The Country Mice

Remember our friend Flash? Owner, proprietor, homeland security expert?

Flash dropped in for a visit earlier. A bucket of peanuts, visible through the window and attainable through an only slightly ajar door, proved too tempting and Flash found himself confused and trapped behind a wall of transparent glass.

Pardon me?

Flash here, speaking for the defence. Regarding the openness of doors, there is no such thing as ‘slightly.’ It’s either open or it’s closed.

Period.

Full stop.

Can you be ‘slightly’ alive? ‘Slightly’ on time?

‘Slightly’ pregnant?

Come on, lady. Just let me loose, already.

Sorry. What was that?

Hard to say if this visit marked Flash’s first or fifth foray indoors in the last couple of days. We’ve been enjoying cool and pine-scented breezes wafting through the house and have subsequently rescued a few blue-bodied birds from the windowsills. Out of earshot, I’ll have to confess these birds all kind of look alike.

And lest you feel sorry for Flash, he was right back window tap-tapping for peanuts later in the afternoon.

None the worse for wear.

He’ll be back.

Once upon a time, there was house.

Behind the house there was a hill.

A big, big hill that called, “Climb me!” to the unwary hikers.

The hill promised the hikers great views by day…

Or by night.

And so the hikers climbed.

Up, up, up they climbed, higher and higher with every step.

And then they remembered — what goes up must come down.

And so, down…

… down…

… down the hill came the hikers.

And they all lived happily ever after.

The end.

They made it!

The school’s head, who accompanied the hikers on their three-day extravaganza to Alice Lake and environs, passed on this pic yesterday, via cellphone technology.

It should be noted that none of the campers *know* — until they read this post, of course — that cellular and satellite phones were taken along on the journey. Adds to the sense of interdependency: My safety relies upon my keeping *you* safe.

Homeboy’s return tonight will be marked by much jubilation and a hot soapy shower!

A beautiful start to an era-altering day.

Homeboy’s new school has taken my child and promised to return me a man.

Well, not quite so draconian but after three days away from his maman et famille I’ve little doubt he’ll come back wiser, stronger, braver.

To the north of Vancouver, on the way to Whistler, and not far from where we live, is a camping area well known to the west coast called Garibaldi. Popular with the Vibram-soled crowd, Garibaldi loops through the rocky crags with hiking trails, lakes, rocky cliffs and panoramic views.

A stellar place to assemble the population of an entire school, set them up in tents, immerse them in the outdoors thru hiking and swimming in glacial lakes, and live the school motto: Wisdom. Courage. Integrity.

The students range from Grades 6 to 9 and the demands on each group increase with their sophistication.

The Grade 6/7s will hike on the flats, the 8s around a substantial lake  and the 9s will tackle the peak of the mighty Black Tusk, weather permitting.

For now they’ve just gathered outside the island’s library, waiting for the arrival of the ferry.

They are pumped. My boy is guardedly pumped. First serious trip from home and with folks he’s known for less than a week.

Remember the school motto?

Courage.

He’s got it in spades.

In a surprisingly sane and sage cost-savings venture, the local island school has cancelled school bus pick-ups one day a week.

That means Fridays now require that island children get to school on their own steam — er, their own two feet.

The alternate option would have been to cancel one route pick-up entirely — can’t you just hear the outcry reverberating across the Rockies? — or have everyone share the drama and wend one’s way to school independently.

Bowen is a small island, a Malta-sized 20 square miles at last count, interwoven with regional parks and wooded trails.

Fairly decent in the walk-to-school department.

We parked our vehicle on the side of the road, about two kilometres from home, and meandered slack-jawed through old-growth greenery.

There’s a fish hatchery right next to the recycling depot across the road from the solitary gas station (closed Sundays, full-serve, $.10 surcharge per litre).

And after 20 minutes our goal comes into view, for the Princess at least. Homeboy must forge a few other streams and forest trails before he gets to his institute of higher learning.

A refreshing start to the day.

Note to self: Don’t forget to pick them up.

Meet Flash.

Flash’s name is on the land titles certificate I signed in order to purchase this spot of rocky terrain. He owns this place.

Just kidding — but it might as well be true. You can see here how he’s fluffed himself for the photo-op. It’s important to maintain a good image.

The previous owners of this house on the hill gave Flash his appellation based on his lineage as he’s the third of a long line of Steller’s Jays to take charge of the inhabitants who’ve erected a home in his forest.

Two generations before Flash there was Cheeky. Then came Son of Cheeky.

You laugh — but this was serious stuff to the folks who lived in this house. And they were very concerned about whether Flash & Crew would be cared for after their departure.

Cat? We don’t have a cat.

Kids, the cat’s not coming.

At any rate, Flash has trained us well. Mornings begin with his tap-tapping on the window, whereupon someone dashes to the door and proffers a peanut or two.

On days when one of his siblings shows up we have a party.

It’s more like a rumble. Words fly and based on the timbre, they ain’t in the OED.

Word of the peanut parties have gone around the island, clearly, as Flash has now been joined by a legion of others, seven at last count.

A bushel bag of peanuts now sits in the garage.

Easy to say who’s trained whom.

You know that office supply store commercial where the happy dad pirouettes, swirls and waltzes his way down the aisles, with the ebullient Andy Williams crooning in the background, “It’s the most wonderful time of the year!”

I’ll spare you the details but — that ain’t me.

Homeboy starts at a new school today, new books, new friends, new duds.

The soul of a prep-schooler dwells deep in his heart and when university days beckon I’ve little doubt he’ll check for dress code on the application form.

The new school demands an extremely lax variation on its students’ sartorial symmetry.

And to provide some context: The official school sport is Ultimate. That’s Ultimate Frisbee, my friends, that flat disc spun thru the air by legions of blonde Californian surfin’ dudes. The official school sport. No field hockey here. Nooooo. This is the island, mon.

A vociferous lobby for longer hair is in my future, I’m sure.

Moving right along.

So what’s exactly transpiring in these photos, you ask?

Well, with the new school year under way and the new school clothes out of the bag and on to the body, some documentation was required.

The photographic equipment was duly hauled out while the Princess determined some sort of ante-convocation ceremony was required.

His diploma (in fact, his not-so-prep school clothing order form), the requisite flower and his mortarboard. At the time of this photo she is searching for something to use as a tassel.

She really scares him, sometimes.

Mortarboard and tassel, ready to go.

But she still has another plan.

And of course, none of us ever knows where her little brain is speeding.

Wha?

Remember? she asks.

Remember how they always hold a teddy bear when they want you to smile?

Okay, now. Smile!

She really is good for the soul.

Pure clown and good for the soul.

But I still wonder where she came from.

Your children are not your children.

Kahil Gibran knew what he was talking about.

The chickadee hath plumage of brown,

And wears on its head a black little crown,

Its song is not querulous, but fluty the note

That in liquid cadences flows from its throat.

Clad in soft downy plumage, the chickadee

Fears no cold in its nest in the hollow of tree:

And it comes to the garden to pick up the seed

The dear little children cast out for its feed.

The Little Chickadee Warbler of the Winter Woods

Isaac McLellan (1806 – 1899)