happy 145th, Canada!

It’s mid-morning here on the farm (and elsewhere in the Pacific Time Zone, I’d speculate).

Jude and I are moving slowly on this tail end of the Canada Day weekend.  Our plans to cut

firewood have been rained out. She’s fixing oatmeal as we ponder our next move. Hopefully

the weather will break and we can do some gardening.

Failing that, we’re facing some very bleak choices, like straightening up the office or risking

our lives in the attic, searching for the hammock panel.

Yesterday Canada celebrated its 145th birthday.  Our island marked the occasion with a

variety of events.  Jude and I noted it with salmon-infused eggs Benedict at Cafe Aroma,

then helped set up one of the events on the lawn of Heriot Bay Inn.

The HBI is a hotel/restaurant/pub that’s the unofficial hub of social activity on our island.

It’s venerable AND funky.  That’s not easily done.  On this particular national birthday, the

Inn was hosting children’s activities: face-painting, scavenger hunt, dress-up tent, dog show,

Lego room, bounce-a-rama and such.

It’s always fun being at the HBI, but this time was especially rewarding.  Everyone was in the

fine spirits, knowing that — with Lois, Judy and Betty overseeing things — everything would

be correctly overseen.  Rain had been predicted but was not threatening, and, in fact, didn’t

show up.

Having strung up every maple leaf flag we could find, and seeing the delight on the faces of

a few early-arriving kids, Jude and I took our leave.  We were home by noon.  We decided to

pass on the rest of the celebration.

The rain-soaked June has us way behind on our gardening, so we chose to honour Canada

by tending to a small part of it.  While Jude weeded and cleared out a part of the old garden,

I harvested enough comfrey to fill a large compost bin.  Then I placed cedar posts in the

garden.

The posts will support fish netting over the garden to protect our blueberry bushes and

chickens.  It’s been a month since Jude’s son Nathan and my grandson Sean dug the post

holes.  Until we could fill them permanently, we put buckets, PVC pipes, boards, logs —

whatever fit — in or on them to keep from breaking our ankles.

I know what you’re thinking and you’re right. Those PVC pipes do look like the bastard spawn

of Mummenschanz.  But what would the offspring of a Swiss mask theatre troupe be doing in

B.C.?  And do the Mummies even reproduce?  And if so, given their flexibility, should we

assume that their sex is kinky?

Somehow I’ve wandered off point, and I need to help Jude move a stair-climber, which, oddly,

will not come down the stairs on its own.

Happy birthday, Canada!