Making It Up As I Go Along #335

MONDAY...
— Work 4 hours today. Now that I’m doing a compressed schedule, Mondays are part of my weekend... so today was to build up some extra vacation time.
— Ball game... we lose a close one but it’s a pretty fun game all the same. I leg out a triple... first one since I popped my hamstring... and there was no problems. The shoulder is feeling fairly loose though. And that’s bad loose... as in the rotator cuff doesn’t feel real stable. So throwing is kinda painful and weak tonight.

TUESDAY...
— Sore day. Signs of age... when you need recovery time from slow pitch softball... oh dear oh dear. The shoulder and knee are whining at me this morning.
— Beaver evidence at the pond. I wasn’t crazy! Two downed trees along the pathway. Lots of beaver bites seen makes the downing an easy one to figure. Kind of cool but I’m sure this means there’ll be city people coming to try to capture the poor thing soon enough. Run beaver... RUN!
— Work is okay. The first of my 10 hours shifts.

WEDNESDAY...
— House hunting... go out with an agent and check out three places around the city. Two are nice but one of them is a bit small and the other is a bit expensive. Nothing immanent but I may be out of Orleans one of these days.
— Work alone. It goes alright... supper with Melissa and a walk at break.

THURSDAY...
— Sleep until 10:00 today. Do a little walk around the pond in the morning and then work with Annick in the evening. She’ll be leaving me soon... going to work in a different section and to be replaced by some guy who’s supposedly on his way once security checks end. Too bad, Annick’s been a fun work buddy.

FRIDAY...
— Shopping before work. New running shoes and shorts are gotten... cleats and turf shoes are missed. I’ll have to go search some more for those.
— Work is okay but pretty long. Megan, Annick and I go to supper.
— Watch a movie on TV after work and off to bed.

SATURDAY...
— Work for two hours. Need this in order for the time to add up this week with a short work week and compressed schedule.
— After working, I go to the baseball park to meet Melissa, Nick, Isaac and a couple of the boys and we watch a game. Rapidz win 7-1 and it’s a good day for it with sun and mid 20s.
— A walk around the pond and some TV in the evening ends the day.


The Fight for Food
I’ve started doing more working out. I bought dumb bells and am working shoulders, biceps and triceps. I’m working my chest too. Some may argue this is all for increased strength or a more appealing body. But they would be wrong. It is for a more practical reason... opening my groceries.

Machine sealed food may very well be the death of the human race. Sci-fi movies make it out that the machines will rise up and rebel against us. They’ll attack us with weaponry or simply stomp us into oblivion. But I’m thinking the end will be much less dramatic than that. I think they’ll just seal our food so well, we’ll never be able to get into the packaging.

The human race will starve to death as we bruise hands trying to unscrew jars or blow out chest muscles as we strain at opening a box of cereal.

I long for the day when things were packaged by people, for the people. It must have been a wonderful and simple time. You’d sit out on the porch with a cool glass of home squeezed lemonade and if you felt like a tasty pickle, you’d reach over and easily unscrew the jar. No strain. No sweat. No need for a round of physical therapy when the job is done. Ah, all was right with the world.

Now we live in a time of vacuum sealed goods. You know the jar has never been opened before because you hear the sucking rush of air enter once you finally break through. I don’t know when we decided our foods must be stored in conditions equal to that of outer space. Sometimes it’s as though we’re supposed to place our jar of jam in a decompression chamber before enjoying the fruity goodness. Who knew that the raspberry spread for our toast actually comes from the depths of the sea?

Think of what it all does to our psyche. My father was once a robust man able to take care of himself. But on my last visit home, I noticed he had to cut the top off the vacuum bag which held his cereal. Years being able to open a box of cereal... all gone. He’s left needing tools to pry into the packaging. He’s left feeling like a shell of his former self while his corn flakes remain open to the harshness of our atmosphere and go stale before his eyes.

With all of this being so absurd, I’m left thinking that it must be the machines doing it. People would never aim to make such simple tasks so incredibly hard.

I think it’s actually a government secret that’s kept from the rest of us in order to avoid panic. They know that the machines are out to get us... they just don’t want to admit it. Especially not in an election year.

This all leaves me to battle the problem myself. If I am to survive, I’ll need to gain access to my food for myself. So it’s time to bulk up. To take on the look of a movie action hero with abs rippling and pecs straining to be released from the shirt. So help me God, I’m going to gain access to that new box of Fruit Loops.

Making It Up As I Go Along #334

MONDAY...
— I work okay. Not too tired today. It took a week but I’m getting the hang of days again. Still like the evening better.
— Rained out softball. Heaviest thunder storm I’ve been in since London, Ontario in 1985. Inch sized hail... probably 5 inches of rain... big lightning strikes. I think one hit the house next door. I just about jumped through the ceiling with the blast of light and crash of thunder.

TUESDAY...
— Got through today fine... but still, at the end of the day it felt like it should be Thursday, not Tuesday... oh dear oh dear.
— Walk to the grocery store. Over to Farm Boy for some healthy food... and supper. And walking instead of the car is good too.
— Post supper nap is accidental... I hope I don’t pay for it come 11:00.

WEDNESDAY...
— Work is pretty normal. Go across for lunch today with Janice, Devin and Annick. After work walk around the pond and some evening napping make for a pretty relaxing time.

THURSDAY...
— Leave the office for lunch today. Janice, Devin, Bruno and I hit the Chip Wagon for burgers and fries. Good good.
— Go to discuss real estate with an agent after work. Not sure if I’ll sell or not, but knocking the idea around in the mind... getting out of the suburbs would be nice.

FRIDAY...
— Last day of CNI supervisor work. It goes alright. Home for a short time afterwards and then off to supper with Karl at the pub. After supper, I go on to the Mayfair for a movie alone... Mongol is good. After that I meet Sheila there for the second of the double header... Hancock is pretty good itself.

SATURDAY...
— Quiet day around the house with some cleaning and a ball game. Paula and Eddie come over with the baby in the evening. We hang out and talk for a while and then go to the Works for burgers. A nice visit with them.
— I nap in the evening after they leave. I’m having to work at staying up again now. With the compressed schedule I’m going on, I’ll be at work until midnight each night... so I need to get my late night legs underneath me again.


Ever Changing Landscapes.
People always change the landscape they’re on. Yes there is that sentiment that we can’t tame nature, that it’ll put us in our place. And there’s truth to that. But it’s a neck and neck fight and sometimes we do win.

Our initial reaction is always that people’s influence on the landscape is a negative one. I remember, years ago back in Wedgewood Park, there was once talk of building a snow plow garage in the open space that stood between the softball field, our line of homes, and a group of houses that were built only a few years prior. One of the new home owners went around with a petition, trying to get us all to sign and stop the building of the garage... that it would be harmful to the peace and beauty of the neighbourhood.

I was struck by this because, only two or three years before, I was a heartbroken teenager who watched the destruction of the forest I had grown up with. My playground of trees, paths, rivers and (most importantly) imagination was all destroyed... or permanently altered... to allow this neighbour to come live near me. They were as big an intrusion to me as the garage would be to them... and I ignored their petition.

And the fact is, the home I had grown up in had severely altered the forested environment as well. How many animals were dislodged from homes... only wishing to have the brains and equipment necessary to petition the houses me and my friends grew up in? Were there hiking and ski trails that others had used... simply destroyed for my home?

The newest arrivals are often seen as the destroyers of paradise. And often, for the people in question, that extreme view does become reality. The Irish and English immigration to Newfoundland was the primary reason for the extinction of the Beothuk Indians who already called large portions of the island home.

In later years, for my cultural and historical geography studies, I wrote a dissertation on the history of a particular plot of land located near the university. The present day cul-de-sac, left paved and ready for homes, yet only as a large green space among homes instead made for an interesting study.
Forest, tamed for farming... it was a rural farmstead for several decades. A place where a family lived on the edge of the city. People grew up on this land, used to a particular way of life. Taken horse drawn carts into the city to sell their produce or walking to the lake a few farmsteads over for a Sunday picnic.

As time went on, the city grew around the farm. In fact, expropriation took away much of their land for the good of the city. The farm was left cut off at the neck. The family still owned the head (the homes and sheds which surrounded them) but the body... the fields... were taken by the city and homes built up around them.

For a few years, the family hung on... grasping at the past through a maintenance of what remained... but the writing was on the wall. Soon the chickens had to be removed as well. Selling eggs is a life best left for those living in the countryside, they were told... there were too many complaints from the neighbours. Too much smell... too noisy in the morning.

Eventually, the family sold off what remained. It was too painful to stay in a farm house that no longer stood on a farm. They were aliens in their own homes... surrounded by those that were different. Stared at as an annoyance in the way of a civilized neighbourhood.

And there the land stays, half developed and waiting for the right price to be paid for the good of real estate investment. A home, and way of life is now long forgotten. Only a few have reminders of it. Family pictures for those that once lived there. Some papers and my dissertation in the university records. I have a brick that I pried from the dirt where the house once stood. A piece of the chimney of a Newfoundland farm house now lays dividing books upon my bookcase in Ontario... an out of place artifact that would be a mystery to any other who’d notice it there (although few do).

Today, I’ve witnessed such a destruction first hand. But now I’ve been on the side of the villain.

I bought into a new neighbourhood. A neighbourhood built on top of old farm land. In fact, the old farm house was still standing when I arrived. Off in the distance, across the now abandon fields only a few hundred yards from my back window. Possibly, while I stood at my window, looking out at them, they stood at their back porch, looking over towards me and trying to remember the pleasant times when they could walk through their fields to some grove of trees that may once of stood where I now live.

Like the farmstead I wrote about in University, this house stood as another severed head... hanging on for a few more short breathes but with no body to keep it going. The once quiet road that once connected this farm to civilization is now a thoroughfare that I use daily. And even I mutter under my breath as the traffic has increased along this road in the five years I’ve been here... used by more and more as the surrounding farm land continues to be converted into the sprawl of a city.

But I always was drawn to the old farm house. I’d use it in my directions for coming visitors. Telling them to pass the strip malls and keep driving until you come to the old farm house on the left. There you make the turn into my subdivision.

I’d pass by and glance at the home each day. Admiring the trees around it. Imagining the life and history that once took place in and around it. The rope swing in one of the trees. The front porch for those evenings when the family sat and watched the sun go down. The last light on in one of the upstairs bedrooms as one lay reading in bed while the rest of the family slept. I imagine the history of the place so vividly that they almost appear as ghosts to me when I pass.

One day last year, I passed the farm house to see a large gathering of people in the back. Tables of food were set up and dozens milled about talking and laughing with each other.

In fact, from that day last summer, to now... I don’t remember seeing people around that house again. Maybe I passed them by and saw them as more of those apparitions of my mind. Or maybe the house was left abandoned from that time on. I will never know now. For the house is no more.

I didn’t realize the end was so close until last week. Working day shift again, I had the opportunity to walk to the grocery store after work rather than drive to it on the way home at night.

You see much more of your surroundings when you walk. Driving by the house, it’s easy to glance at it and think nothing had changed since you first saw it five years before. Walking by last week, I saw the signs that the respirator was to be turned off. That the machines would be unplugged. And that the home would soon be dead and gone.

The large trees out front were stripped of their limbs. Only thick parts of trunks remained standing. And looking through the windows, on my way past on the road, I could see there was nothing inside.
The next day, a back hoe stood in the driveway. And the day after that, the front porch and part of one side was gone. I knew, driving past, that I wouldn’t see the house again.

And sure enough, I drove by yesterday to see a pile of rubble where a house once stood. The back hoe propped over top of the carnage like a victorious beast having fed and gorged itself.

Now I look from my window and there’s no more family on their back porch, peering back towards me and dreaming of their grove of trees at the end of their fields. I see a line of old trees that survived the assault. They frame the site as a reminder, for those who choose to look for the signs of past civilization within the place they now live.

And that day last year, when the family was all gathered for food out back, stands as the last hurrah. The celebration of a lifetime that has to move on to another chapter. The people are now scattered about, probably in more urban settings where they look out their window and wish for more rural views. And the home is gone. To be forgotten by many and never known by most.

Kids will grow up only a few tens of metres from where the place once stood. New memories will be made on this landscape. Happy ones of barbeques, meetings with friends and play in nearby parks. But those distant memories of the farm will remain subtle as ghosts on the land.

Making It Up As I Go Along #333

Sunrise as seen from my spare bedroom window.

MONDAY...
— Back to CNI to supervise for two weeks. So it’s day shift... a little rough but I get through the lack of sleep and work is alright.
— Ball is a scrape game tonight. We are rained out, without being told by the league, and yet it was fine while we were there so we played another team that showed up.

TUESDAY...
— Tired... more lack of sleep. Probably had nine hours in two nights combined.
— The Olympics brings the world together... in fakeness. It’s revealed that the little girl who sang in the opening ceremonies didn’t actually sing. The singer, the Chinese decided, wasn’t pretty enough. So they took the soundtrack for her rehearsal tape and dubbed over a cute little girl who captured the world’s heart. Quite the positive message. And looks beats substance yet again.

WEDNESDAY...
— Less tired at work but it’s a busy and hectic day back as CNI supervisor. Lots of phone calls and fires to put out. Meeting in the afternoon slows it up some.
— Last physio appointment after work. Now I’m on my own with exercising to strengthen the shoulder. Hamstring is 100% now anyway. It occasionally feels a little tight but I slipped on it in Monday’s game and it didn’t flare at all.
— Olympics are painful for Canada. I had vowed not to watch at all but I had forgotten how much I enjoy watching swimming events and rowing. So far the swimmers have just been a comedy of errors... and I’m just tired of listening to commentators build them up for a couple of days before their events...and then, when they place 11th, we get the “nothing to apologize for, they gave it their all and made a personal best.” Shut up! If they were only going for personal bests then don’t build them up as a medal threat for two days prior. If they were a medal hope, personal bests are the consolation prize of losers. Make up your mind media, what are we watching for? No more bait and switch. Mike Brown finishes 4th tonight... he at least seemed to be in the game. Most of the ones before him were off in la la land in their last race. Well at least nobody’s drowned in the pool... we’ve got that to be thankful for.

THURSDAY...
— Olympic boxing is one of the worst sports of all time. Scoring points for rinky dink taps and not giving points for power punches that appear to be obvious but are missed by judges. Makes figure skating look like a legit sport.
— Work is okay, busy and tired... yet I still stay three hours afterwards to go to AFIS for some extra time.

FRIDAY...
— Make it through the week of days... but exhausted by the end of it. I meant to do another hour or two of extra time today but, by 3:00, I just wanted to head home.
— Co-worker, Mike Smith, talks to me today about my blog... wondering if he’s mentioned in it. No mentioning of him! I won’t give him the satisfaction.
— Oh... d’oh.
— Canada’s lack of Olympic success is getting comical. Today a shot put thrower misses the bronze medal by 1 centimetre. Well at least with a guy like this, there was never any expectation that he’d win anything anyway... so this is a good story rather than a choke.

SATURDAY...
— Quiet day around the house. See that Canada finally won medals at the games. Do a walk around the pond (about 45 minutes) and watch a ball game on TV.


Lullaby Sunrise
How I know I’m a night person. It came through loud and clear this week. My first full week of day shift in a good four months.

Most people I know say it’s nice being done with work at 3:00. Then you have all evening and much of the afternoon to do with as you want. Well for me, 3:00 meant I was able to go home and crash. This week saw a return of the half hour naps.

Like a tranquilizer it is. I’d even stay clear of the sofa and sit in the chair to watch some TV. I’d feel okay and look at the clock to see it just past 4:00... and then I knew... it was coming. The sleep.

Usually, when I’m on day shift, I go unconscious at some point between 4:15 and 6:00. In that hour and forty-five minute stretch, I’m likely to be comatose for at least a third of the time. And even sitting up in that chair, my head nods to the side and I drift away.

So much of my saved part of the day only involves sleep anyway. And then there’s the nightly countdown to bedtime. By 8:00 I’m looking at the clock knowing I need to stay clear of caffeine and try to avoid sugar. I can’t start watching a movie because it’ll run in to bedtime. So by 8:00 I basically feel like my night is over anyway.

And there’s sleep countdown. This is that time that starts ticking off in the head from the point in time the light goes off to the loss of consciousness. For every fifteen minutes that go by with sleep no closer, the frustration builds. Then you start looking at the clock and thinking of the things that could have been.

11:00... I could be watching the Daily Show right now!

11:15... If I was on evening shift, I could be going to bed now... so this is like a dreaded quick change at work... and I know how tired I am when I do that!

11:30... Colbert Report.

Midnight... I could be heading out for a walk.

It goes on until I slip away... dreaming of counting down the minutes of lost sleep as that alarm clock come ever closer to making its presence known.

Have you ever done that? Dreamed about trying to get to sleep? It’s the most restless sleep you can have. Ugh.

The early morning brings one benefit with it. At least it does in the summer, when the world appears to be at least starting to get a move on at these horrible hours. That benefit is being able to witness sunrise.

Here’s the kicker though. I would go to the front bedroom window and look across at the brightening sky and it wouldn’t make me happy to be awake. It makes me want to go to bed.

I remember many a poker night that ended with sunrise. One at Dave MacDonald’s house in a summer of my teenage years. After the game came to an end, I walked the few hundred yards from his place to mine and looked at the glowing colours of day. A distant painting on the horizon that led me home. And I crawled into bed while the rest of the world got up.

Then there was games at Del’s cabin. When poker would end at 7:00 AM and I’d climb into the sleeping bag while some of the more crazed individuals would go out and check the rabbit snares. I’d be long gone to dreamland when they got back... and we’d all snooze until the early afternoon.

This is what sunrise does for me. A wonderful sight to take in before going to sleep. For me, it’s too peaceful and relaxing an event to witness... it goes all against energizing yourself for the start of the day. It’s like waking to a lullaby.

Making It Up As I Go Along #332

MONDAY...
— Holiday Monday. Largely a movie day. I watch Gone With the Wind in the morning... first time I’ve ever seen it... so long, but good. Iron Man with Karl at the Mayfair... quite good. After that, Karl goes home but I stick around for the Incredible Hulk. Good... a little below Iron Man though.

TUESDAY...
— Work is alright. Go to the mall for supper with Jon and Annick... get some Thai food there. And It’s kind of nice having Annick around to chat with... been alone for most shifts lately, so the odd time with someone else there is a welcome change.
— An abbreviated walk tonight. The feet are a little sore and the rain starts while I’m out, so diverting back to home and making it a 40 minute rather than hour and ten minute walk sounds good.

WEDNESDAY...
— Two trips to the grocery store today. One before work, at Farm Boy for some healthy snacks, and one after work, to Loeb, for some milk and cereal.
— A boring evening at work. Just me alone and my knee is killing me for half the night... I think it’s the weather.

THURSDAY...
— Heavy rain with thunder and lightning while I’m at work today.
— Clears up by the 8:00 break and Melissa, Annick and I go walking.
— Snooze for a bit after work then wake to see the Green Mile on the movie network. I’m stupid and watch it, not going to bed until after 4:00 because of it.

FRIDAY...
— Go to Play it Again Sports before work and buy some dumb bells and weights for the house.
— Work is alright, with Greek food for supper, a walk with Melissa at break, and some chatting with Annick as we work.
— Watch a little Olympic coverage... just to get the feel for it... and walk away with a lack of interest.

SATURDAY...
— Home bound day. Work out much of the day with the dumb bells. Watch a ball game on TV and do some reading as well.
— Go for a walk of the pond in the evening. Three laps take close to 45 minutes. And on lap two... I swear I see a beaver going into the woods on the far side of the pond. It was either that or a muskrat. More likely to be a muskrat but it was much bigger... beaver sized. I was within thirty feet of it but decided there was no need to follow a beaver into the trees. I’ll have to walk out there again in the coming days to see if there’s any downed trees.


Monsters of Avalon
Bodies of water bring mystic with them. Look out at the ocean and you can imagine all the creatures of the deep being separated from view by only a few waves. Giant squid, Great White Shark, Humpback Whale, Mermaid... all is possible.

Scotland has the Loch Ness Monster. This great beast dwelling in a large, inland body of water. Sightings take place every year with people trying to piece together personal accounts with grainy pictures and mutilated dead fish which wash ashore.

British Columbia has it’s own monster. Ogopogo resides in the Okanagan Lake of interior BC. Last year, while visiting Kelowna, I stood on the lakeshore and peered out... wondering if I could be made a believer with a simple blink of the eye.

And now Avalon... my subdivision within Orleans... has it’s water monster.

The lake that sits a half block from my home, and can be seen from my front windows, doesn’t appear to fall in with Loch Ness or the Okanagan. It’s a small pond really. Man made and used for drainage at times of excessive rain. Over the years, I’ve seen Lake Avalon mature from a lawn surrounded, empty body of water to a microcosm of animals. Wild flowers, trees and bushes have grown up around the pond.

Birds of all types have moved in as well. Small singing birds perched in the trees and on the waterside reeds. Ducks have taken over the water. Hanging near the shoreline during the day, and meeting out in the middle of the pond each evening, paddling around and socializing with those duck families who spend the rest of the day on the far side.

Loons appear in the late Spring while geese show up in the Fall. It’s a bird watcher’s paradise.

This year, muskrat have appeared. Hanging close to shore, diving for water insects, and bringing sticks back to unseen lodges deep within the vegetation. And fish are beginning to inhabit the pond. I saw a dead one on the path one day this summer... I assume it was plucked from the water by a gull or duck and dropped in mid flight... left to bake on the pavement.

Yesterday, I saw the monster.

Walking the pond as normal, I am enjoying a late evening time. Dimming towards dark and with only a few other people out... I plan for two laps, which will give me a good half hour walking.

On lap two, while rounding a corner, I look up ahead on the path. There I see a dark creature looking towards a stand of trees. I slow immediately, sure I’m seeing an early evening skunk and not wanting to disturb it.

But looking closer, I see it’s back, and there’s no white stripe to be seen. The creature stands on it’s hind legs, looking into the trees. It starts to waddle into the stand as I get to within thirty feet of it.

It should be a muskrat. They’re everywhere around this pond now. But it looks too big. Checking the internet afterwards, it says muskrat can get up to four pounds. I’m sure what I’m seeing is bigger than that. It looks like a fat terrier in size. Maybe some thirty pounds or so. I look up the beaver... and sure enough, the size seems more in keeping with what I saw.

But how could this be? A beaver in the pond just beyond my house? There’s no lodge, no damn, no signs of downed trees. Am I seeing a beaver on his first day in the neighbourhood? Is he just scouting the place, thinking about moving in? Avalon has been growing in leaps and bounds with houses being built all over... maybe there’ll be a new home soon built in the pond.

Or maybe this is a monster muskrat I’ve seen. Built up to super muskrat sizes on a diet of suburban runoff. Perhaps the fish and insects in this pond are bigger than I originally thought and they’ve gone to feeding this beast.

Or perhaps it really is a beaver. The symbol of Canada looking to become my neighbour.

Or it could be the Monster of Avalon. Avalon Al... and I’ve become it’s first eye witness, to be scoffed at by the serious minded... a kook who wanders late at night... looking to gain fame by concocting such far fetched tales. And championed by monster and UFO believers everywhere.

Making It Up As I Go Along #331

Hayward Ave. My old house, #44, is second from the right.

From the Signal Hill walk.

The Battery... at the far right, in the middle of the picture, you can see a person on a deck. This is the private deck that is open for the public when they leave or enter the Signal Hill trail.

MONDAY...
— Lunch at the Rooms. My first time in the monstrosity of a building. Still think it’s in a lousy place but it is a good view and a pretty cool building.
— Hike Signal Hill. Dad goes down the stairs with me. Joins me as far as the narrows. Then he heads back up the stairs while I go around and up through the battery. I am just about dead when we meet again at the interpretation centre. Most of the last 20 minutes of my hike was uphill.
— Supper is in St. Phillips. Fish and chips overlooking the sea in front of Bell Island. Paragliders, boaters, whales all make for an interesting meal.
— See Jim and family for a bit in the evening. Followed by his parents. Gets me home about an hour and a half later than I planned. Oh well.

TUESDAY...
— Busy day. Start getting ready to leave around the house. Breakfast is at Tim Horton’s with dad and Otto Tucker. A trip to see Tom and Millicent before a bit of lunch and then off to the airport.
— I watch The Bank Job on the plane... pretty good movie. And I’m lucky with my seats. To Halifax I’m in the emergency exit seat (lots of leg room). And from Halifax to Ottawa I have a pair of seats to myself.
— Sheila picks me up and I get the car from the office to go home and take it easy.

WEDNESDAY...
— Quiet around the house in the morning with some laundry.
— Work is also pretty quiet as I’m alone after 5:00 comes.
— Some thunder and lightning outside AFIS after dark.
— I watch Gone Baby Gone on the movie network. Really good movie.

THURSDAY...
— Physio before work... the shoulder is improving.
— Work is torture. That is to say, from 9:00 to 10:45, it felt like five hours went by.
— Really tired after work. My thoughts of the gym dropped to a walk at home... and that, in turn, dropped to working the hammy and shoulder and then heading to bed.

FRIDAY...
— Return beer bottles before work. It’s about time. I’ve had those things lying around the house since November. Once I get them to the car I realize that one of the boxes of ‘empties’ actually has 10 full beer in it. Not a bad find on a Friday.
— Work is alright. Pretty quiet and easy going. I’m pretty much alone for most of it.
— Hit the gym for 20 minutes after work. Do the legs and some back work.

SATURDAY...
— A work day at home. Do some exercise and also do laundry and some house cleaning.
— Watch some baseball and a movie in the evening and then the power goes out just before 11:30... through the whole neighbourhood. Avalon... the Perfectly Planned Community... except when it comes to electricity.

A long one...

St. John’s Day

This last trip home had very little to do with St. John’s for me. We spent most of the trip driving around the province, taking it all in over a short period of time... and me with a cold through a large chunk of that.

It was great, with lots to see and do. But it made me more of a tourist than a local and, as a result, there was little to no tugging at the heart strings for me. Little draw, asking me to return home permanently. That changed on my last full day in Newfoundland. It changed on Monday...

The battle is lost. After years of boycotting and speaking ill of it, I am caving in. Today I go to the Rooms.

The Rooms is a massive building that sits at the crest of the hill that holds the St. John’s downtown core. Being such a big building, and being located at the highest point of the downtown area, the Rooms sticks out on the St. John’s skyline in a manner similar to if you had plopped the CN Tower or the Empire State Building into my historical city. A skyline that went centuries virtually unchanged, changed in a big way.

I never liked the way the Rooms came to be. When it was originally slated to be built, people complained... and the city basically said “tough”. Then, on excavation of the site, they discovered the well preserved remains of an old military fort. They always knew the fort had stood on the site, they just assumed that the remains of it were pretty well destroyed. With good remains, there was talk that maybe the Rooms should be moved, that the fort could be rebuilt as a tourist destination. It could be like the one in Halifax. Something to add to the historic element of the city.

City council said, once again, “tough”. And so a building that had been billed as something St. John’s sorely needed... a place to house an art gallery, museum, and historic archives... trumped actual history... the old fort was covered once again.

For years after that, I’ve spoken down about the Rooms. My interest in going was pretty much nill. But today I go... for lunch.

The Rooms is actually located about a ten minute walk from where I last lived in St. John’s. So I suggested parking the car in my old neighbourhood and strolling over to lunch. Mom, being as close to royalty that our family has, looked down upon the idea of a pre lunch walk, and offered to drop me off. Dad, being one to always show that he’s still got it, decided the walk sounded good.

So we pull onto Hayward Avenue and stop by the old basketball court there. Dad and I get out and mom drives away. It’s like some sort of drop off in the mafia movies. Where the mob boss has a frank talk to a couple of the lowly guys and then just pulls over where ever the car may be, and tosses them to the curb. The car peels away and the lowly guys are left in an almost alien neighbourhood... vulnerable and alone.

After the first few steps, the feeling changes from abandonment to returning home. The neighbourhood hasn’t changed much in the last five years. And the pangs of missing something, which I never felt back in my childhood home of Wedgewood Park, come in waves.

The narrow street, the packed in row houses, the sound of a city buzzing around us... I walk along wondering how it would be to live here again, and how it would be had I never left.

I look at my old house. Little has changed. A mailbox that used to be between the outer storm door and inner door has been moved fully outside. And everything else is pretty much as I left it. Even the number 44 that dad and I bought at Canadian Tire and screwed on next to the door remains. Not that one should be surprised that an address number remains standing after five years. I mean my parent’s number 53 has been on their house for some thirty years and there’s no fanfare for that. And Stonehenge has stood for millennia and... well... okay, bad example. That one is considered one of the Seven Wonders. But the point is, even though I knew that the numbers bought at Canadian Tire and screwed on by my dad and I some five years ago would still be there... it still struck me to see them there.

We continue our walk to the Rooms. Cutting through the streets of my neighbourhood. Reminding me how it is still as it was when I would go walking late at night in the quiet. Or during the day to go shop for CDs downtown. I look down a street and see an elderly man come to his front door shirtless. He just goes to get his mail and he’s hardly the kind of body type that should be seen in public without a shirt... but in this neighbourhood, it just feels genuine.

We cut through a pathway that’s a shortcut off the streets. Downtown St. John’s is full of such paths. Places where the driver here from the suburbs never knows of. Only a pedestrian comes across them. We get a view of the back yards of a dozen of the homes most only ever see from the front. Garden paths and maintained greenery... even dad comments how he’d never guess it to be here.

We finally reach the Rooms. And aside from the bulling that went on in its construction. And how it sticks out like a sore thumb compared to the rest of the city, it’s a pretty cool building. Unique architecture can’t be totally bad. I mean we live in a world now where cities are becoming more and more cookie cutter models, each like the one before. Box stores galore.

The Rooms can never be confused with a box store.

Inside, there’s an openness with zig zagging stairs getting you up the levels. From the fourth story, you can look down to the main foyer. And the view from the restaurant is spectacular. St. John’s truly is a beautiful city.

Sitting in the Rooms restaurant, looking out at the harbour, my afternoon plans are made for me by the power of the view. The sun glistens off of Signal Hill making it more glamorous than any spotlighted Las Vegas Casino or hotel. You don’t need neon signs to draw people... just let it sit there majestically in the summer’s sun.

Dad decides to join me. So a quick trip home for some water and sweets for him, and a change of shirt for me, and we’re on our way.

From the parking lot, it’s a quick hop over the stone wall and you clamber down the dirt paths to the steps. Within seconds, you’re gone. Beyond the cars and photographing tourists. You twist and turn down wooden steps and along craggily rock faces. Where old time British soldiers once patrolled. You look out to sea, seeing the familiar Cape Spear off in the distance. It’s more brilliant today than I’ve ever seen it before. You can even see the line that is the white picket fence that leads to the old, historic lighthouse.

You look into the valley at the base of Signal Hill. Where, in the 1800s, a quarantine hospital once stood. You imagine the soldiers carrying stretchers of the sick through the Battery and over the narrow paths of the hill... one false step and stretcher, the sick, and soldiers could all fall tumbling down the cliff face and into the ocean.

Dad and I stay at the base of the hill for a while. Watching a ship come in and just allowing the place to be... and us to be with it. And then we part. Dad to return up the stairs to get to the car again and drive part way down to the interpretation centre... where I’ll meet him after completing the circle of the hill.

I walk along the Narrows. Where a path only wide enough for one has been all these decades. Where chain link is bolted to the cliff face in order to keep people from slipping off into oblivion.

There’s no place in Ottawa that captures the history of nature and people together like Signal Hill does. Maybe it was walking these trails as a child that peaked my interest in historical and cultural geography in the first place. After all, that’s the study of how people and the environment impact each other. And Signal hill combines the natural environment with the human element more perfectly than any place I know. I mean really, name me another place that is so popular with the general public yet still is wild enough that there are no fences keeping you out of any particular place and the only thing there to protect you from slipping and falling a hundred feet down a rock face is a chain railing that’s bolted straight into that very rock face!

And you exit the paths onto a private patio deck. Really it’s true. You finish the walk around the hill. You leave nature behind and enter the urban. You get into the Battery (which is the name of the small community at the base of Signal Hill) and have to walk across someone’s deck. It’s part of the deal. You even have signs there to tell the tourist that it’s okay, come on... you didn’t take any wrong turn.

Sometimes the home owners are out there on the deck, lounging in the sun. And they’ll give you a hello and a smile when you pass by.

Through the Battery, I decide to turn back up the hill to take the paths up to Deadman’s Pond rather than walk the street to the Battery Hotel where I can continue to follow the road up to dad at the interpretation centre. Taking the paths means I am cutting distance but increasing vertical challenges. And by the time I reach Deadman’s Pond, I’m sweating and huffing like a marathon runner. Well... more accurately, I’m sweating and huffing like a couch potato who’s been thrown into a marathon and told, “here... run it!”

It’s at Deadman’s Pond where I make another decision. I can round the pond and head to the roadway that will lead me gently to the interpretation centre... or I can scale a large, rocky hill to do the same.

Visions of grandeur develop. I picture cresting the hill and looking down upon the interpretation centre thinking that it’ll be a spectacular view. And I’ll be there at the top, silhouetted against the sun as the conquering hero returning from battle. Trumpets will announce my achievement and I will amble down the hill, returning the civilization... a hero.

That’s what got me up the hill. Halfway up the rock face, where I have to use hands as much as feet, or else risk toppling back...and no chain link is bolted anywhere for my safety, I begin having other visions.

I picture my body being found several hours later, all crumpled in a heap at the base of this hill right next to the pond named Deadman’s. And people will wonder what happened. They’ll say how I’d been on this hike hundreds of times and was always so careful that I could never come into harm here. My niece’s children will try to research the pond, wondering if it was indeed named after me... as in it is I who is the dead man.

I continue up the hill, not thinking of the trumpets but thinking I can’t look so stupid as to die here. At the crest of the hill... at the lowest portion of the crest... nowhere near any peak with no silhouetting of any kind going on... I stop. I stop and sit for a rest. Breathing hard with slight dizziness between my ears and wobbliness within my legs, I rest for a full five minutes. Dad can wait a little longer.

And so I continue, down the other side of the hill and beholding the grassy meadow bordering the interpretation centre. I fail to see dad’s car and, for a minute, fear that my journey is not complete... that I’ll have to continue on up to the top of Signal Hill once again... but when I round a corner, I see the car, and dad pulls out to meet me partway in the lot. I open the door, grab my spare shirt, and pant “give me a minute.” as I strip off, leaving my chest as white and bare as that old man I saw some two or three hours earlier, as he was getting his mail.

This is my last full day in St. John’s. And St. John’s has never been so alluring... so beautiful... so home.