I still really like GoDarkly

As a title, but I'm thinking that might be yet another book or something. I just wish I had the time and the money to sit and type without having to bring in time and money. Tricky. VERY tricky.

I will thus post pictures of the aftermath of big thunderstorms, the clouds after a storm are always amazing, but they sure put on a show tonight!

Have at it. What do you see? Or, who do you see?
A week of blast furnace heat wave is breaking, thank dog, I hope the province weathers its' weather well.

GoDarkly

Well, it's been a while, hasn't it? So much has happened, moving house after over twenty years was just a tad time-consuming. Overwhelming. Exhausting. Frustrating. Infuriating. Saddening. Repeat.

The relief is just setting in, now.

And now, I have a house I actually like walking into. I can invite people over again. The house is no Taj Mahal, but after enduring what we did for the last two decades or so, it's pretty dang close.

We found a rental house in town, a place that Icubed *(Husband, that's my new acroynym for him, and yes, our ship of relation got a tad acrimonius through the slow, painful denouement of the farm life)* could abide moving to. As you all know, if you've stuck with me through these past weird years, I was moved a lot as a kid, so moving wasn't the end of the world for me. I've known all along that this farm life/place was temporary. Sad that the house on the farm became such a nightmare, and not even just due to immediate, bizarro neighbour, which story is even harder to believe. Have I lost you?
I know. I do that alot.

Anyway, we moved to town. What I consider the "city", although I know it's just barely four corners on the way to cottage country. Fine by me. The road noise is tough, and so is the fact that I HAVE to remember what I'm wearing when I go out the front door. There are kids on this street, and other people's husbands. I tend to look either outlandish, or uh, scantily covered, depending on the time of year.
THAt will change too, I can now wear clothes that I actually like, as opposed to clothes that need decontamination after each wearing.
"New" house is about 40? years old, same type of house, bungalow, but get this, the basement??
It's....
DRY...
Sigh. My bathroom?
Tiny, only one, who CARES!!!!! It's CLEAN, and easy to KEEP clean.
I had no idea how much I missed keeping a house clean. Farm house seemed to grow dirt, of course thanks to the lake beneath the house. And of course, a failed roof, thank you again, EX landlords from hell. When water is coming from below, AND above, you know the house may have dampness issues. This seems to be hard for certain people to understand.  Mould growth in the house was epic. I mean, for a Microbiologist, it was a wet dream. Talk about bio-films, this was a bio-panorama. Very organic :)

AND, new appliances.. I haven't even seen one run for over 20 years, really. The technological advances in domestic appliances are a bit bewildering. My new washing machine goes "rur-rur-rur" slowly like. I haven't heard a new one run EVER. I wouldn't know if it was broken or bent. Clothes do seem to come out clean, so, for the first time in 15? years, I can do my own laundry at my "own" house. My Dad's dear house keeper used to do our laundry. I felt like a freakin' college kid, every single week, thanks to old house from hell. You can't do laundry in a stinking wet basement, trust me on this.

I am so digging it. My aversion to cleaning at old place stemmed from the knowledge that it would only grow a new layer of crud in a matter of hours. I do NOT smoke in this new house, and Icubed has restrained his chain-smoking to his office. So, not nearly as much toxic sludge permeates the air. Last time I went to the old place, about a month after we moved, the stench could still knock you over when you walked in. How on earth we ever put up with it, I do know. Those 50 acres of land, two ponds, and for the first time since nutso was ejected, utter, total peace and quiet. (Well, except for the "usual". A visit from York Regional's finest, looking for nutso. A lawyers' lettter to nutso, stuck in our mail slot. Nutso had probably stiffed someone, again. )

When we found out we were going to be ejected, we stopped doing anything at all. It was solemnly agreed that the Landlord wouldn't do any maintenance, which was hysterically funny, because that's why we'd started the whole darned thing. So, we stopped our maintenance too. I stopped weeding, Icubed stopped cutting grass. An extraordinary hay crop developed, but sadly, no-one was allowed to harvest it, as idiot LL's had also decreed no farming on the land.

Long before this, (foresightedly) I stopped cleaning ANYTHING in the house. I just didn't want to waste that much energy on such an utterly lost cause. Vacuuming was an experiment to see how much longer the ancient stinking carpet would last, before carpet beetles and assorted enthusiastic vermin disintegrated its' warped weave to dust.

So, although I'm sad at the loss of the old place, I am completely relieved to be out of it. The wild creatures have taken it over for now, and since there is a conservation easement around the two ponds, I doubt they'll be able to turn that part of the land into condos. I doubt it, but that's my hope talking.

For this summer, the birds and bugs and critters have free run of the place. This makes me happy. I used to hate cutting the acres of grass, so many frogs and snakes and other critters sliced and diced for Flip to roll in, once they'd rotted well enough.
Very few untouched places like that are left here in Torontario.

The dogs are doing great, Blaze misses her pond, and being able to do long, far away zoomies without running into a fence (thank DOG for the fence!!) and being able to have a poop in private.
Flip misses free choice dog poop to dine on. I keep our back yard clean. It isn't five acres, but it's a good size for town life. Manageable for us old farts.

The girls have stopped sneezing and shaking their heads when they walk in the door. They did that every.single.time at old stink-hole. Flips' chronic vomiting has almost disappeared. The air is breathable. And maybe now, I can breathe too.

I have to use the title in another post, I went way off on a tangent on this one.
As usual.

Apropos

I'm tearing my old house apart, and I found this clipped from a horse-mag, no idea which one, sorry. The clipping isn't that old, so I guess this quote isn't, either.

"Somewhere...Somewhere
in time's own place.
There must be some sweet pastured place.
Where creeks sing on, and tall trees grow.
Some Paradise where horses go.
For by the love that guides my pen
I know great horses live again."
Stanley Harrison.

Thank you, Stanley.

To the love that guides us, and the pens that tells the tales.
I hope I can channel those great horses again, one day.

Happy Mothers Day!

My Latest Confession

I am a natural born...
Tree-Hugger. I never fully realized it until just last week, when I came "home" to a sight I wasn't expecting.

We cannot figure out why the trees had to go. The property must have been sold, or the neighbours are going to add more fill, like they did last year. Good money to be made in fill. This fill pit sits just above the front pond on our property, which means the pond will fill up quickly with even more silt and unknown runoff...
But hey, it was just a scrub stand of old willows, right? Doesn't hold the dirt around the culverts, nah, 'course not...Water-courses are for nerds.

 I barely recognize my old heart house.

Remember this scene? It's from a short few years ago.  Déja vu, that's my life.

I can now see to the road, when I look north-west. Never could, before. Ever. Gone is the feeling of being on an island. I had a flock of small birds scold me soundly on our walk up the driveway. I understand their ire and dismay. Where the hell are they supposed to perch now? They even cut down an old small birch tree, one that had split into three, that had doggedly survived all these years. Why is it that when men look at trees, they want them to die? All of the trees cut have been chipped, and thrown back for mulch. Easier for the farmer. Except, the farm two parcels south of us is now up for sale.
103 acres, "future development site". Closer and closer, the city inches towards me.

I'm kinda glad we're moving, now. This place has broken my heart enough. I sang a song to this place and it's wildlife and farmed life, as I walked on Friday. A chickadee's early spring call made my voice sing back my sadness and loss. Chickadee followed me all along our tree-wind break, which still abound on "our" little parcel. For how much longer?
A heartbeat.

Changes in Ranges Bitter and Sweet

My life, it's impasse. Able.
It's a long, long story, and it's a hard one to tell, mainly because I had lots to do with some of the story. But in the end, when all's said and done, I had very little to do with this place, at all. Geologically speaking. Agriculturally speaking. Horticulturally, too. I made little dents, and tiny ecosystems, which will all be easily overwhelmed the moment I stop my endless guarding against weeds.
OH, why do some people unerringly choose the wrong fork.
When I say some people? I really mean me.

I've had several beginnings for this tale, but this start just keeps coming back.

How on earth do I explain to Flip that her world is going to shrink by a factor of 50, sooner rather than later? How will Blaze cope with her shrunken range? I'll have to drive them "out" for REAL walks, the way I used to, almost two decades ago. City dogs have it so tough, don't they? As I mentioned (oops, maybe that's going to mention) in another post (which is still in drafts, right!), I've read Ted Kerasote's book "Pukka's Promise", and all kinds of obviousnesses blew up in my head. It kinda hurt. Probably like my dogs' paws hurt, after they've been salted 5 days a week. My dogs don't know why I drive to the city, they have no say in the matter. I'm sure they'd rather stay home.

When I had the opportunity to move to the "country", all those years ago, I leaped at the chance, because I had a new wee red dog, and I wanted her to have the most room to run. It just seemed fair to the dog. Of course, it was entirely UNfair to me, as it dawned on me that first day I started the car in the country, and drove to work in the city. Wee red dog hated that commute. And so did I. So many of us spend so much time in our vehicles, and no time doing something. ANYthing. All you readers and texters and phone-talkers that think you are drivers? CUT that OUT. Please. I don't like talking to someone when they're driving:) I guess that's why I haven't been a passenger for as often as possible. Hah. English can be fractured.

And still be spelled correctly!!
When I call where I live "country", I really mean, "someday all will be houses" land. It's transient, too. Just not nearly transient as me, and my dogs.

ANYway, I did/do love many things about the house in the country. It is so quiet. Other than critters, of course. But oh, having to leave it for work every day was rough. My roomie was great, but she actually (shouldn't have) depended on me to let her dog out, which got really tricky for me. Hard to leave work, drive an hour, and come back, ya know.

I wonder if I'll ever have a point, again. Every glance I take is probably it's last, for this time and place. It is dawning on my that I've spent almost one third of my life here. That's a long, long time!! However, since I`ve Been Moved a lot in my life, I basically enjoyed every second that I could, here. I knew this was temporary. One cannot expect to live like a king on a pauper`s salary forever... Somehow, the years just kept adding up. I never lost the sense of "this isn't mine", and "I won't be here forever". But it seems forever is up, for this place and me.

As the recently transplanted cityit that I was, I went through the usual, snowed-in, power-out, pipes-froze, critters-B&E's, neighbour-dog-fracas, country stuff at the first place. I learned to have a quick shower, and I learned how to split wood. OH, the fire-place, giver of heat and warmth in those first frozen nights... My Simon cat totally dug it.

I never expected to fall so hard for a place. I loved that first place the best. I met my husband while living there. He was on the next property south of us, and our driveways were right beside one another.  His dog visted us first, several times in fact, to the chagrin of roomie and her dog. I learned the history of the farms all around us, through the man who would become my husband. MWWBMH for short:)  Okay, MH for short.When I met MH, and eventually decided to move in with this unsuspecting farmer, the worst part was leaving that first house. Sure, MH's place had more acreage, two ponds, yadada. But it was down in the valley. No far-reaching sunset views. Have you ever seen our views from up here? You can see all the way to the Niagara Escarpment AllYouNeedToKnow, that giant shoulder of an ancient sea jutting up to meet both Lake Huron and Georgian Bay, shrugging them off with ancient disdain. You can see the weather rolling in from up there, and the sunsets can break your heart. So, I left my heart place, when I moved in with MH. I didn't ask/plan/think, I just moved. I missed the fireplace the very first night. The old place took one helluva beating through some storms we've had, after I moved out, and many of the trees are gone. I was glad I wasn't living there when the F2-scary blew through. Most have long gone from the property north, through cutting and chipping. And now, most have gone to the west of here. Chip, chip, chip, little by little we whittle the ground down. I hope the earth lets us keep breathing.

Now, MH's story is the important part of THIS house's story. When he was looking for a rental in the area, close to his home farm, but away from the parents, he had several options. He chose the right one from a farmer's point of view (great land, good drainage etc.), and the exactly wrong one, from a home-renter's point of view. And therein begins a tale.

But not today. Everything changes, I just never know when.
I'll keep ya posted.

Breaking News

Butch, amongst the oldest of horse-toys in southern Ontario, is working hard as ever these days. He has been the bearer of many important jewels, like the old and last family dog's license tag, various necklaces I liked and needed to display, and other sundry adornments that y'all might have read about through the past few years. Okay, such as old red dogs' dress-up collar and her Holiday collar, both of which went to live at kid sister house, when, after ORD passed, I couldn't look at them for a few years. Now that kid sisters' old golden girl has left us, Butch has the honour of bearing Millie's collar, too. Kinda hard on the old neck, and someone tried to re-arrange his tail. His neck has really started to shine, and not in a good way.
Check out his poll, and his crest. The creepingSheen. AND, his poor tail. I don't know who did that rearrangement, unless it was a certain naughty Flip dog. I have raised Butch up to high closet position, it's just safer for the poor guy right now. Those years flew by, didn't they? No? Well, they sure did for Butch.

I guess it's official, then. I'm in Old Lady Land. I always looked older than my years, but for the first time, it hit me. I really AM old, like, now. Get this...
I'm a Booster-Juice addict, it's a fruit smoothie franchise  that I "discovered" when Dad went into hospital 7 years ago. Love the stuff, and when my sign shop FINALLY moved out of the crap-hole it was in for 11 years, I was completely thrilled that a BJ (lol) was literally around the corner. Talk about pre-ordained, or something.

When I was discovered to be pre-diabetic, I asked the servers at BJ to make mine without any processed sugars, only fruit/yogurt. No sorbet, sweetened juices, stuff like that. DEElish. But I found that the servers on Saturday couldn't make it the same as my servers through the week, so I asked them to write out the "recipe", so I'd get the same thing on weekends, which I work more of now that work is so much more handy to home. HOORAY for run-on sentences!!

So, get this. There is a punch line coming, bear with me. Dad's in hospital, more on that later, if you want a re-run, go back a year, or two. Or three. Four even. I wanted a BJ before I hit the hospital, so I went to a (gasp) DIFFerent BJ. Asked for the same thing I usually get, but clearly, they didn't have the recipe even close to right. It tasted like crap. So, on the way home from hospital visit #7million and two, desperate for a BJ, I drive out of my way to get one from the place close to work. I ask them to make a copy of the "recipe", so I can use it when I am in foreign BJland. The server, sweet young light brown kid, very smart and quick, looks a bit nonplussed, and takes down the recipe from their notes board to show it to me. GUESS what the heading of my recipe was. Just, guess.

OLD LADY ON SATURDAY.

ayup. I'm the OLOS.
Amazing. Only yesterday, I wasn't quite so.

Some of you know my Dad's long and storied and etc. medical history. Just last year, he went through hell and back. He dun it again. That's my Dad. THREE (okay, 2.5) doctors advised him to postpone his surgery. Too risky, he's too old, too weak, too blahblahblah. Yet they couldn't guarantee that he would get the surgery in a timely fashion, if he postponed for a week.
Dad said DO IT. If they didn't do it, Dad was gonna die anyway. He pulled through with great success, and all us kids celebrate by going home and collapsing.
7am, the morning after the surgery? I'm staying at Dad's, utterly exhausted, and the phone rings, scaring the absolute bejebus out of me. It's Dad. He wants some fruit juice, and there are no nurses around, anywhere, the place is empty. In the ICU.
Uh, huh...
My Dad. He's always looking for his staff.
I tell him how great it is to hear his voice, and just to wait for the nurse, and I'd be there shortly. He says, "I thought you were always up at 7am?" I mention it's Saturday...
He calls back, at 7:30am, wants to talk to Stanley.
I hope my genetics can handle him;)
Love you, Dad. You're the toughest of the tough. I only hope I'm even half as tough. Right now, though, I am just the OLOS...

And here's the latest version of progress in our 'hood. I couldn't believe my eyes. However, I will simply post the start, and the end. Talk about "what on earth for??" Someone didn't like their view. Nothing like being able to destroy something that has taken many years to establish, and has built it's own ecosystem. Gone. Bam. Done. sigh.

And, many hours of diesel fuel later, voila.

Ya gotta love a desert. Or should I say, we better get used to deserts. We sure seem to like removing any life that isn't placed at our bidding. (Those of us with the money and power, anywho...)

Here's a pretty scene or two...
Feb. 9, 2013. Looks about the same now, fcol. The Cardinals have been singing spring songs since mid-January. I want to throw snowballs at them...

Hooray for the end of February!!!

Happy 10th Birthday on the 23rd, FLIP!! Sorry I didn't announce it on the day, funny girl!!

I heart woodpeckers

Get home from work tonight, and I'm out feeding the birds. Yes, I am the crazy bird lady, I hoard wild birds, when they come to my feeders. I've cut back on the number of feeders, and I've discontinued using the front feeder, where we had many bird crashes into windows. ANY way, I hear a chachacha-ing coming from above me, but the sun's wrong, and I can't see. It's more of a "laughing" sound, and I hadn't heard it for a while, and couldn't place the bird call.
A little while later, I'm inside working, and husband says, I think I just saw a red-headed woodpecker at the suet! All red head, white belly. A red-headed Woodpecker looks like this

and is like the coolest bird, ever. He flies with great swoops and flashes of those tuxedo-sharp wings, and his call is unique. I haven't heard it for a long time, maybe 8? years. And it's February First.

Which is the first time in my life, I believe, that February has surprised me.

As I walked the dogs later, hoping for but not getting further sightings/hearings, I remembered my favourite cartoon character of my yout', Woody Woodpecker.

A red-head, and when I remember his laugh, I'm struck by its' similarity to a real redhead's call.

Which is NOTHING like my laugh, but then, I'm not a woodpecker. Three blows to the head (or was it four??) was enough for me. First time, I was 11, and I leaped off of a stair-landing smack dab into the wall above. I was being a horse, of course. Second time was with the little hot chromey TB Nickey aka "Surprise Package", who showed me what stars look like when you slam your forehead into the horse's poll. Then there was the dangerous bay mare with no withers, she slammed the side of my head into a rock. No helmet. DUhMB, right? Then...? three times it is/was, what a charm:) The rest of my injuries were back-knee related. Those appendages are much easier to fall on:) NOT.
Seems my hands are starting to razz me too. I've worked them hard, and they took several (dozen) applications of pain over the years.

In other equally irrelevant news, things are also changing here. No surprise to me, of course, but I'm not an IBM child for nothing, I guess. I am always prepared to leave.

OH, and my Dad is going for a TAVI operation this month. Say a prayer for him? and the ICU nurses, because I'm pretty sure Dad doesn't /will never make it clear how difficult he is, post-op?! At least, I hope he doesn't struggle. sigh.

Things are changing here, but insides remain the same.

personal note
9 years ago, Joanie. Still missed. Thank you for Joyce, incredible how that has worked out. He had to ask her. And he did. Dad said it just "came to him". Thank you, Joanie.

True Colours AND NoT bAd increases

And now, one of my favourite tunes of 1984. Americans, they just can't spell worth a darn.

We all have our own set of "true colours", and I think it's a shifting changeling coat we wear. The insides remain pretty much the same, though, don't they? I mean, when you get down to physical components and stuff. They stay the same.

I wonder what "not bad" truly signifies. Logically, it means "good". "Not bad, not bad at all" is often used for superlatives, I guess. So why does it make me laugh?
Well, just once in my life, I'd like someone to skip using the word "bad" in the same sentence as my creativity.
Calling creativity "bad" or "good" is kinda superfluous. It's really an individual thing, and the fact that we all have different ideas about it is part of the human equation. The human equation is still being solved;)

(Psycho-crazy bad isn't relevant here. You know who you are, and you don't read here anyway. I HOPE!!)

Creativity is part of breathing, really. Aren't you creative everytime you are alive? Heck, your body is busy creating stuff, your mind can't help itself. It's part of everyday, even if everyday seems boring.

I keep pointing out the obvious, and hopefully, someday, someone out there might get it better. That's mainly why I type, so that I can try to get it, only better.

Not bad, eh?

Oh, and weirder news of the day, Indonesia has voted to ban women riding motorbikes astride. They have to sit side-saddle. Ayup. Open legs bad, closed legs good. It's amazing, isn't it? Some things never change.

I found a way-cool link by an Irish trainer, and hey, just the word Irish gets me to post this:)
I'm tired of trying to explain the obvious. No, really, I am. That's part of my uniquely offensive charm:) And I bet this lass can explain it very, very well. This technique is ignored by many barrel girls/BOYS?? as they hit their barrel. Square up the turn, and voila. No shoulder smackage of the barrel. But what do I know, right? I am ancient, and everything has changed since 30 and 40 years ago. Except, ya know? It really hasn't. How much would GoLightly sell for today, do you wonder? I don't anymore. His price would be about the same.

http://www.getmyfix.org/6382/5-minute-clinic-30/

Anywho, sorry, this post is all over the place. Like me.


This video makes me sad.

 But this video never, ever does:)

And, just to be fair, there is a commonality to the art of falling over a horses' head. Can you see the similarity in start position?