Good Morning! You know, over the years I have found that the deeper you dig, the more you realize there’s no bottom to some things—life’s just one of those endless questions.

It looks as if we are in for another nice day here in Cottage country. The sun is slowly burning off the mist over the lakes and valleys, which once again is sure a sight to see with all the fall leaves out in full colour.

Highway 522 has picked up now that Thanksgiving is over, and it’s not just the leftover turkey drawing people out of the woodwork. With hunters entering the picture, it’s like the woods got an invitation they couldn’t refuse. Trucks with trailers, ATVs, and an endless stream of camo-clad folks looking for that trophy ???are making their way down the road/s.

It seems that sometimes the highway tells a bigger story than we realize. Perhaps it’s not just the traffic picking up, but a reminder of the cycle we’re all part of, even here in Northern Ontario, where man and nature seem to collide with a sense of rhythm that’s hard to ignore. Makes you think, doesn’t it?

Moving along, yesterday I spent the day moving our old firewood, the pile I keep for the woodworking shop stove. Figured it was time to make it easier to get to when winter comes knocking. While I was at it, I finally got around to splitting those larger pieces—the ones I’d been eyeing for the past six years or so. Turns out, they hadn’t shrunk a bit in all that time. Kept me busy for most of the afternoon.

Now, hard work like that, well, it’s not for the faint of heart. But there’s something about the rhythm of it, like nature’s way of reminding me that even in the simplest tasks, there’s purpose. The day ended with a quiet sense of satisfaction, the kind you can only earn through sweat and stubbornness. Of course—my old body had a few choice words for me by the end, but that’s the price you pay, if you want things done.

You know, it’s funny how a stack of firewood can turn into a life lesson. Maybe it’s not just the muscles aching, but a reminder that I’m still in the game, still doing what I can in this little corner of Northern Ontario. Makes me wonder, how many of those pieces of firewood remember a younger version of me swinging that axe?

While I was busy with the firewood, my lovely wife was hard at work finishing up her last custom painting order for the year. She was smiling—she’s ready to dive into some other projects she’s been itching to start. I’ve got to say, her paintings are truly something to behold. And I’m not just saying that because I’m married to her. Honestly, I haven’t come across any other artist as talented as she is. You take one look at her work, and it hits you—this is what a painting should look like.

Truth be told, most of what passes for painting these days doesn’t impress me much. I wouldn’t even call them paintings; more like smudges of watercolor slapped on a canvas, as if that’s supposed to mean something. Yet somehow, folks have been swayed into thinking those splashes and streaks are beautiful. It’s a strange thing, how taste shifts over time, as if we’ve forgotten what true craftsmanship looks like.

But not me—I’m sticking with the kind of paintings that tell a story, ones where you can see the hand of an artist at work. A real painting shows you something new every time you look at it, and my wife’s work does just that. It’s got depth, feeling, and heart—none of this modern art nonsense where you have to guess what you’re looking at.

With that, I am off for my breakfast that my little woman is preparing for me, and will then get to enjoying this beautiful day.

You all have a great day and I will leave you with this to think on: “Isn’t it curious how we’ve come to accept so much less, not just in art but in life? Maybe we’ve been tricked into thinking smudges are masterpieces. And yet, here we are in Northern Ontario, still holding on to the real thing—be it firewood, paintings, or the simple satisfaction of a job well done. Makes you wonder what the world would look like if—we all demanded a little more.” GW