June 28, 2012

Bush Soup

Home at last.

How lovely to write from this familiar haunt, the desk. Things are in their place for the most part. Time in the woods was swift. Hard work, many lessons learned. Big winds carving lines in the faces around. With no reflection staring back and no place for vanity, characters began to bloom along with the foliage. 

The daily act of filling the turtle tanks with water brought great joy to my life while working as a planting cook. Weird applications of therapy. When the kitchen became too crowded I would make for the river. No place for planters in the little space beside the water intake. Solace making a lazy brown path around our makeshift home. Delicious water that made great river stock. A great escape from the haggard and tired of the early morning, the familiar walk down the river path to bring the pump to life was welcomed. Watching the foliage grow and grow and grow around our camp on the Wenasaga logging road as the seasons changed hands was comforting. Time changes us, we change with time. Those buds made their way in no time at all. Gone was the snow. Then came the rain. Morale dipped up and down like a lawn bird and it was challenging to rotate the food in such a way that could possibly bring it back up again. Cheese helped. 

What a strange job. 

Got over the hesitation of cooking meat. Mastered the roast beef. Pork shoulder. Stew. Chili. The standard slop fare, you know. Horseradish came into my life with a bang. Thank you for that Leblanc brothers, where ever you may be. Daily those gargantuan twins would bound into my kitchen space (one with pep, the other with bitterness and both with beauty) and beg for the stuff. Planters are easy to please. D'accord. Garlic every day. Ginger by the pound. Pepper pepper pepper. To sit and reflect now seems odd as that life lies only an arms length away. The arrival of photowork always fills in the blanks. The pictures. 

Looking forward to a roll shot from the back of Maya's quad on the last day of the spring contract. That was the day my constant companion--the Kiev--flew from my grip into the lap of the Block just as I caught Stevie throwing spears into the treeline of his piece. What a sight. An odd duck look tucked away with the mind's eye. Pictures revealed themselves through the doorway of the kitchen daily. Pickles. A man named Pickles with cauldrons for eyes hooked my contrast vision daily. Portraits on portraits on portraits of those eyes. There were many characters to learn. The job offered little to no idle time which was fine for the most part. Lisa, bless her, made me laugh daily along with the rest of the clowns. Highballer rookie, Lisa King. Well done woman, proud to know you.

View from my tent at Strecker Farm; Kenora. May/ 2012. Shot with a Voitlander Bessa rangefinder from the 30's.

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