Woof, woof, and woof again. That’s just Foxy, our house dog, my good-natured, ever-present companion, expressing her canine good morning to a new arrival at our house – and I suppose, now that it’s in print, saying good morning to you all as well.
What tethered my attention in this direction was a new voice at the lower end of the bend in our stairs. Directly above is my computer desk, before which, too often, my butt is plunked on one of those comfortable office-type swivel chairs.
Okay, I’ll admit, you’ve caught me eavesdropping on others in conversation. So, next time you see me, give me a two-fingered slap on the wrist. A man of my vintage should certainly know better.
It seems that, through WWOOF, that’s World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms, a new wave of Woofers is rippling in.
I find these volunteers, as yet in their early 20s so far, willing and able to trade their help for food and lodging, to be interesting youngsters from faraway places.
To me, they are reminiscent of the student exchange program which, for years beyond ten, the Little Lady and I had the pleasure of hosting many work projects.
The Woofers are filling a gap in my life that was certainly left vacant. Though language is not a problem, their lack of familiarity of what we do, as with the exchange students, brings us, one and all, back to the teaching techniques of kindergarten, basically “show and tell.”
We show them what we have, we tell them what needs to be done, and occasionally watch them as they figure out the best way for them to do it. Quite often it is a two-way learning experience. It is well known that a teacher occasionally learns from the student being taught. I don’t think there is a teacher alive who would deny that fact.
The new voice that was heard at the foot of the stairs was a Woofer of feminine nature, hailing from Germany. Her flight arrival at Toronto, though prearranged, coincided closely with my son’s return flight from six days in Palm Springs, California. Because they were both dead-tired and suffering equally from jet lag, having arrived well after the sun had set, their conversation ceased until late the following morning.
After formal introductions and a brief verbal résumé, the conversation switched to the weather. Let me jog your memory here that for the past, more than 20 years, my son has been employed as captain of an eight-seated, twin-engine, privately owned jet, known as the “Westwind.” It belongs to an investment company, with interests across both Canada, the U.S. and beyond.
This particular flight touched down for six days in popular Palm Springs, which is in Napa Valley wine country, south of San Francisco. The temperature there was 46 C – that’s 116 F, folks! My son and his co-pilot amused themselves by popping popcorn on the railing of their hotel room balcony, and, in less than 10 minutes, they fried an egg on a rock in the parking lot.
So, folks, while you are pitching hay, wiping your brow and bitching a little, don’t complain – think Palm Springs this past week and February here last winter.
Take care, ’cause we care.
barrie@barriehopkins.ca
519-986-4105