View from the window...Why can't we be friends

The view outside our window has a basic sameness each day. The trees, the houses across the street, the apartment building in the distance; they remain fixed. Yet within this framework life unfolds differently each day. 

Sometimes you notice something small like a change in the outline of the roof on the apartment building across the park. Yesterday a smooth unbroken line; today uneven dark bumps at the corner. I take a photo so that I see what is there. 

Turns out to be a few pigeons... well, actually, more than a few.

I expect that if this becomes a regular perch, the superintendent of the building will be getting a phone call. All that billing and cooing (and other things resulting from a lot of big birds overhead) might not be welcome come the spring.  

It reminds me of my love/hate relationship with house sparrows, who similarly haunt the neighbourhood in large groups. Now, the front yard has had many evolutions over the years. This one year, I rescued the framework of a gazebo and reconfigured the panels to form a long trellis. I planted some climbing roses to grow up and cover it and then I thought it would be a good spot for my collection of birdhouses. 

Great, right? If you look closely there are sparrows and a cardinal perching, and a blue jay on the tall crook beside. So folks started moving into the bird houses and I thought, well, this is sweet, all chirping baby birds....

And then, it was baby birds falling out of nests, 

and dead baby birds in the grass, and squabbling in the neighbourhood. I found out that sparrows are a heartless lot; if they want your nest box, they will pull all the nesting material out and take over. They will pull out your baby birds so that they can house and have their own baby birds. The drive to survive, I guess. 

So then they take over your yard as claimed territory. I didn't mind being a landlady but I put seeds out so that I would see a variety of birds. The sparrows became aggressive and bullied others away. So I then filled the feeders with seeds that were specific to the birds that I wanted to see. False advertising; they adapted! I took perches off, but that also made it difficult for cardinals. 

So... I evicted them.

From the front yard. And moved them to the back. It took them a little while to adjust and they still like to hang out front.

They are not as territorial now, which allows other birds to be more comfortable in the front yard. We put up another birdhouse with a 'front door' sized for wrens or chickadees, and we have had both move in. Each spring though, there are sparrows who try make it their home but without success.

I have noticed some interest from the nuthatches so maybe they might be this year's new home owners. I read though that they prefer tree cavities so that may be a fond hope. 

So while there is no chance of being rid of sparrows, I will hope to remain good neighbours from a distance...at some distance...well, maybe just not in the front yard?

 

 

View from the window...the saga of the simple request

 The sky is a glorious blue and the sun is shining on a lovely fresh layer of snow. Furred and feathered things abound in the yard; a beautiful day.

As I sit with my coffee admiring the view, my cell phone rings. 

'Mom, I need a short document printed. If I send it to you in an email, could you print it off for me?'

"Sure, no problem"; a simple request.

The email arrives, and I ask the printer to print it. It says, 'do you know that your magenta ink cartridge is empty?' I figure this is not a problem as I want a black and white document printed. The printer says, "I don't want to print anything when I have an empty cartridge. Change it ok?' I press ok. I lie. I check the settings so that it says 'black & white',  and 'greyscale' for good measure. The printer refuses to print as apparently magenta is needed to print black. Sigh.

Plan B presents itself in the form of my husband's work area downstairs. He is, like many, working from home. Today however, he is 'working from home' in Cambridge and Guelph. I phone my husband and ask if he could print off a short document. He would be happy to, except, his printer is now at home with his computer and he can't use the other ones at the office because they are at home with other employees. Now, I am here with said printer but it uses a completely different operating system with a language that I do not speak, so doing something wrong on it would be a big problem. Sigh.

Plan C. I am still without a cooperative printer so I decide to order cartridges from the local Staples online, then go pick them up. I go to their site, and having kept the original box, I enter the number in the search box. It answers me with one option, a set of black cartridges. Black is not the new magenta. I figure it is lying to me so I approach from a different angle; the printer brand name. This gives me dozens of printer model numbers, none of which I recognize as mine. So I re-enter the part number leaving off the suffix letters. Eureka! A set of coloured ink cartridges now appears. And why did I not get this result the first try? Because the number which is in large letters on a brightly coloured background, on three sides of the box, and the top, is not the order number for replacement cartridges. That number is in small print on the back of the box. This makes no sense to me. Sigh.

So, I order and pay for my item. They issue an order which I save, and it tells me that when I arrive for pick up to call the number listed below, which happens to be for a help line to head office.?? They tell me that they will confirm my order by email, which in short order appears. This one has an order number and a phone number which is local. It tells me that I need to bring this email and have ID ready. Well, I cannot print it off because my printer is on strike. So I take a photo and figure that I can show this to the helpful employee who will bring me my order. 

Within a half hour I receive an email telling me that very efficient employees have already picked my order and it awaits me. I get ready to go and greet the outdoors, and in an effort to be a good global citizen, I carry with me my spent cartridges for recycling. My faithful chariot, which has sat unused for many weeks, and has every reason to be grumpy, starts first time and purrs contentedly. 

I drive over and park in a numbered spot, dial the required number, wait through the announcements and listen as a patient employee tells me that the store does not open for another half hour...which I would have realized had I read the remainder of the sign with the hours clearly posted, instead of trying to figure out what the X6 was at the end of the phone number. Sigh.

I phone my ever helpful husband who gives me an errand to fulfil that will help him out, and he refrains from pointing out that reading the whole sign may have been helpful. 

Second attempt. I arrive once again, dial the number adding the 6 appropriately, now that I know what to do. A chirpy voice asks for my order number. My order number which is on a photo on the phone being used to speak to said chirpy voice. She says, 'you can do it while you're on the phone', which I apparently cannot do. I tell her I will call back. Sigh

I pull out of the spot and park elsewhere to retrieve the order number. There is no pen in the car. I only brought my wallet, phone and keys, so no purse which may or may not, have contained a writing instrument. So...I drive up the street to purchase a pen. I take some money into the store and the cashier says, 'what, a new one?', after I refuse her pen. So I go back to the car to get my phone because apparently you need a phone to buy a pen. I grab the Kleenex box because there is, of course, no piece of paper in the car, go back inside, use the pen at the lotto ticket counter, and copy the order number from my phone onto the back of the Kleenex box. Sigh.

Third try. Park car. Phone number, press 6. Hold. Give space number. Give order number. Wait. Show ID. Pick up bag, correctly filled; thank goodness as hysteria may have ensued, and departed. The used cartridges? They returned with me as this type of recycling is not happening while the store is closed. Sigh.

'Son? Your document is printed... No, problem, a simple request.'

View from the window...It is the winter of...

Well, apparently it is going to snow today. Which is lovely, when the verb involved is 'looking' (at), and not 'driving' (in), or the 'shoveling' (of). In this little part of Southern Ontario, we have become accustomed to less snow as time has gone by, not like the weather weirdness capitol of London and points west, or the the recipient of lake effect weather like Hamilton nearby. The snow is coming sideways from the east, so perhaps this is a little 'cadeau' from our neighbours in La Belle Province. They get enough snow that if I was them, I would want to share the white wealth as well.

(https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Sherbrooke_Street_at_night.JPG)

All the usual visitors to the yard are tucked up somewhere, keeping as warm and cozy as possible; not a glimpse of feather or fur anywhere. I am also warm and cozy with my coffee and in my housecoat. Housework awaits. It is probably calling my name, but I am not listening right now.

I spend a lot of time in the past; a by-product of following genealogical pursuits, I suppose. But other things draw us to places of memory, like songs, scents, photos or places. January, for me is a 'remember-ful' month.

It is twenty-one years ago now, that I was summoned from a Christmas celebration to a small hospital in Paris. It was kind of a forced celebration that year, in that the loss of our mother was still very fresh. This however, was about my dad. He had been taken to hospital and I was being called there to make decisions about what was to be his last few days with us. Dad left us on January 2nd, almost three months to the day from Mom's death.

Events of strong emotion imbed themselves in your heart forever. The sting of them lessens over time enabling you to remember more of the person, and less of the loss. So January starts for me with thinking about Dad. He was the product of Victorian parents; the oldest son. He had a strong moral code and a fierce work-ethic. He brought an East Coast girl to distant Toronto and they raised six children. He sang, supported his church, and worked two more jobs after his formal retirement. His role in the household was breadwinner; he was not demonstrative. With the exception of my sister, he was a small man amongst a throng of towering offspring. He was Dad. I was there when he took his last breath on January 2nd, 2000. You don't forget days like that.

(Saint John, NB 1938)

(Dad holding the caboose of the family train, 1958)

The 4th of January is the happiest of remembrances; the birthday of our daughter-in-law, Karen. I came home from a lengthy visit with Mom in Quebec, to find that our oldest son, in his 30's, long heart-protective, was head over heels in love with a tiny, Newfie spitfire, mother of four. It is hard to remember now, and I certainly can't even imagine, our life before our Karen. Dan takes credit for this blessed of unions, so I will take a moment to thank him for this and for our sweetest Leah, also such a huge gift to us. I am the luckiest of women to have these girls in my life.

The 5th reminds me of how my mother must have felt so much the same way; she had four boys bring young women into her life. The first family import was Janet, brought home from Bible College by my oldest brother. I was still a girl when she took my brother away; I participated in their wedding and cried up a storm. An amazing woman; teacher; wife of a busy pastor; incredible mom; warm supporter of youngest sister-in-law. So appreciated and so loved. She is now showing me how to grow older gracefully. She is a good example; perhaps this pupil is slow.

(Engagement Celebration)

The week of the 10th to 17th sees the remembrance of at least four family birthdays; my mother, sister, husband and his twin, and brother. For many years we celebrated at least three of those together. Now for my mom on the 10th, and my sister on the 12th, these are occasions of remembrance. 

(1994)

My mom was not raised by her mom, the Great War interfered in her life so that she did not have that influence or example. My dad went to the East Coast for work, then brought my mom, with three small children (one three months old), on the train, during war, to a foreign country - Upper Canada. Yet she adapted. Then she found herself anticipating a blessed event at age 40 when she already had a seemingly endless supply of boys already. Surprise! I'm not sure that she always thought it had been a good surprise because, like many mother-daughter  relationships, ours was often fraught. I do though, think of my mom with much love and great respect.

(1937/38)

I remember my sister Margaret on the 12th. Nan, as I will always think of her, was married when I was five. We did not have the luxury of knowing each other as adults for long, as she left us in 1990. She left too young, leaving her children as barely formed adults. It is interesting that all three have travelled the world...I wonder if there is a correlation.

(1961?)

Next, on the 16th, were born two boys, a huge twin surprise (read shock) to their parents who had expected and prepared for the arrival of one child. Also a shock to the young doctor who had not anticipated this dual arrival either, nor had he yet in his career delivered two at one time. My husband Lynn is the firstborn by several minutes. 

There are only a few photos of les Jumeaux (as they are referred to by our French cousins) so they are particularly precious, and there are none of them as babies; strange to us now in this time of phone camera and every other thing.  Sadly, celebrating a birthday together as brothers, has not been a thing for a very long time as Lloyd has ever been on the East Coast and prior to that, at sea, literally, as in the Navy.  Now that I may have finally grown up, I try to celebrate Lynn every day, as his 40 plus years presence in my life have been the backbone and mainstay of our life and the making of me.

(1977)

Lastly, the 17th, brings me to the youngest of my brothers. We were the last two at home. He is older than I am by almost 6 years, and that he did not murder me in my sleep as a child is a testament to his long-suffering temperament. We have shared many family moments together, but this year's birthday, is not one of them. Thankfully presence is not a requirement of remembrance.

(c1965)

I am not sure whether it is January's proximity to Christmas, or its place on the calendar, in the middle of winter, but these particular weeks that start the year seem especially impactful. We have spent these last weeks without the physical presence of many whom we love, so these January birthdays are similar in a way not experienced before.  

It is strange and kind of uncomfortable. It is to be hoped that all the birthdays of this year will not be spent in this way, but if this is needful to ensure we will have another birthday, then so be it. In the meantime, I will just continue my celebrations in this way.

View from the window....connections

 

The sky is blue and the sun is shining this morning, a welcome change and a lift to the spirits as we stay home, again, today. This is not a big deal for me but I recognize how difficult it is for some. I think a lot about my mom-in-law. She is 97 and a half...each day is an achievement at that age, I think. She is a province away from us in Quebec. She is watched over carefully by my brother and sister-in-law, but for this past year there have no visits from other family and for some time, no outings at all; she lives alone in her apartment.

(Mom is not sad here, just thoughtful)

Several years back Mom spent some time in the hospital; pneumonia is not uncommon in grandmas, although potentially very dangerous. My two week visit to stay with her while she recuperated, turned into two months. (Who wants to leave Quebec?) 

During that time we tried to convince her that her time of independent living might be over and that the new English retirement home might be a lovely and safe place for her. (Being an English-speaking person in a Province that is not, this opportunity would not come along every day.) Well, Mom was not of this opinion, and by the time you reach her age, your opinion is one of the few things that you have left. 

Eventually, she was convinced to leave her third floor aerie, in the old building with no elevator, and move to a lovely apartment close to my brother and sister-in-law. Compromise, yes, but who knew that in this time, we would be grateful that she is cloistered there and safe.

Added danger and increased restrictions mean changes in contact with the local family supports, and her increased hearing issues (Mom and the hearing aids seem not to be compatible) means increased isolation. I try to write more letters but there really is not much news as we are doing, well, not much.

On our visits to Quebec Mom and I spend a lot of time going over family history and photos. We visit the cemetery because her family and the people she grew up with, and among, are there. I photograph the stones and she tells the stories. We visit the places she grew up and that we all love. I started serious research a few years back so each trip adds something to the story. 

So, I thought that I would go back to my research and see if I could find something new and interesting to tell her in my next letter. I had recently come across a searchable website for newspapers in Quebec and found some gems. Like the story of Uncle Everett and the stolen bicycle from 1933. 

(Excerpt 31 Jul 1933)

So, Everett borrowed brother Larry's bicycle to go see about some paid work. Larry's bike was stolen. A pursuit ensued and it is written in full detail in the newspaper because, unsatisfied with police response, they went to the newspaper! But all was not lost as a few days later....

(excerpts from 02 Aug 1933)

In the midst of this research, I received an email from a Jim in Winnipeg. He had seen a photo of a gravestone that I had taken in 2012, in Quebec, in pursuit of family history. Jim has an interest in the stories of CEF soldiers (Canadian Expeditionary Force) from the First World War and requested that I add this man's military history to the  memorial where this photo was posted. I told him that I would be pleased to do that and mentioned that my grandfather had given his life in that war. 

(the 2012 photo taken in Quebec)

About a week later, I received another email from Jim, this time with an analysis of my grandfather's war history based on his service file, war diaries and battalion history. Jim had also previously visited the war cemetery where my grandfather is buried and shared with me his photos. I forwarded this to my oldest brother with whom I work on the history of our own family. Being that all we have of our grandfather is a photo, a medal, and a gravestone picture, this was a remarkable, unsolicited gift, all resulting from a cemetery photo. 

(my grandfather Patrick who died 29 Sep 1918)

I was also working at the time, on some family history for my husband's second cousin, K. He was confused that his grandmother could be my husband's aunt, and yet my husband was younger. (This one trips me up every time but the short answer is, big families. The oldest ones are having children when the youngest ones are still kids.) I also traced K's father's line back a few generations. In doing so I came across this Voters List from 1963.

What interested me about this was that at #46 I found the Hutchisons. She is the granddaughter of the sister of K's great grandfather. My program is oriented to show the relationship of each person added, to my husband. In this case she is '2nd cousin of husband of maternal 1st cousin of husband'! So, somewhat distant family of K on his father's side, probably a 2nd or 3rd cousin a couple times  removed.

Next I noticed at #41, Harold and Peggy Munkittrick, longtime friends of Mom who attended the same church. Harold had a bicycle store in town, and one summer we stayed just up the road from Harold and Peggy on Lake Wallace and Harold lent our boys bicycles. (One was returned with a scratch or two as our youngest took an unscheduled side trip into the ditch with it on his first outing.) I worked on Peggy's family tree for a time because legend was in her family that there was a connection to Donald Morrison, the Megantic Outlaw. I did not find it but maybe if I'd worked longer I would have found that he was a 2nd cousin of husband of maternal.....  Harold is gone now but Peggy, tiny and feisty, is 101.

(https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Donald_Morrison_(outlaw)

Lastly I noticed that at #37 are the Pierces...L.B. Pierce; veteran of two World Wars; wounded at Passchendaele and thus unable to return to his profession as a barber; father of a son who did not return from WW2. And whose wife Bessie, was the granddaughter of Mom's GrandAunt Lavinia. All related in some way. All from  'the photo'.

So...people, places, pursuits...connections and remembrance.

PS A copy of the Voters list will go with Mom's next letter. I wonder if she will see more connections?

View from the window...Oh, who are the people in my neighborhood

 

For parents of a certain age, whose children are a little older than is comfortable admitting to, that is a familiar song from the childrens' television show Sesame Street. That was when, next to Mr. Roger's Neighborhood, Sesame Street was the show that kids grew up on. It was familiar, part of our daily routine..kind of like our neighbours.

We have lived in this neighborhood long enough to pay off a full term mortgage, see our children mature, marry and provide us with grandchildren. When we moved here we were the new kids on the block; a harried, working, broke young couple raising young boys.  

We are now among the few 'mature' couples on the street. We have lost many of our older friends, and those remaining are eyeing accommodation that does not require mowing or shoveling or chimney repairs. 

In this weirdest of times, while we 'stay at home', my view of our neighborhood is narrow, limited to my window primarily, as we are not outside interacting in normal ways.

Lest you think that I only think about birds and squirrels, although, 'slightly reclusive' may apply to my personality, I do see and am interested in my neighbours. You will have to settle primarily for pretty winter photos as I cannot stand at my window taking unauthorized pictures of them. 

My next door neighbor is from Europe originally. Her husband did his army time as legislated there, and then they moved to Canada. You can still hear the sounds of that land in her voice. Her husband, a sweet and gentle man, never learned much English, but he had the biggest, warmest smile, and would always wave and say, 'hello, missus'. He is gone now and at 93 she remains, keeping her home and property so tidy, and almost every day I see her drive past my window to visit the cemetery.

The neighbor on our other side has only been here a couple of years. When she came to view the house before she purchased, she was accompanied by many of her 7 children, and their children. Someone called across to us, 'don't worry, we are not all moving in.' (Perhaps, I was looking pale, or slightly hyperventilating, at that moment rather than welcoming) She is a wonderful friend now, and perfect neighbour. She lives alone, independent and active, with only 5% vision. She wanders all over town, crossing main intersections without a cane to indicate her vulnerability, the thought of which gives me nightmares! Every few days I see her walk past my window, head down so she can see the shadows which delineate the edge of the road. 

A small figure with white hair now, walks her a small black dog. She is the widow of the man we used to call the 'Mayor'. Their house was built slightly before ours, when this was the edge of town, and what is now a park across the road, was farmland. The Mayor seemed sometimes larger than life, big voice, loud laugh, and huge sense of fun. His hands were big, fingers thickened and gnarled from a lifetime of working in a foundry. He had a large presence and left a equally large hole when he left us. His widow lives there still, with his daughter there to provide company and help. Every few days she walks past my window, pauses to wave; a long-established habit we have, and then continues home with the small dog, who, like the widow, moves a little slower.

Someone that I see without fail, each day, is not my neighbour. I don't know where she lives, but our street is part of a well-established route that she walks each day with her grandson. She is tiny, this grandma; her face is weathered, and I know she does not speak English.  Over the past year I have watched the grandson grow. I think he must be about the age of our youngest grandson. I have watched the age-old parent-child dance begin; the tension between the encouragement of independent thought and behaviour, and the compliance often required for safety and/or the acceptance of authority. I think it is called 3. I don't think she understands what I say, but she does understand the 'Hello' and wave, and she waves back and stops her grandson from his exploring long enough to wave too. I enjoy their passage past our window.

During this time, we are isolated but not necessarily alone. We are privileged to have so many ways to be in contact with those that matter to us. I am reminded though that with a smile and a wave, we can offer, and receive some cheer, through the window. 

It's a beautiful day in the neighbourhood...

Thank you Mr. Rogers