Water Line!

Yay, the winter water line is in! Frozen water lines are only an issue for a few short weeks each year here in our coastal muddy valley, so this low priority project has been years coming. Water on tap in the barnyard in all weather. What luxury!

DH dug a trench using his own invention clamped on the end of his tractor arm thingy. Then RG took over, putting the final touches on the narrow trench, running and insulating the line then burying it, installing the tap and building it a snug insulated box for shelter.

Now it’s over to me to pick up some quick release hose connections. When a cold snap threatens, the plan is to detach the main feed, drain the water from the hose ends, close up the box and in the frosty morning hopefully find a working tap in the barnyard, right where it is needed.

This will be so much better than hauling heavy sloshing buckets of water all the way from the house! I love labour-saving barnyard devices. They leave more time for pure enjoyment.

Coffee with Silkies

Saturday morning. I slip out the back door and wander down our quietly drizzly muddy valley, hot cup of coffee in hand, to spend a bit of quality time with my silkies.

I know of no better way to really see my birds with clarity, to judge confirmation, health and temperament, than by just sitting in the pen in my lawn chair, spending time visiting. Watching chicken TV.

I carry a scoop of hen scratch, and the birds know it. Standoffish at first, within minutes they are crowding me hopefully, expectantly. I make them work for it, screw up their courage and take it straight from my hand. Tiny Chicken thinks first of her silkie children, as big as her now, as she uses her beak to scoop seeds out of my hand onto the ground where her chicks can peck them up quick before the other birds get there. Opportunistic feeders, chickens are. Every bird for itself and no holds barred, they will steal a bite straight out of another’s mouth with absolutely no compunction. Not the momma birds though, like mommas everywhere, they think first of their offspring.

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My showgirl cockerels are shaping up nicely. Mr. Black in particular is quite the gentleman. Tall and proud, as handsome as can be, he provides me an escort whenever I enter the pen. If I reach for a flock member, he attempts to intervene, but never aggressively. “Excuse me,” he indicates by positioning his body between me and my goal, “I believe my girls do not wish for you to touch them. Please desist.” I respond in kind, gently but firmly moving him aside.

Today he ate from my hand. It is good that he understands I am the creature from whom good things flow, but I won’t make a pet of him. Too often, once the hormones get raging, ‘pet’ roosters decide their humans are to be dominated and bred like any other hen, flogged for disobedience. Mutual respect is my goal. Partnership in flock guardianship, and me at the top of the pecking order, not him.

Should he, or any other rooster, attempt violence, I decline to enter into battle as some would recommend. Violence begats violence, in chickens as in people. There are always better ways. Instead, I’ll scoop him up, tuck him under my arm, and take him with me as I perambulate around the barnyard, seeing to this and that. Rendered completely helpless, in front of the whole flock no less, the humiliation is generally more than enough of a deterrent to change testosterone-fuelled attitudes, at least for a while. Sometimes the lesson must be repeated a few times. More rarely a rooster will fail to learn the necessary respect. These boys go on a one way trip to freezer camp.

This year’s silkies are shaping up nicely. I’m looking forward to next year’s breeding pens and brooding and hatching and egg selling. Bringing the happiness of healthy silkie babies to excited new silkie owners everywhere. It’s so much fun.

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Autumn Leaves

846E8DA0-25C2-4465-8FCA-56317AA65FFCThe weather has been wonderful so far this fall, cool and sunny, perfect for producing great drifts of sun dried leaves. The drier the better. Each year I gather as many as I can store and put them under cover; less moisture extends their shelf life. Leaves are so useful and the chickens enjoy them so much.

A thick layer gets spread across the entire silkie pen, it does a fine job of keeping the mud at bay even after the rains start. In the main coops, I’ll dump a tote full over the fresh wood shavings after I clean each week for as long as they last, for feathered tidbit-hunters to avidly scratch and peck through. Woe betide any little bugs who have made their homes in those leaves.

Momma Barred Rock vacated her room at the hen hotel yesterday, taking her seven children, now ten or so weeks old, back to live with the flock. Good timing Momma! That gives me a good sized leaf storage room for this year. It can hold many wheelbarrow loads, there are four in there now and still a ton of space.

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Of all the things we grow here in our muddy valley, the autumn leaf crop is one of my favourites. Looks gorgeous through spring and summer, and more so when it “ripens”. Zero effort to tend all year long, no seeding or weeding or slug war or watering or deer fencing required. Heck, leaves are even easier to grow than garlic!

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Homemade Butter in 30 Seconds

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Our household went off margarine in August 2012. We had been thinking about it, so when a visiting cousin mentioned the canola processing plants in her area, commenting that one whiff would make us swear off marg forever, I reached my own personal tipping point. Since I am the grocery shopper, our house went margarine-free.

There isn’t much price difference between the two any more. That had been my main reason for buying marg over the years. But these days I can buy a pound of butter for $3.50 at my local big box store. A 2 lb tub of Becel is $6.49. Some say that butter is bad for you, but I would much rather consume butter than a tub of chemically-manipulated faux butter. Hell, it’s all bad for you…everything in moderation.

I have been experimenting lately with making my own butter. But no laborious churning process for me. It’s the 21st century. I can make butter in literally thirty seconds.

I picked up a half pint of whipping cream for under $2 last week, on clearance, best before Oct 28 – in two days time. It didn’t get used for pasta sauce, cream soup or dessert topping, so last night (Nov 2), I took it out of the fridge and set it on the counter overnight to bring it up to room temp, and maybe even get a little fermentation started.

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This morning I dumped it into my mini food processor, half at a time, and whipped it until it “broke”, which took less than 30 seconds. That’s what happens if you whip cream past the point of whipped cream. It separates into butter and buttermilk; and rather suddenly too.

Once it breaks, you pour off the buttermilk (mmmmm pancakes), scoop the butter into a bowl with your spatula and rinse it under cold water, squishing it in on itself until the water runs clear. Then pour off the water, squish it some more until it stops shedding water, mix in a little salt if you choose (I like pink salt) and refrigerate or freeze.

Today, I got 194 grams of sweet delicious butter – almost half a pound – from my expired whipping cream. Isn’t that cool?!?

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Right Under My Nose

A sweet little hand-turned yew bowl followed me home from the thrift store last spring. I had been looking for a bowl to keep my sock yarn under control, and this would be perfect! DH cut a curved slot for the line to feed through, drilled a couple holes to hold my needles, sanded it smooth and I was in business.

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I love my yew yarn bowl, but soon discovered that it is just too small for bigger projects. The balls of chunky acrylic I bought to knit C’s infinity scarf were twice its size! So I added “big wooden bowl” to my wish list, keeping my eye out for one on my sporadic thrift store visits. But no luck, and I refused to buy new, the up-cycling part is half the fun. Practicing my patience, an ongoing project, I kept on looking.

Recently Resident Gardener got a new puppy. Arrow is currently in training with Liza the barnyard protector, so that one day he may be just as useful and obedient as her. In the meantime though, he alternates between ‘adorable’ and ‘royal pain in the ***”. He helps me to practice my patience too.

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I was puppy sitting the other day (at ten weeks old we can’t let him out of our sight for a minute) when he dragged a dusty old wooden bowl out from the bottom shelf of one of the side tables. The same bowl that Little Bean (human toddler, similar stage of development) had pulled out back in the summer when she was visiting. From a spot apparently so inconspicuous that it regularly avoids the cleaner’s swiffer.

The penny hadn’t dropped the first time when Bean had discovered it, but it certainly did this time. Yarn bowl! This thing would make a wonderful large yarn bowl! I whisked it away from sharp puppy teeth, washed off the dust, dried it, then rubbed in a generous dollop of organic olive oil. It cleaned up nice.

The bowl had come from my dear late mom, who had told me when she gave it to me that it had been her mom’s. “Munising” is burned into the bottom, in left leaning script. This is an indication – according to the Munising Wood Products website history page (thanks again internet) – that it was “hand carved” on a Michigan lathe in the 30’s or 40’s.

Possessing both precious family history AND collectable wood bowl attributes, it is remarkably perfect. I can’t bring myself to cut a slot in its side though. I just don’t think my Gram would like that. The bigger balls are all centre-pull anyway.

Right under my nose. A right sized bowl. Sitting quietly in my house waiting to be discovered, all the time I was looking everywhere else. As we all so often do.

The thought made me smile, my day a little brighter. And to be honest, I could use a little cheering up these days. Sometimes lately, the weight of the world settles so heavily I almost gasp for air.

The computer age that makes it possible for us to connect like never before and the social media that was supposed to draw us together, instead pushing us into diametric, vitriolic camps. Pushing us apart.

A caustic election, energy, refugees, the economy, the climate crisis, Trump, wars and cars and polar bears, the rise of the scary far right. My countrymen, friends and acquaintances, even my own family, split by opposing viewpoints. Torn asunder. We used to be able to mostly agree on the way forward, or at least the goals. It seems to me that we have lost that, I hope only temporarily.

The world is “going to hell in a hand basket”, mom would say. And there isn’t much I can do, except hope for the best and support the right causes. Assuming, of course, that I can sift through the crap and figure out what the right causes are.

So when I need to escape for a little while, I shall set Gram’s yarn bowl right here in my lap, busy my fingers, and free my mind to consider all the good things right under my nose. Once I really start to look, they do get easier to spot.

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A Woman’s Right

TL;DR It took 84 long years for all Canadian women to win the right to vote. On Monday October 21 I will go to my local school gym, and cast my vote. I can’t wait!

Almost 150 years ago, in 1876 in Toronto, Ontario, Dr. Emily Howard Jennings Stowe started Canada’s very first women’s suffrage organization.

Born in 1831, Dr. Stowe was a woman ahead of her time. She had been refused entry to the University of Toronto in 1852 because she was female. Not until 1886 did U of T change that policy. So she got her teaching certificate, then taught public school, eventually becoming the first female principal in Canada.

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After marrying and having 3 children she tried to enter medical school in Canada but was refused because, you guessed it, she was a woman. So she went to med school in New York instead, graduating in 1868 at age 37, then moving back home to Toronto where she became the first woman to practice medicine in Ontario.

It took eight years, until 1884, for Dr. Stowe’s Dominion Suffrage Club to achieve their first victory, winning the vote for women in some Ontario municipal elections. But only for widows and spinsters. Married women didn’t need the vote you see…they had their husbands to take care of all that!

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Dr. Stowe and the suffragettes didn’t stop there.

  • In 1889 they petitioned Canada’s Conservative Attorney General to give widows and spinsters the federal vote. They were refused.
  • In 1903 Dr. Stowe died and her daughter Augusta, Canada’s first female MD trained in her home country, took over the club presidency.
  • In 1905 and again in 1906 the club petitioned Ontario’s Conservative premier for the vote and were refused.
  • In 1907 they organized a thousand person march, presenting the Ontario government with a 100,000 name petition. For a third time they were refused.
  • In 1912 the club petitioned Robert Borden’s Conservative federal government. “No”, they were told. Not until all the provinces say yes.

So they focused on supporting efforts to gain women the vote at the municipal level, and by 1915 women had won the right to vote in a few more Ontario municipalities. Then the suffragettes went back to the province to try again. But the answer was still no.

Between 1915 and 1917, BC, Alberta, Saskatchewan and Manitoba women all won the right to vote provincially. But not in Ontario, where Canada’s suffrage movement had been born. After yet another monster petition the provincial Liberals made the womens’ vote one of their election planks. But the Conservatives stayed in power.

And then finally in 1917, with the First World War raging, “a change came over the hearts of men”. Canadian men and women were making untold sacrifices for the war effort. In the spirit of the times, Premier Hearst’s Conservative Ontario government endorsed a private member’s bill, the Premier intoning solemnly:

6E51E592-362B-46C9-8BB4-B6AD7767F61D“Having taken our women into partnership with us, in this tremendous task, I ask, can we justly deny them the right to have a say about the making of the laws they have been so heroically trying to defend? I think not!”

The Liberals united with the Conservatives, (can you imagine that happening today??? 😳🤣🙄) and Ontario’s women’s suffrage bill passed.

In Ottawa, where Mr. Borden’s wartime Unionist Party (an amalgam of Conservatives and pro-conscription Liberals) had won a landslide election victory the previous year, on April 12, 1918, a bill was passed to extend suffrage to “all women in Canada”. But they really only meant non-quebecois caucasian women. 😠

When the federal bill passed, the remaining provincial and territorial hold outs gave in. Except Quebec, where women did not win the right to vote provincially until 1940. Oh, and except for women of colour, who couldn’t vote in federal elections either, until the 1940s. Oh and except for First Nations women covered by the Indian Act, who couldn’t vote federally until 1960!!!

All in all, it took 84 years; from 1876 to 1960, for all Canadian women to win the right to vote in any election in Canada. Close to a century of prejudice, of hard fought battles and rejection, of being knocked down and getting right back up, of derision and scorn heaped on the suffragettes year after year.

I am so grateful to the women (and men) who fought for this right on behalf of all of us, so tenaciously and for so long. Our society is the better for it.

On October 21 I will be thinking about Dr. Stowe and all the women whose shoulders I’m standing on, as I again relish the freedom, as a woman, to engage fully in our participatory democracy.

Voting is awesome and good for the soul. I can’t wait.

On Spiders

On Spiders

“Stop! Look out!” DH blurted the other day, as I lifted my fork to dig in to my dinner. Puzzled but willing, I pushed back my chair, my eyes following his finger to where he was pointing. A delicate pink and silver spider, all long slender legs and teardrop body, hung above my plate right at eye level. A tiny fairy pirouetting gracefully, twisting and turning as she lowered herself via the spun silk she had fastened to the light fixture overhead. Where was she going? Did she want my dinner? Who knew.

DH stood up, carefully grasped her mooring line well above her current location, at which point she reversed course and started heading back up, and walked to the door with her sailing behind. I thanked him for saving me from a Miss Muffet moment, and we continued our meal.

We taught our children growing up to respect spiders (they’re GOOD bugs, they eat the bad bugs) and each time we were called to deal with another eight-legged intruder we captured it carefully and let it go outside. We generally use the glass and paper method, doming the spider in the glass, then sliding the paper between our quarry and the wall (care must be taken to not break their little legs), before upending the cup and with the paper lid held on firmly, making for the closest outside door.

Despite consistent role-modelling, our children still ended up with a diversity of spider reactivity. One kid screamed and had to restrain herself from killing on sight, one kid more calmly asked for help in capturing, and one kid, heaven help us, trapped them herself then released into her own bedroom…”so it could join the rest of her spider family”.

I have spiders on my mind, because this is the time of year when our lives intersect more closely than usual with the spider members of our environment. They’re just around more. The outside ones busy finishing up their lifecycles, getting ready to lay their eggs I guess, and the inside ones predicting rain.

Every single morning I feel at least one web tighten, then snap across my face as I walk the paths thru our muddy valley.  I am so used to this that I just keep walking while apologizing to the spider, and asking them, in case they end up somewhere on my person and can understand English, if they could please depart expeditiously. This seems to work fine. I have never yet come across a spider hanging out on my person. They are in as much of a hurry to leave me as I am to have them depart. We are of one mind on the matter.

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The ground webs, woven between convenient grass hummocks and sparkling in the dewy early morning, are easier to see and thus easier to avoid. And they are everywhere too.

Last week one of our daughters came to stay for a few days, and late one night after I was in bed, her and her dad had a spider adventure that I heard all about the next morning.

She had reached over to twist on the bedside table lamp when she came nose-to-nose with a big hairy brown spider (it was 👌 THIS BIG!!) chilling on the lampshade. Startled, she screamed loudly, “…and Mom” she exclaimed “I clearly saw that spider jump at the sound of my voice, and then freeze!”

“Well” I replied, “I’m sure you frightened him”.

Dad was called, and made a play for the spider with his glass, but the big fellow neatly evaded capture, dropped to the floor and scrambled for safety. DH and daughter, in hot pursuit, finally lost him among the spare blanket and winter clothing detrius of the guest room closet. I heard about the hunt and the spider’s exceptional size from DH too. Probably a descendent of K’s spider family I mused, as I imagined him still safely ensconced in his guest room (her old bedroom) closet.

Every year about this time I grow familiar with one or two specific spiders, who have chosen to reside in spots I frequent. This year I have a barn buddy spider. She has spun her web right above the log brace we hang the baling twine over.

I noticed her the other week, as after opening a new hay bale I reached up to add two more lengths of twine to the hank. Panic-struck at what she evidently saw as the imminent destruction of her web by my hand, she was running up to take refuge on top of the barn door when I noticed her. I was careful to avoid causing damage to her web as I hung my string and I told her so. After all, spiders are very useful in the barn, they eat the bad bugs there too. The next time I opened a bale, I talked to her in a reassuring manner as I slowly stowed the twine, she wavered and retreated, but just a little way this time. The last two times I added string, she hasn’t budged but sits watching me carefully as I greet her, reassure her I mean no harm, and add my string to the hank. We apparently now have an understanding, which is delightful.

I love that we have such a healthy spider population in our muddy valley. They are useful and fascinating little creatures, although I must admit that like most wildlife (and sometimes people too) I do prefer to admire them from a safe distance.

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Hen-On-Nest Enthusiasts

I walked into the thrift shop next door to the feed store and noticed her immediately, sitting in the window. A pleasingly round hen-on-nest covered dish, iridescent blue carnival glass, glinting in the sunshine. Vintage. Glass. Poultry. Three of my favourite things. What else could I do? I scooped her up, took her home and set her on the piano, where I could admire her from my chair.

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Fast forward a couple months and a parcel arrives in the mail from my cousin who loves to send random gifts. (You should all be so lucky as to have such a cousin). Vintage knitting books, a few interesting-looking novels and (gasp!) another hen-on-nest dish! This one smaller, clear glass with a red painted comb and wattles.

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Growing curious about their provenance I examined each for maker’s marks, finding none. Google image search turned up nothing either, but when I typed “lidded glass chicken dish” into eBay, I hit the jackpot. There were 13 available and the top listing was twin to my three dollar thrift store find (score!).

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I learned the manufacturer’s name (Indiana Glass) from the eBay listings, then searched up the company. The website glassbottlemarks.com popped up, and I proceeded to learn more than I ever thought possible about hen-on-nest dishes.

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One line in the article I read really intrigued me, and its dramatic use of uppercase and italics made me smile:

“The smaller version (commonly known by hen-on-nest collectors as the “MYSTERY HEN”) is considered as a “PROBABLE” product of Hazel-Atlas Glass Company instead of Indiana Glass Company by author Shirley Smith in her authoritative 2007 reference book on hen dishes.”

Wow. So. Let’s unpack this.

There is enough interest out there in hen dishes, that:

  1. Some people are specifically hen-on-nest collectors. This must be just one branch of the hen dish collector diaspora!
  2. Someone has written a reference book about hen dishes.
  3. The author speculates that one style of hen-on-nest (the one my cousin gave me, as a matter of fact) MIGHT have been manufactured by a company other than the commonly cited one!

Oh, the intrigue! I can scarcely catch my breath! How exciting!

Seriously though, isn’t the world a wonderful place? Where one can discover the quaint existence of hen-on-nest enthusiasts and read all about their little chicken dish dramas?

I further learned that my blue hen-on-nest was made from the 1950s to the 1980s and my clear glass hen-on-nest is likely from the 1930’s, making her around eighty years old. In the 1970s, at K-Mart, my blue girl cost $1.78. No pricing info available for clear glass hen.

I wouldn’t exactly call me a hen-on-nest enthusiast, not yet anyway. I’m currently teetering on the edge. It wouldn’t take much to push me over though, like, maybe if I find a THIRD hen-on-nest. Because then, of course, I would have to try for number four!

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Invasion of the Cucumbers

Our resident gardener planted lots of pickling cukes this year, and they all grew. We  are absolutely inundated! Every few days, the garden disgorges another big basketful, as RG discovers another plant twining along in some random corner. The enthusiastic tone of her “I found another patch” announcements has steadily diminished over time. One can only use so many pickling cukes.

D8ECA2A1-EC8B-438B-BCD7-5540F0E5146EMason jars full of fermenting salt brine pickles are stacked all over my sewing table, friends and family are sharing in the bounty and the chickens are enjoying the ones that grew too big to pickle before they were located. And they Just. Keep. Coming.

Last night, in an attempt to gain the upper hand over the cucumber avalanche, RG gathered up every cuke on hand and came next door to use our big kitchen. It was time to scale up she decided, and make a whole crock full of pickles. After a bit of thought, we pulled out our tall glass kombucha vessel. It would do quite well. We have lots of big pots, but metal won’t work for making pickles. She scrubbed the kombucha vessel thoroughly and filled it with a big batch of pickles, topped and bottomed with fresh grape leaves for tannin (to keep ‘em crispy).

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Ten days or so on the counter, then into jars and the fridge, and we’ll have healthy fermented probiotic pickles and pickle juice good for up to a year, if they last that long (they won’t). In the meantime I am enjoying the beautiful pickle tower decorating my kitchen, glinting green on the counter, filled with quiet purpose as a billion friendly bacteria do their job. Tiny bubbles forming and shifting as the fermenting process unfolds.

One of my cousins has been crazy about pickles his whole life. A true pickle connoisseur, he makes his own, he wins pickling prizes at the fair; the man even owns a pickle suit.  If anyone can appreciate a good pickle, it’s cousin D. I will have to make sure he gets a jar. Especially since RG is already boasting about how her pickles are probably better than his. Are we on the verge of a pickle smackdown? Only time will tell…😘

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Balance

My daughter recently lent me some Zen Buddhism books, and one of the ideas I love is Tao. Tao is the idea that for everything there is an equal counterbalancing opposite, and that these opposites are not separate, but rather different aspects of the same thing. That nothing can exist without its polar opposite, and that this polarity is what our world consists of. The art of life, therefore, is keeping the two poles in balance. Taking the middle way.

I find this concept comforting. To imagine, as I confront our world’s evil via my newsfeed, that for every Bolsanado-empowered logger chopping down the Amazon there is a squad of earnest tree planters digging their heels in; for every ICE gang rounding up and separating families there are good and generous people giving refuge to the stateless and the homeless; that for every senseless act of violence inflicted on the innocent there is, somewhere, a random act of kindness unfolding.

Today I received an unexpected gift, a little Tao right here in my own neighbourhood.

A while ago I wrote a blog post about patience.  About needing plenty, to accept a loud, unthinking family who barged into our neighbourhood, bought a big house on top of a thickly forested hill, and proceeded to chop almost the whole forest down to build a wide gravel parking lot. After a couple years of practicing patience with the neighbours to preserve my own peace of mind, I was rewarded with the pleasure of their departure, and the arrival of an unobtrusive new neighbour whom, two years later, I have yet to meet.

The hill’s life energy changed after it was shaved and capped with road-base. There were more casualties as some of the few remaining trees on its flanks sickened and died. I watched this collateral damage play out in extreme slow mo, as I sat every day contemplating the view from my bathroom window. I wondered if and when someone would come to drop the dead snags. Or if a storm would fell them first.

Today I got my answer. I was standing in the kitchen at bang on ten am when the chainsaws fired up, growling their threats to the neighbourhood, and causing more folks than just me I’m sure, to think “uh oh, who’s at it now?” We have all learned to be a little chainsaw-shy around here in recent years. We love our tree canopy. I grabbed a fresh cup of coffee and my cell phone and headed outside, following my ears to find out which neighbour had welcomed the invaders.

 

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Sure enough, the fallers were just down the road on the neighbour’s hillside, one up a tree and one on the ground, taking care of those snags. “Fair enough” I thought to myself. “Those trees do have to go before someone gets squished.” I would be sad to lose my tall bathroom window snag, and the local eagles and vultures would be sorry to lose their lookout post, but far better a controlled demise than an accidental unfortunately-timed one across the public path at the foot of the hill.

I grabbed a chair, turned on my camera and sipped my coffee as I waited for a photo opportunity. It would be fun to write a little follow up to Patience, to relate another chapter. I watched the faller slowly climb, stopping to carve off each branch as he encountered it, pausing as each crashed into the underbrush, then resuming his slow ascension. About thirty feet from the top, he sliced the treetop clean off and we all watched it crash down, bouncing on top of the lower branches now carpeting the slope.

By this time, the faller on the ground had been joined by my new neighbour, a snowy haired old fellow, and both watched the guy up in the tree intently as he reversed direction, slowly descending, stopping every 10-12 feet to slice and send another chunk crashing down. When he had about thirty feet to go, the guy on the ground called up to him. I couldn’t clearly hear what was said, but I saw hands chopping diagonally and my ears caught the word ‘angle’ as the wind wafted it by.

The next cut was duly made on an angle, so that I could clearly see the pale insides of the snag, and then the saw stopped growling entirely and the faller moved on down the last stretch of trunk.

That’s when I understood, the owner had asked the fallers to leave the remaining snag as a wildlife tree. Amazing, what a gift! I was so happy! Anyone who knows about wildlife habitats knows that it is best to leave snags standing if possible. Each one can support a plethora of flora and fauna as it slowly decays. What a good act. My new neighbour, doing his part to both keep local trail-walkers safe, and support nature. He embodies the polar opposite of my old neighbour. Balance. Tao, as in all the fabric of our universe.

I find that peculiarly reassuring, don’t you?