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.

Waterworld

Up until last Sunday, I felt like I was the only parent in town who hadn't treated her kids to the glory of a certain giant, lodge-themed water park. I'd see photos of damp, happy families and read exclamation-mark-riddled status updates (WE'RE AT XXX XXX LODGE! #TOTAL FUN!! #SO BLESSED!!!) and my Mama guilt would start to tingle like a the beginning of a cold sore.

Spending more than two hours at any kind of park or event, wet or dry, in crowds of strangers and their offspring isn't really my jam. I loathed the day we spent at Disney two years ago. I can't bear to try our local Easter Egg Hunt with its herds of chocolate-addled children and over-caffeinated parents. I can only manage to march in the first half of any of Kincardine's weekly summer Pipe Band parades; I lure my children into the quiet Aztec theatre for ice cream at the half-time pause and lay low while the rest of the masses march past. And even though I adore the Ripley Fall Fair, I still feel the need to hide in the pie n'coffee social room at the arena every few hours to get a break from the crazy.

It took me three years of futile resistance before I gave in to water park madness. My sister-in-law found a 24 hour flash sale and the price seemed right for two nights and three days. We'd get the meal plan and I'd coax my other brother-in-law Carman - beloved uncle and all-purpose human trampoline - to come along and help me with the kids since D couldn't make it. I might not love water parks, I might shudder at the thought of crowds, but as my most favourite epithet goes, "It's not all about you." This one was not all about me. This one was for the children.

And you know what? Despite hours of planning and packing and a seemingly endless 3.5 hour drive, despite the tidal flow of people and a few Dylan related incidents, it was better than fine. Especially since one of the first things I encountered was a dimly lit coffee bar serving my absolute favourite brew, Kick-Ass Coffee. Clutching a large cup, my brother-in-law wheeled our mountain of crap to our rooms. When we opened the door and I saw delightful beds with fluffy white linen, real china mugs and a stainless steel coffeemaker, I knew the place wouldn't be so bad after all.

Considering the volume of people the lodge entertains, it was clean, well-organized and staff were surprisingly friendly. Anyone who has to deal with, not to mention clean-up after, a never-ending swarm of adults and children and still manages to smile and talk to my kidlets wins my admiration immediately. But the real test was the water park itself and the scary amount of people we'd have to navigate while there. My not-so-bikini body didn't add to my excitement, either.

We walked into the pool area and I immediately felt like someone had whapped me across the face with a warm, wet sponge. At least keeping my kids warm wasn't going to be a problem. We got fitted with bracelets (which Dylan and I hated) and were set loose to join the throng. After I got over the initial fear of losing my children, I sank into the semi-tropical water of the kiddie pool and watched my family have enormous fun. Around me seethed a mass of skin and hair and tattoos and feet...GAH, don't get me started on the feet. (I hate feet.)

As I people watched in between my kids' trips up and down the waterslides, I began to notice bodies of all shapes, sizes and skin colours. There was a wide range of ages, too, from the tiny baby who looked like it still had placenta behind the ears to the jolly-looking grandmother who plodded gamely along behind the excited toddler tugging on her hand.

I saw women in danger of revealing a bit too much butt-crack and four giggling Muslim women covered head to toe in black bathing costumes. There were men with six-packs and men with two-fours; men with long hair, women with buzzed heads. I glanced at tattoos, piercings, scars and birthmarks, heard tiny children lisping in languages I couldn't identify. The water park was glorious mash-up of humanity, something that my kids don't get enough exposure to in our sometimes-sheltered life in the Kink. Even though there was craft beer on tap in the restaurant, and creme brûlée at the buffet, I think the convergence of so many different types of people turned out to be my favourite part of the whole experience. Weird, huh?

On our final day at the park, as the minutes ticked down to the horrible moment when I'd have to haul the kids out of the warm water to change into dry clothes and get ready to face real life, I noticed Dylan floating on his back nearby, a happy little otter basking in the invisible rays of an imaginary sun. He flipped over, caught my eye and smiled before waddling to the stairs to hit the slides one more time. That's when I noticed the butt of his threadbare bathing suit had ripped clean open and his plump little rump was exposed for all the world to admire. He didn't care. No one else did either. His was just one more example of the unique homogeneity we'd been experiencing, where you let it all hang out, whatever your "it" is, and just enjoy the moment.

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.

A November Rose

Last week, I was beaten down by a combination of illness (nasty gastrointestinal flu), kids' illnesses (same), holiday overload (a rainy, solo-parent Hallowe'en) and my own middle age (attempted to play hockey for the first time and ended up with a full-on migraine and two pulled neck muscles). Not a stellar seven days.

Consequently, I woke up yesterday feeling like I'd been run over by a truck. Mondays are daycare days, which means that after I help D load 'em up, I'm kid-free until 4:30. I try to save Mondays for householdy-type chores, so after going back to bed for twenty minutes with a heating pad on my neck, I ran some errands, went to the doctor and chiropractor, picked up groceries, ran a few loads of laundry. And then I was seized by a strong urge to get a coffee, go to the cottage and walk on the beach.

Beach walks are not your typical November activity. It was a shivery day, still and somber-skied. We had our first taste of snow last week, and it won't be long before the sand freezes and the lake begins to turn sluggish with chunks of slushy ice. Even now the beach is a rugged, forlorn place. The cottages are all boarded up, snow fences - those spiky, unwelcoming-looking things - have been erected and there's not a soul to be seen. It was a weird place for me to end up, when I could have been slumped in front of the fireplace with an Advil and my heating pad.

But as soon as I trudged down the slope from the cottage to the shore, I knew why I had come. Because Rose was there, and she took my hand and led me off down the beach to pick stones and watch birds.

I've spoken of this phenomenon before, and I don't know if it's real, or just grief mixed with wistfulness after the hangover of a bad week. Honestly, I don't care. I felt my daughter there with me, and who am I to question the validity of a feeling?

Sometimes when I feel her presence, she has tousled brown curls, the same as her father's. Other times, she has perfect blonde hair that looks like silk...nothing like Jade and Dylan's wild, honey-coloured mops that defy brushing and seem to grow an inch a week. But in my mind's eye, Rose shares their flash-quick smiles, and that brand of energy that makes them skip and jump instead of walk.

We never talk, Rose and me; I'm just content to know she is beside me, and imagine the feel of her fingers clinging to mine. A few times, I swore I could feel the weight of her arm in the crook of my elbow, as though she'd become a teenager in the course of three steps. She is good company.

I stooped and picked up the stones that caught my eye, watched a loon dive and resurface, took great gulps of chilly November air, and basked in the presence of my daughter. I thanked God for life, for family, for writing, for birth and death. For once in my chaotic life, I was thankful for just that moment.

I know it's probably weird to write about this here, instead of keeping it safe in my heart. I just...wanted to. Rose has her place in this foolish little diary of mine, along with all my other snippets of daily life, of sickness and health, of milestones reached and howls of laughter, of costumes and candy and rainy nights and fevers. She is with me every day, even when I don't remember she's there. And so she belongs on these pages, with the rest of my life's story.

Just beachy, thanks.

BLISS. I'm at the cottage for one perfect day of solitude. Then D and the kids are joining me for a week of happiness. I've been looking forward to this for months.

The cottage is best when my cousins and auntie are here, but it's pretty wonderful having it all to myself too. I walked the beach for an hour before lunch, since Jade and Dylan act like maniacs as soon as they catch sight of the water.

When you go for a walk by yourself, your thoughts run all over the place like a dog off a leash. They jump into the water, dash around and check out cottages, investigate strangers and then come back to you, panting with joy.

For example:

1. Girl, if my boyfriend got his jollies out of throwing wet sand at me while we swam in the lake, I would drown him. Slowly. I suggest you give it some thought.

2. That little girl just chimp-walked across the sand. I mean, seriously chimp-walked: on all fours, knuckles down, butt out. Whoa.

3. Just passed two elderly gentlemen out for a stroll. The one closest to me wore a checked, button down shirt, freshly pressed pants and spiffy loafers. I wonder what he wears out to dinner?

4. So many funky stones, so little pocket space.

5. Why is it that I come to the beach to listen to the waves, only to have my brain auto-tune them out five minutes later?

6. Where the bloody hell have all my childhood landmarks gone?! Where’s the lagoon? Where’s the cement boathouse that tells me I’m almost at the 8th? Why is diving rock ten feet closer to shore? Thank heavens the cottage still looks and smells like the cottage.

7. I love walking with my feet in the water. Hmm, a big rock. Well, it’s flat; I’ll just walk over it. And – UP – and – GAH! (splash) Okay, did anybody see that? Holy shit, I just fell off a perfectly flat rock. I am so old.

8. Hello little doggie. Aren’t you cute? (pat pat) That’s it, go on now. Seriously…go away. Hey, your owner is calling you - get lost!

9. I don’t see the blue chairs. Where are the blue chairs? Did I pass the cottage? Good grief, where the hell am I???

10. Empty pockets, rinse sandy feet, remove wet pants. Open a bottle of Coke, squeeze the lime, sigh with pleasure.

I can't wait to tuck the kids into the bedroom I used to use when I was little, read my book in companionable silence with D (who will be reading his Blackberry), fall asleep listening to the crash and roar of the waves and get sandy & wet with the kiddies in the morning. This is my bliss.

The Sunday Drive...continued

You know, I started the whole Sunday Drive series of blog entries back in the spring and then pretty much abandoned it. So I will delve back a month or so ago and tell you about our latest Sunday drive.

We didn't go far (Goderich) and we didn't do a whole lot, but that's what makes a Sunday Drive so pleasant. There's no schedule, no rush and no worries.

Goderich is touted as "Canada's prettiest town" (at least, that's what it says on the sign, and according to Queen Elizabeth). It is quite picturesque, with its rugged old Gaol, beautiful view of the lake, winding streets and overflowing flower baskets. There is a square in the centre of town that's interesting to walk around, although driving can be another matter if you're behind someone who's lost, or are yourself dizzy from contemplating which of the many exits will take you to the beach already. (Fun fact: D tells me that the plans for Guelph and Goderich were mixed up and Guelph was actually supposed to have had a square in the centre of town. According to Wiki, that isn't actually true, but it's still funny to think about.)There is the best bakery ever and a few nice cafes, plus a little movie theatre that serves kick-ass popcorn. It's great.

We ran a few manly errands (TSC and Crappy Tire, of course) and then D surprised me by fulfilling a long-standing wish of mine: to drive down to the harbour and eat at the fish place. Every time we drive by the sign that says "Best fish on Ontario's West Coast," I sigh and hint heavily about how I'd like to go there for supper someday. Well, this particular Sunday was someday.

It takes a lot to coax D out for supper, but for some reason Sunday drives seem to bring out that rare "take my wife out to eat" urge in him. So we drove down the steep, winding road to the harbour in search of our elusive fish. I kept my eyes open for what I thought would be a biggish restaurant. Instead, we drove up to what was basically a tiny little trailer with a nautical air about it. Yup, that was the place! Inside, it was tinier than I'd expected, but tidy and neat. Each table had fresh flowers on it and everything was decorated with fishy or harbour-y stuff. We squeezed ourselves and Jade into a table at the back, next to a lady wearing a Royal Canadian Legion uniform and her husband. I could have reached across and plucked a french fry off Mrs. Legion's plate, the tables were that close together.

Luckily, it was the kind of place where everyone either knew each other, or decided to get to know each other while they ate. We chatted and traded baby stories with Mr and Mrs. Legion. The waitresses were friendly and pleasant.They even took turns holding Jade so I could eat! Now that's my kinda place.

After supper, we headed down to the harbour boardwalk. It's a very long trail of nicely constructed, raised boardwalk that goes on forever along the shore. Jade fell asleep in no time thanks to the bumpity bumping of stroller on boards and D and I chatted about nothing in particular while a strong wind off the lake buffeted us and mussed our hair. I always enjoy my walks with him; we never seem to run out of things to say. We read all the historical signs, took turns pointing out crazy people swimming in the roaring waves, nodded to other folks out for evening strolls.

On our way back, D spied two ships coming into the harbour. They were tall ships, something I'd only seen once before in Montreal. We made it to the harbour just in time to see them sail right up and dock. I guess it was part of some tall ship adventure tour because there were a bunch of teenagers scurring around on board, tying ropes and untying ropes when some guy yelled at them to do so. If I didn't get seasick just looking at a boat rocking around on the water, I'd say it looks like a cool thing to do. Just not for me.

To end our Sunday drive, I convinced D to stop for ice cream at the roadside stand just outside of town. $11.00 later, we were happily scarfing down sundaes in the car while Jade watched. A perfect end to another happy day.

Once more into the beach...

At last, summer has stopped hiding like a naughty child and made an appearance. Huzzah! Sunshine! Warmth! Blue skies! Final-frickin'-ly.

It never quite feels like summer to me until I've baptized myself in the cool waters of lake Huron. And while I'm not really a beach person per se (e.g. I don't enjoy laying on the sand cooking exposed body parts to a vibrant hue of red), I do adore being near the water, especially on that magical weekend every year when the lake turns warm enough to swim in. Sometimes that weekend occurs in July, but most often it's August before anyone other than kids and a few reckless teens venture into the waves. To my delight, this past week of sunshine and humidity coaxed the lake into swimming-friendly temperatures.

I spent all afternoon Friday soaking up the sights and sounds of Bruce Beach with my sis, my good pal and her small daughter and my kissin' cousins from Indiana at my auntie's cottage. My sis and I have been going "up to the cottage" ever since we were kids. It holds a lot of nostalgia for me and has felt like a second home of sorts ever since the day we sold our family home after my mother's death.

My aunt and cousins aren't blood relatives; my auntie was one of my mother's closest friends, but she treats us like one of her own three girls. Coming from a very small family where my only cousins live either in Nova Scotia or Russia, it's wonderful to have a doting auntie so close by. And it's such an added bonus to live two concessions over from them now. We're neighbours all summer long.

While auntie cuddled Jade for the afternoon, we girls giggled, gossiped, swigged lime coolers and Coca Cola. We watched my friend's little daughter get acquainted with sand castles, rocks and waves for the first time, took dips in the water and discreet peeks at the handsome neighbour boy. I decided to pooh-pooh post-pregnancy body woes in favour of my favourite turquoise bikini. It's strangely freeing to wear something revealing despite the triple threat of cellulite, stretch marks and thunder thighs. And man, can I ever fill out that top now. Yay for dumplings!

On Saturday, my friend and I took our daughters down the 6th concession to the public beach. Our umbrella kept blowing away, but we managed to keep our babies shaded and happy. We built more sand castles, picnicked, took pictures of her daughter's sandy goatee, watched a guy wrestle his lemon-yellow boat into submission. I went swimming a few times, and suddenly I felt 10 years old again: watching the water foam up when I kick my feet, snorting nose and mouthfuls by accident, diving under just to listen to the weird watery silence. I even carried lady Jade with me into the water and dipped her teeny tiny toesies in the lake for the first time. It wasn't a screaming success (just a lot of screaming), but hey, my mother did it to me - I have the photos to prove it - so I am just carrying on a hallowed family tradition. As I took my last dip for the day while she snoozed on the shore, I kept thinking how great it's going to be next year when Jady Lady is old enough to frolic with me on the sand and in the surf.

I am a very blessed girl on so many levels. What a great weekend.

Flotsam

Walking the beach in early spring is only for those who are strong of stomach. I found that out the other day when I took Neko for our first beach stroll of 2008. It was one of those fine, fresh spring days where you feel like maybe there's hope for mankind after all. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed the sound of the waves.

We moved here last September, so I've never gotten to know the lake through a spring yet. I had the pleasure of living beside it this past autumn, with its wild blue waves and stormy skies, my hair and face lashed by its seemingly endless winds. And it was a sort of honour to experience it in the winter; most people only see the beach in summer, so I get a thrill knowing it's mine to enjoy all year round. It's like a different creature with every turn of the season. In winter, the waves freeze along the shore in bizarre formations; the silence is unnerving. It's like one of those stretches of salty desert you see in magazines sometimes - a white, frozen wasteland.

Now the ice has melted away at last - only to reveal a beach that resembles more of an abbatoir or cesspool than the glorious retreat I'm used to. To my disgust and Neko's delight, all sorts of nasty things have washed up during the latest spring storms: dead seagulls, bloated possums, fish with their eyes picked out, broken bottles, mylar balloons, plastic bags, gnarled branches choked with seaweed and muck. At least there's no sign of the primordial algae ooze that slopped its way up and down Lurgan and Emerton beaches last summer...but I'm sure it's lurking in the lake, just waiting to creep up onto the sand again.

The strange thing is that as repulsed as I was by all the ugliness, I couldn't help but find bits and pieces of beauty where I least expected it - uprooted dogwoods, their blood-red branches fanned against the sand; seaweeds so green they almost looked black; twisted pieces of driftwood as smooth as skin to the touch; birch trees shedding their white bark in delicate curls. And I can't deny the joy that lept to my throat when I watched Neko galloping free along a beach full of canine delights with a big doggy grin on her face.

I'm sure there's a proverb or bromide in here somewhere, but I'm too tired to spell it out. I'm just going to go back to the beach and watch Neko run.

Welcome to bloggerland

I feel kind of shy, posting my innermost thoughts out here in cyberspace. But I also feel strangely compelled to do it, like some hidden voyeuristic tendency is suddenly screaming to be satisfied. Hmm. I wonder how secure these thingys are, and whether the fact that I've marked it private is truly like a lock and key? I guess there's only one way to find out.

I'm so used to scribbling everything out on paper. I like the smell of ink, the crackle of paper, the faint blue lines of my cahier; but I lose so much when I write in my notebooks. So many images, ideas get scrambled up and disappear due to my state of utter disorganization, due to the sheer volume of stuff I scribble. So this way I know where everything is, and apparently I can categorize the damned things too. Now that, faithful reader, is cool.

I'm guessing we'll have snow here in a few days, which doesn't make me unhappy. It's time. The trees are barely decent, swaying around trying to cover themselves. The grass is crisp with light frost in the mornings. I can see my breath at night when I take Neko to her house. (incidentally, I love how D has trained her to run to her doghouse when he says, in a deep, stentorian tone, "Neko - HOUSE!")

This will be the second winter I've spent here, and the first I've spent in the Kink as an actual resident. Of course, I'll be spending it at Carm's place in Blair's Grove, since our own dear house won't be ready to move in to for another, oh, two bloody months. I never thought I'd be a victim of renovation hell, but here I am, getting poked by the pitchforks of contractor whims and burned by husbandly desires for lighting and insulation.

The water changes colour here every day. I am blessed to be so close to it, after all these years of longing to live near its purr and roar. Last winter it was as though I was on a whole other planet - I'd never seen the beach and lake frozen into craters and patterns before. Before I met D, I only knew the world up here as a place that was perpetually summer: bonfires, sand between my toes, the hushed splash of waves, green grasses and greener meadows, humid nights, melted popsicle sunsets. A place that only knew summer. Never a place of frost or sleet or closed highways and snowbanks the height of my shoulders, of clouded 7am breath in the barns, or deer standing motionless in the field by the 4th concession, honey coloured against the stark whiteness.

I can't wait to wake up on Christmas morning in D's arms on Someday farm.