Lakehouse Diaries

      The following ramblings are about a real life adventure. I thought it was time to immortalize the story in printed format before a) I get too old to remember b) life goes on for everybody and history is forgotten. This is a true story with some details and names changed to avoid offending anyone. Only those who are intimate with the story will know who the characters are and I do not doubt that perhaps some might be offended. Let it be known that this is the story according to my own personal memories and recollections. Included is "my take on things", realizing that many events are open to interpretation and seen through different eyes, experiences, biases, and general views on life. 

     Let's start at the beginning when Greg and Ethel were approaching possible early retirement after starting and growing a successful business. They heard about some property in the interior of British Columbia, that was on a lake, had a warm dry climate, and was just south of the US/Canada border. Some friends had already purchased in the area and were very encouraging. 

     The idea appealed to Greg and Ethel because in their early married life, they were pioneers in a South American Country and if they bought this piece of barren desert it would be like reliving those early years, except this time they would have the resources to do it properly. It was 1979, the Canadian $$ was just above par, and it was very easy to cross the border in either direction. The children were more or less all grown up and could not only fend for themselves when alone, but could even help with the ambitious project taking place in Greg and Ethel's minds. 

     The realtors were approached, a price ($40,000.00)was agreed upon, and they were soon the proud owners of 3/4 of an acre, right on the lake, but with a whole lot of nothing else, unless sage brush, cactus, and rattle snakes count for something. 

     Their eldest daughter was married with two small children and they were one of the first to visit the 'new property'. Greg and Ethel were staying in a camper van while scouting out the property, drawing lines, measuring, and planning where the house would be, etc. Ethel seemed to only care about where the garden would be, but played an active roll in all plans. The daughter Em and her husband Tod, were a bit shocked at first. They did not have the vision or desire for anything like what they were seeing and were skeptical to say the least. Tod particularly, saw nothing but back-breaking work in the heat and dust, not having a creative bent, but more appreciating that which had already been built or developed. But then, he and his father-in-law were so very different in so many ways. Soon the work would begin in earnest and Tod was content to know that he had his own business to run back home and this would be a project that he would observe from a distance. That was true, to a point. 

From Crows to Meadowlarks

     With a final grunting thrust, the pole pushed up through the bottom. The debris rained down as we jumped back, not wanting our hair and shirts to be filled with twigs, leaves, dust, and debris, but mostly, not with the ugly little bodies of the newly hatched crows. This was not easy work, but was great entertainment for a Saturday afternoon. The low bush of the Saskatchewan prairie made sure the nests of the hated birds were not so high that we could not reach them with a downed sapling. There was a bounty on crows and that was all the justification we needed.

     We sifted through the underbrush and the remains of the nest to find the young while the frantic parents were screeching at us from the tree tops. Not hatched more than a day or two before, they were ugly pink/blue creatures, with bulging eyes, not yet open, and only hair where there should have been a covering of black feathers. Grabbed by their tiny feet, we collected them and wondered how we would kill them. Killing nature was natural in those days. Killing for killing’s sake. The bounty on a set of crow’s feet was secondary. It hardened us, made us man/boys, tough, and a force to be reckoned with. They call it macho.
    
     We were near an abandoned farm house, a skeleton from days of old, the chimney having fallen in a heap near the back door. The bricks would do just fine, as we placed each hatchling on a brick and smashed another brick onto it. “Crow Sandwich” we chortled.
    
     Hayward’s pasture was perfect. The cattle had cropped the grass short enough and there was a ready source of water in the middle of it. But the best thing was the proliferation of gophers. There were holes everywhere and movement around them was abundant. Armed with pails, clubs, and .22’s, we marched onto the killing field. Where a hapless creature would dart down his hole, a full pail of water followed and the back entrance, a few feet away, would soon produce a slick, wet gopher, looking for dry safety. We would be ready, and soon, another tail was in the collection sack. I remember being relieved that although they were cute dry, they were ugly wet, like small rats, and that was justification enough. The bounty was secondary.

     There was a slough behind my friend Vern’s house. With spring run-off waters to sustain them, it was home to toads, frogs, lizards, salamanders, newts, and other horrible amphibians that were loathed by all and most likely transmitted warts. It seemed incumbent upon us, as young boys, to rid the slough of these creatures. Vern was particularly adept when it came to capturing these crawling creatures.
    
     It was a hot early summer evening when I was wandering down the alley behind Vern’s house when the flames caught my attention. The fire was built in the middle of the lane between two rows of poplars, where his dirty deeds would be hidden from the eyes of civilized folks. It was a small fire, maybe a foot across at the base. “Watch this” he called out when he saw me coming. Vern had an evil streak in him, regardless of, or maybe because of, his strict upbringing. He had cooked up a successful scheme to steal chocolate chips from my dad’s grocery store, and did it right under my eyes. I had witnessed him doing several unmentionable things in the few years I had known him, and so the “Watch this” should have been a clear warning for me to walk away. I didn’t. As I approached his back, which was turned to me and hunched over, I thought he was having a wiener roast in the lane, but it did not look like a wiener, that thing on the stick. As I got nearer, I saw with great clarity that the ‘thing’ was a live salamander writhing and twisting in agony as it was being roasted alive. The silent scream of that creature has haunted me since. I pushed Vern away from the fire and yelled at him that what he was doing was cruel and God was going “get him”.
     Moments from having uttered those words, one of those freak prairie storms roiled in from the west. The lightening flashed and thunder rolled across the slough. Without warning, the flames, sparks, and burning brands of the sacrificial fire were swirling in the air and down the lane as wind that came out of nowhere, gusted and eddied. It was too late for the dead salamander, but as for me, I ran home as fast as my legs would carry me. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw the silhouette of Vern against the dying light of the day, shoulders shaking, whether from crying or laughing I do not know.

     Lying prone in the bush, only a few feet away from an established rabbit trail, sprinkled with fresh droppings, I wait. Had I not read books about snipers and deer hunters, I would not have realised that patience was the key to success. My Cooey .22 was loaded with a single shot ‘long’, the bolt pulled back, and my finger was tickling the trigger. There it was, that slight movement in the grass, and then the rabbit was in plain view. Had I been farther away I would just shot for a ‘hit’, but I was close enough to target the heart. I did, and I was surprised at the way the animal leapt straight up in the air and fell back down, lifeless. I was at once exhilarated and sorrowful. I cut the feet off and left the carcass. It would have been nice to have my buddies there to cheer me on with a slap on the back or a called out “Good shot”. Clutching the rifle and my rabbit’s feet on the way home, I felt a change coming over me.

     It was one of those warm bright summer days, where the blue in the sky would almost hurt your eyes, had it not been for the isolated cumulous clouds, brilliant white in their upward billowing. The word was out that there was a Wood Duck’s nest near the little grove of Willow trees on the corner where the road to Gunther’s farm turns off the highway. The Mallards of the lakes and sloughs were familiar to us but a Wood Duck? Now that is worth an adventure. To what end, I did not know. We slowly approached the Willows, watching carefully to see where the duck would be flushed. It would be the key to finding the nest.

     On a weathered and split fencepost nearby, there sat a Meadowlark. His melody had always been my favourite, and I could not help but stop and listen. A low wind was pushing the grass to the earth in waves, making a hissing sound. The notes of the bird came in waves as the heat and the wind distorted a clear hearing of it. My friends were ahead of me, and I was glad for it, as a sudden flutter in the grass drew my attention and there was the mate of the singing bird, floundering in the high grass, making distressing calls, and convincing me that her wing was broken. Naturally, I began to follow, hoping I could capture one of these beautiful birds. She led me away. Away from where? It suddenly dawned on me that I was being suckered and at that point I tried to recollect where I had first seen her fluttering deceit. It was near the cluster of Brown eyed Susans, I was sure of it. I walked, carefully, in that direction, and by the hysterics of both Meadow Larks now, I knew I was on the right path. And then I found it. The ingenious structure of the nest, the way the grass was pulled over in a teepee like manner, the camouflage of it, the deception of the mother, the clutch of tiny speckled eggs, the blue sky, the soft wind, the cotton clouds, everything, hit me hard.

     Having failed in the search for the Wood Ducks, my friends wandered to my place of reverence and soon discovered what I was marvelling at. I defended that nest despite protestations. I loved Meadowlarks from that moment on and if I defended the nest, there would be more Meadow Larks, and that would be an excellent thing, an enduring goodness.

     I have since thought often of how that incident changed the mindset of a prairie boy raised in a culture of exploitation and destruction of so many beautiful things. It changed my perspective, in a lasting way. The appreciation of beauty in nature requires only a moment of sincere and maybe intense observation, and a thinking and enquiring mind.

1500 Posts

A Mexican beach villa.

I was once asked what my hobbies were and in my list, I included writing. The response was "Are you a published writer?" I was not sure how to answer. I have many letters published in periodicals and newspapers and on many websites, but am not sure if that counts. Since I started this blog, most of my writing has ended up here. Just before we left for our little vacation, I 'published' my 1500th post. That is a lot of writing and a lot of photography! If sheer volume is a qualifier, I am a published writer.

The writing I do apart from my blog may or may not ever get published, but sits in my computer files waiting for further instruction. There are memoirs, journals, and a book of legacy for my grandsons that is already in book form. I am also working on a manual for a consulting business idea I have been toying with. If you have been reading my 'stuff' for a while, you know I am also a numbers guy with a keen interest in the economy and investments, but my first love is words.  

Mysterious?

I am not one for making New Year's resolutions. They are difficult to keep and gives one permission to avoid resolutions the rest of the year. "I resolve to do" should be an on going process throughout the year. I do make goals and plans, but always keeping in mind that we know not what the future holds and our plans and schemes can be dashed in an instant.

What we can do quite safely is to assess the year that has just passed. It is history, it was played out, and it will never change, therefore, let us learn from it. Those things or ideas that worked should be repeated and those mistakes we made are not so bad, in retrospect, but are lessons on what not to do again.

Looking back, I can say that I have neither great successes, nor do I have great failures to ponder. In many ways, 2011 was a status quo year. However, there were some issues that will have to be resolved this year. There always are. I am optimistic about the future more than I am pessimistic. There is reason for both takes. If I were to make a resolution, it would be to go into these unresolved situations with confidence and preparation. I must be less passionate and more understanding of both sides of an issue, something that has always been a challenge for me.

I like to keep my posts as brief as possible so just before I hit the "Publish" button, I re-read what I have just written. After having done that, what this post sounds like to me is an elongated Chinese Fortune Cookie. Long on vagueness and completely open to interpretation. I guess I am also trying to be more mysterious this year.  Like how does the moon get to that position behind Mt. Baker at this time of the year?   

Doing the Andy Rooney Thing

I always enjoyed Andy Rooney's commentary at the end of the"60 Minutes" show. I do not watch TV much so I do not know if he is still doing his thing or if he has retired. I know he is very old. He would take some ordinary objects and make an editorial out of talking about them, like the old jackets hanging in his closet and why he cannot throw them out even though he never wears them. Great stuff.
Here is my Andy Rooney thing:
Every man needs an office, and every man needs a big desk in that office. I have both, and as I look at my desk, I realise why I need a big one. It is full of stuff, at least that is what my wife calls it. She would like to clean it up, but I keep pointing to the sticker on the side of my filing cabinet that says "Please no try straighten out da mess around here ... you goin' jam up my system." I picked it up in Hawaii many years ago, hence the cute accent. (Not the filing cabinet, the sticker)
A lot of my stuff is electronic, like the digital clock just off to my left. It is not flashing the time right now because the button battery is dead and those are hard to find. And that would explain why I have another battery operated clock right beside it. I always know the time because I will always have one battery or the other as a backup. Actually, the time is in the right hand corner of my computer monitor screen so I could get rid of the two clocks.
Then there is the calculator. It is an Italian model and you have to do funny things to make it add and subtract properly. It comes with a thermal printer but I discovered that thermal tape in rolls is cheaper by the big box, but it also loses its thermal sensitivity after a year or two, so I do not have my calculations printed out at all. Come to think of it, I have a calculator on my computer so I don't really need that old thing. There is a desk lamp with a halogen bulb in it that gets so hot I can actually fry eggs on it if I get to my office before breakfast. I rarely turn it on as the three track light halogens above my desk, mounted on the ceiling, give enough light, and heat.
There are three photos, two of them framed, of my grandsons. The problem with these is that they do not look like my grandsons because my grandsons are growing so fast that no matter how quickly I change the photos, they are out of date, sometimes in a matter of minutes. Right in front of me sits my Franklin electronic dictionary. I am a terrible speller and when there is not a spell check function on what I am typing on the computer, such as blog comments, I am using the dictionary. The problem with this one is that it has a very limited vocabulary. I should get a more modern one. There is a cable modem, a router, a monitor, a PC tower, two small tower speakers (with a bass woofer on the floor getting kicked around a lot) and a printer. These are the heartbeat of my "office". Oh, did I forget the keyboard, the one with the 'c' completely rubbed off? Now why would that be? Is the letter 'c' the most commonly typed key, or do my fingernails need clipping? Oh dear. How could I forget the mouse? The one with the colour rubbed right off of the left click button. Fingernails again?
My monitor sits on a small stack of old magazines to bring it up to my eye level. It is unsightly, and I am sure they have a solution for this at Staple's, but this works. I do not know what these old magazines are back copies of because I do not want to disturb the neat round ring of dust under the monitor base.
Just as important as all this electronic stuff, is the paperwork. It seems everything is a 'work in progress'. I cannot file it away until the file is up dated or whatever. Besides, my filing cabinet is full. Just for starters, there are unpaid but not overdue bills, business cards, 'to do' lists, an empty Tim Hortons' card, a package of photo print paper, a small desk calendar (so I can verify the wall calendar), sticky notes to remind me of chiropractic and dental appointments, spare printer paper, a very ratty desk pad, a four stack vertical filing system with innumerable important paper in it, a hockey schedule, my bible, my 'jobs' list, a stack of CD's I intend to listen to in the next few years, a box containing a video editing software program that I never could get to work, and a couple of sticky furry things to prevent my new doors from letting in a draft at the bottom where the door sweep does not quit reach far enough.
In all honesty, I have not revealed all, but now you understand why my wife would like to clean up. After re-reading this piece, (for spelling and grammatical errors) I realise that maybe I should allow her to do just that.

Where is Waldo?

Waldo is not in this photo. Don't waste your time trying to prove me wrong. It just looks like one of those "Where's Waldo" photos.
I appreciate your comments and emails regarding my stories. I have posted 15 of them since I have started my blog almost a year ago now. If you are interested in reading any you missed, here is a recap. There are stories of both my childhood and later of my experiences in my business.

"The Four Ghosts" was the story I posted that got the most comments. It is not about ghosts, really, but is a human interest story. Like all my writings, it is 100% accurate and true. It can be found in the May archives here. http://terryography.blogspot.com/2008/05/phone-rings-and-sweet-voice-tells-me-i.html


Here is a story about a Red Cross Blood donation that went bad. Really bad. This was not childhood nor work related but my story nonetheless. http://terryography.blogspot.com/search?q=blood+donor



Every little boy's nightmare, learning to square dance in school. But who knew it would turn out this way? http://terryography.blogspot.com/search?q=square+dancing



A few encounters with death in my line of work. Fortunately not my own. http://terryography.blogspot.com/search?q=near+death



This was somewhat work related, but a funny experience I had with an 'old school' home remedy practitioner. http://terryography.blogspot.com/search?q=reflexology

Adventures of school life in a Saskatchewan small town.
http://terryography.blogspot.com/search?q=Funk+twins

Mishaps and accidents on the job. None fatal, thankfully. http://terryography.blogspot.com/search?q=Give+me+a+break

All about the weather, as a young boy recalls it, in Saskatchewan. Adventures and descriptions.
http://terryography.blogspot.com/search?q=collect+hailstones

One of my more unforgettable customers, Mrs. Bergen, gave me many memories and lots to write about. http://terryography.blogspot.com/search?q=Mrs.+Bergen

One of my favourites, this is a story of little boys getting into and out of trouble. http://terryography.blogspot.com/search?q=1950%27s+style

This is one of the first stories I ever wrote. I can't remember why I chose to put this particular
incident to paper, but it became the first of many. http://terryography.blogspot.com/search?q=painted+animals

I should have launched a career as a private detective after my experiences here. http://terryography.blogspot.com/search?q=shop+lifting

My Grade one and two teacher, unforgettable. http://terryography.blogspot.com/search?q=Belle+shakeups

Another of my favourites is this story of lies and deceit all precipitated by piano lessons. I should have stuck to hockey!
http://terryography.blogspot.com/search?q=piano+lessons

Why I Write

My blog has been up and running for almost one month now. I have been greatly encouraged by the many visitors, repeat visitors, and the many comments both on and off the blog. It is encouraging and fulfills the reason I write and take photos.
I have been keeping a written record of many of the events and observations I have made in my life, for some time now, and there is a reason.
I have been to many funerals in my life and it always strikes me how an entire life can be summarized in a eulogy, a tribute, or an obituary. Well, of course it can't! But what happens to all of the deceased experiences, memories, and lessons of life? Unless a diary has been kept or a biography or autobiography has been written, that person's entire life experience will be lost to all who follow. Only those very close will have memories that will live beyond a few years.
I think this is a waste. When you look back at your life, what did it take to survive and achieve longevity? Many of the ingredients to your life will be unknown to all but yourself. Is there value in a life that is all but forgotten a few days after the funeral?
I believe that everybody has value and even a life that appears mundane on the surface, is interwoven with complexities. It is difficult for most of us to share deeply with another person, so what really makes us tick is often never understood by others.
I started writing the stories for my grandsons and my two children, as a remembrance and a legacy so they could better understand themselves by having some insight to their paternal gene pool. As I continued, I found other values in writing and other reasons for doing it. It became a creative outlet and an opportunity to organize my thoughts.
I always wondered why I took typing in Grades 10 and 11 in high school. The answer became clear when I purchased my first computer in 1996. The writing was no longer an arduous task and the editing and spell checks turned it into a pleasure.
I have tried to write fiction, but always draw a blank as I have a limited imagination. At best, I might embellish one of my stories, but only very little as then I wander into fiction and the story breaks down.
Thank you again to those who read the stories and enjoy the pictures enough to come back. There is much more to come. You are so fortunate that you are not obligated to me in any way so I will never really know who you all are or are not. I am OK with that.