Trouble has a new name, two if you'd like to be exact...

The pet cemetery at the back of our yard has been growing at a slow but steady rate. Since the acquisition of our new home three years ago we have interred one hedgehog, one zebra finch and two cats. In an effort to slow the trend our household population has been expanded by a very young twosome. The Prodigal Son has named our adoptees “Captain Awesome” (the utterance of Captain Awesome must be undertaken only with the accompaniment of a hand gesture stabbing the air vigorously in front of the orator) and “The Black Avenger”. The Black Avenger was demoted to “The Dark Avenger” after peeing on the Prodigal’s leg. For simplicity’s sake other members of the household have chosen to refer to said adoptees as “Charlie and Jack”. Our husky-shepherd-cross, Jack Kerouac or Kera as she is more commonly known is understandably disconcerted. As anyone can see, these two will be an ongoing concern.

Captain "Charlie" Awesome and Jack "Kera" Kerouac

"Jack" The Dark Avenger

Winter is nature's way of saying, "Up yours."  ~Robert Byrne

Early summer morning rises over the southernmost point of the Canadian mainland. It won't linger long as somewhere to the west, at the same latitude, California waits for that very blush of rose. Point Pelee stretches out into the grey waters of Lake Erie. The Carolinian woodlands, home to over 300 bird species, run back to rest in the soft currents of marshland. A boardwalk winds through the cattails and the swallows gossip and fight under the observation tower taking turns heading out over the marsh to hunt for a bite to eat. A splash of water and ripples spread out in concentric rings as a bass takes to the air for its repast. Brilliant jewels propelled by the delicate filament of their wings flash in the early morning light as squadrons of dragon and damsel flies lead the way out onto the wooden path.

The water and the sky are full of comings and goings as the denizens of the marsh go about their business. Even though the air is full of sound, underneath it all, there is a weight and a silence that is the real voice of the marsh. The earliest recognized passage of man through this area is AD 600 so we know that it is at least several thousand years old. In the early morning light it isn't hard to believe that it might be as old as the whole world itself.

The weather beaten ribbon of boardwalk demarks the green, twisting and turning through the sedge that towers overhead. Each curve is a blind step into the unknown. Breasting a slight incline I almost trip over a man sitting just on the other side in the hollow of the decline. Bare-chested, tan and slender, he is seated on the right side of the boardwalk in the classic lotus position. Beside him on the boardwalk lays an open notebook, the written worlds inspired by the morning and his meditation dark on the bleached white page. His voice is a soft grey green, a whisper like the waters of the marsh lapping the wood beneath him. The boardwalk rises up and curls away as I leave him behind to carry on interpreting the weight and silence of the water soaked land and endless blue sky. 

The blade of a paddle breaks the water as a kayak heads out through the channel towards the deeper waters of Lake Erie. The swallows chatter on and a heron wings its way out over the expanse of rushes and water.

The rain has come and washed away the pack of rabid dog days. The feverish hounds, all sweat and sweltering foam, tucked tail between their legs and ran panicked, harried by the lake wind and the heat lightning clouds. Hunkered down in the place the cur goes to hide they’ll bide their time till August calls her canis hours. Morning breaks with the cool kiss of an early June dawn and spring finds its step once again.

This past span of three days marked the holiday long weekend known as the Victoria Day Weekend or May Two-Four here in Canada. Traditionally honouring Queen Victoria’s birthday or more recently Queen Elizabeth’s (the actual date of which I have no idea) this holiday, celebrated on the Monday of or before the 24th of May, is the unofficial beginning of the summer season up here in the Great White North. The term May "two-four" weekend has been coined most recently in reference to the association of drinking (a case of beer having 24 or “two-four” bottles enclosed) rather than the actually date of occurrence which changes from year to year.

     Regardless the May 2-4 weekend can usually be counted on for alcohol, fireworks and, if you are a “fashionista” here in Canada, the all clear for wearing white shoes and white pants from now until Labour Day. This particular holiday weekend is also known for cold and/or rainy weather and this past weekend did not disappoint. The wind was wild and chilly, the sun was intermittent and the only thing lacking was the usual downpour. The post-holiday tradition also continues as the weather forecast following the holiday weekend (that must now be enjoyed from inside the workweek office) is summer warm.

     Locally the holiday was marked by a guided tour of the Spicer Trail. The tour heralds a new movement to encourage tourism and historic enrichment in the area. (Next weekend promises to be even busier with a live history weekend at the Backus/Page House presented by the local dramatic society and the T.H.S and the commencement of a number of shunpikers to get everyone out and about.) Spreading out from the nucleus that forms the base of my hamlet, various Optimist and Kinsmen clubs offered the promise of firework delights that, due to the high winds, had to be delayed until the climate was agreeable. Not to worry though, despite the uncooperative weather, there is still a pageant on display. As the season changes from spring to summer, the yard presents its own fireworks.  

     The first blooms of the year are flaming out in brilliant shades, brief flashes of colour across the expanse of the yard. They will in turn be followed by even greater displays of light and colour until the final climax of fall’s glamorous golden and rusted flares. Here every explosion, every bloom, is appreciated and exclaimed over, an intricate part of the beautiful whole.

     The meadowlark, a shocking yellow, is a curious cat that peers a lopsided one eye through the window screen, watching us watching him. The humming bird, mouse grey and lavender, hovers on invisible wings above bunches of saffron blooms until the wind rings the chimes and sends him off in search of a quieter meal. Everywhere the air tastes like lilac, apple blossom and lily of the valley. All this is here now and with the promise of the long summer days just on the horizon and the magic of fall too far off yet to imagine…Really, I think fireworks might actually pale in comparison.

The bitter green, solitary shaded, brings a whisper of pathless glens home to golden manes, Kitten sleepy, content to loll under a gentle caress, lapping up the sun. The wet green depths house moss embraced granite and Soft peat weeps to drown the delicate step. Natal Wings, feathered fingers, unfurl to greet the dawn and the delicate blush of white is a mute trumpet hidden from the new sky.

     The Cathedral is glory pine bowered with staves of naked bark. The sheltered corridor lies soft underfoot flowing away into the parish press banked by early sharp ferns and moss covered logs. The beating heart warms the air calling restless spirits. The forgotten lives awakened are gargoyles that rise up to the belfried heights and sound the boughs like ancient bells in groans and creaks and snaps of supplication. That hymn of lamentation sinks only to the earth drowning in the embrace of the captured sky muted and choking on the mirrored pool shallows of mud and rotten leaves. The bowls of careless hollows house quiet buds that break the earth and strain towards the sun.

The sky fell over night to seed the yard. The grey Monday morning is illuminated from below by sprays of blossoms painted in the blues of each day’s hours and the crisp green of river shallows pooled transparent round the emerald of moss covered rocks.