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| Otonabee River |
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This photo is slightly fraudulent, because it was taken late last summer, but close enough. Today, walking the dog on the trail that traces the Otonabee River, I forgot to bring a camera. By the way, Otonabee is pronounced uh-TAWN-a-bee. When I first moved here, I said ott-ta-NAW-bee on more than one occasion, offending local ears.
Fun Can-Lit fact for non-Canadian readers: the Otonabee figures heavily in the writing of sisters Catherine Parr Traill and Susanna Moodie and their brother Samuel Strickland, English settlers who chronicled life in 19th-century Upper Canada. Parr Traill, a naturalist, catalogued native plants and their uses, among other works. Today, surrounded by the burgeoning trees, shrubs and flowers of June, I wished for a copy of her
Canadian Wild Flowers to help me identify some of them.
My walk was short, squeezed between garden chores and the production of a fully homemade Father's Day dinner that exceeded all expectations, if I do say so myself.* Our garden/weedriot demands attention, but being so far behind this early in the season somehow makes it easier to take off--escape to the trail once again.
What I experienced while escaping:
--drama overhead--smoky rolling clouds, threatening a return to the morning's rainfall, against a clear blue sky.
--cattails, milkweed, ferns, daisies, devil's paintbrush and apple trees loaded with tiny fruit; a shock of purple-white Iris sprouting in the midst of tall grasses--planted by someone?
--birds darting from tree to tree, so loud that they penetrated my headphones (why the hell was I wearing them, you might well ask).
--a freshly dug garden plot rigged with a pump and water line to the river.
--two turtles, big and little, sunning on a stump jutting from the lagoon by Sawyers Creek Bridge. Given that it's Father's Day, allow me some anthropomorphism here: they were a dad and baby turtle; I feel it.
--an actual dad with two small children carrying miniature fishing rods; they moved toward the bridge in slow motion, a wise strategy for any enterprise involving toddlers and fish hooks. Seeing them called to mind memories of my own slow-mo travels with children (years, gone so quickly!) and I picked up my pace.
--a teenager standing on a paddle boat beneath the bridge, fishing, ignoring all passersby.
--a man standing on a board floating down the river, paddling, admirably balanced.
--bikers, including a woman who stopped to interact with the dog (warning bell in my head: crazed animal lover, possible need to escape from my escape). Thus began a prolonged chat as she walked her bike alongside me, unbidden; mentioned a neighbour, and I nodded in recognition; ranged in her discourse from dog breeds to weather to the threat of grubs to grass; and when finally she inquired about the DOG'S name, I told her, and then offered MINE, and she exclaimed in embarrassment: she had thought I was someone else. I said that I thought she was just extremely friendly (polite lie). She rode off, leaving the dog and me in peace, whereupon I had just enough trail left to think with gratitude about fathers, especially my father and my husband, who have been such a gift in the lives of their children.
*At least, no food complaints were lodged within my earshot, perhaps because the
cooking was shared--two kids barbecuing, one kid sauteeing mushrooms and
overseeing the spinach and mashed potatoes, the last not cooking
exactly, but hanging around trying to steal lemon squares before dinner. They did a great job making the traditional breakfast in bed for their
father this morning, too--everyone pitched in.
