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“If the only sounds that you remember having heard recently are the blare of car horns and the never-ending drone of your neighbor’s stereo, treat yourself to an auditory refresher. Take a vow of silence for an hour and train your ears on the subtle sounds that you’re often too busy, too noisy to notice. To focus your listening:

“* Search out natural sounds such as the chirp of birds in the early morning or the racket of crickets.

“* Don’t feel bound to listen to what you set out to hear. Part of the pleasure of a period of silence is that it allows you to tune in to your inner cadences, hear your own thoughts.” An excerpt from the August 1986 issue of Glamour magazine.

I was sitting on my front walk for a time today being really quiet, listening to the wind in the trees. When I work on this program I find I sometimes need to take a few moments and head out of my library and into the sunshine and fresh air. I’ve spoken about this in past blogs. I find when you’re really quiet you see the most amazing things…

We have a nest of robins in the huge blue spruce on my neighbor’s lawn. I know because I’ve seen the two of them bringing nesting material into the lofty branches overhead. For a time, both would forage for food together. Just recently, I’ve only seen the male hunting on the lawn for worms and grubs. Today I was rewarded with a surprise. I was deep in thought thinking about today’s blog and tonight’s radio program, when something caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. I casually looked up to see the mother robin leading two of her babies right up to me. It was almost as if she was playing the part of a proud new human mother out for a stroll with a new baby. The two young birds had feathers that were all askew and they were making quite a racket. It was probably one of the first times they had been allowed out of the nest. But there was more to it than just letting me see the new hatchlings. They were being shown how to look for food. It was one of those moments that creep up on you, one of those moments easily missed, one of those moments you need to be quiet to be a part of.

“The best way to find things out is not to ask questions at all. If you fire off a question, it is like firing off a gun–bang it goes, and everything takes flight and runs for shelter. But if you sit quite still and pretend not to be looking, all the little facts will come and peck around your feet, situations will venture forth from thickets, and intentions will creep out and sun themselves on a stone; and if you are very patient, you will see and understand a great deal more than a man with a gun does.” Elspeth Huxley in The Flame of Thika, published by Chatto & Windus, London.

I was quiet…

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Don Jackson

This has been sent to me time and again via e-mail. It is an excerpt from a much longer piece–Author Unknown. “I’ve learned… / That simple walks with my father around / The block on summer nights when I was / A child did wonders for me as an adult.” Maybe that’s the problem with some adults today; they never walked with their father enough. There was not enough quality time spent together, no heart-to-heart talks, no advice, no blueprint for a life…

My father had a huge workshop on our property. It was made from the wood of an old barn. The land I grew up on was once farmland. You’d never know that today. If you passed my birthplace, you’d probably be tempted to drive into the parking lot and do your grocery shopping. There is a huge grocery store, part of a large chain, on the spot where my house once sat. The houses that were built around my ancestral home, when the farmland was divided up, are all gone now. A generation of families grew up on our old street. They all moved on, too, their houses torn down and replaced by strip malls. But I digress…

I was speaking about my father’s workshop. He spent a lot of time after work and on weekends in that two-storey building. I did, too. It was there that I watched him tinker with broken appliances. Any odd job that needed doing around the house either began or ended there. He had a long workbench upon which rested tools of every kind for every imaginable project. That workshop was a place of wonders. My mother built furniture there as a hobby, and it was in that place that my father built a boat…

It was not a large vessel by any means, but it could comfortably seat four. It was a boat for fishing. My father and a few of his friends leased the rights to a very large pond on a farmer’s land about fifty miles from where we lived. When the boat was finally made, we towed it north to the pond. It would stay on that land all the years my father and his friends fished there for rainbow trout.

My father was not a very demonstrative man where his feelings were concerned. Most fathers of his generation were cut from the same cloth. But he more than made up for that in the time he took to teach me the fine art of constructing something like that boat. He made sure that I was involved in the project from the start through to completion. He never demanded me to be there. When homework needed to be done, when I was out playing with friends, he continued working away.  I drifted in and out of the project at my own leisure. In hindsight, I would now give just about anything to be back there, spending all my free time helping him, or just drifting on the surface of the pond, my fishing line over the side and me listening to his stories. It didn’t matter if the fish were biting that day. What mattered was the time we spent together in a boat we made together with our own hands.

His advice on how to work the wood and piece it together also veered off into many life lessons. We rarely walked around the block together, but the time we spent building and fixing things more than made up for that fact. I learned so many valuable things about life in that special place, teachings that I have taken with me all through the years. My father’s workshop reminded me of this writing…

“Most of the really happy people I know get their hands dirty all the time. They garden or cook or refinish furniture. They touch basic materials that are closer to life than objects preprogrammed, prefabbed, preprocessed and predisposed to minimize tactile stimulation.

“My father, a marketing consultant, was never happier than when he was in his woodshop, building the redwood strip canoe people always ask if they can buy when we take it out on the lake. It took him three years to build that canoe with hand-caned seats and mahogany rails. It would have taken him three minutes to plunk down $600 dollars for an aluminum canoe that would never need to be recaned or refinished–but that would never be rejoiced over, either.” Jim Sollisch from The Chicago Tribune Magazine, and featured in the Points To Ponder column of the February 2000 issue of the Reader’s Digest magazine.

Today, I have a pond in my backyard. It’s a drop compared to the size of the one where we fished for rainbow trout. In my pond are very large koi and goldfish. Today, I was presented with a Father’s Day gift of a koi that has the same markings of the giant we lost some years back. The fish was called “Goliath” because of its size. It was at least ten pounds when it died. The fish died late one December night some years back. It was a month of fluctuating temperatures. We had an unseasonably mild spell followed by a cold snap. The only thing I can think of is that the huge fish was stirred from its winter hibernation by the warmer waters and migrated from the safety of the depths to the shallow part during the mild spell. As the water temperature plunged, it was too late to head back down. I found him floating on the surface late one night when I returned home from doing this radio show. We buried him beneath the branches of the magnolia tree. In the spring, my wife and children made a stone marker for him. I still miss this gentle beast all these many years later. So, it was quite the surprise when my wife and children returned home today from the garden centre with a fish they have dubbed “Goliath II.” The fish is still rather small and wary of his surroundings. I spent a lot of time today trying to coax him up to have his picture taken, unfortunately, without any luck. 

That wasn’t my only Father’s Day gift. I’ve always had a fondness for gargoyles. My wife found one that acts as a spitter for our pond.

I don’t have a workshop in my home where I can teach life lessons. Mine is an outdoor workshop. My children have learned a lot about nature and life from the care and feeding of the creatures that inhabit the waters, and those land critters who occasionally pay us a visit.

The best Father’s Day gift is not the tie that Dad unwraps; it’s the time he spends with his children, passing on values and an appreciation for nature, teaching respect for others and the environment. That’s a gift from a father to his family, one that gets remembered long after a tie wears out. The best Father’s Day gift is the one he gives, year in and year out…

***

Don Jackson

If a tree falls in the forest, and there’s no one to hear, does it still make a sound?

We have a few trees on our street that have not weathered well these past few years. The town arborist was by earlier this week checking the condition of these very old trees. Most were planted when the community was first being built. Some of these trees have seen better years. And so, with the stroke of a pen, the demise of one was assured. I thought it might make it through the summer but a crew showed up earlier this afternoon with chainsaws and a wood-chipper.

We have a blue spruce on my neighbor’s property that is close to thirty years of age. It towers well above the tops of both of our houses. It’s so healthy and vibrant. I’ve often wondered if it has to do with all the life it supports. Every spring it is home to nesting birds. I can’t tell you how many different varieties of birds have called this tree ‘home’. It is also home to the birds that over-winter. I can remember one very cold January night some years back after I pulled into my driveway after work. I must have made more noise than I usually do, because as I walked up the path to my front door I heard a squeal from deep within the huge boughs. I knew we had chickadees and other winter birds at our feeders, but I never stopped to consider where they would spend those incredibly cold nights. After hearing that sound, I imagined these little creatures huddled together trying to fend off the cold. In the summer, its fullness offers a certain amount of protection against predators. Occasionally I’ve heard squawking sounds and have come out of the house to see large blackbirds and crows going after the nest. I’ve tried to shoo them away and have been successful more than a few times. The trouble is, I can’t be out there all the time, and I’ve found eggs on the lawn. I can just imagine the sounds the adults make when they lose the fight against one of these large crows. But this tree isn’t the one that was brought down today. The nests are safe for another year…

The point I’m trying to make is the fact that not only do these mature trees offer shade to the surrounding landscape, not only do they clean the air of pollutants, they are also home to all manner of creatures. I’ve seen June bugs up in the uppermost branches at this time of the year. On Canada day, a few years back, I watched a firefly blinking its way into one of the lower branches, as distant fireworks lit up the sky. I’ve also seen a few raccoons scurry beneath its lowest branches, and a neighborhood rabbit emerge late at night to sit on our front lawn. We even had a porcupine up in the branches of another nearby tree some years back. It drove the dogs on the leash crazy as they passed by. What caused it to be up that tree I’ll never know, but eventually it must have climbed back down to the ground and disappeared into the night. I would imagine that stately old tree across my street was also home to birds and other creatures. This year, there were no nests. The odd bird would land on its branches, but it was almost as if all of nature knew the tree would not be here for long.

And so a tree that has survived 30 winters, finally was brought down today. They trimmed a few branches and then cut it right off at the base. The tree crashed down into the middle of the street in front of my house. My neighbour across the road, on whose property the tree stood, made a very telling comment to me as I stood in her driveway to watch. She said, it took so many years to reach its lofty height, and a few brief moments to come down and be made to disappear.

By fall, another tree will be planted in its place. But a familiar landmark in the lives of the residents of this street is no more.

If a tree falls in the ‘city’ and all the residents of the street come out to see its fall, believe me, it does make a sound…It also elicits a collective sigh from those out to watch the spectacle.

***

Don Jackson

The story of Spring, for the most part, takes place underground with the seeds and flowers ready to burst forth into the warm sunlight. In our mythology, the god of the underworld falls for Persephone and spirits her away to his dark realm.. It’s while she’s there that her mother, Demeter plunges the world into Winter.. It’s only after her release with the promise to return for a time every year, that the Earth is able to welcome Spring again, and then the blooming time of Summer…

It never ceases to amaze me. You plant a seed in the soil, and with very little care-a little water and sunlight- it sprouts and rewards you with color and beauty. And if we don’t plant anything, nature fills up in gaps with windblown seeds.

Have you ever stopped to consider what it would take to make from scratch, say, a tree? This is a poem by Paul Hyland called To Make a Tree. “Take wood, seasoned or green, rough-hewn or planed./ Take first one four square beam twice a man’s height, then graft a second, half that, on to it cross-wise and near the top, cunningly joined./ Dig socket. Plant upright./ Hope it will root, hope sap will rise. If not, keep tools at hand and, when the time is ripe, nail up the fruit.” An extract from “The Stubborn Forest” Published by Bloodaxe Books (UK) in 1984.

My bike was sitting on the walk to our front door. I was sitting beside it in one of the outdoor chairs. The bike tipped and fell into my wife’s flower beds. We lost one lily on a very tall stalk. The stem literally snapped in two, but I didn’t find out until the next morning. I felt terrible because the lily was just about to burst into bloom. On a whim, my wife planted the stalk back into the ground. Some might have just tossed it into a yard waste bag. We’ve been watching that lily for about a week now. That broken stem that was just placed back into the soil seems to have taken root. The leaves have not withered as most plants would when they lose their root. It really appears like the flower will bloom. The life-giving soil gives me pause to reflect.

I can’t imagine living in a world without flowers and trees, fresh vegetables and fruit growing from the soil beneath our feet. Iris Murdoch did, however, she wrote: “People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy.”

***

Don Jackson 

I apologize for not having the time to write a blog today. Sometimes, there just isn’t enough time during the day to get it all done….

***

Don Jackson

 ”A fellow player once said of (Pete) Rose, ‘ If I had his head, I’d make a butcher-block coffee table out of it.’  When Rose heard this he responded, ‘Your face would look old, too, if you’d been sliding on it for twenty-three years.’” an excerpt from Bartlett’s Book of Anecdotes

At one time in Bombay, India, according to Frazer’s The Golden Bough, painting the face of someone asleep was considered a serious no-no. As a joke at a party, someone might paint a mustache on someone’s sleeping face. There was a commonly held belief that the soul might return to the sleeper and not recognize the face, and continue on its way. And if someone plays that joke on you, you’ll want to head straight to the wash basin to clean it off. I’ve heard it said that washing your face once a day is enough. Over-washing removes the natural oils.

The most famous face in all the world?

Walter Pater said, “Hers is the head upon which all ‘the ends of the world are come’, and the eyelids are a little weary. It is a beauty wrought out from within upon the flesh, the deposit, little cell by cell, of strange thoughts and fantastic reveries…and exquisite passions. Set it for a moment beside one of those white Greek goddesses or beautiful women of antiquity, and how they would be troubled by this beauty, into which the soul with all its maladies has passed?” Of course, he’s describing the Mona Lisa…

“It is said that the sweet, smiling expression on the woman’s face was caused by the music and other diversions Leonardo furnished for her entertainment while he worked on her portrait.” an excerpt from a very old edition of the Britannica. We should all be lucky enough to have those kinds of diversions in our lives to keep us smiling every day…

And this excerpt from the Reader’s Digest book, Why in The World: “Critics have called on a sweeping array of adjectives to describe the face - enigmatic, spiritual, serene, mysterious. What’s more, the figure sits tranquilly before one of Leonardo’s richest and strangest backgrounds, crossed by roads and bridges to nowhere.” Who knows what it all means. But the result is a face and portrait that has withstood the test of time and continues to inspire. A face that is not beautiful in the classic sense of the word, but one that - to this day - still remains, thankfully, somewhat of a mystery. That would be a face to aspire to.

Finally, British jazz singer George Melly quoted in the Thursday, August 4th, 2005 issue of The Globe and Mail’s Social Studies column said, “Mick Jagger told me that the lines on his face were laughter lines, but nothing is that funny.”

***

Don Jackson

“As library annual reports have indicated for some time–here one need only cite, for example, the famous passage found in column 1,303 of the Annual Report of the Library at Alexandria for 250 B.C.–the disappearance, exchange, and loss of umbrellas is a phenomenon closely associated with libraries.”–Norman D. Stevens in The Umbrella Paper published in 1980, and featured in The Quotable Book Lover, edited by Ben Jacobs and Helena Hjalmarsson and published in 1999 by The Lyons Press, New York. Its ISBN is 1-55821-882-3. I would imagine it’s also one of the most popular items in the “Lost and Found” department of the TTC, and every other transit company the world over.

It rained quite heavily this afternoon out my way. You could see the dark mass of clouds slowly inching its way forward in the skies overhead. Big drops of rain began to fall just as soon as my son rode his bike up our driveway. No sooner did we get the bike in the garage then the clouds opened up. Some people ran by in the deluge while others knew the futility of trying to outrun the raindrops. No matter if you run or walk, you’re going to get soaked.

“As [Mark] Twain and his good friend the writer William Dean Howells were leaving church one Sunday, it started to rain heavily. Howells looked up at the clouds and said, ‘Do you think it will stop?’ ‘It always has,’ replied Twain.” An excerpt from Bartlett’s Book of Anecdotes published by Little, Brown.

“Umbrellas, candles, scythes and hats, caps, boots and shoes and bacon, / Thread, nutmegs, pins for cash or produce taken; / Birdseed, face powder, matches, files, ink, onions and many more, / Are found in heaps and stacks and piles within the country store.” An excerpt from a poem by an unknown writer and featured in The Best Loved Poems of The American People, selected by Hazel Felleman and published in 1936 by Doubleday. You might find those umbrellas of old haphazardly stacked in a bin by the ancient cash register. Today, you would find them carefully displayed alongside expensive ties, shirts and jackets in an upscale clothing boutique, and at prices that would make the old-timers flinch.

One final anecdote from Bartlett’s Book of Anecdotes that directly relates to a few things I talk about in the radio program tonight between 9 and 11 p.m. Charles Augustin Sainte-Beuve (1804-69) was a French critic and literary historian.

“Although himself unpugnacious, Sainte-Beuve was once compelled to fight a duel with pistols. At the critical moment, just as the order to fire was about to be given, it started to rain. Sainte-Beuve called for a pause in the proceedings while he went to his carriage and fetched and opened a large umbrella. He then faced his opponent with the umbrella in his left hand and the pistol in his right. The opponent protested at the derogation of the dignity of the occasion. ‘I don’t mind being killed,’ Sainte-Beuve responded, ‘but I do mind getting wet.’”

…There was no report on how the duel turned out.

***

Don Jackson 

Maya V. Patel wrote: “I have done little with my life, created nothing wonderful, given no new knowledge to the world. But, I am content. I gave it a daughter. Most wonderful. Most wise.”

My daughter celebrated her birthday yesterday. We had a rather quiet celebration. We had a nice dinner in the restaurant she chose with her brother, my wife and I. At some point over the summer she will want a small celebration with her very best friends. Birthdays now are not the boisterous occasions they once were when she was much younger. Being born in the month of June it was an easy thing to have a backyard party with her friends from school. There were balloons, maybe a swim in the pool, some arts and crafts,  games and a chance to feed the fish in the pond. Years when the weather did not cooperate for a backyard party, we held her parties at one of those play-places where there are all kinds of indoor activities and games, as well as a party room for pizza and the opening of gifts. Now that she’s older, it’s perhaps dinner and movie with a few of her very best friends. Besides, they already decorated her locker at school with balloons. Inside her locker was a small tiara and tie that she was requested to wear throughout the day. Both items proclaimed loudly that it was her birthday. She had given the combination to her friends and they made sure to decorate it before her arrival at school. I never did this when I attended school. Times change.

Her birthday reminds me of my father. My father passed away just a few days before she was born. I attended his funeral while my wife was in the beginning stages of bringing her into this world. It was an emotional roller coaster ride leading up to her arrival. I talk about this in tonight’s radio program between 9 and 11p.m. My mother had lost the man she shared all of her life with, but the pain of his passing was eased somewhat by my daughter’s birth. My mother was a very strong woman and her new grandchild gave her something positive to focus on. Being new parents, we needed all the help and advice we could muster. During an extremely difficult time, my mother found that her accumulated years of experience as a parent were needed once more.

There is an old belief that one soul sometimes has to make way for another. This was true in the case of my father and my daughter. I see something of my father in her, but I also see so much more.

When she was born, my wife and I planted a magnolia tree in celebration of her birth. The tree is now almost as tall as the uppermost peak of our roof. We have lovingly tended it over the years and it rewarded us once again with some of the most beautiful and fragrant blooms this year. The conditions were absolutely perfect this spring. Every time I’m in our backyard I can’t help but see that tree no matter where I happen to be. I am reminded how small it was when it was first planted. Now it is vibrant and healthy. In many ways it has mirrored her life…

“Life … would give her everything of consequence, life would shape her, not we. All we were good for was to make the introductions.”–Helen Hays

We are truly blessed in so many ways. Both our children are doing well in school and have any plans for the future.  Both are strong and healthy, and we’re thankful for that every single day. I cannot say for sure exactly where their lives will lead them. Dreams and aspirations change so many times during this period of their lives, but I am sure of one thing…

“Daughters do wonderful things. Not the wonderful things you expected them to do. Different things. Astonishing things. Better than you ever dreamed.”–Marion C. Garrety.

Even though this writing was penned with a daughter in mind, I think it can be said for a son as well.

Happy birthday dear daughter!! This is a birthday wish that gets read by the world…

***

Don Jackson

“One of the best places you can go in a canoe is the wilderness. And what, you may ask, is so great about it? The silence, for one thing. In real wilderness, silence is not just quiet, which is the absence of noise. It is the voice of the living earth, unmuddied by aural clutter. I live in the country, which is a lot quieter than the city, but even in the country there is a lot of noise: cars of people commuting to work, machines that build houses, cut down trees, paint stripes on roads, fly around in the sky, split quiet lakes in half, whine across the top of the snow. In the country, you experience blessed periods of quiet, and it surely is a great treasure. But in the wilderness you are surrounded by the voices of silence, and they are a greater treasure still.”–Robert Kimber from A Canoeist’s Sketchbook published by Chelsea Green, and featured in the Points To Ponder column of the August 2001 issue of the Reader’s Digest magazine.

My son is preparing himself for an experience that mirrors Outward Bound. Every grade seven class in his school gets the chance to spend a week at the camp. It will surely test his mettle and provide the perfect environment to learn more about the world around him. It will teach him to rely on himself and others, as well. My daughter went some years back and came back with great memories of the experience.

One of the challenges will be high above the ground on the high ropes. He’s also looking forward to taking a canoe out on the water. I know he’s anxious to go and I can’t wait for his return, because I’m sure he will come home somewhat changed.

“What I most remember about arriving at my first summer camp was the sensation of relief as I surveyed a world I could make my own, far from the world of my parents. Yet, like every parent, I want to believe my own sons have no need of such an escape, that their stay at camp is merely a vacation, not a rite of passage. But they’re having too much fun for that. If visiting day is a melancholy experience for parents, it’s not just because our own camping days are long over but because we see there’s a part of our children that will never come home again.” - Frank Rich from The New York Times and featured in the Points to Ponder column of the July 2003 issue of the Reader’s Digest

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Don Jackson

“Divested of her bridal snow [Frances was] attired in a pretty lilac gown … and a lace collar with some finishing decoration of lilac ribbon…” An excerpt from The Professor by Charlotte Bronte, featured in the column Favorite Things in the June 2000 issue of Victoria magazine.

At this time in the year I remember a road trip some years back. We we’re heading east to visit family and friends in Montreal. On the drive we kept seeing spectacular lilac trees in bloom. Many were on private properties; others, it seemed, had been planted by the wind, and could be seen in open fields alongside the highway. You couldn’t help but notice them. The color was so bold that it was almost a visual distraction. We opened the windows as we drove past, but we were going too fast to smell that familiar scent of lilac. I was tempted to pull the vehicle over and get out to see them up close.

I received an e-mail some years back by a listener. Liz had heard one of my radio shows devoted to the lilac. In her e-mail she told me that she grew up in Eastern Ontario. She said that on the way into Ottawa on Highway 15 there is a little place called Franktown which has been dubbed the lilac capital of the province. She also said there is a road called “Lilac Lane” which is near Franktown. Apparently the fragrance is intoxicating as you drive past. If you’re headed out that way over the next few days I would imagine you might still find some of these beautiful trees at their peak. The winds must be drunk with their scent…

“My lilac trees are old and tall; / I cannot reach their blooms at all, / They send their perfume over trees / And roofs and streets, to find the bees.”–Louise Driscoll

My lilac trees have reached their peak and are now dropping their fragrant flowers. We were able to snip a few clusters to bring inside the house. For a while that heady aroma filled our house. It’s a shame that their beauty is so fleeting.

To see my lilacs in bloom, look for a past blog of mine called “Purple Prose.”

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Don Jackson