I’m not talking about sugar cane, but perhaps I should be because the cane I am talking about sweetens the chance that I won’t tumble on my face when walking on uneven ground.
It seems that I, as many preceding my age, have ascended to the level of having a topsy-turvy mind. It seems that balance, though a priority, is not always readily available – similar, I suppose, to balancing your books at tax time.
The cane that I am talking about could be better identified as a walking stick, for that is exactly what it is. I made it from a stick and it assists me while I walk. But this particular walking stick has a history all its own. It is made of ironwood, known in the lingo of the scientist as Ostrya virginiana, more commonly known as hophornbeam.
I first became acquainted with this particular stick more years ago than I care to remember. I had taken three of my kids, all pre-double digits at the time, for a walk along the side of a golf course. We had trained our toy French poodle to find and retrieve lost golf balls.
The kids got a lucrative 25 cents each for them when turned in to the RBs at the clubhouse. After a long weekend of tournaments, it was not unusual for them to end up with $10 or more to jingle happily in their jeans.
It was on one of these weekly jaunts that I noticed the crooks in the limbs of a tree, and recognizing it as ironwood, I felt it would make an ideal perch for a yellow-headed amazon parrot that I had at the time. He chewed everything that I had tried, but I felt this would solve the problem, and it did.
Knowing the wood was the hardest of hard, a quick trip with a hacksaw on the midnight side of a beautiful sunset, with a handful of mud smearing the fresh-cut stub, no one would be upset, except, of course, the parrot who would not be able to chew it to pieces, no matter how hard he tried.
Having raised exotic birds for a greater part of my life, this stick was transferred again and again from one cage to another, until it eventually was sold with bird and cage. It went, on departure, with the subtle request that if you ever find that you can no longer keep the bird, please let me find a new home for it.
One full score and two years later, said cockatoo showed up at my place, complete with cage – and you guessed it – the ironwood perch, showing the least of wear, prominently decked the top.
The cockatoo found a new home in a brand-new cage, so the old cage, waiting to be repainted, sat outside in the rain, hot sun, wind, snow, and ice for a further two years.
But then it happened; I finally found the time and got off of my butt and repainted all four sides of each cage bar with a tiny handheld paintbrush. Believe me that tests both skill and patience. From chipped black to glowing white, the cage once again looked beautiful; it would be easy to sell. But for reasons unknown at the time, I neglected to put said perch back on the top of the cage.
It was perhaps good fortune that I had not readily done so, as not much later, I found myself on uneven ground with my face kissing the wet dew-covered grass – while Foxy, our large housedog, sympathetically licked my ear.
It was from there, so positioned, peering through dog-licked bifocal glasses, when I once again spotted the retired ironwood bird perch, which, in respect of having served well, had not yet been directed to our burn barrel. Its well-twisted shape looked to me like an attractive, unique, one of a kind, walking stick.
A thick eight-inch handle cut off from the butt end, securely fastened crosswise with a short piece of tight-fitting hardwood doweling, glued into half-inch drilled holes giving additional support, with a non-slip rubber cap slipped on its tip, and there you have it, folks: a masterpiece, ready, willing, and able to challenge the best of the aboriginal woodcarver’s best.
It’s worth the drive to Markdale just to admire it while you sit and chat.
Take care, ’cause we care.
barrie@barriehopkins.ca
519-986-4105