Fashion du jour

By Conrad Beaubien

The one advantage on a day like today is that while dew drops of snow are landing on the woodpile, I’m able to get out there to bring in a few more sticks for the woodstove while in undercover mode. Grey wool sweater, scarf and toque, I’m counting on the fact that my garde-robe, my outfit, goes unnoticed since I’m also wearing long johns; blending into the landscape is an offset to my lackadaisical approach to fashion these days as I’ve bought into the traditional woodsman costume for January. Added to the woodpile scene and the overcast sky and snow are two galvanized garbage cans along my path that seem to work with the staging of theatrics.

I mean, I don’t want to be the one to start controversy down here in Pleasant Valley, where seldom is heard the whiz of rubber tires on pavement these days. How quiet is it, you might ask? I swear I can hear someone in a Zoom meeting across fields and forest over on the next sideroad and also listen as the sand and salt falls from County trucks and onto a steep road in South Bay. All I can say is that I hope that the voices I hear coming from the woods are real.

You see, I take my errands to the wood pile seriously, and I’m careful at it as I know that one slip on the ice while wearing slippers could mean a trip to the hospital, something highly irresponsible considering the medical precautions of current days. Which leads me to admit that underscoring my precaution is the memory of my mother reminding me when I was a kid to always wear clean underwear, the reasoning being just in case one has to go to the hospital. I mean, having experienced little in life at that point I took her word for it, and so far— aside from having tonsils removed— I’ve remained reasonably free of hospital experiences. Besides, as years have gone on I’ve come to imagine that healthcare practitioners are neutral observers when it comes to undergarments. Therefore I have hope that in a worst case scenario if some grey haired bearded guy was hauled into emergency on a stretcher wearing long johns and slippers and with a damaged arm that couldn’t be separated from the armful of firewood he was carrying at the time of the incident, it would pass with but minor comment.

So, nonetheless, I’m in a risk-taking mood on a dull grey morning, fending off the effects of lockdown just to keep basics happening like a wood fire and porridge, all in aid of feeding the habit of writing and living with my imaginary friends.

I forgot to mention that while out there I spotted Lucille over by the cedar rail fence. No worries, Lucille is not a person-type neighbour. Lucille is a four-pound wild hare who has previously witnessed my woodpile excursions a few times already. I like to think that it’s more than just my offering of carrots that encourages her to make my backyard part of her daily route. I imagine that by now she’s admiring my attempts to be with it when it comes to blending with the immediate environment. No doubt Lucille has reasoned that grey overcast days are best for a carrot re-supply from the woodpile guy whose thinking he can out-fashion the camouflage of a furry grey hare.

Then again there are the carrots. You’ve heard from me time and again about a hoard of carrots I have been amassing, part of my ceremonial offerings to my donkey friend Thunder and his companions in the farm paddock. I’ve spoken of Thunder since he and I teamed up for long walks together. It’s giving me an opportunity to dig deeper into my motivation for over a decade now, of wanting to hit the trails with a donkey. On the surface I know it’s something beyond just the walking part that settles the mind into a pattern of left right, left right sway that has been an inspiration for iambic pentameter, a basic rhythm of poetry and song. The rhythm of walking is also, some say, not unlike the soothing rhythm of a child rocked in a cradle or in a caregiver’s arms. That sort of comfort runs deep in our psyche, I figure. Adding the healing qualities of nature and, in the case of Thunder, to be in the company of a silent and gentle equine who is a descendant of a species that has captured the imagination of civilisations before us makes the happening sublime. Walking with Thunder is a story that is telling itself while privileging me with the honour of listening while writing it down. It’s an episode in my life that I cherish and will never forget.

I have to finish off for now as the mail has come and am expecting a history book I have ordered and am anxious to read. I think the coast looks pretty clear to venture my way through my backyard and over to the mail box by the road. I’ll pretend that long johns covered with a kneelength sweater will not draw attention since there are so few around. Not to worry, I’ll play it safe and trade in the slippers for my gum rubber boots to walk over, just so you know.

Please walk with us in our time of challenge: walkingwiththunder.com