Large Fierce Mammal

Nearly two years ago I wrote about a wonderful piece of work by Solomon Simon called The Wise Men of Helm & Their Merry Tales. I recommend you go there now and watch the hilarious film adaptation made by the National Film Board of Canada under the title Village of Idiots.

The lore is full of tales involving remote or isolated communities that were so cut off – particularly in Winter – that they developed a culture of strangeness all their own. This poem is about one of them, and not all of its elements are fictional.

The Village

By LFM

Up country lies a village
Of an odd and darksome fame.
Its dwellers bear the stamp of Strange –
Fertility’s to blame.

The land whereon the village stands
Is fertile round about.
The harvest fills each bin so full
They build them extra stout.

So through the Spring and Summer
And the Autumn, all must toil.
From youth each learns it’s virtue
To accept this mortal coil.

Nestled in the cleavage
Of some high, protecting hills,
The village weathers Winter well,
While sheltered from its chills.

So one would think that all is well,
And even might admire
Such folks as live in plenty
Having all that they desire.

But “desire”, ah, therein’s the rub,
For when the Winter falls,
No one gets out, nor any in,
But still though, Nature calls.

Fewer chores breed idle hands,
Thence idle hands to sin,
And when THAT starts, it never fails
That other parts join in.

I went there only once myself,
And after days of bother,
Divined a little boy to be
His very own grandfather.

Through nigh a hundred years apart
From outside dwelling folk,
Estrangement even shaped the
Very language that they spoke.

I’ll never visit there again,
But if you choose to go,
This village is one family,
That’s something you should know.

Everyone’s a “cousin” –
Mother, father – everyone.
Another thing you’ll come to learn
Before your visit’s done.

They lack the words for family
As used by you and me,
And the way that they say “cousin”
Sounds like “doesn’t” with a “c”.

Word is that the first major snow storm of the season is set to land on our region overnight tonight. Many rail at the injustice of it all when this inevitability descends, and every year people suffer consequences up to and including death from ill conceived attempts to defy Nature. Here at the LFM camp, we offer no such resistance. To us, a major storm is both a reminder to stay prepared, and a message to slow down. So we embrace it – that and other things.

The lusty poem that follows is a play on that philosophy.

Snow Day

By LFM

Nature tucked us in last night
Beneath Her blanket wide.
She bade her children all stay in
And venture not outside.

Oh joyous morn! The snow has come
And piled against the door!
T’is opened to a wall of white
And really, nothing more!

But Nature calls in other ways
To Dogs, as you and me,
So through a window one floor up
I sent them out to pee.

Their names were writ upon the snow,
They barked and frisked and chased.
Then back inside, each one propelled
By morning hunger’s haste.

My beauteous Mate had lit the fire
And filled the coffee pot.
Whatever plans we’d had today,
Our Mother’d not be fought.

So, snuggled midst our sated hounds,
We sipped, and kissed, and ate,
And then we went back up the stairs,
Accepting of our fate.

Delicious torment sent its cries
For hours across the snow,
And though no human ear would hear,
We knew that Nature’d know.

The tangled beast of writhing lust
That was my Mate and I
Did rut beneath a goad we had
No power to defy.

And when at last we came to lie
Entangled, wet, and spent
My Lover noted that I laughed
And asked me what it meant.

As I spoke of what had passed
She laughed as hard as I,
And when I called it “Biblical”,
It nearly made her cry.

For all the while upon the bed
We danced to Nature’s drumming,
A dozen times, “OH GOD!” rang out
Before the second coming.

Source http://ivyblaise.wordpress.com/2012/12/21/tomten-by-viktor-rydberg-my-favourite-winter-poem/0_tomten/

Deep in the grip of the midwinter cold
The stars glitter and sparkle.
All are asleep on this lonely farm,
Deep in the winter night.
The pale white moon is a wanderer,
snow gleams white on pine and fir,
snow gleams white on the roofs.
The tomte alone is awake.

I will never understand the psychological aberration that sends otherwise sensible people native to this beauteous north country fleeing pell-mell to warmer climes at the first whiff of Winter’s onset. Those so afflicted flock south every autumn, earning them the now common and ever so slightly derisive designation of “snow birds”.

This is not for us. We derive as much joy from Winter as from any other time of year – in fact revel in its unique, stark beauty – and this is at the heart of why the legends and folklore of northern countries are of such interest. Today we’ll look at one of them. (more…)

Bodhi Carbone, contemplating the Hunt on Christmas Day 2012. Click the image to enbiggen. (Gary Carbone photo)

The cool breath of autumn that arrives here in Nova Scotia sporadically in September, always makes me want to go hunting, and the drive gets stronger as the onset of Winter makes its presence known. Whether or not I plan to go afield with  intentions to take game, I find myself called to go and seek it. In this sensibility, if not in the timing, my soul is at one with that of every member of the LFM canine household cavalry, and it’s at the heart of why we enjoy bonding through tracking and search and find games so much.

Our Esteemed Friend Gary Carbone and his Dog Bodhi, of both of whom I’ve spoken many times before and will again, recently had an experience that inspired the short poem that follows. Participants in the affray were Gary, Bodhi, and a mature male Deer in the full flower of his antlerage, the allure of whom for Bodhi drowned out everything else in the world.

Without doling out all the details, suffice it to be said that all ended well with Bodhi sustaining a small wound on his face and Gary learning some hard won lessons – not least of which is just how much life he still has left in that old carcass of his – and another being why Bodhi has a 40 foot long line attached to him in the picture that appears at the top of this article.

As far as a Dog is concerned, every foray into the world outside the household door is a hunt to be engaged in as the nature of its breed dictates, and in this it will operate in the certainty that the handler is at one with the objectives of the mission. To fight this instead of becoming a part of it causes confusion in the Dog, and mutual frustration of both the Dog and handler alike. In short, it removes all Natural joy from the situation, and thus, all fulfillment. A Dog can learn self-control, but it cannot ever be what it is not, and so it falls to the handler to ensure that the vital elements of joy and fulfillment remain while the limits to self-control are mutually and realistically explored.

And so it is with Bodhi, to whom today’s poem is dedicated.

Hunter’s Soul

By LFM

The Dog would hunt the whole day through,
And dream it all the night.
His soul doth crave the quarry’s scent –
To see it put to flight!

And so it is who goes afield
With leash and Dog in hand,
Must find his joy as Leader of
A merry hunting band!

And Dog cares not if Master’s hand
Grips bow, or spear, or gun,
So long as it doth hold the leash –
Master, Dog, as one!

His joyful cry of, “Tally ho!”
His Master’s not to smother.
‘Tis better answered with, “Good boy!”
“Let’s go and find another!”

Le Flambeau – AKA “The Torch”. Leave them in the volcanoes as Nature intended.

Never, ever, give a pet as a gift, whether at Christmas time or any other. I present to you a case in point – the latest craze – and one that as usual will not end well.

Le Flambeau, plural “Les Flambeaux” – although he that seeks to keep more than one needs must be beloved of the Goddess of Extinguishment – has so far been the sole source of ignition and accelerant in untold thousands of house fires since Black Friday. Cute, small, frisky and incendiary (those last two a particularly entertaining combination when natural Christmas trees and big coiffures impregnated with hair spray are involved), they won’t stay that way for long, and people who live in combustible houses shouldn’t act as though they’re living in an episode of Game of Thrones.

Fucking fuck and titty sprinkles.

Remember this – movies and TV shows notwithstanding, a Dog is not a cuddle toy, a child’s playmate or bedfellow, a babysitter, or an animated piece of furniture. Society has lost this Great Truth, and Dogs are the ones that pay the price. ~ Muddy Waters

Last week I introduced “The Great Divide” and explained why and how I apply it. This week I’ll provide a short and not particularly sweet video illustration of my point. The video you are about to watch is hard to swallow for anyone with a shred of empathy, let alone those of us who speak Dog. Behaviours like these, and far worse, are being played out right now, even as you read this, and when a Dog can bear no more, lashing out in its own defense, the verdict will be death on the grounds that it did so without reason. Unprovoked. History is, after all, written by those who have the upper hand.

How I would resolve this if I were King of the World does not bear detailed explanation here, but let it be known that it wouldn’t include children or Dogs, and it would involve people being jumped on. A LOT, without expectation of understanding or mercy, and no known end in sight.

Crystalline Apple Tree (LFM Photo)

There’s a dark, joyful lustiness to this time of year that, for Mrs. LFM and me, begins as September yields the field to October, and doesn’t really end until the glorious din of another Spring supplants it. Here’s our gift of the day to you all.

A Song of Winter

By LFM

The equinox of Autumn
Sees the harvest gathered in.
All store rooms packed, all larders full,
Each cellar, loft, and bin.

A bounty bought with sweat and toil,
With dash of blood and tear.
Long days afield preparing for
The shortest of the year.

Each morn the sun must struggle
Just to bring the light of day,
And daily weakens in the fight
To keep the night at bay.

Such knowing weighs the brows of Men,
As ice doth bend the bough,
With naught but snow to meet the scythe,
And frozen earth the plough.

Yet glorious day, the Solstice comes
With casting off of dooms!
Now’s the time to feast and drink!
To plant strong bairns in wombs!

For now is seen the Sun’s rebirth
And how the Night doth flee,
Giving back the land to let
Another harvest be.

Krampusnacht. Ah, if I only knew then what I know now.

This is a tale from a Christmas Eve long, long ago.

I grew up with a younger sibling – a sister three years younger than me. As the oldest child, and a son at that, I was raised to be responsible, respectful, steadfast, and true; and it took. My sister, on the other hand, was raised to be coddled and taken care of. That took too. I saw this as a mistake, and grew progressively more exasperated by my lack of success in convincing those in command that my arguments had any merit.

For example, if I asked my parents if I could stay up later than the established 9:00 PM bedtime to watch a half-hour television show, and they told me I needed to wait until I was a little older before I could do that, I accepted the pronouncement without argument. However, when that magic day finally arrived with every expectation of my basking in the rite of passage that came with being … you know … of an age, it immediately became apparent that my much younger sister had somehow achieved it as well. I considered this a travesty of justice, the parental explanation for which was, “She’ll cry.”

I resolved from this, and similar injustices, to take matters into my own hands. Quietly so on my part, although certainly not on hers. If I had to describe my philosophy of sibling rearing in those days, I think the best would be if you can’t teach them respect, teach them fear. (more…)

My late Esteemed Friend Michael Baker came from a long line of shotgunners – men who lived for the hunting of waterfowl and upland game.

In Lunenburg County, where we both grew up, there lies an island connected to the mainland by a short causeway, and the name of that place is Herman’s Island. The name comes from a prominent local surname, and assorted members of Michael’s extended family maintained permanent homes or seasonal cottages there. At the farthest end of the island lay, in those days, Camp Villa Maria, a large and rambling tract of field, forest, and associated rustic buildings that was operated until December 1996 by the Roman Catholic Church as a youth summer camp. The place was deserted by hunting season, and we had permission to pursue the assortment of small game that lived there – Rabbits, Partridge, and Pheasant – and so it came to pass while we were still in high school that a tradition was established in which the twenty-sixth day of December would be set aside for a day afield to indulge in the primal joys of the chase.

Those were good days full of merry jests, camaraderie, and the best that Winter in the outdoors of Nova Scotia can offer, capped off with all the right kinds of warming and revitalizing refreshments at the end of it all. Sometimes game was taken, sometimes not, and it never really mattered. A kill was never the point.

My story today is a brief one, dwarfed in fact by the length of its preamble. It occurs on one of the few and rare Decembers twenty-sixth on which I was unable to attend the annual hunt. As it happened, Michael went in the company of his younger brother Peter.

The snow was unusually thick for the time of year, and it lay heavy on the spruce trees. Lacking a Dog, and with the quarry wearing its Winter finery, the hunting of Rabbits was rendered a hit or miss proposition – mostly miss – and after a while it was decided to call it a day. It was on the way back, as the hunters exited the woods and were approaching a small stand of fruit trees, that their presence flushed a Partridge causing it to fly a short distance before alighting in one of them. Our two worthies froze in their tracks, mindful of their now safely unloaded shotguns as the Bird stood on its perch watching them.

Whatever became of that Partridge will forever be unknown to Men, for it was left unmolested by those hunters so long ago, and if anyone has encountered it since he has neither spoken nor written of it. What is known is that in relating his sensibilities to me some time later, Michael explained them thus: “I looked at the Bird, the Bird looked at me – and then I saw what it was sitting on. There was no way, in the Christmas season, that I was going to flush and shoot a Partridge from a Pear Tree.”

A fruit cake fit for a king … or at least an heir to the throne.

“The worst gift is fruitcake. There is only one fruitcake in the entire world, and people keep sending it to each other.” ~ Johnny Carson

Here in Canada, fruitcake is a staple of this season, less often eaten as a dessert than as a point in itself. Much maligned by its detractors, I feel a very personal affinity for it because, like me, it wears its age well, and people either love it or hate it, finding no middle ground of indifference.

Legend has it that the origins of fruitcake lie back in the antiquity that was ancient Egypt where it was placed in tombs with the dead to feed them in the afterlife. Recipes have come down to us from the days of the Roman Empire, but we owe the staple ingredient of our modern fruitcake – candied fruit – to the medieval discovery that saturation with sugar acts as a preservative. Couple that with nuts and raisins soaked for weeks in rum or brandy, and what’s not to love?

I like fruitcake. I also like marinated herring, Danish blue cheese, scotch whisky, anchovies, the smell of a good cigar being smoked – even though I don’t smoke myself, and Peter Thompson. That they are all acquired tastes does not diminish the fact that my sensibilities are in some way gladdened by each of them, in spite of my propensity to swear at Thompson as often as by him, and in truth, my liking for a thing that is best when soaked at length in fine spirits, and is dense enough stop a bullet, has some interesting parallels to our friendship.

While the world oooo’d and ahhhhhh’d over the spectacle that was the 29 April 2011 wedding between Prince William and Kate Middleton, it somehow got lost on many that the Royal Cake – designed and made by Fiona Cairns, and depicted in all its splendour at the top of this article – was built of fruitcake. All eight tiers of it.

Interestingly, it appears the wedding bed was still warm when on 24 May 2012, for the sum of £1918, purveyors of “world class art, antiques, and collectibles” PFC Auctions sold Lot 125, described thus:

A slice of cake from the wedding of Prince William (1982- ) and Kate Middleton (1982- ) with a printed compliments slip from TRH The Prince of Wales and The Duchess of Cornwall.

The cake was designed by Fiona Cairns for the Wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton on Friday 29th April 2011 and is in a presentation tin commissioned and designed by Peter Windett and Sally Mangum. The tin measures 5½” x 4¼ x 2”.

A slice of cake was presented to each of the 650 close friends and family who attended the afternoon reception at Buckingham Palace.

Accompanied by the 16 page Order of Service from Westminster Abbey which includes the vows, hymns, prayers and Blessing from the Wedding.

Believed to be the first piece of William and Kate’s wedding cake to appear at auction.

In fine condition.

I think this speaks less to the quality of the cake than it does to the Great Truth that intelligence and a large disposable income rarely travel in the same commemorative tin, and I can’t help but wonder at what it might imply about how one, “… of the 650 close friends and family ….” feels about fruitcake – Bastard – but I’m sure things would have been different if the boxes had been serially numbered and assigned by name.

My love of fruitcake notwithstanding, I still enjoy a well crafted assault. A case in point is The Great Fruitcake Recycling Project that openly brands fruitcake a biohazard, attempts to derive at least some credibility from quoting Charles Dickens in saying, “A fruitcake is a geological homemade cake,” and supports its argument with such statistics as, “Each recycled fruitcake circumnavigates the globe an average of 27 times before it ends up in the hands of someone who will actually eat it. Aficionados call this “aging” and claim it enhances the flavor.” and “The ancient Egyptians considered fruitcake an essential food for the afterlife. When interviewed, most Americans agreed, stating that they, too, would rather die before eating it.”

Fruitcake wears the LFM stamp of approval. Long may it wave, and hopefully, this item has fanned the flames of fruitcake craving in you, good readers. I know it has for us, and so Mrs. LFM and I are off in search of one, preferably with marzipan icing – another thing for which much hate inexplicably exists in the land.