Light Summer reading


Dieter & I were at the Mavillette beach park the other evening. I lifted the lid of the recycling barrel to put something in and noticed that some paperback books had been thrown away. I was intrigued (some would say nosy) so I had to check out the titles  – Truth & Logic, Canada & the Great Canadian Question, The Secular City and, last but not least, King Lear.  So what is the story here? Did someone actually read these before discarding them or did they bring them here as their summer reading and then, after settling back on the beach ask themselves, ‘What was I thinking?’ Pretty heavy duty stuff for relaxing. I would have been interested in reading a couple of them but unfortunately they were wet.

Incredibly beautiful waves the other night. We set out on Dieter’s veranda watching and wondering why they were so big. It hadn’t been especially windy. Someone told me yesterday that the rough water was caused by hurricane Katia. We don’t watch TV and seldom listen to the news or weather on the radio so we hadn’t heard anything about hurricane Katia.

This was the view from Dieter’s veranda on Sept 9, 2011

 




 

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Bovine Geisha Girls

On Sunday Dieter & I went to an ox haul/turkey supper in Quinan. Dieter’s daughter and her friend were visiting from Germany and the event was near to the road to their old cottage on lac a pic. Other friends of Dieter’s (from Germany and Switzerland) were also there.  The community had done itself proud- to an outsider it appeared to be a real accomplishment in co-operation.

I am a cow lover and I enjoyed watching the ox haul. It was like stepping back in time. Two boys in particular stand out in my memory. One of them, I would guess around ten years old, had been given the honour of attaching & detaching the drag chain to the oxen or the tractor depending on which way it was to be dragged. This young fellow had witnessed enough ox hauls to have the mannerisms of a man doing a job down pat. He performed his duty with pride.  The other boy, a teenager, had his own team of oxen. They were a beautiful rust brown with pure white faces that were the epitome of innocence – looked as if they had stepped out of a Maud Lewis painting.

The owners of the oxen probably love their animals but it can’t be easy being an ox. Imagine… they get to be an ox instead of a bull by having their testicles removed. Then they get yoked up with another ox that is as close to their mirror image as can be managed. They are adorned with fancy headgear that makes them the bovine equivalent of a Geisha girl. Their sexuality is gone; their individuality is gone. Bulls in drag. Transvestites. Female impersonators. Perhaps humans who are unsuccessful at being ‘yoked to a mate’ in marriage come back as oxen in their next life. Yikes! I’m sure glad that this marriage (to Dieter) is working well for me. I would hate coming back as an ox.

Bovine Geisha Girls

On Sunday Dieter & I went to an ox haul/turkey supper in Quinan. Dieter’s daughter and her friend were visiting from Germany and the event was near to the road to their old cottage on lac a pic. Other friends of Dieter’s (from Germany and Switzerland) were also there.  The community had done itself proud- to an outsider it appeared to be a real accomplishment in co-operation.

I am a cow lover and I enjoyed watching the ox haul. It was like stepping back in time. Two boys in particular stand out in my memory. One of them, I would guess around ten years old, had been given the honour of attaching & detaching the drag chain to the oxen or the tractor depending on which way it was to be dragged. This young fellow had witnessed enough ox hauls to have the mannerisms of a man doing a job down pat. He performed his duty with pride.  The other boy, a teenager, had his own team of oxen. They were a beautiful rust brown with pure white faces that were the epitome of innocence – looked as if they had stepped out of a Maud Lewis painting.

The owners of the oxen probably love their animals but it can’t be easy being an ox. Imagine… they get to be an ox instead of a bull by having their testicles removed. Then they get yoked up with another ox that is as close to their mirror image as can be managed. They are adorned with fancy headgear that makes them the bovine equivalent of a Geisha girl. Their sexuality is gone; their individuality is gone. Bulls in drag. Transvestites. Female impersonators. Perhaps humans who are unsuccessful at being ‘yoked to a mate’ in marriage come back as oxen in their next life. Yikes! I’m sure glad that this marriage (to Dieter) is working well for me. I would hate coming back as an ox.

IIlicit Sleep


Last night I dozed off while watching, on Netflix, a documentary titled The Nature of Existence. The narrator had set up interviews with as many people as he could manage from a broad range of countries, religions, professions, income brackets etc. and the film consisted of him travelling the world and posing questions such as, ‘What is the meaning of life?”  I was lying on the couch with my laptop on a little table nearby when the delicious sleepiness came over me – the kind where at first I fought it and slipped in and out of consciousness, (in this case waking up to such disparate images as a southern preacher professing his certainty in his particular brand of God followed a few snores later by an East Indian man bathing naked in the Ganges. Quite a spiritual trip!  Finally I gave in to the seduction of slumber. I will replay the documentarty (oops I meant documentary but I will leave the type O as it does seem like a Freudian slip) another time.

Small wonder that I had interesting dreams last night – something about me trying to help some women who had just arrived in Yarmouth to make contact with the Real Estate Store. It seemed they had an appointment with a man there but he hadn’t turned up in the place where they had arranged to meet. In another dream I was in a bank and discovered that they had set up a type of account for their employees that would enable them to withdraw all their own money in a matter of seconds merely by pressing a button. I hope that one is not an indication of the financial world’s confidence (or lack there-of ) in the economy.  In another dream a large number of people had gathered in the downtown area for the purpose of painting, very quickly, many of the buildings and fences bright school bus yellow.

Hmmm, it will be interesting to see what I dream the next time I watch that documentary.

Wine with just a hint of Fruit Fly

 

Dieter poured himself a glass of red wine and lamented the fact that it was no longer possible to buy that particular wine. “It was a good deal,’ he said, “at first it was $10.79 a bottle and then they reduced it to $9.79 but now they have discontinued it.” We settled on the front veranda, me with my book, he with his wine. It was a lovely evening, about a half hour after high tide and not a breath of wind. We watched the ocean begin its lethargic retreat. Dieter fell asleep. I left him there with his wine on the little table by his side, his chin on his chest.  By the time he came into the house he had a new lament. A dozen fruit flies had found their way into his wineglass. However, being the resourceful fellow that he is, he solved the problem. He strained the wine through a coffee filter and left the flies to continue their drunken party in the filter on the kitchen counter while he settled down once again with his glass of wine.