Sharon's Blurb

 Dear Mrs. Raccoon; I would like my garden back please. I know you are raising your five adorable babies in the window well under our deck. I know you need a safe space to do so, and thought that would be suitable. Well, you have worn out your welcome. I am sure they are big enough to move along to a suitable forest. I know one just down the street. I realize they are still nursing on you. I can see you all through our basement window. A clear view of your nursery. And yes, your babies are cute beyond reason. Snuggly and cuddly and who wouldn't want to just pick them up and kiss them to death. It is you, Mrs. Raccoon, who has put the fear of god into me. I am afraid of you, to be quite frank. Ever since that afternoon last week when I was enjoying a snack out on the back deck. I saw you out the corner of my eye, as you came up onto the deck and wanted some of that snack! Thankfully I had a broom handy - just in case - and was able to wave you away.

  When I was first hired by CKVR-TV as an anchor and reporter back in 1993, I was living in a small apartment in Richmond Hill. I was happy to commute back and forth in my little Honda Civic, up and down Highway 400. There was no way I was moving up to Barrie. That was farm country. Where the rubes lived. It even had a Co-op store, where country bumpkins bought their farm feed and supplies. The only culture that city had was agriculture. Imagine! I was better than that! I had been born and raised in the thriving metropolis of Oakville, then we moved to Brampton when I was a teenager.   I even lived in Montreal for several years while in my roaring twenties, for goodness sake!  La creme de la creme of culture and sophistication! Well, after three long years of driving up and down that Highway 400, surviving snow storms and other harrowing highway experiences, I succumbed. In 1996, I moved up. Literally and figuratively. And I have, since then, eaten a lot

  The Snowbirds came to town this weekend. And no, I am not talking about the senior migration coming home from Florida. I am talking about the jets. The Snowbird jets that perform their rounds entertaining crowds and wowing us with their aerial acrobatics and stunt maneuvers with an aplomb and finesse that would make anyone with anything less than ice running through their veins faint. There's a reason Val Kilmer's character in Top Gun was called ICE. And it doesn't stand for In Case of Emergency.  Or Internal Combustion Engine. None of the above. It stands for the ice ice baby, ice cold, cool as steel, cool runnings, laser focused and dead centred concentration required to operate a vehicle travelling hundreds of kilometres an hour at a fairly high altitude while in a formation with your fellow pilots who are sometimes just six feet apart from each other's wing tips. How is that for nerves of steel. It is quite a sight to behold. They fly their j

 Another letter came in the mail the other day. Another notification from the TD Bank regarding my father's estate. He had passed away more than two years ago, and yet these letters still arrive in the mail. After having closed everything out, completed all the required tasks of his estate, carrying out all the executrix duties that I was appointed with, this one last account keeps on keeping on. Every few months I am notified by this letter that there are $.02 cents left remaining in this RRIF account. An account that I know that I closed down and dispersed. An account that should have long ago been shuttered and done away with. But no. There it is. A constant reminder that my dad has passed away, and that there are $.02 cents left remaining in this particular RRIF account. I have tried calling and emailing the bank, to no avail. This notice persists on being mailed and delivered. And so I have come to think of it as my dad's two cents. He is still gi

  Chester the cat hid under the bed. An appropriate place, since tornado warnings suggest covering oneself with a mattress. I grabbed Princess, the other cat, and we headed into the walk-in closet where we could watch the storm through a window. The thunder roared so long and loud outside that I wasn't sure if it was thunder or the freight train type roar of an approaching tornado. I wasn't taking any chances. The winds had picked up, as had the lightening and rain. The tornado warning on my phone had made it quite clear that something was on its way. The tornado warning on the tv cemented it. We had to take cover. No ifs, ands or buts. The skies were so dark it was like there was an eclipse. And it was only 6 o'clock on a long July evening. By 6:30 it was almost over. The winds had stopped. The rain had diminished. And the thunder had become low growls as opposed to full on roars. Perhaps we were through the worst of it. Perhaps a tornad

  The goslings weren't having any of it. There were three of them, too young to yet fly, but big enough to give their parents a hassle. The two parents, large Canadian Geese with an even larger honk, were on a mission to jump the falls at the Bolsover Lock dam. That was what they needed to do to get where they needed to go, for better food, better rest, better anything. But to do so meant taking a leap of faith. A giant leap of faith. Through a dam, and down a waterfall that could possibly, surely, crush them to death. They were, after all, just kids. With tiny bones, and fluffy feathers, not yet fully greased to withstand heavy water. Some other families had already taken the leap. What started out as a grouping of three families, was now only one. Two of the geese families had braved the potentially deadly plunge and ended up just fine on the other side. They were now enjoying a grassy lunch on a lower embankment further down the river. But not this fa