the Walnut Diary

“After you have had one shot of the vaccine, you still have a 10% chance of contacting the virus, but you will not need admission to hospital or the ICU, and you will not die.”

UPDATE: 19 April, 2021

I guess I should complete the story, though there are no perplexing or funny twists yet to be revealed.

My neighbour had warned me about the geography of the parking lot. His jab was a couple of days earlier than mine. He further told me that the whole thing was a class act with many, many staff and volunteers ensuring that it ran smoothly.

Come to think of it there was a complicating factor colouring my experience of the best of local health care, but it had nothing to do with the assembled, smart and highly-motivated individuals.

No, the whole thing arose out of my misguided attempt to impress my 4 year-old grand-daughter. Ada loves to forage. Her first task for me on the afternoon before the jab was to crack her some black walnuts. I dutifully retrieved the Duke Walnut Cruncher from the shop and resumed my seat in one of the three grandpa chairs on the lawn. Ada backed across the lawn to me, dragging the 5 gallon pail of black walnuts which she and her mother have been consuming since last September. It was now light enough she could move it on her own. I sent her back for the safety goggles which she stores under the stuff on the bench. I started to crack some nuts.

If you have cracked black walnuts, you will be aware of the forces associated with getting to the kernels. The shells routinely resist 750 pounds per square inch of force. The Duke cracker makes ingenious use of gears and levers as well as a large base to make the task feasible, if not easy for an old guy sitting in a lawn chair.

In any case, as soon as the nut cracks, swift and nimble fingers free it from the mechanism and the pieces of kernel normally disappear into Ada’s grinning mouth. This time they did not. She saved them for a salad she was making for her toy peacock. The kernels rapidly accumulated in the apple sauce container she had salvaged from the kitchen.

Then she dashed around the yard, first to the spice bed for chives, then to the walnut tree for some of the wild onions underneath it, then to the lettuce patch where the seeds she planted March 23rd were bearing fingernail-sized leaves. No kidding.

It looked pretty good, but was somehow inadequate to the needs of her peacock toy. Then she remembered my casual comment about the wild leeks that grow in the woodlot. “Come on, Grandpa. It’s time to get some wild leeks for the salad. Get the Kioti out and I’ll tell Grandma.”

And so away we went to the woodlot where we found a large and perfect clump of wild leeks. Ada picked a good handful for her salad and then commanded us back to the house.

She broke the leaves up into bite-sized sections and fitted them into the salad dish on top of the bed of walnuts and other green ingredients. She had just finished her task when her dad, finished work for the day, came out to find her. She shared her salad (peacock forgotten) with him, and with Grandma, and with me.

To everyone’s surprise, black walnut kernels wrapped in wild leek leaves are quite delicious.

The salad exhausted, the next logical step was to see if those leaves had bulbs under them. Charlie was up to the challenge, so he drove us back to the woodlot again and we harvested the recommended “quart” of leaves for a proper wild leek soup. The bulbs were hard to win from the entangled roots, but Charlie managed to wrench enough of them out to please his daughter, who was eating the clean ones immediately, but saving the dirty ones for the kitchen sink. More charming video footage ensued.

The outcome of this was Bet’s wild leek soup, served at dinner the day before the vaccine appointment. Neither Bet nor Ada would eat it, so I bravely had a double bowl of the earthy and interesting concoction. Then we thought no more of it until I was walking into the arena to get my shot, when I suddenly felt inflated by some malicious gas bomb. The woman I met asked me for the time of my appointment. I said 9:09. She asked me to return to my car for four more minutes. I mentioned something about wild leek soup and asked if I could please find a washroom. She smiled sagely, turned, and led me to the other end of the building, delivered me to the entrance of the Men’s loo, and asked me to return to the entrance and my car to serve out my remaining time when I had finished.

Blessing the woman, I made it to the washroom, and eventually was assigned a disinfected, numbered chair in the auditorium, spaced on a Covid-grid. Not much happened until an elderly fellow discreetly pushed a cart over to me, introduced himself as Doctor Stein (?) and told me about the Phizer vaccine which I would be receiving today.

“After you have had one shot of the vaccine, you still have a 10% chance of contacting the virus, but you will not need admission to hospital or the ICU, and you will not die.” That had a way of lightening my outlook. In fact, it made my day. I almost lasted through the 15 minute observation period before the leek soup intervened again, but afterward I found my way to the check-out desk where the attendant emailed me a vaccine certificate, gave me directions around the arena to the parking area, and bade me good day.

Ever since that blasted soup I have felt great.

Things got lively over the morning e-news articles today.  The Globe said that Ontario is now booking 1951 models, so a brief scramble got me onto the Ministry of Health site where I had checked my Covid test results, and wouldn’t you know it?  Brockville site let me into the inner workings of its algorithm to blunder around until it eventually gave up and assigned me appointments for a jab on April 16th and August 3rd. 

My wife tried, but was rejected as a 1953 model. I don’t think she minded getting carded all that much.

I had no sooner finished when my neighbour told me about the same block of appointments.  His is a day or two earlier than mine.  My sister and my pal Les were too late by the time they got to the website this morning, though my neighbour just told me that 48 spaces were available at Loyalist College in Belleville.  His neighbour found one there. 

Les tried, but they were gone by the time he got through.

This is like shopping for concert tickets.

Today I took a set of plates from my mother’s car to the Elgin license bureau to turn in for a refund of the interval between March and July. The nice lady asked for my driver’s license, health card, and power of attorney form. Then she asked for $140 for the transfer. I asked about the rebate from the license plate.

“That plate is expired. There is nothing remaining of its license fee. You should check the permits on your other vehicles. Many people have forgotten to renew their plates this year because we did not mail out reminders because of Covid-19.”

I went home to check, then returned to renew the plates on three family vehicles. $360. Feeling rather lucky to have had my scofflaw behaviour discovered by such a gentle and understanding agent, I forked over the money.

The health card? It had expired on my birthday, along with my driver’s license. New ones are in the works.

Bet’s cards are O.K. until August of this year.

February 3rd was a prominent date on our calendar, and the crew showed up on schedule to make the connection. I wasn’t eager or anything, but I did cut a wild apple tree which was entwining the phone cable where the new line would need to go, and I have maintained a path through the snow for the last week, just in case they were early…

To its credit, the wireless service has held up under heavy use through the fall, but it will be nice not to have to worry if my surfing will affect a family member’s online meeting or T.V. viewing.

This is a shot of some of the 650′ of cable required to complete the installation.

That’s better. The laying of the Trans-driveway Cable has connected our little world to the 21st Century.

My favourite toy of the winter is the diesel Kioti Mechron with a groomer made from three Pirelli run-flat snow tires.

The Mechron starts well in -4 F, the coldest weather so far this winter, and it has just enough power and traction in low range to drag the heavy triangle behind it through up to a foot of snow. 

Of course there is the slide down the hill for kids at the front. There are also the two miles of trails around the property, some of which are built on ice roads left by the loggers.  

I have experimented with ball carriers for the optimum hitch height for the piece of rope looped into the lead tire four feet behind.  Turns out the 6″ drop the Tacoma uses for a small trailer is ideal at keeping the centre of the track flat, rather than leaving an elevated hump the way the 2″ lift from the Cayenne tilts the lead tire.

All of this track-breaking takes on a bit of meaning as February 3rd approaches, the day WTC has booked to install the fibre optic network at the Croskery Farm.  Three days ago I looked down the row of hydro poles and realized an old apple tree was growing directly under the line and actually entwined with lowest cable on the array, the abandoned phone wire.  This would not do, so I drove the Kioti through a foot of heavy snow to get the chainsaw closer to the tree. Bet came out to operate the winch on MF35.  Then I discovered that the saw was out of gas, as was the gallon can.  While Bet basked in the sun in the vinyl-wrapped Kioti, I finally got organized and cut the tree to the point that Bet pulled the rope on the winch clutch and snapped off the whole mess of trunk, suckers, and a random buckhorn.  The winch easily extricated the branches from the cable as it pulled the fallen to the tractor.

Two chains hooked everything up, so while Bet U-turned into virgin snow with the Kioti and returned to base, I set off across the field with the Massey-Ferguson, towing a 25′ wide broom to temporary storage on a brush pile at the other end of the field.  The old tractor seemed grateful for the amusement, and easily pushed through the snow.

Then I went back with the Kioti to cut off the stump, load a little bit of brush in the back, and complete the trail-breaking the rest of the way to the hydro pole next to the road.  Of course I couldn’t resist grooming this new trail a couple of days later, so things are now ready for the WTC techs.  I called and left a message with their manager that deep snow is no excuse for not showing up.

“Thunnk” is the sound of a kiwi hitting a hardwood floor. It also proved to have too much mass for the scales, so the toy hedgehog (11 g) was drafted as a counterweight. Then the balance’s 100 grams of shiny brass weights with the help of the hedgehog lifted the kiwi above level. A 2 gram weight, once removed, allowed the balance to even out. The battered kiwi thus weighed 109 grams.

Earlier, with the aid of Sibley’s Field Guide to Birds, we had established that a chickadee has a mass of 11 grams. So does the little plastic hedgehog, and its cage-mate, the floppy-eared rabbit.

The reason that the balance scale appeared at our door was the failure of the teeter-totter which came with the hedgehog and rabbit to determine which was heavier. Trouble was that when the teeter was at the bottom, whoever was on it was heavier than the partner on the totter, and vice-versa. We needed a better measurement device. Amazon, of course, leaped to the rescue.

The current device, pointedly identified for ages 8+ and grades 3 and up, arrived in time for supper last night. Ada had her sleep to ponder its applications, so at 6:00 a.m. she decided that the hedgehog was no longer hibernating, and could be weighed this morning.

Then came the Kiwi.

Turns out the rabbit weighs exactly the same as the hedgehog, so their relative weights are no longer an issue.

Sibley says that a blue jay weighs 85 grams.

The hours have run up very quickly on the Mechron. Its utility in winter stems from the comfort of the 3/4 enclosed cab and its sure-footed stance on sketchy surfaces. Why risk a slip on an ungroomed trail when a preliminary run through with the groomer* (pictured above) produces a predictable walking surface?

Greg Beech and Brian Raison have been logging the diseased American beech trees on the property, so the Kioti has been pretty busy keeping track of things.

Before that there were small pines which had died from blister rust to cut and haul to the burn pile. A chain light enough to fit into a coat pocket works well to harness the Kioti as a skidder. It is much handier for this than the old tractor with a timber winch installed. The 4WD Bolens tractor can wiggle through a much narrower opening than the Kioti, but the UTV keeps me warm and dry in its cabin, and it is much less tiring to mount than the Kioti, which requires a bit of gymnastics to gain the driver’s seat.

The chain saw has taken up winter residence in the cargo box of the Kioti. Hats and water bottles can ride securely up front in the passenger foot well.

The logging has left trails through the woods littered with severed branches. Most of the time I can emulate Greg’s Timberjack and drive over the debris. Low range is quite useful on technical parts of the trails until they are cleared. This brings to mind a criticism of the Kioti’s transmission: there is no LOW range reverse gear. Try a tight 3-point turn on a narrow trail. In LO you ease ahead on full right lock, then switch to reverse and suddenly lurch backwards. Then you can inch ahead again.

I have a belly plate ordered, but it hasn’t come in to the dealership yet.

Last fall I spent about $30 on enough 20 mm vinyl to enclose the right side and back of the cabin. I have made no effort to baby the membrane, but it has so far held up flawlessly.

*For the Kioti I copied the groomer Brian Raison uses behind his ATV for ice road maintenance. These tires are 19″ Pirelli winter run-flats, originally off a BMW X5.

A logger from Kemptville, Greg Beech, has just finished cutting the American beech trees out of our woodlot on Young’s Hill. He skidded them out to the field facing the road, where Brian Raison, a firewood merchant from Athens, is in the process of cutting and splitting the logs into firewood for his customers.

Martin Streit, recently retired from the Ministry of Natural Resources, told me last year that the time to cut the beech was now, or else my woodlot would be overcome with dead stubs and scrubby beech crowding out the other growth. He marked a total of two beech trees which were not afflicted with the blight. Greg cut the rest, as well as the over-age maples which Martin also marked as part of a regular improvement cut of the managed forest.

While his skidder was on-site, I asked Greg to fell a substantial black walnut for me. As usual I ended up deciding that the thousand board feet of excellent furniture material from this tree would be better stacked in one of my garages than loaded onto a truck on its way off the property.

This meant that I had to seal the ends of the logs against sunlight and evaporation. A 24″ clear 8′ walnut log will lose 6″ on either end to checks unless the cut ends are sealed with wax. A mill owner at the west end of Lake Erie told me what product to order and how to apply it. He ships his best black walnut logs to Europe, and the limbs go along too, for use in flooring.

The shipment of the wax paint from Lee Valley tools was due yesterday, but it arrived after sunset, so I hoped for a window this morning where I could cover the ends of four large logs before heavy snow or a freeze-up put an end to paint application.

At daylight I had two diesel engines idling at the site: my little tractor turned the generator for the compressor which sat proudly in the box of the UTV amid a wide assortment of other tools and accessories. In fact I did use the compressor to blow snow off the log ends, but at that point I decided that a 3″ brush was the tool for the job. Bet had sent one along in case the paint sprayer didn’t work. In the uncertainty of a snow storm I figured a disposable brush was a better bet than an air-powered paint gun which might find the white goo too thick to spray, but would certainly need cleaning. The brush worked fine, dipped directly into the gallon of paint. I used a litre.

Now I can relax.

Yesterday I arrived home from a day of basement renovations at my sister’s house to find a non-functioning oil furnace. My son Charlie immediately declared the thermostat dead and figured out how to change the batteries. The trouble with this particular implement is that all of the lettering on it is tiny and the same colour as the case. I can’t read it with my elderly eyes. It took him a fair length of time to find the screw holding it together, replace the batteries, and realize that the thing was still dead.

A call to Bangs Fuels resulted in a long time on hold and a surly and unco-operative call service. Things improved considerably once the serviceman received my message, though. With young kids playing in the background, the guy identified me in his mind as the brick and stone house on the hill with a gas furnace and an oil unit. He has worked on both over the years. We talked our way through the symptoms and he eventually agreed with Charlie that the thermostat was dead: the electronic screen should light up with fresh batteries even if it is not connected to the furnace.

So Charlie twisted the two 24 volt A.C. signal wires together and the furnace came on. I asked the service guy if I could put a toggle switch on it for manual operation. He said that would work, if I wanted to do that. Charlie brought me a toggle switch, but then rethought it: “A 12v automotive toggle switch is for DC current. They can arc when engaging. Instead he brought me a wall switch, then collected his family and headed for their Ottawa house for the weekend.

How do I temporarily attach a two-pole wall switch to a pair of ancient wires protruding an inch from a plaster wall? Time to stop and think. Instead I chose to use the master switch for the furnace mounted in the basement stairwell. Leave the thermostat wires twisted together, walk down two steps into the basement, and flick the switch with a toe. Immediately the furnace will start making noises, and ten minutes later the fan will cut in with heat for the house.

While vexing, the exercise of nursing an ailing furnace was a welcome release from the less easily handled crises of the week. Yesterday’s discovery that the ubiquitous surgical mask is quite excellent for handling old fibreglass insulation somewhat offset my realization that the standard Arrow T-50 construction stapler is now too stiffly sprung for my old wrists, and that the Covid-19 lockdown has intensified in the face of the growing threat of local infections.

Rosebridge Manor, the long term care home where my mother is a resident, reports a round of tests for everyone, and still no infections. During a pandemic there are some advantages to a rural location with a local work force and highly motivated management.

Professor Roz had presented a paper at a large virtual conference on Wednesday. I asked her how it had gone. She had a mixed reaction. “I was glad to see and talk to all of those people, but my body was disappointed that they weren’t really there.”

Every day for the last week I have asked myself the question: “What are you going to do today to take advantage of this wonderful weather before it ends?

A Pilgrimage:

For years my thoughts have returned to the rugged landscape of Bedford Township where my first memories were formed. This morning Bet packed me a lunch and off I went in the Kioti. The trip up Hwy 42 and through the back roads to Blair’s School and up the McAndrews road to Devil Lake went smoothly. The day was lovely, I found a great new trail and rediscovered the one over the tallest ridge which I used to travel with my VW Beetle while hunting. Only ATVs use it now. Unlike the fall of my twelfth year when I learned to drive on the abandoned side-road, MacCann Road is kept in great condition all the way to the lake now, as the region has become a residential area for those who prefer rock ridges and oak trees to neighbours.

A stop at Blair’s School and playing with the Kioti

Stealing from red squirrels:

This fall I have come across a number of large caches of walnuts lying on the ground in my woodlot. Red squirrels defend their selected walnut trees so aggressively that the Grey squirrels stay away. But the Greys scatter-cache their harvest, effectively planting the majority of the nuts to encourage further growth. The reds larder-hoard their takings in hollow trees and in piles on the ground where few nuts have a prospect of growth.

Roz accused me of socialism, but for the last week I have collected piles of nuts and redistributed them to areas of the woodlot accessible to the Greys so that they can plant them, and passed a few pails along to neighbours for similar use in areas depleted by dying ash and maple trees.