Building projects

The train, passing by a mile across the field, sounds as if it were driving right through the living room: a nasty east wind has been blowing all day. It has been bending the tall spruce towering over the highest poplar in the bush across the house, whipped the horses’ tails between their legs when they ventured out to the unprotected hill to the south, even tousled the feathers on the heads of the crows pecking by the side of the road. It is a cold wind, too, an unpleasant change from the gentle spring breeze that caressed our faces only a couple of days ago when we had tea on the deck in the afternoon.

What can I say - it is April, after all, known for its unpredictable weather changes. Still, is it really necessary to have a November day more than a month after the spring equinox? The sky, milky white and foreboding, suggests that the newest forecast might well be true: more snow is expected as early as tonight, as much as ten centimetres. This time, however, it will fall on bare ground and likely not stay around so long. Sure, some small remnants of the mighty snow banks are still left, ragged and dirty, along the north side of the tree lines or in a ditch hardly touched by the sun’s rays, but as of today even our magnificent snowman is a thing of the past, and soon the somewhat greener area of the lawn will be the only indication that a giant was keeping watch here once. For a few warm days it melted right before our eyes, hollows and bumps appearing where none had been before, losing first one dead-tree arm, then the other. Then, only an armful of snow left, the process almost came to a standstill yesterday when temperatures didn’t rise above +4. This morning I could have held the remaining snow in my two hands, and there is no more speculation as to who the winner of the bet will be. It turns out that the seemingly overly optimistic estimate of April 22^nd was not that far out after all, and with names on every day from the 25^th to the 2^nd of May it was a tight race till the end. 

The birds are not concerned with weather forecasts: they are getting ready to raise families. This morning at breakfast I watched the flurry of activity at the bird feeder. Normally at this time of year it has been taken down already, but there is still some ‘wild bird seed’ left, those tiny grains usually spurned in favour of sunflower seeds by the chickadees and blue jays, and I am waiting for juncos, redpolls, nuthatches, even the odd hairy or downy woodpecker to clean it up. Yesterday a flash of bright yellow caught my eye: a solitary evening grosbeak, such a rare guest these last few years, had come for a visit – what a beautiful surprise!

This morning there was a steady back-and-forth of the regulars at the feeder while the robins hopped around on the lawn. Suddenly a drama on the roof of the feeder: the hairy woodpecker, intent on splitting open a kernel, got very excited at the approach of a starling and went after it with beak and claws. The starling was not to be deterred, however, and stood its ground, advancing on the woodpecker with spread wings, verbally attacking its adversary. Insulted, maybe, the woodpecker left, and the victorious starling entered the bird feeder. 

The feed, however, was the last thing on his mind: he was checking the site out for its nesting suitability, clinging to the ceiling for moments on end. His mate flew in from a nearby poplar tree where she had been waiting for him to create safe passage for her, and for a little while they conversed on the roof of the feeder, he repeating the ceiling-and-wall testing procedure a couple of times, their beautiful iridescent blue-green feathers speckled with tiny white dots. I saw the male’s orange beak open and close, and sliding the window open a crack I could hear his song. In the end, they must have decided against this location after all – wisely, I must say, because I don’t plan to leave it there much longer, and there are many old or dead poplars in the bush that must be much more suitable for their purpose.

I watched another bird couple, this one not interested at all in the feeder: two magpies stalked back and forth on the lawn in serious conversation, heads nodding, one’s long tail feathers raised, the other’s standing straight out. Just a little while ago, the afternoon drawing to a close, I noticed movement close to the centre of the big pine outside the kitchen window. Chickadees, robins and chipping sparrows are darting in and out of there all the time, and I imagine that there are several nests every year. This swaying of branches, however, was not caused by those small birds; it was much too pronounced for one of them. It wasn’t long until I had traced the movement to the two magpies, busy at work on a branch about two metres above the ground, close to the trunk. They each had dragged a dry twig in there and were busy positioning them to build the foundation for their nest. 

I was less than pleased: did I really want magpies to nest in that tree? So close to the house, with all the racket that was going to ensue once their babies hedged and started to fly? Magpies have a reputation, too, to eat eggs and fledglings of song birds – maybe I should go out and shoo them away! I must say I was tempted for those very reasons, but then I thought, what right do I have to get involved? What makes me privileged to pass judgment on these birds, when, to be truthful, I had to admire them for even attempting to build in such a tight spot? 

I watched them hop up to their chosen nest site, branch by branch, like climbing a spiral staircase, their bulky nesting material making it even more difficult to navigate the inner labyrinth of the tree, and decided to let them be. The chickadees and nuthatches didn’t seem concerned – there is so much room to breed around here – and maybe the presence of the magpies will prevent the yellow-bellied sapsucker from boring holes in the bark of the pine this year. 

I will watch and learn more about the behaviour of these smart birds with their beautiful plumage – and hopefully not at some point curse the moment I didn’t interfere.

Promise

After the snow storm, the snowman

It’s been a week since the snow storm, and roads have long returned to a driveable state, although the gravel roads are still soft and rutted. The last few days were much warmer, and big puddles have replaced snow in many spots.

Still, there is a fair bit left even now, and of course there was much more on Easter Sunday when a group of family and friends gathered at our house. The sun was shining brightly in the afternoon, and it was warm enough to sit out on the deck on the west side of the house – a bit like sitting on an island, surrounded by a sea of white.

The under-thirty crowd soon decided the snow was perfect to build a snowman, and went to work with  much enthusiasm. It wasn’t long until tracks from the rolled-up snow criss-crossed the lawn, some almost, though not quite, laying bare the tan grass underneath. Roll after roll of sticky snow was added to the ever-growing pile which, for a long time, looked rather formless. What would it be in the end? A tower? A pyramid? Just a big ugly lump of snow? More volunteers joined the effort, and the assembly line was perfected: there now were 'roll starters’ - female, and partly a bit older - who passed on their product to one of the strong young project initiators. Like the snowball, the crew of snow pushers necessary to manoeuvre the building blocks kept growing. Three guys, three pairs of arms and legs gave their all to move the snow rolls to the building site, then, in one huge last effort, muscles straining under the weight, one roll after the other was lifted up with a 'one-two-THREE!'

Finally the construction was deemed high enough. Now it became clear that the mass of snow was not intended to become a pyramid at all: this was going to be a bona fide snow giant! The shaping of the body and the head was not an easy thing to do: the whole thing was about twelve feet high, after all, and steps had to be fashioned on the backside so that the sculptors had a foothold. With much good advice it took shape. Rocks had to be found for the eyes and the mouth, a carrot for the nose, and the horses’ 20-l water pail was deemed to be the perfect hat. Never before had a snowman even close to its size taken up residence on our lawn!

Now, of course, the big question is: how long will it last? Later, when we had moved back inside for coffee and cake, bets were taken and written down for the date of its final demise. Estimates range from very optimistic (April 22^nd) to very gloomy (May 18^th), with a cluster right around the end of April/beginning of May.

So far, although the lawn has lost much of its snow cover, the snow giant is holding fast. Its shoulders are sagging a bit, and it has bumps and cavities where none were before, but its dead-tree arms are still raised in a benevolent gesture, almost like a blessing.

More snow!

Weather forecasts are notoriously unreliable here – maybe everywhere? – but that doesn’t deter the average Canadian from checking them often, seemingly placing enough faith in them to not give up hope that, some day, they might actually be right.

They can be, of course, and when it comes to extreme weather they seem to be more often than not. The winter storm watch posted on Tuesday and upheld on Wednesday, so unlikely on days where the snow vanished almost before my eyes, stubbornly refused to disappear from the weather map. On Wednesday afternoon I hung a load of laundry outside, the snow under my feet whispering with that grainy sound it only makes in the last stage of its life, made porous and hollow by the sun.

The moon, that night, so close to being full, was fuzzy, and the stars not as bright as they should have been – the first indication that things were about to change. “Five to ten centimetres over night”, said the weatherman on the radio, “and another ten centimetres possible before the system moves out Thursday afternoon.” Well, it might not happen – right? Or it might happen somewhere else, possibly: there were, after all, areas further east that hadn’t received any of Sunday’s snowfall, where farmers would rejoice if their cracked soil was covered with a nice white blanket.

It was not to be. When I woke up yesterday morning the trees were obscured by thick snowflakes; I could see that much from my bed already. Even with the prior warning, however, I was unprepared for the view that presented itself when I got up: more than twenty centimetres of snow had fallen already, and there was no sign that it was about to stop anytime soon. The announcement on the radio at 6:30  revealed several bus cancellations in counties bordering ours already, but our buses seemed to be running. This would be interesting!

Maya shouldered her bag at 7:45, pulled on her boots, and followed Leo up the driveway. As usual he was going to make sure that she got off okay. Ten minutes later they returned, Maya’s legs soaked from the onslaught of the wind-driven wet snow. The bus was nowhere to be seen. No wonder: roads still wet and muddy from the snowfall a few days ago were now covered with new snow; it was unlikely that the bus would be able to negotiate this mess. Soon came the bus driver’s call: trying to turn around after her first pickup she had almost got stuck, so she brought the boy back and drove home.

We had been planning to attend a 60^th birthday celebration about an hour's drive east of here but were unwilling to put ourselves in harm’s way: area highways were treacherous and visibility very poor. Even in Edmonton the snow was wreaking havoc, power outages along the city’s major commuter routes putting traffic lights out of order at rush hour time – not a pretty situation. 

We decided to wait until it stopped snowing before we attempted to go anywhere. By eleven-thirty, finally, snowflakes thin and sparse now, thirty-two centimetres of new snow on the ground, we slowly made our way out of the driveway with the four-wheel drive pickup – no use trying to make it with the small car. One set of tracks transected the white band of the road, the snow pushed up in ridges on both sides. They looked like the tracks of a small car, too, the snow showing the telltale scraping of a car’s belly. Our amazement that the car got through snow this deep did not last long, however. Coming over the hill we could see a dark mass in the distance: the car, stopped in the middle of the road with a raised hood. The driver, a bit abashed, told us the car had overheated in his attempt to make it through. He declined our offer to assist him in some way, and we ploughed through the now pristine snow for almost two miles more until we reached the highway.

We had no trouble, though it certainly was not very nice driving for the first forty miles or so. I felt sorry, too, for the birds who had so optimistically returned to their summer homes: small groups of geese flying overhead had trouble staying the course in the strong winds, and hawks were sitting, wet and bedraggled, on fence posts while their meal, the mice, were undoubtedly unwilling to tunnel out into the open through a foot of snow.

About half way to our destination the roads were bare, and fields nearly so: again it was our immediate area that had borne the brunt of the wintry assault. Our hopes of getting into the fields early will not be fulfilled, that much is clear already. Again, too, we will have to manoeuvre around water holes, which is always a nuisance. On the other hand, this unrequested late snow might mean the difference between good and poor crop emergence, so we will not complain too loudly.

During the afternoon the sky had cleared, and the setting sun was in my eyes on the way home. A golden glow lay on the snow and on melt water lakes that had formed in many depressions already, the wind had calmed down, and once again geese were walking in pairs along the water’s edge, or even went for an evening swim.

It might not have been the last snow of the season, but it is not so bad anymore: these are spring storms now, and even today the foot of snow has been reduced by about half already. For me, it means I can watch juncos cluster at the feeder at breakfast time, enjoying these pretty transitory visitors with their neat dark and light grey plumage and their bright little beaks. They are joined by the flock of redpolls that has frequented the feeder for the second half of the winter, but the chickadees must be busy with other matters: I can hear them trill their spring song in the bush.

Coming home

It’s not that I hadn’t been warned – a photo attached to an email Sunday night fully sufficed to do so –but how do you prepare yourself for the return to a season you had foolishly expected not to think about for the next seven months or so?

When I landed in Calgary yesterday afternoon the sky was blue, and a mild breeze lifted my hair on the way to the small plane that was to take me to Edmonton – a most beautiful Alberta spring day! To my surprise, things didn’t look and feel much different once I stepped out of the plane 45 minutes later: Edmonton, too, was in spring mode. How nice to hear the hoarse call of the gulls again, to watch their graceful white bodies dance overhead!

My hope that the fifteen centimeters of snow that fell at home on Sunday would be melted was in vain, of course: the further north we got, the whiter the world became. The gravel road was an unattractive mix of mud and slush, but it was quite passable, at least – better than the day before, I’m sure.

Still, spring is not as far away as it appears at first sight. This morning, a soft twitter of bird voices greeted me, voices that hadn’t been there when I left two and a half weeks ago. Dark-eyed Juncos kept the chickadees company at the bird feeder, and three starlings landed on its roof, discussing, it seemed, if they should partake in the feast as well. Their song filled the early morning air, and while it is not as melodious as the robins' it is a beautiful song, nevertheless.

Geese, too, are on the move, little groups of them flying north, and several hawks are back as well. They might ask themselves what made them leave their winter quarters to come back to this, but, like me, they know that it won't last much longer - even if the next winter storm watch is a prominent feature in the weather forecast already!

When it's spring time in Alberta ....

A day at the farmers market

Saturday, March 24th, 2012 


I have been here in Germany for a week now. My body, forced into a day offset by a third from its regular rhythm, has found back into at least a semblance of day and night; that is always a big problem. Maybe the long day of travel to get here, followed by the long and winding road (or rather rail) after I arrived, made sleep, when it was finally possible, such a welcome refuge that day and night slipped rather easily into their respective slots.


Now, life is quiet, and I have relatively few jobs to do. The start of my visit, however, was a bit different ...

It was Saturday, March 17th, 2012. After a night of hardly any sleep – I woke up at 1:30 AM, thinking it must be time to get up soon – trying, mostly in vain, to get back to that state of blissful oblivion I knew I needed to stay alert during the day ahead, the sweetest sound stirred me awake completely. Could this be? It sounded like a robin! Quietly, I got up and gazed out of the small window. The sickle moon shone a faint light on the red tiled roofs of nearby houses, the street lay deserted, nothing stirred, no sound – no sound, that is, but the sweet morning song of the European relative of the robin, the Drossel. I couldn’t see it in the dim pre-dawn light, but there could be no doubt. What a wonderful way to start this day, any day! 


A little while later I heard our friends get up, and a bit later yet the inviting smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted up to me, calling me downstairs to get ready for my day at the market. 


 Our friends Wilfried and Doris have a chicken and potato farm not far from Kassel in northern Hesse, and every Saturday they sell eggs and potatoes at the local farmer’s market. This weekend Wilfried was extremely short of help; he and his 16 year-old son Martin would have been the only ones manning the stall, and that would have made it quite difficult. Thus we made a deal: my help at the farmer’s market in exchange for my use of their car for the next two weeks – mutually satisfactory, we hoped. 


 I had never sold eggs before in my life – never sold anything but Bingo tickets as a volunteer, in fact - but Wilfried assured me that I would most certainly be able to do the job. It was reassuring to know that he and Martin would be there to ask if there was something I didn’t know. 


He had left at about 6:30 already to set up, and Martin and I followed an hour later. An assortment of stalls lined the market place, from honey and other apiary products to breads, fruits and vegetables, meats and sausages, and other tantalizing products. The warm glow of the early morning sun sparkled on the light grey flagstones and the dark green awnings of the stalls, lit up the amazing array of fruits and vegetables across from us, and came to rest on the flats of eggs Wilfried had stacked already. 


Martin and I donned green aprons with the inscription Eier + Kartoffeln frisch vom Bauernhof Koch (Eggs + Potatoes, fresh from Koch Farms), I got a quick refresher of the instructions I had received the night before, and we took up our positions, ready for the first customers. 

 On the table in front of us were stacks of egg flats of thirty eggs each: from my left to my right, there were hardboiled eggs in blue and green, red and yellow, orange and mauve – “Easter eggs” – a desired item at this time of year: they were priced at 25 €-cent each. In front of them the smallest eggs, laid by the young laying hens, were available for only 5 cents each – most certainly the best deal of the day. Next were extra large eggs for 22 cents, large eggs for 20 cents, and medium eggs for 17 cents. To complicate the matter there also were two stacks each for large and medium eggs, one with brown and one with white eggs. Confusing? Maybe not for the well-rested, experienced merchant, but slightly so for me in my sleep deprived state. 


Wilfried had prepared a detailed price list for me, printed out and laminated, yet my biggest worry – apart from dropping a whole flat of eggs and making a huge mess – was that I might not multiply correctly and make a grave mistake – or, less serious, make a fool of myself. Coins, too, were on my worry list: they all looked so similar to my dollar-trained eye, one and two Euros, fifty, twenty and ten cents, and fives, twos and ones. They were all neatly sorted into compartments in the till, however, so it turned out to be much less of a problem than I had anticipated. The bank notes – five, ten, twenty, and fifty Euros – are easy enough to distinguish, thankfully. 


 Well, there was nothing for it: the customers were starting to arrive, and since I now wore my apron it was my responsibility to fulfill their wishes. This was easy enough as long as there was only one kind of eggs they wanted, but often an order would be, “six 22s, ten brown 20s and ten white 20s – oh, and I’d also like six coloured eggs – no, make it five. Not the mauve, that’s so dull – yes, orange and yellow. Oh, maybe one red.” I’d carefully add it all up (boxes of ten eggs being easier than those with six, of course, at least until I got used to it a little more), and name the price, only to find out that they also wanted five pounds of potatoes. Pounds – careful now! Prices on my list were in kilograms, which meant they wanted only half as much as I first thought. By the time I had figured out the price for the potatoes I had forgotten the carefully added-up price for the eggs again. 


 There were strong preferences concerning colour, brown being the favourite more often than white, and the size, too, was quite important. Strangely enough not too many customers seemed to realize that two of the smallest eggs cost only half as much as one of the large ones. Four eggs for one – how could you beat that? Yet it were mostly Turkish or Eastern European customers with big families who took advantage of this deal; most of the others seemed to think an egg had to have a certain circumference to be ‘right’. 


 After a while, it became more routine, and I started to relax, even enjoy myself. The sun was shining, it was warm, and everything sang “Spring!” No wonder people were in a good mood. Nearly everybody was friendly, and nobody got upset if I took a bit longer. It’s easy enough to greet people with a friendly smile, after all, and a smile nearly always will generate a smile in response. 


 I was amazed how quickly the stacks of flats disappeared, how often Martin or Wilfried had to replenish them from the cart behind our backs. While I took the money for the potatoes I was not responsible for weighing and packing them; that made it easier for me, too. 


 So the morning went by, and since I was kept occupied with a steady though not too thick stream of customers, I had no opportunity to think about jet lag and lack of sleep, and I functioned reasonably well. Around noon, however, about an hour before the end of my stint as a farmer’s market merchant, I suddenly was overcome by a bout of fatigue so powerful that I could have fallen asleep standing upright in my stall. ‘Only one more hour,’ I encouraged my tired brain. Wilfried, who had inquired about my wellbeing from time to time throughout the morning, noticed what was happening and disappeared for a few minutes. He came back with a cup of strong coffee from a nearby cafe, and I soon felt revived enough to make it to closing time. 


By the time it was over, I had, without realizing it, mastered much of the art of selling eggs at the farmer’s market in Baunatal – or so I prefer to think. I wonder what Wilfried or Martin would say if someone asked them when I was out of earshot. 


Would I do it again? No question! Next time, however, I would prefer to be fully present for the experience ...

A journey with hindrances

Saturday, March 17th, 2012, 3 AM. 


Plagued by my old foe familiar from many trips to Germany, the sleeplessness of jetlag, I finally decided I might as well write instead of unsuccessfully trying to get back to blissful oblivion. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 


 This is how I had intended to end the last blog entry from the Calgary airport, but had to cut it short because the boarding call finally came: If the beginning of this trip is any indication, I will have fun. When I was waiting for my turn in a busy washroom a little while ago a sudden clatter made all of us women turn to the far end of the line of stalls. There was a moment’s silence, then a voice asked, “Are you okay?” A peal of laughter was the answer, followed by a “Yes, I think so”. It turned out that the door of one of the stalls had mysteriously got unhinged at the top and tipped towards the rear wall, fortunately missing the unsuspecting woman inside. Needless to say, once it became clear what had happened and it was ascertained that she didn’t get hurt the whole washroom was filled with laughter. I wonder what will happen next ... 
                         ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 


Maybe it is not such a good idea to engage in speculations like that, because something just might. As if a five hour wait at an airport wasn’t enough, the delay was extended first by forty minutes, then by an hour, and finally, an hour and a half later, boarding commenced. After a while everybody was seated, waiting expectantly for the plane to start taxiing – but nothing. Stewardesses were walking back and forth checking overhead bins one last time, calmly listening to remarks about the temperature inside the plane – it was getting hotter and hotter – talking to passengers here and there. 


 Every once in awhile the captain reported that there were still issues to resolve, apologized for the heat, thanked us for our patience (we had heard that line more often than we cared for since the plane started to be delayed), mentioned something about starting the left engine to get some fresh air into the plane, even explained what we would be hearing when it did, or that we’d smell some jet fuel for a moment once the engine caught – but nothing happened. 


 And then, there it was, the longed for stream of fresh air! We were informed that, unfortunately, this did not yet mean imminent departure: they had opened a door in the rear, which at least brought the temperature down to a more pleasant level. Still, however, “the air current was not strong enough to get the engine started” –whatever that meant! - and more air needed to be brought over from the hangar, the captain informed us. Somehow we didn’t feel very much reassured when we heard this latest development. 


 Finally the longed-for engine noise set in, and at 9:15 PM – two-and-a-half hours later than planned – we were airborne. Everything went smoothly after, service was good, and we made up about half an hour of that lost time by the time we landed in Frankfurt. On our way out, the flight attendants thanked us for our exemplary acceptance of the circumstances. It seems they often have much different experiences on occasions such as these. 


 Our carousel was the only one in motion when we came down to the baggage area, and soon we were on our way, some to catch connecting flights to Delhi and Cairo, others, like me, close to the end of their destination. 


The delay meant that I would be that much later to arrive at my cousin Sigrid’s in Gießen, a university town about an hour north of Frankfurt. It was not feasible to book a train ticket from home, of course, and now I hurried to “the railway station” to get “a ticket to my destination”. No problem, the friendly ticket seller told me, the next train was due to leave in a few minutes, and I’d just make it. I would change trains at Frankfurt’s main terminal, and again in Friedberg, and would arrive in Gießen an hour and a half later, at ten to four. Great! This was going to work out beautifully. 


 Once I had walked over to track 104 from 102 at my first train change (Frankfurt is a huge rail terminal!) I sank back into the seat and relaxed, enjoying the sun on my face, the greening landscape flying by outside the window, the little towns where we stopped for a couple of minutes to dispense of passengers and pick up new ones. I still hadn’t had time to phone Sigrid, who by now would be starting to wonder if I’d ever make it, but both at the airport and at the main terminal I had just barely had time to catch my train. I’d have ten minutes in Friedberg, at the last switch, which should be long enough.


 The estimated time of arrival there came closer, and since I was not familiar with the stations along the way I just enjoyed the ride. Then came the announcer’s voice over the loudspeaker system: “Kronberg. This train ends here. All passengers have to get out.” 


 “Where do I catch the train to Friedberg,” I asked the man waiting beside me by the door before disembarking. “Friedberg?” he asked, looking at me questioningly. “There is no train to Friedberg from here. You must be on the wrong train.” 


 Oh, great! Now what? Thankfully, Kronberg still has a railway office with a clerk, unlike other stations that sometimes have only ticket dispensers. I explained my dilemma to this very friendly man, and he told me not to worry, I’d make it to Gießen by 4:30, and it wouldn’t be difficult at all. He scribbled a few words on the back of my ticket and stamped it in case I would get into trouble for not having the right ticket for that line, and explained carefully where I had to change trains again. 


 I have no idea how I could end up on the wrong train, because I am sure it was track 104 where I boarded, just as I was supposed to. Not much used to using public transit, it didn’t occur to me to check the sign on the train. I just had the time – which was about right – and the track, and thought that was sufficient. I had not taken into consideration that at a station as busy as Frankfurt there would be trains leaving from the same track constantly. Live and learn! 


In Kronberg at three o’clock I still hadn’t been able to notify my cousin, and the first switch wouldn’t leave me enough time. The second one was only twenty-five minutes from my last destination. My cell phone had no signal in Germany, and I decided to try if there was wifi on the train so that I could use Skype.No such luck, however. 


 A well-dressed elderly woman came in, looked over to me and said, “busy, busy”, nodding at the computer. “Not busy”, I said, “just getting a bit desperate.” “Do you want to use my phone,” she asked. “It is registered in Switzerland, so the call has to go through there and will be more expensive, but if you keep it short you are welcome to make your call.” Yes, this worked, and Sigrid, notified in time, expected me at the station. 


 I encountered such friendly people in those first few hours in Germany, sleep deprived and not quite with it as I was, from two very friendly railroad clerks, a profession that is notorious for being grumpy, to the woman with the cell phone and another one addressing me when I was lugging my heavy bags up the last flight of stairs at the last railway station where I had to switch trains. Like so many people who hear I am living in Canada, immigrated there more than thirty years ago, her eyes lit up, and she asked many questions about my life there. Canada is still the land of dreams for many Germans: big, empty spaces, silence, forests, fields – or the land of unlimited possibilities.


 Yes, I am very lucky to live there, just like I am lucky to have roots in this country where beauty means something quite different. It has all worked together to help make me who I am now. 


 By now it is four-thirty in the morning, and in a couple of hours I will get up to get ready for another day of adventure. Last night, after saying good-bye to Sigrid, I took yet another train north, this time one of the high speed ICs that stop only rarely. I got out at the small town of Wabern. Our friend Wilfried was there to pick me up, and this morning I will help him and his son Martin sell eggs and potatoes at the local farmers market. It will be a busy place this close to Easter. 


 Maybe I should not again ask the question: “I wonder what will happen next?” ......................

I'm sitting at the railway station ....

"I'm sitting in the railway station, got a ticket to my destination ..."


It's not the railway station, but once again the Calgary airport where I'm sitting, waiting to get to my destination. In four hours I will be on my way to Frankfurt for a two-and-a-half week visit to Germany. Only rarely in those thirty-plus years I've been living in Canada have I gone in the spring, and I'm looking forward to it very much.


Spring is the season that most severely got cut short for me short by choosing Alberta as my home. Here, it comes late, often only in May, and it doesn't take much time to linger: summer is hard on its heels. I have grown used to that, have learned to look for different signs of spring than when I lived in Germany. Then, my mother would often bring in the first buds of the snow drops growing close in a protected spot close to the house in time for the three-lobed white and green little bells to open for my birthday on February 1st. Sometimes they might have even been blooming outside already, chasing thoughts of winter away even if there was still snow on the ground. 


Once, many years ago, I found snowdrop bulbs in a seed catalogue in Canada. I ordered them and planted them in the most protected place I could find, on the south side of the house. How pleased I was when the first tender green shoots appeared the next spring! They bloomed only once, and were gone the next year, not made to cope with the harsh winters in our part of the world.


There are more hardy harbingers of spring, however: grape hyacinths and scilla, and, a little later, tulips and narcissus will grow even here. This doesn't happen until May or, if we are really lucky, late in April.and they don't stand out for long until summer comes along with its bold palette of colours. Still, it is always exciting to find the first spikes of these brave little fellows poking out of the ground, and since they have multiplied generously I don't feel guilty when I pick a steady supply of bouquets for the kitchen table.


Migrating birds, too, are slower to return to their summer homes in Alberta than they are in Germany. Geese in large numbers can usually be seen around the middle of April, and April 29th has often been the designated day when thousands of Sandhill cranes fly overhead on their way north. Starlings are among the first to find their way back, and I haven't seen any yet this year.


Still, there is the promise of spring even now: chickadees have changed their song from their bird feeder chatter to to the more melodious notes speaking of warmer weather and finding a partner, the drumming of woodpeckers establishing their territory can be heard regularly, and three times in the last week I have seen small groups of Canada geese: one goose on Sunday, three on Tuesday, and five today. It is only a matter of time now, and who knows, maybe when I come home at the beginning of April the treetops will be alive with the conversations of starlings and robins.


Meanwhile, I will get my first taste of spring in Germany, where the buds of the chestnut trees are swelling already, and yellow and violet crocus dot the lawns.