Daughters and Suns



From where I sit...

From where I sit the weather is fine. Cool, damp on the ground from weeks of coastal rain, branches torn from trees following new year wind storms, the moisture permanently in the air here hanging differently with the arrival of a March sun.

From where I sit the armrests are crowded, covered with rocks from the driveway's edge, first-stage Inukshuk-style leavings showing whoever comes upon them that people were here. Little people in this case. Each rock placed there by a 3 year old and a 6 year old for no other reason than because........it was fun.

From where I sit fun is relative. Relative to the amount of fresh, indigenous, outside air being pushed through your lungs and pumped into your heart. Start 'em young on the good stuff.....be it the back forty, the back four or the back window......crank open the latch and breathe in the wind blowin' through, the sun shining in, the rain pounding down, the fog rolling in, the snow falling softly or whirling crazily.  Get addicted to a daily dose of fresh air no matter the weather.

Seein' it in the sun to be so... 

Sunshine and a garden hose. Kinda like buckets and shovels, perfectly sharpened pencils and connect-the-dots, an untouched sheet of bubble wrap. You can't steer clear of it, see no need to ignore the impulse to uncoil a few feet of its snakey-green shape, choose from the tuthree favorites; jet, cone, shower.....before hittin' pay dirt with 'mist' and see the rays of the sun shining through a Bigleaf maple tree.

The camera misses the rainbows the kids discover they can make, I miss that perfect parenting magazine feature  shot of giggly, euphoric children dancing in the grass with nature. One garden hose between two kids is no hands-free, one eye on a screen. kinda mama bear task. So the rainbows are seen yet captured only in my memory where they will hover precariously I the shadow of  the shots I DID get.

The rainbow seen in the sun to be so.

Hauled away day....

My little girl plays in the rocks with her brother's Tonka truck....actually that truck is her big, BIG brother's truck so that makes that thing almost 20 years old.....and I hear her making noises to match the play. No vroom-vroom-vroom like her brothers before her but just as cute.

"Now YOU go here....and you go HERE",she tells each rock placed into the truck bucket from the wicker basket she's used to collect them.
Those rocks have feelings I guess and the truck's movements need no soundtrack apparently. It's all about dialogue with this girl. I respect that and wonder if I should be concerned she's not playing with her dollhouse or pretty pink plastic pony. The gender specific thought process tarnishing what should be simple joy at her act of merely playing.

The sun shines on her little quarry and it occurs to me there's no rock quarry Foreman Barbie. What up with THAT? Although Barbie would seriously need to think about bulking up some. In her current form she might snap like a twig with what the average kick-ass girl would put her through  in the backyard.

Sunshine,garden hoses, rocks, Barbie and Tonka trucks.
From where I sit all seems well.

A Funky Find from the Bookshelf



Precious Bane by Mary Webb (1924)



Love spinnings and Sin eaters

Mary Gladys Webb published "Precious Bane" in 1924 and even though she died three years later this is my  posthumous shout out to her for doing so. Seriously... by page 13 when Prue introduces Mister Beguildy, a funky old dude considered 'a preached against man'  I was done for.

"Once I asked him where the future was that he could see it so plain. And he said 'It lies with the past, child, at the back of Time.' "  

  And oh what a magical past we're taken to in this book. 

Born in 1881 in the English countryside of Shropshire Mary Webb began writing shortly after she married a teacher in 1912.  Her writings didn't have her and  Henry rollin' in dough even after she  was eventually published for the first time in 1916 but she stuck with it in between walking nine miles to town in the wee hours to sell flowers at market.

 She wrote from her love and knowledge of countryside customs, superstitions, and some of the coolest dialect ever written.  At first slightly tough to get your mouth around the dialogue in this book is stellar.  At the very least it's mighty fun to try and read aloud such fabulous words like "Dunna drink while she's by. It'll p'ison yer innards".

 It's that magical slant that finds  me deep into Book 2 of 'Precious Bane' and keepin' me fixed there with my dog-eared paperback copy on my person, or in  my purse, where ever I go.  Give me ten minutes in the car with one kid snoozin' in her car seat and the other just getting ready for the 3 o'clock bell and I'm in Prue's world. Losin' a few minutes of my day in this story is the best therapy I know.

 Loaned to me by a co-worker a few months ago it's only in the last few weeks I've given myself the time to get into the literary groove of 16 year old Prue Sarn and her beloved Kester Woodseaves. High five to my friend Joy for passing this fabulous book on:)

Born in a time and place when curses and consumption claimed so many young Prue, born with a hare-lip  accepted as bad luck befallen to a mother  crossing paths with a hare with Prue still in her belly, sees her future as one not including a husband or family.  A hot lookin' fella by name of Kester, whom she meets at a love spinning, changes all that and rightfully so.  Prue rocks......as a main character she's up there with Jane Eyre.

I found myself rootin' for Prue straight from the get-go and cheering on Kester as he shoots down advances from the prettiest and bitchiest women in the countryside.  Easily seeing past their petticoats to the dimwits they are Kester urges Prue out from the the shadows where she keeps her face and intelligence hidden.  Their relationship up-ends Prue's entire family, headed up by her intense brother Gideon and ever-worrying mother, and sets in motion a battle for the riches and social standing Gideon demands Prue to work toward.

Borrow it, find it a garage sale, discover it on your great Aunt's dusty attic bookshelf, unearth it from some dark corner of the local library.......even if you have to start it over and over just to get the hang of Mary Webb's writing style.....do yourself a favour and have a go at "Precious Bane".

Settle in and treat yourself to Mary Webb's musings......even if it's just to find out what the hell a love spinning or a sin eater is:)


9 out of 10 on my Sue's Funky Literary Finds list.....

Simple Simon's Meat Pie



   



BEHOLD THE ALMIGHTY MEAT PIE.....

It's simple Simon kinda stuff.....the meat pie.  Whether you stuff it with meat or not.  Choose your meat; beef, chicken, pork, lamb or choose another filling without a face; beans, potato, squash, tofu and fly at 'er. 

Check the fridge and pantry for these:

Ground beef or other choice of flavour

Can of tomatoes or freshly chopped tomatoes---whatever ya got.

Can of tomato sauce, leftover pasta sauce, leftover chili will work too.....use it all up.

Chop one onion

Chop up some peppers; green, red, yellow, orange

Clove of garlic wouldn't hurt

Pepper, basil, Old Bay, check out your herb supply and go for it...

Brown the meat and drain.  Soften up the chopped onion and peppers in a glob or so of butter in a hot pan until they're soft. Add the tomatoes, tomato sauce, browned beef, herbs and spices. Stir and heat at a medium-high heat for about 10 minutes, 'til it thickens,  then turn it down to low, cover and simmer while you conjure up a pie crust.

You can fire up a homemade pie crust if you want just add about 1/4 cup grated parmesan cheese and a little garlic salt and oregano to the flour and you've got a  wicked Herb Pastry.  Nice and hardy too as far as pastry goes....I usually SUCK at pastry....but this one isn't as delicate and seems to always work for me. Cut in some cold butter or shortening until the mixture is crumbly then sprinkle some cold water over top and mix with a fork until it holds together enough for you to handle it.  Throw it on a floured surface and let your daily frustrations with your trusty rolling pin work it into a circle.  It works for me often.  That grocery store cashier who asked if my 3 year old was my granddaughter?....Roll THIS bitch. 

Anyway......if you don't have the time or culinary fortitude to make a crust from scratch there are good options out there as far as pre-made crusts and tart shells.  Pillsbury makes a double crust roll-out that works like a hot damn.  Fool your friends....have a laugh.

Scoop the meat/tomato mixture into the bottom shell and place cheese slices - your choice here so clean out the cheese drawer- over top before placing the top crust on.  Seal it....flute it....pretty it up how ever way you want just make sure you put put vents in the top either with a sharp knife or a cookie cutter like I usually do then place in a400 degree oven.  

Should take about 35 minutes.....if you brush egg white or melted butter keep an eye on the pie edge so it doesn't burn.

Let it sit out of the oven for about 15 minutes.....gives you time to put together a salad, veggies and dip, bag of Old Dutch crinkle chips.....whatever kind of side you and yours fancy. 

This is awesome the next day either at home or work. 

If you don't do crust then you can always do a mashed potato or squash topping with grated cheese.  

Chow down and enjoy........

Shine ON

What is it with family?  What makes a family? Is it that first moment when you hold a living being in your hands.....feel the warmth.....feel the heartbeat.....smell the smell that belongs somehow to you and all the ancestors before you?

I've got family I've given birth to, family I've married, family I've married into, family I've just adopted as my own though no blood is shared between  us.  Family is first....family is what leads us home whether that home is our place of infancy or our exit from the family of origin.

My family is my husband, my son, my wee son, my little daughter, my darling behemoth dog, my two pathetically spoiled cats and my over indulged trip of goats. All of us live....contentedly so it would seem......within just under four acres in a wee spot of paradise on Vancouver Island. 

I think of the family I came from and the words and emotion only arrive now.....in the wee hours of a Saturday night merging into a Sunday morning......after I've had a few cocktails and watched 'Skyfall' on PPV and my mind is finally at some type of ease.  What a pity that peace of mind is met at 2:35 am.  What a pity it takes such a lead up to find myself settling into.....ME. 

Babies mean family.  Surely they do.  My babies have made me part of a family starting with my first when I was 26 and on my own.....no daddy to-be rubbing my belly at pre-natal classes....no excited Grandma knitting booties and shopping for strollers.  My first baby completed my family of two.....a 'just-me-and- you' kinda gig.  My parents didn't really groove on the no husband thing.....and rightfully so who the hell could blame them for their worry......and so I felt truly alone.  Alone with my belly, my pregnancy books, my lower back ache, my sore feet, my cravings for bananas. 

My friends surrounded me. My friends that formed what would become my new family enveloped me then......reached out their hands.....opened their arms......welcomed me into their respective folds.  And my baby son was born and I was overwhelmed at how I felt....how the world all of a sudden made sense where before it just....had not.

Critters show up on this property we call home for our herd, our family, our trip, our gaggle, our flock.  The deer come right up to the deer fence and nibble politely and delicately on the tips of my forsythia.  They look at me intently after our eyes meet on a May afternoon.  A doe looks at me, pausing from her grazing of my back four, her huge mousy ears pricked forward, every muscle on her fawn-coloured body holding still......staring at me as though daring me to question why I'm even here at all.

My three goats 'maaa-aaaaa' to this doe and her buck that follows silently behind and the dynamic between domesticated and wild hooved mammal is tested and tried.  The wild buck curls his top lip back in the universal language of hooved-folk dominance. 

My deer are dear to me.  They are my family.  Family.  Family made from scratch.

Just around the bend shines a light.....the light around the corner waiting for me.  Waiting for me and mine to warm our faces in the warmth.  The light of a family garden, a family gathering, a family Christmas tree.....the light of more than one generation gathering together to raise one another, to carry one another, to support one another, through the dark spots on the track.....the old guiding the young to the light. 

We are the old....my husband and I.....we are the old guiding the young.  Forsaking our families of origin....his through death and mine through estrangement......yet forging ahead anyway to ensure our children carry on and around that corner to stand in the light.....and SHINE. 

Shine it all around my children......xo

Pals together

Pals Together.......

The billy goat on the right is either Daniel or Henrik....or how they're  known from their winter digs, Cheech or Chong.....but I have to look them straight on face to face to really be sure. I think this is Henrik/Cheech...but probably not.  They ARE twins so I guess that's the point.

Perfectly reasonable that three goats - three brothers goat - would enjoy a storybook read to them by a two year old. The really great thing is the two year old considers it a fine idea. That's the magic....the absurdity of it alone makes it magical.  I mean....maybe a toddler knows something we don't know. Maybe goats can read.

 

And then what happened? 

Anyway....Willie is on the left - known to his peeps as Willie No-Willie because he's  what's called a whether and well.....guess the rest.  He's the largest of this triplet trip and without the presence of a female anymore falls into the drag queen title of Herd Queen. Lucky Willie.

  A trip.....what's that you say?

Didn't y'all know that's what we're called?

 Trip Out.....

One of author Elizabeth Pepper's books references a five hundred year old volume of books listing names of designated groups of animals. A bevy of swans. A shrewdness of apes. An unkindness of ravens. a clowder of cats and....a trip of goats.

It's a sweet list. Great at parties.....kids and adults alike.

My little girl is reading a storybook to a trip of goats and they're fighting over who gets the best seat.When they begin head buttin' each other - and that's what goats do it's a herd thing don't sweat it - my wee lass tells 'em "Stop it you two...."  which they eventually do.

They gather round her.....to be honest probably hoping for a nibble of that cardboard book she's holding.....and she reads a story to them all.  About shapes and squares and triangles and after they stop bangin' heads and settle down they actually seemed to enjoy themselves.

 Maybe just the sound of a storyteller's voice is all it takes to keep the trip settled and calm. 

Wait a minute are we a brood or a troop of chickens?
....anyone?.....anyone?  

Playing Quietly

Stockings have been emptied. Torn wrapping paper and ribbon stuffed into boxes and bags now spirited away  into the shop to await  2013 bonfire's flame.  Christmas Day 2012 now moves into the realm of the Ghost of Christmas Past and my shoulders relax a little.

Lego kits have been assembled, new dollys cuddle with new owners, mud and goat pen fodder now speckle the bottoms of the new Bogs boots in the boot tray.  Me and mine remain together -  slightly fractured and emotionally askew of course -  the Yours, Mine and Ours scenario pin-balling distastefully against long estranged non-relationships among my own family of origin and my husband'stoo.  Lurking in the shadow of our Christmas tree still sittin' pretty in our parlour are  memories.  Watching and waiting to be gathered together, sorted and stored into a bank bursting from the drama that is family.

When everything on the post-holiday  list is checked off, the special dinner plates returned to Grandma Val's sideboard,  the leavings of Christmas cleared and packed away, the Santa cookies-n-milk tray washed and carefully tucked away. Only then can the  promise of a new year and a clean slate be felt within my grasp.

Bring it on.....

Cookies are a big part of my Christmas.  Baking in general actually is at an all-time buzz at this time of year.  Cookie exchanges - 8 dozen this year- cut-out cookies to decorate and share with friends, cakes and tarts to to fill the bellies of all who come to share some jolly with me and mine make me happy.  The creaming of the butter and the sugar, the adding of the eggs and vanilla, the thick cloud from the cocoa powder keep my senses comforted.  The smell of cinnamon, ginger and Julia's famous Chocolate Mousse easing the blues that too often come to call along with Santa and his elves.

Snow arrived the week before Christmas, covering the property with all that white and crunchy goodness.  Blanketing the potholes on the long driveway in dire need of filling. Prettily covering forgotten toys and outside chores.  Painting a picture of a little house in the big woods untouched by dust or darkness.  With the Solstice comes the dark but always the reminder of its dependence on the light for its very existence.  Just around the corner is every possibility.

My decorations are much beloved.  Each one a page from the story of me and mine.  The story of my family.  Our story begins with a child born to his mother on a February afternoon nineteen years ago.  The family that lives here in my heart and at the end of the long driveway began with my oldest and carries on down to my youngest who turns 3 in March.  My family is defined by who gathers together at this place.  We crowd around the old oak table - all three leaves added to accommodate us all - and although the holes are there we raise our glasses and toast to all that we have become.  Those not present - through death, desertion, or the scourge that is estrangement - are kept at bay so as not to spoil our joy.  Mentioned in whispers and in secret, after the coffee and after little pitchers with big ears have been tucked in and away out of earshot.

Hockey helps. Always has and always will despite the NHL lockout.  Christmas means the World Junior Hockey Championships.  It means Boxing Day games and our much-loved Team Canada leaving the ice following a 9-3 victory over Team Germany.  It means cheering the lads on while recovering from the food and merriment hangover that always follows all that is Christmas Day.....here in the <3 of Dashwood.  In the heart of all that is.....my family.

Happy New Year.....Peace, Love and Clarity

A Touch of Frost.......

Frost on the picnic table greeted me that morning as I raised the blinds on the tall kitchen window  looking out into the back garden. The sun was just starting to move up and around after rising from the front porch-facing side of the house where its rays melt the icy steps leading to the top of the long driveway out to the road. Through the branches of the maple tree the sunshine hitting the picnic table top gleamed prettily.

The sun's December warmth touched the ground, treetops and whatever else lay in its shining path, turning the chilly frost to sparkling twinkles before eventually melting away to plain ol' moisture.  The days are shorter now and with only days toward Christmas a rise in daily temperature means sunshine, if the sun decides to appear at all through these coastal winter clouds, will shine on down only briefly. Never long enough to melt and evaporate the moisture completely before the sun sets through the trees to the west turning all the Island damp to ice and chill once again.

An hour later the news of the shooting at an elementary school breaks the spell of the sunny and crisp morning. A chill creeps into my chest and across my shoulders as I hear the numbers. 28 people shot by a young man who had just come from shooting his own mother in the face in her kitchen.....20 of the victims little children.  My own son is, as I am listening to this news, in the late morning of his Grade 1 day.  Calculating the timeline I realize that as I was settling him into his desk, watching him print words from the word board and choosing a book for reading at his desk,  twenty little children more than likely doing exactly the same thing were experiencing hell.  At the moment his teacher was putting a hand to his shoulder,  saying what a fantastic job he did printing then reading aloud his words from the word board,  eight other teachers were facing down a young man gone mad.

The frost on the picnic table moment seems a premonition now, not the beauty it first revealed itself as in the sunlit morning, but now a jagged and evil chill through my heart.  A million miles away from  the sugar plum visions and North Pole magic conjured to my mind when I first looked out upon in that morning.

Morning Chill

The twinkling frost in the photo was long gone as more and more details came chattering out of the tiny speaker from our vintage transistor radio resting on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. The pretty, twinkling light from the sunlight touching frost a long lost memory now, the picnic table-top looked only sodden and dark, forgotten, a fleeting moment of beauty within the chill saved only in the stillness of a camera shot.

The sun shone that Thursday  morning but the image captured  is more than a picture of  a picnic table in my backyard. It is a memory now of this day. Always this shot will bring me back to a Thursday morning in December when evil crept into Connecticut. The brightness and warmth of those 28 souls, the innocence and joy of 20 little lives can't extinguish the chill, can't melt the frost that settles in deep.  Deep in the twisted, tortured mind of a young man whose emotional, spiritual and right-mind spool irrevocably unwound  the chill will never pass.  

As I did following September 11th I wanted to run at the news. Run to my car, race to the school, and remove my children from the building. Take them away, far away to a safe place only I could find for them.  Run, run, run as I imagine everyone at Sandy Hook Elementary was told to do when everyone realized what was really happening  around them.  Run, run, run.....run to Mom, run to Dad, run to those that removed scary monsters from under the bed and soothe away the boogie man from bad dreams.

My words are lost in my head, swirling in my heart, ravaging my sense of safety for my children. Desecrating my sense of season and place.  Eleven days to Christmas, one day after our annual visit to Gogo's Tree Farm where we had picked the perfect tree.  Death sours  the pine smell of our shop where the tree now rests before being set in its stand then decorated with twinkly lights and candy canes. Raining survivors' guilt on all of us whose wee babes - whether teens, tweens or toddlers - are present and accounted for at the Christmas dinner table.  Enraging and polarizing us all with comment threads screaming of gun laws, mental illness and armed guards posted in schools.

Hand Over

Down the line, under our feet, hiding only slightly out of earshot are our kids. Cowering beneath all the news reports, Facebook pages and conversations among 'experts' suggesting the best way to discuss something like this with our children.  Limit their screen time, don't let them watch the news, be mindful of what we say in front of them, and do our best to convince them they are safe.

I have no words of comfort, I know of no poem that will ease the pain, and feel a pounding in my head thinking about one lone older brother who now must try to move on after his mother and murdering younger brother lay dead along with so many others. The frost has settled in and it ain't pretty.  Not anymore....not right now......not yet.

"This too shall pass...."   has not yet come to pass.

Peace, love and prayers to Newtown, Connecticut and to you all........... <3