A dispatch lost and forgotten - until just now

Spring comes to the wilds of North Middlesex (being a dispatch languishing in the dusty files of this writer's computer):

Recently, I am happy to say, we welcomed spring to the wilds of North Middlesex; however, as with so many positive things in life, there are dark sides:

People are tearing up their lawns. Three in our neighbourhood alone have been denuded. This vicious treatment left me puzzled until I realized it has to do with weed control.

Ever since chemical herbicides were banned (except for agricultural use, of course), our lawns have been going to wrack and ruin.  And the ones that aren’t weed-choked are viewed with great suspicion. We suspect under-cover chemical weed control, but it is hard to prove. Even with the best in root extraction tools, no one could possibly keep up with the proliferation of unwanted invasive greenery, especially dandelions.

Certainly no one could accuse Greg and me of the illicit use of Round-up. One of my neighbours, whose outspokenness I usually admire, said our lawn looked better before we built the house when the lot was vacant.  Viewing from the perspective of her kitchen table I had to agree. It is a wasteland of weeds: creeping Charlie, plantain, and worst of all, dandelions.

What to do … what to do! Home-made dandelion jam made its first appearance at the recent Hort  Soc plant sale and silent auction, but realistically there is only a limited demand for floral jams.

Drastic problems call for drastic solutions, hence the lawn scalping. I first became aware of this phenomenon when I saw the neighbour down the street using what appeared to be a coal shovel to scoop up pieces of his lawn and heave them in to the back of a pick-up truck.

Having removed sod to enlarge or create gardens, I was initially awe-struck by his astounding strength. But apparently, there is a tool you can use to slice up your lawn horizontally. Then you can remove the bits. After it is bald, presumably you re-sod or re-seed. Only time (and any pessimistic gardener) can tell for how long this method will be effective.

It will be like the mosquitoes. Again this year, the larva were sprayed with the latest in larvicide just before three days of torrential downpours washed it all away. Mosquitoes now abound like dandelions.

I was a little surprised to learn that this spraying is done from a helicopter. But then, there is a lot around here which surprises me. Anyhow the helicopter was parked in the cornfield field behind Tim Horton’s, presumably so its operators could get a coffee.  Helicopters look like dragonflies, so from a weird shamanistic point of view, perhaps their use is appropriate, if not especially effective. Real dragonflies might be a better idea.

On the political scene, the plans for the new town hall and public library have been greeted with almost universal disapprobation. A new one-story city hall will be built behind the old three-story city hall, which incidentally used to be the post office. The century-old building needs major structural work. Also it needs an elevator, which could cost roughly $150,000.

Our esteemed city fathers and mothers concluded building a new city hall on one floor would save the cost of an elevator. Detractors say the proposed design looks like a strip mall and local roofing experts, of whom there seem to be a surprising number for a town of 1,600, say a flat roof is a recipe for disaster.

Plans were afoot to demolish the old city hall, but that will cost at least $100,000, so the hope now is that some enterprising soul, from London of course, will buy it, convert it to apartments, and add an elevator.

On a happier note, a couple placed an ad in the Parkhill Gazette a couple of weeks ago thanking the local fire department for their help in putting out a truck fire in their driveway. I can vouch for the effectiveness of their prompt arrival. During warm-ups at exercise class, I spotted the burnt remains of only the vehicle beside a house across from the Leisure Club. The initial skepticism of some as to whether those were “really ashes” was countered by another, possibly less short-sighted, participant, a church warden who had followed the sirens down the street thinking the Anglican church might be on fire.

Finally this-just-in: I can end these dispatches on a really high note. In front-page news, the Gazette reported one of our local doctors helped save the life of a Toronto police constable who collapsed while running in the Toronto marathon. Our doctor was on the sidelines watching for participating family members when the medical excitement began. With no photos of the actual event available, our local hero and an elderly patient, who joined his practice 20 years ago as a youngster of 80, were pictured on the inside pages of the Gazette, thereby implicitly attesting to his medical efficacy over the long term as well.

The Potluck Gamble

Everyone knows June is the month of strawberries, but here in the Wilds of North Middlesex, it is also the month of potluck lunches and dinners, a time-honoured tradition to mark the end of another year’s activities.  Between us, Greg and I have attended at least six in the last couple of weeks, and there are more to come ― some even sliding over into July.

The question always arises as to whether to have a true potluck or the modified version. Apparently, a sign-up list is rarely handed around, as that would take the fun out of it entirely, but the hostess sometimes offers to provide part of the meal, hence, the modified potluck. However, so far this year, the normally conservative inhabitants of this area have opted for the more daring true potluck.

This has the usual unintended consequences.

People seem to have their own speciality, like sauerkraut or meatballs or jellied salad.  I confess I am beginning to rather  like orange Jell-O with crushed pineapple, but please, not grated carrots.  I don’t know the last time I had Ambrosia – well, not before the two opportunities I had to indulge this month.  It consists of coconut, miniature marshmallows, fruit cocktail and whipped cream and counts as a main dish. So does apple salad made with dream whip (the healthier choice, according to the provider, than whipped cream).

Greg and I always bring our Salsa Delight: a layer of cream cheese, topped with salsa, followed by chives from the garden, if available, or green onions, if not, and finished with grated cheddar. Our challenge is whether to spread it an inch deep and a mile wide in the flat corning ware dish (my choice) or thicker and less extensively ― and I might add, harder for dippers! – in the two-quart casserole (Greg’s option). It’s a difficult decision and, I feel, may unconsciously reveal something of the deeper nature of each of us.

Anyhow, we enjoyed three different versions of baked beans and the same number of meat ball dishes at one potluck recently. The dinner was held out in the country in a house backing onto a woods and bordered by a large field. Partway through the meal, a coyote bounded across the field, and a while later about half a dozen young coyote pups came running back in the opposite direction, followed by the adult encouraging a slow-poke sibling.

I wondered what they had been finding to eat. As it happens, the population of stray cats on our street has seemed remarkably reduced from earlier head counts.  It crossed my mind, as I took a second helping of Ambrosia, that perhaps the coyotes in our neck of the woods are enjoying their own version of potluck.

In any event, there is a knack to a successful outdoor potluck. It primarily involves avoiding food poisoning. Recently at the Parish Picnic, aka the Sunday School Picnic, we enjoyed two kinds of potato salad and various cold meats, but not a lot in the way of vegetables  –  unless you count the 11 asparagus spears wrapped in ham.  Thankfully, insulated zippered carry-ins, as well as the usual Tupperware, lined the picnic table in the pavilion at Coronation Park.  Anglicans seem to have a container for every occasion.

My enjoyment of the meal was dampened by an account of another potluck, a birthday celebration the previous afternoon after which a number of attendees suffered food poisoning. I found out later it was traced to devilled eggs. The degree of upset was in direct proportion to the number eaten and the length of time which had elapsed while they were being consumed. One devilled egg at the start produced no symptoms; five consumed over the course of a hot afternoon … well, it was not pleasant.

The ladies of the Anglican Guild (i.e., the evening guild that meets in the afternoon) held their year-end do indoors last week. We enjoyed what turned out to be a lot of fruit and veg – perhaps compensation for their non-appearance at the Parish Picnic from two days before. Not wanting to repeat the salsa too soon, I surprised everyone with seven kinds of raw vegetables and a dip of my own invention.

After lunch, we began the formal meeting with a short devotional service. We use thin leather-covered chapbooks dated 1897 and published by “the Gazette in Parkhill,” according to the flyleaf. I always enjoy the prayer in which we ask God to “pour down the continual dew of thy blessing upon him whom thou hast called to minister in this portion of thy vineyard.”

The “him” in question was absent at the time, being at a potluck lunch for his fellow vineyard keepers in Clericus.  However, he did arrive later on ― just in time to be blessed with a slice of apple pie provided by the hostess of the day, thanks to her husband, a retired farmer whose pastry, I can say without a moment of hesitation, is to die for.

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Potlucks seem to be the same all over, as this tune by the Prowell Family of Kansas (and YouTube) attests:

http://www.prowellfamilyband.com/video.html

Inconvenience in the Wilds of North Middlesex:

Here in North Middlesex, we seem obsessed with inconvenience. Take the the future of our high school; a city bigwig’s suggestion that E-learning might help the enrolment problem found few backers. Better to be inconvenienced by having your children go all the way to London apparently.  Wind turbine farms have generated more than the expected electricity: some local residents have lain down on the road to inconvenience truck drivers delivering the turbine blades. On another front, even though, as our newspaper solemnly reported, “January is a time of no mosquito issues,” concerned citizens reviewed plans to render life as inconvenient as possible for next year’s crop. Well, who can quarrel with that!

Nevertheless, for me, living in a small village means things are handy: You can go to the library and be home again in 10 minutes — and that includes checking out the books the librarian called you about when she realized that Hotmail failed to send the automated message.

Recently, one of the wardens hurriedly left church just as Communion was starting. I didn’t quite catch her explanation, but apparently she was coming back. I was last in line and tried to delay — in both kinds   — in case she returned in time, but she just missed.  However, she did partake of the final hymn and the dismissal. She had just put her house up for sale.  A Sunday morning showing was scheduled, so she had to dash home to put her cat in the car.

And things are made handy: Take the bright yellow port-a-potty behind the sign on Main St. advertising the Parkhill Area Horticultural Society (aka the Hort).  Apparently, the municipality asked the company to remove it during the last postal strike for reasons I am not clear about, but it has reappeared — like a winter aconite in a snowy garden.

A letter to the editor in the Parkhill Gazette reminded readers that our local sanitation company donated it not just for families tobogganing on the hill beside the post office but for all visitors to the town. It gets serviced weekly, has a hand sanitizer dispenser, and is available for use “no matter what time of the day or night.”

There are other washrooms, but they are at the Leisure Club, a distant stroll on the other side of Coronation Park (past the famed Royal Oak, carved to commemorate William and Kate's wedding) and, inconveniently, they don’t open until May.

Speaking of trees, had you attended the general meeting of the Hort, you would have learned something handy about landscaping. The owner of the local nursery advised against spending hundreds of dollars on a formal landscape design. Just bring your house measurements to their garden store, and she’ll draw an outline of your house and yard in the gravel driveway and place plants in it until the desired effect is reached.   Then you can spend that money on plants rather than paper!

Also, everyone knows about the convenience of mulch for the garden especially when it provides nitrogen for the soil. A lively and somewhat unexpected discussion ensued as to the nitrogen-providing benefits of human urine. Apparently, it is very handy for re-invigorating compost heaps, and if you can get urine from a male of the species, it can be used to ward off unwanted critters. This surprising information raised a few titters amongst the mostly female audience. Practically speaking, we could use some around our neck of the woods as we have been shocked by a threesome of semi-feral cats, enlivened prematurely  by the mild weather no doubt, engaging in unmentionable activity on our lawn.

But alas, there is a downside to convenience. We have been subjected to more than our share of door-to-door inquiries especially about natural gas contracts and subscriptions to the London Free Press, neither of which we want.   We accept solicitations from the Heart and Stroke Foundation, however, as their representative is also our neighbour and has used his Bobcat to clear snow from the foot of our driveway  (before we got our own beast — whereupon, as you will recall, it stopped snowing).

Anyway, the other day I was meandering around the kitchen in my dressing gown when the doorbell rang. It was only 10:00 in the morning, so much too early for the Mr. Heart and Stroke. I shrank down beside the sink until I was sure whoever it was had gone. To add insult to injury, there was another knock on the door several hours later. By this time I was properly clothed but still not convivial.  I am an introvert so for me, answering the door is like answering the phone: if it’s important, they’ll call back. 

And sure enough they did.  As I was making dinner, another knock on the door. I said to Greg who’d arrived home a few minutes before, “For goodness sake, that’s the third time today! Can’t they get the point!”  He said rather firmly, “I think you’d better answer it.” This startled me, as his attitude to unasked-for social interruptions is much like mine.  But I did as I was bidden, looked out and saw a grey van parked in the driveway. Turning to come back up the porch steps, there was the driver. He was carrying a huge bouquet of flowers. 

Yes, it was the chap from Frontier Flowers delivering my Valentine’s bouquet.