MY FAVOURITE WEATHERMEN

I acknowledge that Anwar Knight and Tom Brown of CTV Toronto are talented weather presenters and admit that no one can match The Weather Network for long-range forecasting. I do love my Yahoo Weather App for instant temperature readings and in the case of severe weather forecasts immediately refer to the My Radar App on my iPad. However, none of these can match my three favourite weathermen for visual presentation.

Since moving to Uxbridge in 2012, I have headed to Uxpool for my early morning exercise. Much has been learned from the pool's experienced staff, strong friendships with fellow swimmers have been forged and introduction to my three favourite weathermen has been made. Who are they? Well.....

Jim often nostagically speaks about an exterior weather forecasting system written on an old barn board that decorated the outside wall of their family cottage.  It sounds similar to my three weathermen, but perhaps not quite as flamboyant.The board read:

Condition                                              Forecast

Board is Wet                                  Rain

Board is Dry                                   Not Raining

Shadow on Ground                       Sunny

White on Top of Board                   Snowing

Can't See Board                            Foggy

Swinging Board                             Windy

Board Gone                                  Tornado

Large sliding glass doors that run down the east wall of Uxpool overlook a local playground, pool parking and residences beyond. For most of the year, I enjoy that early morning view, but frankly admit that when heavy frost sneaks its tentacles up the windows and snow swirls blinding our outside world in white, I must do extra self-talk to convince myself that swimming that day is a good idea. Just get in!

Once in the water, my daily first glance is through the windows to my three weathermen who can be found gracing the end of the park. Yup! You would be correct. My favourite forecasters are trees. I have nicknamed them A, B and C........... short for Anemometer, Barometer and Condition. Accurate to a fault, they have never failed me. If I listen carefully, I can even hear them speak to me. I know - I'm certifiable!

Decked out in the lime green fuzz of new buds, my weathermen cheerily notify me that spring is on its way. The trio, their limbs set against a sinister black sky  and bent over in the same direction, warn me to don hat, scarf and rain gear before leaving the pool. Their brightly coloured leaves floating through the air as they descend, tell me that autumn is nearing its end. Sigh! Yesterday, their now naked branches clicking in the wind reminded me that snow tire time is rapidly approaching. I have become quite astute at reading their visual reports. Thanks guys!

So no. I don't watch Canada AM or look to my Yahoo Weather App. No huge weather maps, no talking heads, just early morning at the pool; my three weathermen tell me all I need to know.

OUR LAST TRIP

Whatever you want to do, do it now. There are only so many tomorrows. ( Michael Landon )

Where to next, Hon? is Jim's standard question for me at this time of year. My mind quickly ticks off places to which we have not yet travelled and have thought to visit - Chile and Argentina, Israel, South Africa, Spain, the Czech Republic, Norway............ OMG, the list of possibilities is quite simply overwhelming. We should go to Spain next, I think and then shake my head. Did I just use the word should? Why? To put a tick beside another country? Who am I trying to impress?

Perhaps it is because Jim and I are pushing seventy - egads, when did that happen - but all too frequently, we have dear friends fighting debilitating diseases or passing on. Father Time's clock ticks relentlessly on. Great physical condition appears to mean little. Five years ago a good friend, who religiously jogged fifty to sixty kilometres a week, regularly ran marathons, and appeared to be in top shape, dropped dead. Is that an advertisement for eating well and swimming daily? I wonder. 

Jim's, Where to next, Hon? made me stop and ask myself, What if there really was no tomorrow? What if this were to be our last trip? Where to? And so I posed the question to Jim. If you knew ahead of time that this would be our last trip, where would you go? His response was instantaneous. Italy! 

Two major, lengthy trips to Italia and we have both fallen in love with the Italian people, their culture, history and art, their food and wines, and mostly, their love of life. Recordati di vivere. Jim and I will, this time, journey where we have not yet travelled - into the land of the mafia, Calabria, and into the land of the trulli, Puglia. Rome may be my personal favourite city in the world, but during our last trip, Venice cast her magical la serenissima spell over Jim, seduced him and stole his heart. He voiced a wish then to live for a week in Venice, to shop at the Realto Market with the locals, to cook in an apartment overlooking the back canals and to wander the magical, tour mob-less streets at nighttime. Life is short. Let it be so! 

Today, we booked our air fare for next year and are both beyond excited. Now I have a winter filled with the enjoyment of researching, dreaming and filling in the details. My favourite pastime. Earphones and microphone on, Jim already has already plugged into his Rosetta Stone program. Si, parlo italiano...un po.  Will this be our last trip? That is most certainly not in our plans. Next year I hope to again ask, If you knew ahead of time that this would be our last trip, where would you go? But should there be no tomorrows, we will be happy.

Re-CALC-ulating!

Bagno Vignoni is a Tuscan bath town whose thermal springs have been celebrated since medieval times. Eschewing highway travel in favour of a scenic countryside drive, Jim and I headed out from Cortona with our G.P.S. chirping out directions. It was during this journey (September, 2011) that we tagged her with the Italian nickname, Gilo, by which we still refer to her. 

All went according to plan until, on our return trip through Tuscany's stunning "crete senesi", we were stopped dead in our tracks, our route impassable, having been fully closed for a village festival. What? Now how do we get home? Jim spontaneously turned right, into the tiny hillside village. "Recalculating", Gilo announced; with absolutely no other options, we trusted her directions. Through a labyrinth of narrow village streets, past farmer's stands in a local market and down barely navigable alleyways, Jim drove. Had our GPS gone mad? In 250 metres, turn right, came her next rather rapid direction. Obediently Jim did so and suddenly we found ourselves back on the main road, the village festival disappearing in our rear view mirror and the gorgeous crete senesi lying ahead. Oh, how I loved Gilo that day.

Horror stories about drivers placed in danger by their G.P.S abound. How about the Swiss driver who had to be rescued after he was directed up a remote mountain path? 

Looking at pictures such as these, I do have to ask myself when common sense should prevail. Thankfully, Jim and I have never been placed in a precarious situation due to Gilo's directions. Why then is our G.P.S. getting under my skin of late?

Returning from Georgian Bay on Sunday, Jim and I chose to cut south early and to pick up Highway 400 south of the congested Barrie area. Gilo obviously preferred the Barrie route as, like a sergeant major, she barked out U-turn orders five times before conceding to our route choice. Hey, who is in charge here?

Then there is Gilo's condescending, frustrated robot voice. Re-CALC-ulating!!! Why do I feel the need to apologize for forcing her to rethink a new route? I keep waiting for her to yell at us or for her circuits to blow up during the onerous recalculations. Bossy? Hell, yes! Perhaps she should be mounted in the back seat. Now there is an idea! I do get small satisfaction when pronunciation of street names is incorrect. My favourite? Take ramp to "Q" when we are merging on the QEW. 

All kidding aside, every time Jim and I venture forth, whether in a foreign country or at home in Canada, I marvel at G.P.S. technology. How did we ever travel by car without it? So much time wasted getting lost is now spared. So much time reading teeny tiny print is an agony no longer. I never was good at folding those giant maps, anyways. Boss away, Gilo! Have G.P.S., will travel.

NEWFOUNDLAND REFLECTIONS (3)

Subtitle: A NEWFOUNDLAND BLESSING

May the sun always shine on your wild wooded mountains.

May the sea beat as one with your rugged hearts alone.

May the doors of your homes always be open.

May God's hand guide your boats back home.

                        (Chorus  from Newfoundland Blessing by Rex Roberts)

What began as a trip to explore our son's adopted province morphed into a journey of discovery, learning, appreciation and inspiration. On numerous trips to visit Christopher, we have explored St. John's and the Avalon Penninsula to the south, but to quote Jim, The farthest north we have been is St. John's International Airport. Let's do it properly, he proposed. Et voila.

How little I knew of our most easterly province before this trip. I remember learning that Newfoundland joined confederation in 1949...and that's about it. No discussion of how Joey Smallwood garnered a majority vote to join Canada, no coverage of heart-wrenching resettlement issues, no description of early settlers, cod fishing or the seal hunt. When I asked Christopher what he had covered in school on our last province, he offered the memory of making popsicle-stick lobster traps. Now there's a real learning experience about a province whose economy at the time was based on cod fishing. How province-centric our education was.

Newfoundland's award winning ads portray a province of staggering, untouched, natural beauty. To experience its lushly forested mountains, rocky precipitous cliffs, windswept shoreline landscapes or tiny colourful outports is to realize that in real life, Newfoundland is even more beautiful than tourism ads portray. For me, the highlight and #6 checked off my bucket list, was the trip down Western Brook Pond. Sparkling blue waters, soaring cliffs, rushing waterfalls - an excursion I will forever remember.

Historic sites are meticulously maintained, guides, passionate and informed, and many lessons, for me, life changing.

Newfoundland's reputation for having the most hospitable, friendly population in Canada is no myth. I need only harken back to how Gander and its surrounding area responded to the 9/11 crisis. A heartwarming read is:

Not once during our three weeks were we greeted by anything but a smiling face and courteousness beyond measure in eagerness to serve meals, assist or answer questions. Perhaps this can be best illustrated by Christopher's experience during his first weeks in St. John's. Walking down Water Street, the equivalent of our Yonge Street, he stopped on the sidewalk. Had he forgotten something at home, he pondered. Thinking that Christopher's intention was to cross Water Street, like the parting of the Red Sea, traffic halted. No traffic light, no crosswalk, simply a section of busy road. At this juncture, Christopher, feeling guilty, crossed to the unwanted side of the street. How could he possibly disappoint all of these drivers?

And the dumb Newfie? Don't for a second believe it. Witty, keenly intelligent and well informed are the three descriptions that immediately come to mind when I think of the cross section of Newfoundlanders with whom Jim and I spent time.

Long gone are the days when Newfoundland cuisine immediately brought to mind Ches' Fish and Chips. Raymond's Restaurant in St. John's has been named by Canadian Chefs as the number one restaurant in Canada and justifiably so. Bacalao, Chinched Bistro and The Mallard Cottage would complete my personal St. John's favourites list. Newfoundland chefs refer to foraging and sourcing locally grown ingredients. With fresh seafood, game and produce abundant, this new regional cuisine has taken hold across the island. From Trinity on the east, to Fogo Island on the north, to Gros Morne on the west, Jim and I savoured some of the best meals ever experienced on our travels. So much cod was consumed by me that I have grown gills. And I promise that you have not lived until you have eaten a warm partridgeberry tart drizzled with custard. Oh my! 

If you have viewed those beautiful Newfoundland ads on TV or read the print versions and thought, maybe, I say, "Just do it. Go." I guarantee that you will experience a fascinating, beautiful corner of Canada whose warm heart is larger than its area. 

Newfoundlanders like to refer to, 1949 when Canada joined Newfoundland. Dear Newfoundland, I am so happy that Canada decided to do so. What a blessing!

NEWFOUNDLAND REFLECTIONS (2)

Subtitle: DO GO TO FOGO

Never heard of Fogo? Don't worry; not many have. Travel and Leisure Magazine refers to Fogo as a fishing community off Newfoundland's northeast coast marked by craggy shores and blissful nothingness. I would go further, defining Fogo as a shining example of how a population can retain valuable local traditions from the past while moving boldly into the future. I loved every moment spent on this northern Newfoundland island and would return in a heartbeat.

Perhaps, I should begin my island love letter with DO NOT GO TO FOGO if your preferences lean to shopping malls and designer outlets, chain hotels and motels, gitchy souvenir shops.....you get the picture, I'm sure.

DO GO if you are into 110-mile coastlines dotted with quaint, colourful little houses, weather-worn fishing sheds shakily balancing on stilts, windswept landscapes, caribou herds munching on bog grasses, small striking art studios, stunning hiking trails and welcoming people. And oh, I shouldn't forget, molasses partridgeberry tarts.

1960's efforts by the provincial government of Newfoundland to resettle Fogo Island residents to the mainland thankfully met with a resounding defeat. Fogo's tight knit outport way of life and fishing industry continued successfully until in 1992 the Canadian government shut down the commercial cod fishing industry in the North Atlantic. As with other outport communities, the economic backbone of which was their cod fishing industry, Fogo Island was devastated. Family homes were deserted for mainland living. Was Fogo finished? 

With determination, great resilience, and the ability to adapt, islanders responded by slowly switching to fishing for snow crab and shrimp. No easy feat given expensive gear requirements and an enormous learning curve.

And then Zita Cobb returned home. One of seven children of an illiterate Fogo Island fisherman, Zita made her way to university, ultimately becoming a multi millionaire as an executive with a Silicon Valley fibre optics firm. So, you say, many Newfoundlanders return home. Yah? The difference? Zita Cobb returned to Fogo Island determined to use her fortune to renewing Fogo Island's economy while conserving its past. She began the Shorefast Foundation which has supported and developed local businesses, attracted a community of artists by offering residences, and opened the cutting-edge Fogo Island Inn.

Constructed on ancient shoreline rocks, the inn's contemporary design can at first appear out of place until one recognizes that the entire structure, built of wood and partially on stilts, pays homage to the aged fishermen's huts. Every employee, whether trained in the kitchen or hotel, is a resident on Fogo Island. Menus in the dining room are based on the local land and sea - berries, cod, mushroom, etc. Guests are introduced to the local culture and traditions whether through music, watching a fishing punt being constructed or touring the island. The list of activities is endless. Profits are ploughed back into the Shorefast Foundation.

Enjoying our last night's sun set, I realize how I am suddenly not ready to leave the following day, how I have fallen in love with the unique beauty of this northeastern Newfoundland island, how the tenacity and warmth of it's people have inspired me and how I cannot wait to return.  

My advice  - DO GO TO FOGO!

 

NEWFOUNDLAND REFLECTIONS (1)

Cold, chilly ocean winds buffeted our bodies. A gray sky sombrely accented forbiddingly dark forests and ragged sinister cliffs as they cut into the sea. Before Jim and I lay the desolate buildings of a tiny cod fishing outport. I involuntarily shuddered as the stark reality of 1800's outport life and the Herculean struggle to survive struck me. 

Come spring, village men and boys would venture into the frigid, often gale-tossed sea to fish for cod. Death by drowning in the icy unforgiving Atlantic was an ever present danger. Once ashore, all village hands, women and children alike, would be required to gut and split the fish, soak the cod and then lay them on flakes to dry. Once dry, the cod would be salted again and packed in barrels for shipment to Europe and the Caribbean. Day in and day out for over five months, their backbreaking work would continue. No weekends or long weekends, no respite. A small number of cod were retained for winter use by the villagers, but the bulk was traded for goods required for survival - tools, flour, and sugar. The greater the catch, the greater the chance of surviving the dark long winters. And surviving those Newfoundland winters was not a given.

Our guide showed us the log construction of the homes and the spaces chinked with sphagnum moss which, in high winds, dried and blew away. She spoke of how the men would haul, trudging from long distances in deep snow, evergreen trees for stacking against shed walls in a desperate attempt to block out the cold, of beds in the morning covered with a thin layer of powdered snow that had drifted in between the cracks. I shuddered to imagine the existence. Small wonder, many settlers and their families, after burning even the wood floors of their cabins as a last resort, were found frozen to death in early spring.

But if cod was king, it was the seal that made it possible for outport populations to remain. Cod fishing was the primary activity in summer and early fall, but near the end of a brutal winter, provisions were frequently scarce and survival tentative. Spring's seal hunt rounded out the year providing invaluable meat, fat and skins for warming outerwear.

A visit to Elliston on the Bonavista Penninsula reminded me again of the tenuous existence of Newfoundland's outport settlers. Here a monument has been raised in honour of 251 sealers who died in two separate but simultaneous disasters. So many lost, so young.

Imagine being dropped by your ship onto an ice flow with little food, no shelter and dressed in clothing ill-suited for sudden squalls. Imagine then being stranded, unable to find your ship in blinding blizzard conditions, freezing to death.

Most moving is the statue that has been erected. I am quoting from the descriptive sign located beside the monument:

At age 16, Albert John Crewe of Elliston couldn't wait to go sealing. It was the last thing his mother, Mary, wanted. Her husband, Ruben, had already survived the S.S. Greenland sealing disaster. Mary was insistent that he not go sealing again.

But Albert John was determined to go. And, to protect him, Ruben went too. Like many women in Newfoundland with sons, husbands, brothers and fathers sealing, Mary did what she could. She helped them prepare. She waited and prayed for their safe return.

On March 3, 1914, Mary woke to a vision that confirmed her worst fears. As depicted in this sculpture, Albert John had died in Ruben's arms on the ice, the father protecting his son until they both perished.

I bowed my head, overcome with emotion and attempted to imagine surviving the hardships of these early settlers to Newfoundland. I am in awe of their bravery and spirit.

A few days later, wine glass in hand, enjoying Christopher's company in the warmth of his living room and discussing these two sites, I wondered out loud, We have Victoria Day. We celebrate Labour Day. In Ontario, we even have Family Day. Why not a day to honour the settlers who forged a life in our country from Newfoundland to B.C. to the Northwest Territories? Newfoundland has poignantly reminded me that our settlers' bravery, ingenuity, struggle and ability to survive the hardships of their new world forms the base of our nation today.

Oh Canada, we need to honour our heroic predecessors and to be reminded from whence we come. Canadian Settlers' Day. How appropriate would that be?

THE ISLAND ADVENTURES OF HUFF AND PUFF

For Morgan and Zachary

Dear Morgan and Zachary,

I am Huff. And I am Puff. And we are puffins. Actually, we are now YOUR puffins. Your Grammie and Grampa have invited us to fly home with them and to live with you in Richmond Hill. We are very excited to meet you! Before we leave for Ontario, though, we should tell you a bit about ourselves and then we want to take you on a tour of our island, Newfoundland, for the next few weeks. 

Most people recognize us because of our large orange beaks. I hear, Zachary, that orange is your favourite colour. We sure like that! Some people call us the "clowns of the sea", but we don't look like clowns, do we? We prefer to call ourselves "sea parrots". What do you think?

Your Grampa and Grammie have told us, Zachary, that you love to fish. Wow! Huff and I should get along really well with you, because we love to fish, too. We fish for herring, hake, capelin and even sand eels. To catch fish, Huff and I dive deep into the ocean and catch the fish in our beaks. Num! Num! Capelin fish are my favourite dinner. Huff likes to feast on sand eels. Eeeeew! I think they are too slimy.

Here I am searching for fish in the ocean.

Morgan, we hear from your Grammie and Grampa that you are an amazing swimmer. Can we please, please visit your cottage one day and watch you swim? Puff and I swim in the Atlantic Ocean. Brrrr! The water is very, very cold, but our waterproof feathers allow us to stay warm whether swimming on the surface or diving underwater. Our feathers act like your Daddy's Iron Man wetsuit. Is your water cold, too? We can dive as deep as 60 metres. Puff and I swim by flapping our wings as if we are flying through the water and use our feet to steer. How do you swim? I can't wait to find out. Perhaps you can teach us a few tricks, Morgan.

Sometimes, after diving, I get water in my ears. It's itchy! Does that ever happen to you? What a pain!

Your Grampa and Grammie tell us that you have nice rooms, decorated in pink and blue. Will we be able to stay with you in them? Our home in Newfoundland is in a burrow between the cliff rocks, decorated in boring brown. Our room can be cold and wet sometimes, but we do have a great view of the Atlantic Ocean.

We are not very quick on our feet, but Huff and I would love to go for small walks with you........slowly, that is!! What are sidewalks, anyways?  Don't you walk on grass? It's fun; it tickles our feet.

If we don't say so ourselves, we are excellent fliers. We can flap our wings at 400 beats a minute. Can you do that with your arms? Try it sometime. Whew! It can be hard work. We have a difficult time taking off from the water, but once we are in the air we can fly as fast as 88 kilometres per hour. Cool, eh? Maybe we should race your grandparents Air Canada plane back to Ontario. Only joking! Your Uncle Chris laughs and laughs and laughs every time he watches us try to take off. Perhaps you can teach us that "squish your head" thing that you do to Uncle Chris. Hee! Hee!

Well, it is time for us to say goodbye for now. If you check Facebook with your Mom and Dad every day, we will send pictures of our adventures across Newfoundland. Then, we can come home to Ontario and finally meet you.

Until then, we are sending you loads of hugs!

Huff and Puff Puffin