And one caterpillar that looks like a dragon.
Poor little creature flinched every time the shutter clicked so I left him alone.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
A couple of loons
And one caterpillar that looks like a dragon.Poor little creature flinched every time the shutter clicked so I left him alone.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Back to cottage biznet
I'm slumming at a friend's cottage at the moment (she has internet connection so her kitchen is like an internet cafe as all the internet-deprived neighbours wander in with their laptops like zombies) so while I'm able to post another blog entry, I won't be able to comment until I get home again. Enjoy some of my new friends!
Monday, August 3, 2009
Say hi to Stanley
We had a surprise visitor to our lake yesterday. We've been buzzing with excitement for a week now and even the rain couldn't dampen our enthusiasm and high spirits as the time drew near to meet our special guest.
Meet Stanley. Stanley Cup.
It's a 35 pound, 116-year-old, silver Holy Grail of Hockey enscribed with over 2,700 names of players and others who have contributed to team wins over its history. Ken Sawyer, CEO of the Pittsburgh Penguins, the current champions of the NHL, is our neighbour up here at our summer cottage. He invited all of us to an up close and personal look at old Stanley. I'm so indebted I agreed to mow his lawn for the rest of the year. Not really. But I would if he wanted me to.
The official keepers of the cup carried Stanley into Ken's cabin with little ceremony (well, we are at the cottage) but wearing the ever-present white cotton gloves. It's a sign of respect for the cup to wear the gloves, said one of the keepers. But since the players handle the cup and drink from it, we can't ask the fans not to touch it. Meet Mike Bolt, who travels around the world with the cup, and is one of the two keepers who brought Stanley to our lake:
He said we could touch it, so touch it we did. The humid, rainy afternoon didn't dampen the enthusiasm of cottagers who turned out in the hundreds to hang out with the cup. We kissed it, hugged it, and even sat a baby on top, but one thing we weren't allowed to do was pick it up.
"You can't pick up the cup! You want to pick it up? Then win it!" shouted Mike.
Not to sound too new-agey, but seriously, there's a palpable buzz when you touch this shiny piece of history. The cup sat on a special round table out on a screened-in porch overlooking the lake, but the cabin had the feel of the Vatican about it as we all swirled around. 'Giggling reverence' is how I'd describe the mood. Here's me, hugging my new boyfriend:
And my husband Doug (to the right, shown here with Ken) who is so nonchalant about the whole thing. Not.
Mike the keeper had some stories to tell and he's the king of trivia. He kept everyone enthralled for over an hour. The Stanley Cup has been in a pool, a 200-degree sauna, abandoned by a Montreal roadside in a snowbank, dropped in the Rideau Canal and hauled to a 9,000 foot mountain top. Players have guzzled champagne, beer and Fruit Loops from the cup, though not at the same time.
He pointed out all the typos on the cup. Here's one, the 'Maple Leaes':
There is a palpable energy when you touch this piece of Canadian history. Grown men turned into little boys, literally hopping around it, grinning ear to ear. Even celebrities aren't immune to its power. Mike said he was in Malibu attending a party with the cup, and Tom Hanks popped in to see it. He's just like everyone else when they're around the Stanley Cup, said Mike. Excited and silly and deferential all at the same time.
Stanley is bigger than all of us.
Wow.
Meet Stanley. Stanley Cup.
It's a 35 pound, 116-year-old, silver Holy Grail of Hockey enscribed with over 2,700 names of players and others who have contributed to team wins over its history. Ken Sawyer, CEO of the Pittsburgh Penguins, the current champions of the NHL, is our neighbour up here at our summer cottage. He invited all of us to an up close and personal look at old Stanley. I'm so indebted I agreed to mow his lawn for the rest of the year. Not really. But I would if he wanted me to.The official keepers of the cup carried Stanley into Ken's cabin with little ceremony (well, we are at the cottage) but wearing the ever-present white cotton gloves. It's a sign of respect for the cup to wear the gloves, said one of the keepers. But since the players handle the cup and drink from it, we can't ask the fans not to touch it. Meet Mike Bolt, who travels around the world with the cup, and is one of the two keepers who brought Stanley to our lake:
He said we could touch it, so touch it we did. The humid, rainy afternoon didn't dampen the enthusiasm of cottagers who turned out in the hundreds to hang out with the cup. We kissed it, hugged it, and even sat a baby on top, but one thing we weren't allowed to do was pick it up."You can't pick up the cup! You want to pick it up? Then win it!" shouted Mike.Not to sound too new-agey, but seriously, there's a palpable buzz when you touch this shiny piece of history. The cup sat on a special round table out on a screened-in porch overlooking the lake, but the cabin had the feel of the Vatican about it as we all swirled around. 'Giggling reverence' is how I'd describe the mood. Here's me, hugging my new boyfriend:
And my husband Doug (to the right, shown here with Ken) who is so nonchalant about the whole thing. Not.
Mike the keeper had some stories to tell and he's the king of trivia. He kept everyone enthralled for over an hour. The Stanley Cup has been in a pool, a 200-degree sauna, abandoned by a Montreal roadside in a snowbank, dropped in the Rideau Canal and hauled to a 9,000 foot mountain top. Players have guzzled champagne, beer and Fruit Loops from the cup, though not at the same time.He pointed out all the typos on the cup. Here's one, the 'Maple Leaes':
There is a palpable energy when you touch this piece of Canadian history. Grown men turned into little boys, literally hopping around it, grinning ear to ear. Even celebrities aren't immune to its power. Mike said he was in Malibu attending a party with the cup, and Tom Hanks popped in to see it. He's just like everyone else when they're around the Stanley Cup, said Mike. Excited and silly and deferential all at the same time.Stanley is bigger than all of us.
Wow.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Did you miss me?
I've been at my cottage where the bears run free and the internet access does not. Despite the rainy and unseasonably cold weather (oh gee, shocking, because we didn't have a summer like that LAST year) it's still great to be at the lake.To make up for being incommunicado, I give you a few scenes from my cottage. I will be back on a regular basis, just not until the end of the summer.
Enjoy your summer! Except for my Australian readers who are frolicking in the snow about now. I'll raise a glass of gin and tonic in your honour.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Guinness is Celebrating and You're Invited
I wrote about my love of Guinness a while back simply because I love the stuff. It's got less alcohol than Canadian beer, is tasty and healthy (although to be honest, even if it was unhealthy I would still drink it.) I get a kick watching the foam roil around in my glass before I dive in for a big, creamy, gulp. The goofy mustache is a bonus.
Now, Guinness is celebrating its 250th anniversary of signing the lease at St. James Gate, and Guinness Master Brewer Fergal Murray is asking Guinness lovers to tell him where their most remarkable place to drink Guinness would be.
Fergal's most remarkable place is the Keg Plant at St. James' Gate Brewery, Dubin, home of Guinness.
Mine? I had to think about this. I could name many "remarkable" places, but truthfully, the best places for me have always involved family celebrations. For example, my father-in-law always stocks up on Guinness at Thanksgiving and sets it up in a cooler on his back porch. While my mother-in-law cooks the turkey and putters about the kitchen, the rest of the family (twenty+ and counting) go to the park across the street in Sainte-Anne-de-Bellevue, Quebec for a pick up game of touch football, one that involves kids from pre-teens to eighties. After the game, we come back for a game of home-style miniature golf around their house.
Now, bear in mind my inlaw's house is not big, and the lot it sits on is tiny and set on a corner of a bustling little village main street so there's not a lot of room for mini-putt. My father-in-law spends several days in advance to set up the 'golf course' using empty tuna cans for holes. The hazards are natural and challenging - a narrow passage between a 10-foot cedar hedge and a back porch, a paved driveway where the ball is in danger of bouncing into traffic and rolling down the sewer grate, a cement wall leading to the garage, and a vegetable garden full of squash and tomatoes - to name a few.
There are only two clubs which must be shared, every stroke counts no exceptions. We cheer, we boo, we keep the dog from running off with the plastic balls.
After the game, we come inside and and scores are tallied. Over a Guinness or two, we argue over who had the longest shot or the most challenging shot ("Come on, I held up traffic and shot into the bush beans then made my putt in two strokes. That's gotta count for something?" "Yes, but I salvaged a shot from behind the garden gnome, richocheted off the mailbox and landed in the potatoes while narrowly missing the pigeon on the roof.")
So, as I sit on my cottage porch, Guinness in hand, and wait for more guests and family to arrive at the lake for a weekend of swimming and barbeques and dancing under the stars, I have to say I think the best place for a glass of Guinness is wherever your loved ones are.
If you want to have a look at some of the amazing ways Guinness is celebrating, go their website. There is a trip to the depths of the sea to enjoy a Guinness in a deep sea bar, a visit to a recording studio to listen to the Black-Eyes Peas and a trip into space with Sir Richard Branson (don't even bother entering for that one, because I'm going to win it. I've already sent my space suit to the cleaners.)
Now, Guinness is celebrating its 250th anniversary of signing the lease at St. James Gate, and Guinness Master Brewer Fergal Murray is asking Guinness lovers to tell him where their most remarkable place to drink Guinness would be.
Fergal's most remarkable place is the Keg Plant at St. James' Gate Brewery, Dubin, home of Guinness.
Mine? I had to think about this. I could name many "remarkable" places, but truthfully, the best places for me have always involved family celebrations. For example, my father-in-law always stocks up on Guinness at Thanksgiving and sets it up in a cooler on his back porch. While my mother-in-law cooks the turkey and putters about the kitchen, the rest of the family (twenty+ and counting) go to the park across the street in Sainte-Anne-de-Bellevue, Quebec for a pick up game of touch football, one that involves kids from pre-teens to eighties. After the game, we come back for a game of home-style miniature golf around their house.
Now, bear in mind my inlaw's house is not big, and the lot it sits on is tiny and set on a corner of a bustling little village main street so there's not a lot of room for mini-putt. My father-in-law spends several days in advance to set up the 'golf course' using empty tuna cans for holes. The hazards are natural and challenging - a narrow passage between a 10-foot cedar hedge and a back porch, a paved driveway where the ball is in danger of bouncing into traffic and rolling down the sewer grate, a cement wall leading to the garage, and a vegetable garden full of squash and tomatoes - to name a few.
There are only two clubs which must be shared, every stroke counts no exceptions. We cheer, we boo, we keep the dog from running off with the plastic balls.
After the game, we come inside and and scores are tallied. Over a Guinness or two, we argue over who had the longest shot or the most challenging shot ("Come on, I held up traffic and shot into the bush beans then made my putt in two strokes. That's gotta count for something?" "Yes, but I salvaged a shot from behind the garden gnome, richocheted off the mailbox and landed in the potatoes while narrowly missing the pigeon on the roof.")
So, as I sit on my cottage porch, Guinness in hand, and wait for more guests and family to arrive at the lake for a weekend of swimming and barbeques and dancing under the stars, I have to say I think the best place for a glass of Guinness is wherever your loved ones are.
If you want to have a look at some of the amazing ways Guinness is celebrating, go their website. There is a trip to the depths of the sea to enjoy a Guinness in a deep sea bar, a visit to a recording studio to listen to the Black-Eyes Peas and a trip into space with Sir Richard Branson (don't even bother entering for that one, because I'm going to win it. I've already sent my space suit to the cleaners.)
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Fred/Rocket/JustPlainCat found a home!
Meet the orphan, or should I say, former orphan. Oh, I tried not to care, I really did. But it was no use. I fell hard for this little one.
The cat I called Fred (and my daughter called Rocket because of the way it rockets around chasing moths and chipmunks and blowing leaves until it conks out and curls up in an exhausted ball) has officially found a new home.
I talked to so many shelters and vet clinics and rescue operations who refused to take one more abandoned pet that I began to despair I would never find a place for this little critter. I knew I couldn't bring her home. Never mind that my husband was adamant about no more cats (he threatened to eat hummus every night for the rest of our lives, and since I have been blessed/cursed with a keen sense of smell, this was a cruel threat indeed.) No, the two rescue cats I already have would eat this one for breakfast. My dog Buddy, to his credit, behaved like the gentleman he is and the two got on like bread and jam but his opinion counts for nothing in this house.
One last fond farewell to the porch that was her home for five days....
Every story should have a happy ending. And this one is no exception. Today, the little stray cat who showed up at our cottage, starving for both food and companionship, has found a new home. The chance encounter with the woman on a plane many years ago has given this little foundling a new life. Three cheers for Laura G.!
The End.
The cat I called Fred (and my daughter called Rocket because of the way it rockets around chasing moths and chipmunks and blowing leaves until it conks out and curls up in an exhausted ball) has officially found a new home.I talked to so many shelters and vet clinics and rescue operations who refused to take one more abandoned pet that I began to despair I would never find a place for this little critter. I knew I couldn't bring her home. Never mind that my husband was adamant about no more cats (he threatened to eat hummus every night for the rest of our lives, and since I have been blessed/cursed with a keen sense of smell, this was a cruel threat indeed.) No, the two rescue cats I already have would eat this one for breakfast. My dog Buddy, to his credit, behaved like the gentleman he is and the two got on like bread and jam but his opinion counts for nothing in this house.
One last fond farewell to the porch that was her home for five days....
Every story should have a happy ending. And this one is no exception. Today, the little stray cat who showed up at our cottage, starving for both food and companionship, has found a new home. The chance encounter with the woman on a plane many years ago has given this little foundling a new life. Three cheers for Laura G.!
The End.
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