The Rural Voice, 2003-07, Page 8CANADA
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- 479 MacEwan Street, Goderich • N7A 4M1
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R.R. #2, Kippen
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4 THE RURAL VOICE
Carol Riemer
It sounds like summer
Carol Riemer
is a freelance
writer who
lives with her
husband and
two
children near
Grand
Valley,
Ontario.
When night falls, and the stars
come out, I know the show is about
to begin. I tell myself that the strange,
discordant symphony coming from
our yard is really nothing to worry
about. It's only nature warming up to
the sounds of summer.
Just as I am about to get some
sleep, morning arrives, heralded by a
chorus of hungry robins. Reluctantly,
I get up, and start the coffee, as an
old-time tune on the radio brings
back memories of past summers. I
can still hear the motorboats
sputtering back and forth across the
lake, the band playing at a summer
dance, music in the park, and the
gentle sound of water lapping up
against the dock.
Drawn by the aroma of fresh
coffee, and the sound of bacon
sizzling in the frying pan, my family
suddenly appears at the kitchen table.
Between yawns, I gently remind our
son that the lawn needs cutting.
Tactfully, I point out to our daughter
the importance of a well -tended
garden and, with all the subtlety I can
muster this early in the morning, I
suggest to my husband that he take a
critical look at the barbeque. My
mission today is the overhang that
graces our back door. It is in serious
need of painting.
Descending into the cool, dark
cellar, I rummage through the
cluttered shelves at the bottom of the
stairs. Partially hidden behind an
armful of paint cans and brushes, and
draped in a spattered drop cloth, I
emerge unscathed. No novice here.
Having painted myself into more than
one corner over the years, I like to be
prepared.
Carefully, I climb up the ladder
and inspect the peeling paint. I take
out my scraper and soon the surface
is ready for the first coat. At this
point things are still going well. I
haven't spilled more than a few drops
of paint.
Then, I hear it: an eerie, high-
pitched squeal, that steadily grows
louder and more insistent. Balanced
at the top of a ladder, I realize my
options are limited. With nowhere to
run, perspiration begins to drip down
my forehead. Slowly, from behind
the freshly painted boards, a small
brown bat hesitantly reaches out with
the tip of a tiny, rumpled wing.
Discretion being the better part of
valour, I decide that it's time for a
break. I take a walk to the mailbox,
accidentally startling one of our
resident chipmunks, who lets out a
terrified shriek before seeking safety
in a shady corner beneath the deck.
Further on, I'm met by the familiar
rumble of our neighbour's tractor.
We exchange waves. Looking up, I
see a single engine plane just
skimming the treetops. Another
neighbour, another wave.
The heat of the afternoon slowly
begins to fade. In the distance, the
faint, steady ring of a hammer is
drowned out by the roar of a heavy
chainsaw. A cloud of dust appears, as
another car rounds the bend, drawing
the attention of our neighbour's dogs.
High in the old maples, a couple of
crows begin to squawk and,
suddenly, it sounds a lot like summer.
The lawn looks great, the garden
has been weeded, and supper is
sizzling on the grill. As ice tinkles in
a pitcher of fresh lemonade, another
busy day comes to an end. On the
evening breeze, I can hear Canada
geese gathering in the marsh. Frogs
and crickets serenade the rising
moon, and one small brown bat, still
groggy from being awakened,
happily takes flight, guided only by
the haunting sounds of a country
summer night.0
Deadline for the next
issue of
The Rural Voice
is July 16.