, PBS, Dave, and EC.

Quintessential Canadiana

I thought that I would share these two photos with you as I deem them to be quintessentially Canadian. Last week, I met the above snowmobilers at a gas station which is located in a little village about ten minutes from the cottage. They consented to have their pictures taken. Back to the left, just out of view, is a 40k snowmobile trail that leads to another little village. In reality, however, they can travel far and wide by roadsides and over frozen lakes. Although I meant to, I didn't get a picture of these roadside routes. They come complete with miniature traffic signs, stop signs most frequently, but I've spotted yield signs as well.

Then, on the way home the other day, we stopped at a rural coffee shop. For you Canadians, it's a Tims. It's in the middle of nowhere really, but whenever we go by, there are always lots of customers, both inside and going through the drive-through. It's about all there is for about an hour and a half east and an hour west, and there isn't much north or south either. So, I guess that loads of people stop here on their way by. When we emerged, having filled our bellies with a chicken club sandwich and having filled our extra large travel mugs with coffee, double cream, I noticed these two logging trucks and another parked on the road. The pickup truck in front of the logging trucks had two snowmobiles on the back.

It seemed an opportunity to share some winter Canadiana with you. When I opined above that this was quintessential Canadiana, of course it isn't totally true; it's just part of what makes us distinctive. For most Canadians, logging trucks and snowmobiles parked at a gas station are not everyday occurrences. Far, far from it. Having said that, you sure don't have to go very far into the hinterland to see such sights.

 

Battle-Scarred Chef

Goodness knows that I try ... to cook and not maim myself while I am at it ... but it's hard for a poor old fella. Sometimes it's harder than others. Yesterday, for example, I decided to make my rather tasty sweet potato soup. Suddenly, I just feel more like cooking than I have recently. I don't so much enjoy cooking at the cottage because my implements are not at hand and because the local food sources don't always measure up. But I'm home now and determined to revert to a proper diet after feasting off the fat of the land for far too long now.

Troubles ensued: not major ones, but I did suffer some minor wounds. In fact, as I gaze down upon my right index finger, five little scrapes gaze back at me. They are from the grating of the orange zest and the ginger. I received new graters for Christmas. They lie flat and catch the food nicely, but something about the trajectory sometimes results in me adding particles of my own flesh into the mix.

The second minor casualty occurred when I was transferring the roasted ingredients into the soup pot to boil, I managed allow my thumb to slip from the pot holder and caress the rather hot roasting pan. Minor burn: the worst was yet to come.

After boiling and simmering all of the ingredients, it was time to transfer them, batch by batch, into the blender. I think it happened on the third batch. For whatever reason, despite the fact that I was consciously holding the blender cover down, the soup erupted with enough force to fly over much of the kitchen ... and much of me might I add. It didn't hurt ... much ... at first. Cuppa thought that I should remove my splattered shirt, but I demurred ... unfortunately.

You see, I'm a rather sequential, task-oriented person, and, right then, my task was to blend the soup. After that I would be only too happy to attend to the next task: the removal my shirt. But, as the blender kept going, the scalding ingredients began to soak through my shirt and onto my skin. Frankly, it began to hurt ... quite a bit. Did I stop? Of course not. Stupid question really. Stay with the task at hand AC. Your present task is to blend. Only then may you move onto your next task: attending to your burning flesh.

Of course, a sizeable portion of my lower left arm was rather red by the time that I divested myself of my scalding garments. And it did smart, quite a lot, for an hour or so. I would have gone, should have gone, to the pharmacy to purchase some soothing and healing balm, but, of course, I had to eat some soup first. It was the next bullet on my sequenced list after all.

 

His Royal Nibs

Uh huh. We're back, and, after two months with daughter, so is His Nibs. He managed to get me up more than an hour ago, by partly devious means. You see, he divested himself of a hairball for the second time in one night. The first was at five o'clock, and I found the second at 8:00. By the time I cleaned it up, I was ... well, I was up. He was also frenetically anxious for his morning tuna by then, and I hadn't the heart to put him off any longer — not after him becoming used to receiving it by about 6:30 a.m. at daughter's house. So, if there had been any doubt of my up-ped-ness before descending the stairs, turning up the heat, and feeding His Royal Self, there was no doubt of my up-ped-ness after all of that.

But you see in the picture that I just took, he is now back in bed, or at least on bed. My side of the bed, I'm afeered. I am not his favourite human in the house, you know. That honour is bestowed upon Cuppa. However, for reasons only fathomed by superior cat brains everywhere, he prefers sleeping at my feet. It's so silly really. I am six inches taller than my beloved, and I am in much greater need of foot room than she, but every night he makes for my side of the bed. Sometimes I move him, but he finds his way back. Sometimes I move him twice, but ... well you know what. I mean to say that it can't be all that pleasant for him, for he must surely suffer greater disturbance down there by my feet than he would by Cuppa's. But he persists.

Despite the two pukings, despite the necessity of banishing him from the bedroom for prancing on our heads at three o'clock, and despite the inconvenience of having him hunker down by my feet, I'm right chuffed to have him back after his stay at Butterfly's house. Pets are great, and The Rocks is a great pet — even if he's back in bed on a Saturday morning and I'm not!

 

Snowy Farewell

That was the view that greeted around about eight o'clock yesterday morning from the front door of the cottage. Although the photo doesn't quite do it justice, the snow on the branches of Hummer Hedge and the apple tree right behind it was rather fetching. By the times that we departed the cottage near noon, however, most of it had either melted or fallen from the branches.

We call it Hummer Hedge for obvious reasons; it's where the humming birds seem to hang out when they make their warm weather pilgrimage to Riverwood. The old apple tree behind it does bear apples which the deer like to eat. Occasionally, we even see them there, but generally they're pretty darn good at not being spotted.

It seemed very warm; we packed the car by making many trips back and forth without benefit of overcoats. I guess it wasn't so much the air temperature, which was only slightly above freezing, but there was little wind and the sun was doing its job very well indeed.

So, yes, we are home from the cottage. I haven't posted for ten days now, the longest hiatus of my blogging career, for a number of reasons. To wit: after the previous post, we had some rather uninspiring weather — cloud, rain, and freezing rain — followed by five days of company. My SIL and BIL came up for the weekend, and my nephew and his lovely friend joined us until Wednesday. Don't despair of the youth, folks; these are absolutely delightful kids. He played his new guitar for us, and she helped the old folks to figure out some dance steps. You can catch a bit on their blog.

There are two other reasons for not blogging: (i) the slow internet connection was driving me to distraction; (ii) and, the sheer banality of my own blog is boring me silly, so I can only begin to imagine how monstrously fatiguing it must be for dear reader. Sometimes, I want to pack it all in, but ... but what I don't really know. Oh, I'll probably be back with some more pictures shortly, but I have no wise or interesting words these days. None, zip, nada.

 

A Little Respect

I was working my way through some old photos when I came to these from last October. That's me paying homage to King Rocky. Given his dimensions, wouldn't you tend to show a little respect?

Okay, okay, so I was fooling around with Photoshop. Any preferences as to the photo above or the one below? The original is at the very bottom for interest sake. I really did take that pose in a moment of levity and made the variations in another such moment.

Cuppa thinks me strange by times, but I really appreciate my own warped sense of humour sometimes. If not me, then who, eh?

 

About My Valentine

Recently, I have read two blogs, Wondering! and Simply Coll, that described how they met their spouse. I thought that it would be a theme that I could pick up for Valentines Day, and the day has arrived. Since I have no present to obtain or give to my loved one out here in the backwoods, perhaps these few recollections will suffice.

The year was 1967. Yes, Virginia we're pretty doggone old.

It was a Friday night after Young Peoples meeting. We were all at somebody's house for some sort of a get-together. Somehow, Cuppa and I ended up beside each other. Although we had been part of the same Young People's group for some time, we had moved in different circles in this rather large group; so we had never really gotten to know one another.

We probably didn't chat a whole lot that Friday night either, it being a large crowd and all, but I do remember that the the topic of the next day's Sunday School picnic came up. Seems odd I know; there, we were, almost twenty years old , talking about a kids picnic. I had not made definite plans to go, but she had, and she thought that I should go too — more or less invited me.

As you might imagine, not a whole pile of youth attended the picnic, so it was somewhat natural that Cuppa and I would find each other and spend some time together. Mind you, I'm pretty sure that I would have hunted her down in a huge crowd, as I more or less did some time later, but that is another story.

We went off for a walk in the park. I bought her a popscicle. Hero that I am, I held her hand to help her cross a little creek by hopping from rock to rock. I don't think I let go once we got across though. I sure hope that I didn't, sure hope that I was really as smart as I thought I was at the time.

We were married within two years. We were too young. I was still in university. It was dumb. The odds were stacked, not in our favour. But it worked. Almost thirty-nine years after that Friday night and Saturday afternoon, we are still together, almost joined at the hip as it were. We're friends; we're lovers ... still that, still now.

I don't think we've ever had what others would call a fight. We're human, and we do have our misunderstandings and disagreements. Every now and then, maybe twice a year, we flatten our ears just a touch and raise our hackles just a tad. But we don't really hiss and spit, and we don't unsheathe our claws, and the fur never flies.

She's a good woman, a kind soul: compassionate, friendly, generous, and ... well, I'm no good at long lists, but you get my drift. The day will come when one of us will remain here for a while longer while the other's spirit is released from its mortal coil. The one whose lot it is to remain behind will have a lonely void that cannot be filled ... except, in part, by a lifetime of pleasant memories for which to be grateful.