Canada, Solo 1978

On the last day of September I caught the ferry from Digby to Saint John.     It was a fine day for the crossing - blue skies and rough waters, with white caps all the way.    But instead of flying home from Saint John, as my ex had done, I headed west to Maine.   I have to admit I ventured into the U.S.A. with mixed feelings.  I was anticipating what America might be like with some trepidation – a sinister hue coloured my perceptions, perhaps as a result of paying attention to the American news (so much violence), coupled with watching too many US movies and tv shows (more violence).  Somehow I expected the people to be different from Canadians – less friendly, more wary, more uptight.  But of course it's not true. The people, at least in this part of the country, are much like us.  And so far they seem friendly enough.   The landscape is somewhat different – more manicured with fewer ‘wild’ or undeveloped areas...

Glorious, glorious, glorious fall!     After a long drive we arrived here, in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, late in the day.   The endless forest of maple, birch, fir, pine, and alder explodes in brilliant reds, oranges and yellows.     Despite the drizzling rain Dusty and I walked (well, I walked, he ran, as usual), our footsteps just a quiet rustle on a deep soft blanket of fallen leaves and pine needles, and breathed in the pine-scented air.     Glorious, glorious, glorious fall!   The next day I awoke early as Dusty was keen to get out and check out some noises.  I was greeted by a decidedly overcast day, with rain drops falling intermittently off the leaves of the trees above my tent as the wind rattled their branches. So it was not really raining, I reasoned, and hoped for a break.  As luck would have it, within half an hour the sun was shining, so I tumbled out of the tent, had a quick breakfast and headed out fo...

Today a leisurely drive through a patchwork of green, and sometimes golden, fields flanked by multicoloured forests. Earlier, a heavy autumn fog descended, covering first just the tops, then descending half-way down the hillsides.     Fields of dry brown corn stalks, pumpkins on front porches, apple cider stands. Every so often a Small American town. First a few shacks and mobile homes.  Then a few run down but once elegant wood-frame houses, always white, and always peeling.   As I neared Stowe the late afternoon sun transformed this already lovely landscape into something spectacular – electrifying the red maples, golden oaks and yellow birches, intensifying the black lattice-work of the branches that laced, like fingers over the road. Every now and again a tall slender birch shone like a lone silver spire – a magical wand – against the colourful backdrop. Stowę’s a tourist town with lovely old buildings – craft stores, art galleries, ski shops – all tarted up. ...

This morning I awoke to a cold grey day, with no promise of better things to come. I took that as a signal that a driving day was in order. Back into Stowe and south west to Burlington for the ferry across Lake Champlain to New York.     The lake looked black and cold. The wind was whipping up white-caps on the grey-brown water.     In all quite bleak and unappealing. The small putt-putt ferry, with no 'promenade' deck to speak of, banged and crashed its way across the lake.     On the ‘other side’, the landscape was much the same as in Vermont – perhaps a little less hilly, but the trees and foliage the same.  But the drive through it was nowhere near as spectacular – partly due to the lack of sunshine to brighten the otherwise drab and drear landscape, but more importantly the way the landscape has been treated, or rather mistreated. Power lines run down both sides of the roads, with trees cut well back from them to make completely and absolutel...

Here I am again at Sweet Grass Farm, back 'home', among friends, and finally meeting little Rainbow, who is bigger and more alert and animated that I had expected.  And big brother Barney, careening around the yard and daring us all to keep up with his toddler energy.   This morning we all took a walk in the back fields, enjoying autumn, and each other.  These are my friends. These wonderful people, my friends.  On Sunday Sal and I made pies while Tom chopped walnuts and we all talked politics.   The need for a new federal party.   What to call it?   “The half-baked party.”  “Hard-boiled.”  “Humble pie.”  “That's it!  The Humble Pie Party.”   Pleased with our achievements –  both the pies and the new political party (well, a name anyway),  we sat down to a Thanksgiving feast.  We all held hands and Tom said grace:  "Fall, month of colours, thank you for the rainbows you have bro...

Sitting on a deep maroon coloured, frayed-at-the-edges, cut corduroy sofa in a turquoise-walled room with lime green floors and the oddest assortment of furniture I have ever seen. I’m in one of the many 'cabins’ for rent here at Balm Beach. This cabin has three bedrooms, so hopefully I may find one comfortable bed.  I’ve got cold running water, an electric stove, and the bare necessities of comfort.  There’s also a surprising amount of kitchenware -- all odds and ends, nothing matching, no lids to fit pots, etc. Still, the place may provide me with a metal fork, which I have gone without for quite some time now.  The gal running the place – a big old mama – told me where all her kids now live (Calgary, Kamloops, Hope) and why this place is so dirty – “we’re closed!”  Still, despite the dirty lime green floors and the generally run-down, broken and tattered look of the place, I think I’m better off here than in Awenda Park, which was sealed up tig...

Today is my 28 th   birthday.     I am celebrating it here, in a rental condo in St. Jovite, Quebec.     It’s an elegant place, with tall stainless steel and glass windows and sliding doors to a balcony overlooking, well, more condos.    Apart from the usual amenities (a great thoroughly modern kitchen and bathroom), i t also has a lovely franklin fireplace, set on a raised red brick hearth.     I have no wood for a fire, so have put my travelling candle there, for ambiance.     I am drinking cider out of a wine glass.  I washed before hand, just to be sure, and when  I set it down on the multi-coloured table-mat I saw that many little soap bubbles had become trapped in the hollow space between the glass bottom and the table mat. They reminded me of the image I had earlier that day, of how the mind’s cells might look – honey-combish, but much less regular than a honey-comb.  Under the wine glass, some of the...