A knee, anatomy

This morning I took a trip around the edge of Wascana Lake, took a copy of The Hockey Sweater to a couple of visiting Leaf fans, took in some garage sales with my youngest daughter (who found three chairs for ten dollars, a popcorn maker, a pot).

All if this inflamed my left anterior cruciate ligament, which I've treated with sunset, Sambuca, Journey to Portugal, Blue Jays baseball, Gilda, and the last two or three swallows of today's wind.

I don't know what's gotten into my body these days, other than the days themselves, about 21,000 of them. I could list everything else about today and still end up with one thing: an ache in my left knee, which is the last thing this day will ever see.

On the way to my vanity

This morning the corner of the bathroom cabinet door spiked me in the forehead. I staggered a bit, thinking what a crappy way to die. Of all the doors to leave open. And only myself to blame. So I sat down on the edge of the tub to collect myself. Mostly I didn't want to topple onto the toilet. A head-on with The Thomas Crapper would be just my luck. I've heard enough stories about people meeting their maker that way. No way I want a last name like mine stuck to a story like that.

The town and the city

The town, as one of its last acts, had yielded a loose spike I found on a walk back to town along the rail line that runs near the dam. In the city, as I drove through the Golden Mile parking lot, one of those huge pick-ups backed up into my path, the driver not looking my way at all. When he did, I spread my arms to say "Come on, take a look." He rolled his window down and leaned toward me: "Want me to come down there and tune you up? Fuckin old prick."

24 hours later, I'm still scrambing to regain the depth of things, what with all the errands and unpacking, and the idiots out there.

In lieu of a pocket-sized spike belt

It's common courtesy to slow down when you meet people walking along a dirt road. Wouldn't want to stone them. And most people around here do slow down. They raise a friendly index finger and nod as they drive by. The dust is minimal. But there's always the odd wise guy. The type that steps on it. Drives down the middle. The type that makes you head for the ditch. Or where the ditch should be. Where the dogs poop. And sure enough, you almost step in it. And it takes everything not to raise a finger of your own. But you know better. You know eyes are waiting in the rear view. Waiting for just that. Just wait. Next time those eyes will get the full rear view.

Dinner

We were just talking about that very thing, how if you were ever struck in the face by a beaver's tail the way the surface of some meandering river is--home to three generations of innocent swimmers, gentle nourisher of nine-hole courses--your eyes would widen; until now you hadn't realized the terror of the world. Yes, and my neighbour's daughter had left a stack of fenceposts out back of his place a while ago. "Did you get the fenceposts, dad?" she asked later. "What fenceposts?" he said. Turns out the beavers had hauled off every one. Worse, the timber turned up a week later in a fancy new dam all the way over on the east side of town. With a crude sign chewed into a length of poplar: Timber Courtesy the Bamfords.

But that's old news. It's been common in these parts to steal a couple of chickens, then invite the people you stole them from over for chicken dinner.

Two dams, bad

What's with the beavers this year? Lodges like high-rises. A million mouthfuls of mud per story. Maybe more. It's hard to say what they can pack in. Regardless, they must know something. I know the guy who unclogs the culverts along the West Arm Road. The beavers keep him busy. You couldn't pay me to step into his chest waders. Heck, some of those beavers weigh more than I do. I'd hate to make one mad. Even the slap of a tail knocks the wind right out of me. Needless to say, every time we drive down that road, I picture the guy. I'll picture him again tomorrow. And again. Dam. Dam. Water up to his armpits. What if his foot gets caught? What if his waders fill up? What then?

Feet

How do you cope with signs of advancing age? This morning I woke up with sore feet--and me with a big trip around the golfcourse planned before they turned the sprinklers on! I needn't have worried, even about my knees, because my feet covered the 1st hole in 262 steps, instead of the usual 267. I was over par on the dogleg-right 2nd hole, however, but that was because I detoured into the willow-ravaged rough looking for golfballs (finding a Beaver XKE in mint condition). In the end I was 31 steps under par for the 9 holes. Good job, faithful feet. A double dosage of asparagus lotion shall be your reward.

Optical zoom

It's an acquired haste, they say, that gets one into trouble. That gets things rolling. In the ditch along the Mystic Lake Road, a stump, or stumps, depending on how one views willow that's been sawed off, waits in a slump of dead grass. Waits for someone like me. So there I am. At my age. I take a stump at speed in the medial aspect of the right knee. Another in the lateral side of the right lower leg. And I fall, twisting, holding my left arm high. Fall onto my left shoulder. Breathless. Grass in my eye. And H is beside me. Are you alright? The camera, I finally gasp. Did I break the camera?

This river you can walk on two sides

This morning I tromped through the dew around the perimeter of Eastend's Streambank golf course (two-thirds of which follows the contours of the Frenchman river). Gave myself a lesson in perception: I think I'll find a golfball now, I said, and right away found two, a TC Tour 2 and a Dunlop. Got my socks wet, though. Made the sound of -lf, -lf, -lf walking back home.

Postscript (next morning):
The Dunlop rolled from its temporary home on a shelf overlooking the kitchen sink over the edge, straight into an empty cup!