Life in a Foreign Land
I did not come from here. I am far from my birthplace. And many years are gone by now and still I live in this world of asphalt and stone. I long for the light of the sun and cool air to brush my cheek but my work is in a crypt of drab and silent plaster with no window glass or daylight air let in. I go at half time to the outside world and find a stone bench in the middle of the avenue where the gardens drape over low stone walls and sit there under a cranberry tree amid the rush of traffic sharing my lunch of toast crumbs with darling sparrows who hop about my feet and eat so politely and chatter excitedly about what a lovely day. It is. I lean my head back against the bench and watch a wisp of clouds, made just for me, drift across a china blue sky overhead through the dark branches and let the sun-streaked sky fill my heart. The silver grasses whisper to me "Do not despair. We too have been transplanted here." as salty tears fall in the soil at their feet in this fleeting moment when I am real again and share their earth so far from my would be place. How came I here, I often wonder, to this harsh and foreign land, to toil away my life in the depths of great buildings hidden from the light and the free moving wind upon which my hope still depends. And yet at times like this I can, only steps away, share the work of gardeners who tend this place and they nod to me as I take up my books and wind my way back at the end of lunch hour. Thank you I nod in return for this moment of grace.
The Cats of Parliament Hill
These miniature Parliament buildings, complete with shingled roofs, house the stray cats of Parliament Hill. Sheltered in a thicket behind the wrought iron railings to the west of the real Parliament Buildings, on the crest of the bluffs overlooking the Ottawa River, this little settlement has been in existance for over 30 years. Tended to by a series of retired folk, the cats are fed every day and medical care is provided when necessary. Their numbers vary as they come and go their own wayward ways.
There is a plaque on the fence detailing the history of this little encampment and a donation box is in place into which you can drop a few dollars to help with the care and keeping of 
these lovely cats. They are friendly but cautious. Early morning is the best time to visit before all the tourists show up and send the cats into hiding. Here we are having treats at about 6:00 a.m. on a beautful August morning. The big orange fellow on the left is pretty much king of the hill although he didn't throw his weight around too much. The tiny calico and the slim black were slightly more nervous but they were all very well mannered and calm enough to be petted. I didn't attempt to pick anyone up. The two grey and whites did eat from my hand ... in all a most charming experience.
The Original Handsome Jack
Yep, that's him, the original Handsome Jack, relaxing with his bear collection. Jack is a refugee from Whitney Pier. Been with us about 6 years now. Also known as Destructo Man, Jumpin' Jack Flash, Dragon's breath, and other terms of endearment. And yes, that's a Coca Cola bear, also a refugee. Abandoned curbside by some frustrated mom after being left out in the rain. Goes by the name of Farley.
In Regatta Recovery
Sailed in a regatta this weekend. First morning get towed out to the starting area by a boat named Screaming Eagle ... a string of Dragons and Etchells all tied one to another, like day care kids going to the park. No wind. This is called a bob & bake - but eventually, a nice little breeze fills in. Ahhh ... boats are beautiful, competition is demanding, race committee excellent. But Handsome Jack is still not fully functional. Lines are not running smoothly. Gear is not set up to optimum yet. Wrists are still aching from pulling on lines that won't run. Many bruises, a few bloody scrapes, a few nice rope burns. Moments of hope mingled with moments of frustration. Two day regatta - 3 races each day - 4 legs per race - sail approximately 12 miles per day. Do pretty well overall and manage to stay with the fleet. (Except for a couple of really awful mark roundings). Totally worn out by the end of the weekend and go home to ice packs and naproxen.
Club lays on excellent steak dinner. Nice prizes and rounds of applause for everyone. We enjoy great companionship with most generous competitors. Come away with lots of advice and tons of encouragement. Pretty good time.
I did not come from here. I am far from my birthplace. And many years are gone by now and still I live in this world of asphalt and stone. I long for the light of the sun and cool air to brush my cheek but my work is in a crypt of drab and silent plaster with no window glass or daylight air let in. I go at half time to the outside world and find a stone bench in the middle of the avenue where the gardens drape over low stone walls and sit there under a cranberry tree amid the rush of traffic sharing my lunch of toast crumbs with darling sparrows who hop about my feet and eat so politely and chatter excitedly about what a lovely day. It is. I lean my head back against the bench and watch a wisp of clouds, made just for me, drift across a china blue sky overhead through the dark branches and let the sun-streaked sky fill my heart. The silver grasses whisper to me "Do not despair. We too have been transplanted here." as salty tears fall in the soil at their feet in this fleeting moment when I am real again and share their earth so far from my would be place. How came I here, I often wonder, to this harsh and foreign land, to toil away my life in the depths of great buildings hidden from the light and the free moving wind upon which my hope still depends. And yet at times like this I can, only steps away, share the work of gardeners who tend this place and they nod to me as I take up my books and wind my way back at the end of lunch hour. Thank you I nod in return for this moment of grace.
