Critters and Hot July Nights — A Delicious Summer in the Great White North

It was late June 2020, and I had been in Canada since September the year before. Having arrived in the fall, I had yet to experience a summer in the Great White North.

The winter had been long. Although I had loved everything about it — the snow, the Christmas lights, the short days and cozy evenings, I wasn’t yet accustomed to the length of a Canadian winter. I, along with many others, was jonesing for some warmth.

The Critters

As spring set in and critters came foraging, I started feeding a grey squirrel from my backyard window. I named him Turk in honour of the many Turkish friends I’d made through online teaching. Whilst Turk’s daily presence on my window sill was only out of cupboard love, I was more than happy to continue buying his love.

Soon a black squirrel started to appear, capitalizing on the bounty I laid out for Turk every morning and afternoon. I named him Gorgeous George.

Turk and George sent a few warning squeaks to each other as they crossed paths, one winning out before munching down on the window sill platter whilst the other yelled from the nearby tree. I’d wait for the victor to eat and leave before replenishing the snack bar.

Soon the word was out and a series of Turks and Georges descended on my window daily, chasing each other off with squeaks and yells as I laid out handfuls of peanuts and sunflower seeds for the milling crowds. I didn’t care how much it cost; they were my joy, and I was prepared to go without to keep them fed.

Now and then, one would come to the window, find nothing, sit up on its hind legs, front paws together, and peer right at me as if to say, “Hey lady, the bar’s empty! Where’s the grub?” As a conglomerate of woodland creatures now owned me, I was pretty quick to meet their demands.

Nothing made me smile as broadly as hearing the nibbling sounds of a ravenous squirrel in my window.

As my critters plumped up from the sparse winter, spring burst into summer and the celebrations began, starting with…

Canada Day

July was upon us, and pandemic restrictions were easing above the 49th parallel. Canada Day came around, and I wasn’t going to let it pass me by without celebration — it would be my first.

Two friends and I had been using my backyard to hang out all year, safely and six feet apart, but we were able to inch a little closer now. I planned a barbecue and headed to my happy place — Dollarama, where all struggling Canadians shop — to splurge on decorations.

Canadian flags, hanging lanterns, a “Moose Crossing” sign, and a painted beaver adorned the gazebo. Having also bought a red Canadian cowboy hat and a “Canada 1867” t-shirt for the occasion, I donned my Texan cowboy boots and set up some music before my guests arrived.

Along with a fourth, we dug into strawberry daiquiris and fired up the barbecue. Laughter filled the air as the three Canadians belted out an extremely funny rendition of O Canada, quickly helping each other fill in a few forgotten words — daiquiris can have that effect. All four of us enjoyed an afternoon without the limitations and difficulties of the previous pandemic months.

As evening set in, we lit a fire, cracked some cold beers, and waved a few hissing sparklers on the hot July night as the whizz-bang of nearby fireworks exploded around us. Sitting in the still of the summer evening with friends while watching the fireflies dart by, I remember feeling truly happy.

The cherry on my already burgeoning cake was the series of hugs that ended the evening. It was such a simple expression of love but one that had been sorely missing from the previous few months. Human contact was back, and the world made sense again.

Finally, a summer birthday!

Having been raised in the Southern Hemisphere, my birthday was always a winter one. As a child, my parties were often small, and my school friends were already off on their winter break vacations. In adulthood, celebrations had to be held indoors to shield from the cold and the rain.

This year, my birthday would be warm and delicious.

The night before I turned forty-seven, there was a full moon. I wandered into a nearby park to gaze up at her in all her glory. The sight of a full moon never ceases to amaze me — maybe, it’s because my sun sign, Cancer, is ruled by the moon, but the vision of her in all her splendour moves me to my core.

It was the perfect July night, warm with a multitude of fireflies celebrating their short lives by signalling to potential mates and dancing joyfully in the backyard.

The neighbours were entertaining, and their voices filled the air with love and laughter as they shrugged off the oppressiveness of the last few months. The beauty of the evening brought me to tears as I drank in the deliciousness of fireflies and hot July nights.

The following day did not disappoint, beginning with one of my favourite things in the world, spending time with horses, as a friend joined me on a trail ride at a dude ranch about thirty minutes outside the city. My love affair with horses started when I was a child and has not left me since.

Straddling an exquisite palomino called Joker while being led through the beautiful Ontario countryside following a chatty trail leader, I was in heaven.

The celebrations ended with dinner at my favourite restaurant for me and two friends. Inside dining had not yet resumed, but they had opened their patio, and it was here that we proceeded to have a wonderful night filled with amazing food, a little champagne, and more laughter and joy than any of us could imagine.

I crawled into bed a little tipsy, but very happy. In that moment, life was good.

Road Tripping Through Muskoka

At the end of July, I was offered a trip up to Bruce Lake in Muskoka to spend a few days with friends of a friend who owned a cabin on the lake.

I jumped at the opportunity.

Despite horrendous traffic leading into Toronto and beyond, we happily sang country tunes all the way up to the beautiful lake region, stopping for coffee and bagels on the way. God bless Tim Hortons and their cinnamon raisin bagels!

Many hours later, we trundled down a dirt road and parked outside the little wooden cabin surrounded by towering trees and the stillness you only find in the country. Bruce Lake is completely private, only accessible by the floating docks stretching from the properties that surround it into the crystal blue water of the lake.

It was here that I fell madly and instantly in love… with a chipmunk.

Having watched my merry band of squirrels but never getting close enough to touch them, I was beyond ecstatic that this little fella allowed me to hand-feed him. He was used to the locals that came and went, and despite being a little suspicious at first, the proffered almonds proved too much for him to resist, much to my delight.

I support the buying of critter love by any means necessary and in any shape or form.

A quick drive into Rosseau after breakfast allowed me to grab more supplies to continue receiving cupboard love from my new soulmate. Every time he placed his front feet on my hand before reaching for the nut, my heart melted a little more. Watching him stuff the shells into his cheeks brought me more joy than I thought possible.

Life got even better when I met my host’s nemesis, a red squirrel nicknamed The Red Baron, who we believed was the leader of the Fluftwaffe, an underground clandestine group of marauding squirrels.

The Red Baron was an asshole, plain and simple, and drove our host completely crazy. He had tried to get into the cabin through a duct the year before, and she hated him. I, of course, loved him but also scolded him severely when he drove off my little chipmunk.

The first couple of days at the cabin had been sublime, and the weather had been incredible. The warm days allowed for a beautifully tepid lake as we splashed about in the water. On the third day, the rain set in, and the temperature dropped, creating another idyllic environment — a blazing fire heating friends in an old cabin in the woods.

The night before we left, my friend and I left our hosts to themselves and built a fire on the bank of the lake as we huddled in our coats, drank a few beers, played a little music, and laughed uncontrollably while telling stories.

I spent an hour lobbing peanut shells at The Red Baron much like a quarterback to their star wide receiver. He scooped them up with great skill in true pro-athlete form, zig-zagging his way to the end zone, his hideaway, before returning to his “field position,” a tree stump.

The evening was the perfect ending to a wonderful vacation and a great summer. As we loaded the car and headed out fairly early the next morning, I was sad to return to reality.

My first Canadian summer remains one of my favourite memories and cements my desire to live above the 49th parallel. As I sit here in my homeland at the southernmost tip of Africa, I look forward to my return home to the Great White North.

Please feel free to buy me a coffee if you like what you read.