Battening down the hatches

It's a grey, dreich (Scottish for cold, damp and miserable) day at the farmette. It's finally feeling like November (3C) after we had the mildest couple of weeks I can remember.

This past week we really started to get ourselves and the property ready for the upcoming winter.

Our neighbour Larry did a final run of the yard, picking up the leaves and dumping them in the back forty.

This is a picture from 10 years ago, when leaf collecting was, ahem, fun. We actually used to have a

hoot on warmish days using the wee cart that Rob jerry-rigged into a mega-tonne leaf conveyor with burlap and wooden poles.

The quantity of leaves and creakiness of our aging bodies have necessitated farming out that particular chore.

I've put away the sandals, sun hats and shorts and brought out the boots, toques, and snow pants. We've received our flu and Covid vaccines and booked the Honda for changing over to snows in about a week.

The pantry is plump with canned and dried goodies from the garden.

I also got a new head for my curling broom and a new gripper (the rubber thingy that covers the slidey bit on the bottom of the left shoe). Technical terms, I know, but it's essential equipment when you're skittering down the ice after a 40-pound rock. If you don't want to go ass-over-teakettle. Just saying.

The ladies actually started playing last Monday, but I was laid low by another sign of the coming times. A rotten cold. With barking like a harp seal, phlegm flowing everywhere and the energy of a sloth. All the fun stuff.

Luckily, I'm much better thanks to two bottles(!) of Robitussin, vast quanities of water and, eventually, some much-needed sleep. Ready for the rink tomorrow.

As we we move into winter, I'm grateful for living in this great country where we have changing seasons. It keeps things interesting, yes? Until next week.

Gratuitous cat photo courtesy of Wilma, who always looks like she's going to vault out of the room. Or take over the planet.