I spent part of a morning last weekend sitting outside in the warm wind atop of a lifeguard's lookout. I watched the ducks, geese and swan float around Little Lake, and was partly soothed by 'all that nature' around me, and grossed out by thinking about the pollution count in the murky water.
Peterborough water unnerves me. I'm sure that it's contaminated in each and every way that it can be in this country, but oddly, I still drink the water from the tap. I have this feeling that anyone who buys water to drink in this city are pretentious snobs and wusses combined. I have much faith in our Works Dept. and am sure that they wouldn't say drinking the water is safe if it really wasn't. And, I'm still standing.
When my sister and I go out with the girls, I'm usually stuck holding the bag. My sister plans elaborate activities for the girls to do, like collecting decidious leaves, perrenial plant roots and cumulus clouds to catalogue in wire notebooks with precisely sharpened pencils. I go the other way. I'd rather just live in the moment, do things spontaneously, and not have to pack five different bags to enjoy 2 hours outdoors. However, it's the fact that she does go to all the trouble that I appreciate her. I wouldn't do it myself, but I like the idea of her spending time in the public library looking up fun and educational things for our girls to do during the weekend.
I appreciate it also, because, the sad thing is that most of my weekends are spent working, and while I get to spend some time with my girl between shifts, I'm usually too damned tired to get into our outdoor excursions, especially while working a later scheduled one.
I plan on a nice walk Sunday morning, or a bike ride downtown. It's been that perfect Canadian weekend after the first snowfall and another warm spell. The light carpet of snow has melted and the smell of rotting leaves is like perfume to me. The days are gray, and gusty wind brings the scent of cinnamon accross the river. We live not too far from the Quaker Oats factory, and lately, they've been producing their apples and cinnamon oatmeal and it's deliciously comforting. Most times, it just smells like dead popcorn, and the odd time the place produces noxious odors that remind me of the Purina factory that made dog food in the town I used to live in before this one.
I want to walk glove-hand in mitten-hand with my girl, and listen to her tell me stories about what she's been up to while I work to bring home the bacon. A gentle breeze will go nicely with my imagined scenario. Add a cup of coffee and a mug of hot chocolate, and I'm sure that I'm going to be a happier person tomorrow.