It's a "chick" thing...

For a few months now, I've been intending to write an entry telling the story of my "Chicks".  Since its nearing Christmas, I think this might be the perfect time to tackle it and I hope that all the "Chicks" in my life will consider it an early Christmas gift to them... an homage to how much they have meant to me over the years.. how much they mean to me still. 

I must caution my dear readers of two things... first, this will be a very long entry, so grab your "bevvy of choice" and settle in.  And second, I fully intend to go for heartfelt emotion here... so while you are up getting your drink, consider how emotional you are feeling... if you are feeling at all tender, you might want to grab a kleenex or two as well.

Now, where to start...  ah yes...  lets "set the stage" a bit:

When I was in my early twenties, I decided the life of a career waitress wasn't proving to be anywhere near as appealing as it had been a few years before.  For some reason, during this, my third year of slinging hash at the "Copper Grill" in Port Elgin, I kept getting a mental image of myself at fifty, with vericose veins (my sister Debbie called them "very close" veins when she was little), flat feet and a world-weary attitude. 

Now I must say, I had risen to near the pinnacle of the profession - I was, after all, acting Assistant Manager.  It was clear to everyone that I was a go getter, and would eventually attain the coveted position of Manager.  I had friends, a boy-friend, and active social life... but, honestly - my heart wasn't in it.  After all, I'd always been a creative, artistic type... writing, drawing, acting.  Serving the perfect "eggs-over with white toast" combo complete with unlimited refills just didn't nurture my creative soul... and I somehow knew my life was destined for a change.

At about this same time, the man I was dating did something really, really stupid (shocking, I know) and ended our relationship in a BIG way.  This was a very traumatic and troubling period of my life, and very hard to get through, but ironically, this very bad breakup was apparently just the catalyst I needed to start looking at life in a wider way.  After taking stock of my talents, and with the encouragement and support of my parents and siblings, I sent off a set of pencil drawings and a hastily completed application form to the Illustration program at Sheridan College in Brampton.

Looking back, I marvel that I got a response at all...  I believe it is typical to send out 3 or 4 applications to different schools... I only sent one application to one college... fully believing that I would never hear from them.  So you can imagine my absolute astonishment when I got a letter from them a few weeks later telling me I'd been accepted to the program!  It was the only time in my life (to this day) that I screamed out loud in shock!  I was over the moon... and within a few months, I was off to college.

I arrived on campus early in September and in my very first class, I met two of my chicks.  During our first "smoke" break, I met two more... and within the first week I'd met them all.   And they were remarkable! 

Elisabeth - a tall girl with exceptional colour sense, whose exotic looks and effusive nature hinted at her Italian heritage, but who also sported the most beautiful blue eyes I'd ever seen;
Debra - at once demure and child-like... she was blonde and fair, so beautiful and so incredibly gifted - but also very shy and somehow aloof;
Corrie - an impertinent and outspoken slip of a girl with a loose and gestural artistic style, unruly dark brown curls and an infectious, ready laugh;
Dawn - tiny, serious, committed and earthy - she had a deep connection to nature and an inate sense of design I covet to this day;
And Kim - whom I've described before as bohemian-chic... with a whimsical artistic style, Kim was (and is) a great conversationalist who loved to debate any subject but who was also homespun, sensible and funny. 
 And from that first week of school, the seeds of what have been lifelong friendships were sown. 

Now, our sisterhood didn't actually start to achieve its current "state of being" until after we'd all graduated from college.  But it was during our three years at Sheridan that we grew to know each other very well.  We spent countless sleepless nights engaged in long phone calls while labouring over marker rendering projects that were due the next day... high on marker fumes, jittery from coffee... and exhilerated beyond belief with the sheer joy of being part of this very difficult, well respected program. 

As the years went on, we would gather in groups of 2, 3 or 4 at one basement apartment or another to brainstorm projects, share ideas & resources and offer each other moral support.  We cheered each other on and talked each other off the ledge on a daily basis.  And we drank copious quantities of really cheap beer (all we could afford), ate way too many really bad cafeteria muffins (all they served) and grew into ourselves as artists and as women each and every day. 

And after our three exceptional years at Sheridan were over, the six of us kept in touch - first by phone, later by e-mail.  And what began as the usual "long-distance" college friendships slowly began to evolve into something more.  I forget who suggested our first "group get together"... but I do seem to remember Dawn being the one who coined the phrase "chick party".  And although I had never before - or since - allowed anyone to call me a "chick" (I was a child of the women's liberation movement after all... it just wasn't done), somehow the name fit... and stuck!

Soon, we were having "chick parties" twice a year, then three times... and in some years - even four.  We got together religiously, and each time we did - our friendships deepened.  It was all about great food, good wine and lots of laughter!  We were there for each other as boyfriends became husbands, couplehood became parenthood, and marriages became estranged. We wept when other chicks lost parents, ached over miscarriages, fretted over minor family disputes.  We raged over unfair bosses, dispicable cads, and dippy neighbours.  We encouraged and advised over unruly children, grade five math and unexpected illness.

When any one Chick was suffering, five other chicks were suffering too.  And when any one Chick was celebrating, the first to be notified after immediate family was the Chick network... !  When a baby was born, it had 5 extra Aunties...  When a boyfriend messed up, he pissed off 6 women at once!  And when each of us "coupled up", the man we loved would get a warning... the chick parties are sacred and non-negotiable.  As far as I know, it was never written into the actual wedding vows, but you can be darn sure it was implied!

Now friendships like this are very rare, but they are also quite unique in a few ways... in the interests of brevity, I will outline why in point form:

1. Obviously with 6 very different personalities in the group, there is always someone in the group who will TOTALLY GET what you were talkng about... and agree with you!  This is very valuable when you were struggling with a decision;
2. On the other hand, there is usually one of us who may not agree with you completely, and is brave enough to tell you so... something each of us has had happen.  This is disconcerting when it happens to you, but also valuable - it is rare for someone who is not a blood relative to be brave enough to tell you how they really feel.  It is even more rare to have a friendship strong enough to survive it.
3. We all now have several pairs of surrogate parents, and a full complement of extra brothers & sisters. But these pseudo-parents & siblings are especially cool because they don't try to do that "family thing" to us at all, and they all widen our life experience vicariously by doing things that members of our own families don't or can't do... like circle dance, triumph over exceptional physical adversity or addiction, hike the Grand Canyon, ski the mountains, fix tractors and make exceptionally good wine!  But they also cheer us all on from a distance, marvel over our special friendship, keep us in their hearts - as they are in ours.
4. At any given time, all the Chick's know that someone else's life is wierder, busier, sexier, funner (is that even a word?) or more trying than our own.  This keeps us grounded, and it keeps us sane.

And so here we are... 23 years later. 

Our chick parties now feature a bit less wine, a bit more fibre and a bit more sleep. 

Our babies are becoming young men and women, our career paths have solidified, our hair is greying (or blonde-ing, in my case). 

We've now struggled through long division and basic algebra 2 or 3 times more than anyone should ever have to...

We're all saving up for college again... 

And at any given time, each one of the six of us knows that - no matter how miserable our day has been - there's a supportive email or phone call just around the corner.   If there isn't, all you have to do is send out the call... I'm struggling, hurting, needy - and the Chicks will rush to your aid like white blood cells to the point of infection - eager to share, help, lift-up, console, validate, honour, heal... love.  And when push comes to shove, that is more than you could ever hope for in a friend!  But we're all used to it by now... after all - it's a chick thing!

I think I will end here, with a quote and a toast to my dear chickies... and to all the other friends who have found their way into my life and my heart:


The quote: 
"If you're alone, I'll be your shadow. If you want to cry, I'll be your shoulder. If you want a hug, I'll be your pillow. If you need to be happy, I'll be your smile. But anytime you need a friend, I'll just be me." ~Author Unknown
And the toast?  It has to be:
Here's to you old friend, may you live a thousand years,
Just to sort of cheer things up, in this vale of human tears;
And may I live a thousand too-a thousand-less one day,
Because I wouldn't want to be on earth, and hear you'd passed away.

Merry Christmas, Dear Chickies... now - who is having the next Chick Party!?

Full of it

Now that Halloween and Remembrance Day are behind us for another year, its time to look ahead to that special time of year that immediately follows Autumn’s falling leaves and windy days. And I’m not talking about winter….

Oh - I know, conventional wisdom dictates that after spring, summer and fall, we get winter—right?? Well… not exactly...

As the years have passed, it has come to my attention that in Canada, (and indeed, in most of North America) there is actually a very short but well-loved season that is sneakily sandwiched in between Fall & Winter. It doesn’t really have a proper name, but I like to call this extra season “Full”.

“Full” is a very short-lived season: It starts sometime in late November and goes right through until about the first week of January. During this six week period, while the snow starts and the temperature drops, North Americans of all types do one thing to the exclusion of almost everything else… we eat. And eat.

And eat, and eat and eat…
We eat at Christmas Parties, seasonal weddings and family get-togethers. We chow our way through dinner parties and cocktail parties. We arrange cookie exchanges and give each other gift baskets of expensive and lovely food. And then we eat it. All of it. With lots of butter and whipped cream.

I like to hold Mother Nature partially to blame for our complete pre-occupation with edibles this time of year. After all, there was a time when - like our animal cousins - our very survival in winter might have depended on our ability to pack on a nice layer of fat in the fall. But those days are long gone and I fear we are our own worst enemies at this time of year.

In coming weeks, every desk at every workplace will sport a box of chocolates or cookies; Every home will be decked out with mouth-watering baked goods and appetizers. Every grocery store will hand out free recipes for fat-laden goodies and helpfully display all the ingredients to make them in one place for easy access.

Now, I have already done my annual vow to myself, promising that I’ll be more discriminating this year and will control myself around shortbread and pumpkin pies - my two biggest weaknesses. And I’ve already admitted to myself that my vow is likely in vain.
You see, by the time Christmas dinner rolls around, I suspect that I likely will too. Roll around, I mean. Because by then, I’ll have had about 4-5 weeks of unabashed and uncontrolled eating behind me and that dreaded extra weight will have started to climb on.

But there is hope, because as I eat (and waddle) my way through “Full” and into winter, I know that there is yet another “extra” season we sneak into our year…

But lets talk more about how Canadians celebrate “Repent” in the new year, shall we?

Lest We Forget...

Remembrance Day is a very special day to me. A couple of uncles on both sides of my family served in World War II and were so affected by things they saw and heard overseas, they couldn’t talk about it at all. One uncle lost his leg - not while serving overseas - but many years later, due to injuries suffered while he was in the service.

I also spent a good part of my youth just a few miles from Guelph - which was hometown to “In Flander’s Field” author, Col. John McRae. Somehow, living so close to the home of the doctor who sat on a battlefield and penned the words “…if ye break faith with us who die, we shall not sleep...” made me realize something at a very young age:
If these brave young men & women hadn’t gone overseas, if they hadn’t accepted the inherent risks of being in the military, if they hadn’t taken on the task of protecting our country, our freedom, our rights… well, if not for them - you & I might be living in a very different world right now.

In my parent’s house, there was never any doubt that we’d wear a poppy proudly on our coats in the fall. We bought our poppies as soon as they went on sale, & replaced them as they disappeared from our lapels due to wind or wear. We never had a lot of money, but we never begrudged the few cents each year that went to buying poppies.

As we do today, we wore our poppies over our hearts, to show our love of our country and to illustrate how the commitment of our servicemen touched our hearts. I’ve made sure my own children do the same, and I’ve made sure they know about the sacrifice of the men and women who are represented by that little red flower.

And as I have for over 40 years - I’ll stand proud & silent at 11 minutes after 11am, on the 11th day of the 11th month - celebrating the safe return of our veterans and quietly grieving the rows of crosses in Flander’s Field and other cemetaries around the world...

...hundreds and hundreds of crosses - each one representing a soldier who has given his life in service to his country.

...each one representing a family with a member now missing, an empty seat at the table…

...a father… a brother… a son… a cousin or a neighbour...


And I’ll be grateful and humbled all over again.

Ghosties & Ghoulies at the "Hallowe'en Club"

This posting is for my friend Vicki, who claims that - since I've been really busy with the book I'm working on for the last couple of weeks - she is in "blog/editorial" withdrawal. Not one to want to cause another discomfort, I offer up this little story:

I've always loved Hallowe'en... and not just because of the candy, although that certainly doesn't hurt. No, I love Hallowe'en because it appeals to my sense of theatre, because it is silly and irreverant, and because (and this is just between you and me) I believe in ghosties & ghoulies.

But my main reason for loving Hallowe'en now is a little "Hallowe'en Club" my family belongs to! Now, that isn't an official name, its just what I like to call it... but I guess I should explain.

Rick & I live in an area that is by no means remote, but it certainly doesn't lend itself to trick or treating either. Our driveway has a rather steep climb and is longer than some small town streets. To get from our house to our nearest neighbour on either side without walking over flower beds takes 2 or 3 minutes - even if you are travelling at "11 year old boy hopped up on sugar" speeds. This means that - since we moved here 6 years ago - we have had exactly "zero" trick or treaters visit our home (much to my chagrin... I love the little guys all dressed up as princesses and pirates). It also means that my own children have to get their trick or treating fix elsewhere.

Luckily, we befriended two wonderful couples in the area soon after our arrival - Angelika & Warren, who live just around the corner, and Christine & Ernie, who live in the "thriving metropolis" of Palgrave - a tiny village some 10 minutes north-east of here. We all have children of a similar age, and it wasn't long before we came up with the idea of using Christine & Ernie's house as "base camp" and all trekking out on our hallowed eve festivities as a group.

For years, its been simply that; we gather at Christine & Ernies, then set off in a loose group... the older kids racing ahead with some of the parents, the younger ones straggling a bit, with the rest of us keeping an eye on them. As we travel with them, we grown ups have a chance to talk a bit and get caught up... a rare treat, when all our lives are so busy.

But this year promises to be a bit different. You see, my daughter (whom Christine has nicknamed "Sweet Sarah") decided a few weeks ago that she was going to turn Christine & Ernies garage into a haunted house. Luckily, Sarah is a forward thinker and was wise enough to advise the lucky homeowners of her plan.... they are great people, but I suspect they may have been a bit disconcerted to suddenly be confronted with spooky music, a family of helium balloon ghosts and a cauldron of blood punch (apple cider & cranberry juice) clogging the area where the car should go.

So tomorrow, the 6 of us and our 5 offspring (plus a few extra little friends who've joined our little "Hallowe'en Club") will be peeling grapes and putting them in bowls for touching, hanging little ghosts in trees, recording spooky music and constructing tombstones out of cereal boxes. I'll haul out my face paints and create a whole bunch of scabs, fangs and blood dripping scars. And we'll turn a cute little bungalow in Palgrave into a spooky and "terrifying" haunted house for one night.

And come cover of darkness, as the kids are shrieking with excitement, the grown ups won't think about jobs, deadlines, paycheques or responsibilities. There'll be laughter, candy, jokes and hugs... (and to hell with h1n1 for one night).

And when its all over and the mess is cleaned up, we'll do what we always do. Although the kids will be anxious to get home to go over their little haul, the grown ups will be loath to head for home just yet...

We'll stand in a tight little group on Ernie's driveway and exclaim over how much fun we had. You'll be able to feel something in the air... a palpable wish that we had the time in our lives to do things like this more often.

Because for one evening, we'll have given ourselves permission to just relax and enjoy ourselves like the kids we used to be... and perhaps still are - somewhere deep inside.

So bring on the ghosties & ghoulies... I'm all rarin' to go! Like I said - I just LOVE Hallowe'en!

And a-one... And a-two

It is well and truly Autumn here in Caledon… the leaves are golden, ruby, tangerine; the turkeys, coons and deer show up often, to dine on luscious, over-ripe crab apples... the smell of wood smoke is often wafting by on a chilly breeze… and the Mitten Mambo is now danced energetically at houses across the region every single morning.
I will wager that every mother in Caledon who reads this will know what I am talking about. It is a dance as old as time…



For those of you who don’t have kids, know kids and were never kids yourself, the Mitten Mambo is that last minute, panic –stricken foray into the hall closet, feverishly looking for a pair of hand warming devices that match… or even sort of match… or at least weren’t both originally intended for the same hand.


Now it should be noted that - to be done correctly - the Mitten Mambo MUST be timed to take place when the school bus is within 2 minutes of your bus stop. Any earlier and it loses its excitement.


It should take place in a state of escalating panic or it just isn’t satisfying. And I personally feel that it is at its very best when at least two children are looking for gloves at the same time, as this can turn it into a contact sport, and (as a wee bonus) gives the nearest parent some referee experience leading up to the hockey season.


Now I’ve been told some “less-than-adventurous” types have been known to try and avoid this game altogether by buying case lots of mittens from local dollar stores. To this I must mutter a resounding “shame, shame!”! Why would you want to deprive your children of the opportunity to wear one grey and pink striped mitten and one blue fleece glove rather than go bare handed? Have you no sense of style?


Ah… the Mitten Mambo… fall and winter just wouldn’t be the same without it!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go hide one of each of our gloves and mittens… morning comes early.

Giving Thanks

If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, "thank you," that would suffice. ~Meister Eckhart

“Thanksgiving” is an interesting word, and I started mulling it over a bit. For instance, when used as a noun - “Thanksgiving” is a word that conjures up images of turkey, mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. But really, “thanks-giving” is a compound word—and a verb, which describes action - the act of showing gratitude.

This got me thinking about the thanksgiving holiday in more historical terms… and so I turned to the internet, and did a little digging! Here’s what I found out:

Here in Canada, Thanksgiving is celebrated in October. Unlike the American tradition of remembering the Pilgrims who settled in the New World, Canadians give thanks for a successful harvest.
Our harvest season falls earlier in Canada than it does across the border, due to the simple fact that Canada is further north, which explains the later American Thanksgiving.

The roots of Thanksgiving in Canada harken back to English explorer Martin Frobisher, who failed to find a northern passage to the Orient but did end up establishing a settlement in Northern America.

In 1578, in what is now called Newfoundland, Frobisher held what is widely considered the first Canadian Thanksgiving - giving thanks for surviving the long journey. Other settlers arrived and continued these celebration ceremonies.

At the same time, French settlers, having crossed the ocean and arrived in Canada with explorer Samuel de Champlain, also held huge feasts of thanks. They even formed 'The Order of Good Cheer' and gladly shared their food with their Indian neighbours.
During the American Revolution, Americans who remained loyal to England moved to Canada, bringing with them the customs and practices of the American Thanksgiving to Canada, notably cornucopia's and pumpkin pies.

Over the years many dates were used for Thanksgiving, but finally, on January 31st, 1957, Parliament proclaimed...

"A Day of General Thanksgiving to Almighty God for the bountiful harvest with which Canada has been blessed ... to be observed on the 2nd Monday in October.”

And so, this Thanksgiving Monday, I hope you enjoy a wonderful feast, and that you remember to take a moment to rejoice in our bountiful Canadian harvest, and give thanks for all the riches that mother nature has seen fit to bestow on us.

Happy thanksgiving!

7 Day Eat Local Challenge

I've been hearing alot about eating local and 100 mile diets lately - a movement that encourages everyone to eat seasonal and locally grown produce, meat and baked goods. This is a wonderful way to live, one that can only result in more support for local food producers and fresher, healthier food for the consumer.

Always a lover of local summer produce, I've embraced the "Eat Local" movement, and in recent years have even gotten brave and done some preserving so our family can enjoy our local bounty during the winter. I think next year, I'll even invest in a "share" from a local organic farm.

This week, Eat Local Caledon will be kicking off their "7 Day Eat Local Challenge". It begins on Friday, September 18th, and runs until Thursday September 24th. This Challenge is a great way to challenge yourself and your family to learn more about local food by buying, preparing and eating as much local food as possible during a 7 day period. It is a relatively simple challenge, but does require a bit of forethought, as some things are a bit more complicated than they might seem at first glance.

The simple part? Basically, participants agree to focus on eating food that is grown and produced in their area during the challenge. All you have to do is register as a participants (see below to register) and download a "scorecard" to fill out during the challenge. I've decided to give it a shot and so our family will be eating local beginning on Friday!

Now, veggies and fruit for the challenge will be a cinch right now, and baked goods or even meat shouldn't be too much of a challenge if bought from a local bakery or butcher. But I got thinking about the challenge in more specific terms, and started wondering - what if there is something that is NOT local that you cannot live without, even for 7 short days? I'll give you an example - I WILL be drinking coffee during the challenge. I know - it isn't local at all... but the sad reality is - if I don't, I fear I will be headed for certain divorce and have no friends left by September 24th. I will assuage my guilt by using "fair trade" coffee from "Buckstown Beans", so at least I know that my "addiction" is helping a family in another part of the world earn a decent living.

In a true local only or 100 mile diet, even spices, tea's or condiments that are not produced locally would be dis-allowed. I don't think our local challenge is intended to be anywhere near that stringent, but since I grow herbs in my garden, I will make an honest effort to use those (or the one's found at the farmer's market) as opposed to jarred spices when cooking. I have to confess, though - although I will try to encourage it, I doubt that my family (especially my father) will completely ignore salt or pepper for the whole challenge.

So how about it, Caledon? Are you up for the challenge too?

If you are, you can register for the Challenge by sending a quick email to eatlocal@eatlocalcaledon.org or visit their website(www.eatlocalcaledon.org) and click on the 7 Day Challenge link. Then just download the Challenge Scorecard to keep track of how many of your week’s meals include local food.

At the end of the Challenge, simply submit your completed scorecard to Eat Local Caledon for a chance to win free dinners at Caledon restaurants.

Good luck to those of you who will be joining me in the challenge - feel free to send me an email and let me know how you do! (rsargent@sympatico.ca)

Ignatieff Announcement Hints At Fall Election

All indications are that a fall election now looms large, since Liberal Leader Michael Ignatieff has said his party will no longer help Prime Minister Stephen Harper's government stay in power. Ignatieff made the announcement on September 1st - the second day of a three-day caucus meeting in Sudbury. "Mr. Harper, your time is up," Ignatieff said. "The Liberal party cannot support this government any further."

This withdrawal of Liberal support means the Conservatives, with just 143 seats in a 308-seat parliament, would have to seek the support of either the New Democrats or the Bloc Québécois to pass any pass legislation.

Ignatieff then told an election-style rally in Sudbury that the Liberals will move a motion of non-confidence at the first opportunity. This means we could be headed to the polls by late October or early November. I am not a political commentator, nor do I profess to be any type of expert in the political arena. I have my opinions like everyone else, but I also have an aversion to talking about politics in public - I dislike sharing my private views that openly, preferring to keep my own political leanings to myself whenever possible. But I will make an exception in this case.

I just think that it is intuitively obvious that Canada doesn't need or want an election right now - at a time when our economy is just beginning to show signs of recovery from the economic downturn of the past year. Most people I have talked to about it feel that an election would be a colossal waste of time and money for that reason alone.

Ignatieff, who reportedly made his decision to pull his party's support in the past couple of weeks, apparently said the time has come for Liberals to start showing Canadians they can do better than the current Conservative government. I beg to differ.

Personally, I don't think any of the major parties can offer a leader or a platform that would be worth holding an election for right now. Now it is clear that a majority government would be more convenient for the party in power. But although Canadians may be yearning for a majority government, they aren't all united behind any one party - hence 3 minority governments in a row.

Honestly - this isn't about which party should be in power... its doubtful that any of the current leaders would be better than any of the others at this moment in time.

Different, yes. Better, no.

No folks, I think this is about responsible use of taxpayer money and it really worries me that the man who thinks he should be our next Prime Minister also thinks that spending millions of hard-earned tax-payer dollars on a third election in five years is a good use of taxpayers money when those same dollars could be used to assist in economic recovery.

Responsible government - can you say "oxymoron", dear reader?

Summer's Waning

The ending of the summer is a bittersweet time of year for some, but a time of celebration for others. It also heralds one of the 2 natural "beginnings" we have each year. I'm referring, of course, to the start of the school year and the actual "new year" on January 1st.

For me, summer's end is an odd mix of both regret and anticipation. I always feel that perhaps I should have gotten more accomplished throughout the summer (how "type A" is that attitude?) and feel a twinge of regret that the hot sun of August will be leaving soon. Now mind you, we haven't exactly been "scorched" with the heat of the sun this year, but indulge me here.

There's something almost magical about the advance of autumn in Ontario... the glorious rich greens giving way to oranges and reds on the trees, the lovely little thrill you get as you make your daily trip out to harvest from your garden and find a new treasure to enjoy with supper, and of course the invigorating smell of fallen leaves and bonfires wafting in windows that have been too long closed against the summer's heat.

In summer's last "hurrah", we find ourselves rushing to fit in just a few more things and here in Caledon, the end of summer is a very busy time. We have numerous events that take place within this seasonal window and we always try to catch as many of them as we can, squeezing it all in between the inevitable "back-to-school" shopping and last minute play dates.

Amongst all of this season ending activity, I always try to do some canning. This is something I started a few years ago, and have grown to love. I have made an effort to add one new and simple preserve each year. This year, in addition to my dills (now a family favourite) and beets, I learned how to put down peaches using my Grandma Ives's recipe, graciously supplied (along with the gift of some glorious Leamington peaches) by my Aunt Grace. My children loved them so much that I will be traipsing back to a local purveyor of produce to get some more... the 6 litres I just finished are certainly not going to be enough to keep the troup's "peach-i-fied" all winter.

And as summer fades away and autumn rushes up to greet us, I'll once again be grateful to live in a country with changing seasons. In closing, I'll leave you with a charming little verse I found. I searched for its author, but sadly found none, but it sums up my feelings quite nicely.

"Good-night to the Season! Another will come, with its trifles and toys. And hurry away like its brother, In sunshine, odor and noise."

Where the Other Socks Go!

For the curious among you, I can finally lay to rest an age old mystery that has plagued mankind for as long as anyone can remember. I would venture that everyone has heard at least one person lamenting over the way one sock from each pair can suddenly, mysteriously and usually permanently disappear into thin air. And I think its safe to say we all agree that it is the dryer that "eats them"... but no one ever knew where they went - until now.

Well, I now know where those missing socks go - and have definitive proof to back up my claim. It appears that they were all underneath my son's bed! Who knew?! How they got from the dryer to the dark wasteland under his bed is the real mystery... perhaps a tear in the fabric of time or a black hole? Or maybe gremlins or aliens...

Whatever the cause, somehow a motley assortment of unmatched foot wear of varying sizes and colours has manifested itself under there, along with some of his underwear, an astounding number of long discarded toys, sheets of paper with ONE line of writing on them, pens with the "business" part missing, lego pieces, game cartridges.... I could go on, but I'm sure you get the idea.

I am chagrined to note that there was a significant amount of what I'll refer to as "fossilized organic" material under the bed too. By "organic", I mean "used to be food", by "fossilized", I mean... well - "fossilized". Totally free of moisture, shrivelled, devoid of any remaining similarity to something you could actually identify, this little food graveyard took me completely by surprise.

Now anyone who knows me will tell you that I am not (nor will I ever be) Martha Stewart. I wish. Given my own slap-dash personality and the type of life our family leads, even suggesting a similarity between me and the undisputed queen of advanced planning and organization would cause my sisters (and certain close cousins & friends) to really "rotfl" their respective "ao".

No, I live the life of a "just in time, guerilla" housekeeper. That is to say, if you plan to drop by our place for coffee.... don't just jump in the car - call first and give me time to tidy up (and it might be a good idea if you bring the coffee with you). If you are coming to stay overnight, I need several days notice. But I do try to keep the germ count to acceptable limits, and we have a strict no food in the bedroom rule... which brings us back to our topic - how on earth did my "DS" (Darling Son) manage to sneak this illicit midnight repast into his room? I suspect he may be a candidate for a career in "overt operations" some day.

I will say that "DS" has a captains bed, which, by the way, I do not recommend for "just in time, guerilla" housekeepers with young sons. I say this for a couple of reasons: captains beds are a pain to move and clean underneath, and they have lots of "hidy holes" and secret "stashing places".

So, after I spent the requisite amount of time making faces and gagging noises and uttering "motherly expletives", DS & I spent a rather unpleasant afternoon cleaning, disinfecting and putting things back together. Then I spent some additional time lecturing a remarkably unrepentant 11 year old on the dangers of stockpiling snack food under your bed (ie: the potential for bugs, sticky messes, what will the neighbours think....germs... did I mention the potential for bugs?). I suspect it might be a good idea if I do a weekly spot check for a while.

And now I'm sitting here with that colourful pile of socks (which are also unrepentant, I might add)... wondering how the heck a person without access to a black hole can get them all back to their rightful owners?

Anyone with ideas should post them to the comments section of this blog entry!

Note: It is now 8 hours after I initially wrote this blog. I just passed the bedroom door of "DS" and found a sheet of paper with one line of writing on it: "OFF LIMITS TO ALL BLOG WRITERS WRITING ANYTHING ABOUT DARLING SONS". I guess I asked for that one. ; )

"Weather" we like it or not

Since the fortunes have decreed that we shall be wet and chilly this summer, I - along with the rest of the general population - have been faced with the problem of how to “do” summer in the rain.


I’ve been complaining about it right along with everyone else, but obviously, it isn’t something we have any control over. It’s not a situation we are faced with that often, thank goodness, but it does required some creative thinking to work around.


For instance, lets consider drying laundry this summer. I’ve tried very hard to avoid using my dryer for the last couple of years… preferring, whenever possible, to use my clothes line. To say that’s been challenging this summer would be an understatement. It has rained while the sun is out several times, catching me standing beside the line full of clothes I just finished hanging out.
But I’ve found a way around the dilemma. By half drying my laundry in the dryer, then draping the semi-wet laundry on all the upright surfaces in the house, I cut down on dryer time without having to hang clothes in the rain. Mind you, our house sometimes looks like a department store blew up around here… but I have kids - I’m used to that.


Keeping the lawn green is usually the challenge for August, but our grass is healthy and lovely this year. Keeping it under control is quite another story. We are fortunate, because we live on a hill with great soil drainage. That means our grass dries out quite quickly after a rainfall… that is, in typical summer conditions.


In recent weeks though, if the sky clears at all, we find ourselves racing like a madman for the mower, in case we miss that 35-50 minute window of opportunity and it’s starts to rain again. If we decide to check the mailbox first, we sometimes find ourselves waiting three more days for another dry day.


In keeping with the “glass half full” attitude that I try stoically to maintain, I have given the matter some serious thought and discovered that rainy summers do have a few good things going for them…


· The summer reading list will be complete a couple of weeks early.
· The gardens are lovely (if a trifle neglected in the “weed” department)
· We’re using less hydro, because the a/c is off most days.
· We’re getting really good at jigsaw puzzles!
· And I finally got to use my cool, purple-flowered umbrella!


So the summer won’t be a total loss after all!

Serendipity

I've been mulling over the passage of time and - I'll be honest - obsessing over the mulititude of things that have changed about me and my life over the years. I suppose this is an inevitable 'taking stock' that happens when you enter the middle years. And of course when you take stock of things, you inevitably visit the past...

I was raised in a very mobile family - we moved a lot... and I have to stress the term "A LOT": it was something like 30 times, if you count moving from "house" to "house". And if I sit and count the actual towns we lived in on my fingers, I run out of fingers fairly quickly. All that moving made making friends very difficult, and the few friends I did manage to make were often lost to yet another move. Staying in touch was difficult, onerous in those days of snail mail and party-lines.

When you grow up that way, you end up having many, many acquaintances, but few true friends. And until I went to college and met up with my beloved "chicks" (a story for another day), that is how it was.

I've often wondered what happened to a few of my friends from those days... but today's story centers on one friend in particular: his name was Allen. In high school, I remember spending lunches and spares eating really awful fries and even worse gravy while laughing and joking with a small group of kids. Allen was one of that group. He had a very quick wit and was a lot of fun to be around.

One memory in particular sticks with me - I remember that Allen often wore cozy, velour pullovers during the winter, and a couple of us girls would stroke the arm of his shirt, and make a big fuss over how soft it felt. (Hey, it was the 70's... we had all spent far too many years wearing gaberdeen pant suits that were stitched together by our mothers and our aunts. That kind of fashion torture does things to your mind.) Allen was by no means a stupid lad, and quickly began trying to figure out how to get himself a pair of velour slacks.

We lost touch after high school, but as years went by, I'd often wondered where the winds of fate had taken him, hoping they'd been kind.

Then the other day, serendipity... Allen contacted me via Facebook, just to say hello. I was thrown for a moment as I absorbed the fact that the cheeky, irreverant, tow-headed teenager I remember had become a minister (!), but I quickly realized that Allen wasn't much different than he'd been in school. Funny, smart, relaxed... just Allen.

Then it hit me... I'm not that different from the "high school me" either. I still enjoy a good laugh, like being part of a group, love all things creative or artistic, get totally lost in a good book... I worry a bit too much... can't stay organized or on task to save my life... I have way too much hair (it's a lot "lighter" than it used to be, mind you). I haven't changed much at all.

I read somewhere recently of a woman who stated her age as 22... with 25 years of experience... and that sums up precisely how I feel. I am still exactly the same person I've always been, just nicely mellowed by my years of experience.

What a relief to realize that! Now I can relax and stop obsessing over the "lies" a piece of reflective glass has been whispering in my ear!

SLUMP WEEK

If Wednesday can be known universally as “hump day”, then I believe that the first week of August should be forever-more referred to as “SLUMP week”… that nasty week in mid-summer when you suddenly realize that the summer is more than half over and you haven’t gotten to even half of the “absolutely, positively going to do this” items on your summer to do list.
We start experiencing “SLUMP week” when we are children going to school. As kids, the sobering realization that there are only 24 or 25 days remaining until school starts again is enough to spur a frenzied round of play-dates and trips to Wonderland.
It is during this week that parents are routinely berated for wasting precious summer daylight hours by doing totally superfluous and unnecessary things like tending to personal hygiene, earning a living or grocery shopping. Why, during “SLUMP week”, even the hint of rain is cause for wailing and gnashing of teeth. How dare it rain when precious summer hours are draining away like so much fine sand through the hourglass of life…?
Speaking of rain, (yes… I am going to go “THERE”, but I’ll try to be brief) this year, “SLUMP week” is particularly hard to bear, because we haven’t really had much summer weather at all. In fact, I'll go as far as o suggest that - if the months were named after the weather we’ve had - this year to date would go something like this:
January, February, March, March, April, April, May.
Now it remains to be seen how the month of August will go, but based on the first 4 days, I’m not feeling very optimistic. I’m awfully concerned that we may be stuck in May for another blasted month.
But getting back to our original topic… I think I’m going to have to do something drastic to pull us all out of our mid-summer slump. With that in mind, I’ve already initiated the “lets visit your cousins” gambit and scheduled that much anticipated annual visit as something to look forward to - knowing that an event you WANT to happen (2 days visiting with cool, older cousins) will take MUCH longer to arrive than an event you could very well live without (the dreaded start of yet another school year).
So now I have to get serious... I need to start working on getting a few of those items on the summer “to do” list crossed off so the first week of September doesn’t end up being “DOWN IN THE DUMP” week.
Happy “SLUMP week”!

Man vs. Nature... Part II

Last week, I told you of an epic battle that is taking place in a yard right here in Caledon… a battle between a determined man and an equally determined squirrel. This is an ongoing struggle and I’m sure I’ll be telling you more about it as time goes on.

But today, we’re going to visit another yard in Caledon… and this yard is also under siege. But this time the battle rages between a woman who should know better and raccoon who most assuredly does.

Now public opinion varies widely when it comes to raccoons… there are those who love this wily little rodent and there are those who curse their very existence. Our hero this week (who must remain anonymous because - as my sister - she deserves that small courtesy) falls somewhere in between… she is quick to appreciate the attractiveness and cunning of the small forest creatures whose very name is said to mean “dexterity”.

But as she goes about setting up a new compost bin, she quickly sees the other side of the coin...

Now I know you are sitting there thinking “All this lady has to do is properly install the composter and follow composting “best-practices” and she’ll have no problem.” But therein lies the rub… this poor soul has set up kitchen composters before, and she does it all by the book. She secured the composter by digging it into the earth… she put the right things into it… avoiding meats and cheeses that were sure to attract “pests”… she layered, watered, added earth and organics… she made sure the composter she was using had a secure lid and trap door. She did it all correctly.

But in a matter of hours, the coon’s were into the composter. The yard went from “Better Homes and Gardens” to “Better Haul Away Garbage” in a trice. Unable to open the lid of the composters, the coons had opened the trap door at the bottom and dined on the “patio”, as it were.

The next night, the trap door was secured by 9 inch nails (the spike, not the industrial rock group) and sturdy wire. The coons, undeterred, dug under the composter & chowed down.
Night number three - a roll of chicken wire is buried in the ground around the composter’s perimeter, intended to discourage excavation. And it does… the little beggers simply tip the entire composter over.

Incidentally, we’re not sure how the heck they did this… but my sister… (er - I mean “our hero”) begins to mull over a theory in which the coons might have learned how to start the Bolens... Its at this point that I begin to recognize the tell-tale signs of that same “wilderness obsession” that afflicts all those who grapple with the wild. I sigh, and walk away knowing that another “wildly ingenious” solution is imminent.

• And so, we come to the end of Man vs. Nature (Part II). And although we’ve shared a couple of chuckles, I believe we’ve also learned several things…
  First - humans (at least those around me) tend to be a bit “obsessive-compulsive” when nature issue a challenge;
• Second - if wild animals are to be used as an example, there’s no such thing as an insurmountable problem (that’s a great lesson, I think);
• And third - It’s a lot of fun to sit back and chuckle at someone else’s misadventure’s.

But that begs the question… have you checked your composter lately?
(Photo Credit: Stephanie Sant)

Man vs. Nature... Part I

It is the stuff of legends - the ongoing struggle between man and the wild. This battle - as old as time - is widely fought, and means man must use all of the knowledge, ingenuity and cunning at his disposal to triumph over a force of a nature so powerful, it is virtually unstoppable.

I refer, of course, to the battle to keep the squirrels out of the bird feeder. This is a battle that has driven more than one perfectly rational human being to commit acts which confound, confuse (and perhaps even frighten) his family and friends. I’m going to share one such story with you now. Names have been with-held to protect the identity of my father-in-law.

We take you back a number of years, to a winter day shortly after our hero moved to Caledon. The homeowner’s lovely rural property is a scenic, private retreat and he and his wife enjoy the company of natures winged creatures so much they install a bird feeder in their yard.

All is well for a number of weeks but soon, the squirrels discover that a new “all you can eat buffet” has arrived in town. The homeowner is not too concerned. He puts a “squirrel collar” on his feeder, assuming he has put paid to his unwanted seed-poacher. But he has underestimated his adversary…

A few days later, he looks out his kitchen window just in time to witness an acrobatic act worthy of Cirque du Soliel. One of the squirrels has discovered that if he travels far enough out on one of a neighbouring birch tree’s branches, he can generate enough “lift” to launch himself onto the bird feeder, thereby circumventing the offending collar.

The homeowner retaliates by getting busy and giving all of the trees neighbouring the birdfeeder a good, thorough “haircut”, assuming this simple act will thwart his red-coated foe. But alas, he is wrong.

So it goes… over weeks, months, seasons, and years, our hapless hero uses every humane and ingenious idea he can come up with to protect his precious feeder. He employs wider collars, self-closing feeders, motion sensors and noise-makers - all with no success.

But is our hero a beaten man? Never. He now realizes that nothing on the market will work on his particular squirrel - a squirrel so wiley that he will have to manufacture something of his own design, if he ever hopes to win this war.

And so a new battle is begun. The last report we had from the battle front involved the re-engineering of an old metal lamp shade and a complicated system of pulleys, wires and gears which would somehow protect the feeder and dislodge the squirrel, should it try another assault. Still in the planning stages, we are given to understand that this new weapon will be added to the feeder sometime in the next week or so. I should probably mention that the bird feeder is now starting to develop a somewhat “unusual” appearance - something that fits somewhere between “alternative garden art” and “home-made rocket launcher”.

In all of this struggle, there is hair-pulling, fist-shaking and - yes, I suspect a certain amount of questionable language… but there is also a grudging respect for the instinct, cunning and determination that drives the squirrel just as hard as it drives the man.

In the end, we fear it will come down to “nuts”… either the battle with the squirrel will be won and it will return to a diet of them, or the man will eventually lose his battle (and his mind) and be diagnosed as one.

We hope you’ll join us next week for Man vs. Nature, part II.