A Wave Big But Not Hot

The days of July march relentlessly away. We busy ourselves with motley diversions: trail-improving, road-widening, roof-raising (on Jim Troke’s behalf) et al. Old age brings a measure of mellow: I no longer have to complete a long list of ‘projects’ before earning the right to read a book. In this my last pre-OAP year I read more greedily than ever. Lately I’m on a John Irving bender: A Widow for One Year, Until I Find You, The Fourth Hand, A Prayer for Owen Meany. Once I was a big fan but fell by the wayside years ago. Now I’m catching up, impressed as ever by Irving’s originality, quirkiness, humanity and humour.

Jan reads too but has talents needing exercise. Twice – during last year’s Celtic Colours, then again in June during PEI’s Festival of Small Halls – I was left spellbound by Tony McManus`s rendition of Satie`s Gnossiennes 1. I demanded that Jan add it to her guitar repertoire. She is coming along very nicely. One day I threaten to surreptitiously video her at it and load the proceeds on YouTube.

On Sunday we got off our butts and rode the bikes to Ross Ferry with Old Man Nagel. Though a tad windy the day was sunny and blithe. Pedaling along, while Bob belted out show tunes, I counted flowers, the wild ones and the ferals, growing at roadside. At the Ross Ferry wharf I studied a vivid tableau. A gang of teenagers in swim togs took turns jumping into the littoral. One of them, a well-contoured young thing in yellow bikini was set upon by the young males. The scene brought to mind pigeons in the park – you know what I mean, a poor hen pigeon harassed to distraction by a gang of cocks all with just one thing on their mind.

On the way back we stopped at Diane’s Den of Antiquity where a yard sale was underway. I ordinarily avoid yard sales as assiduously as I do Stephen Harper fundraisers but this time, for a lousy five bucks, we came away with a bagful of worthy books and bits of glassware Jan found charming and gay.

The bird feeders attract steady trade from finches, jays and hummingbirds. The usual contest of wills and wits goes on with squirrels. I concoct new and ingenious plans for confounding their ambition only to have my latest solution undone by sunset. One of the best among our latest bargain book acquisitions is the National Museums’ Mammals of Canada. We are learning more than we ever imagined about our fellow citizens at ‘Bigadore’. That the squirrels love mushrooms, relish the kinds that kill humans stone dead, and build underground storehouses loaded with their favourites. That the little deer mice inclined to move in with us come September breed four times a year and could theoretically produce ten thousand descendants in a single year. That our little brown bats can live to age 24, don’t eat mosquitoes after all, and don’t migrate to Latin America for the winter (no, they hibernate in local caves that stay above 40 degrees F even in the coldest January).

CBC tells us that much of Canada is roasting these days. Not so Cape Breton. Ordinarily we’d have a month of Dalem dips behind us by now but this year subpar weather has held us back. Until Friday. Jan took the plunge. I chickened out. Too cold. Too grey. Too unappetizing. Might August finally change things for the better?

This is Big Wave week in Big Bras d’Or. On Tuesday we joined an audience of a few dozen to watch the variety concert in the St. James basement – a few skits here, quite a bit of song there, all performed by local talent based right here in Big Bras d’Or, or very nearby. It got me contemplating notions of community and the way things used to be ‘out in the country’. On Wednesday we went to the United church, laid waste to whole plateloads of the nice ladies’ sandwiches before dispatching a large bowl of local strawberries and cream. Today brings the headline all-day event at the Big Bras d’Or wharf: food, poker runs, a musical jamboree. As usual Jan and I will take our turn selling beer tickets at the evening dance. We always seize the first shift, from ten to eleven, so that we can be tucked in bed by the time the jigging really gets going. Wild-and-crazy we are not.