Tastes like spring

"Well, Kimmy, winter's over."

My husband D said this to me about a month ago. We were on our way home from slogging through thigh-deep snow on a sledding expedition with the kids in nearby Tout's Grove. D isn't one to err on the side of optimism, so this uncharacteristically positive statement took me by surprise. Especially since just the day before, he'd announced loudly to no one in particular that he was "sick of all the (insert naughty word) snow."

D is better known for his annual "summer's over" announcement, which he makes in the laconic tone of an undertaker around the second week of June. This is before summer solstice has even started. I know. He's a little weird.

But on that day, the "winter's over" comment was particularly weird. I wanted to remind him that we'd just spent the better part of three hours towing 80 pounds of soggy children up and down a very steep incline, not to mention the impressive twelve-foot hill of snow in our backyard. It had a surface the texture and hardness of crystallized brown sugar and the wind froze the bottom half into chunky moguls that rattled my spine every time I had to toboggan down it with one of the kids. Even when the sun shone, the air was still cold enough to make me understand brass monkeys and their unreliable nether regions. I couldn't even take down our Christmas decorations because they were hopelessly frozen to the lawn. How, exactly, did my beloved husband figure winter's end was nigh? Being the wise wife that I am, I decided to do what I do when he says summer is over: roll my eyes and keep quiet.

At the risk of receiving bloggy hate mail, I will admit that winter is my favourite season. I'm never in any hurry to see it go, no matter how freakishly cold and snowy it's been. But last week, after I shuffled the kids off to the bus, I turned my face east and drank in the sunshine for a moment. I decided that a walk was in order, something I hadn't been doing regularly because it felt like the wind would peel the skin off my face if I stayed out longer than twenty minutes. But there was no wind that day. None. Freaky for a place like Someday Farm, which is possibly the windiest place in the Bruce.

I scaled Mount Someday and headed south past the stables. At times, my waist was the same height as the fence line as I crunched along the wind-packed snowdrifts. Occasionally I'd hit a sinkhole and plunge in up to my thighs, all the while thinking what delicious coyote bait I'd make if I couldn't heave myself out again.

Coming around the bend behind the stable, I spied a cosy little hollow between the pine trees that guard the east entrance to the property. The drifts on either side sparkled in the sun. I sank down gratefully, tipped my head back to let the light wash over my face and smiled. I heard the wind sigh above me in the pine trees, just like my son does the moment before he falls asleep. Crows chortled briefly somewhere behind me until a beautiful, holy silence enveloped me. I took a deep, long breath of March air and thought I caught a hint of maple sweetness, a touch of smoke. I pulled a hand out of my woollen mitten and touched the snow. For once, the cold didn't bite my skin.

Maybe D was right. Despite the looming presence of Mount Someday and the disappearance of our fence lines, the air felt different. The sun was brighter. The snow glittered instead of squeaking like tormented mice under my boots. When I huffed myself out of the hollow and walked back to the house, a whirl of finches scattered into the sky above me; I hadn't heard their sweet gossip in months. It meant that the robins and red-winged blackbirds wouldn't be long in arriving to gobble all the berries off the ash tree. And that would mean only one thing: winter would be over.

That night, I washed dishes while D and Carman chatted at the kitchen table behind me. "Wasn't the weather nice today?" I said with a grin over my shoulder at the brothers Lowry. They eyed each other and Carman raised his eyebrows. Oh crap, I thought. My shoulders and triceps began to ache with phantom pain at what I knew was coming next.

"Well, Kimmy, I guess that means it's almost sapping time," Carm said.

Winter's over, indeed.

A Cold Day's Journey

There are friends you can drink wine with. There are friends you can take endless selfies with. There are friends you can gossip with. Eva isn't one of those friends.

Eva isn't much for gossiping and she doesn't drink. When we hang out, once every few months or so, we never end up just sitting around. There's usually a walk or hike of some kind involved in our visits. Even when we're in the city, we end up trudging through mosquito-infested trails beside the Grand River, or pounding the pavement in downtown Kitchener in -24 degree weather, on the hunt for a good sushi place. Sometimes she takes me for picnics in places like this:

One thing I especially like about Eva is that she brings her trusty camera nearly everywhere. She has a talent for taking fantastic, unexpected shots of random cool stuff like this:

And we always meet interesting characters:

Eva loves to take photos of me, too, because I am just as entertaining as little red salamanders and Alice In Wonderland mushrooms, don't you think?

This past weekend, Eva and her trusty camera came up to Someday for a visit. After Eva showered us with an assortment of funky gifts, D distracted the kids so Eva and I could do our thing. It was freaking freezing and horribly grey outside, which never bothers Eva, but the temperature thwarted my plans to initiate her into the world of sap domination: all the pails were frozen solid. So we bumbled around the farm instead. I introduced her to the cows and calves and barn cats (and to Carman) before we set off down the hill for a hike on the trails below the farm.

That's when the sun came out, turning the sky electric blue and the snow into a brilliant canvas of white. The air was as cold and fresh and crisp as my favourite wine. We trudged along the half-frozen trails, sometimes talking, sometimes not, always comfortable beside each other.

The best part about a hike with Eva is that she gets you to look at things you've seen before with a new appreciation. As soon as she whips out that camera, I know to pause and wait until she gets the shot she's looking for, and I try to see whatever it is she's seeing in the moss, or tree trunks or raindrops she's focused on. As a reward for my Buddha-like patience, I usually get a chance to act like an idiot somewhere within the frame of her imagination.

Eva and I try to sushi whenever we can. Kincardine now has a mind-blowing TWO sushi places to choose from, so after we stuffed ourselves with gyoza and agedashi tofu and dynamite rolls at Sushi Won, we went for a bone-chilling walk along the pier. I remember how fascinated I was with the lake during my first winter in the Bruce; I'd never seen the water wearing anything other than its sparkling summer attire, and it shocked me to see it looking like a setting in a Farley Mowat novel.

Eva was equally taken with the frozen wasteland as we braved the east wind and darkening sky:

I was tempted to jump down from the pier and see if the ice would hold - wouldn't THAT make the front page of the Kincardine News? - but after a horrified look from Eva, I settled for a Dorka-the-Explorer-meets-Sears-model pose instead:

We may not drink or selfie together, but Eva and I are in it for the long haul of friendship, one wacky walk at a time.

Godzilla and the Garden

Gardening is a love-hate relationship. At the beginning of the season, I can't get enough of seeds and soil, weeds and watering cans. I sing while I dig and whistle when I plant. This all changes by mid-summer, when I start to curse all creatures with six legs, moan about weeds and lapse into a state of meh regarding anything with leaves.

There's a school of thought among the all-natural parenting population that says if you engage children in growing their own vegetables, said children might begin to put these vegetables in their mouths. Since my son Dylan does not eat any vegetables except potatoes and my daughter Jade has begun turning up her nose at all things green, I figured it was time to put this theory into practice. When my kids were destructive toddlers, I’d restricted their access to the gardens, making them wander around the borders or water daintily from the edges. No wonder they were disconnected from the food I tried to force them to eat. They thought gardening was a spectator sport.

One sunny spring day, we hopped in the car and drove to Country Depot to pick out seeds. Jade picked peas for herself and watermelon for Daddy. Dylan wanted a "beanstalk" so I bought him some scarlet runner beans, which can grow up to six feet tall. I chose lettuce, cucumbers and kale for myself, and threw in some carrot seeds for D. The lady at the counter said, "Wow, you must have a big garden!" and I smiled politely while mentally face-palming myself. Like eating at a buffet, our seed appetite was way bigger than our 12x40 foot garden stomach. I'd have to improvise.

Back home, we spent a productive afternoon hoeing rows and planting seeds while tree swallows swooped and serenaded us. The kids approached their tasks with the intensity of chess players, examining each seed before poking a careful hole in the ground.

This is good, I thought as my offspring got progressively grimier. This is one giant teachable moment about appreciating the earth. I sent the kids to fill their tiny watering cans so they could “give the garden a drink.” Sitting back on my heels to draw artistic labels on each garden stake, I smiled. This had gone better than I'd expected. In a few months, I’d be able to post photos of my darlings holding up their prize produce at the Ripley Fair. I was interrupted from this pleasant reverie by the shrieks of my daughter as she ran down the backyard slope, soaking wet and wailing incoherently. I sighed. My son would need some lessons on the art of watering.

The next morning, when Dylan fled the breakfast table and ran to the garden, I was thrilled. It was working! I'd captured his interest in growing food! Soon he'd be filling his plate with raw veggies and my husband would bow before me in awe. All for the price of a few seeds. Okay, a lot of seeds.

Jade and I followed Dylan down to the garden, where we found him not so much appreciating his earthly labours as furious that nothing had grown since yesterday.

"WHERE ARE MY BEANSTALKS?" he demanded, stomping through the freshly planted rows like Godzilla bearing down on Tokyo.

"AHHH!" I screamed. "GET OUT OF THE GARDEN! YOU'LL HURT THE PLANTS!"

"I can go get him," said Jade and began to chase Dylzilla through the garden like a pink version of Mothra, at which point I chased them both out with a rake. Before "GET OUT OF THE GARDEN" could become my summer refrain, I changed it to “WALK GENTLY IN THE GARDEN!” The irony was that my kids loved being in there and I hated that they couldn’t stay out. Never mind that there was a sandbox ten feet away; they preferred to plow through the garden like relentless little backhoes. Teachable moment, I reminded myself as I ground my teeth and helped my daughter repair yet another squashed row.

On top of the near-daily destruction, it was harder than I thought it would be to convince Jade and Dylan that the seeds were, in fact, growing. I YouTubed videos of seeds germinating. They were unconvinced. I acted out the life cycle of a plant. They rolled their eyes. Every day that they went to the garden and found it empty, their interest waned. What had I done to raise two such hardened skeptics? I talked about the magic of nature and preached patience. After seven days without so much as a sprout, when I started to sing my "Have Patience!" song, Jade snapped "Earth, air, water, sun, I KNOW MUMMA, I KNOW. But WHEN are they going to GROW???" I started asking myself the same question. Maybe the constant Godzilla reenactments had smushed our poor seedlings. It would be very difficult to refrain from screaming "I TOLD YOU SO!" at my kids, which was really not the teachable moment I’d been hoping for.

Then, finally, praise Gaia, it happened. The first crinkled pea shoots poked through the earth and the kids danced around, squealing with glee. "I told you so," I muttered under my breath, then smiled. Each day, something else popped up: beans fist-pumped the air with their tiny curled hands; a green mist of carrot tops appeared; cukes and melons stood upright, flaunting bow-tie leaves. The miracle of life had survived my children’s feet. Better yet, now that the kids could see the plants, they handled them with surprising gentleness.

After the initial surge of excitement over the appearance of our seedlings, Jade and Dylan started to lose interest again. I recognized the familiar signs of garden apathy. Instead of succumbing to it this time, I doubled my efforts to keep all three of us committed to our garden project. I coaxed (and sometime dragged) the kids down to help weed and water the fruits of our labour.

“I didn’t know gardening would be so much WORK,” moaned Jade, lugging her watering can around like it was filled with bricks.

“Funny,” I said as I raked, hoed and weeded, “I thought I was doing most of the work.”

Learning to garden means learning how to deal with failure. Since I had never been particularly adept at accepting my various horticultural fails, I wanted my kids to learn how to take things in stride and not get discouraged when things didn’t go as expected. This lesson repeated itself several times: we found all six tomato plants withered beyond recognition one morning, cause undetermined. Some kind of voracious bug devoured my kale and put huge holes in the cucumber vines. Half of the peas that Jade had planted didn’t sprout and Dylan accidentally uprooted one of his beanstalks during a weeding frenzy.

With the frustrations came the triumphs, though: handfuls of fresh peas eaten straight out of the pod (well, Dylan picked and Jade ate); a ridiculous bounty of beans and lettuce; cool, mutant carrots borne from improper thinning methods; dark green watermelon babies that lay heavy and content on the ends of their vines. The swallowtail caterpillar we discovered on one of our carrot tops was the crowning glory of our gardening experience. We took “Pippy” back to the house and tracked his transformation from a bright green eating and pooping machine to a dusty looking chrysalids, until one morning he emerged onto his stick, a velvet-winged butterfly.

It’s September now, and our garden is getting yellow and droopy. It’s littered with black walnuts and chestnuts instead of vegetables, and the kids and I decided it was now okay to let the weeds do their thing. Jade still refuses to put a carrot anywhere near her mouth and although Dylan tried (and spat out) fresh beans and peas, he still screams in horror if anything resembling a vegetable lands on his plate. As an incentive to increase my kids’ veggie intake, the garden project was yet another fail in my agricultural and parenting history. But as a chance to hang out and get our hands dirty together, to share accomplishment and impatience and success and failure, to experience the communion of earth, sun, air and water? Major win, for Mumma and kiddies both.

Welcome Back to Someday!

Phew, did that summer buzz by like a rabid bumblebee or what? Despite promising myself I'd make an extra effort to chill out and savour each day, June-July-August flowed into one another, a bright watercolour of beach and forest, meadow and park, lazy mornings and cricket-sung nights. It was a happy summer, and I'm going to tell you all about it. Soon.

Thanks for sticking around while we summered at Someday.

Adventures in Lawn Tractoring…again

Spring has sprung with a vengeance at Someday. The weather's been alternating between torrential rain and gorgeous sunshine, which means our lawn has gone from crappy to shaggy to tropical rainforest-y in a matter of days. And once again, I'm on deck to keep the grassy expanses looking civilized.

I tend to yell a lot while on the lawn tractor. I yell when I run over something that makes a horrible noise (tree stumps, branches, the kids' toys), I yell when I get a cobweb in the face. I yell when I'm on a steep hill and I yell when I get stuck. The zero turn and I don't get along at the best of times, and today it seemed like it was truly out to get me.

Mowing the lawn for the first time each year means I have to shake the dust out of my winter-addled brain and remember the intricacies of lawn tractor operation (pump up the crappy front tire, check the oil, growl at the empty gas tank, drive to my mother-in-law's to steal gas, etc.) Once all the prep work is complete, it's time for my annual exercise in humiliation: I can never turn the knob to lower the deck. Every spring I want to write a venomous letter to the creators of the JD Zero Turn, stating that I don't know how they do things in America, but in Bruce County, it's mostly women who drive the lawn tractors, so stop making the deck dial tighter than Sarah Palin's smile.

With a giant sigh of defeat, I called D. He actually answered.

"Yeah Kimmy?"

"I just want to make sure I'm lowering the deck right."

"Are you on the lawn tractor?"

"No, I'm on the couch eating bonbons. Of course I'm on the tractor! The stupid dial won't turn. Do I have to have the brake off or something?"

"It's just hard to turn. You might need some help." Here, my beloved husband paused, and I could practically feel his smirk radiating through the phone. "You might have to call my dad…"

"I AM NOT CALLING A MAN TO COME AND TURN A KNOB," I yelled into the phone. D made an inappropriate but not entirely unexpected joke about knob pulling and I hung up. I grabbed the knob with all my might, yelled "TURN YOU STUPID FREAKING THING!" and twisted. The deck lowered. I fist-pumped the air and yelled "TAKE THAT!" to no one in particular and every man in general.

The problem with a wet spring is that squishy lawns and zero turns do not mix. It didn't occur to me to check the gully before driving the lumbering beast onto it. I screamed as the zero turn slid slowly and inexorably down the gully towards the wheat field and promptly got stuck in two feet of mud. After my heart stopped racing, I managed to get the tractor unstuck, and also managed to turn a large chunk of our lawn into a motocross track. This: plus this: = This: Oh yeah. I rock.

The afternoon continued to be full of small disasters. Not only was I mowing down precious bees by the dozen, I ran over two frogs. I screamed various things like MOVE! LOOK OUT! INCOMING! but they were either deafened by the mower or resigned to their fate and I assume they all became lawn mowing casualties. (I couldn't tell you for sure because I had my eyes closed.) After that, I stopped the mower every five minutes to hop out and peer into the grass to see if a tiny movement indicated a living creature, which resulted in the rescue of two toads and a frog from my giant John Deere cuisinart. Hopefully mother nature will hold off on smiting me for a while yet.

After nearly strangling myself in the kids' swing set, I decided I'd had enough of lawn mowing for one day. As I sat on the back steps, picking grass out of my hair and bra, I said a silent prayer for rain and wondered which of D's cousins I could blame for driving their ATVs so recklessly through our wet gully.

Sappy

Collecting sap every day for two weeks from sixty-plus maple trees is an exercise in humility. Sure, there's the nature-loving, granola girl aspect that I so enjoy, what with the fresh air and hearty exercise and accidental tree hugging (the woods are damn slippery in the spring). But mostly I was just humbled by our feeble attempts to harness nature's sappy goodness. Oh, and did I mention the sap collection business is FREAKING EXHAUSTING?

At least I didn't have to do all the work myself. After the trees were tapped, it was up to me and trusty brother-in-law Carman to trudge out to each tree, collect the sap, pour it in buckets, haul it back to the main tank and figure out how much we'd collected.

The thing about Carman is that he never treats me differently than he'd treat his brothers, which means he lets me shoulder my share of the work. While he may raise an eyebrow if I appear to be taking on more than my tiny muscles can possibly bear, he doesn't try to rescue me unless I squeal for help. Usually, I like and respect being treated as an equal, but after lugging endless 5 gallon buckets of sap over slippery trails day after day, I started to wonder whether acting like a damsel in distress would be all that bad. My pride prevented me from trying to find out.

Have you ever collected sap before? I hadn't. First, you have to load the aforementioned empty 5 gallon buckets onto a sled. Then you pull the a sled through various muddy snowbanks, chuck it and the buckets over fences and petrified cow pats until you get to the tree line. The kids were not amused when I made off with their favourite sled.

Then comes the collecting. It's fraught with various hazards, such as treacherous snowbanks that gave way without warning, branches that claw at your eyes like angry dryads, steep hills and big holes.. And don't get me started on deer and bunny shit. Those critters are poo machines and they seem to enjoy making their deposits right underneath the sap pails.

Most of the days were mild and clear. All the trudging and lifting and pouring and pulling would make Carman and I sweat like we were running a marathon. "At least we're getting our exercise," I'd pant. "Outta shape, Kimmy?" Carm would respond. Overcome with thirst one day, I hid behind a tree and swigged ice cold sap right out of the pail. It was like drinking some magic potion. As the cool liquid spilled down my throat, I felt instantly refreshed. Later I caught Carman had been doing the same thing.

Our usual habit was to park the sleds on one side of the barbed wire fence in the pasture and empty each small pail of sap into the bigger buckets. Then we'd haul the buckets, sloshing and ungainly, back to the fence, mash them through and load them back onto the sled. Although as a kid I'd been no stranger to hopping various fences - electric and barbed included - the forty-something me was sadly out of practice. I always made sure Carm's back was turned before I attempted to squeeze through to avoid any extra humiliation. If I'd been getting any money for my labour, I would have asked for hazard pay.

As winter reluctantly loosened its grasp and allowed spring to finally unfurl herself, the snow gave way to mountains of mud and the crisp, fresh air turned damp and pungent. We abandoned our sled in favour of the kids' little red wagon. Carman and I made trip after trip across the fields, hauling gallons of sap in the wagon. "There HAS GOT to be a better way," I would gasp every time, feeling like an abused mule. The boys forbid me to drive a tractor on the tender fields for fear of wrecking the soil, but I was sure that even Pa Ingalls wouldn't have worked THIS hard. Finally Carman took pity on me and hooked the wagon up to...the lawn tractor. Embarrassing yes, but not nearly as exhausting. And I did not allow photos.

Tromping around in the woods gives you the chance to experience moments of exquisite beauty: a pure blue sky with a slice of moon floating in it; velvet mosses clinging to tree trunks; the creak and song of tree limbs moving in the wind. There's also the unique sensation of being slapped in the face repeatedly by branches, falling knee-down in cold mud and putting your hand into a pile of raccoon poop. That's what I love about nature; it's a study in contrasts. Sometimes you just have to take a moment and savour the experience, even when it's smelly.

This is me, up in a tree, savouring the moment.

Next up: how to make syrup and burn your eyebrows off.

What a sap...

It began, as these things so often do, with a thought foolishly spoken aloud in the presence of Lowry men.

A few years ago, the boys and I were at my in-laws' kitchen table, inhaling breakfast after chores. As I poured some nasty Aunt Jemima goop on my pancakes, I said the words that would come to haunt me later: "How come you guys never make your own maple syrup?"

My husband and his brother Carman nearly choked on their eggs. My mother-in-law let out a soft chuckle. Plenty of eye-rolling and head shaking ensued. "What?" I said, miffed. "You make your own cider, why not syrup?"

"Oh Kimmy," said D, wearing his "aren't city girls cute" smirk. I wanted to throw a pancake at his head. "We used to make it with my Grandpa. You have no idea how much work it takes to make a little syrup."

"You know much sap you need to make one gallon of syrup, Kimmy?" Carm chimed in. "A helluva lot."

"Oh, come on. How hard can it be?" The minute the words were out of my mouth, images of corn smut and sunflower rashes flashed before my eyes and I decided to shut up. The boys, however, had been stoked into a rare fire of conversation. They went on and on about chopping wood and endless bonfires and lugging milk cans and where Grandpa's old sap pan had gotten to. My mother-in-law thought she might still have some syrup from their last harvest (circa 1985) in her freezer somewhere. I kept quiet and glared at Aunt Jemima. She seemed to be laughing at me.

Flash forward to March 2014, where I entered our garage to find twenty-five sap buckets the colour of a winter sky lined up like cheerful soldiers along the wall. D shook a cardboard box at me. I peeked in to see lids and spiles. "Holy crap," I said.

"Happy birthday," said D with a big smile, thrusting the box into my arms. "You're not working, right? Well, this'll keep you busy for a while."

"My birthday's not till April," I said, twirling a spile in my fingers. 25 buckets was a lot. I had been thinking more along the lines of 5. This meant finding a lot of trees. I suddenly had an urge to run in the house, find my copy of Little House in the Big Woods and re-read the syrup-making chapter. If Laura Ingalls, my childhood hero, could do it, why couldn't I? It might actually be fun. I loved maple syrup and I loved being outside.

What could possibly go wrong?

Some Days

Alarm warbles.

6:45 a.m.

Ugh.

Crawl out of bed. It's early for me. Gotta shower. Gotta get Dylan ready for daycare. Gotta walk Jade to the school bus. Gotta make some freaking coffee.

Jade is cheerful until she's not. Soon there is wailing and gnashing of teeth. She can't find her sock. Where is her sock? Dadddy picked out these socks ESPECIALLY for her. SHE CANNOT FIND HER SOCK. She slumps on the floor and wails.

The sock is beside you, I say. Look.

The wailing stops. She pulls on the sock. I want to crawl under her turquoise and lime flowered duvet and sleep. She merrily hops down the stairs. I follow, less merrily.

Dylan needs a new diaper; Jade needs juice. I need coffee. I change Dylan's diaper and pour Jade's juice. I make Jade's lunch. I drink two sips of coffee. Now it is snowsuit and backpack and where-are-your-mitts-child time.

Jade and I walk to meet the bus. The winter morning is sparkly clean. Our breath puffs as we stroll down the lane way, hand in hand. The sun rises behind us, unhurried. Dylan watches from the upstairs window, knocking and waving. He is not wearing pants.

Jade leaps on snowy crags, tells me they are mountains. Gifts the snow plow has left. The bus pulls up. I give the bus driver a chocolate bar. I was so late last Friday. That's not necessary, she says, but smiles and takes the chocolate. I hope I'm not THAT MOTHER. I hope she likes Jade. I hope Dylan doesn't drive her crazy in September.

I walk back to the house, sunrise on my face. Finches rush into the sky at my approach. In the back porch, Dylan peeps at me through the mail slot. Pudgy fingers poke out and wave. Hi Mumma. I waiting for you.

Where are your pants? I ask. Where is your diaper? My diaper is gone. His eyes are the colour of the lake in autumn. He runs away and jumps into the beanbag. Toopy and Binoo are on. I will wrestle with him later.

I check the time and sit down at the kitchen table. Flip open the laptop. Click through my email. I pour fresh coffee, close my eyes and let the aroma drift into my brain. Dylan climbs up on my lap. Demands his favourite show. He pats my face with his hand. I smell poo.

Were you playing with your bum? Tell me you weren't playing with your bum. He attempts escape. I grab his hand, lead him to the sink. He screams and flops around like a fish on a hook. I wash his hands with difficulty. He flails. Water is everywhere. I want to go back to bed.

I get a diaper. I find pants. Dylan runs away, squealing. I chase him, cajole, joke, beg, then finally, threaten. No TV, I say. Corner, I say. He relents, sobbing. Snot and tears, little chest heaving. I don't want pants, Mumma.

It's a Nina day, I say. We have to go to daycare. Daddy will pick you up. NO! He wants to go to the grocery store. He wants to go to the post office. He wants to go to Grandma's. Not today, I say through clenched teeth. My mother used to talk like that when she was mad. I squish my son into pants and socks, give up on the shirt. Fine, I say. Wear dirty pyjamas. Dirty pyjamas, he agrees and crawls into my lap, thumb in mouth, mollified. For the moment.

Get your hat, I say. I turn off the TV. I close the laptop. Dylan goes purple with rage. TV! I WANT TV! No TV, I say. Get. Your. Hat. NOW. More clenched teeth. I am going to throw something. I need more coffee. He gets his hat. He puts on his boots. He sobs. He needs his mitts. Mitts Mumma! My blue mitts are GONE! I find the mitts shoved behind the door. He needs his blankies. Where are your blankies, honey? Where are they? My blankies are gone. I check upstairs. I check the bathroom, the bedrooms. The blankies are in the tent, downstairs. I drape them over his little head. He pulls them off and beams. You found my blankies, Mumma! You found them!

I help him with his coat. I grab keys, sunglasses, purse, snow pants. We head for the car. My phone. My phone is upstairs. Dammit. I buckle my son in the car and backtrack. Damn phone. I get back in the car; start the engine. I have a doctor's appointment later. Do I have money for parking? Do I have a toonie? I check my purse; nickels and pennies. One quarter. Dammit, dammit, DAMMIT! Back upstairs. I take change from Jade's piggybank. This is not bad parenting. She has stolen most of the money from me.

Back in the car, roaring down the driveway. Off we go, I say. Like a herd of turtles, says Dylan. Like a herd of turtles, I agree. Turtles who need more coffee.

5 Things About…a highly unsatisfactory day

Today was what I (borrowing freely from L.M. Montgomery) like to call a Jonah day. It was one of those days where I wished a big fricking whale would just come along and swallow me up. Because sometimes, being confined in a dark, smelly mammal stomach is actually more appealing than living in my own reality.

Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad. I think it just felt that way because I didn't have any wine or chocolate in the house. In no particular order, here are five of the many things that made today A Highly Unsatisfactory Day.

1. I rolled in raccoon poop. That's right: I got POOP ON ME. I had taken the kids to the hayloft to play since it was -25 outside and we were all on the verge of going batshit crazy inside the house. As they jumped from bale to bale and rolled squealing through piles of straw, I warned them repeatedly to watch out for raccoon poop. Then I plumped myself down in the straw, stretched and and rolled directly onto a big plop of 'coon doodie. The kids thought it was hysterical. Jade, ever the comedian, yelled, "WATCH OUT FOR POOP MUMMA!"

2. Last night I bought two little chickens, rubbed them all over with herbs, olive oil and good mustard and roasted them to delicious perfection. Roast chicken is not part of my usual repertoire, especially since D informed me that those cute, inexpensive birds are likely ONLY TWO MONTHS OLD!? But D has been doing double duty, working at the office and then heading to the farm to do evening chores and I thought it might be fun to make something a bit different for supper. Afterward, I cleaned up most of the kitchen, but was too tired to deal with the gross pan of chicken grease and decided it could wait until morning. Have you ever seen what ten hours of air does to chicken fat? GAH. As if to drive the point home, I somehow managed to dump an entire pan of said fat mixed with hot water all over the counter, the draining board full of clean dishes, and, of course, myself. I really hope D enjoyed that chicken because it's likely the last one I'll be cooking - or cleaning up after - for a while.

3. On Tuesdays, I take Jade to skating practice. Parents are asked to take turns at "manning the booth" to sell coffee, chips, sour keys, and all that other arena goodness. This week it was my turn. I like being in the booth, because it means I don't have to chase Dylan around like a madwoman, plus I get time to chat with other parents and watch Jade swish around the ice from a perfect viewpoint. I've volunteered a few times, but this was the first time I got hit on. By two ten year old boys. Have mercy. What is this world coming to?

4. Saran wrap: 3. Kim: 0 Lord, how I hate that stuff...

5. Around 7:45 p.m., I sent the kids upstairs to undress and get ready for bed. I slumped on the couch to check Facebook and recount the the wreckage of my day. The house was a disaster; I had lunches to make, dishes to do, laundry to fold but all I wanted to do was lie on the couch and fantasize that the children would somehow put themselves to bed. It dawned on me that there was a whole lot of crazed giggling going on upstairs. I dragged myself off the couch to investigate, expecting to find them playing tickle tag or short-sheeting my bed. I did not expect to find an entire roll of toilet paper ripped into pieces and strewn about the bathroom floor while my naked children pranced through it singing, "A-rah-cha-cha-cha-CHA-cha!"

"WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!" I demanded. "WHO MADE THIS AWFUL MESS?"

"Dylan did it," said Jade immediately. "Dylan took all the toilet paper off the roll, Mumma. I did not do it." Dylan had wisely taken his naked dance party into the bedroom the moment I walked upstairs, so since he was well out of stink eye range my glare fell squarely upon my four-year-old daughter.

"So you had nothing to do with...this?" I asked, waving my hand at the toilet paper carnival.

Jade looked at me with the innocence of a baby seal."For true Mumma! I didn't take it off the roll. I only ripped it up."

At least she's honest.

I gave them both a big lecture about how every time we waste paper, a tree cries, and that seemed to leave them sufficiently chastised. At least until they discover the next household item to destroy and dance on.

So that, friends, was my day. I can only hope that yours was better. And thank my lucky stars that tomorrow is a brand new day, without any mistakes in it.

Pressing Issues

In honour of all the Christmas cookie photos being flaunted on Facebook these days, and because I'm making Smartie Cookies, which were my childhood favourite (except now I add rum), I thought I'd repost this one for you. Best read while you down copious amounts of coffee with Baileys while contemplating a ruined batch of cookies. (Originally published in 2009)

When I moved to the country, I left behind a couple of girlfriends with whom I’ve been pals for many years. We meet up every so often to drink, laugh, commiserate and rant together. We do not, however, bake together, and that's likely what has kept our friendship so stable.
You hear about women who congregate annually and form baking coalitions in someone's kitchen. Dough and hilarity ensue. Dozens of exotic cookies are baked and shared amongst the group, then everyone goes home to smugly fill their freezers to the brim with holiday baking.
In theory, this all sounds very Martha Stewart. It sounds like something a country woman, or at least a woman who recently moved to the country, should do, and our kitchen at Someday just begs to be socialized in. Bright and spacious, with lots of counter space, it’s the perfect place for a baking party. I can practically hear it whispering, "If you bake it, they will come.”

Sometimes I sigh and wish my sisters and city friends lived closer so we could have our own bake-bonding sessions. Then I attempt to make cookies or cupcakes and the burning smell snaps me back to reality: I would probably kill anyone who tried to share my kitchen. Although I come from a long line of amazing cooks, baking isn't my forte. I never learned the fine art of making pie crust from scratch or how to produce the giant pans of squares that are a staple here in Bruce County. And as my younger sister or D could tell you, I don’t play well with others in the kitchen. I’m bossy and not very forgiving when things go wrong.

My city girlfriends are not without a sense of humour. A few years ago, they gave me a cookie press for Christmas. They know about my baking dysfunction, but they also know I am addicted to sweets and still occasionally try to make stuff from scratch. This past December, the weather outside being frightful, I decided to give in, assume my position as a country woman and bake some Christmas cookies. Shortbread - that old Yuletide classic - seemed a logical choice, and I asked my mother-in-law to help. Shirley, quite simply, is a kitchen goddess. She stews, cans, preserves, roasts - she does it all. She is especially adept in the baking department, so I figured that with her help, I couldn't possibly screw up.

We sat down at her kitchen table to read and re-read the hallowed shortbread recipe that I’d weaseled out of a colleague. Every year, my colleague made dozens of delicate cookies and brought them into the office. Her cookies were incredible, the type of shortbread that melts in your mouth, pressed in beautiful designs and decorated with tiny candies. I loved them so much that she used to bring me a separate tin for my own personal consumption. When my friends gave me the cookie press, I begged my colleague for her recipe, which she relinquished after much coaxing. I had the press, I had the recipe, and I had Shirley. There would be no burning smell today.

Shirley and I unpacked the cookie press, took it apart, admired the different patterns. We measured the ingredients for the dough and mashed everything together with our hands. Things were going swimmingly until we jammed the dough into the press and attempted to mould our first cookie in the shape of a wreath. I clicked the trigger of the press and looked down at the cookie sheet. Nothing. I tried again. Still nothing. I let Shirley try. No cookie. I shook the press like it was a martini mixer, smacked it vigorously and tried again. Nada.
I could feel the curse words I’d promised myself I would not say bubbling to the surface, and forced them down. I was in my mother-in-law’s kitchen, and needed to remain calm. There couldn’t be any fits of cookie rage today. Shirley must have sensed I was about to pitch the stupid press through her screen door. She gently extricated it from my clenched fists and set it on the table. “Let’s read the instructions again,” she suggested.

Upon further examination, the instructions on the cookie-press box warned us not to use a cold cookie sheet (not a problem, as Shirley’s house is always a toasty 75 degrees), and not to use a non-stick surface. Well, who owns a cookie sheet these days that isn't non-stick? We looked at each other in disgust.

“What if we added a little water to the dough?” said Shirley after a few moments of silence in which I imagined running over the cookie press with Carman’s jeep. We added a little water, smushed the dough back into the press and voila! out came our first cookie. It looked like my fantasy about Carm’s jeep had come true. We changed the pattern to the tree and tried a few more. They looked like deflated, Charlie Brown Christmas trees. And so it went.

Three dozen pressed cookies and as many suppressed swear words later, I discovered that the oven wouldn't heat up. “That’s strange,” said my mother-in-law. “It worked today when I made the roast beef.” I was starting to think the cookie press was cursed.

When we finally did get the oven going and the cookies were baked, we sat down at the table with mugs of tea and sampled our handiwork. We made the appropriate "My, aren't these yummy!" noises, but the cookies tasted like warm butter mixed with sawdust.

Refusing to admit they were that bad, I pounced on D when he walked in the door. “Here, try this,” I said and forcibly shoved a cookie in his mouth. He chewed...and chewed...and chewed, then fled to the fridge for some milk. "Gahhh," he said after a mighty swallow, "not my favourite."

My mother-in-law politely declined my offer to share the cookies with me (“Oh no, you keep them, you’ll need them for your guests”), so I ended up with three dozen nasty shortbread cookies in my freezer that I indeed served to guests throughout the holiday season, accompanied by big cups of eggnog. The cookie press went back where it belonged, in the darkest corner of my least-used cupboard.

I was tempted to send tins to my girlfriends in the city, but wanting to preserve our friendship, I just told them all about my adventures in country woman baking and we had a good laugh. I think they’ll just give me a bottle of wine next Christmas, and maybe a box of store bought biscuits to go with it. My saint of a mother-in-law has promised to give me some recipes for squares, because they're supposed to be "foolproof." It's touching that she still has that much faith in me.

Two days, one night

August 14th, 2013. Now, this is a beautiful morning.

The sun is already making my scalp tingle with heat, even though it’s only 9 a.m. A flirty breeze plays with my hair. The birds are in full, glorious concert. It’s everything an August morning should be, and I have the rare pleasure of having it all to myself, thanks to my friend Eva.

I’m sitting on a tiny deck attached to the south side of “The Farmhouse,” a place in Purple Valley that Eva rents every summer. It’s an old house that appears to have popped up like a mushroom in the middle of acres of unfenced farmland, and I am soaking up the sun, the solitude and a steaming cup of coffee all at once.

Eva herself was nowhere to be found this morning when I picked my way down the steep stairs from my bedroom to the kitchen . She must be on one of her walks, looking for blackberries or bears or both. My friend is a true disciple of nature. I’ve known her for years, but discovered a few things I didn’t know on our hike yesterday: she doesn’t use bug spray or sunscreen, doesn't say a word when hiking in 40 degree heat, swims in the melted icicle waters of Georgian bay and calls it “refreshing.” I think I admire her even more this morning than I already did.

To Eva, who lives in the city and whose neighbours are a stone’s throw on either side of her house, the Farmhouse in Purple Valley is pure heaven. Close to the water, the Bruce Trail and within range of mild-mannered small towns, the Farmhouse is all butterflies and birds and tall grass during the day. At night, coyotes play in the driveway, stars write bright messages across the sky and fireflies appear like iridescent popcorn in the pea fields. She and her partner and their daughter used to rent the house for a week or two every year; this summer, Eva came up for a week by herself and asked me to join her for a few days. I was honoured. I know how special her time is here, and how few opportunities she’s had to take time for herself over the past decade. I was also a little worried; I’d always wanted to explore the Bruce Trail, and Eva had promised that she’d take me for several treks while I was there...but could I hack it? I’ve never been much for heat, or strenuous exercise, let alone strenuous exercise in the heat. Eva would be a machine out in the woods; I was, at best, a wind-up toy.

“Does Eva have any idea how grouchy you get when it’s hot?” D had asked as I stuffed clothes into my backpack the night before I left for my adventure. I was sweating. It had been humid and sticky all week and my mood had not been pleasant.

“I don’t know,” I said, trying to mentally picture what the trail would look like and whether I should bring two pairs of pants in case I fell down a cliff and ripped one. I threw in my knee brace instead. “She loves the heat. It’ll be fine.”

D grinned. “This could be the end of a beautiful friendship, Sweaty Kim.”

I promised myself that no matter how hot and dehydrated and crotchety I felt, I would not complain about the heat. I would tough it out and make Eva proud. Better to be Sweaty Kim than Whiny Kim.

The Bruce Trail didn’t disappoint. It was fascinating - deep crevasses, steep lookouts, rocks that looked like fossilized lava, covered in ferns and wild ginger. It was a challenging hike in that I had to keep a sharp eye on the trail ahead, as there were a hundred ways to twist an ankle or pitch headfirst into patches of poison ivy. Rocks, roots and ruts abounded. When we stopped briefly to wipe perspiration out of our eyes and catch our breath, I noticed the peculiar stillness of the forest: sporadic birdcalls, no wind. The leaves didn’t rustle, the trees didn’t creak. There was only my panting breath, our voices and our footsteps making hollow thumps on the densely packed soil.

Since I loathe the heat and freak out at heights, the hike on the Bruce Trail was an accomplishment for me. I don’t often push myself physically, but with Eva as my guide and coach, I was able to hike for over four hours in humid weather over challenging terrain. Sometimes we talked about everything and nothing; sometimes were silent and companionable. To me, the measure of true friendship to see how long you can be quiet together without feeling the need to talk. Eva and I are true friends.

We finally turned around at about 4 p.m, trudged back to the car, and set off for another part of the trail to find Spirit Rock and go for a swim. I held my head near the open window like a dog, trying to catch a breeze and cool my tomato red face back into an acceptable colour. Because Eva is an amazing friend, she sensed that I needed a break before tackling the next leg of our hike. So we drove to a little ice cream shop in Wiarton. She ate cherry ice cream, I drank a giant mug of coffee, and we sat in oversized orange leather chairs and let the air conditioning chill the sweat on our backs. It was perfect.

On the trail to Spirit Rock, there was a fascinating ruin of an old Irish family’s stone mansion called The Corran. We loitered there for a bit, reading the historical signs, marvelling at the size of the place, eating blackberries and sniffing roses. “Time for a swim!” Eva announced and we got back on the trail. She had neglected to tell me that in order to reach her favourite swimming spot, we’d have to navigate a freaky spiral staircase made of clangy, unsteady steel flanking a rocky cliff.

“Oh yeah, you don’t like heights, do you?” Eva said with a wicked look in her eye. She knew the staircase would give me the heebie jeebies; Eva likes it when people face their fears head on. She sends me all sorts of spider and zombie themed stuff in the mail, ostensibly to help me “deal with my shit,” but mostly because she likes to imagine my reactions. The staircase to hell was no different, with the added bonus that she’d get to witness my reaction with her own eyes. So, with Eva grinning at me, I took a deep breath, realigned my backpack and forced my trembly legs down each step to the bottom.

To my dismay, the staircase opened onto a rocky, steep trail that could only be navigated by holding on for dear life to a series of metal railings bolted to the rock. I said a few bad words and Eva laughed at me, but it was worth the aching hips, the vertigo, and stabs of unadulterated panic. Because once we made it to the bottom, we were greeted by the glassy waters of Georgian bay, spread out before us like a vast mirror.

We stumbled over rocks to find Eva’s favourite spot, peeled off our sweaty clothes and swam in our underwear. The water was as still as the woods had been, clear as a window and cold enough to make me squeal. But oh, the relief of dunking my steamy head in the Bay, floating on my back with no sounds but my own breath and no sight but the cloudless summer sky overhead. Eva did laps back and forth while I paddled slowly in circles. Every few minutes, we’d swim into what Eva called “a cold spot” - places in the lake that felt as though a block of ice had just melted - and we joked that they were evil spots, cold hands of drowned sailors reaching to pull us under. Another thing about true friends: you have to find the same things amusing.

To my amusement, I noticed three kayakers in the distance. "I think they're headed our way," I said. Eva shrugged while treading water, which is no mean feat. Well, I'd just hiked a hot trail for many hours, so if a few strangers saw me in wet underwear, so be it. As they glided nearer, we saw they were three young men. We raised a hand in greeting, careful not to bob too far out of the water. As they passed, I caught a snip of their earnest-sounding conversation: it was about stocks or bonds or something to do with money.

"You're not talking about work are you?" I said, genuinely horrified. They stared at me. "Seriously, you guys. You shouldn't be talking about work on a beautiful day like this!" I couldn't help myself. There they were, on the still, blue, gorgeous waters of Georgian Bay, discussing business. The guy nearest to me twisted his mouth into a sour expression. His buddy smiled and they just shook their heads and kept paddling while Eva and I shook our heads in return.

We didn’t get back to the farmhouse until 8 p.m., didn’t eat supper until sunset. I drank white wine and ate sour cream chips while I made our evening meal: pasta with fresh tomatoes, basil and bocconcini. Eva drank root beer and concocted the most delicious Napa salad I’ve ever had. We both had seconds of everything, toasted our hike and swim. As her root beer clinked against my wine, I wanted to leap over the table and hug her, pull her close and tell her what a blessing her friendship was. But my legs were too stiff and I’d drunk a little too much wine and I didn’t want her to think I was weird. So I just smiled instead. She smiled back. I think she got what I wanted to say without me having to speak a word.

After supper we walked down the moonlit lane way, exclaiming with glee at the hundreds of tiny frogs that sprang out of our path as they headed for the swamps beyond the pine trees. Eva and I found Sirius and the Big Dipper, talked about bear encounters (hers, not mine), exchanged stories about my mother and her father, both dead now for many years. When I finally pleaded exhaustion, we went back to the house and Eva sat beside my bed and read me a creepy story about cannibal children in Kentucky. When’s the last time someone read to me? I wondered as she changed her voice for each character. I love this.

We said our goodnights, positioned our fans to make a breeze in the still, hot rooms, and I slept the kind of sleep only a day outside and a contented belly can give you. I woke up today feeling stiff and sore, hungry and desperately in need of coffee. Even with Eva nowhere in sight, I also felt blessed once again to have the gift of her friendship in my life.

Five Things About...a Week at the Cottage

Beach Bum (okay, just a bum)
We’ve been at my Aunt’s cottage on Bruce Beach since last Tuesday, and I’m suffering from a complete lack of motivation to do anything other than eat, read and drink a lot of coffee. Having two active kidlets with me the whole time has put the kibosh on engaging in any of these activities for more than ten minute intervals, but lemme tell you, there hasn’t been much writing, facebooking, laundry, bed making or even hair styling or underwear-wearing going on. It must be something to do with the constant rush of waves in the background. Maybe it’s the way the aspen trees whisper their secrets to one another all day. Or the feel of soft grass and warm sand on my toes. Possibly it’s the lazy drone of bumblebees, the chorus of cardinals and robins and chickadees, the rhythmic, tiny buzz-saw of cicada songs. Whatever it is, I do not want to do anything that even remotely resembles work, unless it involves eating or opening a bottle of wine. And that’s fine with me.

Good Eats
There’s something to be said for cooking in a kitchen that is not your own. You have to hunt for utensils (where IS the cheese grater, anyway?), discover which pot goes where (wow, my aunt stacks her pans together with almost architectural flair) and figure out what ingredients you have on hand before you can decide what to make. It’s fun, because cooking rarely feels like work to me, and I’m enjoying the whole scavenger hunt aspect as well. Plus the lake air gives me a huge appetite, so planning and executing supper every evening is a pleasure. Some of my favourite dishes so far:
- baby zucchinis, stuffed with onion, garlic, salty breadcrumbs and cheese, then barbecued to perfection
- walnut pesto with basil picked from the neighbour’s garden (with their permission, of course)
- vegetable ribbons with a sweet, creamy peanut sauce
- slabs of salmon glazed with maple syrup
- hot dogs and hamburgers scorched just right on the barbecue, served with thick slices of fresh tomato and sweet onion
- my friend Ruthie’s Greek salad, made with chunks of crisp, garden-grown cucumbers and juicy tomatoes
- the best ever banana muffins, thanks to the perfectly squishy bananas my aunt left behind (and the fact that I did not bring any whole wheat flour or bran to healthify them)
- a sour cream peach pie, made with slurpy Niagara peaches and my mother-in-law’s secret recipe
The only problem? Cooking = dishes, which counts as work. Which I clearly have no motivation whatsoever to do. Thank goodness for the dishwasher. And D.

Sleep, or lack thereof
Normally when I come to the cottage, I sleep like a satisfied baby. But weirdly, this year I haven’t been sleeping well at all. I chalk that up mostly to Dylan’s refusal to go to bed at a decent hour, or stay in his own bed once he does fall asleep. That kid is has become a menace after 9 p.m.. You’d think hours of sun and sand and running amok in the water would turn him into a zombie once the sun goes down, but it hasn’t. Jade, on the other hand, has built herself a nest of every spare pillow and blanket in the cottage. She staggers into her room at the end of each day, burrows into the pile and pretty much conks out until morning. Meanwhile, her brother either falls into an inconvenient coma around 6 p.m. and wakes up around 3 a.m. looking to party, or simply refuses to go to bed at all. Last night D decided he’d had enough, and physically blockaded the door to Dylan’s room. Dylan sobbed, begged, howled and finally fell asleep on the floor beside his bed. But he stayed there, miraculously, until about seven this morning. Which meant that for the first time in a week, I had a full, glorious night’s sleep. I woke up feeling sparkly and sunshiny, with enough energy to go for a long walk on the beach. A holiday at the cottage just isn’t complete without a good night’s sleep, so at least I had at least one...

Sunset and Moonrise
There are two things I’m either too sleepy or too busy to appreciate very often back at Someday: sunsets and moonrises. At the cottage, however, it’s an unspoken ritual for cottagers to come out and watch the sun melt into the horizon. We’ve had the good luck this week to have the moon waxing full, so our friend Luna appears to shine over our left shoulders as we say goodnight to the sun. Best of all, Jade and I have been taking sunset kayak rides each night, which I absolutely love. She trails her little fingers in the water, and we have conversations about this and that while I paddle, like whether we prefer the sun or the moon, and whether God is in charge of the world, and why pink really is the best colour in all of the universe. Dylan runs away every time I suggest a kayak ride; I wonder if he’s telepathically intercepted my occasional desire to dump him in the lake as payback for keeping me awake all week. No matter. It’s a special time for Jady and me, and I’m content to bid goodnight to the sun with her each night amidst the peace and stillness of the lake while Dylan regards us suspiciously from the shore.

Summer’s Almost Over...again
I can hear it in the increased volume of cricket songs at night. I can see it when the poplar leaves flip up and show me their pale underbellies. I can sense it in the sand that is cool under my feet at night instead of warm from a day’s heat. As much as I hate to admit it, summer is almost over. There is a wistfulness stirring inside me during our last few days at the cottage; even as the kids and I run and laugh until we’re breathless from playing sprinkler tag, even as we build and decorate sandcastles, even as I help them paint rocks, I know that this is the last summer we’ll be so carefree. Jady starts school in the fall; Dylan is changing and growing before my eyes; I may be going back to work before long. We’ll hopefully have more summers at the cottage together, but my kidlets won’t ever be this little, or this untroubled by responsibility again. With every leaf that swirls down and lands on the deck, and every degree the temperature drops each night, I’m reminded of how we can have enough of everything except time. This week has been fun, and tiring, and full of activity and so very precious to me. I supposed the only way to hold on to these memories is to let them happen, then let them go, knowing I can return to them whenever I need to steady myself in the whirlwind of autumn days to come.

Random acts of do-good

Ever see that movie Pay it Forward? The one where Kevin Spacey sports a grotesque scar, Helen Hunt gets beat up by Bon Jovi and the kid from The Sixth Sense attempts to look tough by wearing sleeveless shirts? Gawdawful movie. Seriously, I detest films that try too hard to make you feel a certain way. But as horrid as the movie was, it (and the book it was based on) did spark an interesting do-gooder movement back in 2000.

The concept of paying it forward is simple: someone does something nice for you, so you do something nice for someone else in the hopes that they'll do something nice for someone else...and so on, and so forth. Kind of like Faberge shampoo, but with good deeds. You know, like paying for the guy behind you at the Tim Horton's drive through, or offering to take a stranger's empty cart at the grocery store so they don't have to tramp across the parking lot to return it. I think the author called it "spontaneous acts of kindness." The idea is to change the world, one nicey-nicey at a time.

Back when I lived in Waterloo, in my pre-D and pre-kid life, I loved volunteering. I stage managed plays at my church, helped organize my department's morale committee, wrote the newsletter and assisted at the drop spot for the local CSA. But after my divorce, I plunged into a very self-absorbed state where I just didn't have the heart to get out and do anything for anyone else. Then I met D, got swept into our wonderful tornado of a romance, and had a wonderful year of focusing on just us. Add a move and two young children to the mix, and I became someone who could barely make time to shower regularly, let alone spend a few hours volunteering.

I know I'll get back out there some day; right now I'm focusing on the kids and my writing and our gardens and keeping the house from falling down around our ears. But by inserting a few little acts of kindness into my day, I think I can make life a little more bearable for folks, even if it's just for a minute or two. And it makes life a little more lovely for me, too.

I think a lot of us tend to get sucked into the whirlpool of "busy." Aren't we all stretched to our limits in terms of finding time for our careers, friends and families, let alone ourselves? It's not a contest about who's busier than who; it's a matter of how we spend our time. I like to tell D that Gandhi had the same 24 hours in a day that we have (I don't remember where I heard that, but it really annoys D when I say it) so we don't have much of an excuse to whine. What if we stopped focusing on how busy we are and focused instead on trying to be kinder to others and ourselves? I want to model that behaviour to my kids, young as they are, so here are some of the things I've tried in order to add a little kindness to my life.

Visit
Simple, huh? But dropping in to see someone who either doesn't get a lot of guests, or isn't able to get out much on their own, can make a huge difference to them. It can be an afternoon, or just a half-hour. The point is that you knocked on their door and made contact. I've watched my mother-in-law, who seems like quite a shy person in my eyes, reach out to neighbours who are ill or who have lost someone close to them. She takes them something to eat and stays for a chat. Even if small talk isn't your thing (it sure isn't mine), if you learn how to direct a conversation, it's easy to get people to talk about themselves. Such moments are like hidden treasures: you discover incredible stories, common interests, local history. Or you talk about the weather - it doesn't matter. Just so long as you reach out to another person, in person.

Donate to the Food Bank
Money's tight, I know. But I also know that a lot of us could be just a few paycheques away from using the food bank ourselves. Eventually, I'd love to help out in person, but until then, I donate as much healthy food as I can afford each week. It's pretty easy to do, and when I get the kids involved, it's kind of fun. During our weekly trip to the grocery store, we pick out $10 worth of food, usually whatever is on sale so we can get the most bang for our buck. It sparks all sorts of conversations with Jade, from why we probably shouldn't donate $10 worth of Dora gummy snacks to why anyone would want to eat barley since it looks like tiny pebbles. Even Dylan understands how to put the food in the Food Bank box, even though he may not yet understand why we do it. One time when I explained to a cashier that the pasta was for the food bank so she didn't have to pack it, she got tears in her eyes and said, "Bless you honey. I never thought I'd have to use the food bank, but last year when I wasn't working I used it a lot." Then we both got choked up and probably would have hugged each other if the stupid counter hadn't been in the way.

Don't Drive Like an Ass
Seriously, people. This is an easy one. And it is voluntary, so I'm counting it as volunteer work. Please don't drive up my rear bumper with your oversized truck when I'm doing the speed limit. Please don't pass me doing 80 km/h on the lower shore road, which is now posted at 40 km/h. Please don't drive like a maniac down my road because you're late for work or rage at slow-moving farm equipment. Take a deep breath, turn on your radio, and think pleasant thoughts. We'll all be better off for it. (And yes, I'm including myself in this lecture)

Write a Letter
Okay, if you HAVE to send an email, that's okay too. There's just nothing like getting ACTUAL MAIL that isn't a bill or solicitation for money. Even if it's just four lines on a goofy postcard, trust me, it will make the recipient grin like a fool. A well-written email can do the trick too; a random thank-you to someone who has inspired you, a note reminiscing about time spent together, a photo with a caption. It's all good. It's proof that someone is thinking of them - what's kinder than that?

Be a Drive Thru Fairy
I had never tried it before, but I'd heard about people who paid for the coffees of the people behind them in the drive-thru. So one day I did it. The cashier grinned at me as she handed me my order, and I tried to drive away quickly because I felt sheepish and triumphant and sneaky and silly, but the person behind me caught up to me at the traffic light. She rolled down her window and yelled, "HEY, DO I KNOW YOU?" I shook my head. She held up her hands with an expression of confusion on her face. I just shrugged and smiled. "OKAY, WELL, THANKS!!" she shouted as the light turned green and I rolled away. Honestly, it was just a $1.50 coffee, but I felt giddy about it for a good hour afterwards. D thinks I'm a lunatic, but I keep doing it anyway.

Give a Stranger a Compliment
This takes a little bit of guts, especially if you're not an extrovert. But the next time you see someone doing something worth complimenting, even if it's something small, take a breath and tell them they rock. The first time someone complimented me on how well behaved Jade and Dylan were out in public was in the Bulk Barn, a place I don't usually take my kids because all that food in containers at their eye level is just too much temptation. For whatever reason, they were mellow that day, and a fellow shopper said some kind words about how calm and sweet they were and how I was doing a great job with them. I knew that on any given day, my kids could very well be the ones rolling down the aisle with fistfuls of gummy bears, but, flushed with the compliment, I thanked the lady anyway. Just a few words from a complete stranger made me remember that I'm not half-bad as a mom. So now, whenever I see a parent with kids who happen to be acting civilized, I make a point of complimenting them, because every parent should feel a surge of pride in their parenting skills, even if it's really just good timing.

Anyway, this is my version of Paying it Forward. No Haley Joel Osmont, no bad Helen Hunt accents. You're welcome.

The Kittification of Someday

(This is a revised and expanded version of a 2009 entry)

A month before we officially owned Someday, D and I went for an illicit hike through the meadow to look at the river. It was my idea; he warned me that if we were caught, we’d be in trouble, since we didn’t legally have possession of the land yet.

“Please,” I scoffed. “Who’s gonna catch us? The farming police? Don’t be such a chicken.”

So we had our tromp back to the river, Neko crashing through the undergrowth ahead of us. I was enchanted with the evergreen forest at the top of the hill, the wild apple trees and pussywillows, the swoosh of the Pine River as it flowed past our feet. I imagined lazy afternoons reading on the riverbank, envisioned taking my dad to fish there. Neko frisked around us and I jumped around in the tall grass and hugged D with delight. He patted me on the back with infinite patience. To him, the river was just an interruption in the farmland. To Neko and me, it was heaven.

As we clambered up the steep, goldenrod-choked path up from the river to the meadow, I noticed a figure leaning on the gate at the other end of the field.

“Oh good,” muttered D.

“Who’s that?” I asked, panting as we crested the hill.

“Doc Munn’s daughter. I told you we’d be in shit if we did this,” said D, grabbing Neko by the collar and clicking her leash on. “This should be fun.”

As we got closer, I put on my friendliest, most beguiling “Oh, is it wrong we’re on your land?” smile and went to introduce myself. Ms. Munn was not amused. She informed us we were trespassing and if one of us had broken a leg in the field or by the river there could have been deep legal trouble. I looked sideways at Dwain. He stood there and accepted the chastisement, although I could tell by his jaw he was about ready to give a lecture of his own. Neko, meanwhile, repeatedly choked herself in her eagerness to make new friends.

Ms. Munn had an old dog with her so we let our pets sniff each other while I attempted to make small-talk about animals and how beautiful the property was. This seemed to soften her up ever so slightly.

“I walk up here every night with my dog to feed the cats,” she informed us.

“Cats?” I asked. “What cats?”

Ms. Munn led us inside the abandoned horse stable and pointed out each of the four cats who lived there, giving us a brief history of each feline.

“This is Mummy,” she said, stroking the plump, purring black and white cat sprawled at our feet. “And that’s Black Betty,” she said, pointing to a pure black kitty reclining on some straw. “She’s named after your mother's cousin Betty Pollard,” Ms. Munn informed D tartly, “because they have the same personality.” I kept a straight face, vowing to remember this conversation word for word so I could amuse my in-laws with it later.

Next came the Teenager, so named because she was “moody,” and finally Frances, who peered at us from between a crack in the boards. “Don’t try to pick her up,” instructed Ms. Munn without further explanation. We also received detailed instructions about administering food, water and bi-annual rabies shots. She seemed so attached to the kitties that I timidly suggested she take them with her before we moved in. She looked at me as though I'd suggested we barbeque them and retorted, "It's the only home they've ever known." She went on to tell us that the cats were worth thousands of dollars, a statement that caused D to emit a choking sound Ms. Munn and I pretended to ignore. I could not wait to describe this scene to Carman.

We never ran into Ms. Munn again after that day, but she did leave us a card in the kitchen which we found the morning we moved in. “Aww, she must have left us a housewarming card,” I said, ripping it open and feeling bad that I’d found her so prickly on our first meeting. The card simply said, “Please take care of the cats. THIS IS THE ONLY HOME THEY'VE EVER KNOWN.” Two labelled photos of “the girls” were tucked inside. Apparently, Someday came pre-kittified.

My mother always had at least one cat in the house when I was growing up, a succession of different personalities named Vodka, Snowball, Velvet, Champagne, Selina, and Chaucer. Since Someday's barn cats were now mine, I decided to rename two of them a bit more creatively based on their personalities. Frances became Ricochet, because she exploded behind hay bales or under doors like a bullet as soon as I walked into the barn, and Mummy became Comfort. Mummy seemed like a silly thing to say to a cat who was fixed, and she was so cuddly and purry that Comfort just suited her.

Of the four, Comfort and Black Betty are the friendliest, the Teenager less so and Ricochet has never allowed herself to be touched. Maybe it’s because I don’t call her Frances.

It’s a lot of cats, even for a place as big as Someday. Neko is always a nose away from her food bowl, and she’s so huge it’s hard to ignore her for long. The cats are way down the lane in the barn though, and I have to mentally poke myself to remember to fill their food dishes and take water out every couple of days. They’ve all been spayed, which is awesome, but soon I’ll have to figure out how to get them rabies shots. Heaven knows they won’t easily be transported to the vet without a fight or three.

Jade took over cat-feeding duties as soon as she was able to walk back to the barn. She and Black Betty have a special bond, while my favourite is Comfort, whose mellow vibe and motorcycle engine purrs won me over from the first day I met her. It has become a morning ritual for Jady and I to walk back to the barn to visit the kitties and feed them, although it took me several days before I realized that Jade was managing to secretly eat a handful of cat food every time.


One day, we went to feed the kitties, only to find a giant, marmalade-coloured interloper in their midst. I was surprised, to say the least. Someday cats are mild-mannered, clean and friendly. This new kitty was enormous, filthy and looked like he knew cat-kwon-do. Even Jade, lover of all animals, treated him with suspicion. "Dat kitty big," she said, and gave him a wide berth.

He stared at me defiantly as I tried to figure out where he had come from and what I should do about it. I didn't recognize him from Blair's Grove or even Robbie's farm up the road. It was spring; I guessed he'd come in search of a meal and a wife, the latter in which he'd be sorely disappointed. In the end, I shrugged and scooped a little extra Barn Cat kibble. They must know him, I thought, as my kitties meowed and prowled around my legs like Mr. Marmalade was no big deal. Maybe they invited him over for supper.

Well, the moment the kibble hit the plates, Mr. Marmalade barged right in, elbowed Comfort and Black Betty out of the way and began gobbling food like a lion at a kill. The other cats ignored him and went to the other plate of food. But Mr. M. must have thought they were getting something tastier, because he flew over to the other plate, hip-checked them all out of the way and plunged into their food like...well, like Neko.

I swear I could hear the Teenager sigh as she looked up at me with an exasperated expression and trudged back to the first plate again. Apparently Mr. M. was not so much a guest as a party crasher, and a flea-ridden one at that. His table manners left much to be desired. Someday cats are mellow creatures who wait patiently for their food and eat it in delicate little crunchy bites. With the exception of Ricochet, they love to be petted and stroked, and will often curl up in my lap. Mr. M’s eyes get all squinty and serial-killer-ish if I try to come near him, and the one time I snuck up and laid my hand on his back, he jumped a foot in the air and glared at me like I’d just tasered him.

So Mr. M. has got to go. He eats too much and doesn't want to make friends. He bullies my foursome of genteel kitties and I don't like it. Herein lies the proverbial rub: how do I get rid of the creature? I’ve tried to shoo him away. He runs two feet and then stops, as if daring me to chase him. I’ve yelled at him, made weird noises, stomped my feet and threatened to let Neko finish him off - all to no avail. Mr. M. has established himself as the newest, greediest resident of Someday Farm and I have absolutely no idea how to get rid of him humanely.

I asked a few friends, who suggested raccoon traps, calling the local vet or just putting up with him. I have absolutely no desire to trap a cat, much less a raccoon by accident. The local vet would laugh at me. So I guess I’m left with a grudging acceptance of our new resident and the fact that Someday may become increasingly kittified. But at least I don’t have to worry about the Teenager getting pregnant.

A Jagged Circle

I did chores the other night for the first time in ages, and parts of my body I’d forgotten about are groaning at me today. Only it’s not the body aches that are troubling me so much as a slight emotional hangover. I think it’s soul-ache.

When I go to the barn these days, I’m used to things like the smell and stubborn cows and tripping over cats. I thought I’d also become more hardened to unpleasant incidents, like watching my husband stick his entire arm up a cow’s hoo-hoo or discovering an accidentally squished kitten, but sometimes I still grapple with the whole death-as-routine-occurrence thing that seems to be an established part of country life.

My in-laws are kind, generous people. They’re not callous or indifferent to their dairy cows, just practical. On a farm, you do your best to look after your livestock and keep them healthy, but sometimes, even your best efforts fail. That’s life. Nothing to get upset about.

On this particular night, D and I were doing the milking. D always milks the south side line of cows and I always milk the north side. My line of cows was looked after for the moment, so I wandered into the calf barn where my in-laws keep extra milk cows and any cows that are getting ready to pop out a new addition to the farm. I was hoping to find some kittens to coo over, but there weren’t any. Instead, a newish-looking calf gazed at me placidly from the first stall, and there was a cow with a newborn calf lying beside her in the second stall. I went over for a look.

The calf’s head was covered in straw, and I thought, “Huh, that’s weird.” The cow lay behind her calf, her nose barely resting on the calf’s ribs. My first instinct was to squeeze between the bars of the stall and brush the straw off the calf’s head. I had my head through the gate when I realized the calf wasn’t breathing. Oh, man.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the cow, who looked at me with her big, unblinking cow eyes. We stared at each other for a few moments and then I went back out to where D was scraping poo out of a stall.

“Did you know there’s a dead calf in there?” I asked.

“Yep,” he said without looking up.

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what else to say.

“Must have been born this afternoon when nobody knew about it,” he said, leaning on the scraper handle. “Not good.”

We’d all been at the Pavilion for a dance that afternoon, D’s mom and brother included, so no one would have been around to help Mrs. Cow or her calf. D made his “What are you gonna do?” face at me and went to change a milker. I sighed, and went to change my own milkers, although what I really wanted to do was go back and hug the cow.

A little while later, I saw Carman go into the back barn with a bottle of milk for the calf in the first stall. I followed him. I watched as he tickled the calf’s nose with the bottle. It smelled the milk and started going to town on the nipple.

“You’re gonna have trouble feeding that one,” I said, gesturing to the poor lifeless thing in the next stall.

Carm shrugged. “It’s a bull calf anyway.”

“It’s still sad,” I said.

“It’s only worth seventy-five dollars.”

“Oh Carman!” I protested. “It’s still a life!”

He did that thing where he nods and shrugs at the same time, which is his way of humouring and dismissing me simultaneously. I love Carman like a brother; I think he’s fond of me. But sometimes we’re on a totally different wavelength. I could picture what he was thinking as though there was a thought bubble above his head: “Kimmy, what are you gonna do? Shit happens. It’s a farm, not a petting zoo.”

I looked over at the cow, who was still quietly resting her nose on the body of her little bull. I thought she looked vacant and sad, but then again, all cows usually look that way. I figured I was probably projecting my own experience with infant loss onto the cow. I didn’t even know if cows could experience the sensation of loss or sadness; still, I couldn’t help feeling bad about the whole thing. If we hadn’t gone to the dance, maybe someone would have been able to save the calf. I sighed, blew a kiss at Mrs. Cow and shouldered past Carm to finish my half of the milking.

I was nearing the end of my line when I noticed Orangie, one of the Jade’s favourite barn cats, scuffling with something in the feed room. I hung up the milker and went to investigate. Orangie had cornered a terrified starling and was doing what cats do, which is play with and torture their prey until it dies of fright.

“Naughty!” I yelled and grabbed the cat by the scruff, hauling him off the bird. His orange legs windmilled as he attempted to lunge out of my grasp and claim his prize. I nudged the starling with my toe to see if it was alive; it was, barely. It fluttered crookedly down the aisle with its neck hanging at a weird angle and one wing twisted beneath its breast. Oh, man.

Orangie was not pleased with my disciplinary actions and struggled with every ounce of his lean, muscled barn cat body. I bit my lip and hung on to him, watching the injured bird shiver and limp in a circle. I had a few choices. I could put the bird behind the house and hope it would recover before something else devoured it; I could give it the gift of merciful, quick death by shovel; I could let Orangie do what he was born to do, which is stalk and kill birds. I let Orangie go.

He shot away from me, quick as an arrow, and snatched the bird off the floor by the neck.

“Just do it quickly, if you’re gonna do it,” I admonished him. He narrowed his glinty green eyes at me and trotted off to finish his job in private. I sighed. This was the longest two hours of chores I’d ever done. What gory surprise was waiting for me next? I shuddered. I was not sticking around to find out.

“That’s it, I’m done,” I announced to the boys. They stared at me. “I’m taking the kids home. It’s late,” I lied, and stomped out of the barn. I could practically hear them doing the patented Lowry shrug in unison behind me.

Instead of heading for the house, I wandered toward the mulberry tree. I needed some air, some fresh, cool, April air to clear the nastiness out of my head. The early evening sky was brilliant and blue, the moon a broken disc above my head. Suddenly I was sniffling back unbidden tears, thinking of the calf and Rose, of friends who’d lost babies and children, of my Mom and Baba, of all the things in life that seemed so unfair, but weren’t really. I’d been trying so hard of late not to see life in terms of fair or unfair, but as life being life. I wanted to believe that experiences simply were as they were, there not to punish or weaken us, but to teach and strengthen us. Dead calves and crippled birds and lost children and cancer-stricken mothers included.

I tipped my head up to the sky to toss back the tears. When I looked down, I saw a blanket of electric blue spread out over the grass beyond the mulberry tree. As I walked closer, I realized they were the bluebells that sprouted there spring after spring. They popped out of the partially upended roots of the mulberry tree, nestled against the worn-out farm equipment laid to rest behind the shed, their crazy, unreal colour splashed over the grass like bright paint from a can. I breathed in their faint fragrance, and felt the tears dry on my face.

On my way back to the house, I stopped by the calf hutches, where about eight little calves frisked and kicked. They had long eyelashes and gangly limbs and reminded me of unruly toddlers who might leap joyfully on top of you at any moment. They were very much alive, and I stood for a moment and contemplated their vigour and innocence.

Life and death. Sorrow and joy. Spring and winter. I suppose life’s circle isn’t all that much different in the city than it is in the country, or anywhere else for that matter; it just seems that way to me sometimes, because on the farm, in the fields or on gravel roads, I bear witness in a series of extreme close-ups. The dead calf and the injured bird, the electric blue flowers and the leaping calves were another circle turning right in front of me. It made my soul ache a bit, and that was okay.

I turned and headed back to the house, to my own leaping, laughing children, my memories of lost family members, and my own little circle.