How does the rain affect you?
It seems to make me do right-about turns!
When the rain lets up, I no sooner get out the door to have a look around, when I do an about-turn and head right back in for the camera! The Sir Wilfrid Laurier climber by our side door becomes lovelier each day!
Generally, how do you describe sparrows? Aggressive? Cheeky? Brazen? Birds of action?
Surprisingly, they behave entirely out of character when their young are involved. Whenever we sat on the lawn swing, some 20 feet away from the birdhouse, Mother Sparrow regarded us as the most suspicious of characters! She did not want us to see her going to the birdhouse. No way. She would alight on the wooden fence, ever keeping a beady eye on us, and hop her way along the top rail by fits and starts, pausing innumerable times . . . before she flew to the dwelling place of her young.
We were worn us out just watching Mother Sparrow constantly flying off to fetch more bugs for them. How weary her faithful brown wings must have become. Father Sparrow never showed up once to bring in the groceries!
By the way, have you seen my painting titled “Brown Wings”?
The upper garden shed is the dwelling place of the lawn mower, the snow blower, rakes and shovels, flower pots, you name it. It is getting a makeover this spring, which started by replacing the floor. Today Lloyd waterproofed its tired roof with a liberal coating of thick tar. The threatened rain held off, and the temperatures were cool and comfortable for the messy work.
Yesterday, we caught Rabbit No. 5. I’ll not include its photo, as you’re probably sick and tired of looking at brown rabbits – but I declare, a brown rabbit in a cage is a BEAUTIFUL sight!
From what distance can a rabbit smell a piece of apple?
Rabbit No. 4 is now numbered among the misplaced ‘persons’ who, at this very moment, is sniffing about in a far away woods, choosing where to dig his burrow.
Last fall, I planted several clumps of red tulips with seven bulbs in each, thinking they would make a dazzling splash of colour this spring. However, the squirrels had their own opinion on how landscaping should be done around here, leaving my ‘clumps’ with only one or two tulips in them. However, just over the fence in the woods, they planted a clump of five. How beautiful the clump of five fiery blooms was – emphasis on was. When I went out to photograph the misplaced ‘persons’ this morning, they were gone. Someone had cut every single stem!
I should stick to daffodils, as the squirrels abhor them, and wouldn’t think of transplanting any of them anywhere . . . even if you offered them a whole tree full of acorns!
Yesterday was a killer! Our son, John, came over on his day off and helped lug flooring materials, sacks of gravel, cement blocks and bricks up the knoll in the back yard to replace the rotted floor in the aging garden shed. More soil had to be dug out, and a large tree root removed before the 2×6’s and 2×4’s could be secured in place.
By seven at night, they were ready to nail down the first section of pressure treated plywood.
I had prepared one of John’s favourite meals, spareribs, which simmered all afternoon. Our repast rejuvenated us somewhat.
Waking up this morning, our weary backs and joints made us feel as old as Methuselah!
All that subsided somewhat when I pulled open the living room drapes! There by the hedge, the cage door was down, and Rabbit No. 3 was inside!
It’s surprising how success or good news can perk one up!
Lloyd covered the cage with a blanket so the rabbit would settle down and nap while we had breakfast. When Rabbit No. 3 was released in the countryside at the same spot as the previous two, he bounded straight up the wooded hill.
“Where’s that apple? Maybe we’ll catch another one tonight!”
While we were out running errands last week, Lloyd said, “Why don’t we just slip around and look at a Smart car?”
My head swivelled like an owl’s. I stared straight at him, detecting a suspicious bit of a grin. “We’re just going to look, aren’t we?”
We drove across town to the Mercedes-Benz dealership which has a Smart car division, and took their all-electric model out for a test drive. It had a generous government rebate hanging over it like a carrot! The final price was too high for our budget, and the pre-charge mileage was too low.
Not deterred, Lloyd suggested we take a look at their gasoline-powered Smart car, which was much less expensive. They just happened to have the exact colour we wanted, and because it was a 2013 demo, they offered a generous discount. It can go 600 km on a full tank. We took it for a test-drive, and as you can see by the picture, it passed with flying colours! Believe it or not, we purchased it at 0% interest!
It seems that no one can approach to look at our little ‘ladybug’ without grinning from ear to ear. However, when you sit inside, it feels like a big car. There is ample space behind the seats to fit in a picnic cooler with wheels, two lawn chairs and more!
Best of all, seniors, the floor is high, and to exit, you just put your feet out and stand up ; no prying yourself out like we had to do with the Grand Am. The model? “Fortwo Pure Coupe.”
Now, tell me, can you look at this car without smiling?
On opening the living room drapes this morning, I was aghast to see a peeping Tom sitting by the sidewalk, staring right at me, not five feet away. He didn’t blink or flinch, and made no attempt to run.
What’s more, as I looked at the cage by the hedge, I could see that the door to the cage was down. That meant there should have been an animal inside, hopefully, a rabbit. There wasn’t! How did the critter remove the apple without getting caught?
What was this brazen rabbit trying to communicate as he gaped straight at me? Was it something like, “See. I got your apple, and I didn’t get caught! Now what are you going to do about it?”
What an insolent wretch! No doubt he brought his siblings over last night, told the strongest one to hold the door up with his paw, while he scooted in and seized the prized apple.
I can just see him as he plopped down
and ate the WHOLE thing
without sharing as much as
one teensy little brown seed.
Rejoice! The apple bait worked once again! We hauled Rabbit No. 2 out to the countryside after breakfast. This time, we carried the cage to the opposite side of the busy road before releasing her. When Lloyd opened the door and tipped the cage up a little, instead of bounding out and up the wooded hill, the rabbit ran along on the inside edge of the woods.
Maybe her Romeo has a new burrow dug by now, and will have the Welcome sign hung out.
Believe it or not, before she was caught, she chewed off a small clump of chives at the edge of our sidewalk garden!! Is the idea of a rabbit’s menu just something green?? I would have thought she would turn her nose up at the onion-garlic taste of chives! Maybe I should set out a hot pepper plant and see how that suits such wild taste buds.
We’ll bait the cage again in case more of her ilk come prowling and chomping about.
For the second spring in a row, crocuses, grape hyacinths, tulips, you name it, have been chomped off in our flowerbeds, robbing us of the long-awaited splash of brilliant colour. As if that wasn’t bad enough, sprouting bean plants and flowers continued to be chewed off down to the ground all summer long. Now I know why Mr. McGregor in Beatrix Potter’s tales got SO ANGRY at Peter Rabbit!!
Last year, I tried a water gun (not powerful enough). I tried hurling stones (but couldn’t shoot half straight). We tried a cage, following someone’s suggestion that a piece of broccoli inside would do the trick. No way.
This week we hauled a larger cage out of the shed, pushed the back of it under the cedar hedge as far as possible, and baited it with a fresh piece of apple. Bingo!
After breakfast, we couriered the critter out to the countryside. When my husband opened the cage door beside a ditch at the edge of a woods, the rabbit didn’t head for the ditch (as all of our previously released animals have), but scooted around the front of the car, crossing the road in front of fast-moving traffic. He had been faster . . . because we saw the white puff of his tail ping-ponging up the slope of the woods on the opposite side of the road.
We reset the cage when we got home to try and catch his mate. May they soon be reunited!
Maybe grape hyacinths will bloom around here after all . . . instead of becoming some wretched rabbit’s salad!
And that is your excerpt for the day from the edge of the big woods.
Left Pine pointed out where he thought my John Henry should go, and I discreetly followed his advice. And now it is with mixed emotions that I clean up my paint brushes and bid this canvas adieu.
Perhaps you, too, have become attached to Noble Pine, to Left Pine, or to the prim and proper Ms. Aspen and her two cousins, to the towering Guardian of the Path, to the dear Old Sentinel, and, last but not least, to the fragrant bake apple blossoms cheering all who walk this path.
Perhaps in your fancy you, too, have sat for a spell on the big rock and enjoyed the vista of Norris Point, and longed for its unhurried pace.
Do let me know if you have enjoyed joining me on this creative ‘jog’ in the exceptionally beautiful province of Newfoundland. (By the way, The Old Sentinel painting will be offered on eBay shortly, and prints will soon be available on our website.)
The Noble Pine dropped a cone almost on top of my palette.
“What’s all this about?” I cried in surprise.
“Just my way of saying ‘Way to go, Ms.! I sure like the reflections and the glitter of the sunlight on the water. Why, I feel ten years younger just looking at them!’”
“Thank you, Noble Pine. You’re a pal.”
The Guardian of the Path had a question.
“Now, what about the pretty bake apples across from me? What I want to know is, Did you ever find out if they have any fragrance?”
“Oh, I’ve got good news! Good news!” I replied. “A friend of mine, who was born in Newfoundland, put my question on her Facebook page. This is the gist of the answers that came in:
“The fact is that it has its own taste and scent that is like no other.
It smells like the BEST thing EVER!”
“Now, don’t that beat all?” declared the Guardian of the Path. “Don’t that beat all!”
“I could have told you that,” said The Old Sentinel with a sniff.
“Then why didn’t you?” chorused all the trees, as they turned on him indignantly.
“I should have spoken up. I’m right sorry, ma’am. I really am. As you know, I’ve watched the bake apples blossom every spring for over 200 years. And the ladies who picked them didn’t put every berry in their basket, you know. I heard them exclaim more than once:
They are tart like a raspberry, but taste more like a . . . . .
dried apricot in berry form
kinda
sorta
but not really.
The trees looked a bit puzzled, and you could almost see them moving their tongues around, trying to figure out just how a bake apple berry tasted.
Changing the subject, Left Pine had a question.
“When are you going to put your John Henry on the painting?”
“Now, don’t get your shirt in a knot,” I said with a chuckle. “That might be next week. Right now I’m bogged down with paperwork, trying to fill out our income tax papers. What a pain. I actually have a bit more touch-up to do on the painting, but, hopefully, you’ll see my John Henry next week. Be thinking about where I should put it, will you?”
“Indeed I shall,” Left Pine said, pleased to be assigned a little task. He wafted some pine scent my way with the gentlest motion of an arm.
The Old Sentinel had seen many changes in his day, but when he heard our webmaster suggest that I name the painting The Old Sentinel, his joy knew no bounds.
“Well, now,” he said in his deep, raspy voice, “I’ve been watching you pretty closely as you’ve mixed paints and changed this and changed that. I could tell you loved to sit on the rock now and then and view pretty Norris Point. For a while, I was sure you would title this Norris Point Overlook.
Then I watched you bring the bake apple blossoms to life. I knew you loved them, and that you were trying to find out if they had a fragrance of their own.
Right from the beginning, I understood that the old pines and aspens meant a lot to you, too.
I overheard you say that you still have some touching up to do on the painting as a whole, but that you had settled on its title. I don’t rightly know how to say this, Ms.,” stammered The Old Sentinel, as a tear or two fell onto the tiny vines in his ‘pouch,’ “but, well, calling your painting The Old Sentinel is, well, oh my, I just can’t express my joy!!”
“Why, I do declare!” cried the old sentinel, as he surveyed with admiration the patch of bake apple blossoms (or cloud apples) that burst into bloom right across from him.
“They may be short-stemmed beauties now, but once their stamens turn into bumpy, orange berries, the bed and breakfast hostesses will be trotting down this path to pick them!”
The Guardian of the Path spoke up. “They take such pride in serving their guests bake apple jam for their homemade breads and waffles. To hear them talk, you would think this was the only place on the face of the earth where they grow.”
“Oh, I know,” said Ms. Aspen. “We wouldn’t want to deflate those good ladies for all the tea in China, but the truth is, bake apples grow in England, Scotland, the Nordic countries, Europe, southeast Asia, northern Russia, parts of Germany, Alaska, northern Minnesota, New Hampshire and Maine.” She was almost out of breath, rhyming off the names of all the countries where bake apples are found.
“Our B&B hostesses have every right to be proud of the bake apples. I’ll vouch for that,” said the old sentinel. “Why, they’re so rich in Vitamin C that they can protect a body against scurvy. Some brew a tea from the leaves to help cure infections of the urinary tract.”
“And some make wine from the bake apples,” added Ms. Aspen, “and some make a special syrup that they serve warm over ice cream!”
I was thoroughly impressed by this time, and put down my brush.
“May I ask you something? When my husband and I were here a few years ago, we were trying to cram in as much sightseeing as possible, clicking pictures of this and that, and hurrying from here to there. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I never stopped to pick a bake apple blossom! Tell me, are their blossoms fragrant?”
For once, none of the trees had an answer. Not one. Perhaps you can help me out, as I am very curious about this. Do send me an email.
I did some heavy lifting this week. The boulder perch had to be moved further down the path. Now, that took some doing, and I’m still huffing and puffing. The Guardian of the Path was put out at first, but I assured him that the perch was still within ear shot. He would still be able to eavesdrop on any conversations of the folks who rested on the rock.
As I began to wash in the bake apple blossoms, all of the trees brightened up, even the old sentinel. How they loved the arrival of the bake apples. Bake apples meant that spring was here, their favourite season of the whole year!
And do you know what they began arguing about? Which one of them would host a robin’s nest!
Ms. Aspen and the Guardian of the Path declared rather nastily that they had never heard of a robin nesting in a pine tree, which seemed to make them feel all the more important.
From the background, the spruce trees piped up:
“Never mind the robins. It’s the mourning doves who will nest in our cradles. You just wait and see.”
Then the old sentinel cleared his throat and declared in his deep bass voice:
“One year I played host to the cutest family of baby coons in the whole of Newfoundland! As soon as the moon came up, their shenanigans began. Why, I hardly got any sleep at all that spring.”
I’m not sure how long I sat on the rock perch enjoying the peaceful waters of Bonne Bay and the picturesque settlement of Norris Point. The weathered sentinel across from me seemed to read my very thoughts.
“Don’t mind me, ma’am, but you’re probably wanting to know a little of the history of Norris Point.”
“Why, yes,” I stammered in amazement.
“Well, I was here long before any living soul ever set foot down there. It was named after Neddy Norris, who came to the area with his wife and children around 1789. I was sure disappointed that those good folks didn’t stay.
Back then, I was in my prime, yes, Sir, and literally clapped my long boughs together with joy when William and Charlotte Humber from Dorset, England, settled here in 1833! Pretty brave folks they were. No other families joined them for twenty-five long years. Imagine that! How I loved to see the blue smoke curl up from the chimney of their log cabin. Kind of took the lonesomeness off somehow.
In the spring of 1858, a fishing vessel was caught in a storm, and its occupants sought shelter in the area, and soon built their log cabins at Norris Point. Things started to hum around here!
Say, did anyone inform you that Norris Point was actually a Tidy Town winner in 2005 for its clean and well maintained properties and streets?”
Before I could tell the sentinel that I had read that in a tourist brochure somewhere, he hurried on.
“I’m getting ahead of my story. I’m sure you’ll believe me, though, that it’s hard for folks to live anywhere else once they’ve been to Norris Point.”
I nodded in agreement.
“Well, other folks came from England, Ireland and Scotland, mainly because of the fall herring fishery and lobster catch. Like the others, they found Bonne Bay to be a dandy place from which to fish the coastal waters of Labrador. Fur trapping also gave them a bit more income.
A trading post had been built here around 1800 by Joseph Bird, an English merchant. Later, fur trading became pretty important at the post. The local families would exchange fish and fur for supplies, foodstuffs and clothing. Why, Norris Point’s trading post became so popular that labourers, servants and apprentices were brought over from southwestern England during the summer to support it. Mind you, their accents were so thick that I could hardly understand a word they said!
Anyway, in the early 1900s, a ferry service was set up, and the population in 1921 had risen to 372. Around that time, residents also began fishing for cod and salmon. Oh, these waters around here are rich, let me tell you!
By 2001, the population of Norris Point reached almost 800.
By the way, you mustn’t forget to stop at Neddies Harbour Inn whenever you get a hankering for some top-notch dining. You know, I’m glad to see the inn people had the good sense to preserve the name of Norris Point’s original discoverers, even if they haven’t spelled it exactly right.
Oh dear. I’ve been talking your ear off.”
“Not at all. I can’t thank you enough for sharing all that you’ve seen over the years.
“Our whole conversation came about with me guessing what you were wondering about, now didn’t it? Bet you can’t guess what I’ve been wondering about,” declared the handsome old sentinel.
“No, not in a hundred years,” I replied.
“It’s none of my business, but what are you going to call this painting when you get it finished?”
“Springtime in Gros Morne,” I replied.
“I like that title, yes, I do.” .
“Thank you! It will look more springish when I get the bake apples painted in around the rock, and along the edge of the path.”
“More power to ye,” said the sentinel, with a bit of a creak. “You know, I’ve never had my portrait painted before. It makes me right proud that after more than 200 years, someone thinks I’m still beautiful . . . holes and cracks and all!”
“Now, that’s what I call a right good perch,” said Ms. Guardian of the Path. “I’ll enjoy having folks sit near me as they view Norris Point. I must say, it feels mighty fine to see that one of my suggestions was taken seriously, and that you changed the rock into a perch.”
Before I could thank her again for having made that suggestion, she rattled on:
“And I don’t mind telling you that I intend to eavesdrop! Why, I might even find out where people are from! It’s amazing what comes out when folks have a chance to get off their feet and rest. I know that a lot of Canadians haven’t been to visit Newfoundland. Maybe your painting will change that when they see how beautiful our island really is.”
“I do hope so,” I replied. “Somehow all the talk of ‘The Rock’ made a negative impression on me. I’m so glad my husband and I came to Newfoundland and saw its beauty for ourselves. Five days wasn’t half enough time, though.”
Ms. Guardian of the Path was in such a pleasant frame of mind that she didn’t even notice that the tracery of her finery hadn’t been added to the path yet. Whew! I think I’ll just sit on the perch awhile myself.
Things have been pretty quiet in the studio, but I did hear the twin aspens on the right call over to Ms. Aspen to thank her for expediting the arrival of their “clothes.” She acknowledged them with little more than a sniff. I thought she could have been more pleasant.
In the distance below, some houses appeared on the coastline of Norris Point. Don’t some folks have an idyllic place to live?
I was working on the lichen-crusted trunk of the largest tree, when it spoke up. I nearly dropped my brush!
“If you don’t mind me saying so, we need a perch around here.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“We need a perch around here, I say. Why don’t you flatten the top of that big rock so folks can sit a spell and enjoy the view? It would do them a world of good.”
“That’s a capital idea! I’ll get right on that next week.”
“And another thing, where is all the ‘tracery’ you talked about earlier? Anybody knows that a significant tree like me casts shadows.”
“Hold on, buddy. I can’t do everything at once.”
“And what’s all this talk I heard you and Mr. McDonald doing today? You were saying something about putting me on e-Bay? Now, don’t get any ideas in your head of yanking me out like you did Ms. Aspen. I like it here by this bay . . . the Norris Point bay.”
“Not to worry, Ms. Guardian of the Path. You’re in just the right spot! But thanks for your idea of the perch.”
Have you ever wished you could move a full-grown tree to a better spot in some particular setting? Well, I just did!
With my own bare hands, I dragged the aspen tree at least 25’ straight ahead and planted it! Yes, Sir, that’s a fact! Ms. Aspen put up quite a fuss when she found out what I was planning to do, but when I told her she would be closer to her kin across the path, she waved a branch, which I took to mean, “Well, if you must.”
As I started the excavation work, Ms. Aspen implored: “Now, don’t be clumsy. I’ve just donned my spring frock, as you very well know, and I intend to look my best the whole season long. None of this modern ripped-out-at-the-knee style for me, or broken off twigs like some shaggy hair cuts I see. I won’t have it, I tell you.”
I assured her that I would be as careful with her as I was with my very first dollie. That seemed to settle her down.
After placing Ms. Aspen in her new location, and tamping the earth firmly around her, I gave her a refreshing drink of water. She felt more like herself, and smoothed out her petticoats before she squinted at her cousins across the path.
“Oh, no!” she gasped. “My cousins look worse than manikins in a store front! Get a move on, do! Quick! Put some “clothes” on them before somebody comes down this path. I don’t see why you dawdled around painting that rock and the spruce trees. How on earth could you be so thoughtless?”
Ms. Aspen wasn’t such a bad old soul, you know. There aren’t enough of her kind who will risk offending you by telling you the truth.
Why, after her brusque speeches, I even got to liking the old spinster a bit.
See the outline of tree trunks on the right side of the painting? You’ve guessed it! There will be more of her worthy clan—-aspens—-by the next time you check out this blog.
The old spinster, Ms. Aspen Tree, shoved what would have been the middle pine tree right off the canvas!
Swipe. Dab-dab. Dab-dab. It’s gone, just like that! Oh my. When Ms. Aspen comes along, tapping that old cane of hers, you don’t argue. No, Sir.
But she wasn’t through with me yet.
“These hills have more than pine trees on them,” she croaked. “It’s only fittin’ that I should represent the worthy aspens of Gros Morne, even if I am bow-legged.”
“All right. All right,” I said. “You’ve got a point.”
“You bet I’ve got a point,” she continued. “Why don’t you leave the boat ride for another day? Can’t you see that folks are all loaded down with their fancy cameras? There’s no prettier place around these parts than at Norris Point. Folks ought to see it! They really should!
She squinted her eyes, looked me up and down, with one hand on her hip, and asked, “Now, tell me. How come you didn’t think of that, Mrs. McDonald?”
The two pines on the left had to be reminded that they won’t be left too long looking like dead trees. Once their branches are dry, they will get their scented tufts back. Always proud of their lofty appearance, they seemed to begrudge the time I was spending, giving the leaning pine its coiffure. I could just feel it! You’ve no idea what I have to contend with in this studio.
Have you ever tried consoling a couple of pine trees? Let me tell you, it’s no easy matter.
The deciduous tree on the right is truly a very patient, selfless species. He tried to get the pines to look on the bright side.
“Take heart, noble pines!” he called out. “At least you have the warmth of the sun on your trunks.”
The pines were rude, and didn’t even acknowledge his kind words, but he paid no heed to them, as he had something more to say:
“I can’t wait to get my ‘hair’ done. When my ‘wig’ is put on, it will make the loveliest tracery of shadows on the path. Just you wait and see.”