Great Blue Heron

There is just one more source which has given me significant insight into who I am and confirms much of what I have outlined above. Not surprisingly perhaps, it comes from the natural world in the form of the Great Blue Heron which, some years ago I adopted as my totem, even had one tattooed on my arm. 

The tattoo served a double purpose to be honest. Not only was it my totem but it covered up a self inflicted tattoo from my late teens when I inked “VAL” on my left bicep. Problem is, I was so drunk that I didn’t realize until the next day that the letters were upside down, not entirely, but close enough. Even worse, a couple of my buddies, my very drunk buddies, were so impressed with my new-found skill as tattoo artist that they had me tattoo them as well. What were we thinking? What was I thinking? The good news is; they didn’t kill me the next day after we’d sobered up, none of us got infections at the tattoo sites and was good to know that I wasn’t the only one feeling embarrassed and just a wee bit stupid. Val said she was touched that I’d written her name on my arm, but only after she’d stopped laughing.

Those Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Summer

Sunday, September 8

Finding the weather intolerable these past few days. Has reverted to the three h’s, hot, humid and hazy, with temperatures in the low thirties. Thirty-two today I believe, and even hotter tomorrow according to the forecast. Tuesday is supposed to be cooler again. I certainly hope so because I want to get back to working on the addition. I still have plenty of time so feel okay about taking the really hot days off. I have put in concrete bases for the posts, three of them, and installed lower face plates onto the concrete foundation of the existing house. I had a hell of a time getting the bolt holes drilled and, consequently, the bolts are not as deep as I would have liked. Hopefully they’re in deep enough to hold though. I also got a well estimate yesterday. Looks like two to three thousand if it’s around sixty feet or so which, I’m told, is most likely the case. If we have to go to two hundred feet, we’re looking at around four thousand. It’s a gamble of course but I’ve opted to go for it. Having a reliable source of good water certainly will make life easier and add greatly to my sense of independence. With luck, I’ll have a well before Thanksgiving.

Little House on the Hill

A house on a hill has a view. In my case, even though it is surrounded by trees, it is in the middle of a small clearing which is enough to stave off the claustrophobia imposed by a house surrounded by trees on flat ground, or worse, in a valley. And because the clearing extends downward along the slope of the hill I am gifted a permanent yet ever-changing vista to delight the eye. The broadest vista available to me is off the the south and southeast because this is where the land drops off. Consequently I can see over the tree tops to open sky and yet more forest off in the distance. 

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But on a hill, aside from the view, there’s the effect of altitude on the very air itself. Clean and clear, invigorating, always on the move, a veritable travelling minstrel, carrying along with it the sounds of the immediate countryside, a barking dog, the low strident call of cattle grazing in a nearby meadow or, if one is exceptionally fortunate, the piercing bugle of a bull elk. The air also delivers a cornucopia of scents, borne on the wind across the tree tops, the sweet scent of wild cherry blossoms in spring, the pungent stench of rotting vegetation lying heavily upon the fall air. And the nights, oh the nights. Perched upon a rural hilltop far removed from the murky city sky obscured by smog and lights, how much closer and brighter seem moon, planets and stars filling that vast expanse overhead. An illusion, yes, but no less real because of it. And no matter the time of day or night, a hill provides a sentinel-like view from which to observe the approach of friend or foe, human or beast. 

And what of the alternative in the extreme, a house in a valley? What is a valley but a hole in the ground? Hills are for the living, holes are for the dead. Dark and damp and closed, life itself having been sucked out of the very air, hanging there limp and acrid, bearing the stench of death. There’s a reason these low spots are called depressions. One may as well be in a grave. 

First Impressions

On the positive side, the bush was dense yet easily negotiable for walking. The small building appeared habitable and sat perched upon a hill with an admirable view of the bush to the south and below. This also meant that there was an unobstructed location to set up solar panels and/or a wind turbine. 

Aesthetically, the property was certainly the most pleasing one we’d seen and this was nowhere more evident than on the building site. Twenty metres or so to the west, bordering the clearing and in full view of the cabin stood a majestic white pine, my favourite of the conifers. To the south and east, the hill gently sloping away from the cabin was populated with a small stand of sumac which would put on a gorgeous flame-red display in the fall. And their seed pods would not only attract birds but be a ready source of sumac tea. They also had the advantage that they were short in stature so as not to obstruct my view. To the west and north of he house was a clearing with a radius of approximately fifteen metres, lots of room for parking and the setting up of tents or campers should I get a large number of guests all at once. To the north was mostly second growth mixed bush dominated by several large aspen. And finally, immediately to the east and a couple of metres from the cabin was a small grove of luxuriously foliaged cedar trees. A convenient spot for the birds to hide as they waited to dart in to the bird feeder I planned to hang just outside the house. This was also on the road side of the house so contributed to my privacy. 

But I’ve saved the best for last, not a single blade of grass. It’s the manicured kind of which I speak here, that most evil of all urban evils, unnatural, high maintenance, water craving, overly fertilized, herbicide loaded patches of green that adorn millions of yards in this country and whose sole purpose it is to serve the vanity of it's owners each one trying to outdo his or her neighbours.  What a tremendous waste of time and effort to speak nothing of the environmental damage. Never again will I find myself begrudgingly bowing to the pressures of my neighbours to mow the lawn. Now that’s true country living.