Marty's Blogtacular Thoughts

The Race of the Sandpipers

The Race of the Sandpipers

Along the shore line with sand packed hard

from the gusting onshore winds,

with the eternal history of gales

churning

up detritus.

My eyes seek out beach glass

rough jewels of ocean,

samples of destruction and recreation.

The sandpipers dart at lightning speed

as chipmunks would in my garden

escaping the wave surge, as in a frantic game of tag.

The sun is setting, the tide is ebbing,

as the moon plays nocturnal games of tug of war

with the oceans.

I could walk to the horizon.

The sea glass serves no purpose,

I place the opaque pieces in a jar

in their collective they add beauty

like a church window,

as light and divinity shine through raising the spirits.

My daughter, as a child, collected such pieces,

proudly showing me.

She too collected them in a jar she placed by her bed.

We don’t speak any more.

Maybe the beach-glass-jars bind us is spirit

Like the moon embraces the oceans

during the race of the sandpipers.

Century Farm Apple Orchard

Century Farm Apple Orchard

On the undulating grassy hills of the now defunct apple orchard

a Bay, a Palomino and a dark black Stallion trotted out to greet me,

as I stood on the bottom railing of the long white fence embracing the landscape.

The secret to loyalty, but not love, is treats and open-handed bribery

of sugar cubes, carrots and apples.

I seduced their attention, never their affection

and so eventually I rode the Bay.

I felt I had conquered the world.

Together, we explored other fields, my German Sheppard trotting at our side.

I pretended to lasso the Holsteins in pastures near-by,

I rode until sunset then dreamt of my rides till summer finally died,

the last apple had dropped to the ground.

When I see the pond today situated next to mere remnants of what was once a verdant apple orchard on far reaching agricultural lands, I see only a small wet scar on the land, a remnant of a former farm reservoir. It was here on this body of water that my German Shepherd, Shadow of Dawn Meadows (his Christian name), the dog who could not swim nearly drowned some sixty years ago on Cleason Synder’s farm pond.

Situated on the banks of this weedy pond was a leaky and ancient row boat with flaking green paint on the exterior and pools of water, by your feet, while in the rowing position. From the rickety weather- beaten dock I coerced my water shy dog into the boat as I then began slowly rowing to the center of the pond.

Shadow became agitated, and then quickly panicky as he leaned port side yearning for shore and dry land, leaning so intently that without proper notice he fell overboard. I could not believe it at first as he went completely under water and out of sight for a moment and upon surfacing made frantic vertical piston motions with his paws in his inept version of the dog paddle. In his struggle instead of propelling himself forward he had the exact opposite effect in propelling himself downward from where he had just emerged.

I thought if I jumped in to save my floundering dog with the remedial swimming issues, having a near death experience, that I would soon join his fate; so instead I leaned over and grabbed his collar which only served to choke the poor animal in his struggles. Fortunately, the body of water was small and during these intense struggles the length of the boat had turned broad side to the mild breeze blowing that day and as if it were an act of GOD that served to move boat, drowning dog, and myself closer to shore.

The moment Shadow could feel bottom he redeemed his traction and bounded for shore to the safety of land and took off as fast has his now shaking legs would caring him across the apple orchard past the grazing Holsteins and horses to the safety of home.

He did not speak to me again for several days. Until the day he came out horse back riding at my side.

Century Farm

Century Farm

The old stone farm house we rented on Lexington Rd in Waterloo, after moving from St. Catharines, was designated as part of a century farm by the province, by definition it had been in operation for 100 consecutive years by the same family. The week we moved in it stopped being a century farm by that definition as the last owner, Fred Synder, still lived on Lexington Rd only about a mile further along and in a new house. In one move we became part of history and changed history.

It was also memorable because it was that summer Israel attacked and destroyed both the Egyptian and Syrian air forces during the Six Day War. Israel, as a result, was left in charge of the Gaza strip and West Bank, Jerusalem and the Sinai Peninsula. I only mention this in passing because what could go wrong?

But most importantly the farmhouse we moved into had been divided into a duplex. Several University of Waterloo professors lived in the other half and were highly pro-Israel and I think the interchanges with their political opinions got me interested in world politics. I think that is a natural consequence of living on a Century farm and only 57 years after our move Israel has just about destroyed the Gaza strip along with 35 000 citizens. We don’t really learn much from history.

As for the Century farm itself it was torn down to allow the construction of a sprawling Canadian Tire store in 1987. Once the store was built, as far as I could determine, the location of my bedroom had likely been situated beneath where aisle 6 now runs…

Lived in Aisle 6

Aisle 6

paint and supplies

as near as I can figure

there stood my bedroom window.

Hardware

was it in automotive parts?

just where the kitchen starts.

RIP

A farm’s demise

a retro crypt

Canadian Tire now stands

Over my

childhood

home.

Three horses-

a Bay, a Palomino

and a Stallion

With a small herd of Holsteins,

including my pet heifer

(Hugh Hefner)

grazed where the parking lot now

sprawls.

I park my deep purple Subaru

my old man legs walk the

distance over dark asphalt memories.

Outback

behind the giant box store

about 60 years into my past

where stands an:

an apple orchard,

a barn and a

pond.

Rowing gently,

lazily

one very hot July

across the silent stagnant green water

my dog, Shadow, sees a frog

and like some demented canine

superhero leaps from the creaky

old boat.

We soon discover, to my shame,

he cannot swim or even

float.

his stroke too vertical,

too frantic.

He begins to sink.

I yank his collar and pull him in.

We hunted ground hogs through farmers’ fields.

Shot squirrels

armed with a crossbow made from sturdy car springs

and a bolt action 22.

Our juvenile arsenal was really swell

but not exactly from Matel.

We shot a barn cat once!

Spectacular…

In mid-air, as it leapt across the bailing pit.

Some silo pigeons too I think

Likely, they were cooing too loud.

We were kids.

There was

no season

rhyme or

reason.

I got a pellet

Between my eyes

And wonder still how I survived it all.

I see now that

The barn is gone.

The pond is dry and the

Orchards have been cleared.

All a residential pit with names like

Lakeshore

And

Forest Lawn

Even though there is no lake

And the forests are all gone.

“If only dogs could swim and

I was young again in aisle 6.”

Where are my keys? Car?

Where are my Keys? Car?

Now when I leave the house to go any where I usually take a personal inventory of the vital things I need to take with me such as: sunglasses, keys, wallet, cell phone, Tylenol, Advil, other appropriate meds where applicable, ball cap, jacket, or dress code according to variable weather conditions, water, Pedialyte, other food items according to duration of travel, umbrella and toothbrush, just in case you never know and maybe a change of underwear. You know just the usual stuff. I have a mental check list which I often forget and therefore often forget to bring the right things. I have often thought about having a written check list perhaps on a official looking clipboard, but I never follow through on that because it just seems like so much effort. I often worry about losing or misplacing things, like my car for example. I hate when I misplace my car. I did that for the first time in Victoria and I was still in my forties. I had an absolute panic feeling about what I had done, not so much that I couldn’t find my car because of course I eventually did it was more about if I am doing this at age forty-something what will happen when I am my current age of 74? I may not only lose a car but never find it again and then how would I even explain that and worse how would I get home. I don’t even have an Uber app and don’t know the bus routes. In the Victoria case as it turns out I left it in a parking garage but there were several such garages and then to find the right one and then which floor was actually quite a challenge. The most embarrassing part was which car was I driving that day. It was the grey one, no I didn’t know the license plate, or make and model for that matter. When I finally approached the car with stealth because I felt somehow, I was being watched. I felt shame and guilt, my hands were sweaty on the steering wheel and I nearly backed into another car which was backing out behind me at the same time. Now when I park in a car park like at international airports, or any place larger than a Victoria car park I take a picture of the parking spot…C27, level 4 near the elevator, then I worry what if I lose or misplace my cell phone or worse leave it in the car. I may never see either ever again, or the car is stolen and ends op in Dubai with my sunglasses, Tylenol, wallet, Advil and other appropriate meds, water and my wardrobe for travel. If my Pedialyte is also gone I could dehydrate and achieve electrolyte imbalance. It’s a constant dilemma and getting old is just starting to suck.