Are You Kidding Me?

October 14
7:15pm I close up the tack shop in Truro for the night. It's pretty much dark by now and I'm not looking forward to the 45 minute drive home, especially since I'm starving. To make it through the drive, I picture an evening that ends with a hot meal and a chance to curl up and unwind in front of the TV.

7:35
I cruise down the highway and approach my usual exit. It takes me home via a lonely, shoulderless back road which at night is dark and isolated. I start to veer toward the exit ramp, then think better of it and decide I'll take the slightly longer, less-deer-inhabited "mainstream" route.

7:50
I'm on the main drag in the area, route 14. Five more minutes and I'll be home spooning hot turkey soup into my starving soul. Ahead of me, I spot the unmistakable red and blue glow of police car lights-- in this case RCMP. They seem to be doing a spot check. I pull up behind several other cars and haul out my insurance card and driver's license while waiting to be waved forward. I'm not worried. I have nothing to hide.

After a few minutes, it's my turn. A young, female RCMP officer shines a flashlight in the car and asks for my license. I smile and hand it over. She looks at the license, then back at me.

"You're license is expired".

"What? It can't be. I just renewed it in June, after we moved here."

She tilts the laminated plastic card in my direction and shines the light so I can see EXPIRY DATE: 09/18/2010.

"I'll call in and double check though", she offers.

As she moves behind the car and speaks into the radio-like device attached to her shirt collar, a vague memory floats into my head:

I'm in a room full of chairs and frustrated people. I've been waiting here for an hour and a half. Finally, my number is called. At the counter, a woman takes my information and my old New Brunswick license. She charges me a horrendous fee, mumbles something about reciprocity with NB, and says I'll still have to renew my license in September. "What?" "That's when it was up for renewal in NB." But I just paid to have it renewed. "It doesn't matter".

The light once again shines in through my open window. I already know what the young officer is going to say.

"I called it in. Your license is expired".

I mumble something akin to ...."Stupid Service Nova Scotia...."

"I can't let you drive away from here. You'd be committing an offense."

My head snaps up.

"What?"

"You'll have to find another way home."

It takes a moment for the implications of this to sink in. I'm not in downtown Halifax. I'm in the middle of rural Nova Scotia, on a dark, unlit road on a cold night. I can't exactly just hop on a transit bus or call a cab.

"I guess I can ask my husband to pick me up."

"And tell him to bring someone to pick up the car as well".

I stare blankly, and I start thinking.

"I don't have anyone else to call."

"Call your neighbours".

"I don't have any neighbours."

"You must have neighbours".

"Not exactly."

I stare ahead, running through names in my head.

"Call some friends."

"We don't know anyone in the area." (at least no one who would be willing in picking up either me, or my car and driving the 5 minutes to my house).

I stare ahead some more.

"Do you have a phone?"

"Yes".

"Ok, call and make arrangements then. And you'll have to get to Halifax AS SOON AS POSSIBLE to renew your license.

"I can go tomorrow".

"You can't drive there".

"Oh...yeah".

She turns and walks away.

I call Dave. He got home about 20 minutes earlier. There was no roadblock when he drove by. He sighs, grabs the dog, gets in the truck, and comes to pick me up off the side of the road.

When I get off the phone, the officer is back at my window.

"This should be a $300 dollar fine, but I'm writing you a warning". (I believe I'm supposed to be grateful-- which I mostly am)

"Ok. Thank you"

"Someone's coming to get you...and the car?"

"My husband's coming to get me."

"You'll have to park somewhere legal until you can send someone to get your car."

"Yeah, where do you want me to park?"

She looks around. It's a very dark area, on a sharp turn on a fairly narrow highway, on the corner of an even darker secondary road.

"You can't park on the curve in the road. And you don't want to park on the Blois rd. It's a shady area and trucks fly down the road there."

I look at her. I look around. The only place for me to park is on the wide shoulder pretty much where I am now.

"So....where should I go?"

"Ok, well, just pull up a bit and make sure you're over as far as you can get. You can't leave your car here indefinitely though. Someone will have to come get it."

"I don't know anyone who can get it."

"Well, I can't drive it for you. Think of it this way, I could have given you a $300 dollar fine and I didn't, so you can afford the 50 dollars to call a tow truck."

Fifty dollars for a tow truck in the middle of nowhere at 8pm? Right. But, I do have CAA, so, being a good, law-abiding citizen, I call them, and have it towed to the house.

By the time we, and the car, finally make it home, it's about 9:30pm. I forgo the hot soup and settle for a piece of Nutella-smeared toast and a fried egg for supper.

I understand that there are rules. I understand that the rules are there for a reason, but can't there be some discretion? I have a clean driving record: no DUI's, no suspensions, no loss of points, no speeding tickets. My license expired less than a month earlier. I live just minutes from where I was stopped.

On top of all that, I'd presented my license to the RCMP earlier that day (the same detachment where this officer is based). I was there to have a criminal background check done as a condition of my coaching certification. As part of the check, the woman behind the glass asked me for two forms of ID, including a valid driver's license. She took my license, left the room with it, presumably copied it or took down the information on it, then gave it back to me a few minutes later. She didn't say anything about it being expired, and I didn't think to look.

If I had been issued a ticket, I would have fought it in court.


It just all seems so silly. But, I encountered a similar lack of flexibility for the rules when I went to renew my license the next morning. (see Are You Kidding Me II-- soon to follow).

A Squirrely Situation

When we moved here, I found it odd that there was not a squirrel to be seen. Lots of trees, lots of open space, I would have thought that would have meant lots of squirrels. But no, not a single squirrel sighting-- at least not until one sunny day in August.

The first time I see the small red squirrel, he (she?) darts into the dilapidated sheep barn through a hole in the back wall. The second time I come across it, I don't actually see it. I hear it chattering away in one of the evergreen trees that line our driveway. Muscade hears it chattering too. She looks longingly at the branch where the squirrel sits, but he/she won't climb down to play.


The third time I see the squirrel, it's scaling the cinder-block wall in one of the spare stalls in the barn-- not good. I've heard all about the damage squirrels can do indoors, including chewing through plastic feedbins, and through electrical wiring. So, I decide the squirrel must go.

Now, before I continue, I should point out that I had one previous encounter with a Nova Scotia red squirrel, and it didn't end well.

It was about seven years ago. Dave and I were walking in Halifax's Point Pleasant Park on a crisp spring morning. We passed by a red squirrel sitting on its hind legs, chattering incessantly on the side of the trail. I decided to take a picture.

I slowly knelt down a few feet away from the squirrel, and quietly raised my camera to my eye. I looked through the viewfinder and saw only an empty patch of snow. The squirrel had disappeared. I shrugged, and stood up. That's when I felt a slight tug at the bottom of my left pant leg. I looked down to see the would-be object of my photo nibbling at the bottom of my jeans.

Taken by surprise, I did what anyone would do, I started hopping up and down on my right leg and violently shaking my left leg. Within seconds I sent the squirrel cartwheeling through the air. The moment his little paws hit the slushy, muddy snow again, he made it clear that he was offended by my uncivilized actions.

He started chattering again-- loudly, angrily. He was probably hurling a litany of squirrel obscenities my way. Then, I'm sure he shook his furry fist at me. After that, he charged. Yes, that tiny red squirrel, smaller even than most Hollywood celebrities purse-dogs, started running straight toward me-- a hundred+ pound human. And what did that human do? I turned and ran away.

Now, bear in mind that I wasn't alone. Dave was with me at the time. Did he rush to my aid? Did he try to fend off the furry fiend? No, while I engaged in battle with the swarthy squirrel, he slowly backed away. And when I started running down the path toward him, he started running too. When I caught up with him, he put his arm out and shoved me behind him. So much for a knight in shining armour.

As we take off, the squirrel is hot on our heels, chattering madly all the while. After a couple hundred metres or so, our out-of-shape lungs burn and legs turn to jello. We're beat, but we're lucky because it seems we've made our way outside the borders of this particular squirrel's territory. We glance over our shoulders to see that the squirrel has stopped in the middle of the trail, tail puffed to its fullest extent. He continues his angry tirade, but ends his pursuit. We sheepishly continue our walk, and I ask Dave for an explanation as to why, in the face of grave danger, he shoved me back toward our pursuer.

So, when I see the squirrel scaling the cinder-block wall in the spare stall, my heart rate spikes. I know his kind, and I don't trust this little bugger; however, luckily the stall does have a door which opens directly outside onto one of the small paddocks. Surely, if I open this door, the squirrel will happily let itself out. Right?

I step out of the stall and walk around the outside of the barn. With a bit of effort, I slide the warped bolt across, and yank open the stall door. Then, I go back inside and stand at the doorway leading into the barn. The squirrel doesn't make any kind of move toward the wide-open, inviting door. I decide to offer a bit of encouragement.

I grab a broom and wave it toward him. He doesn't even flinch. I suppose I should step a bit closer. I do. This time, when I wave the broom, he scurries down the wall and hides behind a bag of shavings. I wait.

A minute or so goes by, and still the squirrel isn't enticed by the sunshine streaming through the recently opened door. I decide to prod him along just a bit more. I lift the broom in the air, and then heave it down on top of the bag of shavings behind which the squirrel is squatting. The impact sends out a loud thud. The squirrel darts out of his hiding spot. But instead of scrambling for the open door, the crazed animal makes a frenzied dash straight toward me.

The next thing I know, he leaps from the floor to my leg, landing at about knee height. I shriek. Before I have time to shake him off, he's already at hip level. I drop the broom, and am about to start dancing around like some ancient tribal warrior. But the squirrel (perhaps a distant relative of the Point Pleasant Park clan), leaps from my leg of his own accord. He lands on the wall next to me, and climbs straight up, through the rafters and into the hayloft. He never even considers the open outside door. Clearly, he already knows his way around.

When my heart rate settles, I pick up the phone and call Dave: "We're getting a barn cat. Not a kitten, but a full-grown, lean, mean hunting machine."

Squash Surprise

Early-July:
The early morning sun is already warm and bright. I yawn, and try to blink myself awake as I push an overflowing wheelbarrow out to the ever-growing manure pile.
In an effort to speed up the composting process, half the pile is covered by a green tarp anchored by moldy bales of straw. The other half of the pile is taller, open to the elements, and ready to receive my wheelbarrow's offerings.

Wearing my bright pink rainboots and some faded navy shorts, I clumsily run the last few steps toward the pile in hopes of propelling the wheelbarrow to the top. From my unsteady perch, I lift the handles and tip the barrow's contents until they spill down the side of the mini-manure-mountain.

Zombie-like, I turn to head back to the barn to re-fill the wheelbarrow. But as I do, I catch a glimpse of a giant leaf out of the corner of my eye. I turn and look over my shoulder. I'm still groggy, but I recognize that leaf. Only, it's the largest leaf of its kind that I've ever seen. I put down the wheelbarrow and tentatively step over warm manure to reach the back, left-hand corner of the pile. Sure enough, that leaf is attached to a long, long vine, and there are many more similar, lush-looking leaves attached--- many of them 12-14 inches across.

It's a squash plant. A squash-plant that's growing and thriving in my manure pile, which also happens to be where we dump our non-dairy, non-meat kitchen compost. At some point, some squash seeds must have made their way into the pile, and taken root. I'm guessing it's buttercup squash, because that's what I usually buy, but at this point I can't say for sure.

As I look-over the plant, I'm baffled that this is the first time I've noticed it. Afterall, its vines are already more than 12 feet long, and orange flowers are beginning to blossom. It seems early for squash blossoms, but what do I know, my previous attempts to grow squash have yielded mouldy leaves and one or two golf-ball size pieces of fruit.

When I get over my surprise at seeing this very successful, completely accidental plant, I trek to the other side of the property to check on the squash I lovingly planted and nurtured this spring. The vines are only a couple of feet long, and the leaves are yellowish, and only as wide as the palm of my hand. Typical.

Mid-August:
I check the manure-pile squash plant everyday. It just keeps getting bigger and bigger. In one direction its vines stretch their clutching tentacles deep into the empty pasture, gripping at tall stalks of lush grass, forcing them to bow down in front of it. In the opposite direction, one vine bravely sets out runners into the mowed path I use to cool out the horses.

The orange flowers have turned into green, fleshy bulbs (which look like baby buttercup squash). The fruit is growing so quickly that I'm convinced I can see it pulsing as each squash expands right in front of my eyes.



Late-August:
There are several large squash on the plant. Some of them are larger than dinner plates, probably 9 or 10 inches across. They look like buttercup squash, only they're flatter-- perhaps they're Kabocha squash? In any case, I know it's early, but they're huge, so I decide it's time to start the harvest. I tear Dave away from his work in the barn, and drag both him and a sharp knife out to the manure pile. He ceremoniously cuts the first squash from the vine.


A few days later, I saw through the thick, dark-green flesh and into the pale orange pulp. I remove the skin and guts and boil great hunks of squash the way my mom always used to-- with a few spoonfuls of brown sugar mixed in. I'm mildly disappointed. It's not the dark, dry squash that's my favourite. No, the flavour is mild and the texture is softer and a bit stringy. Not bad though....definitely good enough to share, and I do, giving several squash away to good friends. Within a few days, I roast the other ready-to-harvest squashes, and freeze them for use in mid-winter soups.

September:
Throughout August and September, I harvest twelve squash from my accidental plant. The vines take a beating during hurricane Earl in early September. The wind tears the leaves and leaves the vines in the centre of the plant yellowed and shrivelled. I noticed two small squash, not much bigger than golf balls, still on the vine. I don't expect them to mature, but I leave them just in case.

October:
I empty another wheelbarrow onto the manure pile. I look over at the squash plant and notice that parts of it seem to have recoverred from the hurricane damage. Sure, some of the leaves on the older part of plant are shrivelled and brown, but the younger runners are a vibrant green again. I lean closer to see whether the two small squash made any progress. They did. They're two healthy-looking, average sized squash now. I look to see if there are any others, but much of the plant is shrouded by chest-high, greenish-brown pasture grass.

It's a misty, humid, grey day, but I've got a few minutes to spare, so I allow myself to indulge my curiosity. I don't expect to find much on the plant, but I follow the vines, pushing aside the grass as I go. I can't believe what I see. I count 12 more squash, all big enough to eat, and several more smaller ones. The largest squash are the biggest yet; they look like slightly flattened basketballs (actually, they look a bit like UFO's).

I once again bring the wheelbarrow to the pile, only this time I wheel it here empty, and bring it back filled with squash. I try to weigh the largest squash, but my kitchen scale can only handle six and a half pounds, and this one definitely weighs more than that. I'm thinking maybe eight or ten pounds. I'll never have to buy squash again.

For comparisons' sake, and because there's a chance of frost tonight, I head out to my "purposely" planted garden. I don't bother with the wheelbarrow, but I do bring a bucket. There are five or six squash plants growing (or perhaps more acurately "dying") in mounds at the back of the garden. Some even have fruit. I twist the baseball sized buttercup squash from the vines and bring them inside, but they're awful sorry-looking beside my earlier harvest. I guess next year I'll have to accidentally drop some more squash seeds into the manure pile if I want a fruit worth eating.