After a bite to eat, Vimy and I pick up my friend, John, to hike for an hour or so, along the rim of the escarpment, one of the many trails near my home. This is the highlight of my dog’s day, and in some respects, also mine. Together we have discovered more than 16 wooded trails, most of them beautiful, and all easily accessible. John and I often decide on the spur of the moment which trail to explore. We stroll along, discussing whatever topic that happens to arise, while greeting other early morning hikers. Vimy, of course, is in her element, looking for head pats, dog treats, and becoming absorbed with the multitude of alluring scents along the path. It doesn’t hurt that nature surrounds us on almost every side with pleasant sights.
Occasionally we stop off somewhere for a coffee, mainly, I think, to surround ourselves, for the only time in our day, with other people, to somehow reassure ourselves that we still matter in the larger scheme of human activity. But, alas! All we see is a collection of strangers, mostly retired, congregating in the coffee shop for the same reason that we are there. The scene at times really depresses me. Occasionally I have the urge to shout, “All of you get out of here right now, get yourselves a job, and stop living this useless existence!” But I don’t.
The afternoon is my lowest point in the day. The time frequently drags by. This day is no different. On the spur of the moment, possibly because I crave some action, a news item resonates with me, requiring a response and so I quickly tap out a letter-to-the-editor, and e-mail it to the city newspaper. My effort is rewarded a few days later when I see my letter in print. Actually I get to see many of my letters in print because I have the time, and make the effort, to craft them so that they are topical, succinct, and punchy. Similarly, an idea for an article pops into my head, prompting me to write a draft outline. And, as with my letters, I have had more than a dozen of my articles published in a magazine, CANADIAN STORIES, and recently, one published online in its sister magazine, STORY QUILT. In the past I have also used my afternoons to complete and self-publish two books of memoirs, one personal and one professional. Consequently I have convinced myself that my afternoons are not a complete waste of time, although there are days when I am painfully aware that I am just going through the motions.
I was never a cook by any stretch of the imagination. During my 40-year marriage, my wife, Cathy, was the chief cook. I gladly served as the bottle washer. Since her death some time ago, I resolved to avoid eating frozen processed food in colourful plastic trays. The food inside often has a chemical taste, or else, is as bland as biting into the morning newspaper. With much practice, I have learned how to follow a recipe. Homemade soups are my “specialty”, but on this day I make beef stew, using up the last vegetables from my garden. The result is surprisingly good. There is something very satisfying about cooking from “scratch”.
