French toast

Pigeons under the bridgeStale bread, sure, but French toast? This morning someone left a pile of French toast under the bridge for the pigeons. How did that happen? A Sunday brunch gone sadly wrong?? Family get-togethers can be like that.

The pigeons are happy, though. As Bica and I rounded the corner, a big flock of them, more than I’ve ever seen there, flew up from the path under the bridge and perched on the steel girder, waiting for us to pass so they could get back to their breakfast. And they weren’t the only ones enjoying it—a big male mallard was sleeping it off in the middle of the path, too full of French toast to take flight, I think. He waddled away.

Snug Harbour

It’s still quite cold, but it’s a beautiful sunny day, which makes all the difference. Bica and I went for a long walk along the river, keeping to the path, for the most part—Bica can’t manage the deep snow any more. But she still wants me to throw snowballs for her. I lob one into the field beside the path, she bounds as far as she can, gets stuck, I wade out and extract her. Again? Again?

We disturb the pigeons again on the way back. Bica could chase snowballs forever but I have to tend to the boat. The ice is creeping towards the hull, the pool of water the bubblers makes is getting smaller and smaller. I borrow a two by four from one of our neighbours, plant my feet firmly on the dock and break up as much ice as I can reach, being careful not to reach out too far. I’m not supposed to do this when I’m here alone, in case the two by four slips and I fall in, but I’m very careful. Funny, if I caught Chris doing this when he was here by himself, I’d give him hell. But I’m much more willing than he is to sacrifice a two by four, if necessary, even a borrowed one.

Lines in the snow

That task completed, I return the two by four and grab a shovel. Yesterday I cleared the dock as far as the boat. Today I’ll clear to the end of the dock, in case we need to adjust our lines. Our life ring hangs on the electrical pole at the stern of the boat. It looks funny there—the water around the end of the dock is frozen solid. If someone fell of the dock, they could just stand up and step back on. I clear the lines, and the life ring, check that our electrical cords are firmly plugged in, now that I can get to them. All good.

But I’m hungry now. Maybe I’ll make myself some French toast.

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