We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet

Her friends will rejoice to hear that the fractured shoulder is perfectly healed and arm mobility sufficiently restored that hill-climbing is once again a feature of Jan's life. How glad we are. With Winnipeg Steve keen to get some Vancouver Island mud on his hiking boots we three joined Mary and Mike for an impromptu ramble in the Gowlland Range, to Jocelyn Hill.

Birds were a target, specifically one bird, the pine grosbeak, usually rare in these parts, but spotted the day before. Denied a sighting before reaching the Jocelyn summit, we at last saw one, then another, then a gang of five, finally maybe a dozen in all. The hill's abundance of arbutus berries was the obvious draw, not just for the grosbeaks, but for platoons of cedar waxwings and a whole division of robins.

Friends are important enough that wordsmiths write poems about them, and novels and plays, even a well known sitcom or two. I find life seldom sweeter than when spent hanging out with pals, whether sharing lightheartedness and licorice allsorts on a nearby hill, or communing with a wee dram on the cabin porch at Big Bras d'Or.

We passed Christmas in Coquitlam with Lexi and Ben, Doug and Allison, Steven too. Stockings were well stuffed and turkey plentiful but what I liked best was exactly what I anticipated: heading outdoors to turn over rotting logs with young Lexi. No, we didn't find a salamander -- except the plastic one the four-year-old planted when I wasn't looking -- but the little naturalist was happy with the next best thing: a clutch of eggs including one nearly as blue as sapphire.

After Christmas the Coquitlamites returned the visit. We took Lexi to see the woolly mammoth at the BC Museum and all the creatures of the natural history section. Asked why the birds didn't fly, we explained they once did, but are now lifeless and stuffed. Lexi seemed unfazed. In the evening I played Hearts with Jan's sons and marveled at the show of brotherly love exhibited by Doug when Steve didn't play as his younger sibling felt he ought to. The thought occurred that I might resolve to be more carefree about mere games.

Given that this is the last day of dear old 2012 my mind turns to other potential resolutions. Donald Trump might resolve to exercise his brain at least as frequently as he does his mouth. Stephen Harper might decide to rule as though he enjoyed the support of only four voters in ten. Kim Jong-il could vow to recall that what goes up must necessarily come down. As for me, I find as old age deepens that my pledges grow rather less ambitious: remember my prunes . . . turn off the stove . . . look both ways before crossing the street.

Whatever you resolve, gentle reader, may it leave you content rather than cranky, healthy instead of haggard, vitalized rather than vexed.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne? For auld lang syne, my jo, for auld lang syne, we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

What is Christmas Without Surfbirds and Centipedes?

There's a wide, wide world out there. At one extreme there are folks who if asked what they like best about Christmas will tell you it's rubbing elbows with the hoi-polloi at the neighbourhood mall, 'Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer' looping endlessly from the mall's woofers and tweeters. Others claim the season summit is the luxury of spending all day indoors, getting stuffed on turkey and egg nog, watching Alistair Sim's Scrooge for the umpteenth time. At another extreme there are those who think that the best the season has to offer is standing gumbooted at the edge of a muddy slough, under a heavy drizzle, waiting for a bird to fly by. Count me among the latter.

It is Christmas Bird Count season in greater Victoria. On Saturday, for the eighteenth straight year, I savoured another Stewart Mountain-Scafe Hill CBC with Jan and spiritual kinfolk Mary and Bruce. In unimportant ways it was an unexceptional count -- our aggregate species total of 24 was utterly routine -- but the routine is partly what I like about this event: predictably good conversation, guaranteed boon companionship, assurance that we'll have the hills to ourselves. What's more, it is rare for the routine not to be varied by something special. We started the day with a coup, luring first one then another northern pygmy-owl into responding to our whistled impersonations of the pygmy's call note. A pygmy owl is tiny, utterly charming, and well-named: you can fit one into a teacup and have room to spare. Jan might never have taken to me at all had it not been for the memorable time, years ago, that I summoned one out of the ether and persuaded it to land at eye level in a bush right in front of our noses.

We added a new species to our all-time zone list, a Wilson's snipe, and not just one of them, but sixteen. In terms of simple volume it was a slow day: we counted barely 200 individual birds but the conversation never flagged, Stewart's western flank provided an excellent vantage point for watching the world go by, the tea and salmon sandwiches kept body and soul intact.

Some folks are bird count gluttons. We were out again Sunday to do our duty with long-time pal Andrew in the Patricia Bay zone of the Saanich-Saltspring CBC. We added a wrinkle to this particular routine, leaving the vehicle at the side of the road and doing most of our counting on foot. We wandered more than 11 km in the aforementioned gumboots. There is plenty of routine in this zone too, albeit a different routine from that offered in the hills. We know what to expect and we generally find what we expect to find. But is always a surprise or two. Yesterday we added two species to our over-the-years aggregate: Eurasian collared-dove, lately invaded in our region, and a gang of 20 surfbirds, a lovely and dignified sandpiper whose habitat preference is rocky shorelines.

We have another count to look forward to, the Drinkwater-Prevost zone of the New Year's Day Duncan CBC. There we expect another pleasant combination of routine and surprise with long-time birding pal, Ann.

But before that last CBC unfolds there will have been opportunity for indoor turkey and egg nog, in Coquitlam, with Lexi and Ben and the other folks they live with. My faithful reader may rest assured, however, that I will seek opportunity to take the children outdoors for a bit of stealth naturalizing. What Lexi likes best about 'Pappy' is his proclivity for suggesting we go outside to turn over rocks and rotted logs to see how many centipedes, spiders and sowbugs we might find, maybe even a salamander or two. Ah yes, that's when Christmas works best for me.

If It Suits Snowies and Pelicans Can It Be All That Bad?

The orthopedist says Jan's shoulder fractures are healing exactly as desired but she is grumpy nonetheless, still just a one-armed wonder, restrained by the damned immobilizing sling. The injuries furnish a lining slightly silver: I continue to flourish in the fill-in chief cook role. Other things may irk the old girl but know this: she has no basis for significant complaint about what arrives on her plate at dinner time.

We miss hiking the Sooke Hills and riding the bikes out along the Saanich Peninsula. We grow fat in the absence of those cherished and slimming activities. Saturday provided a little consolation: we took our first post-shoulder-smashup walk on uneven ground, in Francis/King Park. Mary and Mike kept us company as we rambled among the woody giants of the park, red-cedars, doug-firs, hemlocks. It was only 4 km or so, but enough to spark hope that we may still have a future as hill hikers.

Level-ground walking opportunities abound. Birding is particularly good these days in our James Bay neighbourhood. A fortnight ago snowy owls invaded in numbers, then brown pelicans. One day we saw five snowies, this morning 14 pelicans.

In both cases what's good for birders is doubtless bad for the birds. The owls are driven south from their usual Arctic havens by deep hunger. Climate change sweeps Canada's Arctic, perhaps altering the owls' natural food supply. In desperation they fly thousands of miles south for replacement fare. Many, perhaps most, will die. As for the pelicans, they are lured north by more frequent ocean warmings; you may have heard of them, El Ninos. There is fish aplenty for them here in Victoria but there will be trouble too once the temperature dips below zero and water turns icy.

Indoors, Jan adapts to being one-armed. Ingenuity and occasional help enable her to carry on with her quilting endeavours. A big new project slowly takes shape on her design wall. Across the hall, I beaver away at my WWI archival projects, finding a nugget here and there. It pays to have a network of fellow diggers around the world. A tip from one of them led me to solid gold, two 1915 photographs of one of my Boularderie soldier relatives killed in the war to end all wars. The find was better than the sort that used to thrill me under the xmas tree when I was 10.

Which reminds me that the calendar says December has snuck up on me. I have done nothing at all to satisfy the conventions and obligations imposed by the month's twenty-fifth day. Sticking my head in the sand is an attractive option, but is it likely to win me widespread approval in the long term? Hmm, I'd better get going.