No Trespassing

Is anybody out there?

This morning, the CBC told me the beautiful weather would continue for only a few more hours. I left the house full of dirty dishes and unmade beds and got on my bike. I took a different route from my usual one, and when the stark trees on either side of Middletown Road curled around me I stopped for a breather. I straddled my bike, leaned on the handlebars and listened to a few confused spring peepers. Somewhere in the swamp a woodpecker was hunting for breakfast. When he took to the air I recognised the lazy, loping flight of the Pileated Woodpecker.

It was a moment of perfection. It was the kind of moment that makes you nostalgic for something which, if you're honest, you probably never had in the first place. But who cares?

Then I saw the sign nailed to the tree in front of me. It was a red dot with the words 'private' emblazoned on it. Then I saw the fence strung through the waters of the Spenser Creek. But the road was empty, the woods were still, and whoever wanted to protect this bit of Beverly Swamp was nowhere to be seen.

'Private' signs have been cropping up around here a lot recently, as new neighbours move in and the community shuffles its feet. I understand the feeling; I, too, have worried when a car parks in front of my house and idles there for minutes. But for the most part, I find the 'private' signs amusing. Out here, the closest neighbour is half a kilometre away. There is a surfeit of privacy, and the winter can feel very long, indeed.

So the next time you're lost on a rural road, and have to stop to look at the map, don't be surprised if a woman looking very much like me taps on your window and asks you if you'd like a cup of coffee. And please say 'yes'.

I haven't spoken to a real person in weeks.

Fall Chores

Too cold for photography. Enter Microsoft Clipart.

I'm sitting in my kitchen working up my iron will.

In the spring, I'm out in the garden no matter the weather. I've dug out beds in the pouring rain, I've planted spinach when there's snow on the ground, I've half-frozen my fingers and bent more than my share of spades on ice-bound earth.

There's not much that can keep me out of the yard when the temperature sneaks past 10 degrees and the sun gets soft.

I've got the spring chore list for my rotation beds memorised: turn under the winter rye, phosphorus and potassium for root crops, nitrogen for the lettuce, lime for the peppers. It's a real struggle not to put in just a few warm weather crops in April, because you never know.

Fall is a different story. I've got my bulbs ready to go, that's no problem. I wait for the first frost before planting them. Before that, I'm too busy anyway: the beans are still producing, and with some protection, the tomatoes and peppers continue to ripen. The ground is dotted with squash of all colours; they are revealed in an elaborate strip-tease as the plants themselves give up the ghost. Finally, the first frost knocks off the non-hardy. I've put it off long enough. There are chores waiting.

I make a cup of tea and try to remember what they are. Compost, for sure, but not on all the beds. Lime here and there. But where? My Journal is sitting on the shelf, but the wind is blowing a gale and the kettle is about to reach the boil again. Can't forget the bulbs, but as long as they're in before the ground is actually frozen, they'll be fine. And I'm still not sure where I want them.

Now the rain which was forecast has begun, and I've just seen an article about staying off saturated garden beds. The kettle is going to boil any minute, again, and is lime really a 'green' option? I forgot to turn the compost over, and I can't remember right now where the garlic is.

This tea is not going to drink itself, you know. And we may yet have a mild December.