Retreat

[vaneramos]

It is good to work on the land with my own hands, feet and back. I spent part of the week helping with fall cleanup on Brenda and Judy's farm near Mount Forest. Judy broke her ankle on the job a few weeks ago, so my help brought Brenda some relief.

The heaviest task was to remove some oak stumps from the verge of their front lane, using a stump grinder. This device looks likes a hellish combination of giant chain saw, rototiller and Medieval torture device. To operate it is like forcing a panic-stricken elephant to sit on a mouse, a supreme test of upper body strength.

But later during the afternoon I spent a bucolic hour driving a small tractor up and down the lane, shredding and collecting leaves. My parents waited to buy a riding mower after I left home; cutting more than two acres of lawn was always a chore. Now that I've done yard work by tractor, I can think of few sweeter pleasures.

It has renewed my earlier-life fantasy about a piece of country land to call home. A fantasy it will probably stay. But at least I spent two days someplace better than heaven.

Wednesday evening Judy and I were sitting in front of the TV at 9 p.m. when I started to nod off. I stumbled to bed and slept soundly until 8 a.m. I sleep more than eight hours maybe three times a year, usually only when I'm sick or sleep-deprived. In this case it was all fresh air, hard exercise and the profound darkness of a country retreat.

Twice I took their dogs for a long walk. Dreamer is a border collie cross (I think), a relatively gentle and laid back individual. Pearl, a spirited papillon, was a gift for their wedding five years ago, which actually marked Brenda and Judy's 30th anniversary. They kept me company and kept me moving along a kilometre of trails cut around the perimetre of their farm, through fields and past the edge of a small lake.

Today I'm back in the Guelph, meeting Michele and Sarah for writing appointments, going for cream of mushroom soup at Capistrano. In my dreams I will find a way to combine these two lifestyles.

Speaking of dreams, an image of Brenna visited last night. This undoubtedly arose from a conversation with a friend who is experiencing some difficulty in his relationship with a teenage son. Also, because I've spent this month writing poems for my daughters.

She wore a strapless, iridescent green gown and fur stole, and stood elegantly on a wide, colourless heath. I approached and we began to converse. She raised some valid complaints, then started pouting and said, "You're a bad person."

I felt stricken, but tried to respond thoughtfully, encouraging her to talk: "What has led you to believe that?"

She answered, but I began to notice certain traits unlike her (I had been writing before sleep, in bed, a poem about small details and inherited characteristics). Then, with relief, I realized she was an actress impersonating Brenna. Who had put her up to this, and who was she?

Waking up, I realized: Renée Zellweger.

I practically never dream about people I know. This one makes me consider it might be worthwhile to continue the challenge of poetry for my daughters, beyond a month. It has been a revelation so far. I might get to meet the real person instead of a miscast Hollywood celebrity.