More about signs ... and dog poop

On one of our walks, Mr. Fluffster and I came across the confusing sign above left. Was it meant to keep us “humans” off the stepping stones (above right) as well as out of the water? I took the photo from one of those stones. A clearer message might have been: “Please stay out of the water.”

Back in my editor days, signs were the most challenging of all my projects. Initial requests always seemed straightforward: Our Anytown Office needs a window sign to inform the public about the services it offers. Please work with the designer to create one.

Requesters always believed their signs would be quick and easy to produce. They never were. After a few such frustrating projects, my more experienced colleagues and I happily passed the buck to newer, naiver team members.

One cursed sign took four years. The office in question assigned its articling student to the project. Nine months later, when that student’s term ended, we still didn’t have basic information about the sign’s size and content.

Months passed without answers to simple email questions. “You’ve asked for a 5' x 8' sign but 5 feet by 8 feet wouldn’t fit in your window; do you mean 5 inches x 8 inches?” “Please send us a close-up of the actual window where the sign will be posted. This blurry photo of the building’s second floor and roof isn’t enough.”

Every year, a new articling student took over and ignored our emails. After Year One, when asked for updates on this project, the designer and I would glance nervously at one other and change the subject. By Year Four, we’d just laugh hysterically.

We’d (re)explain our production requirements to each new student. And each would rewrite the sign wording and send new — and incomplete — details about size and type of material. Follow-up queries rarely yielded satisfactory answers.

Whenever we thought we were ready to print, last-minute snafus would hold things up just long enough for that particular student’s articles to end. In Year Three, we discovered — minutes before we were about to send the sign to the printer — that it violated bylaws on the colours and materials allowed for storefront window signs in that community.

We finally got it done at the end of Year Four.

Every single word in a sign requires careful thought. Who is the sign intended for? What should people know after reading it? Without clear answers to such questions, signs are ineffective, like the one above.

I appreciate good signs. See below for some fine recent examples, all about dog poop, a topic that seems to inspire effective, clear communication.

Left, a one-of-a-kind homemade sign that gets right to the point.
Right, a cute one that comes with poop bags.

My favourite, though the broken web address at the bottom no longer links to the Poo Fairy page where
locals could once download this sign to post on their own property … and learn about the dangers of dog poop.

* Created by Prettycons and Nikita Kozin from Noun Project.

Mayne Island … our favourite so far

View from Halliday Ridge Trail

In May, we spent five glorious days on Mayne Island. We hiked four trails and rode our bikes twice, strolled through a Japanese garden, and saw black-tailed deer, driftwood sculptures, and much stunning scenery. We’re agreed that Mayne is the most beautiful of the Gulf Islands we’ve been to.

I’ll let my photos prove it.

Day 1: “Giant Arbutus” is the name of a trail, not this tree, in Mount Parke Regional Park.

Halliday Ridge Trail includes some steep climbing … lots of steps … and motivational messaging.

The views from the summit rewarded our efforts.

An actual arbutus trunk, though clearly past its prime

View from Bennet Bay Bistro during a well-earned dinner

Day 2: We cycled to Georgina Point Heritage Park and Lighthouse under cloudy skies, with a few drops of rain.

Day 3: Kadonaga Bay in St. John’s Point Regional Park …

… where 70- to 90-kilometre wind warnings were in effect. No better time for a cliffside hike!

The sheltered return trail, where we could still hear the wind battering the opposite side of the cape

The birds were quite loud, but almost drowned out by the wind (turn sound on).

The last stretch of St. John’s Point Regional Park trail; you’d never know a windstorm
was raging less than a kilometre away (Mayne Island lost power for 26 hours).

Day 4: At the end of the day spent cycling and hiking Mount Parke Regional Park again,
a couple of brazen black-tailed deer dropped by our cabin at suppertime …

… completely unfazed by being videotaped.

Day 5: One last hike in Henderson Park, straight uphill on Vulture Ridge Trail.
Mr. Fluffster made it to the top, but I turned back early … too many steps … too hot.

After lunch on our last day, a Japanese Garden …

… several driftwood horse sculptures on the lawn of a riding stable …

… plus a seal guarding the park across the street.

Next up, Texada Island in September.

I'm sorry, Sis

While growing up on a farm in Southern Ontario, I spent much of my time playing with my little sister. Because I was five years older, I was convinced that I was the boss of her. That assumption — and my feeble attempt to bribe her — landed us both in hot water.

Our parents set a strict house rule for their four kids: no food or dishes outside of the kitchen (picnics excepted). Our mom had enough to do without also having to gather dirty bowls and plates scattered all over our large farmhouse.

When I was 8 or 9 (my sister 3 or 4), I broke that rule.

Lunch had interrupted our game of Pick-up Sticks. As usual, my sister finished eating before I did. Back into the living room she marched to take her turn. Always the slowest eater in the family, I followed right behind her with the last morsels of sandwich on my plate. I didn’t trust her not to shift those sticks to her advantage if I wasn’t watching.

After my last bite, I set the plate down on the living-room floor. Our game ended (she won), we ran upstairs to play with our dolls.

When our parents called us both back into the living room, they were standing over that plate in the middle of the floor. My mom asked which one of us was responsible. My sister and I exchanged glances, and said nothing. (Our brothers weren’t home. We were the only suspects.)

When we didn’t answer, we were banished to our bedroom until someone confessed.

To save my own skin, I asked my sister to say she’d done it. Our parents would go easy on her as the baby of the family. She usually got little more than a stern warning.

She protested that she hadn’t left the plate there and didn’t want to lie.

I was in a tight spot. She might rat me out or just keep quiet until I cracked. But I knew how to ratchet up the pressure. “If you admit to it, you’ll get a candy,” I said, without mentioning that I’d be the one to give it to her. She capitulated.

Our parents were talking in their bedroom across the hall, so we headed over. Walking in first, my sister announced that she’d left the plate on the floor.

My parents looked at each other, and my dad thanked her for being brave and confessing. For a split second, I felt a huge sense of relief. That is, until my sister looked up at them with innocent eyes, and asked for her candy….

I froze. My parents exchanged puzzled glances, and my mom asked her to explain. She blurted out exactly what I’d told her about getting a candy.

My dad snorted in amusement. My mom turned her face away, perhaps to hide a smile.

In the end, we were both punished.

Who knows? If only I’d been smart enough to tell her that I’d be giving her the candy, the whole scheme might have worked. I never tried it again.

Sorry, Sis. You deserved better.

No, I was never a three-year-old runaway

Intrepid Ms. Fluffster, ignoring the camera, at the cottage with her family

According to Fluffster family lore, I ran away from home when I was three.

It’s time to set the record straight: I didn’t run away. In fact, I believed my family had gone off to the cottage without me, and I had to catch up to them.

When I was three, going on four, we lived in a house with a small back yard in the heart of Toronto. Getting out of the city in the summer was a Big Deal. So it was with excitement that I heard my parents planning another trip to the cottage where we’d spent an exciting vacation the previous summer. For weeks, I pestered them: “Are we going today?” The answer was always no, not yet.

One morning, still in my pyjamas, I was next door playing on the neighbour’s swing set, equipment we didn’t have in our back yard. My mom had always encouraged us to play outside, so I was usually either in our yard or the neighbour’s. That neighbour kept an eye on me from her kitchen window whenever I showed up in her yard while her own kids were at school. Her swing set drew me there, but I often stuck around hoping to taste-test her fresh-out-of-the-oven cookies!

I didn’t pay much attention to which family members were still in my house when I scampered outside after breakfast. An adult would always show up if I needed one.

When I’d had enough of the swing and no cookies had appeared, it was time to find out what was for lunch at home. I walked into the house and called out. Nobody answered. I wandered around downstairs. Nobody there. Not old enough to know the difference between weekends and weekdays, it didn’t occur to me that my dad was at work and my brothers at school. Oma (my Dutch grandmother) was upstairs in her bedroom but didn’t hear me calling, and my mom was out grocery shopping.

In my mind, the empty house meant that everyone must have left for the cottage without me! I wasn’t upset, but I had to catch up with them.

Out I went, still in my pyjamas, but not before picking up my new change purse with two pennies in it (my mom always took her purse whenever she went out). That bright red change purse, a gift from Oma, had one side that was clear plastic so I could always see how rich I was.

After about two hours, I’d wandered at least three and a half kilometres from home when a family finally stopped me near Runnymede subway station. A pre-schooler in her pyjamas walking along busy Toronto streets had to attract attention sooner or later, even in the late ‘50s when free-range parenting was the norm.

Google Maps screenshot of the most direct route from our house to Runnymede Station; I don’t recall the exact route I took.

The mom of the family opened the passenger door of their car, asked where I was going, and offered me a ride. Climbing onto her lap, I said I was going to the cottage, and proudly showed off my change purse. They drove up to the first police car they came across, and a policeman took me home. At three, I hadn’t yet learned about stranger danger. But my parents had taught me to memorize my address and telephone number, which I proudly recited to anyone who asked for it.

Exactly what happened after I got home, other than some uncomfortably tight hugs from my relieved mom and Oma, is blurred in my memory. But I clearly remember getting a lollipop from the policeman on the way home. That’s what really mattered.

Memories of a capricious pony

Ms. Fluffster, in cowboy hat and Western gear, riding her pony at a Southern Ontario horse show

The year I turned 13, I fulfilled my dream of owning a pony. I’d longed for one ever since I met the girl with a pony who’d moved into a neighbouring farm a year earlier.

She became my best friend and as teenagers we spent long hours together on horseback. She still rides horses. I now have a lower-maintenance bicycle. No carrots or petting required.

My family knew I wanted a pony more than anything. I’d started saving up, but it would have taken me years to collect enough money. So my mother decided to surprise me when I got back from a visit to relatives in Montreal.

The afternoon I got home, my two brothers gleefully announced that they’d bought me some ducks. I was suspicious, since I’d never expressed any interest in ducks, but played along when they steered me to the “duck coop,” a little-used shed with a window at floor level, through which I spotted brown hooves.

Inside was a five-year-old pony named Lightning. Beside myself with delight, I begged to ride him right away. For months, I’d been riding my friend’s pony bareback, so I knew I was ready.

Minutes later, we trotted off. Lightning broke into a gallop as we neared a fence where we’d have to go through a gate. I tried to slow him down but failed. Charging towards the gate, he made a sudden U-turn. Over the gate I sailed, landing hard on the other side of the fence while he trotted back to his shed (and dinner). I limped home, only my pride seriously injured.

Too late to do me any good, I remembered being warned that some ponies use stunts like these to throw their riders.

We negotiated a truce after that first misadventure. I discovered that food was the best way to manage him. If I let him stop to eat grass regularly, he’d let me stay on his back.

I never liked riding fast, preferring an easy gallop at best. When my friends raced, Lightning and I would fall behind. He didn’t mind being a little behind, but if the others got too far ahead, he’d take the bit between his teeth and defy my efforts to slow him down.

Still, whoever named him was being hopeful. He sped up only if he got hungry or fell too far behind the pack. His usual slow-as-molasses pace suited me just fine.

When hungry or bored, he’d sometimes lie down and roll over mid-ride, forcing me to scramble off his back and out of the way, a trick he once played as we rode down Main Street in the Santa Claus parade. The spectators found it funny. I didn’t.

Despite his quirks, he was an affectionate companion who greeted me with a friendly nuzzle every morning. For nearly four years, we spent most of our waking hours together. As I got to know him, I learned how to pick up on his warning signals — and avoid being thrown.

In our second summer together, we started winning ribbons at local horse shows. We were at our best in trail class, which involves manoeuvres like jumping low rails, backing up between posts (see below), and negotiating a gate (opening, passing through, and closing). One summer we got the season trophy in this category, winning enough ribbons/points to beat out all competitors.

I have one unhappy memory from our time together. Lightning got hit by a car one foggy evening while my mother and I were out for dinner. When we got home, my brother said that a stranger reeking of alcohol had banged at the door, complaining that a herd of horses had charged at his car right in front of our farm. My brother went to show him that our two ponies (Lightning and my sister’s pony, Misty) were standing in their field. In the near-dark, they couldn’t see the new break in the fence. The man staggered back to his car and drove away.

The next morning I found that break and confirmed that our ponies had indeed escaped, encountered the car, and returned. Further evidence? Lightning’s mutilated and still bleeding muzzle, which required veterinary care. The wound was too ragged to stitch, so all we could do was apply salve and hope it would heal. He was left with an unsightly hole above one nostril that whistled whenever he exerted himself (admittedly not often). Nursing him back to health took several months.

When I was 16, we sold the farm and moved to a small town near Toronto, so we had to sell Lightning. I was heartbroken, but thankful that the new owners of our farm decided to buy him along with the property. He got to stay home and keep eating grass.