Pickles, Sad Stories and Fresh Air

Everyone has a sad story lurking behind their normal exterior. I talked about this with my new neighbour, who kindly brought over an armload of homemade preserves this afternoon. Beet pickles, canned cherries, bread and butters – I can't wait to dive in and try something tonight at supper.

She brought preserves, I offered her a glass of ice water (hardly a fair trade) and we shared some of our darkest secrets. Do you do that with someone you just met? Um, yeah. If you're willing to show the world your underwear in a blog it's no biggie to swap secrets with someone over a cup of joe. Conversation, after all, is just live-action blogging.

I like our neighbours. As a matter of fact, I am liking everything about Cold Lake. The air here is so fresh. So cool. It's like the man upstairs just had a breath mint and he's spitting at us.

My friends and relatives back in Ontario and the eastern seaboard are sweltering under record high temperatures and every time I talk to them on the phone all I can do is gush about how cool and fresh everything is here. "The air," I say, over and over ad nauseam, "the air is so FRESH. Did I mention how FRESH it is?" I'm pretty sure I have no friends left in Ontario but I can't help it. Every day I marvel at the lack of humidity, the brilliant blue skies and the FRESH pepperminty breezes cooling my skin.

Our asthmatic cat has never been healthier. He hasn't thrown up since we got here (knock on wood) and he's positively kittenish, prancing around the house, breathing like a regular cat instead of an old hag cat with an oxygen bottle, a wheelchair, and a lifetime addiction to Player's Plain.

This morning we had a visit from a neighbour's cat. He didn't come bearing preserves but he seemed friendly as he was peering in our front window. I don't know for sure that he's male but he was, after all, peeping, and so Tom he is.

As for sad stories, I'm sure Tom will have much to tell his catified cronies – his peeping career at our front window came to an abrupt end when Misty the Wonderdog chased him off the front porch.

Just another day at Cold Lake. No, I don't have pictures to show you. The camera thing-a-ma-jig is in the trailer somewhere and I'm too lazy to go get it. And no, I haven't come up with a new blog title yet. (The pressure, the pressure...)