AITA?

We're pretty lucky: we have good neighbours.

We've lived in our house for more than 25 years and have seen a lot of changes. Neighbours have come and gone, bringing new families from various backgrounds. There has always been a sense of community, especially in the circle at the end of our cul-de-sac.

There aren't a lot of original owners left. Including ourselves, there are four original families. All of our kids were born around the same time and grew up together, and it's been great watching these individuals go from babies to adults.

New families have come into our neighbourhood and for the most part, they've been a great addition to our street. There is a family, a few doors down, where the kids don't seem to understand boundaries and whose parents are quite noisy.

Privately, I call the dad 'Foghorn Leghorn.' He's a loudmouth schnook.

Our house is bookended by two families with young kids. We're the old folks in the middle. The kids are well-behaved and the parents are great. It's always nice to chat with them when we're outside.

The newest neighbours have a young daughter, and she and the mom love cats. When they learned that we have three, they asked if they could visit: the husband was allergic to cats so they couldn't have one of their own.

Sure, absolutely, they were welcome to come over. We'd make tea for the mom and offer milk or juice to the daughter, and we'd have a lovely visit. On subsequent visits, they'd even bring toys for the cats.

After a while, they were able to find a cat of their own that was hypoallergenic, and the father got shots so that he could tolerate the cat (he liked cats, too, but his allergies had forced him to keep a distance). The cat is extremely cute and playful.

The neighbours have bought a harness and leash, and the mom brings the cat outside for walks, but lately I've been noticing a habit that has made me uncomfortable to the point that I want to say something, but have been reluctant out of fear that I'll come off as being an asshole.

Hence, the title to this blog post (I bet you were wondering when I'd get around to that, weren't you?)

As part of their walk, the mom brings the cat onto our property. Generally, I don't mind the daughter cutting across our front lawn and walkway to visit the kids that live on the side of our house, where our front porches are side-by-side.

And the mom also has done the same, accompanying her daughter and chatting with these neighbours. I've never had an issue with this behaviour.

But the mom will walk the cat, on its leash, and come onto our porch, right up to our door, without necessarily wanting to knock on the door. She'll also sit on the chairs on our porch to have a rest while the cat sniffs our doormat.

Our doorbell cam, with another visitor.

We have surveillance cameras at the front of our house. One monitors our driveway; the other is a camera on our doorbell, which is activated any time someone is spotted on our pathway or porch. For the doorbell camera, we've turned down the sensitivity so that it doesn't pick up movement on our neighbour's porch.

We respect their privacy.

We receive a notification on our smartphones any time the cameras are activated. Whenever there's a delivery, the camera will tell us it thinks a package has been left on our front steps. If a squirrel, rabbit, or other creature wanders on our porch, we are notified.

Lately, I've seen a lot of notifications that a person was spotted on our porch, and when I check the video, it's our neighbour and her cat, out for a walk. Sometimes, the daughter will also visit, on her own, and will sit on one of our chairs.

I received several such notifications while we were travelling in Peru. Our neighbours knew that we were away, that my parents were looking after our cats, so there really wasn't a reason to be hanging out on our porch.

I realize that they live next to the loudmouth schnook on the other side of their house. I know that he can be a bit much—even I'll go inside if I'm sitting on my porch and hear him going on and on about something—and she might need a bit of a reprieve.

But I find it odd to see the mom hanging out on my property all the time, whether we're at home or not, and for her to not be there to hang out with us. One morning, I pulled the blinds on my bedroom window, and there she was, on my lawn, with her cat on its leash, sniffing around in our flower garden (the cat, not the neighbour).

DW says she doesn't mind but I find it a little odd. No other neighbour just comes onto other neighbours' properties. If a neighbour is walking their dog, they keep it off of other people's lawns.

Nobody else just comes to my front porch and has a seat when I'm not there, too.

Even though DW doesn't mind, it makes me uncomfortable. I find it somewhat invasive. I feel that boundaries aren't being respected.

I'd like to say something but I don't want to come across as the curmudgeonly neighbour who is yelling, "Get off of my lawn." I want to convey how I find it odd to have them hanging out on my property without offending them.

So, I'm turning to you, my dear readers. What do you think? Am I being an a-hole for feeling this way and for wanting to politely tell them to knock it off? If I'm justified, how should I approach our neighbour to let her know?

For the most part, we've always had good neighbours and I want to be a good neighbour, too. But I find these neighbours need to know that I'm not comfortable with seeing them constantly hanging out in spaces that aren't public.

What do you think? AITA?

Great Neighbours

Our first house was originally going to be a five-year home: 10 years, max, if we had good neighbours.

Twenty-four years later, we're still in the same place.

We almost moved about a year and a half ago. A friend was selling his house and DW was in love with the place, but in the end we decided to stay put. We had recently become mortgage-free and I have my eye on retirement, in the next few years, so the prospect of taking out a sizable mortgage for this house didn't make a lot of sense.

One afternoon, last summer, as DW and I were relaxing on our front porch, chatting with our neighbours, who were relaxing on their front porch, I let slip that we had almost bought my friend's house, and their jaws dropped.

"No way!" said one.

"You are not allowed to move unless there's a house, next to it, that we can move into," said the other.

Yeah, they're great neighbours.

More than anything else, our neighbours are the reason that we've remained in our first and only house. There are people on our street that we've known since we've first moved in, who are more like friends than co-residents of our street. We've had good neighbours who used to live on either side of us but have moved away, only to be replaced by equally good neighbours.

We've had neighbours keep an eye on our house, even taking the time to remove snow from our driveway, unasked, when we've been traveling. One neighbour, who didn't know we were away, was concerned for me when he noticed that a day had gone by since snow fell and I wasn't out to clear the driveway. He knew how I liked to keep my driveway a particular way, right after a storm, and so he checked in and was out with his snowblower when no one came to the door.

Yup, great neighbours.

It's important to have people around you who keep an eye on you and your home, who you can count on to be there in times of need. I've really thought of this importance over the past few days, after some horror befell our neighbourhood, last Friday.

DW and I work from home, so we're able to see if anything happens on our street during the day, as well as at night. And on Friday afternoon, as I was at my desk, on the main floor next to our front window, DW called down to me from the study.

"Did you see black smoke blow past the window?" she asked.

I have my back to the window so I don't even notice when a courier has delivered a package to our front steps. My phone notifies me when our doorbell camera spots someone but it doesn't tell me that there's smoke overhead.

We both stepped outside and looked down our street, only to see a thick plume of black smoke rising above the rooflines at the end of our street. As we watched, we heard loud pops, like gunfire, and DW got jittery.

"That's a car on fire," I suspected, aloud. "That explains the black smoke, and the noises were likely the gas tank rupturing and the tires exploding." I started walking down our street, toward the smoke.

DW was still nervous but we made our way toward the fire. In the distance, we could hear approaching fire trucks and we could see that some police SUVs were already on scene.

Our street ends at another side street from the main road in our 'hood. And once we reached the end of our street, the smoke had changed from black to grey. One fire engine was already parked in the front of the house and at least two others were close by. A ladder truck, parked across the street from the fire, was beginning to raise the boom, to which a hose was attached.

The garage of the house was completely gone; the house, blanketed in the dense, fog-like smoke. The house next to it, closer to us, also had smoke coming from under the roof. In a matter of moments, it was clear that it, too, was on fire.

More people were coming out to witness the horror. I recognized a lot of my neighbours and we all murmured that we hoped that no one was inside, that anybody who was at home had got out safely. We later learned that there had been five pets in the first house, and all had been rescued.

As flames broke through the roof of the second house, I captured a short video. But not wanting to stay long, DW and I made our way back to our own home, where our three cats were safe.

At the end of my work day, I walked down to our mailbox but also returned to the fire scene, where only one fire truck was left, the fire fighters tidying its hoses and preparing to leave. Some police units were still there but they, too, were readying to leave.

The fires were extinguished, there was nothing left to take care of.

The residents of the second house to catch fire were allowed into their home. Apart from one side of the house and parts of the roof, the house seemed intact, though I could only imagine the smoke damage and the flooding from having water doused on the roof, making its way everywhere.

The residents had packed up what they could and were passing them to their neighbours who lived on the other side, away from the burned-out first house. Neighbours helping neighbours through a nightmare situation.

Great neighbours.

Over the weekend, DW and I were able to chat with our neighbours about the fire. We were all grateful that we knew that, had we experienced the same misfortune as the folks around the corner, we had people that we could rely on to have our backs to help each other in times of need.

How could we have possibly considered moving, the other year. This might have been our five-year home, initially, but it's now our forever home. I can't imagine living next to better neighbours.

(I'm still looking to move to Portugal after I retire, but that's going to be a tough decision.)

Back to the Old House

It entered my head as I was laying down to sleep, the other night. My mind dug through my memories and took me back to where I lived when my parents first moved from Montreal to Ottawa.

I could see our garden-home neighbourhood, off Bowhill Avenue, and the many pathways and backyard common spaces. I saw the multi-tenant parking garages and the multi-vehicle, outdoor parking spaces. And before I drifted to sleep, I wondered what the neighbourhood looked like now.

So I went back during my lunch break, yesterday.

I have many memories from childhood. I remember our neighbours and the kids my sisters and I used to play with. I remembered one friend and his tragic end, and shared that story several years ago. I straightened the facts in a subsequent post.

I looked through old photo albums, looking for any photos that showed our Bowhill house and hood. I came across a few, going back to 1968, when we first moved in. I have a photo of my sister, Holly, and me standing at the front door. The photographer can be made out, slightly, in the reflection of the window next to the door. I can't identify the person but it appears to be a woman who is not my mother.

I also have photos from 1969, sliding on my toboggan down the sloped lawn of our neighbours from across the street, the MacDonalds. I remember Colin, who was Holly's age, and his sister, Jane, who was even older. The twins, Robert and Roberta, were only about a year old, the same age as my younger sister, Jen.

On my return, yesterday, I saw the MacDonald's old house and that sloped lawn, covered with snow, and remembered that day of tobogganing.

The old MacDonald house, next to the parking garage. That slope seemed larger and steeper, then.

In 1970, my uncle and aunt, Richard and Wendy, came to visit. There's a picture of him holding Jen in front of the kitchen window, at the front of the house, with my head at the bottom-right of the frame. I also have a photo, from the same year, with a garden hose. I'm apparently washing cars but it looks like I gave Jen a shower, too.

The parking space was filled when I visited it, yesterday.

Looking at the neighbourhood, things hadn't really changed much. The doors had changed but the houses were the same. The parking garages now had gates: anyone could pull in when we lived there. We used to boost ourselves onto the rooves of the various parking garages and sometimes even rode our bikes on the flat surfaces.

I looked at my old house and remembered our next-door neighbours, the Thompsons. Paula, who was also Jen's age, would later become friends with DW, when they were in high-school together. I last saw Paula about six years ago. Sadly, she's no longer with us.

My old house, on the left; Paula's house, with the blue door.

After Paula's house, there was a gap between the units that led to an inner courtyard and some backyards. The next house, after the gap, was the home of Bernice and Jack: Bernice became friends with my mom and I have memories of visiting, and Bernice teaching me how to play "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star" on her piano.

Their son, Greg, would later marry my mom after my parents split up. He's really the only father I've ever truly known.

Next door to Greg's folks was my friend, Charlie, who I've mentioned at the start of this post.

Now that I've been back to this old house, I've wondered about some of the other houses we've lived in, in Parkwood Hills. Two of the houses are very close to this one but I didn't feel like driving by them on this particular day. Maybe, when the snow is gone, I'll take another drive out this way.

Just for nostalgia.

Happy Thursday!

Missed

I didn't miss the snow. Not by a long shot.

I feared the snow, feared that it would fall in great, heavy amounts while DW and I soaked in the sun and warmth on a beach in the Mexican, Mayan Riviera. And my fears were warranted.

Ottawa received a lot of snow while we were away: more than 30 centimetres had accumulated over the 10 days of our absence. I received notifications that our security cameras had detected motion, and that motion was blowing snow.

My parents were looking after our house while we were away. They checked in on our cats, making sure that Camille, Cece, and Finn had plenty of food and water, and that their litter boxes were kept fresh.

My folks don't have the strength or endurance to shovel my driveway and I didn't expect them to tackle the snow. We kept in touch and I told them that if the snow was bad, that we'd order a service to clear the snow from our lane.

My neighbour from across the street beat me to the punch. Talking to him when we returned, the said that he didn't know that we were away, but something made him wonder when, after the first small snowfall, I wasn't out to shovel the driveway.

He knows that I always keep the driveway pristine.

After a big snowfall of about 25 cm had fallen, and an entire day had elapsed, he figured that we were probably away. Either that, or I was dead, he said.

He only planned to clear out the end of the driveway, which had been sealed in by a snowplow. But once he had done that, he figured he'd continue and finish the job.

My doorbell camera alerted me while he was clearing our porch.

When we returned from Akumal Bay, on Saturday morning, the driveway had been shovelled again; this time, only a narrow path had been cleared to allow my car to pull out of the garage and onto the street, unobstructed. The pathway to the front door was also cleared.

According to my neighbour, my father had done that work.

So I was out, on Sunday, to widen my driveway and clear the thin covering of snow that fell later, on Saturday. That's when I thanked my neighbour with a bottle of tequila and another, of Mexican vanilla.

It's good to be home. I had missed my cats and my own bed.

I don't miss the snow. I don't miss shovelling.

Now that I'm back, now that I've worked up a sweat in the cold, throwing snow onto a bank that reaches over my head, I miss that sunny beach, miss watching the warm sun rise over the Caribbean Sea every morning.

I missed home while I was away: I miss Mexico, now that I'm home.

On the Fence

I'm too old for this.

About 21 years ago, more than a year after DW and I had moved into our home and just a few months after Kid 1 was born, we met with the four neighbours whose properties bordered on ours to discuss building fences. Our neighbourhood was new and no one had yet set up dividers to mark our territories.

DW and I measured the property lines and calculated how many posts were needed and how much lumber was required to build the fences. We asked our neighbours to do their own calculations to ensure that the numbers were correct. Thankfully, everyone agreed that red cedar wood was the preferred type of fence that we wanted: it made calculations even easier.

When we decided on a design for the fence, DW and I again calculated which types of lumber was needed, roughly how many screws it would take, and other pieces of hardware. When all of our neighbours were in agreement, DW and I ordered the wood and told the neighbours how much each of them owed. We had them sign an agreement to pay their fair share, and we were good to go.

We had a professional company drill the holes for the posts and set the poles into place. After the cement had cured, it was up to us to construct the rest. Over two weekends, Jack, the neighbour directly behind us, and I did the bulk of the construction. It was a lot of fun and not as difficult as I had feared.

The last bit of fence to be put into place was the section between our house and Jack and his wife, Maria's house. Before we put the last panel in place, Jack invited DW and I to his patio, where he an Maria set out a selection of Polish beer (they were Polish) and snacks. We toasted to a job well done and neighbourly friendship.

We also joked about leaving the last panel off so that we could stay in touch. Once the last panel was in place, we would barely be able to see each other. The only way to visit one another would be to walk around the block to the front of each other's homes.

We would continue to chat over the fence, and at one point, DW gave Maria some of our fresh-grown tomatoes—handing them over the fence—only to have Maria, some time later, give us mason jars filled with her homemade salsa.

Good times.

Jack and Maria are gone. In fact, all of the original owners of the houses that border onto ours are gone. (Was it us?)

Last winter, while DW and I were on vacation, a wind storm snapped two posts along one section of the fence and brought two panels to the ground. Because it was winter, we decided to wait until spring to deal with it.

And time went by.

Since then, I've met the latest neighbours who live behind us but are next door to where Jack and Maria lived. We've moved the panels so that they are not laying flat, and I told the young man who is renting the house that I'd figure out the cost of repair and get back to his landlord.

So far, no luck: I've contacted three businesses, all who have told me that they're already booked for the year, and that was before the derecho of two weeks ago. And so, DW and I made the decision that we would affect repairs ourselves.

The first step, we told ourselves, was to pull the remains of the posts and the concrete from the ground. We watched videos for the best way to extract the concrete, which was to dig out around the top of the concrete, secure a strong chain around it, and, by using a high jack, pull it out.

Easy-peasy.

We purchased the jack and took a chain from DW's dad's collection. but when we took a look for the posts, we couldn't find them. It seemed that they had snapped off below ground level and the ground resettled, hiding any evidence of them.

Using a spade, it was easy to locate one of the posts. One panel, to which it had been attached, was still connected to a standing post. All I had to do was line it up and dig.

Almost immediately, I hit some sort of wire that surprised me. In our neighbourhood, all electrical, gas, and other lines run in front of the houses. There aren't supposed to be any wires in the back, especially along the property lines. And this wire had to be there when the post hole was originally dug.

No idea what it is but I was careful when I dug down.

The top of the post was about two inches below the ground. I measured an area around it and kept digging, but because I didn't want the surrounding hole to be too big, I had to switch to a hand trowel to continue.

That's when I hit clay.

It took more than two-and-a-half hours to dig down about 14 or so inches, when I finally reached concrete. By then, my hand was aching from gripping the trowel, so I took a break for a late lunch and to get some easier chores done. But because I had other plans for later in the afternoon into evening, I put off the post hole to the next day.

The next day, my hand was pretty much useless. It hurt to make a fist and grip the trowel and one of the tendons in my wrist was swollen. I worked on the hole for about another half hour or so, with my left hand, slightly widening the hole and going a bit lower (the concrete was only on one side. Not wanting to burn out my other hand, I decided to give up.

New strategy.

Instead of pulling what's left of the posts, I think I'll rent an auger and drill three new holes, turning what was previously a three-panel stretch to a four-panel section. I'll need to get the landlord to agree to the cost of additional wood.

And I'm likely going to have to contact the phone or cable companies to determine what that wire is.

I miss Jack. He and I were a great team. We worked quickly and built a fence that held up for nearly 21 years. It needs a few replacement pieces: some two-by-fours that covered the top; a few trim pieces; some replacement caps for posts. But overall, it's holding.

Only the posts failed.

Wish me luck.

Lines in the Snow

When DW and I returned from our Cuban vacation, last December, we discovered that a section of our backyard fence had toppled during a wind storm. Two panels had fallen into the yard of our neighbour.

We also discovered that our old neighbours of 22 years had moved and that their house was unoccupied when the fence went down.

The following day, snow fell and covered the downed fence, and I made the decision to not worry about it until the spring. A couple of weeks later, when new neighbours moved in, they either hadn't noticed the gap in the fence or also decided not to worry about it just yet.

I'm glad that one section of my fence is still in place. At this time of year, as the sun grows low on the horizon, its light pours through the tiny gaps between the wooden slats, casting long shadows of lines on the fallen snow.

These lines always draw my eye and get me to pull out a camera. There's something hypnotic about these lines in the snow.

Happy Friday!

Out Front

For many years, I've never felt obligated to open my front door when the doorbell rings. Unless I'm expecting someone, I've often been faced with solicitors who leave me feeling disturbed for answering the bell for nothing.

I don't buy from anyone who I didn't ask to come to my home. Period.

When we first moved into our home, DW and I placed signs near the doorbell that clearly indicated that solicitors were not welcome but we often found that the sign was ignored. Yet, because we had a blind that covered the large window on our door, neither the visitor nor we could see who was at the door, so we inevitably opened it up, only to politely but firmly tell the person or persons to go away.

A few years ago, when our blind became yellowed, we replaced it with a one-way reflective film. Whenever anyone came to our door, they would see a mirror-like reflection of themselves, while we could clearly see who was there. The only time that someone outside could see us was when it was nighttime and we had our entrance and living-room lights on. I would strive to keep these lights off unless we absolutely needed them, and so we could safely view strangers without the need to open the door.

When a solicitor would be at the door, we would simply ignore them, knowing that they were unaware of being shunned.

A couple of weeks ago, I used some of my Aeroplan miles to acquire a Google Nest Hello doorbell. It takes our privacy from unwanted visitors to a whole new level. It also is a bit of a PITA*.

It took about an hour to install, including the time required to watch the installation video (I watched it twice to make sure I had it down pat). I also ended up having to chisel out a recess in our door frame to make room for the connector extenders. And I learned that my doorbell is not wired to its own circuit: I had to kill the power to the entire house while I hooked up the device to our electrical system.

Nest smartphone app.

The doorbell now has a motion sensor that notifies me, through my smartphone, when motion is detected, when a person shows up on my front porch, or when someone rings the doorbell. DW has also connected to the device, so she can also see who's at the door. The built-in video camera also records the activity for future viewing.

We've already taken advantage of our new doorbell when two solicitors, arriving together and donning bright-red vests, pressed the button. DW was at home, watching TV; I was in Pakenham, capturing images of the Five Span Bridge. Both of us received a notification and were able to see the two young men. One of them pressed the doorbell and then sat down on the bench on our porch, while the other moved down the steps. When they realized that no one was coming to the door, they moved on to our neighbours.

One night, when DD19 was out late, at a friend's house, she didn't return until after DW and I had gone to bed. As we were turning in, I texted my daughter to ensure that someone would walk her home, see her safely indoors. The next morning, as soon as I woke up and realized that I hadn't heard DD19 come in, I reached for my phone and checked the video.

The imagery showed DD19 ascend the porch, unlock the door, and wave to her friends before safely entering. Yup, this was a valuable tool, I told myself.

While I was writing this post, my phone let me know someone had rung our doorbell. The video footage showed a UPS delivery person place a package on the small table, next to a Muskoka chair, ring the bell, and walk away. Moments later, DW is seen coming outside and retrieving the package.

Although this Google Nest Hello doorbell has helped us identify unwanted visitors, assured us that our daughter was safely home, and let us know that packages have arrived, it's had its fair share of false alarms.

Several times during the day, it tells me that motion is detected. This is a different notification from identifying an actual person or letting me know that the doorbell has been pressed. This simply indicates that motion has been sensed.

This is a bit of a pain. So far, motion has included

• our outdoor lights coming on
• headlights from cars driving around our circle in the middle of the night
• a winged insect landing on the bricked wall, next to the doorbell
• a neighbour's cat, rolling around on our porch—okay, that was cute, but still...
• the late-day sun, shimmering as it moves between the leaves on our neighbours' tree
• shadows that fall on our porch, caused by clouds revealing the sun
• us, coming and going from the house or sitting on the porch
• other motion that must be there but I can't determine from the video

Sensor picks up the area in green.

We have created a motion zone, making sure that our next-door neighbours' porch, which is in our line of view, is excluded. I tried to exclude the neighbours' front lawn and the roadway, but we noticed that the narrow strip of walkway that leads to our steps was too small to notice motion until someone was right at our doorway, so I had to expand that zone. To our relief, we don't receive motion notifications when the next-door kids play on their swing, under their tree.

We want to make sure we're giving our neighbours as much privacy as possible, and so far, so good. The only time we see them is if they happen to be out when someone purposefully comes to our door.

Overall, I like our new doorbell. It lets me determine whether I have to get up to answer the door or whether I can ignore the unwanted visitor. It lets me know if a package has arrived. And, it shows me that my loved ones have safely returned home.

It's one of the best devices that I've never paid for.

* pain in the arse

Here's To All The Victorias

I doubt Queen Victoria would have minded the age of COVID. She didn't come across as a party girl.

She was never amused.

The only Vicki that I see these days is my next-door neighbour. That's not a complaint. Though, with the noise that I've made in my back yard, this weekend, with mowing the lawn and cranking the tunes as I weeded the back patio, while she tried to relax on her deck, I'm sure she was wishing for even greater social distancing.

Today is Victoria Day and whether you're a Vicki, Vicky, Tori, or whoever, I hope you're relaxing and maintaining physical distancing.

Victoria would approve.

In Harm's Way

He's a good kid. I've known him his whole life. And I trust him.

But when he asked my youngest daughter if she could lie in the middle of our quiet street, if she could stay perfectly still on that asphalt, while he rode his BMX bike toward her and jumped over her, without a ramp, to fly over her small, frail body, at a speed that was as fast as his peddling legs could propel him, I had to speak up.

I trust him, but only so far. And even less so when my child's safety is at risk.

I've seen him cycle up and down our streets countless times, over the years. Watched him handle jumps with coordination and skill, almost with a certain amount of grace. I knew that he would often go to the BMX park, where other enthusiasts like him tore up the dirt and flew over obstacles. Last year, I had asked him if I could accompany him to the park, so that I could capture him in various acrobatic and aerial stances, with my camera.

An opportunity never arose, though I'd still like to photograph him at the park, some day.

No, he's a good kid, and he's skilled with his bike, but when he wanted to jump over my daughter, I had to say no.

"No," I said, "but if you want to jump over someone, you can jump over me. And I get to photograph you as you do it."

I thought he'd decline the offer. Dad's aren't cool. I was much bigger than my daughter, and he might not want that large an obstacle.

"Sure," he said, with enthusiasm.

By the time I came outside with my camera bag, several kids were out on the street to watch the show. One of the parents in our circle was out and had heard the news, had her smartphone at the ready.

Our cycling daredevil—I'll call him M—was already streaking up and down our street, launching himself and his bike from the pavement, jumping imaginary people.

I took a deep breath. It wasn't just myself that I was putting in harm's way, though I was considering the size of M, the size of his bike, how much they weighed together, what sort of compression my body could withstand, should M misjudge and come down on me with full force.

Where would he land? Would he hit me in the chest? In the head? Would he come down on my throat? Did I want to put that kind of burden on him, should he maim me, or kill me? It would be my own fault, of course, for laying myself on the road for him. But how would such a catastrophe affect this young teen?

There was also my equipment that was put at risk. My new camera body, now broken in, with a super-wide lens. Some $2000 worth of equipment could be smashed, should his rear tire come down a few inches too early, clearing me but knocking my Nikon from my grasp.

I went to my garage, fetched a partially filled yard clippings bag. I lay it length-wise along the road, mimicking how I would stretch out on the pavement.

"If you can clear this bag five times," I told M, "I'll lie down."

He cleared it on the first attempt with little effort. On the second pass, he also made the jump look easy. On his third try, the rear tire clipped the bag, ever so slightly, but the stiff paper echoed like it was protesting the collision.

"Five more," I said. "You have to clear the bag five times in a row, without touching it."

Five more times, M jumped that bag. On the fifth attempt, the wheel gently came into contact with the bag, but the bag didn't move, had barely made a sound.

"Close enough," I told M. "Let's do this before you run out of steam, and can't jump high enough, and before I change my mind." I moved the paper bag to the curb and took my place in its stead.

I lay perfectly still. My camera was set for high-continuous shooting, meaning that I would snap five or six frames each second. Because I didn't want to move, I kept my head faced skyward, listened for the sound of approaching tires on pavement. When the sound was very close, I started shooting.

With a sudden shadow appearing in my peripheral, I instinctively closed my eyes.

I felt a push of air as the sound of tires disappeared, and heard the solid connection of bicycle meeting ground on the other side of my head.

M had cleared me, easily.

I looked at the photos I shot: lots of sky, with the top of the tree in front of my house. And then, a front tire, followed by a perfectly squared bike, and then a rear tire, and finally, more sky. The third shot, while perfectly framed, was somewhat blurred by the sheer speed of M in flight.

"I want to do it again," I told M. "If you're up to it. This time, I'm going to face you, so I can get the road and a better angle."

We set up for the shot again, and this time I was able to start shooting when the time was right. There would be no wasted shots.

Watching M racing towards me, the adrenaline was flooding my heart. The temptation to move, to try to protect myself, was overwhelming. I desperately wanted to get out of the way. M was coming way too close to me.

My wife captured the moment that M started lifting himself off the ground. This time, his rear wheel seemed more delayed at rising up.

I've known M his whole life. He's a good kid and I trust him.

I will do a lot to get the shot that I want. I have stood at the edge of a tower, with gale-force winds, my wife holding tightly onto my belt, herself hugging a solid object, to prevent me from being blown into oblivion. I have stood out in torrential thunder storms. But I have never lain on a roadway while a vehicle has attempted to jump over me. I have never before put myself in harm's way like that.

Do you know what?

It was worth it.

I see that I need to adjust my shutter to a faster speed. I need to trust the auto-focus settings, to try to get a sharper image.

I'm going to follow M to the BMX park sometime this summer. I'm going to get closer, get better pictures.

Because I trust him.

Photo Friday: Look Hoo's In The Neighbourhood

When my wife and I first bought our house and moved in, in January of 2000, we said that we would stay in our first home for five years; for 10, if we liked our neighbours. It's a small house, and we believed that as our family grew, we'd need more space.

Fifteen years into being in our house, we have no plans for going anywhere. We love our neighbours, our kids have great friends, and as our community has grown, we have found that there's no where else where we'd rather be.

Living outside the Greenbelt, we have had our fair share of wildlife. Deer, coyotes, and turkeys have all been spotted in South Nepean. And at this time of year, we have seen snowy owls close to home.

For the second time on New Years Eve, a beautiful snowy owl has perched himself atop a street light on the street over from my house: perhaps it's even the same owl, perhaps the same owl that I photographed several years ago in the park across from my street.

So, on New Years Eve, I captured this neighbour as he stared down at me. He (or she) is another reason why I love my neighbourhood.

Happy Friday, and Happy New Year! May 2015 bring you peace and happiness.

You Mess With My Kid, You Mess With My Neighbourhood

As a parent, the only things you wish for your child is for them to be safe, healthy, and happy. There are plenty of things you can teach them about being safe: to not climb too high up a tree; to wear a helmet when they ride their bikes. To look both ways before crossing a street.

And to never get into a stranger's vehicle.

That last point is something you teach your child, but always hope that you never have to see put into practice. And if it must be put into practice, you hope for a safe outcome.

On Tuesday, one of my kids was put to the test.

As she walked from where her school bus lets her off to our house, she noticed a rusted, white pickup truck parked on the side of the road, less than 100 metres from our driveway. She didn't notice the make, but when she pointed out a similar truck in a neighbour's driveway, she remarked that it didn't have "that little door behind the driver's door." It wasn't an extended cab.

The engine was turned off. A lone man was sitting behind the wheel: he was older—as she put it, "older than grandpa G"—wore his white hair long, and covered on top with a blue bandana. He wore a black tank top, and she could see a tattoo on his left arm. From what she could tell, he worked out: his arms were big.

His truck was facing her, and she had to step out onto the street to get around it because she didn't want to have to climb the snowbank. Walking alongside the truck, she was passing it on the driver's side.

As she came alongside the vehicle, the man rolled down his window, hung his arm out, and told her he had candy. His voice was deep and raspy, she later described. A smoker's voice. Did she want to come into his truck and have some?

My daughter isn't stupid. Her response was clear: "no."

Not easily deterred, he added, it's cold out: you should come in and warm up.

My daughter isn't stupid. Her response wasn't verbal. She high-tailed it home.

As parents, we did what we could: we called the police and filed a report. We notified our neighbours of what happened. We contacted the schools. Being on social media, I sent out tweets, warning people of a child predator. (So many of you did exactly what I had hoped for: you spread the word.)

I contacted people I know in the media (through social media): the CBC, 1310News, Majic100. Two reporters talked to me on the phone. Later, CTV News tweeted me, wanting to talk, but never got through to me. I later learned that the local CTV station aired a story.

Word got out.

I have the most awesome neighbours. They banded together. At the end of yesterday's school day, there were parents on the street, watching and waiting. Many of us have known each other since our kids were born. In a way, we're an extended family: the kids know they can go to any house and be safe.

For my part, I worked from home yesterday. About 30 minutes before my daughter's bus was scheduled to arrive, I picked up my camera (strapped the 70-300mm lens on it) and walked around the surrounding blocks, truly hoping I would spot this bastard. I wanted to capture some images of him to help the police with their investigation.

And then I wanted to crack my camera over his skull (I could use an upgraded body).

Sadly, he was nowhere to be found. Whether he moved on to another neighbourhood or was scared off by the crowd that gathered at the end of my street, we won't know. But I do know this: my neighbours are watching. We are united in keeping all of our kids safe.

To the dude in the truck, I say this: seek help. Never come back to my end of town. Because if you mess with my kid, you mess with my neighbourhood.

And we will mess with you.