Check out Jabbering Jaime's cool blog for pics of Someday Farm. This sweet little miss accompanied my sister for a visit here last week. We beached, we drank, we visited, we roamed. It was fun. Until Neko ate the $40 pork roast my father brought for supper. Oopsie.
Anyway, not only is Ms. J a master sewer (check out her Gingham Skies site), she is a budding photographer and has made Someday Farms look like something out of a magazine. Thanks Jaime!
Wednesday, 23 July 2008
Thursday, 10 July 2008
Goodbye city mouse, hello country mouse
My aunt, who spends her summers at a cottage on Bruce Beach, asked me last year how I thought I'd like living up here once we had moved. I responded enthusiastically, extolling the virtues of small-town living and the slower pace of life up here. She smiled wisely and mentioned a letter to the editor she'd just read in the local paper. It was a sort of "in defence of small town living" letter, aimed at big city types who showed up each summer expecting things to be exactly the way they were in the city. The writer expressed keen annoyance with city folk who complained about the lack of certain amenities, or the fact that things took longer to get done in the country. "We take things easy up here," scolded the writer, "and if you don't like it, you should just go back to the city."
I chuckled and said I wasn’t about to bring my urban expectations with me when we moved. My aunt raised an eyebrow at me. "It's true, you know. They do things a bit differently up here. As long as you know that before you move here."
My car is a battered and fairly unreliable thing. My mechanic in Waterloo always shook his head when he saw me coming, but we developed a friendly rapport over the years. When a brake pad committed suicide in the driveway a month after moving up, I realized I had to find a new mechanic. I took my car to a nearby garage, fully expecting to hear from the mechanic at the end of the day like I did with mine in Waterloo. After three days passed with no word, I called. "Oh, we haven't even started working on it yet. But we'll probably get to it tomorrow."
I complained bitterly to my in-laws that night over supper about the situation. I couldn’t believe the garage hadn’t even called me to tell me about the delay. My in-laws listened patiently as I ranted, then told me that the garage had always been like that, but that the mechanics were excellent. I groused about it for a few more days before it finally dawned on me that I had never actually told the garage when I needed my car or when I wanted to hear from them. I was setting expectations based on my experiences with the garage I dealt with in the city, who had known me as a customer for several years. These guys had only met me for 3 minutes. How were they supposed know what I needed unless I told them?
When we experienced a slight issue with a piece of our inherited kitchen furniture (it fell out of the back of our truck en route from Waterloo and bounced across highway 86), I drove to see a local craftsman who had been recommended by my mother-in-law. His workshop was full of treasures - antique cash registers, mis-matched chairs, battered bureaus comfortably waiting their turn beside worn out pianos and leopard-skin covered fainting couches. I found my way into his back room and introduced myself.
This time, I was prepared. I carefully explained what had to be fixed, what I hoped it would look like once finished and that we were moving into our new place in three weeks. Could we have it by then? He thought so.
I coaxed my brother-in-law to help me deliver the furniture the next day. We lugged it into the front of the workshop.
“Let's set ‘er right here,” said my bro-in-law and lowered his end to the floor.
“Shouldn't we take it right into his workshop?” I wondered.
“Nope,” said bro. “We leave her right here, where he has to step around her every time he comes through.”
“But won't it be in the way?”
My bro flashed me a roguish grin and pointed at me. “Exactly.”
When the gentleman called to say our piece was ready a week before the end of the month, I was duly impressed, albeit mostly with myself: I had set clear expectations without being demanding, and now here was my table, ready a week early! I was really getting the hang of things.
“I really appreciate you putting us to the front of the line,” I said, barely hiding my self-congratulatory tone.
“Well,” he said, “it was kind of in the way. I kept tripping over the thing every time I went out of the shop, so I figured I'd just get it done.”
I suffered through several See-Kimmy-I-told-you-so lectures from my bro-in-law and husband, and a mildly uncomfortable discussion with their cousin from the city who threw up her hands when she heard the story. She’s had a piece of furniture there for two years. It’s still not finished.
So I learned a fundamental thing about country living from these experiences: listen to advice when it's given to you, no matter how well you think you can handle something on your own. After all, the folks around you have likely been here far longer than you have and they know how to “get ‘er done.” More importantly, I’ve been reminded that city expectations don’t always fly in the country, and that isn’t necessarily a bad thing at all. So things take a little longer sometimes – so what? It won’t kill me to learn to be a bit more patient. And the walk to the beach will probably do me good.
I chuckled and said I wasn’t about to bring my urban expectations with me when we moved. My aunt raised an eyebrow at me. "It's true, you know. They do things a bit differently up here. As long as you know that before you move here."
My car is a battered and fairly unreliable thing. My mechanic in Waterloo always shook his head when he saw me coming, but we developed a friendly rapport over the years. When a brake pad committed suicide in the driveway a month after moving up, I realized I had to find a new mechanic. I took my car to a nearby garage, fully expecting to hear from the mechanic at the end of the day like I did with mine in Waterloo. After three days passed with no word, I called. "Oh, we haven't even started working on it yet. But we'll probably get to it tomorrow."
I complained bitterly to my in-laws that night over supper about the situation. I couldn’t believe the garage hadn’t even called me to tell me about the delay. My in-laws listened patiently as I ranted, then told me that the garage had always been like that, but that the mechanics were excellent. I groused about it for a few more days before it finally dawned on me that I had never actually told the garage when I needed my car or when I wanted to hear from them. I was setting expectations based on my experiences with the garage I dealt with in the city, who had known me as a customer for several years. These guys had only met me for 3 minutes. How were they supposed know what I needed unless I told them?
When we experienced a slight issue with a piece of our inherited kitchen furniture (it fell out of the back of our truck en route from Waterloo and bounced across highway 86), I drove to see a local craftsman who had been recommended by my mother-in-law. His workshop was full of treasures - antique cash registers, mis-matched chairs, battered bureaus comfortably waiting their turn beside worn out pianos and leopard-skin covered fainting couches. I found my way into his back room and introduced myself.
This time, I was prepared. I carefully explained what had to be fixed, what I hoped it would look like once finished and that we were moving into our new place in three weeks. Could we have it by then? He thought so.
I coaxed my brother-in-law to help me deliver the furniture the next day. We lugged it into the front of the workshop.
“Let's set ‘er right here,” said my bro-in-law and lowered his end to the floor.
“Shouldn't we take it right into his workshop?” I wondered.
“Nope,” said bro. “We leave her right here, where he has to step around her every time he comes through.”
“But won't it be in the way?”
My bro flashed me a roguish grin and pointed at me. “Exactly.”
When the gentleman called to say our piece was ready a week before the end of the month, I was duly impressed, albeit mostly with myself: I had set clear expectations without being demanding, and now here was my table, ready a week early! I was really getting the hang of things.
“I really appreciate you putting us to the front of the line,” I said, barely hiding my self-congratulatory tone.
“Well,” he said, “it was kind of in the way. I kept tripping over the thing every time I went out of the shop, so I figured I'd just get it done.”
I suffered through several See-Kimmy-I-told-you-so lectures from my bro-in-law and husband, and a mildly uncomfortable discussion with their cousin from the city who threw up her hands when she heard the story. She’s had a piece of furniture there for two years. It’s still not finished.
So I learned a fundamental thing about country living from these experiences: listen to advice when it's given to you, no matter how well you think you can handle something on your own. After all, the folks around you have likely been here far longer than you have and they know how to “get ‘er done.” More importantly, I’ve been reminded that city expectations don’t always fly in the country, and that isn’t necessarily a bad thing at all. So things take a little longer sometimes – so what? It won’t kill me to learn to be a bit more patient. And the walk to the beach will probably do me good.
Wednesday, 2 July 2008
The summer of eating dangerously
As sad as I still am over losing Rose, I find myself reluctantly enjoying some of the small blessings that come with not being pregnant. Sometimes I wonder if I'm just talking myself out of trying again. You know, a kind of "See how nice it is not being fat and sick all the time?" mantra. But perhaps I'm doing the mature thing and learning, as my counsellor suggests, to take pleasure in the "now."
It's not that I hated being pregnant. Despite the barfing, having the appetite of a ravenous dog and the urge to pee every 30 seconds, I found pregnancy to be an extremely interesting and satisfying state of being. I relished my belly and my nice big breasts. I adored my jiggly bum. Feeling Rose squiggle around filled me with wonderment. Being un-pregnant, however, has its positive aspects too.
On the side of pure greed, I can gorge on spicy tuna maki, drown myself in caffeinated lattes and eat brie and smoked turkey sandwiches again. I can play a rousing game of tennis with D. I can drive from the Kink to Waterloo without having to screech to a stop at Pizza Pizza in Listowel to dart into their grimy washroom. My breathing doesn't mimic Darth Vader's when I walk up a flight of stairs and I can bend under smelly cows and lift milking machines over my head without a care. I'd forgotten about these happy things in my months of grief. It's nice to discover them again in the warmth and breezes of summer.
We haven't completely decided whether we will roll the baby dice one more time, or pursue other avenues. And so this will be a summer of small pleasures, of getting reacquainted with my body and soul. And of riding on the back of D's motorbike as much as possible.
It's not that I hated being pregnant. Despite the barfing, having the appetite of a ravenous dog and the urge to pee every 30 seconds, I found pregnancy to be an extremely interesting and satisfying state of being. I relished my belly and my nice big breasts. I adored my jiggly bum. Feeling Rose squiggle around filled me with wonderment. Being un-pregnant, however, has its positive aspects too.
On the side of pure greed, I can gorge on spicy tuna maki, drown myself in caffeinated lattes and eat brie and smoked turkey sandwiches again. I can play a rousing game of tennis with D. I can drive from the Kink to Waterloo without having to screech to a stop at Pizza Pizza in Listowel to dart into their grimy washroom. My breathing doesn't mimic Darth Vader's when I walk up a flight of stairs and I can bend under smelly cows and lift milking machines over my head without a care. I'd forgotten about these happy things in my months of grief. It's nice to discover them again in the warmth and breezes of summer.
We haven't completely decided whether we will roll the baby dice one more time, or pursue other avenues. And so this will be a summer of small pleasures, of getting reacquainted with my body and soul. And of riding on the back of D's motorbike as much as possible.
Tuesday, 24 June 2008
Romance, triple 16 style
Sometimes I bemoan the fact that I've married a very practical man. He grew up on a farm, so practicality runs through his veins like blood. D is logical and likes to see the world for what it is, while I prefer looking on the bright side as much as possible without becoming too annoying. He likes to tease me about my daydreaming habits and calls me his little idealist. Well, yesterday I discovered that my stalwart farmer boy has a romantic side.
I was upstairs in the bedroom trying to sweep dirt and fluff out of some stubborn floorboard cracks. I thought I'd better clean off the broom, which was starting to resemble Santa's beard, so I went out on the balcony to give it a shake. In my glazed-over housecleaning state of mind, my eyes wandered over the front lawn, along the rail fence, past the blue spruces, and back up the line of red maples. It was then that I noticed a particularly healthy patch of lawn sticking up greenly just below the balcony. Once my eyes began to focus, I realized that the green patches actually spelled "K-I-M." Yep, my clever husband had spelled my name...in fertlizer.
Who says farmers can't be romantic?
Tuesday, 27 May 2008
Ode to a Lawn Tractor, Part II
I hauled back the enormous barn door and there it was: the lawn tractor. Just me and John Deere and a helluva lot of lawn.
I decided my lawn-cutting experience might benefit from a closer relationship with the lawn tractor. Taking a cue from my friend Muffy, who recently named her new car Betzsy, I tried to think of something feminine and jaunty; something that would roll off the tongue a little smoother than "the lawn tractor." I decided on "Jean Green, mean machine" (or "Jeanne Verte," for when I was feeling multilingual). We'd become friends, Jean and I, over the many summer hours we'd clock together. She'd always start for me, and never buck me off. She'd never run out of gas and strand me mid-cut. It would be the beginning of a long and beautiful relationship, I was sure.
Confident that I'd soaked up all of D & C's lawn tractor wisdom, I dutifully checked the oil and hopped on. After several tries, Jean's engine snarled, sputtered and refused to turn over. I tried patting her on her cobwebby green hood. I tried verbal encouragements as though she were a moody child. Nothing. I restrained myself from using D's traditional method of fixing things and kept my foot firmly on the ground.
In despair, I clomped back to the house and called my mother-in-law, who was a lawn tractor guru. She wouldn't make fun of me and she'd know what to do; it could be our little secret. When my father-in-law answered and told me she wasn't home, I took a deep breath. "Dave," I whispered, switching to my newly acquired farm vernacular, "she don't start."
He drove over, surveyed Jean's engine for a few silent moments, then pushed the throttle all the way up until it touched the picture of the rabbit. I hung my head. I'd forgotten about the throttle. To lessen my embarrassment, Dave mumbled something about engines being stubborn sometimes and gave the engine a shot of ether (which, incidentally, is highly explosive). I turned the key and Jean lept to life with a trimuphant roar. Dave finished his visit by yelling a reminder not to shoot cut grass onto the uncut sections of the lawn. I'm nothing if not well-instructed.
And so we were off! My husband and brother in law would be amazed at my precision and skill. People would drive by Someday Farm just to admire Jean and I on our weekly rounds. Maybe I'd even give Jean a new coat of pink paint. I couldn't wait until bikini season.
After a few effortless runs up and down the stable lawn, where I shot some gravel perilously close to the shop windows and backed into a fence, I tackled the south border of the property. There I met my first Waterloo: hills. Every time Jean would start to heave and rise on a slant, I'd panic and steer her the other way. It felt like she was going to betray me, roll to her side like a felled buffalo and crush me to death. Okay, so Jean and I wouldn't do the hills. Hills would be "man's work."
Turning northward, I attempted to cut the remaining stable lawn. That's when I realized I needed a better bra. Run your finger enthusiastically over a head of cauliflower and you'll get an approximation of what our lawns are like. Even at her slowest speed (where a crawling baby could pass us), riding Jean anywhere on our property is a tit-jostling, butt-thumping experience. I felt like Roy Schieder in Jaws, only I didn't need a bigger boat: I needed a bigger butt.
Lumpy-bumpiness aside, I found myself entering a state of lawn-tractor zen. The droning buzz of the blades becomes as soothing as a monk's chant, and you begin to notice the loveliness around you: sweeping green fields, the smell of the mock orange bushes, the simple beauty of a dandelion...until you cut its head off. I began to see the appeal of farming; driving a tractor up and down a field, or going round and round cutting hay would give you a lot of time to think. It's a solitary activity and there's no one you can share it with except the birds, the bugs and a few curious deer. And you can see instant results: the shaggy mess becomes a lawn again - for a few days, anyway.
After 3.5 hours, I hoisted my stiff self off of Jean and hobbled into the house for a beer. Sitting on our back stoop, I raised the bottle in a toast to my green partner. Long live Jean Green! and long live Someday Farms, lumpy lawns and all.
I decided my lawn-cutting experience might benefit from a closer relationship with the lawn tractor. Taking a cue from my friend Muffy, who recently named her new car Betzsy, I tried to think of something feminine and jaunty; something that would roll off the tongue a little smoother than "the lawn tractor." I decided on "Jean Green, mean machine" (or "Jeanne Verte," for when I was feeling multilingual). We'd become friends, Jean and I, over the many summer hours we'd clock together. She'd always start for me, and never buck me off. She'd never run out of gas and strand me mid-cut. It would be the beginning of a long and beautiful relationship, I was sure.
Confident that I'd soaked up all of D & C's lawn tractor wisdom, I dutifully checked the oil and hopped on. After several tries, Jean's engine snarled, sputtered and refused to turn over. I tried patting her on her cobwebby green hood. I tried verbal encouragements as though she were a moody child. Nothing. I restrained myself from using D's traditional method of fixing things and kept my foot firmly on the ground.
In despair, I clomped back to the house and called my mother-in-law, who was a lawn tractor guru. She wouldn't make fun of me and she'd know what to do; it could be our little secret. When my father-in-law answered and told me she wasn't home, I took a deep breath. "Dave," I whispered, switching to my newly acquired farm vernacular, "she don't start."
He drove over, surveyed Jean's engine for a few silent moments, then pushed the throttle all the way up until it touched the picture of the rabbit. I hung my head. I'd forgotten about the throttle. To lessen my embarrassment, Dave mumbled something about engines being stubborn sometimes and gave the engine a shot of ether (which, incidentally, is highly explosive). I turned the key and Jean lept to life with a trimuphant roar. Dave finished his visit by yelling a reminder not to shoot cut grass onto the uncut sections of the lawn. I'm nothing if not well-instructed.
And so we were off! My husband and brother in law would be amazed at my precision and skill. People would drive by Someday Farm just to admire Jean and I on our weekly rounds. Maybe I'd even give Jean a new coat of pink paint. I couldn't wait until bikini season.
After a few effortless runs up and down the stable lawn, where I shot some gravel perilously close to the shop windows and backed into a fence, I tackled the south border of the property. There I met my first Waterloo: hills. Every time Jean would start to heave and rise on a slant, I'd panic and steer her the other way. It felt like she was going to betray me, roll to her side like a felled buffalo and crush me to death. Okay, so Jean and I wouldn't do the hills. Hills would be "man's work."
Turning northward, I attempted to cut the remaining stable lawn. That's when I realized I needed a better bra. Run your finger enthusiastically over a head of cauliflower and you'll get an approximation of what our lawns are like. Even at her slowest speed (where a crawling baby could pass us), riding Jean anywhere on our property is a tit-jostling, butt-thumping experience. I felt like Roy Schieder in Jaws, only I didn't need a bigger boat: I needed a bigger butt.
Lumpy-bumpiness aside, I found myself entering a state of lawn-tractor zen. The droning buzz of the blades becomes as soothing as a monk's chant, and you begin to notice the loveliness around you: sweeping green fields, the smell of the mock orange bushes, the simple beauty of a dandelion...until you cut its head off. I began to see the appeal of farming; driving a tractor up and down a field, or going round and round cutting hay would give you a lot of time to think. It's a solitary activity and there's no one you can share it with except the birds, the bugs and a few curious deer. And you can see instant results: the shaggy mess becomes a lawn again - for a few days, anyway.
After 3.5 hours, I hoisted my stiff self off of Jean and hobbled into the house for a beer. Sitting on our back stoop, I raised the bottle in a toast to my green partner. Long live Jean Green! and long live Someday Farms, lumpy lawns and all.
Ode to a Lawn Tractor: Part I
One surprising thing I learned this past spring is that up here, cutting the lawn is almost always considered 'woman's work' - unless you have a kid of your own whose legs are long enough to reach the lawn tractor gas pedals. Because it is always called a "lawn tractor," never a "lawn mower" or even a "riding mower." I'm not sure why.
When I was growing up, lawns and their related upkeep were part of an exclusively masculine domain, unless you had the aforementioned kid. If the man of the house was otherwise occupied, or you didn't have a kid of your own to punish, you hired some other guy (or kid) to cut it for you. Having grown up with this mowing strategy firmly entrenched, it was a bit of a shock to be told that cutting the 2 acres of lawn at Someday Farm would be MY job. Now that I was a country girl, I had to learn to do things the country way.
When we first moved here, I was so excited at the thought of owning all this lovely acreage. My eyes greedily took in the gently sloping hills, the apple orchards, the rustic fences. I silently thanked the person who thought to plant the multitude of pine and maple trees that dot the property. Now when I survey our domain, I see it with the keen eyes of the practised lawn slave: steep ditches waiting to tip your tractor, apple trees who stab you in the eye and ear with their brances, fences whose navigation require military precision and unending maple and pine obstacles that laugh at my attempts to cut around them cleanly.
My virgin ride on our ramshackle lawn tractor occurred last week. It was 9 o'clock at night, windy and miserable. Both C and D were on hand to observe my first attempt and give "pointers." May I state here and now that the last thing a girl needs to have is two guys shouting and waving their arms frantically at her the first time she mounts a large piece of heavy machinery?
Having had little experience driving much of anything motorized apart from my Kia and the '70, I got along fairly well, if I do say so myself. I figured out how to start the thing, where the brakes were (even though they don't work), what a choke was (up until then I thought it was just something I wanted to do to the dog when she misbehaved), how to go really fast and how to reverse. It was actually kind of fun once I got over my annoyance at the boys and their skeptical expressions. As I rode up and down the patch of lawn between the stable and the barn, I thought, Hey! I can do this! Look at me!
The true test came the next day when I had to go it alone. D was at work, and C was busy in the fields. There would be no one to hear me scream. I dutifully put on my grubbies and marched out to the stable to unleash the beast.
Part II coming soon to a blog near you...
When I was growing up, lawns and their related upkeep were part of an exclusively masculine domain, unless you had the aforementioned kid. If the man of the house was otherwise occupied, or you didn't have a kid of your own to punish, you hired some other guy (or kid) to cut it for you. Having grown up with this mowing strategy firmly entrenched, it was a bit of a shock to be told that cutting the 2 acres of lawn at Someday Farm would be MY job. Now that I was a country girl, I had to learn to do things the country way.
When we first moved here, I was so excited at the thought of owning all this lovely acreage. My eyes greedily took in the gently sloping hills, the apple orchards, the rustic fences. I silently thanked the person who thought to plant the multitude of pine and maple trees that dot the property. Now when I survey our domain, I see it with the keen eyes of the practised lawn slave: steep ditches waiting to tip your tractor, apple trees who stab you in the eye and ear with their brances, fences whose navigation require military precision and unending maple and pine obstacles that laugh at my attempts to cut around them cleanly.
My virgin ride on our ramshackle lawn tractor occurred last week. It was 9 o'clock at night, windy and miserable. Both C and D were on hand to observe my first attempt and give "pointers." May I state here and now that the last thing a girl needs to have is two guys shouting and waving their arms frantically at her the first time she mounts a large piece of heavy machinery?
Having had little experience driving much of anything motorized apart from my Kia and the '70, I got along fairly well, if I do say so myself. I figured out how to start the thing, where the brakes were (even though they don't work), what a choke was (up until then I thought it was just something I wanted to do to the dog when she misbehaved), how to go really fast and how to reverse. It was actually kind of fun once I got over my annoyance at the boys and their skeptical expressions. As I rode up and down the patch of lawn between the stable and the barn, I thought, Hey! I can do this! Look at me!
The true test came the next day when I had to go it alone. D was at work, and C was busy in the fields. There would be no one to hear me scream. I dutifully put on my grubbies and marched out to the stable to unleash the beast.
Part II coming soon to a blog near you...
Wednesday, 21 May 2008
Too tired to blog...
Just so you know, unpacking one's accumulated crap of 11 years is severely debilitating to one's urge to blog. Yep, I did it all myself. Yep, I also packed and unloaded an additional 10 boxes to the Goodwill. And crushed 45 empty cardboard boxes. And hung up all our clothes.
But I do get a kick out of watching D try in vain to find stuff...beh heh heh...
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