Life on the Galapagos Islands is about as far away from life in the city as you can imagine.

Very few humans live there. Only about 4% of the islands is inhabited by our species. The rest is populated by birds, reptiles and sea animals, all secure and comfortable in their particular environments. They go about their daily lives sunbathing, foraging for food and raising offspring, oblivious to the few human visitors arriving with their fashion accessories: binoculars and cellphone cameras.

We boarded our temporary home – 15 passengers with 7 crew and a naturalist guide – on the Samba, a small boat adapted for human survival in a natural world. It didn’t take us long to fit in with life at sea. Our body clocks responded, although reluctantly at first, to the daylight hours of 6:00 am to 6:00 pm. We were often climbing into kayaks at first light and into our beds soon after dark. We exchanged our usual pastimes for new ones: snorkeling, exploring lava landscapes, watching seals as they swam nearby. There was no internet to distract us.

Our food, plentiful and delicious, came from our surroundings: shrimp, tuna, octopus, scorpion fish from the ocean; papayas, melons, pineapple, potatoes from local orchards and fields. The chef performed marvelous feats in his tiny kitchen, using leftovers and local spices, creating native dishes such as ceviche, naranja mousse, and tres leches cake. Plantain chips satisfied our yearning for junk food. There was no Loblaws anywhere in sight.

Space on the boat was tight. Food was stored inside our dinning room benches, our suitcases went under beds.We washed our bodies in tiny bathroom showers and our clothes in tiny bathroom sinks. We hung our underwear out to dry on the top deck in the wind, and quickly became friends as we learned to recognize who wore what brand. Our cabins were small, mostly outfitted with bunks, and shelves for clothes. There were no master suites on board.

But our daily lives were filled with miracles. We walked across volcanic lava fields where the hopeful heads of tiny flowers peeked out. We sat beside sea lions napping, snoring, rolling over and scratching themselves with their fins. We cheered along as male iguanas head-butted over territory. We side-stepped flightless cormorants searching for perfect twigs to build perfect nests. We swam and snorkeled with fur seals and sharks. We witnessed a huge male tortoise as he struggled to climb on top of his chosen female partner on the side of a dirt path. There were no Hollywood producers making R-rated movies on the scene.

Every so often on the boat our guide would yell out: “Dolphins, dolphins, dolphins!” and we would rush to the bow with our cameras. Other times he would summon us to a “feeding frenzy!” Underwater predators had driven large schools of sardines to the ocean surface which looked like boiling water as the gulls and other birds swooped down to feast. There was no media coverage of the events.

On the seventh day on board the Samba we stayed up until 9:00 pm toasting our trip and reliving our experiences. The next morning we awoke to the sights and sounds of a city – Puerto Ayora on the island of Santa Cruz. Suddenly, out of nowhere, there were people everywhere. We hastily re-adjusted. We moved into a hotel with walk-in showers, flat-screen TV’s, and king beds. We ate meals in restaurants and bought gifts in souvenir shops.

It was all quite unnerving. Standing on flat land in the familiarity of city living, our sea legs kept us swaying and we felt a strong pull back towards the serenity, the solitude, and the wonder of life that had surrounded our little boat in the Galapagos Islands.

Sue

Our guest bedroom is a mess. Did the grandkids visit recently and dump all the lego on the floor? Did Minou, the neighbours’ friendly cat, sneak in and leave furballs and other evidence behind? Did a tree fall during the strong winds last week and break the bedroom window, letting leaves and rain in? NO! to all three.

We are Packing For A Trip. Not even a long trip mind you; just a couple of weeks. How can I be in such a frenzy? One reason is that our house in the country had three extra bedrooms so we could easily spread out the mess; but this house has just one extra bedroom that we can spare as Packing Central. Somehow we have to manage.

I remember my first trip where packing was an issue. I was going to Paris, by myself. I had the distinct impression that, since I was going to a city known for fashion, I needed to keep up. I bought the biggest suitcase I could find (with, unfortunately, the smallest wheels). I filled it up with any chic outfits I had, several pairs of 6-inch heels, scarves, matching jewellery, and so on, hoping to fit in with the crowds of fashionable people and maybe even be noticed if I happened to run into Christian Louboutin.

I arrived in Paris on Bastille Day which, as it happens, is a national holiday – with NO taxi service. I had to lug my enormous suitcase on to the bus, down into the subway, and then transfer onto another line. It was tough going, but I only fell once – into somebody’s lap. I got as close to my hotel as public transit would take me, but I still had to walk several blocks on cracked sidewalks, and then cross a main street through the middle of the parade. And I wasn’t even wearing French colours!

During the trip I saw no fashion designers, and I wore about half the clothes I had brought. Besides, I had no room to pack anything new, even if I wanted to buy something in the fashion capital of the world. How dumb was that? At the end of the trip I vowed never to bring as many clothes ever again on any trip. And I have been pretty good about it.

Yet still I stand here in the guest room trying to make decisions. Which of these 12 tops go best with which pants? Do I even need Any dressy outfits if we are going to be on a little boat in the middle of nowhere? And what jacket do I wear to the airport if it’s winter in the city, but we are going to a place near the equator?

Meanwhile Peter’s side of the room is mostly empty, except for a few things I have put there; things he might forget – like a hat, a water bottle, and pyjamas. His duffle bag sits empty on the bed, waiting for him to grab some stuff the night before and shove it in. Matching? What is that? I can only hope that the “stuff” he chooses doesn’t have too many food stains or unfortunately-situated holes.

One last hurdle we face when we are packing for a trip at our advanced age – our health! On this particular trip there are no hospitals, no doctors, not even any drug stores, anywhere nearby. So we have to load up on all our medications. And think about other emergencies that might occur. What if we get a cold? What if that annoying tooth decides to act up? What if we develop a gastro-intestinal infection that turns into a blockage and requires emergency surgery? Oh for heavens sake, woman! Pack your bag and get going!

I’ll only be 0ff-line for two weeks. Unless that blockage gets serious…

Sue

Evil characters will soon be lurking all over our city, frightening homeowners with weapons and menacing smiles. Are we afraid? Yes we are. We are afraid of running out of candy.

Hallowe’en was not a big deal when we lived in the country, at the end of a dead-end street. We had visits from 3 or 4 spooky characters at the most. By 7:00 pm we were able to start feasting on the leftover candy. But last year, in the city, we gave out treats to over 90 fairies, spidermen, witches, fire fighters and ghosts. This went on till well past 8:30 pm and, even worse, we hardly had any candy left for ourselves! It just wasn’t fair!

Our neigbours in the city take this event seriously. Homes have been spruced up with cobwebs, ghosts hanging from trees, and front lawn cemeteries. We have joined in the festivities by planting a few skulls along our pathway to the front door. One family outdoes us all with his motion-activated witch sitting in a rocking chair, cackling and threatening trick-or-treaters who dare to approach his front door. Obviously he wants to keep all his candy for himself.

Hallowe’en is a big event for our grandchildren too . They have been working on their costumes since the summer. Agnes, who starred a while back in “The Music Man,” fell in love with her role as a prairie girl and is all set with her long skirt, floppy hat and big shopping basket, handy for collecting treats. Ben, age 3, is in love with the Paw Patrol pups and has signed on as Chase. When it comes to finding candy, Chase is on the case! Gavin has opted for a ninja outfit complete with a plastic sword in his right hand. In case of danger, he has his favourite stuffie, Mocha, clutched tightly in his other arm.

We began our celebrations on Saturday when Gavin and Ben joined us for Pumpkinfest on Bloor Street. Everybody gathered at one location to snack on popcorn and hot chocolate, and pick up bags for trick-or-treating. Then kids were invited to collect candy for several blocks along the main street where merchants had hung out welcoming pumpkin signs. We visited real estate offices, banks, nail salons, pubs, travel agents, even a fashionable women’s lingerie store where Gavin peeked in and ducked out again quickly, asking his dad, “Can we really go in THERE?”

On Sunday we had lunch with my adult “kids” and spent some time reminiscing about their favourite costumes when they were growing up. I was a stay-at-home mom and actually sewed their outfits. One of my son James’ proudest moments was at age 2 when he wanted to dress up in a furry black outfit, as our dog, Snoopy. When we headed out the door to collect candy, he immediately dropped down to his knees. I realized that he planned to crawl on all fours around the neighbourhood, wagging his butt/tail as he went. It was going to be a long night.

This year, the only thing we have left to do is buy the candy. Sadly, the grandkids caught us sneaking into their loot bags on Saturday, so we didn’t get a chance to share. Now we have to head to COSTCO for a large supply of our favourite chocolate bars. We plan to buy at least 100. You can’t be too careful.

Sue

Well, after six weeks of election preparation, we have our results: pretty much as predicted by the polls, and a chance for the Liberals to try again, and try harder.

Being strong believers in our much-admired Canadian democratic process, Peter and I have always tried to be involved with elections, whether canvassing for a particular candidate, or helping at the polls. This time, in our new home in the city, we met and signed up with a particular candidate. We canvassed with him on many occasions.

It’s almost fun going door to door. You meet very interesting people! For example, there was the man yelling at us from his favourite chair in front of the TV to “Get off my property and take your damn flyers with you!” Apparently he liked NFL Football more than us. Then the was the couple who answered the doorbell – the wife first, tying up the front of her housecoat; followed by the husband doing up his pants. Clearly we had interrupted something more exciting than election information. At another house I was first met by a big dog with a loud bark. Then the owner appeared and let the dog out! Doggie came bounding over to me, jumped up, grabbed my hand and started chewing. The owner, ignoring my predicament, muttered: “Well at least the DOG likes Liberals.”

One evening early in the campaign we decided to go to an all-candidates meeting to check out the “opposition.” Our first surprise was that the meeting was held in a church. We hadn’t realized that God was so political. Well apparently the church minister was too. He gave the candidates the best seats in the house, right at the front near the altar. And, as we left the church/meeting, he handed out copies of his recent sermon! Well it did happened to coincide with the political issue on everyone’s mind – climate change.

On another occasion another campaign worker let it slip that Foreign Affairs Minister Chrystia Freeland often runs in a nearby ravine and then goes to a local restaurant for brunch. A few days later we just happened to be at this restaurant at brunch-time and voila, there she was. She was in disguise, wearing shorts and running shoes instead of her red dress and heels, hair tucked up under a baseball cap, dark sunglasses. We stared a lot but did not ask for a selfie. Mostly because we had forgotten to charge the phone.

Another exciting part of canvassing was that we were able to conquer Minivan. On our first day on the job we were asked that scary question: “How comfortable are you with technology?” We both began to tremble. At our age, technology is a constant uphill battle. We seem to get ahead and then, before we can even save our work, we are far behind and have to call our son, Daniel, to help. Cautiously we downloaded Minivan, a brand new app for smartphones that canvassers can use to record names of supporters, or people who want a lawn sign, or a ride to the polls. Minivan saves time and paper. And we figured it out! Without Daniel! We are not too old yet!

Last night we celebrated with other riding volunteers and the winning candidate. It felt great to have been involved in the election process and to see our candidate through to a strong victory. It felt even better to know that democracy is alive and well and still living in Canada.

Sue

PS We also had a small lawn sign…

The best thing about having Thanksgiving dinner in the city instead of the country is that everybody can come. We invited exactly the number of people that matched the number of available chairs (18) and they all said yes! So, as you can imagine, this post is late because we needed time this morning to recover and to finish off the apple pie and pumpkin muffins.

It was a busy week. First we had to buy the turkey. I found Tom, a big boy at almost 25 pounds, on sale. I wrestled him into the grocery cart and wheeled him out to the car. Oops – where Was the car? Then I remembered that I had parked in front of the LCBO, where carts are not allowed. I grabbed Tom and pulled him up into my arms. In a mad embrace, we reeled and swayed towards the car. I opened the door and threw him into the back seat. “You’ve got a hot night ahead, Tom.”

Then I started making lists. I’m a big fan of lists. It seems less stressful to write everything down – the menu, the decorations, the cooking times, and so on. Next we figured out the seating arrangements for our Lower Banquet Hall, aka the basement. I spent some time working out the pot luck arrangements. Who would arrive early and could bring an appetizer? Who might be late and would be better to bring a dessert? What fresh produce would Peter likely buy form Sunnyland Produce store at the last minute and then ask me to cook?

Things were shaping up nicely until I stopped to take a break with a cup of camomile tea and the latest Food and Drink magazine from the LCBO. And there it was: an article titled “Thanksgiving Made Easy” followed by an entire list of things to do to ensure the perfect Thanksgiving feast. I almost gobbled it up with delight. The first item on the list was “Make a plan.” Well, for sure this article was going to be very helpful.

I read item number 2.”Begin your fall cleaning. Start in the dining room with the chandelier.” OK skip that. I continued down the list. Numbers 3 and 4 were obvious ones about setting the table and clearing the moldy leftovers from the fridge. Number 5 was something about buying all new spices and labeling them with the date of purchase. Really? Somebody would actually do that? Number 6: “Use all your small appliances (air fryer, pressure cooker, George Foreman grill) to heat up food when you run out of space in your oven and on your stovetop.” What kind of meal is this going to be anyway? Are we feeding dignitaries? I glanced down nervously at number 7.

Item number 7 said, and I am not making this up: “Swap out your art work hanging on the walls from their existing frames, and replace them with inspirational quotes and words of thanks.” This was when I decided to close the magazine. BUT, not before I noticed one small warning in a corner of the last page: “In case of Turkey Trauma, call the Butterball Hotline at 1-800-288-8372.”

Today, I can happily report that yesterday everybody came on time with their pot luck contributions, the stove worked fine on its own, Tom was delicious, the kids played happily while the adults talked, there was no Turkey Trauma, and Peter and I are very grateful that we moved to the city.

Sue

Since this is post number 20, I felt it should be something special. So here goes:

On Friday I went to my Italian class in the morning where we learned how to make single nouns plural and tasted little Italian cookies. Then I met Peter for a quick hot dog at COSTCO which we ate while we had some photos developed. Next we went to the nearby cineplex to watch a movie. Since we were a little early for the show we walked from the theatre parking lot over to the local federal campaign office and signed up to canvas. After the movie we went home, changed, hopped on the subway, and went downtown for dinner with friends.

OK…so that’s not very exciting to read about. But it does make the point that, since moving to the city from the country, we are able to do a lot in a short time. And now on to Saturday.

On Saturday we left the city. Well what can I say? We did! But only for the day. We went to Soupfest, a signature event in King Township. Community groups, restaurant owners, politicians, and business people all gather up produce from the Holland Marsh and create delicious soups. We sampled squash-fennel chowder, jambalaya, potato-bacon soup and, the hit of the event, the Mayor’s award-winning carrot soup. (You can even see a picture of it on facebook). We met some old friends and caught up on news. Peter also bought some produce at prices comparable to his favourite Sunnyland in the city.

Well that’s a little more interesting. But it contradicts my premise that life is better in the city. You see, there are good things about living in the country too. But wait – here comes Sunday!

On Sunday our focus and the top story on the tv news was all about the CUPE strike and the possibility of the schools closing the next day. Once again, our downtown location was going to be very convenient. Just like many parents and grandparents across the province, we were making babysitting arrangements for our 8-year-old grand daughter who only lives a few subway stops away. Then, at 9:00 pm the strike was called off! You could almost hear stand-in caregivers from Thunder Bay to Windsor heaving sighs of relief as they put away the playdough, puzzles and drawing books, and settled into their regular routines.

On Monday (yesterday) we went to pick up our grand daughter anyway because our routine since we moved to the city is having her on Mondays after school. She goes to an outdoor camp with a unique concept. The kids actually play outside! With Nature! Then we take her for dinner. She always has amusing stories to tell us.

I met Agnes at her school at 3:30 and we took the subway back to our stop where the outdoor camp is located. During the trip she filled me in on the day’s happenings at school: how Cameron was bothering her and her friend so they asked the teacher if they could work in the hall and then Cameron followed them into the hall so they went to the bathroom to work but then the teacher came in and sent them back to class but Cameron started bothering them again. Share would have gone on longer, but our stop arrived.

After 20 posts, I can say for sure that life in the city offers an endless variety of entertainment.

Sue

Greta Thunburg has spoken! And her words have stirred our collective conscience into re-thinking or prioritizing actions concerning our world. As one of the activist slogans reads; “There is No Planet B!” We have to admit it – the current mess happened on our watch. We should have thought of it before. But instead we are leaving it to our children and, even worse, our grandchildren. Unless…

Maybe it’s not too late for us to do something, even something small. As retired folks, we have free time. We can make changes. For example, since moving to the city, Peter and I have developed a passion for riding the subway, leaving our car behind and sitting quietly playing solitaire, occasionally sneaking looks at all the unusual outfits or behaviours nearby. “Holy cow Peter, did you see that?” There are other things we can do too.

As seniors we are all, sooner or later, at that life stage where we want to downsize, get rid of those extra household items and move to a smaller place. We did that last year. At first we had a lot of misconceptions. Surely our kids would want those lovely, gold-rimmed dishes that can’t go in the microwave or dishwasher? How about the stately office furniture, suitable for executives, even though they no longer need large desks because they have only laptop-sized computers?

Eventually. after recovering from all that terrible rejection, we got to work. We found online selling services, furniture banks, metal depots, women’s shelters, little libraries, church bazaars, all waiting for our cast-offs. Although it was an exhausting exercise, almost nothing went to a landfill site. Well, OK, I did throw out a pair of Peter’s ancient running shoes when he wasn’t looking.

And then there’s the garden, which you read about in a recent post. We are still eating cherry tomatoes, even for breakfast, and there is no end in sight. But even Peter the Farmer can’t grow everything in his small city plot. Sometimes I go to the grocery store, but I am determined not to use any plastic bags. In the produce department recently, I put a couple of bananas in my cart, naked. Some oranges too. Then I went to the brussels sprouts bin and put a couple dozen of them in the cart too. Oops – those little green balls rolled through the holes in the cart and onto the floor, and there I was, on my old-lady knees, chasing them under the counters.

Other things in the grocery store come over-wrapped. How about COSTCO with double-wrapped bathroom tissue? Really, are we worried about getting germs on our toilet paper? And toy wrapping is a real problem. Trucks and dolls usually come in hard plastic, so tough that even the best scissors can’t penetrate. Meanwhile the kids are crying out. “Nana can you please open that doll faster? I am Dying to hold her!”

Then what do we do with all this over-wrapping? Does it go into the recycling bin or the garbage? I’m often baffled by the city waste-management charts. For example, why do glass jars go in recycling, but glass drinking glasses go in the garbage? Why do aluminum pie plates go in recycling, but aluminum foil goes in the garbage? Why are we throwing these things out instead of re-using them anyway?

One big topic of concern is water conservation. Even though we live near the Great Lakes, we still read that one day water will be the earth’s most precious commodity. So how can we save some at home? Not running the tap while tooth-brushing is a good one. And brushing, even with less water, is better than what our parents had – dentures! Running the dishwasher and clothes washer only when they’re full is another good idea. Taking showers less often… well maybe that’s one we’re not ready to tackle quite yet!

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? We are used to such a comfortable lifestyle, we hate to give any of it up. Even for our grandchildren.

PS If you have other suggestions on how older people with spare time can help save the planet, please send a comment. I’ll post them on Friday.

Sue

Aha! And you thought it was Friday, not Tuesday!

Well it Is actually Friday, but I need to do a little catching up. I have been receiving so many comments on this site, but I never seem to have space to reply on Tuesdays. So occasionally, on a Friday, I’ll take some time to do that.

First of all, thank you to everyone who sends comments. I read them all and am grateful for the feedback. Mostly they are positive, and occasionally they are very funny. For example, one person wrote back this week about keeping her brain in shape – by learning bridge. Then she lamented her lack of progress. “I don’t think I’m playing with a full deck!” Another person wrote about living as a swinger by quoting Duke Ellington. “It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing!” Good to know I’ve got some stand-ins if I need a day off from writing.

Others have written with examples of places they have been or things they have seen in the city. One person responded to the post on festivals with a note about an Iranian festival in Toronto, “Tirgan” happening back in July. Sorry I didn’t think to publicize that one in time. Another person wrote in response to the post about saving money in the city.When you are at COSTCO getting that cheap hot dog, be sure to fill up on cheap gas too.

One of the early posts about buildings in the city elicited feedback. Two people wrote about specific buildings to check out. One wrote about the CNE building where the Royal Winter Fair is held. She says it seemed much larger when she was smaller. The original Toronto post office on Adelaide St., which is still in operation today, was mentioned by someone else. I remember taking adult ESL classes there when I was still teaching. It was a very friendly, but tiny, place. The Royal Mail, as it was called back then, didn’t send so much junk mail in the olden days.

Several comments have been made about living in the city. A proud grandfather, who lives down the lake in a different city from me, wrote about the entertainment his grandchildren find in looking out the window of his high-rise condo at all the fire trucks and ambulances that go by. Another person wrote about feeling like a tourist as she reads my blog. She hasn’t visited the city in 25 years. And a friend, who brought some country folks to visit me in the city, said they had quite an experience using public transit, some of them for the first time. They were mortified when they were offered seats by “youngsters.” And they almost missed their stop going home, because they were gabbing so much.

The post that has gotten the most response was the one about swimming, or Not swimming, in Lake Ontario. There were childhood stories about swimming; in Sandy Lake just after the ice had melted, or in other places along the shores of Lake Ontario where the water was just as cold as I had found it. One family wrote about spending 30 years living on the shores of Lake Ontario, and how much the lake had been the focus of their lives. There was a message about the water of Lake Superior; where the water is so cold that swimming in it is only possible a few times each summer. My niece, who lives out west, had the most shocking response. She swims in Lake Kootenay where there actually ARE glaciers!

As for errors, well there have been some. Despite reading my words over at least 3 times, I always seem to miss a letter or a comma somewhere. I also used the word “gypped” in one post and someone picked that up – I hadn’t realized that it is considered racist by the Roma. And then there are the pictures. Sometimes they fail to appear – lost in a cloud somewhere.

But I will carry on. And I hope you carry on too – reading, and writing back whenever you want to.

Sue

This is how my first Italian class began last Friday. For quite a while I have been gathering up my nerve to learn another language. All the research on aging suggests that, while push-ups and cardio exercises are crucial for healthy bodies, learning a second language is a very useful mental exercise. Got to keep those synapses firing! I regularly play solitaire on my phone along with many other people on the subway, and do the sudoku in the newspaper until the difficulty level gets over 3 stars. But then what?

My first thought was to expand on my cereal-box French. That’s where, as young children, we picked up our first French words. “Tony le tigre dit, ‘ils sont um um bons!” In high school French we learned mostly grammar. Hardly anybody speaks with the precise sentence structure and verb endings we learned in grade 10.

Then I remembered – I live with a walking Italian dictionary! Furthermore I already know a lot of Italian words: lasagne, panini, spaghetti al la Bologese, picked up at favourite Italian restaurants. I can spell Michelangelo, Galileo, and Machiavelli especially with the help of spell-check. And I know other common expressions such as Ciao! and Salute! Mama Mia I am almost fluent!

But, when Peter, well actually Pietro, and I go to visit his relatives, somehow these words do not seem to be enough. Often I am left sitting silently wondering what they are saying and if they are saying it about Me. (Behind my back but in front of my face, so to speak). Then someone will say something that catches my attention, like “piano” and I just know they are not talking about music. The context doesn’t always help.

So it’s off to Italian classes. This is not my first time. I tried an Italian class when we lived in the country, but it was quite a long drive from home, and it always seemed to snow on class night. After a few classes the teacher switched to Italian Cooking Class. We learned to say a few things like “aggiungi il sale al risotto” as we cooked and tasted the food, along with a taste of chianti on the side. This class was worth the drive! But then we moved to the city.

It was pretty easy finding a class here. The “Instituto di Cultura,” a few blocks from a subway stop, offers classes every day of the week. There are cultural events there as well. Many private schools offer classes too. Then I found an adult learning centre within a couple of kilometers that offers beginner Italian on Friday mornings. I signed up.

Signora Campisi met us at the door on Friday with a welcoming “buon giorno!” She gave us bright red folders, and stickers so we could put our names on them and not lose them. Hmmmm, I thought, maybe this is TOO beginnerish. But soon we got into the lesson. We spent time on pronunciation and some verbs. She talked about supplementing our weekly practice with CHIN radio and TLN tv programs. She gave us homework – to practise rolling our “R’s.” Then it was “arrrrr…ivederci” until next week.

When I told one friend about my new class, she asked, “Why do you need to study Italian words and phrases anyway? Isn’t Italian all hand gestures?” Peter laughed uproariously at this question, as he waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. Good thing there was no stemmed wine glass nearby.

If you have found an interesting way to keep Your synapses firing, send us a comment.

Sue

When we moved from the country to the city, one thing we thought we’d regret was leaving our large back yard. My husband, Peter, was reluctant to abandon his gigantic vegetable garden, and his morning glories which had wandered out of control. We both knew we would miss all the wildlife: wild turkeys who bravely strutted around near Thanksgiving, a gentle deer who came to eat our newly-blooming tulips, sly foxes and coyotes, and one racoon we named Rocky who somehow managed to climb into our bird feeder, forcing Peter to get out his slingshot. Would we ever find such entertainment in our city back yard?

As summer comes to an end, we can definitely say that “Yes we did!” True, it was not a deer but squirrels who ate our tulips. One scrappy one got into our bird feeder by way of climbing on my new red swing, (How dare he!), and then flying through the air. We haven’t seen coyotes or foxes, but our attention has been stolen by the birds. The robins amuse us by bathing and splashing around in our bird feeder and then drinking the water. Yuck. We have a pair of cardinals who visit too. At first there was only a male, but soon he wooed a female with his loud love songs, right near our bedroom window. Well I guess that wasn’t so amusing at 6:00 am.

As for the vegetable garden, Peter agreed that we would downsize drastically – to pots. Basil, rosemary, even cherry tomatoes would grow in pots, he declared. We would put the pots right near the back door so we wouldn’t have to go too far to get the produce. This seemed like a good plan to me. But soon Peter was wandering around the back yard measuring and thinking. And then a new plan evolved: a small patch, only a few feet wide, near the back fence, that wouldn’t even be noticeable. His eyes were wide with anticipation. How could I say no?

Soon the digging began. The tiny patch turned into a large plot. Tomato plants were joined by cucumbers, zucchini, even squash. Then I noticed the extension ladder precariously leaning against a large ash tree and Peter climbing up with a saw. He had decided that his garden was not getting enough sun, and a few branches had to be cut. I rushed to get my cell phone, ready to call 911 on the spot.

After the poor ash was almost naked and Peter was safely on the ground, he declared the garden ready. He visited it every evening with the hose. The produce grew. And grew. Meanwhile the ash branches had to be bundled and hauled to the curb for the compost pick-up. In the country these branches would just be thrown into the nearby forest. Here in the city we had to stand by, ready to bribe the garbage man.

The garden flourished and the produce began to appear on the kitchen counter with Peter’s wry question: “Do you have a recipe for these?” Bu this year, unlike in the past, the amount was not overwhelming. I could easily run to the store for flour and other missing ingredients. Our family and friends, who now live much closer, were treated to zucchini bread, bruschetta, and cucumbers to take home. I had to admit that the vegetable garden was a success.

But the last word goes to the morning glories. Guess what? We didn’t leave them behind after all. A few stray seeds must have found their way into a pot, somehow. They survived the moving van and the cold winter in the shed. In the early summer they showed their brave little heads in a re-planted oleander pot, slowly winding their way upward through the branches to the top, as if to say: “We wanted to move to the city too!”

Sue