The sweet things in life

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 29/08/2020 (2107 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

In his final instalment of pandemic-inspired travel features, Gord Mackintosh reminds us that if you can’t be in the place you love, love the place you’re in. Or something like that.

It started with a big hawk that almost nixed a backyard sparrow — the sparrow Margie petted and prayed from near death. It ended, after a day spent outside in pajamas, with a newfound appreciation of all the little things we miss as life whizzes by.

After taking a photo of the hawk through the window, I put down my phone and rushed out. I was in pajamas. Margie was at a conference and daughter Dorothy was travelling.

I closed the side door most of the way so Pirate wouldn’t bolt to avoid a Sunday morning showdown. He squeezed through anyway and ran past. When I got in the yard, the hawk had flown. I headed back in.

Opening the storm door caused an unexpected reaction I don’t recall from science class. The slight vacuum created was enough to suck the inside door shut.

I twisted the doorknob. Locked. No matter how many times you rattle a locked doorknob, it doesn’t unlock.

Margie had given the neighbours a key. They were away, but I thought their daughter was home. I worked up the nerve to pay an early visit, concerned that would make her wary. And if folks spotted me they’d say, “Is that our old MLA? Wandering again!”

I got to their door unseen in my closely-matching red plaid pajamas. And sheepskin slippers. I signalled a casual visit with the ol’ “shave and haircut” knock. Their dogs didn’t like that knock. No one answered but them.

I later heard the neighbours had returned the key.

I might have tried more doors to phone other family for a key but, with texting, I just knew one number had a nine, another a three.

It’s not that I gave into defeat. I removed screens to unsuccessfully open windows. I balanced a chair on the air conditioner to reach another window but, if I could hoist through, I’d land on my head.

Again, I shook the doorknob. The rising temperature made no difference.

I considered breaking a window but the cost made me realize I had nothing to go inside for. No sizzling frying pan, no running water, no bursting dog at the window, no commitments.

I convinced myself I wasn’t a loser. I was granted a day off, a lovely retreat – no electronic devices, books, garden tools. Or bountiful cooler — dang. Just hose water. And Pirate as my bewildered companion.

When Pirate and I had to go, if you know what I mean, we found a spot nobody could see.

On my retreat, I discovered small white and yellow fickle butterflies, a dozen white birds circling far above that I’d never seen, a hornet bouncing its bum on an apple tree leaf, a wily weed infiltrating my lawn unbeknownst.

My eyes followed a fearless squirrel on a high spruce branch, knocking cones onto the aluminum canoe for the arresting whack of a snare drum. It scurried along a wire, up the neighbours’ house and, poof, gone. Acrobat, musician, and magician. I’d tell the neighbours they have a tenant owing rent.

The hawk scattered the sparrows’ chorus but I grew oddly grateful among church chimes, sunshine, gardens. A spinning daisy! And with a lawn chair. Six actually, and I sat in each one.

I got back inside our home five hours later after Margie arrived with sideway-bouncing eyeballs asking, “Why are you out here? In pajamas?”

The next year at that same weekend as Margie was off to her conference, family joked, “‘Got your keys?” “‘Have your cell phone?” and “Will you be alright?”

I replied, “I’m doing it again.”

Although rain washed away that plan, my retreat taught me that impulsively coveting some other place is pitiful. What’s nearby – even a backyard – can be fantastic, if you really look.

Metaphorically, Manitoba, like a backyard, is fantastic. And COVID-19, like my doorknob, has compelled us to better discover, appreciate, and embrace our wonderfully quirky and endearing place. A bountiful cooler would be good though.

Let’s stop complaining about our province. That’s my main complaint.

I hear Ontario, “Manitoba might be the longitudinal centre; we’re the attitudinal centre.” Let’s shift that to Manitoba, where it belongs – with our Hollywood Beach, Crocodile Bay, Mount Nebo and, across our fields, Summit Road. With Arizona and, yes, Golden Stream.

With the docks of Clear Lake, walking Rosedale Farm Trail or to Pine Point Rapids, and coasting up Magnet Hill (unrelated to Magnet, reportedly named by a settler fascinated by a magnet sketch).

Or hiding from polar bears along the Manitoba Riviera, finding the Souris peacocks, Morden’s big Bruce, Gimli’s big fish fly, Flinty and his open fly, and the world’s biggest banana. Savouring the Fat Boy Capital! Observing brain freeze — big time, and our world-famous everything.

Or visiting Treherne’s bottle chapel — that seats eight, Brandon’s teacup truck, and Winnipeg’s national museum resembling a top-quality food processor. Also — celebrated by a Dauphin statue — feeling the spirit of cooperation thriving across the province.

And consider Winkler road signs now saying “Sprinkle kindness wherever you go.” Oh, plus from Charley B’s Classic Grill: “Limeade All Summer Long.” Tip: order the Mennonite Poutine.

Whimsical, creative, and alluring — it’s marvelous Manitoba.

And remember your keys.

Or a cooler.