/columns/123/Rural-Roots Rural Roots is a column by Fred Jones Mon, 21 May 2012 16:06:01 GMT 5 http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/208840/Rural-Roots/Greening-of-the-forest I’ve noticed something disturbing when I look at our bush.  While the poplar trees are flushing with yellow-green beginnings of spring leaf, the pine trees are, in many patches, turning brown. What gives? It seems that nature is a tad confused. Spring came early, or what we at first believed was spring.  Certainly the signs were there – warm temperatures in March, the snow melting quickly but into the ground and not running off thanks to very little frost in the ground, the ground drying very nicely.  Then came April with a strange mix of rain and cold. Worst of all, we had a couple of killer frosts.   ere we are in May and the days have been wet with cold winds.  The grass is certainly growing but to get it cut requires strategic planning, almost some kind of well-planned, covert mission, a hit-and-run, get-in-quickly-and-get-the-job-done before the next shower kind of thing. So, what is happening? I’ve been asking around. It appears that the unusual, unaccustomed warmth of March signalled to the pine trees that they could wakey-wakey from their sleep and get them juices flowing, which they did.  The flowing juices sent another signal to begin new needle growth. All systems go. Then April arrived and with it, frost – killer frost that killed all that new growth.  Slowly, the needles have been turning brown. Not all spruce, balsam, and pine have been affected.  I look out of my picture window to observe the trees to the south and see stands unaffected by this sorry turn of events; and right beside them are swaths of browning conifers. Meanwhile, the poplars are leafing in patches with other groups where nothing seems to be happening.  Perhaps I’m forgetting that leafing doesn’t occur all at once, that it occurs at different times for these trees.  Perhaps it is still too soon to tell. As I recall, the birch leaf later than the poplar. When the birch sap rises, the branches take on a reddy-purple colour.  Many has been the time that as I am driving at this time of year when the flora is waking up, that colour on the birch helps me distinguish between poplar and birch until the leaves appear. This glitch of nature has affected more than just Northwestern Ontario. In the south of the province I heard on CBC Radio that fruit farmers have been hit, especially those farms inland away from the lakes.  Apparently fruit growers closer to Lake Ontario and Lake Erie may have been spared the killer frosts. Same thing happened: early warmth, juices start flowing, new growth then nailed by later killer frosts.  Apples, peaches, pears, plums, grapes, and cherries will be in shorter supply come this summer.  Expect the prices to sore. Back here in Northwestern Ontario, does this freak of nature spell doom for the forest? No, say the experts.  This warm-then-freeze event has happened before and the trees survived.  The foresters are betting that the mature trees affected will survive to slush green needles again.  The very young tree-lings, the saplings, however, probably won’t survive.  In the bush, the forest floor can be re-seeded next year. But for tree nurseries growing and selling seedlings for re-planting, if the seedlings are outdoors, unfortunately for the farmers, probable crop failure. I’ve been told that we’ve needed that rain. But I like to work outside on sunny days – who doesn’t?  I just wish we could have a week of warm and dry so that I could get some much-needed work done like mowing the grass, scraping the horse paddocks of their winter leavings, and getting those fence post holes drilled.  This clammy English climate can leave now! You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0.   Fri, 11 May 2012 11:55:03 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/208840/Rural-Roots/Greening-of-the-forest http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/207153/Rural-Roots/Warm-country-smells So I was sitting in the comfy chair awaiting the coffee to have dripped into the pot. It was early morning and still dark outside. One of the orange cats was nesting in my lap and, aside from the sound of the coffeemaker, all was quiet in Casa Jones. I had not yet completely thrown off all of the covers from my brain; keen, morning alertness was a thing of the future. So while waiting, I drifted off into recalling the sounds and smells of the previous day. That began grey with drizzling rain. The temperature was enough above zero that when I exited the hoosie, wonderfully fresh smells joined the air that I breathed in deeply. After winter that is almost aroma-free and then, but for a few exceptions, cold days without the sun’s warmth to really release those intoxicating scents of earth, of the bush, this morning was very welcome indeed. The air was cool and the rain had released pungent smells that are quite distinct and different from those of a warm, dry morning.  There is a richness that wafts into the nostrils.  Every sense was heightened. I had to drive to one of my hay suppliers since he was leaving for two weeks the next day and we would run out before he returned if I didn’t make the journey this morning to stock up. I discovered the drizzle was an on-again, off-again affair as I drove to his farm.  Snow is OK on hay. It sits on top and doesn’t soak in. A steady downpour of rain is not a good thing for hay since it penetrates the bales and can start the process of mould that the horses must not eat. But I got lucky. The drizzle was light and it ended well before I arrived at my destination. In fact, my luck held all the way back to our farm and I was able to remove and store the bales before the drizzle re-visited us. In the afternoon, the sun had replaced the clouds. Walking along the drive to toss hay to the few horses not eating from a round hay bale (they being on a diet), I observed the aromas had changed. The sun had performed its chemistry and the same smells, especially of pine, that the morning drizzle had released, now took on a different quality, a dry but no less effective assault on the nose. And then there were the songs of birds: robins, woodpeckers, both the rat-a-tat-tats and their plaintive calls, our resident ravens, and off by the pond, the rusty gate screeches of red-winged blackbirds. Geese are still flying north.  I hear a single series of honks; I look up to sometimes see a pair of geese and sometimes an entire high-flying V. And though the temperature has not been consistently warm, today as I threw hay to one pair of equines, I distinctly heard a mosquito around my left ear.  And so it has begun. Later that night after bringing into the barn the boarded horses and walking back to Casa Jones, the still night was filled with the song of spring peepers, those wee froggies calling for mates in the pond.  Above in the blackness was the swooping sound of the night bird whose wings actually make a rapid, repeating sound of rising notes.  Someone once told me the name of the bird but with my Swiss-cheese memory, I’ve forgotten.  A friend who used to live in the neighbourhood, liked to term this night flyer, the Dweeb Bird.  I have no idea why. When the days get warmer (touch wood), I await eagerly the songs of returning white-throated sparrows and the veery, one of my favourite song birds. Then I’ll know that summer is “a-cumen in.” You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0.   Fri, 04 May 2012 12:44:59 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/207153/Rural-Roots/Warm-country-smells http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/205651/Rural-Roots/So-wet,-so-soon So I’m driving Big Red, my diesel tractor, to the upper paddock.  On the front-end spear is a large round hay bale. The horses have cleaned up and they now need more. I’ve done this deed dozens and dozens of times without incident. Except this time. This time Red and I almost didn’t make it. Why? The ground is extremely wet and soft. Not so you’d notice, mind, on initial inspection.  I’ve walked to the upper paddock lots of times to check on the water tub or to fetch a horse for the purpose of riding.  Sure, the ground feels a tad mushy.  All winter long I’ve been ferrying hay to the upper equines without getting stuck, without bogging down. But this time, what appeared to be solid wasn’t. It was a struggle ploughing through the softened earth but we eventually made it to the gate at the top of the paddock.  I usually choose to enter the paddock through that gate as opposed to the bottom one since the ground is higher at that point and the chances of bogging down are fewer, or so the theory goes.  To open the gate without horses choosing to make a dash for it (actually it is usually only the obstreperous pony), I first, or someone first, takes hay to line along the fence so as to distract the neigh-sayers.  Then we open the top gate and in I drive to deposit the bale in its holder and quickly back out.  On nice, dry, hard ground not a problem; over in a few seconds. Not this time. It was an even slower slog once inside the paddock and that came as a surprise since that part of the paddock is usually, no matter what, dry and solid. Retreating from the paddock was also an adventure as the large, rear tractor tires spun whipping up huge clods of, well, muck, splattering me. Oh joy. But, we made it out without me having to holler for help from my long-suffering neighbour, Donny, who happens to own an even bigger machine that can extract Big Red from the clutches of the muck. When I returned along the lane, I saw what damage Red’s tires had done just in attempting to get to the paddock. Virtual troughs had been created where there had never been any before. In any previous spring, the ground had never been this soft.  I wondered why this time. “Because, Fred, spring came very early and we have had a fair amount of rain and/or snow,” replied my wife Laura. “And the ground has had very little warmth from the sun. It has been too cold for it to dry up.”  Oh.  There is always a reason for why stuff happens but it usually takes someone else (often Laura) to clue me in.  I sometimes feel like Pooh Bear with very little brain. The family has even threatened to explain stuff to me using sock puppets.  Well, whatever it takes, I guess. You can get in touch with Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com.   Fri, 27 Apr 2012 17:04:25 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/205651/Rural-Roots/So-wet,-so-soon http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/203868/Rural-Roots/Winter's-last-gasp? So, I was going to devote this entire column telling you all about my bucolic saunter down to our beaver pond and how burgeoning green growth and spring-like, earthy smells assaulted my senses.  Then it snowed. And it blowed.  But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Saturday evening, our neighbour, Wendy, stopped by and informed us that a fierce storm was approaching.  The weather guys were calling for rain changing to sleet, changing to freezing rain and sleet, changing to snow accompanied by fierce winds.  “Snow? Say it ain’t so!” I whimpered.  Just the previous day I had done that sauntering bit down to the beaver pond, a place dear to my heart and one I’d avoided especially since the pond is a rest stop for migrating geese.  I have been tempted to put up a sign by the side of the pond that reads “Feathered Friends: Food, Fuel, & Accommodation while U Wait” Well, I don’t know about that fuel bit.   The day was gorgeous. When the dogs realized that we were, in fact, going for a walk and heading in a direction we’d not taken since, oh, last fall, they leapt and attacked my hand (all with affection) as we started off.  There is a lane way that is bordered on the west side by a paddock and on the east by trees.  In that bit of bush, I have planted red pine trees that seem to have suddenly surged up after a couple of years biding their time.  The dogs were happy slipping in and out of the bush, noses to the ground. When we arrived at the pond, the surface was like glass mirroring perfectly the trees, rushes and the occasional cloud gently floating overhead.  I stopped suddenly having detected a spreading v-shaped ripple on the water.  Beaver? Muskrat? No, a single Canada goose swimming very quietly with its head and neck low to the surface away from the intruders.  Wait, these guys mate for life.  Where is the other one? And as soon as I thought that thought, the second goose swam out of the rushes to join its mate well away from snuffling pooches who, fortunately, took no notice of the subtle movement on the pond. I watched for about five minutes to see if any other feathered denizens would appear like red-winged black birds or Beave or Ratty.  But no, only Ma and Pa goose.  The air was fragrant with the rich smells of earth, water and pine since I was standing right next to one of my planted red pines, a couple of self-seeded spruce, and tamarack whose green buds were just beginning to show.  You had to look closely (and in my case squint) to discern them.  So, spring, coming along just fine, thank you. And then wham!Winter, back again.  Boo and hiss! Oh, it won’t stay; the snow will melt; the grass will riz; and as the saying goes: “I wonder where the boidies is?”  That is, how have the newly arrived survived this mean blow hurled at us by winter?  Son Doug was worried about our resident ravens, Edgar and Lenore.  “Oh, don’t worry about them, Doug,” I soothed. “They stay here all winter and survive the coldest of conditions.  No, it is all of those little grey and brown jobbies, the sparrows, thrushes, robins, et al, for whom this storm could potentially be a killer. No chirping today.”  I pray that their eggs don’t freeze, that they are safe and fluffed out on their nests and able to wait out this storm until they can resume the task of finding food and getting a new family going. Heck, by the time you read this missive, fine weather (hopefully) will have re-asserted its claim on the land and all who dwell therein, this storm but a blip in our memories. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0.   Thu, 19 Apr 2012 11:40:30 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/203868/Rural-Roots/Winter's-last-gasp? http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/201308/Rural-Roots/Winter-hasn't-given-up My wife, Laura, has made a bet with me.  She bet me a muffin and a coffee that if we were to get any more snow this spring, it would only be at most, two inches.  Laura is an optimist.  Alas, I am not. I’m not even cautiously optimistic.  Based on experience and on a somewhat pessimistic view (based on experience), I’ve predicted that, much as we could fervently hope that winter has given up for this year, it hasn’t.  It is lying in wait biding its time, a couple of snow falls in reserve much like some kid who hasn’t exhausted his pile of snowballs during some epic battle.  He always has a couple in reserve.  Recently, I was fetching a couple of large, square, hay bales from Fritz, one of my suppliers.  It was Monday morning and we’d awakened to a drop in the mercury accompanied by a fierce wind.  Cold is what it was especially after the lengthy respite of warmth that more than once approached summer temperatures.  Before heading off to Fritz’s farm, I checked the outdoor water tubs for the horses.  Frozen with an inch of ice on top except for a small, horsey-nose shaped hole in the ice where the equines had sought a drink.  And why had ice formed on top of the water?  Because Farmer Fred had removed the water heaters thinking that Ol’ Man Winter had packed up and gone.  Foolish Farmer Fred. I mentioned this irksome fact to Farmer Fritz who looked at me and barked a laugh.  “Fred, it’s only March.  You can expect a night or two of freezing conditions.  Wouldn’t be surprised if we still get more snow.”  True, but the prolonged warmth coupled with the ugly scene of extension cords running all over the place prompted my rash decision to roll up everything in an attempt at Order and Good Government chez Famer Fred.  To add insult to injury (my pride), I hadn’t bothered to plug in Big Red, my diesel tractor.  Hadn’t had to.  Red had been starting just fine, thank you, without electrical encouragement.  That is two strikes, Fred.  Shall we try for three? Murphy of Murphy’s Law has been a frequent and undesirable visitor to our farm.  Actually, if truth be told, he has only plagued me.  Often I’ve shouted to heavens, fist clenched, “Why me, Murphy, why me?”  Well, I’ve written before in this space about Murphy’s torments versus my just plain slips on the banana peels of life.  I acknowledge my own un-doings as opposed to those mischiefs visited upon me through no fault of my own.  And since I’ve informed the readers of this column about such mishaps and their true author (Murphy), I’ve been developing a bit of a reputation at least with my other hay supplier, Rudy. This Saturday I trucked to his farm for my regular pick-up of round hay bales.  As I sat in the truck awaiting Rudy to load both truck and trailer, I saw instead him climb down from his tractor and head toward his house.  What the...?  Soon Rudy showed up driving his truck that he parked right in front of his tractor.  Now, I was the last on Rudy’s list of clients collecting round hay bales for this day.  He had four remaining on his trailer and four is what I was picking up.  But, as soon as he parked the truck in front of his tractor, I knew what was afoot.  I’d had to do the same thing a few times as well. Out came the jumper cables to jump-start the beast.  His big, green machine fired up and I helped Rudy stow the cables.  He duly climbed back into his tractor and proceeded to load my truck and trailer with the hay.  When he was through, he climbed down out of the tractor cab and came to greet me.  Without pausing, Rudy clamped a hand on my shoulder and with a grin on his face announced that it was obvious that I’d brought Murphy with me.  See?  Reputation.  Unfair.  But I don’t think it qualifies as strike three. But just think: Laura and I out for coffee and a muffin regardless of who wins the bet.  Wow!  A date!  Woo-hoo!   Thu, 05 Apr 2012 16:28:51 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/201308/Rural-Roots/Winter-hasn't-given-up http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/199680/Rural-Roots/Winter-hasn't-given-up My wife, Laura, has made a bet with me.  She bet me a muffin and a coffee that if we were to get any more snow this spring, it would only be at most, two inches.  Laura is an optimist.  Alas, I am not. I’m not even cautiously optimistic.  Based on experience and on a somewhat pessimistic view (based on experience), I’ve predicted that, much as we could fervently hope that winter has given up for this year, it hasn’t.  It is lying in wait biding its time, a couple of snow falls in reserve much like some kid who hasn’t exhausted his pile of snowballs during some epic battle.  He always has a couple in reserve.  Recently, I was fetching a couple of large, square, hay bales from Fritz, one of my suppliers.  It was Monday morning and we’d awakened to a drop in the mercury accompanied by a fierce wind.  Cold is what it was especially after the lengthy respite of warmth that more than once approached summer temperatures.  Before heading off to Fritz’s farm, I checked the outdoor water tubs for the horses.  Frozen with an inch of ice on top except for a small, horsey-nose shaped hole in the ice where the equines had sought a drink.  And why had ice formed on top of the water?  Because Farmer Fred had removed the water heaters thinking that Ol’ Man Winter had packed up and gone.  Foolish Farmer Fred. I mentioned this irksome fact to Farmer Fritz who looked at me and barked a laugh.  “Fred, it’s only March.  You can expect a night or two of freezing conditions.  Wouldn’t be surprised if we still get more snow.”  True, but the prolonged warmth coupled with the ugly scene of extension cords running all over the place prompted my rash decision to roll up everything in an attempt at Order and Good Government chez Famer Fred.  To add insult to injury (my pride), I hadn’t bothered to plug in Big Red, my diesel tractor.  Hadn’t had to.  Red had been starting just fine, thank you, without electrical encouragement.  That is two strikes, Fred.  Shall we try for three? Murphy of Murphy’s Law has been a frequent and undesirable visitor to our farm.  Actually, if truth be told, he has only plagued me.  Often I’ve shouted to heavens, fist clenched, “Why me, Murphy, why me?”  Well, I’ve written before in this space about Murphy’s torments versus my just plain slips on the banana peels of life.  I acknowledge my own un-doings as opposed to those mischiefs visited upon me through no fault of my own.  And since I’ve informed the readers of this column about such mishaps and their true author (Murphy), I’ve been developing a bit of a reputation at least with my other hay supplier, Rudy. This Saturday I trucked to his farm for my regular pick-up of round hay bales.  As I sat in the truck awaiting Rudy to load both truck and trailer, I saw instead him climb down from his tractor and head toward his house.  What the...?  Soon Rudy showed up driving his truck that he parked right in front of his tractor.  Now, I was the last on Rudy’s list of clients collecting round hay bales for this day.  He had four remaining on his trailer and four is what I was picking up.  But, as soon as he parked the truck in front of his tractor, I knew what was afoot.  I’d had to do the same thing a few times as well. Out came the jumper cables to jump-start the beast.  His big, green machine fired up and I helped Rudy stow the cables.  He duly climbed back into his tractor and proceeded to load my truck and trailer with the hay.  When he was through, he climbed down out of the tractor cab and came to greet me.  Without pausing, Rudy clamped a hand on my shoulder and with a grin on his face announced that it was obvious that I’d brought Murphy with me.  See?  Reputation.  Unfair.  But I don’t think it qualifies as strike three. But just think: Laura and I out for coffee and a muffin regardless of who wins the bet.  Wow!  A date!  Woo-hoo!   Thu, 29 Mar 2012 14:06:31 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/199680/Rural-Roots/Winter-hasn't-given-up http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/198477/Rural-Roots/Signs-of-spring-arrive Of course, the unusual and sudden blast of warmth possibly setting records for this time of year should have been a clue. But, even the U.N. scientists have been warning us lo these past five to ten years that extremes would become the norm and the norm or what we’ve grown to accept as the seasonal patterns would all but disappear.  I had a chance to experience this temperature swing to June/July-like conditions last week and again during this past weekend both in town and here at our farm.  On those first days of heat, the thermometer in the vehicle in which I was motoring displayed plus eleven in the city and plus twenty-one farther inland where we live.  On the weekend I took son, Doug to a movie.  The day was clear and sunny and very warm – plus 27 in South Gillies.  For the first time this year, we drove with the windows down.  But, once in the city and as we headed up May Street toward the theater, Doug suddenly exclaimed in words what I was seeing through the window: a solid-seeming wall of fog to the north.  The thermometer read plus nineteen and, I’d wager, that if I’d kept driving into that fog, the temperature would have visibly dropped the farther north we drove.  Why such a discrepancy twixt temperature readings in town and here in the country?  The lake effect, of course. One morning last week, I arose early, well, early given that the children didn’t have to marshal their bodies and souls out the door to catch the school bus.  After starting the coffee, I elected to step outside with pooches and walk along the drive to fetch the newspaper.  The air was crisp and cool, the sun thinking about rising, a sliver of moon and one star still visible in the western sky.  There is one point on the driveway beside which a willow bush has grown.  I observed that it now has pussy-willows along it’s branches.  I noticed this spring-time phenomenon because the over-hanging branch smacked me in the face as I walked, head down reading the front page of the paper.  Ouch and then, ah, a sign of spring. The next day as I was leading horses out of the barn to their paddocks for the day, I heard and then spotted a lone Canada goose flying from the direction of our beaver pond.  An anomaly?  Nope.  That afternoon a clock of honkers flew over our barn coming from the southwest direction.  I guess that about confirms it: spring is here. And then there is the rapid disappearance of the snow.  One day you could tell that evaporation had been taking place since much more was revealed on the ground and by that I mean snow-covered objects now visible and, of course, a winter’s worth of doggie deposits hitherto hidden.  It always comes as a shock as to how much our four-footed, tail-waggers leave each winter.  In summer they tend to venture further into the bush (bless their hearts) to do their business or, perhaps, I just manage to clean it up a lot sooner.  The snow rather prevents such diligence. I observed the paper-fetching ritual this morning and saw that almost all of the snow has departed except in north-facing regions and under the trees of course.  But wow!  What speed with which the change has taken place!  The good news is that because of the lack of frost this winter, pretty much all of that moisture has soaked into the ground.  Good for water well, good for the bush, good for the fields where crops will grow. Then there are the smells.  What is the difference between pine aromas in freezing weather and pine aromas in hot weather?  When it is cold, it is hard to smell the pine.  You have to stick your face right in it.  My wife, Laura, especially doesn’t like a spruce Christmas tree because she thinks it smells like cat pee.  I, on the other hand, make no such comparisons.  I love it.  In hot weather, suddenly as soon as you open the front door and step out, your senses are assailed with a mixture of aromas almost forgotten, rich and complex.  One breaths deep. Tuesday was the Vernal Equinox, the first official day of spring.  It is almost like Maw Nature punched a time clock: “Ahem...let there be spring!”  And lo, it was.   Fri, 23 Mar 2012 14:58:41 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/198477/Rural-Roots/Signs-of-spring-arrive http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/197061/Rural-Roots/St.-Patrick-arrived-a-week-early Well, it was a hoot. Though a week early (due to scheduling of the band), rural neighbours got together Sunday evening at our local community hall for fine food and incredible entertainment for an early St. Paddy’s Day festivity. The event has been put on by our hall board folk spearheaded by Marcus of Rose Valley Inn. We went for the first time last year to be feted with traditional Irish dishes cooked by Marcus and made to stomp feet and clap hands by the amazing Pierre Schryer and friends playing traditional Irish, Scots, and French Canadian jigs, reels, and waltzes.  I vowed that if this were to happen again, I’d be front and center. It happened again.  Though not front and center – we arrived a wee bit late due to having to deal with our horses –  but we secured places at a table just before the music began.  And what music!  This time Pierre was there with his wife Marrie, not only friendly, beautiful lass, mother of two handsome kids who are also budding fiddlers, but Principal trumpet with our local symphony orchestra.  Pierre’s sister, Julie had with her partner, Pat O’Gorman, and their children driven up from just east of Sault Saint Marie where they live to join in the musical romp.  We also had Dan, friend of Pierre from Michigan who could do traditional step dancing with the best of them and play the bones and conduct us through a couple of square dances towards the end of the evening. The stage in our community hall was packed with people bowing and blowing or tickling the ivories (Julie). Have I told you about our community hall?  It is old and made of wood.  When I am inside I get the impression that I’m in a giant roll-top desk. The walls are sided with horizontal slats of wood that go up and continue over the ceiling and down the other side. You can take your pick as to which side you want your eyes to wander.  Over the years the hall has been used for everything from 4-H celebrations, various holiday teas and bizarre, after-funeral gatherings, and through the past 20 years, our own amateur theater group known as Mile Hill Melodrama. Four years ago, Marcus decided to celebrate St. Paddy’s Day with a feast.  Somehow, he managed last year to snag Pierre Schryer to come and help us smile and tap our toes.  And, as I mentioned, he did it again this year. Well, for the gathered faithful, the evening was a huge success.  The band played while Marcus and Deb, his wife, and other helpers laid out the feast. At one point, Pat (Julie’s mate) started to grab his bag pipes but Pierre wondered out loud if Marcus was ready to serve.  Someone bellowed “No!  Play the pipes!  For the love of God, play the pipes, please!”  Oh, right, that someone was me.  I love the bag pipes and couldn’t wait to hear them.  My stomach could wait but not my ears.  Dan duly fired them up to play a gorgeous tune accompanied by fiddles, cello, and piano.  Then we ate. During the feast, I managed to make my re-acquaintance with Julie and Marrie.  When I worked at CBC Radio, I had the privilege of interviewing the Schryer Triplets that included Pierre of course when they were thirteen years old.  These amazing kids went on to win national fiddling championship several times.  They were in town for the Fur Trade Fiddle Contest that used to take place at Vickers Heights.  I’d also interviewed Julie who was their piano accompanist about what it was like to work in music as a family.   Julie and the entire Schryer clan were very generous and open with their friendship.  Lucky me. Julie has two sons, both teenagers, both accomplished musicians.  She also has a daughter who is nine  and who danced up a storm doing step-dancing and playing the fiddle.  At one point, while playing with her brothers, her mother on the piano, her dad on Irish bagpipes (much different sound than Scottish, I noticed her taking her bow and poking her brother in the knee.  What the...?  My neighbour, Judy, and I were the only ones who laughed, I think.  A very cute, spontaneous, and possibly obstreperous, little tyke.  Papa Pat asked us if we thought that the musical future was well in hand after hearing these youngsters performing.  We roared our agreement. The evening ended after being “called” by Michigan Dan through three square dances with Marcus thanking us for attending, The band for supplying such world-class entertainment, and hoping that this event will be annual as part of his desire for bringing the community together.  Right on, Marcus!  Later, I overheard Pierre express his desire to be a part of that annual event. Oh I hope, I hope, I hope! There were some empty seats.  Not many but enough to notice.  Too bad.  You really missed an event.  We even had a couple living in the north ward of Thunder Bay who made the long drive out to enjoy.  They said that they’d be back next year because they were so impressed with the feeling of rural community, joy, the good grub, and just plain foot-stomping fun we all had.  Hope to see you there next year. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com.   Fri, 16 Mar 2012 14:23:21 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/197061/Rural-Roots/St.-Patrick-arrived-a-week-early http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/195203/Rural-Roots/March-enters-2012-like-a-lamb So, it came in like a lamb, this month of March.  Though grey and somewhat looking bleak, at least we had no fierce winds accompanied by any blizzard.  That event occurred at the end of February.  We were supposed to receive all of that again but somehow it was our Duluth neighbours who were the lucky recipients.  The lion, though, had not left; he was just lurking. And so it goes: a couple of days of warmth maybe with the occasional flurry and then wham! The thermometer bottoms out, the winds blow, and my nose freezes.  But, thank heaven for small mercies.  I had to deliver a couple of round, hay bales to various horse paddocks.  The small mercy entailed Red starting up almost immediately regardless of the minus twenty degree temperature during the night.  Hay bales were transported and deposited without mishap.  Murphy (of Murphy’s Law) must have been harassing some other farmer that day. My big fear, based on previous experiences this winter, is that while Big Red, my diesel tractor, is plugged in and the precious bodily fluids of the beast are warm, its battery has not on very cold nights.  I’ve been repeatedly told to either a) remove the battery from the tractor at night and store it in Casa Jones or b) purchase what is known as a battery blanket that surrounds it and keeps it warm no matter how cold Jack Frost makes it.  Lazy I be in that I have not as yet bought the battery blankie and I refuse to extricate the battery from Big Red to be hauled into our hoosie because it weighs “a ton” as they say.| I’ve pointed out to my children whenever we drive by famers’ fields that “in my day”, meaning just a few years ago, all the stubble on the fields that they see would have been covered by repeated snowfalls.  The promised dump of snow that was to have blessed us right on the heels of the blast on the previous Sunday, would have done the trick.  Then famers and other rural dwellers could have relaxed without worry that their wells would dry up come the paltry spring melt.  As it is, with very little frost in the ground, what snow we have should seep right into the ground.  One more large dump would insure it. But spring is on the way.  One sure sign for me is what is becoming an annual event at our local community hall.  Marcus and Deb of Rose Valley Inn put on a fantastic feast featuring Irish food that is scrummy, doncha know.  It takes place this Sunday evening, March 11, at the Gillies Community Hall.  Last year Deb and Marcus somehow finagled the incredible Pierre Schryer and his band to provide entertainment.  If Pierre is playing, I’m going. His music is a combination of Celtic and French foot stomping stuff. I cannot keep my feet still when they play all those jigs, reels, and waltzes.  Pierre and his family/friend musicians are world-class and we are just bloody lucky that they were free to trundle out to the Gillies Community Hall (ours) for this St. Paddy’s Day feast.   So we get wonderful traditional Irish grub to warm our tums and wonderful Irish/Scots/French Celtic music to warm our feet this Sunday evening at 5:30 p.m. at the Gillies Community Hall in South Gillies.  Tickets can be purchased by calling 473-5448.  It is a good idea to purchase in advance so that Marcus knows how many tums to feed.  See you there and wear something green. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P.O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0.   Fri, 09 Mar 2012 11:32:48 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/195203/Rural-Roots/March-enters-2012-like-a-lamb http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/191569/Rural-Roots/Nighttime-driving-danger Well, it happened.  Not to me, but to our friend, Jacquie. The entire front of her brand, new truck smashed, and by what?  A deer. Jacquie was driving home from our farm one winter’s night not long ago when the incident occurred. She wasn’t hurt and the vehicle was driveable.  You have to know that Jacquie is a very careful driver.  She grew up in the bush and has a lifetime of experiencing night driving in all weathers on country roads.  Because she is acutely aware of night time hazards, Jacquie takes her time.  On this occasion, she saw the deer suddenly emerge from the bush and begin to climb towards the road.  And because she was driving slowly, she had time to stop.  There were no other vehicles on the road with her.  Now in my experience, when deer appear at the side of the road, they wait before crossing, usually.  Deer have lousy eyesight but excellent hearing.  They can see movement but, if you are sitting still and downwind from them so that they can’t smell you, they might even get close enough for you to touch them, or so I’ve heard from experts.  Not a few times while driving at night I’ve been surprised by a doe and young charging across the highway in front. But this time, even though Jacquie had come to a complete stop, did the deer avoid the truck and run in front?  Nope, the deer didn’t.  It bounded onto the truck’s hood smashing it, one head light, the grill, and the front fender and then leapt off continuing its dash into the bush on the other side of the highway.  The damage to her truck’s front end was considerable.  The deer?  No idea.  When the police and Jacquie returned the next morning to the location of deer-meets-truck, it was evident what happened, that a large deer had landed onto her truck instead of her truck smashing into deer and that makes a whole heck of a difference vis-a-vis insurance.  It was the deer’s fault.  If Jacquie had swerved to avoid the deer and still hit it, it would have cost her a lot in a deductable.  If she’d hit it head on and had her windshield smashed, even more costly.  I know; it doesn’t make sense.  At supper last night, Jacquie was telling me this tale.  “The police concluded that it had to be a large buck even though it had no antlers; the damage could not have been made by a doe,” she said.  The cop had told her that the number of deer-smashes-into-vehicle occurrences is alarming, at least twice a week.  In fact, highway 102, the Dawson road, is so bad with accidents, has so many deer suddenly appearing that bow hunting to cull the deer numbers has been considered. Jacquie got her truck back.  The body man did a wonderful job.  He told her that it isn’t uncommon for deer to even run into the sides of vehicles that are parked, say, in a driveway.  The deer come running and apparently don’t see the vehicle sitting there.  Either that or they’re mad as hell and they’re not going to take it anymore – “Charge!” We used to see moose on our farm.  Not any more.  No sign of moose, no tracks in the mud or snow, only those of deer.  It’s the brain worm, you see, wot done it.  The deer are carriers; the moose are affected with a kind of mad cow disease except in this case I guess you could call it mad moose disease.  So the moose, perhaps sensing the risk of being in the same vicinity as the deer, move away.  When we ride or walk our trails, we see lots deer tracks in the snow or mud. I wonder if the deer are going nuts too, if something has affected their usual sense of caution.  I mean using a truck hood as a springboard or running full tilt into the side of a parked car?  Is it overpopulation or Bambi’s Revenge? You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0.          Fri, 24 Feb 2012 11:24:12 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/191569/Rural-Roots/Nighttime-driving-danger http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/190038/Rural-Roots/Phrases-of-the-moon I’ve been watching the moon. We were very lucky. On the night when the moon reached its maximum revealed size, there was not a cloud blemish.  Each night I waited for its rise that was, of course, delayed by 20 minutes or so. Its passage got me thinking about the moon’s phases and phrases that we employ to describe its passage and more importantly, its effects on us mere mortals. In many countries, the moon was ¬com¬monly referred to in the masculine.  It still is in German with Frau Sonne (Mrs. Sun) and Herr Mond (Mr. Moon).  Somewhere the moon started being referred to in the feminine. Perhaps we can blame St. Francis who called he/she Sister Moon.  I’ve read that the moon is called triform since it presents itself as either round or waxing with horns facing east or waning with horns facing west.    Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable (from where I’m gleaning most of this lore) tells of “one legend of the moon was that there was treasured everything wasted on earth, such as misspent time and wealth, broken vows, unanswered prayers, fruitless tears,” etc. Oh joy. So the phases of the moon (for those of us who have forgotten) are five in number: new, full, crescent or decrescent, half and gibbous, or more than half.  Of course we have the “man in the moon” with some saying that it is a man leaning on a fork, on which he is carrying a bundle of sticks picked up on Sunday.  The origin of this fable comes from the Bible.  We have “Minions of the Moon” and “Moon’s Men” being thieves who rob at night. Since we have horses, it was interesting to learn the Arabs call a white horse moon-coloured (But I’ve been told by horse people that a white horse is referred to as grey. Go figure.).  An ambitious person will shoot or aim at the moon.  One can “cry for the moon,” i.e. to crave for what is beyond one’s reach. If you wish to avoid paying rent or having your furniture seized for back payment, you can have “a moonlight flit” or a clandestine removal of your furniture during the night.  Then we have moonshine, an American term for illicitly distilled booze.  A Moon-calf is a dolt or dunderhead.  Moonrakers, a nickname for a simpleton and also a term used for Wiltshire folk when raking a pond for kegs of smuggled brandy would feign stupidity when surprised by excise men.  They claimed to be trying to rake the moon out of the water, which was reflected in the water.   Moonlighting has various meanings depending on which country you’re in.  Currently the term is somewhat loosely applied to unclaimed, additional employment. There is the term “once in a blue moon” meaning to occur rarely since a blue moon i.e. the full moon appearing twice in the same month, is very rare. To “cast beyond the moon” is to make wild conjectures. So, as I mentioned, I watched the moon’s progress as it neared the full moon state. There are about three days either side of full where the moon appears to have arrived at it’s maturity, if you will.  Each evening, I’d look to the east to watch it rise. There it was appearing full and orange as it crested the horizon.  The first 10 minutes the moon had to be viewed through trees: large, orange and set off against poplar branches.  As it rose, the orange slowly turned to a cream colour and stayed that way even into the morning when I would rise from sleep, head to the kitchen to put on the coffee and peer out the window to observe the cream-coloured orb slowly descending through more trees in the west.  If I arose during the night to let an aging pooch outside, I would see the moon high in the sky this time small and almost white.  One evening, I was driving son Doug to town for his karate lesson. The moon was high in the sky, round and peeking out amongst the fast-moving clouds.  Doug said that it was just like in a horror movie. Yup, only thing missing was the shadowed image of a werewolf or the Count silhouetted against its light (I know, vampires don’t throw shadows). I took a last look out the window after my pooch had returned to Casa Jones. The shadow of wood smoke from our chimney raced across the snow.  Tracks from a fox were highlighted as they approached and retreated from our abode.  Made of cheese or a balloon, the moon makes a rural winter night a show worth watching. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P.O.Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0.   Fri, 17 Feb 2012 10:54:39 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/190038/Rural-Roots/Phrases-of-the-moon http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/188315/Rural-Roots/Effects-of-a-mild-winter Mild isn’t it? Well, at least where I live in the country, we have some snow. We need a lot more for ‘catch-up’.  How have the mild temperatures and lack of snow affected rural rooters? You’ve probably read and/or heard neighbours and the media talking about how wonderful this warm winter has been thus far. I am also quietly grateful the thermometer has hovered around the freezing to minus five mark, not this morning as I write, mind you. But while the nights might get a tad chilly, during the day you can actually watch the thermometer climb into the plus zone. How does this pattern of plus temperatures affect us on the farm? Warm nights mean we can leave most of our horses outside in their paddocks. They have shelters, bush access and plenty of hay and water.  They do just fine, thank you.  We do bring in our four borders each night but we wait until later when the winter weather is warm. That means come morning, we only have four stalls to muck and perhaps another one or two depending on whether or not any horses had been brought in for riding the previous day. The warmer temperatures mean I don’t have to dress like the Pillsbury Dough Boy and that means easier functioning in carrying out my water tub-filling responsibilities or driving the quad and trailer to Mt. Crumpet to empty the stuff cleaned out of the stalls. Warmer conditions also mean water pails in stalls aren’t frozen, a task that just adds annoying work. That is the upside of a warmer winter.  The downside really doesn’t affect us humans as much as our wild denizen neighbours (to quote my friend, Steve Krassmain, wildlife painter). There was an editorial cartoon in the daily paper a couple of weeks ago featuring the heading “Warm weather affecting bear habits.”  The picture had the male bear outside his cave standing on grass, golf hat on head and golf club in hands, ready to yell “fore!” At the cave entrance was his wife, complete with hair curlers and hands on hips, issuing a demand that he come back inside and hibernate. I thought of avid golfers like my brother-in-law in Stratford who would be itching to get back on the green. Speaking of green and/or lack of snow, a neighbour came by the other day and mentioned he’d just returned from a weekend in Duluth with his family.  “The snow stops at Grand Marais,” he announced.  “There is no snow in Duluth,” he continued,” and it is so dry you could walk from the motel across the parking lot to the restaurant in your socks.” Hmm. Not good. Yes, the lack of snow doesn’t auger well for ground water supplies.  Though we have snow cover here across the border, it is nothing like it should be for replenishing rural wells. We had precious little rain this past autumn.  I’ve heard of several rural dwellers who have had to buy water and have it delivered sometimes more than once this winter.  That neighbour who mentioned the lack of the white stuff south of Grand Marais also told me he knows of one farm the well of which is on a spring. “That well is supporting several families this winter.” There is an upside to the unusual warmth: there is very little frost in the ground. That means when the melt does occur, what snow we have will go directly into the ground instead of running off .  But though it will be good for the earth, it won’t be enough, not nearly enough unless we get a couple serious dumps of snow before spring.  Failing that, pray for rain. You can reach Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com.     Thu, 09 Feb 2012 10:56:59 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/188315/Rural-Roots/Effects-of-a-mild-winter http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/187205/Rural-Roots/Valentine's-and-groundhogs So, here we are in February. Did the groundhog see its shadow on Thursday?  Are we to be blessed with six more weeks of winter? Only six? ‘Tis a safe bet it will be six plus. In the Christian calendar, Groundhog Day is Candlemass Day, the celebration of the Purification of the Virgin Mary. The entire month of February in the ancient Roman calendar was the month of purification.  When I moved to Northwestern Ontario, there seemed to be a predictability to the seasons: when they began; when they were expected to end; and what changes could be expected in between.  January was the month of at least a two-week period of temperatures ranging from minus 30 to 35, that delightful period of serious square tires and concrete seats if you owned a car or truck.  February, on the other hand, the deep-freeze withdrew. There might even be a warm blast of air issuing from the west, a Chinook, that was such a relief that I recall being outside in a t-shirt and feeling quite comfortable. There would be a considerable amount of snow on the ground. The gradual melt wouldn’t begin in earnest until March.  By the beginning of April, the white stuff was pretty much gone. Not anymore.  Nothing, in terms of weather, is any longer predictable. Those regular seasonal signposts of yore are no longer punching the time clock. And while I’m dwelling on the downside of February (not for much longer, though), this is the month traditionally associated with Cabin Fever, of having been cooped up too long indoors (see January), of not enough vitamin D in the form of sunshine on the pituitary gland.  Those Chinooks were received with surprise and relief, a stopgap until March, the traditional month-of-melt and warmer temperatures.  I take a daily vitamin pill and one with lots of D to avoid Cabin Fever or S.A.D. (Seasonal Affective Disorder). But with a few exceptions, most days this winter have been mild compared to all that traditional stuff I’ve mentioned.  True, we’ve had our fair share of grey days, of overcast skies that seem to just hang over us. We’ve had far fewer flakes of snow that pleases most rural folk with whom I’ve spoken. Fewer flakes means less work getting around, less work snow clearing.  A couple of good dumps would be appreciated especially for us country folk who depend on wells for water.  Since the frost this year has hardly penetrated the ground, I’m told that when the snow melts, it should go right into the ground and that is a good thing.  More snow would ensure sufficient moisture in the ground for wells, gardens, crops and a lower risk of forest fires. But none of the above comes to mind when most folks think of February.  If I’m correct, most folks think about the 14th, Valentine’s Day, chocolate, cinnamon heart candies and cards expressing love. The colour red in a positive way signifies this month.  Driving home the other evening, my wife Laura, was talking about Valentine’s cards and candy.  Our 12-year-old son Doug announced he didn’t care about all that since he didn’t yet have a girlfriend to receive any cards or candy.  Laura immediately set him straight that the giving of cards and candy didn’t require a girlfriend, that just giving to loved ones was excuse enough, and that his time would come in the romance department.  I added my two-cents worth by chanting “Just you wait, Doug, just you wait.” So six more weeks of winter? Count on it. What kind of winter? Too soon to tell.  Pass the cinnamon hearts, please. You can reach Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com.   Fri, 03 Feb 2012 11:44:44 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/187205/Rural-Roots/Valentine's-and-groundhogs http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/184517/Rural-Roots/Weird-winter We Canadians talk a lot about the weather. Lately, wondering about the weather has become one of the leading news topics worldwide. Accustomed patterns are all in flux. So-called normal has, if you will, evaporated. I was picking up my weekly trailer-load of large round bales that we use in our outdoor horse paddocks that keeps the equines fed, warm and that gives them something to do.  In the cold season, making lots of hay available to horses keeps their boilers working. It is analogous to feeding wood into a stove.  When Rudy, one of my hay suppliers, completes the task of loading truck and trailer, we usually chat for a minute before I head home.  I mentioned that while driving to his farm I listened to the radio and discovered that both on Canadian and American radio, the topic was about the weirdness of this and the previous winter weather.  I learned that we aren’t the only ones with very little snow for this time of year. Ski resort owners in British Columbia, Colorado and up-state California, used to lots of snow for their tourist businesses, are having to spend unusual amounts of money making snow.  In the case of a resort owner in Maine, she hasn’t been able to rent her cabins to snowmobilers, the main source of her winter income, and why?  Next to no snow.  Can’t remember a year when there was so little white stuff on the ground. Even locations that are used to receiving large amounts of rain are experiencing drought-like conditions. So naturally the show hosts managed to get some weather expert on air to explain what is happening.  Is it global warming or La Nina? Bit of both they suspect. Us too. We have far less snow on the ground than usual for this time of year but, more importantly, much warmer temperatures. Now, I’d be a fool to complain about a warmer winter. Not having square tires and concrete seats when climbing into my vehicle is a blessing. Haven’t even had to plug either the farm pick-up or car in yet.  Big Red, my diesel tractor, is the exception since it doesn’t like any cold at all. And the lack of snow has made managing the farm easier in terms of getting around.  I’ve only had to snow blow twice thus far. Very unusual. But there are potentially serious consequences if we don’t receive more precipitation either in the form of snow or rain in the spring – drought.  Drought affects country wells, crops, forests and wildlife, gardens, etc. Even now I’m hearing of rural dwellers dependant on their wells for water having to fork over dollars for water delivered in tanker trucks.  With the lack of snow, the warmer temperatures have been a blessing since septic fields that need adequate snow cover to protect them from freezing aren’t at risk – yet.  But if the mercury drops, if Jack Frost elects to make a prolonged visit without the snowy blessings of Ol’ Man Winter, septic fields and wells could freeze.  Not fun for rural rooters. Better to have lots of snow to cover the fields, to provide adequate moisture for water supplies and the ground when spring arrives.  Which is what I was sounding out Rudy about.  “Well I’m not complaining about the temperature. This warmth is welcome,” he replied.  “Yes but we still need snow or lots of rain for catch-up in the spring,” I continued, “I’m thinking about crop loss.”   With a straight face Rudy intoned “True, but we’ve never lost a crop in January.”   You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com.   Fri, 20 Jan 2012 13:24:42 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/184517/Rural-Roots/Weird-winter http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/183162/Rural-Roots/The-Fellowship-of-the-Crumpeteers Over the holidays I’ve had the occasion to be the deliverer of stall leavings or horse “crumpets” to our manure pile herein known as Mt. Crumpet.  Over the 11 years that we’ve been operating our horse riding business, the daily chore of cleaning stalls and depositing what was gathered meant a trundle to the site created for such leavings that has slowly grown to quite the size – Mt. Crumpet. We selected a site well away from the barn and house and from any source of water.  Our neighbour, Rick, also of the excellent tractor repair reputation, bulldozed a clearing in the bush and so it began.  Daily deliveries, 365 days of the year, as the stalls were cleaned after equines had resided in them for the night. At first, we only had a riding lawn tractor with a small garden trailer being towed behind to make numerous trips.  Eventually we bought a used quad and a larger trailer that allowed for larger loads and, hence, fewer trips. Periodically we’ve had to hire Rick and his dozer to pile the stuff so as to make more room for the delivery folk.  And occasionally I’ve attempted to even things out with Big Red, my diesel tractor, only to get royally stuck and having to cry for help from Donny, another kind neighbour down the road who owns a skidder.  I’ve regaled loyal readers over the years with tales of such Fred folly.  Red is more than 30 years of age and not equipped with four-wheel drive, alas. And after all of my mishaps with Big Red, including a visit from Donny’s friends who just happened to be visiting his garage and who thought it would be fun to come and see for themselves how Farmer Fred immersed Big Red in manure (good for a laugh or two...), my wife Laura banned Red from Mt. Crumpet. I go not alone to Mt. Crumpet. My two pooches, Cedric and Todd, always accompany me.  They love coming with me since there is always some new adventure.  They adventure, I watch. We have formed the Fellowship of the Crumpeteers.  After emptying the trailer, I seek them out to discover what they are doing.  Inevitably they are sniffing in the snow, snouts buried, perhaps in the hopes of locating mice.  The other day I completed the emptying task to look up and see Cedric madly digging into the side of an older hill, stop, sniff and dig some more, dirt flying everywhere.  Meanwhile, Todd was patiently standing by his side watching.  When Cedric moved to the side to start a fresh dig, Todd would insert his nose in the first spot and commence to dig it deeper.   And so it goes: Cedric does the exploratory dig, the hard part; Todd’s work is then made easy. Not stupid, our Todd.  I encourage them with some stirring speech: “My fellow Crumpteteers, long have we laboured blah,blah,blah...” while, with tails wagging, they continue their explorations.  But I lose them when some chittering erupts from a nearby tree at which point both heads come sharply up.  You can just hear them mentally shout “Squirrel!”  Then the mining operation is abandoned as off they dash to surround some tree and bark themselves silly while the aforementioned rodent continues to hurl insults in their general direction.  Too bad. I thought it was actually a good speech.   You can reach Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by dropping a note to Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0    Thu, 12 Jan 2012 09:57:59 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/183162/Rural-Roots/The-Fellowship-of-the-Crumpeteers http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/180721/Rural-Roots/So,-it's-Christmas Well, it’s here! Finally, Christmas and a white one, too.  Strange but the build-up for me has been rather low key. I know, I wrote at the beginning of this month of magic about how excited I was. And I’ve played my favourite Christmas music and fetched the tree that has been duly decorated, well almost.  While rummaging in the storage closet for the decorations, neither my wife, Laura, or I could locate the tree lights. I found some new ones and strung them around the spruce that graces our living room only to be told that they were a gift from a friend, that they were actually outdoor lights, and that I’d have to remove them since they gave off too much heat.  I uttered those famous four words necessary for maintaining a smooth marriage taught to me by my friend, Rob: “Oh...yeah...right...sorry.” I unstrung them and waited for Laura to return from town with new ones.  The new ones were attached to a strand 200 feet long.  “Should be long enough,” I mused and set to stringing around the tree again.  Nope. Too short. So what you see when plugged in, is a wide arc that quickly moves to the centre around the trunk and spirals to the top. Hmmm, a helix. Oh well, next time one of us is in town we’ll purchase another string of lights, same length and add them to the display.  I suggested we repeat the operation exactly like the first only in the opposite direction. Then when the lights are lit you’d now see a double helix. Wow! A Christmas DNA molecule glowing in the dark when you turn off the lights at night.  Quick, take a picture and send it to David Suzuki or CBC Radio’s Quirks and Quarks or someone of a genetic bent. But no, my idea was vetoed.  Tradition, don’t you know. String number one was unwrapped and re-wrapped to snake up and down and around the branches to meet the second string and so on, all the way to the top. And even though each Christmas I vow to bring a shorter tree into the house for the Yuletide celebration, this year I managed to fell (with the able assistance of son Doug) an even taller tree than last year much to the delight, of course, of Laura.  So the eight-foot step ladder was hauled into Casa Jones so I could reach the top of the tree. The few snowfalls we’ve enjoyed have also raised my festive spirits: large, fluffy flakes being driven by a Nor’wester covering all and sunder.  The trees get fresh cloaks of white as do the shelters and vehicles. I have a fire freshly crackling with spruce or balsam in the fireplace and heated cider (non-alcoholic) with, say Arnold Bax’s symphonic tone poem Christmas Eve filling the room as I gaze at the spectacle outside. Another shot in the arm to keep the festive spirit high was what has become a tradition in our community, the reading of a Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens that we did at our local community hall this past weekend.  Dickens himself condensed his famous tale into four staves that he would take on tour to read before packed audiences.  I was privileged to be asked to be one of the four readers. I got to read the part where Scrooge has his conversion thanks to the stiff-armed pointing of the spectre of Christmas Future.  Entertainment was provided by the Kam Valley Fiddlers featuring our own Rob Randle and Dave Kimpton.  There wasn’t anyone who could sit still while they played. I sure couldn’t. The music was great.  Nigel Jackson of Mile Hill Melodrama had organized the event and managed to get all assembled to lustily sing out some Christmas songs between readings.  Volunteers presented Christmas goodies, coffee, tea and pop during the intermission.  We had a great time! So, it’s Christmas. Laura, daughter Beth, son Doug and I along with two pooches, three felines and equines too numerous to name wish you all the very best during this holiday season and in the coming year.  I’ll be writing to you in the New Year.  Enjoy and, like Santa, laugh lots! You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or write to Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0.   Fri, 23 Dec 2011 13:14:40 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/180721/Rural-Roots/So,-it's-Christmas http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/179666/Rural-Roots/Christmas-tree-hunt Sunday was warm and sunny. “Why don’t you take Doug and get the Christmas tree? The conditions are ideal today. We are supposed to receive a dump of snow later this coming week and then you won’t be able to drive the quad along the trails.”  My wife Laura was trying to make what could be an ordeal, into something fun. So, Sunday afternoon, son Doug and I donned helmets, grabbed the saw, climbed on board the quad and took off down our riding trails, Doug driving. Doug is 12 and only recently has decided he’d like to spend more time with his aging dad. I’m thrilled. Last week he said he wanted to help me throw wood into the basement. Great. Then Laura mentioned there was a downed tree across a main riding trail artery preventing passage by horse and rider. Doug asked if he could come with me to clear the trail. Great. We bounced along the trail following the route described by Laura until we located the fallen tree.  “Aha,” I announced. “Tis a spruce and a dry one at that. It obviously has been dead for some time until a strong wind released it from its moorings, so to speak.”  We clambered off the vehicle; I started the chainsaw and commenced to limb the tree prior to cutting it into fireplace-sized pieces.  When I gave the nod, Doug pulled away the branches and placed the future snap, crackle and pop pieces into the quad trailer. The deed took no longer than 10 minutes. With our load we returned to Casa Jones to unload beside the chopping block by the wood pile. When I went outside to hand-split the wood recently retrieved, Doug asked if he could join me and maybe split some too. Great.  Now I could teach him the skill of splitting with an axe just as my dad had taught me so many years ago.  “Your grandfather was a lawyer in Toronto.  One of his greatest pleasures was when we went to our summer cottage and he got to split firewood. Something very satisfying in that deed,” I ventured.  So Doug learned a few tricks about stubborn logs: twisting the axe just as it hits the wood; if the axe blade gets stuck in the wood, turning the axe upside down and smashing the axe-head down on the block. Most times the piece will split. Laura had indicated where she wanted us to fetch a tree in the back field that has grown in lo’ these 40 years since the land was last farmed.   “Take a tree from the left side as you are driving southeast. Don’t cut one from the west because that’s where trail riders like to take pictures.”  Doug drove carefully through the woods until we reached the field.  I had been singing  Christmas tunes as we negotiated hills, twists, and turns. We finally reached the appointed area to begin our search. All of these specimens had self-seeded over the years, some almost choking each other. We located a likely candidate, a spruce, after tromping for a bit.  Doug handed me the handsaw and I commenced to separate the tree from its base.  Now, I’m out of shape. One of my shoulders has a torn ligament while the other has arthritis. I had to stop for a breather at which point Doug asked if he could try.  “By all means, son.  My back hurts from bending so low.”  While Doug sawed, I told him how when I was a boy, my dad had taken me each year to buy a scotch pine from a parking lot in Toronto.  “We usually went in the evening for some reason when it was dark. I will always remember one such lot festooned with trees and lit by a string of hanging lights. It was magic for me, this green, sweet-smelling, pine forest amidst tall buildings.” Down came the candidate. We loaded it onto the trailer, tied it in and motored back to the house singing the whole way. Laura was thrilled with our choice.  After I hauled it into the house and we got it positioned, centered against the big picture window, Laura declared Doug and I had established a new tradition: as long as possible, he and I would be the Christmas tree fetchers.  Great! Another tradition established! Hot chocolate all around! You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0.   Fri, 16 Dec 2011 13:28:54 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/179666/Rural-Roots/Christmas-tree-hunt http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/178254/Rural-Roots/Big-Red-makes-his-return He’s back!  Big Red, my aged, diesel tractor is alive and well and ready for action.  Faithful readers will know that for three weeks now, our farm has been limping along without the service of Big Red; and yes, the machine-that-could is a ‘he’.  To recap: a month ago, I noticed that the forward gears suddenly began to not shift into place.  Initially we, Red and me, could still lumber along in low gear.  On most tractors there are four positions from which one can choose.  Obviously No. 4 is fastest.  So I would shift into four and transport whatever needed ferrying. Then the degeneration advanced such that sometimes I had the high gear instead of the low and sometimes just low.  When I climbed aboard Red, fired him up, it was pot luck as to whether he would operate in high or low.  But always, the reverse gear worked.  Ragging friends would then suggest the novelty of working around the farm driving backwards. I actually had to do that once.  Red refused to shift into either low or high.  But it was essential that I move round hay bales into one horse paddock.  Luckily Red had worked in forward low gear the previous evening and somehow I had the foresight to park Red with the loading spear impaled into the bale.  All I had to do was operate the hydraulic lift of the front-end loader to pick up the bale, already attached, and drive to the paddock backwards.  When we’d successfully completed the task and I clambered down from Red, my neck was sore from craning around to see where we were going. Eventually the planets aligned so that Red could be transported to Rick’s garage (Rick being Red’s doctor since I first bought him/it 13 years ago).  To expose the gears, the entire back of the tractor had to be removed.   Meanwhile, life continued at the farm.  The strings binding the large square hay bales being stored in our hay shelter were cut and when hay was required for either the stalls inside the barn or to feed over the paddock fences, we’d plunk several flakes into the trailer behind the quad runner. Rick called to announce the findings of his exploratory surgery.  “Your problem turned out to be a twenty-five cent pin.  Before I put the tractor back together, come on over and take a look.”  So I did.  The offending pin, now broken, was about one inch long.  Then I peered at the gears, the ‘guts’ of the tractor.  Very machine-looking: large-sized wheels, medium-sized wheels, and small-sized wheels that somehow mingled and meshed to make Red go.  And all of these interlocking devices sat in a bath of hydraulic oil.   “Somehow your hydraulic fluid has got polluted and that’s why your loader lifts slowly, especially in cold weather,” Rick announced. Moisture must have leaked in perhaps during one of those times when I had to add fluid.  He would drain all of the old and add new and replace the filter as well. Red needed other work that I am far from qualified to perform. The grill covering the front of the tractor was smashed. It was a commercially built, cheap plastic affair that easily broke if hit with anything like the time I was lifting a broken fence post out of the ground and it swung into the grill.  “Crunch!”  Oops. The new grill looks like a cover for a heating vent in an older house. Both the rear running lights and the spots were broken (I can’t quite recall why...). I need the running light for travel on the road and the spots for seeing where the heck I’m going in the pitch black of an early winter morning after a big big, overnight dump of the white stuff when I have to snow blow the driveway. So, Red is fixed. Red is almost like new.  The gears work; the front-end loader goes smoothly up and down without hesitation; and Red can be driven anywhere legally.   I’d been praying that the snow would hold off until Red was back. Now, as the song goes, “let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.”  Red is ready. You can reach Red and Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0.   Fri, 09 Dec 2011 12:05:23 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/178254/Rural-Roots/Big-Red-makes-his-return http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/177059/Rural-Roots/December-the-magic-month So, here we are in December and winter.  We’ve got some serious snow, stuff that will stay, and we are at the beginning of the magic month that is this season. In this cooler weather, my chapeau switches from feed cap to a tam.  In the autumn the tam is an orangey-brown colour; but in December I switch to my Christmas coloured tam: red, green, interlaced with white. Of course when Jack Frost decides to open the freezer door even wider, then this old head requires warmer wear and an assortment of toques are donned. I avoid donning my winter farm coat until my flesh feels the chilly temps on-going.  Besides, the coat has been through the wars so to speak. The sleeves are shredded as are three of the pockets. Red Green would know the solution: duct tape! Can’t afford to run out and buy a new coat every time a hole appears, holes resulting from being the temporary repository for screws and nails, wrenches and ratchets.  So, duct tape. The first couple of tromps in winter boots requires getting the feet used to the unaccustomed weight.  Scarves and warm work gloves must be dug out of the storage bin.  Always seem to need a new pair of gloves at the outset of each winter. Wrestling farm snow blowers on to the back of my diesel tractor and chains onto the rear tires takes its toll. But the season promises magic. One of the blessings of a good snow cover is the absence of dirty paw prints on floors when pooches re-enter our hoosie after dashing about outside.  There is that period in both spring and in autumn when persistent rains turn the clay soil into muck that adheres to doggie footies.  Then the animals must be restrained from entry into Casa Jones proper, to be detained in the mud room until their paws can be cleaned.  Snow eliminates that task. Another blessing bestowed by the entrance into the Christmas month is the changes in aromas that greet one at the door. Spices and baking smells suddenly change from pumpkin to cinnamon and cloves, rich textures that lure one into the kitchen to learn what alchemy wife Laura or daughter Beth have been concocting. Figs, fruits and nuts I associate with this time of year wind up on the shopping list. Sure one can purchase most of this stuff almost year round thanks to modern refrigeration or whatever but I still like to abstain until the time is right. Slowly I introduce Christmas music to waft throughout the house. Not Bing or Nat because we’re going to hear plenty of that in the malls and on the radio. My choices tend to the classical specifically composed for this time of year. I even try once again to learn some carols on my electric organ but strangely, that seems to be the time when everyone exits. I have no idea why. We don’t tend to begin decorating right away. A tree isn’t selected until one or two weeks before The Day. In years past, Laura has usually returned from guiding a trail ride on horse back to announce she thinks she has a possible candidate. If we have received significant snow, we don snowshoes and trek to the tree to grace our living room.  If chosen, I cut it down, attach a rope and drag it back to the house. By the time I arrive, I’m seriously thinking about hot chocolate sweetened with something stronger. This year I offered to accompany Laura on horseback to make the selection. I might even be able to get Laura to recite (she has such a good memory for poetry) one of my favourite poems by Robert Frost “Whose woods are these I think I know...” as we meander homeward bound, tree in tow, through our own beautiful bush. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P.O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0.   Fri, 02 Dec 2011 10:46:33 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/177059/Rural-Roots/December-the-magic-month http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/174563/Rural-Roots/Big-Red's-date-with-Murphy's-Law Big Red (my aged, diesel tractor), how do I love thee?  Let me count the ways.  Okay, this column isn’t exactly a love letter to an aged, scarred piece of farm machinery. It is another tale of Murphy’s Law and how, this time when Murphy came to visit me, he landed on Red, and having landed, made me realize just how dependant I’ve become on this old piece of moving metal. Murphy usually arrives in a whirlwind. When he strikes, he is accompanied with fanfares. The damage done is instant and obvious.  Not this time. This time Murphy began subtly with just a small annoyance involving Big Red’s gears. I think I first noticed the reverse gear on Red began to slip about two months ago.  I’d spear a big round hay bale I store in our green hay shelter and then switch into reverse to back out and proceed to whatever horse paddock required said bale.  There wasn’t any actual sound of this slippage, at least not in the beginning, only the tractor coasting to a halt. I’d re-engage reverse and out we’d go. The slippage didn’t occur every time Red was reversed.  I put the odd occurrences down to aging.  After all, Red is 35 years old and I didn’t buy him new and he had been performing his heavy-lifting tasks well. But two weeks ago, while transporting composted manure in Red’s bucket to load a friend’s trailer, suddenly I could no longer engage the high gears.  The shifter just wouldn’t move into that slot. Nothing that I did would make the shifter slide into position.  Thus, Red would only travel in the low gear.  “What gives?” I thought. “Is this a test?  Have the gods decided to test my ability to be patient?”  Good luck, gods. Maybe in the next life time. So Red and I trundled slowly back and forth from the mound of compost to deliver the stuff to aforementioned trailer.  It was W.C.Fields who is quoted as saying he didn’t like owning horses because they still cost money while he sleeps. Very true.  Horses rarely pause in their pursuit of food. Depending on how many equines we have on the property at any given time, I can now judge how long it will take them to devour a large round hay bale, when I will have to fire up Big Red and transport another bale to their paddock.  That time came this past weekend. I had to deliver three bales. Fine. No problem.  It will just take Red and me a wee bit longer since his gears only operate in low.  Or so I had been lead to believe. The first bale was not a problem. It was while delivering the second bale that the gear-shifting problem progressed.  I had to stop Red to get off and untie a rope that prevented the herd from charging up beside the barn instead of dutifully heading to the barn door for entry therein.  When I climbed back into the driver’s seat and tried to shift into forward, the shifter abruptly stopped.  It wouldn’t engage. It would still go into reverse but no longer into any form of forward. My friend, Dave, had come by for a visit. I’d removed a panel exposing the shifter linkage the previous evening.  While I sat in the driver’s seat and with my foot on the clutch, Dave wrestled the linkage until somehow it slipped into forward.  Ah, but this time the tractor would only go in high gear.  “What the...?”  And then it hit me: “Murphy!”  Shaking a mental fist, I thought how Murphy had now elected to impose his form of torture in a sneakier form, taking his time, waiting to see how long it would take me to catch on.  So I completed the job in high changing the settings to slow high, which is almost equivalent to the fastest setting for low. Yesterday, I had to move some hay.  Each time I stopped, I had to turn Big Red off because there was no way those gears would engage without me climbing off the tractor and wrestling with the linkage. Eventually I completed the remaining tasks driving around in reverse. What a pain!  It appears that internal surgery is required, which means removing several pipes and tubes and then opening up Red to expose the gears, a very involved job, one that I am far from qualified to do.  To add insult to injury, Murphy has made sure that my faithful mechanics upon whom I rely are all busy.  And with all those heavy-lifting chores to be done before Ol’ Man Winter shows up. To re-phrase Mrs. Barrett-Browning: “Big Red, how do I need thee?  Let me count the ways.” You can reach Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com.   Fri, 18 Nov 2011 11:09:21 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/174563/Rural-Roots/Big-Red's-date-with-Murphy's-Law http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/173718/Rural-Roots/Family-war-stories Lest we forget. Those three words say it all, of why we observe Remembrance Day. And this one has particular significance since it is the 100th such acknowledgement of those who died in war. Of course, the 11th hour on the 11th day, 1918 is how this tradition began, the official end of the First World War.  For my generation (first production of baby boomers), Remembrance Day had to do pretty much exclusively with the two world wars. Even though Canadians alongside Americans fought in Korea, bloody battles with loved ones lost, it is referred to as the Korean Conflict, not a war. For a nine, 10, 11-year old kid, it didn’t count. And why? Many of us had parents and grandparents who fought in the First and Second World Wars and so we heard all about their roles, what they endured both in Canada and abroad.  It wasn’t until university that a pal invited me down to his parents’ house, an old red-brick Victorian creation typical of the 19th century farming communities of southern Ontario. There I met the Admiral, a straight-backed, handsome, white-haired gentleman who was in charge of the Canadian navy during the Korean Conflict.  Otherwise, sad to say, I didn’t hear and therefore know anything at all about that war. Actually, I’m wrong: members of my family who wound up overseas didn’t talk about their particular exploits.  I learned of them from my dad who didn’t make it across the Big Pond – he did his war stint working as a lawyer in Ottawa for the government – but to whom his brothers-in-law and friends opened up about what happened to them in Europe, in Africa and in the South Seas. By the time I came along, for some reason, they clammed up. Only twice did I overhear both a tale from my Uncle Trum about driving the German officers across the line to surrender to Monty in Africa and from Uncle Swatty (that was his nickname) about Canadian planes mistakenly firing on Canadian troops in France. That was it! The rest I learned, as I wrote, from books and from television while growing up. My paternal grandfather was too old to enlist during the First World War. My maternal grandfather I never met.  He was killed in France two months before his son was born, the Uncle Trum that I mentioned.  The grandfather I knew and loved married my grandmother five years later and bravely took on three very exuberant, young children. He and Gran had one child, a boy, who was killed in Italy in 1944. I haven’t a clue how they survived emotionally.  My wife Laura and I named our son after the uncle I never knew and after an uncle with the same name on her side that was also killed during the Second World War. So my stepgrandfather, Capt. Schuyler Snively, was gassed during the war and had to sail home to recover. Doctors told him to get out of Toronto and live in the country.  He did, taking the six-week agricultural course, bought a farm north of T.O. that he farmed for 10 years before finding other work that was less taxing on his frail constitution. And just when some of us started to wonder if Remembrance Day had any relevance to the children of today, along came our military commitment in Afghanistan. With soldiers from Thunder Bay being killed in action, Remembrance Day is no longer something from the distant past. I love history. I really like reading in the newspaper about young kids spending time with old soldiers and hopefully hearing their stories. Lest we forget. Sat, 12 Nov 2011 11:48:24 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/173718/Rural-Roots/Family-war-stories http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/172610/Rural-Roots/New-halloween-trend? Well, here we are in November that looks pretty much like the past couple of weeks in October. Still, no snow, thank goodness, a lot warmer than usual, and drier. One doesn’t need statistics from Environment Canada to figure out that bit of info. It’s the lead topic when we rural types meet at say, the dump or the local store.  Or at our township fire hall where for the past couple of years our volunteer firefighters have hosted a Halloween party that includes fireworks. Kudos to the team and their partners where trick-or-treaters gather after driving the back roads seeking dwellings that give out treats. Parents with whom I spoke all agreed this Halloween there were fewer houses displaying pumpkins out front or in their windows indicating here was a place waiting for costumed kiddies to demand they shell out.  Even my son Doug and his pal, Gabe, both of whom I drove the back roads searching for treats announced that fewer households were participating. Their haul was considerably less this year. And why is that? One reason might be there are fewer children of trick-or-treating age. Perhaps the steady stream of headlights moving up and down the back roads of years past were now reduced because the children are now teenagers for whom driving down driveways and presenting themselves in costume is no longer cool. Perhaps there is a lag in the production of urchins. Maybe folks are more cautious about having strange cars show up in their yards when it is dark. I’d hate to think people just can’t be bothered, that making jack-o-lanterns and shelling out has become too much work. I talked with one of our volunteer firefighters who told me the annual gathering was a way of ensuring safety-in-numbers as well as making rural residents aware of what their fire department actually does and perhaps encouraging others to join.  I would be very interested in learning if there are fewer residents in the city prepared to shell out at Halloween. Is this a general trend or just confined to rural areas? I recall age 12 was the last time I donned a costume and headed out to prowl our neighbourhood. My friends, however, were all about a year older and since they had turned 13 (this was back in the late ’50s), either their parents had determined they were too old or they had determined trick-or-treating was no longer cool. So, I went out alone. My neighbourhood was residential and times were different. We thought nothing of going out alone.  Driving home Doug and his friend, we discussed whether or not they would go out next year. Doug thought not. I asked if age had anything to do with his decision (next year he’ll be 13) or if it was the fact that last year he brought home two pillow cases filled with candy whereas this Halloween he only succeeded in filling half of one. I don’t recall receiving a definitive answer but I rather suspect the second option would be the real reason.  But Doug is at an age when what is announced today often changes. Something that hasn’t changed seems to be my reputation for slipping on the banana peels of life, for putting dents in our barn, our truck, you name it. For example, when I ventured outside to fire up Big Red, my diesel tractor, I discovered the right front tire was flat. Rats! So I  drove to Kevin’s tire shop in Murillo.  He fixed it fast and when I was about to leave, another Fred showed up. He’d parked behind me but I figured I had enough room to manoeuvre my car past his truck. Just as I started the car, Fred came over and said: “Fred, I read your column. Do you want me to back up?” Haha, what a guy.   Fri, 04 Nov 2011 12:49:25 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/172610/Rural-Roots/New-halloween-trend? http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/172183/Rural-Roots/That-fall-feeling ‘There’s gold in them thar hills!”  That was the thought barrelling around inside my brain as I drove to town the other day.  I love this time of year: cool nights and daytime skies dramatic with cloud.  October winds have laid bare the branches of the trees but for a few exceptions; and those branches with leafy hangers-on will soon be denuded.  Monday morning I awoke to discover a light dusting of snow on vehicles and the ground. So soon? I’m not ready.  Fortunately it hasn’t stayed; and fortunately, there is still colour to be seen. Take a drive down any rural road. Heck, take a cruise along the new bypass that leads west out of town.  There you will see masses of gold, tamarack trees whose needles have turned, the only coniferous tree whose needles change colour and then fall off their branches.  And so it is. If you didn’t distinguish the tamarack from spruce while driving, now you can in abundance. You can’t miss it.  My wife Laura and I were town-ward bound, as I mentioned. The morning sun had set the tamarack a-fire with gold. “I never realized that there were so many tamaracks growing on the route,” I opined.  Spectacular! It was as if Ma Nature had hired Rumplestiltskin to spin gold onto the trees. I had to drive to town on Sunday afternoon.  The sky was grey with clouds.  Even without Ol’ Sol’s light show, the sight was impressive albeit a bit dull.  Still, I’ve now begun to take notice of where tamarack trees have gained a purchase be it along that new route or along the many back roads we travel.  But I don’t have to jump in my car to cruise the highways to catch glimpses of shimmering gold on trees. I have but to look out my picture window in my living room and gaze across the main paddocks to what was once a group of fields to the south.  Our property was farmed until the early 1960s. Then those fields were allowed to grow in. And what grew were trees, all kinds of trees, mainly various types of pine – white pine and jack pine and, in the wetter parts of the land, tamarack, now all dressed in gold. I remember back in the 1980s that every Friday I would troop to Old Fort William, tape recorder in hand, to interview various members of the gang who worked there.  The result would later wind up on my noontime radio program, Northwest Noon.  I loved going to the Old Fort because there was so much expertise.  I recall talking with a gent who was the ship builder and who had just completed the building of the schooner ¬Per¬se¬ver¬ance, a replica of the boat that sailed Lake Superior from Sault Ste. Marie carrying the heavy cargos the Montreal canoes couldn’t handle.  He told me that the ribs were shaped out of tamarack because the wood from that tree is very sturdy and can handle some soaking. That is why ship builders preferred employing tamarack for the ribs of wooden sailing ships. Saturday evening brought an unexpected trail ride to our farm. The ride consisted of two dads and three children, all of whom came originally from Columbia in South America, now living in Minneapolis.  The evening was gorgeous and warm. The sinking sun’s angle had set the tamaracks shimmering with golden finery.  Laura guided the ride. When they returned to the barn, our guests couldn’t praise enough this beautiful paradise in which we live.  Yup. We’re blessed. We know it. Every time we stop to look at our surroundings especially when the sun is either rising or setting, we know that we’re living in a paradise on earth and right now with gold in them thar hills! P.S.  I may not be ready for snow but I am for trick-or-treaters. Have a Happy Hallowe’en! You can contact rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0.   Wed, 02 Nov 2011 09:39:45 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/172183/Rural-Roots/That-fall-feeling http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/170172/Rural-Roots/Adventures-of-Henrietta Saturday morning was windy with racing clouds, spilling showers and then through brief gaps revealing brilliant sun. It also taught me about the tenacity of motherhood.  I was fetching a couple of large, square hay bales from Fritz, one of my hay producers.  Fritz is the farmer who owns Henrietta, the chicken that hitched a ride on his hay wagon all the way to our farm. Regular readers will recall the adventures of Henrietta, her long journey, her narrow escape from the mandibles of death of my dog Todd. As Fritz was hefting the bales onto the back of my half-ton, I saw Henrietta casually walking near the barn. Several tail feathers were missing. Lucky bird. The second bale was now set on top of the first and I was about to rope my load securely prior to heading back home when Fritz’s wonderful wife, Alice-Marie, came up to me. I commented on the fact I was positive I’d just seen a nonplussed Henrietta.  “That’s why I came out to talk to you,” she chuckled. She had a tale to tell. After Fritz had departed from our farm, empty trailer in tow, freaked out chicken quivering in the tractor’s cab, he made the long journey back home. It takes him about one hour since his mammoth machine isn’t equipped for speed. For most of the journey, Henrietta had retreated to what she must have considered a safe spot behind the driver’s seat hidden from view. But just as Fritz turned onto his road, Henrietta, maybe sensing home was close by, that soon she would be on safe ground perhaps surrounded by her friends to whom she could cluck her tale of daring-do, of narrowly avoiding the snapping jaws of some huge monster that was chasing her, shed her fear, her timidity, and, emboldened, leapt up onto the dash in front of the steering wheel. Alice-Marie told me Fritz was mortified, afraid his neighbours would see this black, feathered thing supposedly going along for the ride, that Fritz had turned a bit ‘tetched’ and now had a pet chicken he took on his hay runs. But, the best was still to be revealed. Two neighbour boys had been watching.  When Fritz pulled into his drive and set about detaching the hay trailer, the boys showed up.  They were wondering why smack dab in the middle of the trailer, there was what appeared to be a small nest of hay.  They wandered over  to take a look and sure enough, not only was there a patch of hay right in the middle of the trailer but in that patch was an egg! Well, Fritz had to tell Alice-Marie who concluded  Henrietta had jumped onto the trailer while Fritz was loading the wagon. Had she laid her egg before the long journey to Casa Jones? Or had she let one loose as a result of fear that what she had thought was a safe, enclosed space, protected against the blustering winds, had suddenly lurched into bumpy motion?  For a long, long time!?!  The amazing thing was probably with the shock of a mobile nest, Henrietta could have leapt off of the trailer before it had gone a few feet but had refused to abandon her egg. The tenacity of motherhood. In the words of the late, great American broadcaster, Paul Harvey: “Now you know the rest of the story.” You can reach Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com.   Fri, 21 Oct 2011 12:16:05 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/170172/Rural-Roots/Adventures-of-Henrietta http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/165189/Rural-Roots/Photographer-trades-camera-for-brush I want you to meet one of my neighbours. His name is Stephen ­Kra­se­mann; he’s an artist, and he’s having a solo show beginning this Oct. 1. Stephen’s history is packed with expertise and excellence. I first knew about Stephen through his reputation as a nature photographer; one of National Geographic’s best. I’d met Stephen and Barb, his wife, through another neighbour, our good friend Wendy, who was taking a painting course taught by Stephen.  “Painting,” I enquired,” I thought he did photography for a living with National Geographic magazine?”  “No, he gave that up and has been teaching courses in painting at Confederation College.”  I met Stephen and Barb and we invited them to supper at our house. Stephen and I hit it off like long-lost brothers. Our interests in nature, the outdoors, canoeing, have taken somewhat parallel paths. So, when I found out about his solo show I jumped at the chance to visit him and chat. Stephen and Barb’s home is, for me, idyllic. It is a large, story-and-a-half log cabin in a quiet setting surrounded by forest and hills in the distance and a glistening beaver pond not 100 yards from their back door. Over coffee and a scrumptious piece of homemade blueberry cake, we chatted about his career in photography and painting. His interest in nature began as early as he can remember growing up in Wisconsin. It was his grandfather who inspired him. The two would go into the woods, his grandfather to fly fish and Stephen to roam the bush and spot bears, martins, all kinds of woodland denizens. His grandfather gave him a 22 calibre rifle to carry so he’d feel safe. Eventually he learned to trap and hunt; that allowed him to get close to the animals for inspection, to learn about their anatomy.  But hunting and especially trapping paled and so Stephen began to hunt with a camera every day. He got to see other facets of the animals’ lives without killing them. Thus, he became what he terms a natural history photographer. In the beginning he literally starved as a photographer. In any artistic field there is no guarantee you’ll succeed.  Eventually the starving and striving paid off with contracts to National Geographic for photo essays that took him to some of the most remote places on Earth. He did that for 10 years on some 14 assignments. But, as well as photography, he had painted all his life. It was in 1994 that Stephen became serious about his painting. Why switch I asked. Stephen said he couldn’t go back to photography, that the camera gets you half way there but that in painting, the learning and growing never stops. In painting you are ever on the road to mastery but you never arrive. After coffee, we looked at some of his paintings, some small, some large, some for the solo show, many hanging on the walls of his log home. There were beautiful north-woodsy landscapes but mostly paintings of animals typical of this part of the continent. I was struck by a pair of blue jays and a large painting of a wolf. I asked Stephen if he used his photos as models.  “No, I don’t paint from my photos.  There would be no challenge. My paintings are composites from many photos, from many different angles and poses.  I seek the essence of my subjects.” Stephen starts with many drawings of his subject. The preparation has to have already been done. He does thumbnail sketches until he gets the drawings to the point where he needs to consult his photos for the proper shade of colour.  The photos provide the finishing touches, the refining. You can meet Stephen, and view the portraits beginning  Oct. 1 from 7 to 9 p.m. and continuing until Oct. 22 at the Framing Centre in the McIntyre Centre.   Fri, 23 Sep 2011 10:53:40 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/165189/Rural-Roots/Photographer-trades-camera-for-brush http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/162011/Rural-Roots/Fair-signals-end-of-summer It’s fair weekend! The Hymers Fall Fair marks, for me, the end of summer and the beginning of autumn.  Sure, autumn doesn’t officially slide into place for another month or so, but even if we get an extension on the growing season as in Septembers past, the long weekend and the Hymers Fall Fair are significant seasonal demarcations for me. With the exception of a couple of years during the Second World War, this agricultural fair has been staged at the beautiful fair grounds since its inception some 98 or 99 years ago.  And an agricultural fair it is. It begins on Friday night with a lineup of vehicles extending from the gate down the road as local exhibitors bring their award-winning veggies, crafts, baked goodies and last but not least, livestock for the judges and public to admire. The judging takes place on Saturday. The public doesn’t get to behold the above now-beribboned first, second, third and on entries until the fair officially opens on the Sunday of the long weekend. The fair is the result of incredibly dedicated volunteers who begin early to clean the fair grounds, make repairs to any damaged buildings and get the place ready for the public.  Sunday is Day One. All day there is a horse show wherein riders come to show off their mounts and demonstrate their riding skills in both western and English styles.  Meanwhile, across the fair grounds, the cattle people are exhibiting Bossy and Flossy and their progeny. There’s even a milking contest where contestants have to squeeze Bossy/Flossy’s teats the old-fashioned way and see who collects the most milk.  Of course there’s food to be had: burger, hot dog, corn-on-the-cob stands plus the dining hall offers a real country meal including a beef dinner barbequed in a fire pit. The veggies are grown locally. Monday there are two changes: the groaning board fare is now turkey and the horse show is what I call the “Yee-hah!” version. Riders race around barrels and generally participate in timed riding events.  Where the Sunday horse show is fairly quiet, the Monday one involves a lot of shouting of encouragement.  Very exciting! There’s entertainment on two stages plus various contests like the cutest dog, etc. And zucchini. Yes, there’s a contest up on Hill stage for the largest zucchini. Which brings me back to our garden. It was our children who discovered a monster zucchini lurking in the shadows at the far end of the patch.  “Wow!” exclaimed the first born. “Don’t pick it. Let it grow. Doug can take it to the Fair. May be this year he’ll win.” Maybe.  I have been dishing dirt on zucchinis in my columns. I must confess this is due to prejudice and ignorance. You harvest the things; you shred them and store them in the freezer to do what? I mean muffins and bread only require a small amount of the green stuff or your hard-won baked goodie will taste awful.  Enter Jacquie. Jacquie is our wonderful  friend to whom we gave zucchinis – large zucchinis. That’s what she requested. She returned a couple of days later with hamburger-stuffed zucchini boats. Scrumptious! So I perused my cookbooks only to find a number of interesting recipes that involved scooping, mashing with assorted herbs and spices, other veggies, cheeses, et al, that vigorously appealed to our palates.  Then I received an email from a reader who asked if her mother could come and buy zucchinis from me. What? Drive all the way out here from town for a bunch of vertiginous gourds? Question:  why not simply buy them on market days in town? Because, I was informed, zucchinis are one of the most popular items for purchase and are some of the first provender to be sold out. Oh.  “In that case,” I said to my wife Laura, “why don’t we plough up the pasture beside the garden and grow a field of zucchinis to sell?”  “Because,” she patiently replied, “it is the worst frost area and who is going to do the work? You? You still haven’t repaired those broken fence posts; you haven’t whipper-snipped the grass around the flower garden; there’s that tree down across Mountain Trail you haven’t removed; and then there’s... ” She has a point. So, the Hymers Fall Fair this weekend; more zucchinis to pick and process; and a list of chores to get done lest I receive nothing but lumps of coal in my Christmas stocking. I get so tired thinking about what I have to do that I think I’ll take a two-day break and go to the fair.  Might see you there. Fri, 02 Sep 2011 11:26:12 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/162011/Rural-Roots/Fair-signals-end-of-summer http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/159787/Rural-Roots/Weed-identification Okay, I was wrong. The boss weed voted most popular by the other weeds in our vegetable garden isn’t pig weed.    I thought that it was. It sure looks like it should be. I was informed by a farmer, one of my hay suppliers. Maybe long ago and far away someone told me it was pig weed. Or perhaps he was pointing to something else and I thought he was pointing at the weed most popular by the other weeds etc., etc. I don’t tend to spend much time in the company of weeds, at least not knowingly.   Sure, there are presumably thousands of weed species of grass or what-have-you growing on our property. But I’m just concerned about those overtaking our veggie garden.  I was sent a bunch of ponderisms by my friend, Dave. One of them leapt out. Why is it that weeds are much harder to pull out of the ground than vegetables?    Our garden is ‘blessed’ with five or six basic weed types: thistles, the weed formerly known as pig weed, lambs quarter, something that looks like crab grass but isn’t, crab grass and a plant that displays pretty yellow flowers. All of these floral beasties compete with the planted stuff that will grace our table.   However, I was instructed by my wife Laura, the true gardener with the green thumb in our family, to harvest the green beans before they do what I allowed them to do last summer; grow huge and inedible.    Why did I let the beans evolve into long things no longer a rich green in colour and resembling a case of bad arthritis?  Laziness, that’s why. Out of sight, out of mind. When I did eventually head into the garden to fetch some beans for supper, I managed but a handful that were edible. I profusely promised my darling wife that next summer, no more Mr. Lazy. I be on it, I would.   Old habits die hard. Fortunately, Laura visited the garden one evening to gather lettuce and some dill for a salad. She entered Casa Jones to remind me of my promise.  “Better get a bowl and start harvesting the beans. They’re just right for picking.”    And so I did.   The first thing that confronted me as I entered the garden were those nasty weeds, quite tall, poking their pointy heads above the beans, the tomatoes, the onions, just about everything.   How did this happen?    Perhaps I blinked. Even the rows between the raised beds were overrun with these weeds formerly known as pig weed.  I set to picking beans.   I didn’t last very long bending over and sifting through the bean plants searching for the ‘pickables.’    Of course if the beans appear to be small, I leave them for a return engagement by me and my bowl. Very shortly I was on my knees (the better to see you my wee darlings). Not every bean made it to the bowl. Several had to be tested for texture and taste just to be sure.  Boy, fresh raw, green beans right from the plant. Occasionally one would break in the process of being picked.   Ah well, a sacrifice that mustn’t go to waste.    Over the course of several hours (with many stops to stretch my back and look around), I had three quarters of the bean bed harvested. During the course of my research aux haricots verts, I pulled weeds, lots of weeds, especially of the kind no longer deemed pig. I returned the next day to finish harvesting the harvestable beans and to pull more undesirables.    As I reached the end of the bean bed and just as I grabbed one of the offending weeds, I observed that the tip of an especially tall member had exploded into flower.  I paused to see that the weedy flower somewhat resembled vetch except this one had a pretty pink colour. Too bad, out it comes!   Meanwhile, back in Casa Jones, deep within the confines of my subterranean library, research will continue to seek the true name of this ubiquitous member, this weed formerly known as pig.   You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com. Thu, 18 Aug 2011 12:29:39 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/159787/Rural-Roots/Weed-identification http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/159020/Rural-Roots/The-berry-picking-pooch My wife turned 50 this past Monday. I’m very lucky. She looks at least 10 years younger whereas I look at least 10 years older than my 64 years. Back to Laura. Her passions are, not necessarily in this order, horses, me, the kids, our beautiful property in the country, canoeing, fishing and berry picking. Sunday afternoon, Laura announced she wanted to go pick blueberries on our trails. She wanted me to come along, help pick and drive the quad slowly so she could concentrate on looking for blueberry patches. Right. Fortunately, it was sunny. We started out where both of us remembered picking berries last summer and voila! There they were. Not many and not large, but enough for both of us to keep busy for 15 minutes. Our pooches love to accompany us when we ride, walk or drive on our trails.  So much to explore and they are with their humans.  But, we keep forgetting an essential point.  Laura was to first to remember.  “We should have left Cedric in the house.”   I looked up from where I was picking.  “Why?” I asked.  “He’s going ahead of us eating the berries.”  Right. I recall the family trooping several summers ago to our back field. We didn’t yet have Todd, the dog as part of Clan Jones.  We only had Cedric. It was early July when we walked back to where Laura claimed there were hundreds of wild strawberry plants. I don’t recall our trek including containers of bags for collection. I believe it was a glorious summer afternoon and the aim was to go as a family for a walk. To convince the kids this endeavour was worthwhile, we mentioned wild strawberry picking. It worked. They came willingly. So there we were, gleefully picking succulent fruit. So was Cedric.  “Oh look at that,” I declared, “Cedric is an omnivore.  He’s eating the strawberries.”  We all chuckled. I think it might have been later that summer or possibly the next that I was leading a troop of urchins, all about five to six years old from a daycare centre in town, to our back field, this time to pick wild raspberries. Since we had five staff including Laura who could lead only five kiddies at-a-time on horseback in our inside riding arena, it became my job to be Ranger Fred and take the children not riding on a hike. Again, a destination helped.  I made three such treks that afternoon as each group of children got their chance to ride. So, to the raspberry patch we strode. Of course, Cedric came too. Once we arrived at the raspberry patches, he headed into the thick of the berries as well.  Laura was amused once I had a chance to describe our fruit-foraging pup in there with the rest of us munching on the berries. But in each instance where Cedric joined us in feasting on Nature’s provender, there were lots and we weren’t harvesting for the freezer.  On Sunday, we were, hopefully. So the intrusion of a berry-gorging pup wasn’t welcome. As it turned out, each known blueberry location on the trails displayed few examples of the succulent fruit. “What about the meadow on Mountain Trail?” I asked. “Don’t even bother going there,” Laura replied, “the bears have cleaned that area out.”  We did manage to collect a large container of “bloobs” between the two of us. At the final location where we found a small patch missed with a Saskatoon bush, Cedric got interested in fiercely digging in the moss.  “Ceddy, are you digging for truffles?”  Laura intoned.  “Gee,” I exclaimed,” if there were, in fact, truffles growing on our land and if Ceddy, in fact, rather than wild pigs, was trained to find them, we’d make a fortune!” Would Cedric then “woof” in French? You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P.O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0. Fri, 12 Aug 2011 16:23:30 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/159020/Rural-Roots/The-berry-picking-pooch http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/157481/Rural-Roots/The-reluctant-farmer I said I would never be a farmer. I said I would never work on a farm ever again let alone own one.  Ha! That declaration I made when I was 22 years- old after working for a summer on a diary farm.  I was in university and needed a job that made some real money after having enjoyed several summers at a boys canoe-trip camp on Lake Temagami.  Spending the summer canoe-camping for two months (not all at once) could not be considered working. It was really a barely paid vacation. The farm was northwest of Toronto. My jobs were to help the farmer do the twice-daily milking and help pick up the hay bales off of the fields and mow them in the barn.  This farm didn’t have modern pipelines to feed the milk to the cooler in the milk house. I washed udders and ran the pails to be emptied and then back at it. Then there was the haying. We hayed his fields, those belonging to his dad, the ones several concessions south belonging to his best friend and those across the road owned by a neighbour.  If I had any fat on me, it was worked off by the end of the summer.  I was bronzed, strong and grudgingly grateful I’d had the experience. I have huge respect for farmers and their renaissance abilities to fix anything, solve problems and to keep at it twice daily year in, year out.  I believe you have to be born into farming to be able to stick it out. But after that summer, I’d had it and vowed never again. Then I married Laura. Laura loves horses. We began with two, then four. Four horses are not difficult to keep. We only needed a couple of hundred bales of hay to maintain them for the winter.  Feeding and watering was quick and simple, taking a total of 10 minutes. Our children appeared about the time I had to leave my radio job due to illness; and, due to downsizing and lack of seniority, Laura was laid off from her job with the provincial government. “What do you want to do?” I asked.  “Teach riding,” answered she.  And so it was. We bought the much larger property across the road, built the stable and riding arena, then the hoosie and voila! At first, getting hay seemed, for me, nostalgic. We bought from different suppliers, some of whom delivered and helped stack in the barn. But buying 3,500 small, square hay bales and having them delivered soon cost more than we could afford.  So we found a farmer close to us and began to pick up off of the field. The hay quality is always excellent; but it wore me out. My shoulders still have not fully recovered.  One morning at the beginning of this month, while Laura and I were driving to town, we beheld a field of newly-baled small squares. We both expressed the same thought:  wouldn’t it be nice, just for nostalgia’s sake, to pick up a load of small square bales – just one?  Just for old time’s sake, right? We received a call last week from some friends and neighbours that they had extra hay. Would we like some? It would be perhaps 200, small square bales. They’d sell it to us cheap.  So, off we trundled. The hay was dry and the bales were light. My shoulders could handle tossing them onto the wagon. It turned out to be more than one trip to and from the field to our barn, but at the end of the day both Laura and I laughingly revealed to our friends our desire for a nostalgic revisit to the hay field and tah-dah!  We’d done it! We went back two days later to pick up another 200 bales. The price was right; the bales were dry and light.  Since we began this business, we’ve learned to pay close attention to the weather, especially around haying season, and observe the quality of hay being baled.  So, I’ve learned some things agricultural; but I will never claim to be a farmer.  That honour is for those folk for whom farming has been bred in the bone. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P.O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0. Tue, 02 Aug 2011 11:16:21 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/157481/Rural-Roots/The-reluctant-farmer http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/156070/Rural-Roots/Heat,-hay-and-horses I’m standing in our stable. I’m watching squadrons of dragonflies dipping and diving just outside the main door that is open to allow the cooler outside air to enter. It is Monday night.  It is 9:30 p.m. and still stinking hot inside the barn. It wasn’t supposed to be stinking hot, at least not according to the weather report I had viewed the previous night. We had been blessed with a couple of doozer thunderstorms that should have cooled things off (if you will pardon the colloquism). They didn’t and Monday was hot. We bring the horses into the barn mornings when it promises to be a hot one. Perhaps the horses can stand the heat provided they have adequate shelter and plenty of water. Our main paddock no longer has a shelter since the big winds of May blew it onto its back smashing the structure at the same time. But the main concern at this time of year during the heat of the day is the biting flies – deer flies, horse flies and what we call ankle biters, vicious one and all.  They can drive a horse crazy. We don’t want our horses driven crazy.  We bring them into the stable, into their stalls where they can escape the dreaded winged bloodsuckers. On hot days like Monday, we hose down the concrete isle to help keep the barn cool plus we have a couple of fans blowing air. We check on our equines and will even bring them outside to hose them down in an effort to keep them cool. The horses like being hosed. They instantly feel relief. We have our swimming pool to rescue us from heat exhaustion. But the July heat does bring out a couple of things I enjoy: incredibly rich aromas from bushes, trees and flowers.  At night, the mosquitoes arrive to be met by the dragonflies.  Hooray!  We like dragonflies.  They are our friends.  They are also amazing to watch as they cull the air of the biting whiners.  I was on duty in the barn/stable turning on and off the hose as another person entered each stall to refill water pails. On hot days, we sometimes do the refill duty three times because the horses drink to stay cool.  Anyway, the hose only reaches into what we call the annex.  So to fill water pails belonging to stalls further in, we connect a hose reel that can be unwound.  As I mentioned, my job was to turn on and off the hose. While the pails were being filled, I stood looking out of the large open door of the barn to see so many dragonflies happily at it. At this time of the summer, the lupins I see when driving to and from town are almost over.  What has popped up by the side of the road are the pale blue of hawkweed and wild chicory. I’m tempted to look at my watch and tell them they’re right on time. Hay, however, is later this year and the weather hasn’t helped.  Now we get the heat we should have had back in June. It also seems we can’t go three days in a row without rain.  Dang difficult for farmers to calculate when to cut, rake and bale. We hope to be buying newly baled hay very soon. The horses will be so happy. Better than that now-stale stuff from last year.  But it’s the gorgeous smells of the country that make my day, that make me very happy to be a rural rooter especially after one of those rains. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com.     Fri, 22 Jul 2011 14:30:37 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/156070/Rural-Roots/Heat,-hay-and-horses http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/154996/Rural-Roots/Confused-weather,-confused-flowers So I met this guy, a stranger, in a supermarket in town.  He said he was driving across Canada and had just arrived in Thunder Bay while it was pouring rain.  “Excuse me, for how long has it been raining here?”  “It only started this morning,” I told him.  “We have two new maritime provinces,” he went on, “­Sas­katch­e­wan and Manitoba. They are both really wet with floods. I was just wondering if you folks here have had the same experience.  The weather seems really confused.”  Well, as to his first point, not yet.  Certainly it has rained a lot.  So far, it seems like every second or third day.  This blessing from the heavens is cause for concern for us folk at the farm chiefly because of hay.  The haymakers must be pulling out their hair since this year is number three (according to my reckoning) wherein the conditions for making hay have been very difficult to lousy.  A farmer needs at least three days of sunny, dry weather, ideally four to five, to cut, rake, dry and then bail the hay. Nature hasn’t blessed the haymakers with those conditions.  So why not wait?  Because when the hay reaches a certain length, that is when it must be harvested for maximum food value for the four-legged folk like our horses. The first couple of weeks in July are traditionally when haymakers make baled hay.  Earlier in June, if you drive through rural areas, you will have seen hay being made; but it is for silage, not for bales.  The earth is on schedule producing rich, green and gorgeous hay; but the weather gods must have gone for an extended coffee break and left some inexperienced teenage junior god-ling in charge who is having a ball playing havoc as if the weather were some video game. So, confused weather. As to confused flowers, I ­men­tio­ned in an earlier column the ­dis­cov­ery by my wife Laura of a trillium growing all by itself on the edge of our main horse ­pad­dock. There it is, characteristic white flower and all.  Amazingly, the horses haven’t yet plucked it; and on my to-do-list, Laura has requested I somehow fence the lone example of our provincial flower so as to protect it.  We have even taken friends to see it since trilliums aren’t supposed to be found this far north. Nor, for that matter, are orchids.  Sure, we have wild orchids that don’t resemble the flashy kind I used to purchase from the florist back when I was a teenager seeking a corsage for my prom date.  The wild ones are unassuming-looking things: slim stems with the same-coloured tiny, green buds that pass for flowers.  Not these specimens on our riding trail. T’was this past weekend while Laura was guiding a trail-ride that she happened to look down to behold an orchid growing beside the trail. Then she spotted another. Wow! Real, flowering orchids! When she returned, she hauled our daughter Beth out of Casa Jones and the two of them took off on the quad to go for a look-see.  They were gone for while. But when they returned, Beth was all excited.  “Pater, Pater, Pater! (When Beth gets excited, she likes to employ the Latin term for dad.) You must go see for yourself. The orchids are beautiful!”  “How many did you see?” I asked.  “Two. But they’re gorgeous!”  And confused. I am probably mistaken; I often am, but I don’t think pretty, flowering orchids like the ones grown by one of my favourite, fictitious detectives – Nero Wolfe – are indigenous to our neck of the woods.  Correct me if I’m wrong. Please. Son Doug likes to tease me.  Whenever I do something out-of-the-ordinary, like remember something, he likes to exclaim: “Dad remembered something!  It’s the apocalypse!”  That was his response when Beth informed me about the orchids: “Ah! Orchids where they shouldn’t be! It’s the apocalypse!” Well, that’s rather a negative take, don’t you think? I believe we’ve been blessed. Who knows?  Perhaps the climate is changing here and perhaps we may see trilliums and beautiful, rare orchids spreading throughout our woods. I’d like that. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0. Fri, 15 Jul 2011 14:52:50 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/154996/Rural-Roots/Confused-weather,-confused-flowers http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/153878/Rural-Roots/The-sights-and-sounds-of-summer I caught a cold. Actually, I’m sure it was a viral infection life miserably disguised as a cold.  What angered me was I couldn’t smell the roses. Or anything else, for that matter.  This inability to smell came just as Nature unveiled its spread of colour along roadsides, in fields and in the bush. The first colour to ­e­mer­ge is the yellow of marsh marigolds in wet areas like roadside ditches. We have them growing alongside the creek that flows through our ­pro­per­ty. I’ve never actually tried to get close and put them with the sniff. They just represent the first evidence of colour in spring.  But when marsh marigolds appear, can the black flies be far behind? Next of Nature’s agenda are the lupins.  Again, no noticeable smell, just an incredible spay of colour to break up the homogenous green. You drive to town and in front of many rural residences there are great swaths of lupins standing tall and decked out in reds, purples, pinks and occasional white. A gorgeous mix. I have particularly noticed them along Highways 608 and 61.  Over the years of daily commuting to the city to work at the radio station, I came to look forward to seeing these pastel roadside paintings. If my day had been difficult, the sight of these flowery sentinels cheered me. It takes heat to produce the pinks of wild roses, the white clover and the treefoil that grow beside rural roads. And finally we got some heat.  Canada Day brought a sunny, sweltering 35 plus temperature at our farm while in town it was foggy and actually chilly. But, back at the ranch, during these past couple of wonderfully warm summer days, colour has spread across the land in small patches. Columbine with its rich, red-brown sheath and yellow stamens has been spotted along our riding trails. Patches of Indian Paint Brush mixed with yellow buttercups and daisies break the monotony of wild grasses in fields. A couple of weeks ago, my wife Laura made a startling discovery: a lone Trillium bravely growing beside the fence in our main horse paddock.  “Come and see,” she beamed.  So I did. Great heavens! How did Ontario’s official flower – a single specimen, at that – find purchase in our neck of the woods? We were in the city on Canada Day at the invitation of our friends Marie and George Patterson. George had been one of my best story-telling guests when I worked at CBC Radio. So we were enjoying fine fare at the Patterson groaning board and George, who has become a fine photographer, had been showing us his snaps of flowers from Saskatchewan. Laura mentioned the lone Trillium in full, white flower.  “You better not kill it, Fred. It is a criminal offence in this province and they will send you up the river,” George intoned and then shattered the seriousness with his wonderful guffaw.  And then, the other day, my sense of smell returned.  “I must be getting better,” I announced to Laura after returning from a trip to town.  “How so?” she queried.  “While driving back, I had the windows rolled down and gradually I realized I could smell the aroma of the white clover growing beside the road. Delicious!”  I headed outside to where I’d seen wild roses growing near Casa Jones. A deep inhale and the unmistakeable pink perfume permeated my olfactory sense.  Good! So now when I venture out in the morning to fetch the newspaper, I’m doing a lot of deep inhales as I relish the scents of summer.  You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com Fri, 08 Jul 2011 17:38:35 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/153878/Rural-Roots/The-sights-and-sounds-of-summer http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/150930/Rural-Roots/The-times,-they-are-a-changin'- This farm has gone to the birds. The young raven-lings are ever-present, harassing their beleaguered parents. Long-tailed grackles and cowbirds seem to be under foot.  The bittern in the pond is galunking non-stop; and some feathered thing, don’t know what, has nested in the wall of our riding arena. I stopped to watch the raven-lings picking away at seeds in the mares’ paddock last evening after releasing the herd from the barn for the night.  We’re on summer hours, which means the horses come in during the day to escape the onslaught of biting flies.  We send them back to graze at night. You can tell which ravens are either mom or dad (Lenore and Edgar) because they are quiet and look to be long-suffering. I don’t know but it seems just by looking you can tell. Two of their brood are gaining more self-confidence and aren’t constantly bothering their parents. But number three and probably the last egg to hatch keeps up a constant cawing, which translates as “feed me!”  And Saturday, suddenly there is a flock of grackles hopping over wood pile, along paddocks fences, around horses’ feet.  Cowbirds seem to act like pilot fish around a shark, hopping after horses hoping to be right there when fresh horse apples appear. The other day my neighbour and friend, Joe, came to help me re-route a fence in the main horse paddock. The fencing consists of a special rope that has small metal wire threaded throughout. You attach an electric fencer that sends out a regular pulse. Once a horse has received a small zap on its nose, it respects the boundary of the fence.  So, my wife Laura and I had walked the paddock and realized the horses no longer had bush cover into which they could escape when fierce winter storms approached.  We had to re-route the fence the previous year as part of an agricultural environmental program we initiated that eliminated access to some bush. Now we were opening up another section for the horses. So, Joe and I were pulling each strand of rope and then walking through the woods, attaching the rope to the cleats on the trees until we reached the end to re-attach the two strands to complete the loop. There are three such strands to make the fence. All the while that we were working, the bittern was galunking.  “Wow!” exclaimed Joe, “Listen to the bittern.”  “I know, Joe,” I replied as I stumbled yet again over some root, “It never shuts up.” The next day we had two trail rides. We start the ride in our indoor arena to get riders adjusted in their saddles, give beginners a start, steer and stop lesson. Once everyone seems to be comfy and in control, the guide takes them out on our trails. Each group wonders at the strange sound emanating from inside the wall.   “Don’t mind that noise,” Laura assures them, “It’s just birds that have nested in the wall.” Nested in the wall? I’ve seen several riders exchange looks. Regular readers to this column know Farmer Fred and his diesel tractor Big Red are a lethal combination when it comes to property on this farm. When the barn was first built in 2000, I made it look 25 years old within the first year of operation. I have lousy depth perception. Big Red has a bucket with tines attached. I have bashed barn doors, trees, and once, while working inside the arena, I put the tines through the wooden wall. And through the metal outside wall. This deed was done eight years ago, but it was only this year that some feathered thing elected to make a nest betwixt the two walls.  Perhaps I should patch the two walls.  Laura suggested I remove the tines when working inside the barn. Then I could say that the tines, they are a-changing? You can contact Rural Toots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P.O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0.   Fri, 17 Jun 2011 12:01:35 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/150930/Rural-Roots/The-times,-they-are-a-changin'- http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/148671/Rural-Roots/Rural-routines I have routines. Everybody has routines. In my case, they just seemed to insinuate themselves and evolve. It begins in the morning, of course. For a couple of months now, when I arise, Cedric, who likes to share our bed, also jumps off while other pooch, Todd, who has spent the night on his doggie bed, jumps onto our bed to snuggle my wife Laura.  After dressing, I head in the direction of the kitchen to release Cedric out the front door that coincides with letting in the two orange cats who prefer staying out all night now that the weather isn’t frigid.  Making coffee is next and if it is cold, trooping downstairs to light a fire in the boiler and then back upstairs to light one in the fireplace as well.  By the time all of these tasks have taken place, the coffee is ready and I relish mug number one.  Then I head to my comfy chair in the living room to sit, sip and, time permitting, continue reading my current book. Tiger is one of the two orange tabbies. He, too, has a morning routine. Tiger used to be aloof, never one to cuddle.  Somehow, this past winter, the aloofness vanished to be replaced with a feline making a bee line for my lap once I settle into the chair.  At 7 a.m. I displace Tiger to announce to both my children that “morning hath broken” and that it is time to arise.  Then back to the chair and immediately Tiger is back in my lap usually accompanied by some cat-like complaint for disturbing his snuggling. Son Doug is always the first “out of the starting gate,” as it were.  When the kids were younger, as part of my morning routine, I would make them their school lunches. Not any more.  After giving me a morning hug (how long will that last?), Doug goes to the kitchen to make his lunch and then eat some breakfast. Daughter Beth, on the other hand, is, and always has been, a nighthawk. Mornings are not her strong suit. I consider myself very fortunate if I can get her to even eat breakfast, her being a teenager after all. Doug almost always makes it to the end of the driveway, come snow or rain, to catch the school bus.  Beth, I usually drive to her bus.  I don’t mind, for on the return journey I can pick up the mail from our super box that is located in the village.  When I arrive home, that is when I pour my second mug of caffeinated “black juice” as Laura calls it, and eat breakfast.  There you have it.  Weekends allow for sleeping in a bit before heading to the barn to take care of the horses. Horses have routines as well. They have internal clocks that ring when it is time for their feed. They are very good at letting you know when you should be tossing them more hay.  There is always a pecking order in the herd. For example, some horses prefer being released from the barn before others. If they are not then they raise one heck of a ruckus. You learn about this over time.  Other horses possess more equanimity, are less prone to impatience. Except for Patience, one of the mares, who must be lead out to her paddock before, let’s say, Lazer, a large gelding.  Actually, I ran this bit by Laura just now and she said that order of release in some cases had less to do with patience and more to do with mare biting gelding’s butt as he passes by. Oh. Practical reasons then. And while order and good government is a state I’m perpetually trying to realize on the farm, when you’re dealing with animals and machinery that unexpectedly decide to break, it is a state very rarely achieved.  But, if actualizing the above state was simple, life would rapidly, for me, become boring; and life here on the farm is anything but that. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P.O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0. Fri, 03 Jun 2011 10:19:18 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/148671/Rural-Roots/Rural-routines http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/147675/Rural-Roots/Those-pesky-black-flies ‘It was the black fly, black fly everywhere, a-crawlin’ in your whiskers, a-crawlin’ in your hair...” – Wade Hemsworth, Black Fly Song The day began innocently enough: sunny and warm that steadily grew hot. It was day two of sun and heat.  By the end of the first day I noticed a couple of horse heads shaking, tails swishing. Uh, oh, flies. When it was time to throw the final hay of the day, I felt one or two flies swirling around my head. I dispatched one and examined its corpse. A black fly! So it begins. But there were only a couple of the annoying blood-suckers that evening.  The next day was also sunny and warm when I fired up Big Red, my diesel tractor, and trundled into an empty horse paddock to scrape all of the winter horsey leavings.  The task took some time since the manure-horse poop mix was wet where it was thickest. In fact, as I scraped, in some spots there was still ice where the cover had protected. I took a break and had some lunch. My wife Laura said why don’t we take our quad runner and go look for fiddleheads. After our repast, we donned our helmets and drove up a logging road behind our former residence (that is just across the road...).  This past winter, a neighbour who logs for a living, had widened the old track to get at his allotment. Great!  Though the road was rough, the going was easy.  We often walked that route when we lived on our old property. It became a spring ritual to look for fiddleheads.  We had not been back there for almost 10 years but we were still able to remember where the wee fronds grow.  We only managed to locate two.  “We’re too early,” Laura ­com­mented. “We should return next week.”  We slowly motored back recalling past visits.I was remembering our “date” when I resumed my place a-top Big Red later that day to scrape another paddock.  The heat had increased to the point that one could think it was the middle of July.  As I continued to work, I noticed an increasing number of occasions when I had to swipe at my eyes, swat at my ears and under the brow of my cap.  By the time I had completed the task, having built a sizeable Mini Mt. Crumpet (as opposed to our main manure pile named Mt. Crumpet by our friend, Rob), I was no longer having fun.  Neither were the horses in various paddocks which is why several had disappeared into the horse shelter where it was darker to get away from their tormentors.   When I returned to Casa Jones, I announced that the flies had flushed.  Laura said that what with the amount of snow we received this winter, the late melt and spring, the rain we’d been receiving, and finally, the heat, they were bound to emerge.  I said that I’d forgotten how first you get two or three and then wham! The flies explode.  They’re everywhere.  Black flies breed in fast-flowing water which is why they come at this time of year, make life miserable for about a month, and then disappear by the end of June. Usually.  I visited the parents of a school chum of my son. They moved to the country about two or three years ago.  Their property is surrounded by bush, so they don’t get much breeze. They were going nuts with the flies.  “I’ve never seen them this bad,” said the dad.  That’s because we’ve had a couple of dry springs with far less snow during the winters. The run-off was over and done with very quickly.  Because of the relatively little spring moisture followed by the dry conditions, the berry picking was far from fecund.  Now, I think we are back to a normal albeit delayed spring. One sign that is a prelude to the flush of black flies is the appearance of marsh marigolds in the wet spots.  This year, we’ve got lots. Every creek is festooned with yellow flowers perched on dark green cushions.   As told in Wade Hemsworth’s song, the “little black flies” can drive man and beast nuts.  But, they are essential to pollination of blue berries. And I love blueberries almost as much as I love Saskatoon berries. Yum. So, fly sheets and masks for those horses most bothered by the wee, pesky bloodsuckers and secure clothing and bug spray for me. I just have to keep thinking of fresh, blueberry pies. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gilliles, Ont. P0T 2V0. Fri, 27 May 2011 10:09:51 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/147675/Rural-Roots/Those-pesky-black-flies http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/146945/Rural-Roots/Brown-versus-green Finally, the greening of the land.  Although the temperature, like the weather throughout most of this season, has been see-sawing with cloud and damp, chilling winds from the east, these past couple of days have been sunny and blessedly warm.  The winds have changed to a much-needed drying sort that will allow my diesel tractor, Big Red, and my riding lawn-mower, Little Red, to get some work done. The greening is going a-pace with the lawns now a rich, vertiginous colour much in need of mowing and the trees coming into leaf. The first buds, those soft catkins that appear before the leaves that one notices are the pussy-willows.  In Britain, they are also known as Goat willow.  When driving the back roads and highways to town, I’m now seeing the occasional tree in full leaf, ahead of its neighbours. Daughter Beth and son Doug have both expressed their impatience to see full-blown leaves.  “Forget buds!  I don’t want to see buds! I want leaves, now!” exclaimed Beth.  Soon, my sweet, very soon. ’Tis a sign of how fed up we are with a long winter and a delayed spring. The delay in warmth has gardeners frustrated. My wife Laura is itching to get planting.  “Why by this time last year I already had (insert here...) planted,” she laments.  I chanced to talk to a couple of famers I met at the Farmers Co-op while I was purchasing seed potatoes and onion sets.  “My wife is impatient to get planting,” I said.  “No one has planted yet,” they told me. “The land is still too cold. It hasn’t yet warmed up enough.  Everything is late.”  I duly reported my research to Laura who then reminded me that there are things that are frost-resistant that can be planted. Oh.  Yeah.  Right.  Sorry. Each day the grass grows longer and I haven’t been able to cut it because Little Red wouldn’t start and why?  I’d left the battery in the riding lawn-mower all winter in an unheated shelter and it froze.  “What about that other one you bought last year that you didn’t use?” Laura inquired.  Oh, that one. Oops. Ha,ha. I left that one on the shelf in that shelter and it, too, froze. Off to buy a brand new one and ta-dah! Little Red leaps into life! I’m going to get mowing the grass as soon as I finish writing this here missive. Except I won’t. Laura just popped her head in the door of my lair and announced that logic dictates, Captain, that the horse paddocks need scraping first.    What coats the ground of the horse paddocks is a winter’s worth of wasted hay and manure, the very stuff for composting into excellent fertilizer.  I’ve written before that in the barn we use wood shavings for bedding. It takes wood shavings five years to break down before it can be used as compost.  The accumulated winter leavings that I will scrape up from the paddocks will take the summer at most to compost. So Big Red and I trundle into an empty paddock, scrape the brown leavings into a pile and then bucket it out to build a small mountain to which access will be easy.  Not for Mt. Crumpet this stuff. I told Laura my plans for what I would do with the paddock scrapings.  “Gee,” she said, “If you decide to get creative with the tractor bucket and sculpt some kind of Mount Rushmore, please leave my face out of it.”  “Not a chance,” I assured her. Besides, I would have endless trouble attempting to form the faces of both John Diefenbaker and Pierre Trudeau.  Jowls and high cheekbones aren’t my strong suit. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P.O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0.   Fri, 20 May 2011 10:21:41 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/146945/Rural-Roots/Brown-versus-green http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/142990/Rural-Roots/Hey,-Ol'-Man-Winter! What gives?  It is Easter and you haven’t vamoosed for your well-earned rest!  C’mon, you gave us a cold and snowy winter for which I am grateful, at least for the snowy part; the extended cold I could have done without especially since, as I advance in terms of years on the planet, I’m feeling the chills more. I know, I wasn’t very polite in my salutation but I’m angry and fed up. I think I represent legions of fellow sufferers. My daughter Beth, the cynic in the family, awoke Saturday to look out across the yard to discover the gathering white, fluffy stuff and observe:  “Winter was about to pack up leave but he can’t stand the laughter of children especially when they shout “Hurray!  Spring has sprung!’  So he stuck it to us one more time.”  Only one?  Maybe she slept through the previous times when we thought you’d gone and warmth and green were on the way.  It sure seemed that way last week; well, except for those freezing winds from the east that persisted for four days. But, the snow had all but disappeared; access to hitherto covered things was now complete; and I was so confident you’d vacated that I removed the water trough heaters and coiled up all of the extension cords.  I’ve been breaking ice every morning for the past week. I was even able to get at my wood splitter that had been hidden beneath the snow and began to split the pile of balsam, jack pine, and spruce I found lying across our horse trails during the autumn after being toppled by some pretty fierce winds.  It was a joy to hear the snap, crackle, and pop in the fireplace and to breath in the wonderful aroma of that wood smoke when I ventured outside.  Now I have to wait until the snow melts, again! Things were drying.  Mud season, the bane of wooden floors, was moving apace.  Doggy paws were tracking in less mud each day.  Sure, since your recent blessing of fresh snow, pooch paws come into Casa Jones clean; which means we have to go through the nuisance of towelling their footsies once again.  And I was all set to get Big Red, my diesel tractor, into the horse paddocks to scrape and clean the winter’s horsey leavings before the ice underneath had melted.  It would mean that what I collect is pure manure not mixed with gravel.  That means that when it breaks down, I’ve got lots of excellent, rich compost for gardens.  That chore, like many others that I was prepped to do, is on hold until you skedaddle. And the poor returning birds!  I ventured to Mt. Crumpet (our manure pile off in the bush) to dump a load of stall leavings, only to see plumped robins, totally unafraid of my presence, gathering seeds from the manure and, most likely, enjoying the heat given off from the newly dumped stuff.  Haven’t heard them singing much, not since they first arrived when we thought you’d disappeared!  Now I know the scientists have been warning us the climate is changing.  What we grew up to expect as normal in terms of seasonal changes may have vanished for good. My children may never know any consistent weather patterns. We older folk get together shaking our heads and wondering what the heck is happening.  Good question: what the heck is happening, Ol’ Man-Winter-Sir?  You been granted some extension?  Spring lose in some kind of contest twixt you two?  Your snow storms are much appreciated, beautiful to behold in December, January, even in February, but not now! I must go. I’ve more snow ploughing to do, thank-you-very-much!  Take a break, Ol’ Man Winter.  You deserve it.  So do we. Grudgingly Respectful,    Frozen Fred You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com. Thu, 21 Apr 2011 17:04:11 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/142990/Rural-Roots/Hey,-Ol'-Man-Winter! http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/140544/Rural-Roots/April-is-the-cruellest-month ‘April is the cruellest month...” T.S. Elliot – The Wasteland. Sunday, it began to snow.  Monday, it was still snowing: lots of the stuff with big, wet flakes bending the hydro and telephone lines. As I trudged to the barn, I learned just how much had fallen in a 24 hour period: more than 10 inches!  “Aw, c’mon! Relent, already!” I mentally hurled at Ol’ Man Winter.  At least it wasn’t cold, just a gorgeous winter wonderland that, in December, would be much appreciated and admired but not now. I had my work cut out for me. Work, of course, meant firing up Big Red, my aging diesel tractor and clearing drives, parking area and lanes to various paddocks, to Mt. Crumpet (the manure pile), etc.  After most snow storms, the method of clearing is with the farm snow blower attached to the rear of the tractor.  Not this time. The snow wot lay upon the ground was simply too wet and heavy.  Trying to blow it would merely blow Red’s engine. This time the bucket would have to do the trick. Using the bucket to clear snow takes time. It helps to have good depth perception, to be able to gage the exact angle for maximum snow gathering. All farmers possess this ability. I don’t. Bring me to any game of pool if you want comedy.  So, it might take me a couple of tries to clear a path, to get the snow without leaving too much or gouging the driveway. I’ve done both more than once. Since Big Red doesn’t possess a nice, warm, dry cab, I had to suit up in my heavy pants that go with my now very ragged farm coat. It is important to keep warm and dry and since it was still snowing, I didn’t argue with my self about wearing those cumbersome pants.  In the past, every time I’ve removed the snow blower from the rear of B.R., the weather has usually been fair; what remained of snow was on a fast retreat and mud was making its presence known.  And each time I removed the blower, it snowed. I wrote about this phenomenon.  And every time I mentioned to friends that I wanted to get the big thing off of Red’s back (the blower is unwieldy and can be a liability when the tractor is driven by me), friends have reminded me of my curse: when you take off the blower, it snows – lots!  On Saturday, I revealed my plan to detach the blower to a friend who cautioned that it would surely snow and I’d have neighbours in four surrounding townships angry with me.  But, not this time. This time I hadn’t yet got around to the deed. Before I got to clearing, I backed Red to the spot chosen for the blower’s summer residence and removed it. Now Red was a lot more manoeuvrable.   Now I could concentrate on ploughing and scraping without worrying about bashing some vehicle, without having to constantly check my back (oh, the damage I’ve done...). Off we went. Well, I won’t bore you with the back and forth. With the blower when the snow is lighter, the job usually takes me two to three hours.  This time the job took almost six.  Add to that my neighbour’s driveway.  I finished by four in the afternoon.  Unaccustomed as I am to sitting on Red for that number of hours at a go, when I finally stumbled into Casa Jones, I was bushed.  A mug of hot coffee was much appreciated. Son Doug asked if snow in April is unusual. “No, just unwanted. Think green! Image in Easter colours.Bring on the melt, the daffs, the crocuses, etc. Don’t want returning feathered friends to be in for a shock, do we?” I answered.   The snow stopped; the sun appeared.  The weather patterns have irrevocably changed. Old T.S. was right about April being the cruellest month, at least for this year.  We’ll just take it one year at a time. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P.O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0.   Wed, 06 Apr 2011 16:31:12 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/140544/Rural-Roots/April-is-the-cruellest-month http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/136446/Rural-Roots/In-with-a-bang?- So here we are well into this month of March that came like what? Was its entrance meek like a lamb or the roar of a lion? For Farmer Fred, it came in with a bang. Or was it a crunch? Well, actually, March 1 was neither lion-like nor gently “baaing” here at Casa Jones.  And the bang part was more like a crunch, and therein is my tale. As I’ve mentioned, my memory is going.  Sometimes it momentarily leaves the room that is my brain and sometimes it leaves and shuts the door behind it.  Like on March 1. I had driven to get the mail that is deposited in one of those rural super boxes.  Our set of boxes is in the village of South Gillies, a mere mile and a half from our farm.  When I approached our van, I thought the front tire on the driver’s side looked very soft. It so happens that where we park our vehicles, snow has built up over the winter on either side such that often our vehicles wind up on a slight tilt when parked.  Anyway, when I arrived at our mailbox in the village, a neighbour was also fetching his mail and so we chatted for about a minute before he drove off and I headed to our mailbox. I completely forgot to check the tire. So, memory had snuck out the door for a short while until I turned into our laneway and remembered I must check to see if, in fact, the tire required hauling out the air compressor and recharging the tire. Instead of parking in my usual spot that would result in the van being on that slight tilt, I parked on the driveway in front of our hoosie. I climbed out of the van and looked at the tire.  All was well. No flat or about-to-be-flat. So, a mere trick, an illusion from tilt parking. Then I went into the house. Wife Laura announces that I need to fire up my diesel tractor, Big Red, and heft a large square bale of hay to one of the outdoor horse paddocks. “I just want to finish my second cup of coffee and then I’ll go back out,” I answered. And so I did. Now, this is where memory decided to exit farmer Fred’s brain and shut the door. Big Red started up without a hitch, I raised the big snowblower attached to Red’s rear, if you will, and proceeded to back slowly out of the shelter where Red rests when not called up for duty. The sun had just come out from behind the cloud as I heard and felt a crunch! I hit the break instantly realizing what had happened.  That crunch had summoned memory back. I’d backed into the van. I’d completely forgotten I’d left the van parked not in its usual parking space in front of the house, but on the drive in front of the house, right on a beeline path of a backing-up tractor. T’wasn’t Red’s fault. I climbed off of the tractor to assess the damage. A small crunch, not enough to prevent the hatch-back door from opening.  Missed the rear light, too.  Ah well. Another visible sign of Farmer Fred’s handiwork. Laura was resigned and philosophical about the incident when, clearing my throat, I confessed to yet another meeting of machine and machine in a deleterious manner. My poor, long-suffering wife: made her brand new barn look 25 years old within a year; have inflicted several dents, bumps and bruises on her truck. Oh, and Laura also reminded me I’m a repeat offender bender. I’d also backed Big Red with snowblower attached into the back of the vehicle of our good (still, amazing!) friend Jacquie in exactly the same spot. So, slipped on yet another banana peel thrown unwittingly by me onto the ground in front. I’ve read the riot act to my memory: “From now on, an open-door policy only!  If you’re gonna nip out, leave the door open so you can get back inside before I do any more crunch jobs!”   Fri, 11 Mar 2011 18:22:43 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/136446/Rural-Roots/In-with-a-bang?- http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/133455/Rural-Roots/First-melt-of-the-season The surge of warm weather brings with it mixed blessings: it is very good not to have to bundle up to resemble the Michelin Man to exit the warm hoosie to do chores, but the warmth brings a modicum of melt, a natural archaeology revealing treasures, some happily remembered, some not so much so. Monday morning (Valentine’s Day) I gazed out the kitchen window to see the top of a pile of unsplit balsam and spruce that I’d retrieved from fallen trees across our trails during the autumn.  I had managed to split what I took to be sufficient for a cozy winter of snap, crackle and pop in our fireplace. Not so.  I’ve used up the supply of split and realized with increasing chagrin that I’d be forced to dig a tunnel to the wood pile of fireplace wood in order to fetch the bucked pieces that I would now have to split by hand.  I’d have to split what I could dig out from under because there was no longer any evidence of my wood splitter (Hmm, I think its that lump of snow next to the larger lump of snow that I think is the wood waiting to be split). Now I could also see most of the splitter exposed. The first melt also removed a considerable amount of snow and ice mixed that covered the tarp that covered the split, odd pile, the stuff we burn in our boiler.  That means that I don’t have to labour as much to fetch the wood to be tossed down the hatch into the wood room in the basement.   The job should then go by a lot quicker and that pleases me. I may not be able to start the splitter when I do get around to creating more pieces for the fireplace but at least I know its location and that of the wood to be split.  I enjoy the art of cleaving wood into bite-sized candidates for snap, crackle and pop. I also enjoy the longed-for warmth when having to do tractor chores. As I mentioned, it is a very freeing feeling not having to swath in heavy, encumbering layers.  I can get on and off of Big Red without a lot of “oof” and other grunting noises.  I can ride around performing these various chores without freezing off my nose.  Red doesn’t even consider hesitating when I turn the key. The hydraulics controlling steering and the motion of the bucket answer my every whim instantly – just like in summer.  There is a downside to the first melt though. That first layer of snow cover is gone and now I can see clearly where the dogs have done their business.   Experience has taught me that their business revealed is only the top layer of an entire winter’s worth of said business conveniently covered by successive snowfalls.  This looks like a clean-up job for son Doug. The other downside to a wild swing in temperature to the plus side of the thermometer is how the snow turns to slush – very difficult to negotiate both on foot and with vehicle.  The hard-won hard-pack suddenly gives underfoot. Walking becomes very tricky especially when leading horses in and out of the barn.  Ruts form in the driveway.  Cars slide around and/or get stuck. Then when the temperature drops at night, the ruts turn solid over which vehicles bump.  The farm snow-blower on the back of Big Red is useless in this case. Have to employ the bucket and scrape down to the hard-packed surface that still might be a couple of inches above the gravel of the driveway. But I’m ready for it now that I’ve had a couple of years experience and know what to expect. And I know that we’re not through with winter quite yet. Good chance we’ll get more snow before Ol’  Man Winter has had his say. You can contact rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com. Tue, 22 Feb 2011 11:01:11 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/133455/Rural-Roots/First-melt-of-the-season http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/131855/Rural-Roots/The-resurrection-of-Big-Red ‘And the winner is...Big Red for tractor most likely to continue serving Farmer Fred! Here to accept the award on behalf of Big Red is Farmer Fred.”  Farmer Fred stands before the microphone, teary-eyed, in a display of maudlin gratitude as the host hands him the empty packaging for the new in-line heater.  “At last, at long last! Huzzah, Big Red is working again! I have many people to thank: first, my mechanic, Donny, without whom the job would never have got done. Oh, and also his Uncle Albert without whose assistance my yard would have become a toxic waste dump of anti-freeze and whose humour kept my nerves at bay. Then, of course, I must thank...”  And on, and on. For those faithful readers who follow the weekly adventures and miss-adventures of your correspondent, you will recall that Big Red, my long-suffering, diesel tractor refused to start some...oh...several weeks ago. After much trial and error in diagnosing the problem, including opinions from several mechanically-inclined neighbours, it was determined the in-line heater that keeps the tractor’s precious, bodily fluids from freezing solid in winter had died.  Ah, yes but how and why?  Through experimentation that required different electrical outlets, an assortment of extension cords, and, finally, the taking apart of the heater, it was concluded that, in the words of my friend, Rob, a Star Trek fan: “It’s dead, Jim.”  Yup. Some short was preventing the heater from keeping them precious tractor juices from flowing. So, off to a parts store to purchase a new in-line heater. Can’t be a difficult job replacing the now dead one, can it? I peered at the offending and useless component. “Hmm,” thinks I, “just a matter of loosening a couple of clamps, pulling the hoses off and quickly attaching the new heater.  How hard can that be?” Hah! I stalled.  I procrastinated. I called Donny, my local mechanic who just lives up the road, a very busy man, to come look just to make sure I didn’t completely blow it like I usually tend to do. “It’s a bit difficult to get at,” intoned Donny, “And the lower out-take on the heater is set farther back than on the old one. I’ll see if I have any hose we can cut to length.”  Did you read that?  “...so we can cut...”  We – meaning that Donny was going to help me do the job.   Yahoo! But it was quite a few days before Donny could extract himself from his garage (I told you he was busy...) and most importantly, before the temperature warmed enough to delay the freezing of digits during the operation of in-line heater replacement.  When Donny and Uncle Albert showed up, I was in Casa Jones doing something and not aware that they’d arrived. By chance I ventured upstairs from the basement to see Donny’s truck parked by Big Red. Out I went just as Donny removed the final clamp holding on the hoses that conduct the aforementioned precious bodily etc., etc. Ah, but it had been discovered the hoses through which the anti-freeze travels were shot. Off Donny drove to fetch more hose. He returned shortly. Albert’s job was to play the little Dutch boy and place his thumb over the hose so a minimum of anti-freeze would leak. At no extra cost, he cracked jokes that kept me laughing. Donny had placed a container beneath to catch any spill. The heater removed, the new hose is attached followed by the new heater and then the replacing of whatever anti-freeze that spilled into the container and voila! A new, improved Big Red is good to go.  We plug in the heater and very soon the new hose feels hot to the hand. Great! I just have to wait for an hour before attempting to start the beast. So, all is well in tractor land.  I am able to get the heavy lifting chores done that involve transporting large hay bales to the barn and/or to the paddocks.  Big Red is no longer dead, Jim. PS: I received a number of phone calls and emails from very well-intentioned readers who offered excellent advice on how to get Big Red started in the cold without the use of an in-line heater.  Many thanks, gents! You can get in touch with Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0. Fri, 11 Feb 2011 11:19:50 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/131855/Rural-Roots/The-resurrection-of-Big-Red http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/131134/Rural-Roots/Snowy-tracks I like Sunday mornings. I don’t have to hurry to get things done and get kids off to school.  Everyone in the household gets to sleep in.  Well, almost.  Me – I tend to awaken most mornings at the same time, in winter, before the sun rises.  As I did this past Sunday, and, after brewing the morning pot of black juice, as my wife Laura likes to call it, fanning the coals in the boiler in the basement into flaming action and tending the needs of pooches and felines, I stood, steaming mug of black juice in hand, to gaze out our large picture window. By the time I’d completed the aforementioned tasks, light was flooding the landscape. Ol’ Sol had yet to peak above the horizon, but there was enough light to reveal tracks in the snow – lots of them. The tracks curiously looped in large ellipses or zig-zags, obviously made by horses. In one paddock, the ellipses resembled several attempts at tying bows. I’ve observed horses when they get frisky – their form of play – tearing around bucking and rearing but with no discernable pattern being created.  I’ve written before about the horses making horse-play with each other on two mounds of piled earth I’ve termed Destiny’s Mountain. Destiny is a lovable, incorrigible, black mare who used to stand atop the first mound with the wind blowing her mane and tail – a classic scene that earned her the moniker: Destiny, Wild Mare of the North.  Actually, she romps very little. It is any combination of four geldings (neutered male horses) that relish rearing and bucking at each other, of chasing each other up and down the mounds, of doing a thing Laura terms bight-face – horseplay. But this Sunday morning, the horses were still in the barn as I stood gazing at the trails in the snow.  The snow is quite deep this winter somewhat like the good old days as my neighbours like to observe.  The good old days of lots of snow going back to the ’70s and perhaps the ’80s although my memory ain’t that good no more.  So to see tracks in the snow, I have to strap on snowshoes and trek across fields and into the bush. Aha! There is life in them thar hills!  Tracks most often seen belong to grouse with their snowshoe impressions, rabbit (actually, I’ve been informed, we have hares, not rabbits), the incredibly straight lines made by Reynard the Fox or Mrs. Reynard and rarely, the impression of wings made by hawk or owl when landing to snatch a mouse meal or that of some unfortunate “bun rab.” The most prevalent track to be observed along our trails is that of deer. On our property, it appears the moose have disappeared. They have been replaced by deer – lots of deer. One afternoon, a grey one at that, I chanced to look up from my book to see two dark objects on the beaver pond.  Being at an age where 20/20 blur seems the norm, I roused my body to fetch the field glasses only to focus on two deer slowly making their way through the deep snow on the ice.  Mom and the kid? Don’t know. In non-winter seasons, the only evidence of life in the woods is by actually catching glimpses of the fauna themselves or by seeing tracks in mud after rain. But in winter, there is ample evidence of their presence in the snow.  Laura tells me she is constantly seeing dramas played out as she guides trail rides along our trails – a grouse having been snatched by a fox or by some bird of prey as seen by those wing prints and some feathers belonging to the luckless target, the leg of a deer that my dog, Cedric, usually uncovers, leftovers of a wolf-pack’s meal.  Yes, we have wolves on the land but we almost never see them. I am asked if wolves attack the horses. Nope. Wolves aren’t stupid.  They go for the easy kill, like deer or rabbits. So it is in winter with the blessing of snow that I most often get to see that the bush is very much alive with activity, from some serious food foraging to just plain horse-play. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0. Tue, 08 Feb 2011 15:08:29 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/131134/Rural-Roots/Snowy-tracks http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/128283/Rural-Roots/Firery-wood,-nice-aroma There is a classic stereotypical image of returning to the sight of a warm ‘hoosie’ and, upon approaching the front door, being assailed by the aromas of fresh baking and wood smoke.  Such was the case this past week. After a warm spell, not typical for January, the cold returned.  I awoke early to perform my usual morning tasks of coffee making, letting out the dogs, and then trundling to the basement to feed the fire in the boiler.  When the sun finally rose to spread various shades of orange, mauve, pinks, and the occasional spot of purple over hills, trees, and snow-covered field, I bundled up to trek to fetch the newspaper at the end of our driveway.  The dogs go nuts when they learn that we’re going for a walk however short it may be.  The air was quite crisp with a slight breeze that felt more like an arctic blast since the thermometer registered minus twenty- seven.  After retrieving the newspaper, I turned to amble back to Casa Jones and beheld the smoke rising from the chimney and being sent scurrying by the breeze.  I never tire of that sight.  As I never tire of witnessing the colours reflected on the snow, the house, the near bush, and the distant cliffs ever changing as Ol’ Sol steadily rises. I also never tire of the aroma of wood when I descend into the boiler room – a warm combined scent of birch and black ash.  I checked the fire in the boiler, added a couple of pieces just to top it up, and retreated back upstairs to set a fire in our fireplace.  The wood that I choose to fuel that fire offers the sweet scents of pine: be it from the burning of balsam, spruce, the occasional pieces of jackpine, or the shavings we use in the horse stalls as bedding.   Like the familiar smells of roasting fowl or beef, of barbeques, of cooking onions when returning to the house after chores or from doing errands in town- comfort food smells, the aromas of wood smoke in winter are also very comforting. The other day Laura decided to bake. She usually undertakes this mouth-watering task at the celebratory times of the year of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter.  But this time she had been presented with a recipe for sourdough starter.  Thus our baking table was now gathering a collection of large, plastic, freezer bags full of some bizarre bubbling mess that could be made into breads, buns, rolls, what-have-you.  And thus it was that I returned to our warm chateau after delivering large bales of hay to the horse paddocks, to the freshly-baked, buttery aromas of cinnamon and apple filling the foyer as I shook off snow from boots and winter garments that kept out the cold. The kitchen counters, bake table, and Laura were festooned with evidence of her baking alchemy.  Flour covered most surfaces including her hands and face.  But the results were absolutely mouth-watering and ready for consuming.  I tried a cinnamon roll fresh from the oven.  I don’t know which melted faster, the rolls in my mouth or me. I ventured out of my basement lair in search of some nourishment and revealed to Laura the subject of this week’s column. “Familiar smells?” she replied. “How about when we get unseasonably warm days that release the aromas from the manure pile – a sure sign of spring?” Right. Something of which to look forward. Oh joy.  How about another one of those sweet-smelling rolls? You can reach Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by writing to Rural Roots, P.O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0. Fri, 21 Jan 2011 11:09:45 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/128283/Rural-Roots/Firery-wood,-nice-aroma http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/117258/Rural-Roots/Weather-catches-up-with-season I’ve begun to light a fire in the fireplace each morning to ward off the chill. Finally, the weather has caught up to the season.  However, I’m not begrudging the extended warmth we experienced. Take, for example, Thanksgiving Sunday – a beautifully warm day, t-shirt weather.  My wife Laura announced that she’d like the family to do something outside.  “What? A trail ride involving all four of us?” I queried. “No, I’d like us to go to Oliver Lake and walk along the drive,” she answered. Oliver Lake is a deep, spring-fed body of water that is usually cold, even at the height of summer.  Still, it is what local rural rooters call “our lake” since there isn’t really any lake near-by.  You could come in the summer and expect to see mothers, neighbours all from surrounding townships, with their brood of youngsters splashing in and out of the lake at the west end where it is shallow and swimmable.  Blankets are spread out with picnics, towels and water toys. While Dad is at work, Mum and the kids might spend the entire day at the lake.  I would go there during my holidays and perhaps join my neighbours usually after I’d paddled my canoe around the shore.  Mostly I would show up in the evening when the boaters and the crowd had gone home so I could paddle in peace. We arrived to see a couple of cars parked and to observe someone on the lake with a kayak as well as two motor boats pulling large inflated tubes. Brrr!  We began our walk down the lane that fronts many of the summer homes.  Laura, Beth and Doug walked on ahead while I stopped to talk with Sharon and Rob, neighbours from down the highway.  They were filling a large water tank on the back of their truck. We began to talk about the lake’s history and I mentioned that I’d heard of an airplane as well as a team of horses, still in harness and attached to a sleigh at the bottom of the lake.  Had they ever heard those tales? Both Sharon and Rob have spent their lives in the area. Both of them acknowledged that the tales were true.  The eastern shore of Oliver Lake consists of very high cliffs.  Rob told me that when they were logging high up on top of those cliffs, they would send the logs down a long chute to land on the ice or in the water.   The logs were then ferried across the lake to the western shore that is low and where the logs could be easily fetched to the sawmill built on the western shore. Apparently the accident occurred when the sleigh full of logs with horses attached got too close to the edge of the chute and, tragically, sleigh, logs and harnessed team went down into the lake.  Since I didn’t hear of any human mortality, I assume the driver jumped free.  The story about the airplane, I’ve still to hear told. Well, eventually I parted company with Sharon and Rob and continued walking the lane to catch up with my family.  After some joking and gazing into the water, we headed back.  When we reached the landing we saw two wooden kayaks waiting to be launched. Turned out to be home built boats by Karen and Paul Roach, also neighbours.  Both  folk were swathed in dark, rubber dry suits. They pushed their respective craft onto the water, climbed in, fastened the cowl over the entrance and paddled out about 40 feet.  Then they over-turned their boats and bobbed up having done a roll. Wow!  Paul told me that they’ve learned 15 different styles of roll that the Inuit practice.  So, rolling in beautifully hand-crafted kayaks is how Karen and Paul spend time together. In the freezing water! And they do this until freeze-up. They even demonstrated pairs or synchronised rolling for us.  Now I know that the first thing you learn when kayaking is how to roll so that if you capsize, you can recover. But rolling as a pastime, as a sport?  Soon to be seen in the Summer Olympics?  Why not? You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@yahoo.ca or by writing to Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0. Thu, 28 Oct 2010 13:39:31 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/117258/Rural-Roots/Weather-catches-up-with-season http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/109503/Rural-Roots/warmth,-wind-and-hay-fever There are a few outstanding natural occurrences engraved in my noggin about this summer and this launch into fall: the heat, of course that has gone on record to make this past summer one of the hottest, the amount of wind that has been a mixed blessing and the colour yellow. I appreciate warm; I don’t like hot and humid.  We got more of the latter condition this summer than I can remember us receiving before in this part of the province.  Sure, there are probably long-time residents that can recall the summer of whatever when “it was so hot you could poach an egg on a rock” or something.  Even I remember one summer when the temperature reached 105 Fahrenheit.  Arthur Black and his lady Lynne were coming way out into the country to have supper in my new home. Very quickly we abandoned my wee charcoal barbeque and headed for Oliver Lake where we knew a lass who owned a cottage with a dock.  We spent most of the evening visiting in the lake with the water up to our necks. I believe the only time we exited the cooling facility was to fetch more food and drink that was dock-side. But life has changed for me, several times, and now I’m part of a horse riding business that during the busy season of riding camps and trail rides, doesn’t allow for much time off.  Besides, unfortunately, Oliver Lake has become too popular and crowded and can attract a fairly rowdy bunch.  So, a couple of years ago, we bought an above-ground swimming pool that more than once has saved us from heat exhaustion.  By the time you read this missive, I will have put the pool to bed for the winter. The water temperature, even on sunny days and with two solar heaters attached, has not gone above 72 Celsius. That is way too cold for this aging body.  The weather seems to be in a holding pattern very typical for this time of year.  I don’t think we will be getting too many hot days until next year. When the air wasn’t still and stifling, it was windy.  Often very windy for days at a time, and not just at the end of August when we’ve come to expect lots of wind and racing clouds as a part of an autumnal scene.  As I wrote a while back, those types of winds made canoeing darned difficult. In the case of my overnight camping trip with my son Doug the fierce blow lasted the entire next day, keeping us wind-bound on our campsite until well into the evening.  There were many days on the farm when I’d think of friends who had announced a foray into Quetico Provincial Park for a canoe trip into the interior. Well, at least the bugs will be hiding.  Those windy days kept the biting bugs to a minimum for our horses; but as soon as the winds would let up, the bugs were there harassing our equines and we’d bring those who didn’t have an enclosed outdoor shelter into the barn for protection. The winds haven’t abated and the sky has been giving us a thrilling show of stampeding clouds.  I’ve actually had to wear a jacket even when doing chores.  Throwing hay into the outdoor paddocks for the horses has become a well-honed skill of figuring out the direction of the wind so as not to receive the hay right back in my face and to ensure that the hay makes it into the paddock.  Often the wind isn’t a steady roar but rather coming in gusts of more or less intensity. I’ve learned the need for split-second timing to launch the hay when the wind’s force lessens even for a second or two. Like good humour, it all comes down to timing, doesn’t it? And what about this yellow colour?  Golden rod, that bane of hay-fever suffers.  In my travels along country roads this year, I can’t recall having ever seen so much of the stuff blooming away.  Talking with neighbours confirms my suspicion that the Golden Rod weed seemed to take over.  But more and more yellow and browns are appearing as the fall progresses. And hopefully the weeds and pollen that inflict suffering on folks’ noses will end soon. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@yahoo.ca or by writing to Rural Roots, P.O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0. Thu, 16 Sep 2010 13:44:02 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/109503/Rural-Roots/warmth,-wind-and-hay-fever http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/109106/Rural-Roots/An-icy-start-to-fall First, the bad: we had a killer frost this past, holiday weekend.  I awoke Sunday morning and looked out of our bedroom window to see the grass no longer green.  The colour was grey.  Oh no!  On opening the front door to release the dogs for their morning business, I observed that the windows of both van and truck were completely frosted.  The thermometer outside indicated plus two.  I made coffee and brought a mug to a slumbering Laura, my wife.  “We’ve been hit by frost.  It appears to be serious,” I informed her.  The weather report didn’t say that we were to get frost. It said that Sunday night the frost was supposed to come. “I hate to impose on you but could you try watering the tomatoes before the sun gets to them?” Out I went. I turned on the tap and headed to the garden only to discover that but a mere trickle of water was issuing from the hose.  Of course, the hose had been stretched out upon the lawn, a straight line from hoosie to garden and mostly frozen.   I returned to Casa Jones after a half hour to announce failure.  Later that morning, Laura investigated and announced that most of the tomatoes themselves survived.  “We should cover them tonight.”  Right.  We didn’t.  I was too tired after giving the equines their last feed and water for the night; and a surprise friend showed up to occupy Laura’s attention. The next morning the thermometer broadcast zero.  As we drove by the garden in the early afternoon on our way to the Hymers Fall Fair, where one had been hard pressed to spot the various pumpkins, squash, et al, now all of the members of the Gourd Clan could be easily observed.  “Gee,” I reported, “Didn’t know we had that many squash and pumpkins.”  Where formerly the gourds had been hidden by the plentiful foliage, now all of the leaves had collapsed, shrunken, drooping and a much darker colour of green, like that of cooked spinach.  It is raining as I type and I will investigate the status of the tomatoes when it stops.  Now the good news. This year’s Hymers Fall Fair was wonderful, one of the best I’ve attended in the 31 years I’ve been attending.  At this time of year one can only pray that the weather will co-operate.  It did, in spades.   Sunday was cool and sunny.  Monday was a tad warmer but also sunny.  Hurrah!  No rain!  Lots of people.  While Laura was slaving away working at the farm taking out trail rides, I took the children to the fair.  Daughter Beth volunteered for the afternoon to staff one of the entrance gates while son Doug roamed.  I spent most of the afternoon sitting in the shade of the exhibit building getting to know a new neighbour, a retired doctor who has a great interest in history, same as me.  Our friend and neighbour, Wendy, happened along and thought that we had known each other for decades.  “Nope.  Sometimes, it is rare, you meet someone and feel like you’ve know them all of your life.  Such is the case with Jerry and me.” The next day we returned so that Beth could enjoy the fair.  Doug came with a friend.  This time I got to visit with various neighbours whom I don’t usually see since our lives run on different paths.  But the crowning moment for me was the concert on what they call Hill Top Stage.  Daughter Beth and I were foot sore and I needed to sit down.  I chose the Hill Top because it was less crowded and the music attracted me.  It was Wayne Falconer and Jon Scaffeo.  Wayne, a master guitar player and John a virtuoso accordionist.  And it worked.  They call themselves John Wayne. Har, har.  Just amazing music making ending with a most delicious waltz.  Bruce Hyer showed up just before, had sat down beside me and then got up to waltz with the women beside him. Great fun. I talked with both Wayne and John after their session.  “Why don’t you guys make a CD? You are so good together. I’d certainly buy it.”  We’ll just have to wait and see. All in all, and pardon the pun, it was a fair to remember. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@yahoo.ca or write to Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0.   Tue, 14 Sep 2010 14:03:56 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/109106/Rural-Roots/An-icy-start-to-fall http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/107022/Rural-Roots/Honking-geese-sing-of-fall's-early-arrival The other morning, as I was pouring my first cup of coffee, I heard a sound I hadn’t heard since spring and didn’t expect to hear for a couple of weeks yet: geese.  “Can’t be,” I thought, “must be one of our ravens, either Edgar or Lenore, and I’m simply mishearing.” I heard it again and so I took my steaming mug out onto our screen porch.  There was the call again.  I went to the screen and looked out and up.  The caller was a goose, the lead honker in a V heading south. What? Can’t be.  Too early. That call was sign No. 1. Sign No.2 was the sudden turning of the maple leaves on a couple of sugar maple trees growing in or near our wee village.  Add to these signs the sighting of a lone birch tree now dressed in yellow leaves and the road-side ferns that have turned brown. What gives? Is fall a-cumen on? In summers past, the sudden turn in colour of fern and bush by the side of country roads has been blamed on stress due to lack of moisture.  I recall two summers being at the cabin we would rent and observing this leaf-colour-turn as early as the first week in August, all due to the lack of rain.  Actually, the amount of rain we’ve had this summer has done precious little to alleviate the dry conditions. Just look at our soil, the infamous clay (known in our township as the Gillies Gumbo).  In spring, it is truly a gumbo that adheres to your boots; this summer, hard as concrete.  I know, I’ve tried to drill fence-post holes with very little luck and a lot of labour.  The clay is so hard due to dryness that the screw on my farm auger got so hot smoke was coming from the hole.  So, what rain we’ve received, while being excellent for our veggie gardens, hasn’t even soaked into the ground. We had a supposed soaker last week. I went outside shortly after the rain only to discover the ground dry.  The rain had maybe soaked an inch, if that. So I was speculating if the turning of tree leaf and bush colour was due to another summer of stress. But then how do you explain the geese?  That same day I observed the geese flapping overhead, I met my friend Doug G. at our local store. “Say, I saw a flock of geese in a V formation flying over my house this morning,” he announced.  “So did I,” I responded. “What’s with that?” Doug continued.  “Dunno,” I answered. “Scary. What do the geese know that we don’t?” Indeed, what is going on?  Are we set to have an early and cold winter with lots of snow that will seem to go on forever?  Gee, I was hoping for an extended autumn like the one we had last year where the colour appeared to hang on longer than usual. I have observed lots of geese settled on farmers’ fields. Surely they can’t all be local? Meanwhile the skies are turbulent and dramatic with blustery winds and lots of cloud.  The corn in our garden has ripened much sooner than I can remember. We’ve been eating it for several meals – sweet and succulent! Everything seems to have ripened at once. We’re trying to freeze beans, broccoli, cauliflower, and harvest the basil in order to make pesto. My wife Laura has made several jars of pickles out of our cucumbers.  What a cornucopia our garden is this year! So when we see the local, weekly markets, we don’t tend to buy vegetables, but I do fork over cash for some amazing preserves, breads, and other baked goodies. The Gillies market is every Tuesday evening from 5 p.m. to 7 p.m. at the Gillies community centre.  There are also local markets in Neebing Township at the Blake Hall, just off Hwy 61, Thursday evenings from 4 p.m. to 8 p.m., and in Nolalu at that community centre Friday evenings from 4 p.m. to 7 p.m.  Local merchants gather to sell their crafts, stuff from the baking oven, as well as what their green thumbs have produced.These markets are worth the drive. You can reach Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@yahoo.ca or by letter: Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0. Fri, 27 Aug 2010 12:15:01 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/107022/Rural-Roots/Honking-geese-sing-of-fall's-early-arrival http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/103631/Rural-Roots/Inch-worms-infiltrate   "Laura, Laura, b’gosh and b’gorah, how does your garden grow?” Very well, indeed. Everything is bursting forth at a tremendous rate. I’ve written in this space before that Laura is the green thumb in the family whose patient culturing of the vegetable kingdom results in lush abundance. Occasionally, I help.  Like today when I came in from our veggie garden. It wasn’t an easy trip. My arms were laden with four cabbages just about to burst.  I blame such rapid growth on this summer’s weather - lots of rain and lots of heat. Not like last year when a good chunk of growing time was very cold, resulting in carrots that resembled orange octopi.   The other day Laura brought in a large bowl of new potatoes, onions and carrots. She dumped the carrots into the kitchen sink and began to wash them. I couldn’t help myself; first I grabbed one fat promising carrot and chomped. That one consumed, I grabbed another and then another. Laura paused in her supper-fixing task to remonstrate me: “Leave some for supper, dear, I want them for the stew.” Oh.  Sorry. Greedy me, just like the Peter Rabbit kid I once was. My mother’s parents owned a farm north of Toronto. They had a large vegetable garden and when we visited for a Sunday-after-church-lunch, we grandchildren, wee Peter Rabbits, were permitted to raid the carrot patch. There was a tap located near the entrance where we could wash our pilfered bounty and then, crunch away on fresh carrots. I recall the limit was two carrots per pilferer. I’ve never forgotten those delicious experiences. The memories are front-and-centre each time my teeth bite down on one of our homegrown carrots, especially the first few of the summer’s crop. The other food I await eagerly is the first crop of Ontario MacIntosh apples when they arrive in the stores. The Mac was my late father’s favourite apple.  When I first moved to Thunder Bay, Dad would send me a bushel  and a gallon of cider from the orchards in Prince Edward County where my parents lived after he retired. The next bowl Laura brought into Casa Jones overflowed with broccoli – a mountain of broccoli. The heads were huge and perfectly formed. “We must cut, blanch and freeze these,” she announced. “Save two for supper.”  Right. We got busy; I chopped, she blanched. Suddenly, Laura announced I should carefully examine the flowerets. “Look closely because I’ve found inch worms.” Inch worms? I followed instructions and sure enough the broccoli head I was dismembering contained a couple of green inch worms. Which meant I had to examine all of the other flowerets I’d processed.  Each bunch contained at least one clever hitch-hiker.  We wound up with a plate covered in writhing green crawlies.  The late, great actor Danny Kaye starred in one of our favourite musical movies – Hans Christian Anderson. As a kid I always remember the song Inch Worm that Hans sings as the children can be heard reciting their addition in the school. I began singing the song as we de-wormed the broccoli.  We grow our veggies organically and  I remarked to Laura I couldn’t recall seeing inch worms in such abundance before.  “Last year it was slugs,” she remarked.  Ah, yes: the Summer-of-the-Slug. Since this summer the crop is growing at an exponential rate, will it be logged in the annul as the Incidents-of-the-inch-worm? You can reach Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@yahoo.ca or by writing to Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0. Fri, 30 Jul 2010 10:54:13 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/103631/Rural-Roots/Inch-worms-infiltrate http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/103288/Rural-Roots/Wind-wreaks-paddock-havoc-on-farm T’was a dark and stormy day. The sky darkened; the wind blew; the rain pelted; the lightning zapped; the thunder roared. T’was Wednesday of last week.  That’s putting it mildly. The day began with clouds shaded different hews of grey, from light to charcoal, zipping across the sky.  What was odd was the direction from which the wind was blowing – the southeast.  Joe and I were working on the fence that encloses what we call Pond Paddock. The original corner posts had gradually, over the years, leaned into the paddock, succumbing to the tension exerted by the ropes that contain the pasture. We were resetting the posts.  We almost had the first job complete when the wind picked up. Suddenly, the clouds seemed to thicken, darken, and streak faster across the sky.  “I think we’re in for it,” Joe remarked, just as the first rumbles were heard.  Just as suddenly, forked lightning electrified the air, followed by an even louder rumble from the heavens.  “That’s it. I decree it’s time to quit,” I decreed. “I agree with your decree,” responded Joe as we quickly packed the tools into the bucket of Big Red, my diesel tractor. The rain hit just as I managed to get Big Red into shelter.  Joe headed home and I headed into Casa Jones. I proceeded downstairs into my lair to snuggle into my favourite chair, book in hand, and wait out the storm.  Occasionally I would peer out the window to observe how the storm had mustered its forces into what seemed like a serious rage.  By now the wind pitched and heaved, blowing fiercely, making the house shudder; the rain drummed a hard horizontal tattoo against the windows; and I huddled down further into the warmth and comfort of my chair. Gradually, the tempest eased. I extracted my body from the chair and went outside to assess what, if any, damage the storm had inflicted.  Almost all of our horses were safe in the barn since the middle of a July day brings with it serious biting bugs.  Those horses that remain outside have covered shelters into which they can retreat if the weather is inclement or if the bugs are bothering them. Or did. At first, I couldn’t fathom what it was I was seeing. Cognition dawned as I realized the upper paddock shelter was no longer standing upright.  It had been blown upside down onto its roof.  The three horses in the paddock were safe, huddled together at the opposite end. Then I turned and looked south to the main paddock.  Same thing had happened to the larger horse shelter. Providentially, the middle shelter had been spared the wind’s heave-ho.  All three shelters are free-standing on concrete pads but...what kind of wind passed through to wreak such havoc?  We figured some micro-blasts had lifted the two shelters from their moorings bouncing over the middle one. Friday was sunny and warm. When I returned from town, having fetched a van-load of riding campers, I saw the boom truck already lifting the shelters back into place with very little damage done by the ferocious winds.  It was a pleasure to see with what care Ray and Rick eased the shelters back into place. Whew! Our riding trails also suffered the wind’s ferocity.  Joe returned Saturday to help me travel the trails to remove the downed trees.  It was fun working with a friend, joking and spending time in the bush together. What a contrast to Wednesday!  The warmth brought out the smells; and there was enough of a breeze to keep the nasty, biting, winged things at bay. We created small piles of bucked firewood that I can fetch at some future date.   It wasn’t all hard work. Along the trail, we found ripe blueberries and raspberries. Just before Rick departed, he told us how we should anchor the shelters.  “The weather is getting more extreme. The experts say that storms like the one that happened Wednesday could happen again. If you don’t anchor them, next time you might not be so lucky.”  Point taken. It just went to the top of my to-do list. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@yahoo.ca or by letter: Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0. Tue, 27 Jul 2010 14:18:13 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/103288/Rural-Roots/Wind-wreaks-paddock-havoc-on-farm http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/101457/Rural-Roots/End-of-the-tunnel Ever since I was a child I’ve had a fascination with roads and driveways that disappear into the woods.  What is at the other end? I guess that obsession came from all of those stories I read (actually, was read to by my dad when I was very young...) with illustrations of roads heading into the deep dark forest. I had forgotten about my secret longing to drive down those roads until a recent excursion along several side roads. I was travelling back home from the city with daughter Beth. Since there was no immediate deadline to get back to Casa Jones, I offered an adventure: “Let us travel a route less travelled by us. Let’s explore. Are you up for that?”  Beth was. This decision was made in a moment just as the turnoff was approaching.  We turned at the Riverdale store on Hwy 61 and followed the road that edges around the escarpment. I like to sight-see, to look at homes I’ve never seen before.  Soon the homes became scattered and farther apart as the road veered west going up and down and around. Lots of bush with islands of clearing and houses. But, the intriguing sights were the tree-covered driveways that disappeared. Most times I couldn’t see the dwelling at the end. I mentioned to Beth my obsession with tunnel-like driveways and my curiosity about what lay at the end. At one point we came to the top of a tree-laden hill. I knew of an abandoned house set back from the road and surrounded by towering white pines.  I’d driven past this apparent homesteader site several times but never stopped. The driveway in was one of those tunnelled driveways, dark, mysterious, trees close and shading the route. We slowed down to take a better look. Shock and horror! The house still stood looking a bit worse for wear (houses need to be lived in). But what shocked was a new logging road that had been slashed into the bush right beside the house.  I backed the van onto the bush lane and drew up parallel to the house. You don’t get the impression of how large the dwelling is from the road. From the side, it stretches back quite a way. Must have housed a large family at one time but not for many years.  What saddened me was that the logger had just pushed through the trees gouging a couple of sentinel white pines in passing.  To me, a crime. Ah well, I don’t own the property and time, as they say, marches on. I recall driving back from southern Ontario by way of the Soo. North of the city you come down a great long hill. On your left, heading north, you see a number of driveways that are truly out of some fairy tale.  Here you see tunnelled drives that are covered with a canopy of maple trees, dark lanes that obviously lead to the lakeshore.  All of my memories of reading children’s stories with illustrations of disappearing roads into the woods flashed through my head.  “Boy, I would really like to explore those drives,” I announced to my family. Sure, and get arrested for trespassing not to mention delaying the time of arrival back home. Didn’t happen. South of the border twixt Rydens store and Duluth, there are many such tunnelled driveways heading off towards the lake.  The occasional time I get to see the light at the end of the tunnel, there is usually some incredible piece of Scandinavian architecture at the other end, beautifully blending in with the north-woodsy scene. Alas, these secret lanes will have to remain travelled by me only in my imagination. The best place to do it probably.  I’d hate to arrive at the end to discover a boring box-like dwelling instead of a richly-carved, Scandinavian-crafted, wooden, gingerbread-style cabin – minus the wicked witch, of course. You can reach Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@yahoo.ca or by letter: Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0. Fri, 16 Jul 2010 11:43:47 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/101457/Rural-Roots/End-of-the-tunnel http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/100040/Rural-Roots/Reeling-in-Robofish Cue the Twilight Zone theme and fade under voice of Rod Serling. “Picture, if you will, amateur angler Fred Jones, rod and reel in hand out to catch the Big One. Mr. Jones has gone fishing before and caught big ones.   What Mr Jones doesn’t realize is that this fishing trip will take him into the Twilight Zone...”   So, there I was waist deep in the water, rod and reel in hand trying to bag the elusive monster bass.    Strangely, that fish was not afraid. It initially ignored my casting attempts even with a juicy lure on the end. I had to cast several times before the fish finally took the bait. Well, it was more like the fat fish bumped into the lure that slipped into massive gaping maw. A hit! A papable hit!   “Fish on!” I yelled as the bass, feeling unexpected resistance, suddenly took off, swimming fast and furious in the opposite direction.    What a fight but I didn’t give up and with difficulty (pant, pant), managed to reel in the monster.   “Now, can I try, Dad?” That’s 10-year-old son Doug. “I want to try without the training wheels.”    What? Training wheels? What on earth is that boy babbling about? Heh, heh. A wee confession is due.   Yes, I was standing in the water up to my waist, the water of our swimming pool that is and I was trying my skill as an angler, but the rod and reel was a toy and the fish?  Introducing ROBOFISH!    The fish was a mechanical replica of a small-mouth bass that operates on four AA batteries.   The experiment with Robofish was the result of my wife Laura’s sense of whimsy. One day about a month ago, Laura returned from town with this toy rod and reel and mechanical fish.    “Whatever possessed you to purchase that?” I asked. “I thought it would be a fun pool toy,” she answered.    Slowly a plan formed in my noggin, yes, a great column idea. I would pretend to be Gord Ellis gritting my teeth as I valiantly fought to reel in the Big One on my line. Of course I’d need witnesses to affirm my angling triumph. I’d paint this word picture of a fierce struggle twixt fish and fisherman. What a glorious battle it would be! Sure.   I thought catching Robofish would be a synch. Nothing to it. The instructions (yes, the toy came with a long list of instructions for parents guiding  junior anglers) made it sound so easy: simply fill the fish with the batteries, press the on button and set the fish in the water.    It swims along the surface and when the magnet lure gets near its mouth, the fish steers towards it, grabs it (sort of) and then swims away simulating an actual battle. Hah! To put it lightly. I did all that, all of the above instructions. I even wore a fishing costume in case anyone remembered to catch the moment on film (no one did.).  I cast the lure and cast the lure and cast the lure and on and on. No luck.  Robofish swam making its little buzzing noise as it plied the waters. Dang but this was hard.    “Why don’t you try the guides that came with the fish, Dad?”queried helpful son. For the absolute beginner, say about three or four years old, I’d guess, Robofish comes with two plastic stick-like projections you insert into either side of its mouth.    When you cast, the guides help the lure enter the mouth of the mechanical bass.  So I followed instructions, made the inserts, and set Robofish on its way. Still no luck, cast as I might.   Eventually, I darned near shoved the lure into the fish’s mouth just to fulfill part two of the angling experiment to see what the fish does when caught.  The fish does what the back of the package advertises: it swims away.  Oooh, a fighting bass!   It was at that point that Doug asked if he could try. He had his troubles too. As did his friend Terry Golding visiting from Marathon. Terry is an experienced angler at 13 taught by his dad, also named Doug.    Terry provided many amusing comments: “Ahh! I have to let out more line. This fish is really big!” or “Here, take the rod from me. I can’t hold on to it. The fish is too powerful!”   We had fun. And what an angling challenge! If an experienced angler like Terry can’t bag the Big One without intense concentration and repeated hard work, how do the toy manufacturers expect some young kid to succeed?   When the Gal-with-Whimsy came in from day one of our summer riding camp, she asked, with only a slight smirk smearing her face: “So, how was fishing?”    Lamely I regaled her with our tale of struggle and fishing woe.    “Aha!” she beamed. “Now they’ll call you The Bassinater!”   You can contact Rural Roots at fbljones@yahoo.ca or by letter: Rural Roots, P.O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0. Wed, 07 Jul 2010 15:34:42 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/100040/Rural-Roots/Reeling-in-Robofish http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/97255/Rural-Roots/Enough-rain? There is a violin concerto I like to listen to when the weather is “veddy English.”  I look out the window to see everything verdant and immediately E.J. Moeran’s concerto comes to mind.  It is a lazy romantic, meandering piece of music that evokes rain-soaked, English country-sides, sort of what we are being blessed with here in our countryside.  After nearly two months of drought, the rain has been welcome. But, have we had enough? Has the thirst of the land been quenched? Not according to any farmer with whom I’ve spoken. We are still doing catch-up.  Apparently we had less snow this past winter than is required to keep the cistern full. Hard to believe since it seems as though the sky has been cloudy all day, or most days and a little to a lot of rain has fallen almost every day.  I receive complaints from every corner when I visit the city. And that clearly marks the difference in priorities twixt city and country mice.  The common complaint revolves around the weekends: “Why must it always rain on the weekends?”  I don’t know. Nature’s timing can be so inconvenient, can’t it? People work hard all throughout the week only to have a soggy Saturday and Sunday, their days off.  Boo and hiss. Wet weekends affect us at the farm as well. Since we run a riding business that involves trail rides, it is advantageous to have bright, sunny days when folks who work during the week can drive out to our farm to relax on horse-back.   Sunny Saturdays and Sundays add to the enjoyment of the delicious smells and sights of the forest, of hearing the chirp of birds punctuated by the occasional snort from an equine nose. So we like the weekends to be sunny as well. For sure the farmers are happy that we’ve had all of this rain.  Guarantees a good hay crop, something that isn’t of interest to town mice but is of great concern to owners of four-footed hay eaters.  Last year it was cold and rainy. The farmers couldn’t get onto the fields for the longest time. The yield was poor.  Now we need sun and warmth to get the protein-producing process working in all of those hay stalks, making for a rich and abundant crop. We still need more rain to replace the ground-water levels of yore but, perhaps the instances of rain could be spread farther apart. Certainly our gardens are bursting forth.  All of the vegetables that me and my wife, Laura (mainly Laura), have planted are “growing like stink.” Alas, so are the weeds. And the grass on the lawns!  That is the other complaint I hear often in my travels: “Wish it would stop raining long enough to dry a bit so that I can get at my lawns!”  Yup. Veritable jungle. Just when I gather the impetus to haul my protesting body out of my comfy chair where I’ve been reposing, probably listening to Moeran’s violin concerto, the clouds release more rain. Dang! Might as well set bang and finish listening to the thing. I have to be careful though. Perhaps select a couple of other pieces of music to listen to on “veddy English” days. I might just find my Moeran CD missing-in-action, the telephone book opened to the number of the Trap & Skeet Club. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by letter: Rural Roots, P.O. Box 402, South Gillies, Ont. P0T 2V0. Fri, 18 Jun 2010 10:37:39 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/97255/Rural-Roots/Enough-rain? http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/95922/Rural-Roots/In-rural-community-halls It was magic; it was illusion. It was both: a magic and illusion show; Miracles Await performed by Thunder Bay magician and illusionist Tyler Biloski Saturday night on the stage of our community hall.  The show was wonderful. Tyler and his team have worked very hard to perfect some illusions that truly amazed the assembled audience, not all from our township. There were even a couple of attendees from the city and from far-flung rural areas.  They weren’t disappointed. Tyler expressed his gratitude for our energy and enthusiasm (and we were...) also saying how great it was to actually have a real stage upon which to perform.  He told us he and his crew must usually build a stage for each performance but not here. So good for the Gillies community hall; and good for Tyler and his team. Rural halls were once the social centre of rural communities. Plays, teas, wedding and funeral receptions, the annual bazaar and dances were regular features in these buildings. In many communities they still are. I was reminded of this fact by Tyler who listed all of the community halls in which he had put on his magic and illusion show outside Thunder Bay.  During the intermission, while the sounds of hammering and general ka-thunking could be heard behind the closed curtain, I mused on the role of these halls back when they were the hive of social activity, before the city grew and drew rural residents to the malls, supermarkets and theatres both with stages or screens for films. I’ve been told (since, compared to folks who were born and live in this rural community, I still consider myself a relative newcomer – been a rural dweller in this township since 1979) that the halls were necessary since many folk still worked in these rural areas, usually farming, that many people didn’t own cars or trucks that could get them to the cities, and even if they did possess a vehicle, the roads were lousy. Driving to town was a major expedition. You might get to town only once a month. You didn’t need to go shopping in the city. General stores that sold some basic food stuffs, clothing, hardware, etc., were far more common. You might have chickens, a milk cow, a horse to help work the land and to provide the needed horse-power to get you where you needed to go. Like the community hall where there were regular events almost every weekend. But that all changed with the improvement of roads, transportation and employment shifting to the city.  Now the rural townships surrounding the city became increasingly bedroom communities with residents driving daily to work in town.  The advent of large grocery stores quickly overtook the Mom & Pop ventures. Gradually, the rural general stores closed, unable to compete with the larger selection of things that could be bought in the city.  Ordering from the Eatons Catalogue slowed to a standstill, all within my memory since I have moved first from Toronto back in 1971 and then out here to this rural community. I was fortunate. Couch’s General Store was in operation when I became a rural rooter, selling nails, screws, some tools, rubber boots, gas cans, some feed, the basic groceries, gas, etc. They also had the post office at the back of the store.  And across the road was, and still is, the community hall. Our hall is home to our excellent amateur theatre group known as Mile Hill Melodrama that puts on plays, usually farces that are screamingly funny.  The local 4-H Club used to gather in the hall for their annual show, as did the annual Christmas concert put on by the local public school students. Our hall went through a slack time for a brief, and I stress brief, time. But not only the next generation of long-established residents, but we newcomers, gathered interest and energy to bring the hall back to life.  Same with other rural townships I’m told. Tis a good thing.  We only have to drive a short distance to enjoy an evening of entertainment all the while socializing with our neighbours who we never get to see because so much of our modern lives are so centred in commuting to the city. I doubt the general store will ever return. But I would be hugely chagrined if our rural community hall ever disappeared. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com or by letter: Rural Roots, P. O. Box 402, South Gilliles, Ont. P0T 2V0. Thu, 10 Jun 2010 13:45:02 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/95922/Rural-Roots/In-rural-community-halls http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/93829/Rural-Roots/Five-seconds-of-Murphy- ‘It’s hard to believe that five seconds of Murphy can result in an hour-and-a-half of struggle, pain, and frustration." That was Joe speaking. Joe is a friend and neighbour whom we hired to help with various chores involving a second pair of hands. I was supposed to provide the other pair. We were putting up a fence around the vegetable garden to prevent our dogs from entering and wrecking the raised beds that we had made and that Laura, my wife, had lovingly planted, so that they could chase away the raven that just happened to be perching on a tree branch on the other side of the garden, that had caught the pooches’ attention by opening its beak and declaring something raven-like to the world that Jack built. Or something like that. "Enough!" lamented Laura after the third such intrusion by a pooch who doesn’t understand why we were suddenly enraged and shouting at the poor thing. "We need a fence around this garden right now!" Joe arrived and came over to the construction site with me. We hemmed and hawed, scratching our chins, and then I think we hawed and hemmed a bit more deciding on a plan of action which unfolded thusly: I would fire up Big Red, my diesel tractor, and we’d drill holes for the fence posts. Simple and easy. Joe and I had worked as a team doing this job before. The first two holes got drilled without a hitch. It was on the third hole, one of the two for a gate, where the ground seemed harder, the auger having more trouble working its way to China. The routine we’ve worked out has Joe adding some weight by standing on one of the lift arms. That usually works. Not this time. Step two: I secure the machine that is cheerfully auging away, climb off B.R., and stand on the other lift arm. It worked, suddenly. The resistance gave way and the auger drove rapidly into the ground, so rapidly that I didn’t have time to clamber back on the tractor and lift the auger free of the ground. The first thing you hear is the tractor motor suddenly slow down and then just as suddenly rev back up to auging speed; only the auger screw isn’t turning. "Dang!" I shouted. I tried to lift the auger out of the ground with the tractor. No go. This massive inconvenience has befallen Joe and me before. We have to detach the auger, turn the tractor around, and hope we can extract the beast using the bucket. This technique might take a few tries but eventually the clay gumbo that is our soil, gives up its prisoner. Not this time. Stage two – the dreaded, final solution. We fetched the spades and began digging. And dig we did. After a further half hour (totaling the hour-and-a-half), Big Red was finally able to pull that auger sucker free. The screw came up with a perfectly shaped, six-inch thick flan of clay. It was just a matter of re-attaching the auger to the back of the tractor and continue with Operation Pooch Poaching Prevention. Except it was now lunch time and Joe had to go, having only the morning available to spend on this fencing scheme. He’d return the next day. Knowing my relationship with Murphy (of Murphy’s Law), Joe made the above comment adding a query: "But I thought Murphy only bothered you in the depths of winter usually on the coldest day?" That is what I thought too since Murphy and Jack Frost are bosom buddies. Now, I’m not sure. I am reminded of the words of Dorothy Parker when she heard an unwanted knock on the door: "What fresh hell is this?" You can contact Rural; Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com. Thu, 27 May 2010 15:12:17 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/93829/Rural-Roots/Five-seconds-of-Murphy- http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/93205/Rural-Roots/Spring-or-summer? So I’ve been telling you about spring – spring birds, spring smells, spring leaves on trees, et al, when suddenly – summer. It started with the temperature. While the weekend had moments of summer-ish heat accompanied by the same fierce winds that have blown steadily for two weeks, it was this Monday when July arrived with a vengeance. Man it was hot! The humidity, boss, the humidity! I had to go to town in the morning to do some errands. When I arrived home, it was lunch time. I noticed my wife Laura was busy with the rototiller in the vegetable garden.  I entered the house, deposited the groceries while our two eager pooches swarmed around me and quickly made a sandwich. I just finished my repast when in burst Laura, her face flushed and covered in perspiration, a look of desperation verging on pain.  “Can you come out and give me a hand?”  “I was just about to,” I replied. What Laura had been trying to do was make raised beds with the soil now loosened by the rototiller. In the heat of the day, very hard work.  I took the shovel and proceeded to complete her task. Ouch! My back soon began yelling at me.  “Shaddap…’ I muttered to it.  I’d dig a couple of feet and straighten, dig some more and straighten. Laura went to the newer, upper portion of the garden to plant corn. A car drove onto the property. It was somebody coming to discuss boarding a horse at our barn. Before heading to greet our visitor, Laura shouted that when I finished me digging, could I come and cover the newly planted corn? Which I did.  All during my labouring in the garden, I couldn’t help but feel the intense heat on my t-shirted back.  Sweat had formed on my brow.  Now I admit that my body is out of shape but my shoveling wasn’t done at a back-braking pace. Like the Aesop’s tortoise, I believe in “slow and steady wins the day.”  Or maybe I’m just lazy.  At any rate, the job got done and immediately upon completion, I headed for the nearest tap for a glass of cold water. Make that three glasses. Our neighbour, Joe, showed up with a trailer load of cut-and-split firewood. Joe had said he could sell us five cords delivering a cord at a time. I had at that time re-entered Casa Jones and was cleaning the kitchen.  Laura was helping one of our riding clients with her horse in the riding arena. I headed outside to put Joe with the assist in unloading and stacking the wood.  Very soon I noticed that humidity and heat. It was affecting my fetching and stacking ability. My back resumed its earlier argument with my brain.  Joe is in shape. He knows how to pace himself. I think he must have read Aesop too. Working with him is a pleasure. I just slip into his steady and calm rhythm. We got the trailer emptied, the wood stacked and Joe took off for home.  I climbed aboard Little Red, our riding lawn mower. I managed to cut in front of the house but it was while mowing the grass beside and behind when suddenly the mowing deck quit.  “Now what?”  Eventually I noticed a spring that performs the function of applying tension to one of the deck belt pullies had snapped.  Great. Another trip to town. Order and Good Government Chez Jones has been put on hold; and anyway, I needed more glasses of water. All the while, the air was redolent with gorgeous, summer aromas of birch firewood, of grass newly cut, of perfumed smells coming from who knows what bushes in the forest.  Even at night when I went out to throw last hay to the horses, summer was in the air.  I stopped in my tracks several times just to breath deeply and feel the stillness.  Well, except for the occasional horsey snort and the loud choruses of the spring peepers coming from our ponds.  Spring and summer together. Not a bad way to end the day. You can reach Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com . Fri, 21 May 2010 15:56:10 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/93205/Rural-Roots/Spring-or-summer? http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/91238/Rural-Roots/Tis-spring-cleaning-time One of the spring-cleaning/sorting tasks a lot of folks, both rural and urban, undertake is their garage. Or their storage shed, or basement. Stuff accumulates: odd bits and pieces, some very small to some very large stuffed hither and yon, willy-nilly, most of it long forgotten.  In our case, the garage is a Quonset-shaped shelter in which we store hay, my diesel tractor, lumber, the usual stuff one might find in a garage. In my case, not only have I forgotten I possessed all of this treasure trove of bits-and-pieces but I’ve also forgotten the purpose of a great many things, and why?  Because I’m disorganized and fail to label all those baggies containing any amount of  plastic or metal, the use of which and the reason why I felt I must save them – gone. This fact came crashing home the other day when we had to make room for more stuff in our tractor, hay and lumber storage shelter. We also have a tool storage shed but one needs a machete to gain access as it is so crowded with stuff.  I digress. The brother of a very close friend was moving house. Actually, he and his wife have new jobs in California, so he intimated that he wasn’t about to pay the huge moving fees. A lot of stuff was going to the city dump unless someone wanted it. So, Saturday and Sunday, we were hauling things both for house and shelter from town to our farm. Among the items we claimed were rolling shelves used in a now-demolished, seniors’ home and a very heavy, industrial work table.  “This will be very useful in the shelter, dear.  You can store your gas and diesel containers, tools, in an organized way, something you are always complaining about,” ventured my wife Laura.  Very true. I preach order and good government here at the farm but rarely achieve it.  Now I have a chance to practice what I etc., etc. Just have to make some adjustments, move and sort through some stuff. The moving of the various things – one-horse sleigh, bicycles, gas and diesel containers, etc. – is not hard work. Where to put them is a challenge. Since the floor of the shelter is dirt, anything that doesn’t like wet has to be elevated onto a wooden palette.  After moving sleigh et al to a new location so that I have access to the work table, will I be able to also get at the large square hay bales with Big Red, my diesel tractor. I’ve been known to smoosh, crumple, flatten and decapitate things that weren’t completely clear of the path B. R. must manoeuvre to fetch these hay behemoths.  The test came when we discovered all sorts of tins and cardboard boxes filled with those aforementioned baggies of what?  “What’s this for?” Laura asked.  “Dunno,” I answered.  “What about these?”  “Er...dunno”   “How about these?”  “No idea, can’t remember” and so on. I suppose that at the time of saving all of these odds and sods I had a plan. I knew these things would come in useful. Spare parts.  Yeah, that’s it! Spare parts. But for what.  Can’t recall.  So, there is a plan for a garage sale at the house of our friend who will be selling all of the stuff her brother didn’t want and neither did we. We’re adding all those baggies of spare parts and things we know we’ll never use. Oh, and I’ve promised Laura that as part of my campaign to practice what I preach, I will be labelling any future spare parts all in the cause of order and good government. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com. Thu, 06 May 2010 13:58:05 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/91238/Rural-Roots/Tis-spring-cleaning-time http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/86722/Rural-Roots/Do-animals-have-marital-spats? Do animals have marital spats? I’m specifically thinking of the bird world and my two resident ravens, Edgar and Lenore. I was headed to the barn to help my wife Laura turn in the horses for the night. Suddenly, I heard a terrific squawking issuing from the bush.  Obviously a raven and not happy. I stopped and soon located the two birds in a tree on the edge of the bush but not the one that contains their nest. There was one bird frantically flapping its wings right beside the other and making a racket. The other bird sat on the branch calmly taking it. What gives?  Now we all know about the stereotype of the hen-pecked husband and the haranguing wife.  We’ve seen that drama enough on television, but what about in the avian world? For arguments sake, I assumed a scenario in which the frenzied flapper was Lenore and the stoic other was Edgar. So far, I’ve only witnessed raven co-operation twixt these two, even snuggling on a branch, but never an exchange of squawks. Actually, I’m wrong. The invective, if that’s what it was, was only going one way. I stood still, watched and listened.  Eventually, Edgar had enough and flew down to one of the horse water troughs to get a drink. Lenore continued her petulant complaining and then flew over to the nest. I heard no more tiffs from either of them. Subject closed? Now I know that I’m projecting, but perhaps Lenore was angry because she felt Edgar was leaving her too long alone on the nest as she kept the eggs warm. Maybe she was grousing about him not sharing nest-sitting duties to allow her time away, to give her a break. Then I wondered if female birds get post-partum blues after laying their eggs. I have heard her calling repeatedly during the day while she sits upon the nest. Is she petitioning for a break from her partner or could she be darned hungry from all of that sitting and would Edgar get off his branch and rustle up some grub? The calling continues each day. It ceases when I arrive on board my diesel tractor Big Red with buckets of manure I deposit in the pile that happens to be near their tree. I slowly bounce along the trail, Big Red making a horrendous noise, and as I get close to my destination, I look up to see the top of a raven head motionless just above the edge of the nest. Poor Mum – “It is usually nice and quiet around the nest. Now this monster has invaded and getting too close. I’ll just stay absolutely still and maybe it won’t notice me.” Sorry, Lenore. A couple of years ago, I wrote about the sightings of the eastern cougar in our area. I had talked to two neighbours and two of our riding clients who swore they’ve seen a cougar up close. Our riding clients were driving along our road towards our property when suddenly a cougar dashed across the road and along the field to disappear into the surrounding bush. I got mail. The other day, I was visiting my friend, Doug, whose father-in-law Bill happened to be out from town to help Doug do some house renovations. He told me he was driving along Hwy 588 and as he came upon Silver Creek he saw something in the middle of the road. It was a huge cougar with a quarter section of a deer firmly clenched in its mouth. Bill crept very slowly to within about 40 feet of the animal who just stood and stared. Bill said this went on for approximately three minutes, the two of them staring at each other. So Bill got a good look.  The cougar was toupe in colour with a white underbelly that sagged a bit. Bill thought it might be a pregnant female. He said the tail was very long and thick at the base. The head was small with small ears that stood straight up.  After three minutes, the cougar flattened its ears, curled the end of its tail and calmly continued on its journey toward the mountain on the south side of the highway. Unfortunately, Bill didn’t have a camera with him. “Wow!  You lucky, lucky thing!” was all that I could say. There have been too many reports of cougar sightings around Thunder Bay for there to be any doubt in my mind they are here and doing well. Oh, yes. It is Easter weekend. Have a happy! You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com .   Mon, 05 Apr 2010 12:17:19 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/86722/Rural-Roots/Do-animals-have-marital-spats? http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/85536/Rural-Roots/Jack-Frost's-last-grasp Hi! I’m back! Didja miss me?” That was Jack Frost last Friday. And I was just getting used to the return of warm weather. Though I was very suspicious of the sweep of warmth that suddenly arrived, causing one of the most rapid snow-melts that I, or for that matter, any of my long-time rural neighbours can remember.  “It’s a month too early,” was the common pronouncement. Rural dwellers are concerned with how much snow Ol Man Winter delivers each year.  A slow, steady melt is best especially if the ground is frozen so that the melt-water doesn’t just run off into the streams and rivers.  We want a large portion of it to seep into the ground to replenish ground water supplies so necessary for country wells, to prevent the threat of forest fires and for livestock owners promising conditions for a good crop of hay.  Spring last year didn’t exist. It was cold and wet and those conditions extended into summer.  Farmers couldn’t get onto the fields until well past the optimum time for the cutting, raking and baling. It has been a bit of a scramble to locate sufficient quantities of good hay for our horses. We’ve been very fortunate.  So, one crosses one’s fingers in the hopes that nature will co-operate, will send just the right amount of rain and then, in June, turn hot for the green stuff to grow. That is the ideal, at any rate. So Frosty Jack showed up right at the end of our March Break Horse Camp. A tradition we’ve established is to provide a campfire, hotdogs and marshmallows – the usual weeny-roast type of provender.  Not this time. We didn’t get the snow we feared might blast through from out west.  Instead, vicious, small-craft-warning winds lashed at everything, blowing down a step ladder that was perched against Casa Jones and sending a couple of tarps that I used to cover the wood pile on a journey towards the vegetable garden, a fair distance from the house.  There wasn’t a chance of having a campfire. Just the lighting of same would have taxed all of my Boy Scout tricks.  Besides, t’warn’t nice out. So the campers came indoors and feasted minus the mallows-of-marsh. I mentioned in last week’s column that because of the early warmth, my wife Laura got all excited about the possibility of early spinach from the garden.  As part of the spring cleaning, I carried a couple of compost pails to the compost pile beside the garden. The snow had been too deep to empty them any sooner.  I looked at the garden and, on a whim, decided to enter therein. What green stuff that Laura saw as promising to burst forth, was frozen in mid-burst. “It were Jack, Guv’nor. ‘E done it”. Pity, that. Now the neighbourly comments consist of “we’re back to normal weather for this time of year.” Brrr. So not quite t-shirt weather we experienced, however briefly, like a teaser of things to come.   The snow has all but disappeared on our lawns surrounding both barn and hoosie. I continue with spring cleaning outside but swathed in more layers against the briskness of it all. The only bird activity of note is an increase in preparations by our resident pair of ravens, Edgar and Lenore.  I’ve seen one of them flying to their nest with nesting material. So while ravens are the first to lay eggs and hatch young in the spring, I don‘t know if the nest has any eggs as yet.  We do know that the raven eggs have successfully hatched when the caterwauling begins. None of the interesting and varied ‘boinks’ and ‘caws’ one hears from the adults.  It is one long cacophonous squawking until the young can feed themselves and/or get booted out of the nest. But while splitting some wood for kindling yesterday, I wondered when we’d hear the first honks of returning geese.  Then you know that spring is in full swing. You can contact Rural Roots by e-mail: fbljones@hotmail.com . Thu, 01 Apr 2010 10:29:05 GMT http://www.tbnewswatch.com/Columns/123/85536/Rural-Roots/Jack-Frost's-last-grasp