How to Pick Up Poopies in a Wintry Saint John Yard

All photos below were taken by E.g. and cropped by Turtle.

Two days ago, on March 29, it was actually raining in Saint John, but when we got here on the 20th it was still solidly, stolidly winter. While Fergus and Cai were light enough to run around on top of the snow in E.g.’s parents’ backyard, a human step would sink up to the knee. How to pick up after the pupsters, then? Alyson?

That’s right: snowshoes!

One small step on yuccakind…

Snowshoes are a First Nations invention. They were originally made of wood and rawhide. The ones here are aluminum and nylon, with canvascloth bindings. No specialized boots are necessary; just slip the toe of your regular ol’ winter boot into the canvas toehold and wrap the strap around your ankle, then slip the strap through the metal clip.

Getting a grip

Their large size distributes a person’s weight to prevent sinking into the snow. One needn’t be heavy to founder, by the way; one simply needs pointy legs. After the rain softened the snow the other day, Cuca the cat snuck outside, only to sink up to his shoulders in the backyard. Differing temperatures and successive thaws and refreezes make for many different textures of snow. On the day these photos were taken, there was a thin crust that upheld the dogs but wasn’t thick enough for me. Snowshoes work on crusty snow as well as they do in deep powder.

The webbing keeps snow from accumulating and weighing down the snowshoe. It also, I think, helps to prevent slipping backwards on slopes. I’m crouching in the second picture above only because the drift is so high; the shoes stayed steady.

Coureur de bois cancan

The third picture displays gratuitous lifting; E.g. wanted a show-off picture. It does demonstrate, however, that I could make my way through the underbrush fairly efficiently, if I needed to step over low tangles of bush and branch.

Le petit prince

As with cross-country skis, the heel is not fixed. You walk normally — you don’t even need poles! — and can crouch to capture those elusive canine poopies. Shh now. Ready, set…

All the better to wait on you, my dears.

Ta da!

PIKCHERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hello evrybuddy this is Tertul the Saint Johner! I am so ekseyeted to hav a fyoo fotos for yoo finully that I’m speling like Dennis the Vizsla Dog! Ennyway hear r three pikchers for yoo two enjoy.

E.g.’s dada yoosed to hav a fens around his vejjett– his vedje– his tomayto plants, for yeersnyeers. It wuz yoozed to keep owt deer. This winter wuz very hard on the fens and haff uv it fell down!

Ennyway the snow is so hi the fens can’t keep owt a Cardi rite now, let aloan a deer!

Its so mutch fun to wotch the dogs play in the bakkyard! Maybee in a cuppla yeers we’ll hav wun, too.

On a Train to Somewhere (journal entry, part iii)

This has been my day so far, up to mid-afternoon on the 19th.

After my morning shower, I boiled some water in the left-behind electric kettle to reconstitute the spoonful of instant coffee I’d placed in the glass “mason jar” mug before giving away the rest of the coffee to the neighbours. On the two remaining pages of a punched-hole notepad, I wrote a note to Gwen and attached the apartment and mailbox keys by their ring through the top hole. The note mentioned such things as the four houseplants and the basketful of partially-used cleaning products.

At a quarter to nine, three bags of garbage lay waiting by the front door: the two dollar-store pillows, the grungey old shower curtain and ragged old towel, and the scrap-heap set of clothing I had reserved for this final week. Harnessing, collaring, and leashing Fergus and Cai, I locked the front door for the final time. Upstairs I went, dogs, garbage, and all.

Leaving the garbage momentarily by the elevator, I took the boys down the hallway and knocked on Gwen’s door. Three times. I knew she was in because her screen door was locked. when she and little Chilton finally answered,  Chilton yapped perfunctorily at his canine visitors while Gwen and I exchanged encouraging words and hugs. She gave me a grocery bag for the overflow from my bursting bookbag. I handed her the note and the keys.

As the dogs and I headed back to the elevator, I saw Jock coming along the corridor on his way to speak to Gwen, a puzzled frown on his face, a rolled envelope in his hands.

“G’morning, Jock! Did you get a message in a bottle?”

“Yes!” he exclaimed in relief. “Thank you! Thank you very much!” and he patted my shoulder.

09 00. The garbage had found its spot in the dumpster, and Cai and Fergus and I were away for a leisurely 90-minute walk before train time. I stopped to withdraw some cash at the automatic teller on the corner of Church and Wellesley, the hub of the gaybourhood, the place where E.g. and I had first come to feel safe and welcome nearly ten years ago. We had done a lot of growing here.

At the train station, I popped the boys into their crates, filled their water bottles, and wandered off to get a raspberry muffin for breakfast. Half an hour later, I boarded the Toronto-Montreal train, where I sit writing these words longhand. The car is nearly full; I am in a four-seat “reserved” space (i.e. one pair of seats faces the other) with two quiet, geeky guys engaged with either Google or Gogol. Across the aisle in the other four-seat set are three teenage girls discussing last night’s Britney Spears concert.

It’s 15 00. Just under two hours ago, I awoke in my seat, remembering that I no longer live in Toronto. Just over two hours from now, I’ll be meeting my son in Montreal where we’ll give the dogs a half-hour break before climbing aboard the Ocean train. Sonny Boy and I have booked a space on a sleeper car, and are looking forward to this new adventure.

Now it remains to be seen whether Turtle will post pics of the sleeper car before or after you’ve read the entirety of this long, long entry.

Note: Sonny Boy and I did take a few photos with his camera, but forgot to download them before he left for home again. As you may have inferred, it’s been a scrambled week computer-wise.

On a Train to Somewhere (journal entry, part ii)

Hi, people! Here is part two of three of my penned blather of April 19th. I promise to have a tutorial with E.g. this weekend, about getting photos posted once again.

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There were a few loose ends still to tie up after the pub supper, the evening before my departure.

20 15. I took out the blue plastic popcorn bowl and set some edibles in it: four red potatoes, half a head of garlic, three lemons, most of a jar of instant-coffee-with-chicory, most of a 500-gram bag of large-grain sea salt, a stick of real butter, six hard-boiled eggs, and two raw ones. These were the last of the still-usable commestibles in my apartment. Upstairs I went to bid my adieux to Coco’s daddies, Brad and Mitchell.

“Saint Paddy has decided you’ve been good little boys this year,” I joked, handing them the bowl, and showing them the penciled Xes on the boiled eggs. Brad and Mitchell, in turn, offered me food for the journey: a triple sampler-pack of high-end kibble that they’d picked up at the Menagerie. They buy the samples to use as treats for Coco. I was grateful, because the amount of kibble left for Cai and Fergus was, in fact, a bit on the scant side. I hadn’t mentioned this to Coco’s daddies, though; their offering was a surprise blessing.

21 00. Back in the apartment, I pulled out all the empty wine and beer bottles — currently worth 20 cents apiece — and set them in my smallest laundry basket. They fit snugly, not overcrowded but not rattly either: good! Upstairs I went to the apartment of Jock, an affable old gentleman who goes out each day to tidy the environment and make some pocket change.

From the neck of one of the bottles, like a Don Valley Brick Works smokestack, emerged a tightly-rolled envelope (the last piece of loose paper I had on hand) with “FOR JOCK” written vertically. Depositing the basket beside his door, I crept back downstairs.

21 30. One last trip outdoors with the dogs for the night, then we all curled up together on the sofabed. Big day tomorrow.

On a Train to Somewhere (journal entry, part i)

Hi, people.

Not having coordinated computers and photo programs et cetera just yet, I’m breaking my preferred habit of supplying a few photos to break up a long blog post.

What follows is the the first part of a 1300-word bit of writing I did on the train in the early afternoon on March 19th. I’ve cleaned up, but not gussied up, the writing; gussying up would include, f’rinstance, the use of a few more verbs than “be”. Anyway, here goes…

March 19 2009

At 13 19 I awoke to the surprising, surprised words, “Oh, but you don’t live there anymore!” The voice was my own, unspoken, interrupting my somnolent thoughts. I was on the train.

Yesterday, the 18th, I was out front with Cai at 08 30 when I saw a moving van parked in front of our building. It wasn’t the company I was expecting. I asked anyway who the men were here for, and sure enough, they were here for our apartment. Just as well that I asked, because the building manager wouldn’t arrive for another half hour, and no one had thought to discuss buzzer codes.

The neighbour who was to watch the Cardis during the move had fallen sick, so out they went onto the balcony to enjoy the Spring air, bark at other dogs in the back field, and occasionally whine to come in.

As the driver and his two hired hands set to work, I wiped down the kitchen cupboards and swept away prehistoric dust bunnies. We discussed dogs — the driver has a husky and one of the other guys a Chow-Collie mix. I told him about Goodbear’s dog, but he isn’t online.

One of the movers praised my packing job. I didn’t mention that I’d been at it since September. On the other hand, the platform bed was now in five taped packages, several odd-shaped things had been taped together and nestled in a large, see-through plastic bag, the futon was already enclosed in a plastic mattress cover, and nearly everything else was in a covered container, so I guess it was all as prepared as it could be.

The movers took just under three hours to empty the apartment. Everything wooden, from the kitchen shelf to the old rocking chair to the packages of bed planks, was wrapped in blankets. I have high hopes for their safe journey to Saint John. I tipped the movers $30, suggesting they get themselves some lunch.

When Cai and Fergus finally came inside again, they were happy and excited, playing a riotous game of chase through the nearly empty apartment. They were relieved, I think , to no longer have boxes, bins, and barbecues within swinging distance of their wags.

Some of the furniture was left behind.  It had been bought by our neighbour Gwen, who was moving from her one-bedroom unit into our two-bedroom. I should mention at this point that we were leaving a housing co-op. We had gotten to know several of the pet-owning neighbours, among them Gwen. I was happy to give her a good deal on the furniture; she needed the stuff for her new, larger space, and I didn’t have to break my back or spend money to have the stuff removed.

About 16 30, Jane and Robert called, ready to drive the dog crates and my suitcase to the train station, to store them in the checkroom overnight. As soon as the big pieces were stowed, Robert suggested we go have supper at Fionn McCool’s. I wasn’t expecting this extra meal on my final evening; Jane and Robert had fed me several times since E.g. had left for Saint John in mid-February, the last time being just three days ago.

We didn’t have a lot to say during this meal, but it was a good quiet, a sense that we’d all managed to say all that needed saying. We sipped our beer and admired the pub’s decor and noticed all the young people enjoying their dinners before they headed out to the Britney Spears concert. Then my friends dropped me off home again, and we promised to keep in touch.

The Turtle Has Landed

Hey there, good neighbours!

Not only is this a long-distance move, it’s also a slowmo. The moving truck picked up our stuff in Toronto on the 18th, and will deliver it to our new apartment on April 1st. In between times, Cai and Fergus and I have rejoined E.g. and Cuca at her parents’ place here in Saint John, where she’s been hanging out since February 15th.  I was a bit uncomfortable announcing the fact of being on my own for such a long time, so I kept it quiet.

My Sonny Boy is here for a few days, too. He came along for the train ride to help me with the pupsters (he doesn’t return to work until April). Since he’s never been to Saint John, we’re showing him the town. He’s sleeping in the computer room. I could pretend that I haven’t yet blogged because I don’t want to disturb him, but that would be fibbing; the truth is I’m still kind of tired from all the last-minute heave-ho.

I did, however, write a 1300-word, longhand blibbity on the Toronto-Montreal train, which might make for a three-part entry over the next few days.  We’ll see.

And there should start to be some new photos, too. Yeay.

And now, back to our regularly-scheduled sofatop loitering.

Plunge of the Turtle

Will resurface soon.

The Good Ship Nettle

Nettleship’s Hardware. Photo scoffed from their website.

As you can see by the sign, Nettleship’s Paint and Hardware has occupied this piece of Parliament Street since 1920. The store was begun by Marg Taggart’s father (if you go here, you can mouse over her name and see her picture) . Although today the business is run by her son Don, Marg still continues to put in her hours. One or two daughters are still there as well, or at least they were when E.g. and I were in studying paint chips two years ago. Even Don’s Britanny Spaniel acts as greeter.

Marg shares gladly in the life of her neighbourhood, from little everyday things to bigger events. She participated as a judge in my blog’s “Name the WWF Sea Turtle Stuffy” contest. Jane and Robert tell me that one evening during one of the Cabbagetown community festivals, they saw her dance longer than anyone else in the room. She’s one heckuva septagenarian.

Yesterday evening, I realized with dismay that I would need another roll of packing tape. I headed the two blocks over to Nettleships, only to find that it was twelve minutes past closing.

Not that that mattered. A woman and a little girl pushed open the door just ahead of me. In the back section of the long, narrow store, Marg was chatting with someone. Don was serving a customer at the cash. So in I went.

In I went, and couldn’t find the tape. I’d gotten a roll here the week before, I knew where it was supposed to be; but a combination of the two-hour morning’s walkies to get mattress covers on Mount Pleasant Rd, the 90 minutes it took to disassemble our platform bed, the other hour taking apart the futon sofabed, the lack of supper, and the guilt at being in the store after hours, blinded me. Marg saw my helplessness, and came right over.

No no, we’re still open, she soothed. You’re moving? We’ll miss you, she sighed. New Brunswick? My friend has a daughter in Fredericton, she smiled. By the end of that dollar-sixty-eight transaction, I felt like one of the store’s best shareholders and closest neighbours, and wanted to shake her hand in farewell.

Toronto the Big used to have a nicer nickname: Toronto the Good.  It’s terrific to see a family-run store like Nettleship’s Paint and Hardware still contributing to this city’s kinder, gentler reputation.

Pots and Pans and Winter Coats

Turtle is getting creative in her packing.

Yes, a couple of winter jackets are mixed in with the set of nested pots — helps keep the lids from rattling.

The “kitchen implements” include a rubber mallet, needlenose pliers, and two sets of allen keys.

The cat kibble container is hiding a collander, a large mixing bowl, and a beach towel.

My favourite, though, is the dog kibble container: dog toys, the rice cooker with a café au lait bowl nested inside it, a couple of spring jackets, my pair of high rubber boots, a coffee cup, and the cast iron duckie doorstop.

Soon this will all be over. Then we get to unpack.

Steady As She Goes

With our new apartment rented for the first of April, we’re stepping up the final preparations for moving. Every time I turn around this week, I think of something else that I mustn’t forget. Mustn’t forget to wash the coats. Mustn’t forget to contact the phone company. Mustn’t forget to buy a mattress bag. Et cetera.

Last night then, I made a list of all those swirly imperatives, about 14 or 20 items. The dogs have been awake all day so far, watching me tackle the various tasks. It’s tricky. Because some items depend on the accomplishment of other items, a lot of chores get started and then have to wait for other jobs to catch up.

It is now a quarter to two in the afternoon on this busy day. I’ve accomplished one and-a-half tasks.