A spoonful of dusk helps the medicine go down

For various reasons, my heart and soul have been pretty weary lately. Last night I was listlessly doing dishes, my hands busy while my head was mired in melancholy. A breeze blew in the kitchen window and ruffled my hair, a gentle hand telling me to stop what I was doing and go outside. So I did.

I snatched one of the kids' blankets off the floor, wrapped it around myself and plunked down in my favourite green lawn chair. It was dusk. The sun had barely set, and the sky painted itself in purple and navy above the treeline. Stars winked at me. Bats swooped down like burnt falling stars, crickets sang, leaves whispered. Somewhere below the hill, a dog barked as a motobike buzzed down the road. Somewhere beyond the cornfield, near the river, coyotes began to yip and whine their night song; somewhere in the falling darkness, every bitter thought floated out of my head.

Dusk had the power to do what exercise, wine, talking, writing, crying and sulking could not: it made me remember that I was part of a greater world, a small cog in a vast universe. My disappointment and hurt wouldn't break me, just as they wouldn't make more than a tiny ripple in the overall stream of my life. That's all this was: a ripple, a few circles made by a stone that would soon drift away. I would survive, and I would smile, and I would be happy again.

A spoonful of dusk helped me swallow a bitter pill.

Girly Grrrrrl Weekend

Although I am not rabid about it, I enjoy the occasional foray into the cut-and-paste, anal-retentive world of scrapbooking. My friends whisked me away a few weekends ago on a scrapbooking retreat outside of Guelph, and frankly, it rocked.

There's something immensely satisfying about indulging in creative, tactile work. I think cutting colourful paper, tracing designs and squishing paste and stickers and sparkles on stuff triggers my body's cellular memory of similar kindergarten activities. And any road that leads back to memories of cookies and floor-naps is a good one.

Even better, the B&B where we had our scrapbooking fiesta offers delicious meals, snacks, an all-hours coffee machine and all the coca-cola I could possibly drink. When my eyes started to get buggy from staring at photos and paper patterns, I poured a glass of wine, sought out my frilly bedroom and read my book until I felt like having a nap. I stayed up late, slept in, gossiped and chatted, met new women and listened to their stories, met their families through photos and shared my own.

Pepole don't often take time to sit and look through the photos they've collected over the years. Not so the Lowry clan; my Mother in Law has collected an awe-inspiring number of photos, wedding invitations, birth and death notices, locks of hair, etc. They're all stuck inside old fashioned photo books, the kind with the plastic peels on them, and D and I look at them fairly often. Early in our marriage, D told me "You're in charge of keeping our photos." And I've taken that role seriously ever since, snapping tons of photos over the years, printing them off en masse and making sure family and friends get copies of special moments.

Scrapping is my way of allowing myself the time to peruse through our gianormous collection of photos and give myself over to memories: Jade's first bath and the way she turned purple with rage; her wee newborn diaper; my Dad holding her like she was going to break in his arms; my sister's look of serene joy with Jade in her arms; my mother-in-law combing Jade's hair into a tiny coxcomb; Dwain passed out facedown on the kitchen table with baby Jade fast asleep beside him. I admit, this was a Jade-centric weekend. Dylan will have his own book eventually, but I'm still working on Jady's first year. It was sweet to look through all her baby moments and think back to the sheer joy and the sheer terror of being the mother of a newborn.

All of us at the retreat take the time to look at other people's pages and admire them, although no one hangs over your shoulder. I find that being stuck in a room with several women can either be a profoundly refreshing experience, or a soul-draining one. Put the right mix of ladies together, and you have the potential for bonding and support. Put too much estrogen and a bunch of chafing personalities in close confines, and things can get catty reeeeeaal quick. Thankfully, our group was of the non-feline variety. I learned about a woman's travels to Africa, and her heart-warming adoption story; I listened to my friends tell funny stories about work, kids and clothes. And of course I added my own two cents worth of gossip and tales, which is half the fun.

I look forward to that day when I can plunk Jade's scrapbook into her lap and say, "Here. I made this for you." I'm thinking it will go in her memory box, to be openend on her 16th birthday. But we'll probably sneak a lot of peeks into it before then.

I came back to Someday farm feeling refreshed and happy.

Garlified

I come from a long line of garlic lovers. My Babushka lived to be 96, and I'm convinced it was due to her daily consumption of garlic. She grew it herself, threw it into almost every dish she cooked, and even put it in her ear during one well-intentioned but unfortunate ear-ache incident (apparently it works, but it's preferable to stick a whole clove in your ear rather than chopping it up and shoving it into your ear canal).

My father's favourite appetizer is a slice of raw garlic on top of a slice of summer sausage on top of a cracker. My sister and I tend to avoid kissing him goodbye after visits involving this snack. My mother was another famous garlic-lover; she's the one who taught me the sacred trick of mashing a clove all around the bowl before you make caeser salad dressing, and jamming little slices of it into your roast before you cook it. One of our favourite things to eat was artichokes - she'd chop up raw garlic and douse it in melted butter, and we'd swish the artichoke leaves in the golden liquid and run them through our teeth. My sister and I used to challenge each other to drink a glass of milk afterwards; milk never tastes as foul as after a spoonful or two of garlic butter.

As for myself, I used to be addicted to roasted garlic smeared over crusty bread when I was just out of university and learning to enjoy food that didn't come in a can. It was all the rage in restaurants in the 90's. And I started getting spoiled: the great dried lumps of Chinese store garlic paled in comparison to my Baba's sweeter, smaller version; I would beg some from her whenever I'd visit and go home with my precious cargo. It was almost too good to share.

If you haven't grown up with it, garlic can be something of an oddity. I can remember being shocked when making spaghetti sauce at a friend's place; when I asked him for garlic, he handed me garlic powder. He'd never even seen a bulb of garlic before. After my shock wore off, I gave him a lecture and sent him to the grocery store; I credit myself for creating a life-long love of the stuff after that first meal.

Sadly, D has a love/hate relationship with the stinky bulbs of goodness. He is of the garlic-powder generation, and while he enjoys all my garlic-infused sauces, marinades and roasts, his body can't seem to process the stuff. It oozes out of his pores, no matter how long the garlic's simmered in a pot of pasta sauce or soaked in a beef stew. God forbid I ever serve it to him raw; I think his head would explode.

So, for the sake of marital harmony, I rarely make anything with raw garlic these days. Until last night.

Last night I was glancing through my mother's old cookbooks for inspiration. I had one eye on Jade as she devoured her grape/crackers/cheese snack while watching Toopy and Binou, and one eye on Mom's tattered, splattered pasta cookbook when a recipe for pesto lept out at me. I checked the ingredient list: I had pine nuts. A bunch of basil. A hunk of parmesan. And of course I had garlic. Tally ho!

After a quick rummage through the fridge, and a brief tussle with the Magic Bullet, I had my pesto. I sauteed mushrooms in wine and butter, threw in some steamed asparagus and chopped up leftover chicken breast. I gooped all the pesto on top and stirred it in. I tossed the sauce, which smelled like happiness, with some spagettini, topped it with fresh parmesan, and JOY!!! Supper was served.

While my daughter ate plain noodles, asparagus and chicken and eyed me warily ("Why you eating grass, Mama?"), I tucked in to my masterpiece. The first bowl was heavenly. The basil and parsley tasted of spring, the olive oil mingled richly with the fresh parmesan. And the garlic....it had bite and spice and flavour galore. Why didn't I use raw garlic more often? I could live to be 96 too! I was going to make a caeser salad tomorrow for breakfast!

Halfway through the second bowl, I began to feel that slightly queasy, sweaty, self-loathing feeling I like to refer to as garlified. My body hadn't had raw garlic in quite some time; now it was waking up and telling me so. I drank two glasses of water and packed away the leftovers unceremoniously in the fridge.

Strangely, my husband ate his garlicky pasta without a word of complaint. Then again he did top it with more chicken and a handful of the salad I'd made; perhaps this downplayed the effects. At any rate, I brushed, flossed and even mouthwashed that night to no avail. Every exhalation turned into a cloud of noxious nastiness that seemed to hang over my head. After a fitful sleep, I woke up feeling like our septic tank had leaked into my mouth. Even hanging my mouth open in the shower didn't help much.

So the pesto was delicious, but the aftermath - the garlic hangover - is too gross to repeat anytime soon. And the irony that my husband is suffering no ill effects at all is just plain annoying.

I'm sure that somewhere in the afterlife, my mother is rolling her eyes Baba is shaking her head at her daft granddaughter. And somewhere, a garlic bulb is laughing.

Just another night in the barn...

Sunday night, D and I did chores for my brother-in-law. I don't mind spending a night in the barn. But Sunday was just a Jonah night. It went something like this:

6:00 p.m. Walk into office, don sexy black latex gloves. Turn to find squished kitten on floor. Am no longer teary-eyed-horrified-by-dead-kittens; adopt grim-faced-that's-a-pity-let's-get-rid-of-it look, take Mr. Squishie outside to begin peaceful decomposition under pine tree.

6:08 p.m. Inadvertantly scare two cows while husband tries to tie them up in stalls. Oops.

6:10 p.m. Survey assortment of shovels.
D: Are you wearing C's good hat?
Me: Does he have a good hat?
D: He's gonna be wild.
Me: It was in with all the barn clothes! It's got poo stains on it!
D: I'm telling.

6:12 p.m. Begin shovelling crap off the walkway.
D: Is that the shovel we use to push the feed?
Me: I dunno.
D: Well, maybe don't use the shovel we use to push the feed to scrape up shit.
Me: It already has shit on it. Maybe you should label your shovels.

6:13 p.m. Husband flings wet poop at me with aforementioned shovel. Cursing match ensues.

6:18 p.m. Attempt to start milking. Realize cannot bend over in coveralls without risking serious loss to blood circulation. Have coveralls shrunk again???

6:30 p.m. Cow licks entire head. Am covered in clow slobber. Wish had not taken off brother-in-law's hat.

7:15 p.m. Prepare to help D and father-in-law switch cows out of stalls. Attempt to round up rowdy seven-week-old kittens to prevent death by trampling. Kittens do not cooperate. Hit head on barn door trying to wrestle ginger kitten from hiding place.

7:27 p.m. Want desperately to lay down somewhere quiet and cow-free.

7:28 p.m. D walks by. Has squirming ginger kitten in coverall pocket for safekeeping. Immediately forgive earlier manure-slinging incident.

The Cross and the Bunny

Here's a question for you:

Does one attempt to teach an almost-three-year-old about the Bibical origins of Easter, or does one just give her a chocolate bunny and run away?

I grappled with this last year. Thankfully D was there to snap me out of my religious/cocoa conundrum with his patented "Woman, have you lost your marbles?" stare when I broached the subject. He was right. My two year old didn't need to know about the cross just yet.

But this year Jade would be nearly three, Easter was around the corner, and I felt like I should be telling her about Jesus while she ate her chocolate eggs. Or how eggs and bunnies symbolized the rebirth of spring. Or something.

I was raised Lutheran by a father who didn't attend church and a mother who didn't believe in organized religion but made us go to the Lutheran church anyway. So Sunday School, confirmation, all that stuff - chore and bore. My sister and I got taught about the bible, but nothing was ever practised at home. I faithfully taught Sunday school and bible school all through my youth, and got to know the Bible inside and out, but didn't really undertand it on a spiritual or emotional level. It was just stuff I had to do.

Then I met up with a sincere, rowdy, fun, youthfully devoted bunch of born again Christians when I was sixteen and my life changed. I even got baptized - full immersion dunky-dunky style - when I turned 17. My mother watched reproachfully from the very back of the church; she was certain I'd joined a cult.

As I grew into my twenties, I enjoyed a vigourous faith in a church that felt like it was full of long-lost family members I never knew I had. I loved the prayer groups, the adult bible studies, the concerts and the services. I stage managed yearly plays with the church and led a young women's bible study group. I learned, read, debated and felt like I was on pretty solid ground with God.

My church life screeched to a halt during the last tumutous years with my ex, who was raised in a devout Christian home but had begun having crises of faith. Suddenly showing up at church without your husband back then was akin to standing up after a hymn and screaming, "MY HUSBAND IS A BACKSLIDER!" I couldn't handle the curious looks and gently pointed questions like, "So where's your hubby today?" And after the break-up, I gave up my old church all together. I began to attend a United Church down the street, where I could be silent and miserable in the back pew without any pity from the congregation. I loved the giant, beautiful, ornate space, the pastor seemed very kind, and I loved the way the church reached out to the local community. Most of all, I loved being anonymous.

When D and I began dating, I remember how D's mother proudly showed me all his sunday school pins for pefect attendance. He wouldn't be winning any pins these days, but he and I agree there is a God and that we're here to help our fellow humans. We sporadically attend the Pine River United church up here in Kinkytown, but our kids don't go regularly. Personally, I think they're too wild to be penned up inside a sunday school classroom just now. So teaching the finer points of religion is a responsibility that falls directly on our shoulders.

I ended up buying Jade a children's picture book that presented a fairly bloodless, less graphic version of the Easter story without missing any of the important plot points. Her only question was, "Where's heaven, Mummy?" And she still got lots of chocolate eggs and begged Grandpa not to shoot the Easter bunny.

I guess the main thing is that we present the kids with enough information to encourage them to think about God, spirituality and why things happen the way they do. I want them to have enough information to ask questions, even though I shudder to think about having these conversations when I'm no longer as solid with God as I once was. And eating a few chocolate bunnies while we talk won't hurt.

Things I do out of politeness

1) Eat roast beef that looks and tastes like boiled leather.

2) Host: What do you take in your coffee?
Me: Cream and sugar, if you have it.
Host: How about skim and sweetener?
Me: Ummmm....sure...

3) Allow myself to be kissed on the lips by people who aren't family.

4) Share my chapstick/lipbalm/lipstick.

5) Act grateful when someone presents me with a Tim Horton's gift certificate or product.

Red and Purple Stones

A cardinal sang outside my window nearly all day yesterday, on Rose's birthday. I've always thought of cardinals as my mother's spirit bird, and we hardly ever get cardinals at Someday so I smiled, and sighed, and smiled again.

I used to think about grief as something I needed to get over. Now I think of it more in terms of a necessary experience, something we all go through at one point or another in our lives. I've come to realize that it's a process without an ending. And I'm learning to be okay with that.

Although I hate cliches, I believe in the old adage, "time heals all wounds." They can heal cleanly, or they can fester for a while and heal in a slow, painful way. There are always scars in the end, faint though they may be. I don't mind, though. I like a little reminder of my battles.

Here's what I did to embrace my grief yesterday, on the anniversary of Rose's birth, of the day she left us, and became a part of us always:

- made a giant dish of pasta with all my favourite things in the sauce (wine, olives, sundried tomatoes, asparagus, garlic, cream)
- ate an obscenely large piece of the chocolate birthday cake Ruthie brought me
- read two chapters of my book in the stillness of an empty house
- walked the beach for an hour and collected all the red and purple stones I could find
- sat on the pier and watched a loon dive and surface while seagulls wheeled in the sky above us
- collected ingredients for a double batch of granola and mixed them with my hands; savoured the grainy, nutty, maple fragrances as the granola browned in the oven
- bought a very good bottle of wine, dropped blackberries into our glasses and drank deeply with D

But I suppose it's not how long you grieve for, or even how you choose to do it; it's for whom you grieve, and how you plan to keep them alive in your consciousness. I found a small purplish-rose coloured stone for Rose; I heard her cries in the voice of seagulls, felt her breath on the wind, her weight in the bag of stones I carried to the car. I see glimpses of her when I close my eyes.

For now, it is enough.