Pollenatrix

Groundhog Tales

On my way from Collingwood to Tobermory for the Bruce Peninsula Orchid Festival, I find myself turning my car onto back roads in the agricultural hill country, drawn by the unexplored terrain and delightful scenery. Small creatures scatter quickly into the tall grass as I pass, groundhogs mostly. The sight of them brings to mind Laird's gruesome story of his childhood dog, a boxer, who caught a groundhog and literally shook it out of its pelt. Laird claims that the skinned groundhog kept running until the dog pounced on it again and finally killed it. Lynda, quite unprompted, related the same story to me some time later, so it must be true.

Groundhogs in mind, I grin in goofy delight when it dawns on me that I will be passing through the infamous town of Wiarton, gateway to the Bruce Peninsula. More importantly, it is the "Home of Wiarton Willy", an albino groundhog whose shadow supposedly predicts the coming of spring each year. Or was. My favourite story of all time is of the scandalous demise of the original Wiarton Willy, in 1999.

One late winter day, on a Saturday afternoon, the 22 year old groundhog was found dead in his burrow. He was due to make his annual appearance on Tuesday. Now, you must understand that people all over Ontario await news of Wiarton Willy's shadow, or at least the media must think so, because the outcome is reported on the radio, on the 6 o'clock news, and in all the newspapers. Large crowds of people converge on Wiarton on this day each year, their children in tow, to be present when the four-footed oracle of the spring equinox pops out of his burrow and makes his pronouncement known.

The organizers, with only two days left before the event and no time to find a replacement, decided to keep it a secret.

The day arrived. Faced with the inevitable, the organizers unveiled a very dead and very stiff white rodent laid out in a tiny coffin, dressed up in a tiny tuxedo, with two shiny pennies over its eyes and a carrot between its paws. Solemn words of memorial were issued over the well-dressed carcass - glasses raised, hats doffed, and heads bowed.

Not everyone got the humour of the situation. Mothers were shocked and children were traumatized. Some dismissed it as a tasteless publicity stunt. Then scandal broke:

Last week the Associated Press published what may be the most bizarre caption correction to have ever moved on the wires. AP corrected the spelling of the late Wiarton Willie the Groundhog's name, but more significantly, they also had to explain that their photographer had been lied to when he took a photo that purported to show the recently departed creature in his coffin. Apparently the real late Willie had been dead so long, and was so badly decomposed when his handlers tried to roust him for Groundhog Day, that they used an older stuffed groundhog as a stand-in for their photo of Willie's wake.

(Courtesy "Behind the Viewfinder - A Year in the Life of Photojournalism www.digitalstoryteller.com/YITL")

"We didn't try to hide the fact that he was stuffed," said Tom Ashman of Wiarton Willie's publicity team. "If the media had been doing their job they would have seen the stitches on the belly."

But, why fake it?

"People needed closure," Ashman explained.

As for me, I howled.

It still makes me laugh.

The Toxic Snowblower

I'm in Collingwood, recuperating from a grueling move out of Toronto at the warm and welcoming home of Lynda. I spent much of the morning laying in a lawn chair, wrapped in a sleeping bag against the slight chill of the air, soaking in the scent of lilacs and apple blossoms and the avian sounds of spring. I pointedly ignored Jake, who kept flipping a Frisbee on my lap and nudging my arm, until he finally gave up and curled peacefully under my chair. It takes 13 years for a border collie to resign himself so quickly.

The property is surrounded by trees, well back from the road and quite protected from noise. The faint roar of industrial machinery did not register over the sound of squabbling birds and neighbour's riding mower until the noise became quite loud and ominously near. I finally lifted my head to get a better angle on the peek-a-boo view of the orchard, playfully imagining that perhaps a bulldozer was on a collision course with my comfortable position. In a way, it was.

What I saw shocked me. A giant machine, not unlike a snow blower, prowled the aisles of the apple orchard across the lane, pouring some kind of toxic white fog out of a giant curved chute over the tops of the trees. I'm sure Mr. Apple Farmer would insist that this chemical soup spread over dozens and dozens of acres just across the driveway was quite harmless, but, my thoughts went instantly to the local herbalist, who lives safely above the spray on top of the escarpment. She once told me that the cancer rate is extremely high in Beaver Valley residents because of the chemicals used on the orchards. In fact, Laird's mother, who lived many years in this house, was taken from us far too soon by cancer, just a year and a half ago. As the fog drifted through the trees and settled on the ground, it struck me that this was the air she breathed, and the water she drank from a well dug in this earth.

Angry thoughts flashed through my mind. "How is it that someone can do something like this without warning anyone?", I raged inwardly. "How is that I am legally protected from having to breathe someone's cigarette smoke in a restaurant, but not from the spew of tons of chemicals into the air right next to my door?".

I grabbed my dog and escaped into the relative safety of the house, and spent the rest of that lovely afternoon indoors. I couldn't help but ponder the irony of a city slicker like me escaping to the idyllic peace and clean living of the country, only to have chemicals unceremoniously dumped on my head. In the midst of that fog, the real price we pay for cheap and unblemished produce became painfully clear.

Organic food has always seemed like a good idea to me, but a very expensive one, and the cheaper option usually ends up in my cart. Well, my close encounter with the toxic snow blower has certainly changed my thinking, bulldozing an abstract concept into painful reality with a thump.

Buy organic. The alternative is far too costly.

Spring Rites and a Dead Queen

I took the dog for a walk last night, just before twilight on Monday evening of the Victoria Day weekend. Those of you who live in most provinces of Canada (except Quebecers, who scratch their head bewildered, and wait for Saint Jean le Baptiste Day) will understand the implications. Those of you who own a dog will instantly flinch, and sympathize. The May "2-4" weekend is an annual rite, some say to celebrate the birthday of a long dead and very fat British queen. I think it's a thinly disguised rite to welcome spring, an instinctive reaction to the return of the growing season buried deep in our pagan little souls, urban though they may be. Traditional activities include the consumption of copious amounts of beer (a case of 24 -- or a "2-4", is appropriate), and fireworks. In particular, families with small children inflict terror on small animals by gathering in the thousands at every park, school yard, and green space in the province to launch arsenals of fireworks purchased at corner stores, waving sparklers in the air like little fairy lights. Ambulance sirens scream and rush by to respond to the teenage aftermath of dumb antics with minor explosives.

If you find yourself out walking with your dog at this magic hour, as I did, hold on tight to the leash. Jake practically dragged me home, panting and straining and quivering, a wild look in his eyes. I passed a woman struggling to hold on to a bucking German Shepherd, and called out in sympathy. She said, "this is nothing, one guy had to CARRY his dog home". I replied that I hoped it wasn't as big as hers, and she shook her head and said, "No -- bigger". I can only imagine.

In spite of the noise and panic-stricken animals, I understand the urge to celebrate. Walking the neighbourhood streets while it was still light enough to see, I was awestruck by the lushness of it all. Just weeks ago the trees were bare, and signs of life in gardens were hard to find. Now, the expression "spring is busting out all over" doesn't begin to describe the richness and absolute decadence of heavily treed streets and the thick canopy of leaves. I silently give thanks for the widespread conversion of front lawns to perennial gardens, which are at the height of their glory right now and close at hand to enjoy from the sidewalks. Lilac, poppies, iris, creeping flox, colour!! Colour and flowers and the thrill of green everywhere, so heavy and full you're wrapped in it. I suppose this a good enough reason to bust out the fireworks and party.

As for the dogs, well, I suppose every good pagan ritual requires a (figurative) sacrificial creature. It's nothing that can't be remedied with a cookie and the morning light.

Happy spring!!

A New Adventure

I'm all packed, and ready to go. Boy, am I ready to go!! I've got an air mattress, a tv, my computer, and my camping gear, and the movers come tomorrow to take what remains of our belongings to my parents' basement for storage. The apartment is bare. My grow room has been completely dismantled, the only plants left are a couple of big ones (the umbrella plant and a couple of begonias) that someone asked me for but has forgotten to pick up. My orchids are safely tucked away in Jocelyn's greenhouse for safekeeping (thanks Jo!), except for the Miltonia clowesii x Golden Showers, which is in bloom and I couldn't bear to part with just yet. I am now regretting that decision, realizing that it's going to be gracing the dashboard of my car for the next six weeks.

I lost my job at the end of March, in the usual way that big corporations treat people if they think they can get away with it. I am one of several staff who had been on contract for many years, and they realized that the law was breathing down their necks and it was time to give us full-time status with benefits before they got nailed by Employment Standards. However, some of us made more money than they wanted to continue to spend, or had health problems. Their solution in my case was to dream up not particularly coherent reasons to claim that the position didn't exist anymore, but that they were creating a "new one" that I could apply for "if you want to. But you probably won't want to."

After the initial shock wore off, disgust set in, and a grim recognition that yes, this is how big companies and their little people behave - I've seen it many, many times before. I was a little taken aback by the amateurish tack (for heaven's sake, just cough up a settlement and let's be done with it), but I realized they were trying to get by on the cheap, and have probably gotten away with it before, and what's more, they needed me to set up the new position before they dumped me. Um, no. My lawyer quickly set things right with a minimum amount of fuss, and I was soon happily on my way with a fairly reasonable severance cheque.

And a decision to join Laird in Germany. We're both enthusiastic to put an end to the repeated long separations, since his job takes him there much of the year. I'm raring to leave Toronto. I love travelling. I'm a big believer in being grateful for wonderful opportunities that come my way by grabbing them with both hands. So, I'm off. I have a high school reunion to go to in July, so I'm hanging out until then, and flying to Munich after it's over. Until then, let the couch tour begin. I'll be camping, visiting friends and relatives. Next weekend I'll be up in Tobermory, at the Orchid Festival. And I'll blog my way through it all, every chance I get.

Talk to you all very soon.

Orchids in Munich, Germany

I *finally* loaded my orchid pictures up from my trip to Munich in April. The botanical gardens at Schloss Nymphenburg have the largest collection of orchids in Germany, or so I understand. I couldn't resist the place -- I went back three times, once making the mistake of visiting on a holiday weekend. The place was crawling with people, most notably a large contingent of nuns in full habit.

On one of my weekday visits, an elderly gentleman said something to me in German. I looked quizzically at him, and he turned to his daughter to translate. "You have a radiant smile, my father says". Ooops, my enthusiasm was showing. I mumbled something about it being impossible not to smile in a place like this, and she agreed. But in fact I could not keep my excitement contained. Debbie commented that at one point a crowd gathered around me as I described the interesting reproductive habits of certain orchids to my friends. I was oblivious, wrapped up in my own little world.

Enjoy.

Book opened orchid-growing to the world

Before there was an Orchid Thief, there was Rebecca T. Northen. Northen, whose 1950 book "Home Orchid Growing" is still the bible for growers -- amateur and professional alike -- did for orchids what Julia Child did for French cooking, said one orchid lover. Her greenhouse still contained hundreds of orchids when she died April 30 at age 93 in Des Moines.

"She demystified this thing that was previously the purview of the rich doctors and the wealthy"

I have this book. The first book I ever bought on orchids, long before I ever got into the hobby in any serious way. It contains a lot of good advice but has few pictures, so for a rank beginner it was hard to visualize what she was trying to describe. But, it was the first book of its kind, and my introduction to orchids. RIP, Rebecca.

Columbia: Efforts to Save a National Flower

"It is Colombia's national flower and is threatened with extinction as a result of environmental degradation and urbanisation. But using both traditional and modern techniques, experts are fighting to keep this emblematic flower from disappearing. "