It's time to fill a bag - with brotherly love

There are some who say foodbanks are not the answer. We who operate the foodbanks tend to agree, for the most part. Handouts of the bare grocery essentials, every two weeks, will not lift a family out of poverty. But they might help someone to bridge the gap between pay cheques, while gas, food and housing prices soar astronomically for the first time in a generation.

Wages just aren’t keeping up. And in a small town, there are few jobs that actually pay a living wage. Everything else needs to be supplemented. That’s where the foodbank comes in. Many of our clientele pop in to pick up their box of groceries right after work. They are still in uniform or dressed for work. Some are in the trades, with unsteady paycheques. Most just don’t make enough.

I was surprised to learn that there is no regular government funding for foodbanks in Canada. There are partnerships, and our local foodbank is lucky to have formed one with our own municipality of North Grenville in the last budget cycle. Our foodbank will receive funding to cover approximately one of operating expenses ($25,000) from the town for each of the next four years. We have to depend on the community to help cover the other eleven months of the year.

We have many generous local businesses and individuals who make regular financial donations to the foodbank, through www.salvationist.ca  Others drop off cash at the Salvation Army thrift store on Rideau Street in Kemptville, where we are able to divert funds to the foodbank. If you have made a donation, let us know by emailing: kemptvillesalvationarmy@gmail.com. That way we can ensure that your donation goes where you want it to. That is also the email to use if you have free time this month to assist with the massive Fill-a-Bag campaign. We need drivers and helpers to drop off paper bags at local residences, pick up the filled bags, and sort the contents back at the foodbank.

Watch for your paper bag to arrive on Sunday, November 20^th. Take a look at the list printed on the side of the bag and consider making a donation to your local foodbank. Whether it’s dried or canned goods, bathroom supplies or pet food, the 100 families that we are currently serving in North Grenville will definitely appreciate it. We can even accept food that has gone past its ‘best before’ date in the last year, in most cases. Put your bag outside on the 27^th and our volunteers will swing by to pick it up.

Thank you for sharing with your neighbour, and putting a little love in the bag.

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Playing a part in Hollywood North

 On an English movie set you might hear, “lights, camera, action!” But I was recently on a totally French movie set and the direction was, “Moteur! Trois, deux, un, action!” It certainly tested my bilingual abilities (which are not great, with only highschool French), and I was very grateful for the translation skills of my co-actors.

I have been a background actor / extra on half a dozen productions in the Ottawa area. I got to be a dead body once. You can’t really see me in the finished movie as my scene is blurred and quite brief. We filmed the results of a car crash in a parking lot at Kemptville College in February 2015, when it was 30 below and windy. I had to keep my (dead) eyes open for as long as I could while the cameras rolled. I teared up and my fake blood kept melting and running into my mouth. It is not a good taste. Sort of like a mix between melted lipstick and olive oil. I did get to meet Oz Perkins, the director, however. He stuck his head in through the broken windshield and said, “they did tell you it was a horror movie, right??”

My other background roles have included churchgoer, nurse with clipboard, woman in crowd, salesclerk, and I can’t remember the last one. They have all been fun because you meet people, including the ‘big name’ stars sometimes, but they all have one thing in common: lots of waiting around.

This latest experience was a new one for me – I have been surrounded by Quebecois at a Bryan Adams concert in Montreal and know they like to have fun – but I have never worked with a bunch of strictly French-speaking people before. In between very serious scenes in a courtroom (I played a Supreme Court judge!) they were cracking jokes and goofing around. Something was lost in the translation and I am pretty sure I looked like an idiot because I was the only one who wasn’t laughing – until the laughter just became contagious and I was actually laughing at their laughing.

This time I was on camera, for several long scenes, but I had no lines (thank goodness – nothing to screw up). It was a challenge for sure – even the set notes and schedule were totally in French. I had to put one paragraph at a time into Google Translate just so I wouldn’t miss my cues.

If you are interested in getting yourself or your kids into background work, sign up with Smyth Casting or a local talent agency. They are always looking for new people!

 

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The chicks are calling

 The baby chicks in our basement are very interesting houseguests. They peep peep peep peacefully all day, an ongoing soundtrack for my workday. Sometimes my associates comment that they can hear something in the background in our Zoom meetings. Then I have to take my camera downstairs and show them what is making the noise. 

If you make a sudden move, the chickens emit a collective SQUAWK. I also find it very strange and somehow endearing, the way they all decide it’s time to go to sleep. Like immediately, all at once, without a discussion first. They just close their eyes and put their heads down where they are – in the wood shavings, in the feeding trough, under the heat lamp. 

They are going through a lot of water. We can only put small watering units in there, upturned mason jars dribbling into tiny lids that are too small for a chick to fall asleep and drown in. These water stations are up on bricks so that they don’t get the wood shavings all wet and cause the chicks to catch a chill and die. 

I see tiny feathers sprouting from their backs. They are losing their golden fluff and baby cuteness. My granddaughter holds a yellow chick in her hand and repeats, “awwwww….awwww…” over and over again. The Golden Retriever, intrigued by the sound and smell, tip toes down the basement stairs. He is normally scared out of the basement by a trio of hissing cats. It is their lair. Today he comes over and peeks his head into the circular pen of baby chickens. Then he sees the one the child is holding in her hands, and dives at it with a ‘snap’ of his jaws. She pulls the bird away from him, just in time. 

“Oh!” we say, in unison (including the bird). I collect the tiny creature, smooth its ruffled fluff and tuck it safely back under the heat lamp to gather its wits. The dog was quickly ushered back upstairs, where he will remain for the next few weeks until we move our slightly smelly houseguests out to the shed. 

I’m hoping they grow enough feathers to keep them warm for the nine weeks or so that they will be in the barn. They will be under heat lamps, and big enough to cuddle together without smothering themselves. Still, we never know what kind of weather November will bring, and December can be brutally cold. A nice blanket of snow to insulate the barn from any chilling drafts would be perfect, if I could place an order. 

For now, I have to find a way to keep the chicken coop smell from rising up out of the basement and into the rest of the house. 

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Trying to overcome Imposter Syndrome at the Plowing Match

 As I write this, the plowing match has not yet happened.

Ready, set, plow!  If you have passed by the former Kemptville College grounds lately, you will have noticed a tent city being built. It’s rather impressive how the people behind the International Plowing Match have transferred their model for a successful event to our site, setting up auxiliary power and lighting and facilities to host thousands of people in less than a month of preparation.

I heard the call for volunteers and offered my services close to nine months ago. I was asked to use my experience as MC to assist in the hosting of the Celebration of Excellence – the awards gala. I’ve hosted dozens of events for charities and different organizations so I know the drill – you have to have stories to tell if there are delays, to keep people interested – sometimes a joke or two, and I’ve been known to occasionally break into song (consider yourself warned). However, I don’t believe I have ever hosted an event this LARGE. I’m trying not to get intimidated as I drive slowly past the massive circus tents.

I’ve had imposter syndrome more than once in my time as an Accidental Farmwife (thus the name). Whenever I’m asked to speak at an AGM for a local agricultural society or a group of farmers, I feel a bit dumb. I don’t know how to drive a tractor, for example (tried once on our ancient International but my leg wasn’t strong enough to push the pedals). I’ve never successfully baked a pie or mended torn overalls. I’m allergic to hay. My vegetable gardens, although prolific, have been overtaken with weeds, and I don’t like feeding chickens because they peck my ankles.

Over the past fifteen years, however, I have learned how to raise sheep and cattle. I have rejoiced over their births and cried over their deaths. I have worked hard to keep them comfortable and happy, and felt the determination to find solutions when they were laboring or unwell. I made sure their short lives here were happy and safe. I contributed to the agricultural economy and the foodchain. I guess that makes me a farmer too.

I’ve documented my farming experiences over the past decade and a half in this column, and although we don’t raise animals anymore, I still feel strongly connected to the farm as we watch the corn and soybeans grow through all kinds of weather. Thank you to everyone who takes part in the International Plowing Match in North Grenville – the competitors, the volunteers and the spectators – and thank you for coming!

Now I just have to figure out what hat and boots to wear.

 

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Farm to table: not as easy as it looks

Ok let’s try this again. Last spring we brought some chicks home to raise for our own freezer. Well, they didn’t make it to the freezer. In fact they didn’t even make it to one pound of body weight. Some critter snuck into the shed in the middle of the night and murdered them all. I’m just glad the massacre happened the day AFTER I sent my daughter in there to feed them. I wouldn’t want her to witness that carnage.

This is not the first time we have lost all of our birds to a predator. It seems to be the norm lately, no matter where we house our chicks – in the log cabin, the barn or the shed. We can stuff the cracks, line the pen with chicken wire, and the beasts still get in. It’s probably raccoons. They are extremely dexterous.

In addition to the predators, we have to consider the cold. We are at the end of summer now, and the nights are chilly. We can put heat lamps over the chicks but we have to make sure the drafts are all covered in the shed, or disaster will happen. The chicks will start piling on top of each other to keep warm, smothering one another in the process.

The Farmer has been busy for a few days now, building a new chicken coop in the shed. He has covered the floor of the horse pen with wood shavings. Chicken wire has been pulled across the walls and it forms a ceiling overhead. As I watch, I’m thinking of the video our daughter shared of a raccoon she caught in a live trap. It had been killing her laying hens so it had to go. There, caught on her live cam, was a full sized raccoon, prying the metal cage apart with its tiny hands. After he escaped, he threw the mangled cage to the side, out of his way, and waddled out of the shed into the moonlight. I’m not sure our chicken wire will be able to withstand raccoon hands.

My solution was to bring the chicks into the house, at least until they are a good size. We can fit the chick brooder in the old dog kennel cage. That will keep the chicks safe from curious house cats. They will be sheltered from the elements, and hungry wildlife.

Will this be the year that we manage to raise our chickens successfully? It seems like it has been ages since we were able to fill our freezers with meat we raised ourselves.

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Revisiting my memories

 

 

The view from the picture window of the “Cabin on the Hill” at Bon Echo Provincial Park makes me want to cry. And not just because of the way the sun sets on the 300-foot rock face on fire at the end of the day – a scene that has inspired countless artists to honour its beauty in their work. I get emotional because this particular panorama reminds me of when I was 16 years old, swimming across the lake, climbing that cliff with friends, dining on blueberries and jumping off ledges into the cool, black water below.

I learned to waterski on this lake. My dad never stopped teaching, even during the summer. At 6am he’d wake my sister and me and we would dress quickly to join other puffy-eyed characters on the beach. The water was smooth as a mirror at that time of day. The only sound, an occasional loon call. On a school day, we teens would long for a few extra minutes of sleep. Not at Bon Echo. We were up at the ‘crack of sparrow fart’, ready to start our day.

We ran in packs, to the soundtrack of “Synchronicity” by The Police. At lunchtime we would run home to our respective campsites to scarf down ham and cheese sandwiches or a plate of camper’s charcuterie left behind for us by our parents: cheddar, kolbassa and dill pickles atop Ritz crackers.

Our bellies full, we would head back to the main beach for sunbathing, floating on rafts and spouting the wisdom of young people who would one day rule the world.When the sun finally dipped behind the rock we would pack up our towels and rush home to eat camp dinners with our families: beans and wieners, Kraft dinner with tuna, grilled burgers and corn on the cob. We sped through washing the dishes because at 6pm we were due at the camp ball diamond where Mrs. Watson organized a game six days a week. Our parents brought lawnchairs and socialized on the sidelines. Afterwards we took our sweaty, sandy bodies to the lake for a moonlit swim or headed to the showers to wash up.

Dressing in hoodies, jeans and sneakers, we would meet after dusk at a designated campsite for marshmallows over the fire. Sometimes we played pranks on each other, like waiting until someone had been in the outdoor shower long enough to be fully soaped up – then turning the water off and watching from the bushes as the screaming ensued.

It’s no wonder Bon Echo is one of my favourite places in the world. It’s a magical place on its own but for me it holds a big piece of my childhood.

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Many hands make short work..or something like that

 

 

The noise woke me at around 3am, two nights in a row. It sounded like someone was rolling a large garbage bin down a driveway – except we were at the cottage and we didn’t have a garbage bin. Or a driveway. On the third night I sat straight up in bed, straining to make sense of the weird noise. I have heard squirrels doing construction on a maternity ward in my attic (sounds like tiny hammers and saws), as well as woodpeckers, foxes, loons and raccoons, chattering at each other pre-dawn. This was a new sound though. I talked it over with the Farmer at breakfast.

I struggled to describe the noise I had heard.

“I heard it too! Thought it was thunder at first. Are the raccoons in the recycling again?”

Our Golden Retriever Fergus had also heard the noise. He was up before dawn, pacing, growling and ready to bolt as soon as someone opened the door. Once outside, nose to the ground, he circled the house three times before he gave up, distracted by an enticingly chewable stick.

“No idea. The recycling was untouched. The porch fridge had little muddy handprints on it – a sign that the raccoons had been trying to get into it – but no other evidence of tampering.

Since our new neighbour began removing trees from his property in order to renovate his cottage, we had all kinds of new wildlife visiting our place. Fergus had an unfortunate meeting with a baby porcupine that resulted in a trip to the vet to get six quills removed from his muzzle. When we set live traps to catch the porcupine family (which is a near impossible feat), we caught a mama and teenaged raccoon instead. They are strong enough to bend metal, so we didn’t leave them in there long. I threw a blanket over the cages to stop the coons from snarling and the Farmer sprung the doors with a long pole. Raccoons can be vicious when cornered.

We didn’t relocate the racoons because there were three babies sniffing around the cages and scurrying up the nearest tree. So now we are host to the whole family. They were sitting in the middle of the road the other night when we came home from dinner, playing tug of war with an earthworm. I hope they don’t get hit by a car. People don’t often realize the lasting effects of cutting down an entire acre of mature trees in one go. It doesn’t give the animals long enough to reorient themselves. They wander around dazed and confused for a bit until they find another suitable home.

I thought about this as I approached my compost bin with a load of corn husks. The sliding door on the top of the bin had been pulled open and bent in half. Muddy handprints covered the side of the barrel where tiny hands had worked hard to roll and spring it open. I’m going to have good soil this fall thanks to those raccoons who keep stirring up my compost.

The Farmer is an eternal optimist

 

Farmers hope for the best and prepare for the worst. They are the ultimate optimists. They prepare the soil, plant the seeds and hope the crop will grow, even if it was washed out by floods or shrivelled by drought the year before. And so, the Farmer is buying more chicks, even though our little flock was wiped out last year by some kind of stealthy predator. 

We will do what we can to keep the raccoons out of the chicken coop this year. We will cover the space with chicken wire and install a door that even the most dexterous fingers will not be able to open. We will keep a light on and the radio will play all night. But even then, we might lose a few birds to the coons. Because if they want to get in, they will. 

Of course, theoretically, we can trap and get rid of the raccoons, but they are smarter than most of the traps. So, in the end it is up to luck. We just hope that the raccoons have found something else to eat this year, so they will leave our chickens alone. At least for the 12 weeks that we need to grow them. 

I am not a huge fan of chickens, because they peck my ankles. Every time I go in to feed them, they swarm around my feet and peck me – and we never let their feeders run empty. It isn’t as if they are starving or even hungry. They are just socially awkward. They have no idea how to make friends with the hands that feed them. 

Chickens are also cannibalistic. If one of their lot gets wounded, you have to pick him out and put him in his own quarantined space, or his friends might eat him. How is that for nature at its most brutal? Disgusting. I prefer turkeys. They are polite, softly cooing around you as you fill their feeders. They also respond in unison sing-song gobbles when you speak to them. Turkeys are cool. 

Last year after our flock was destroyed, we were left with a handful of chickens and one lone turkey. After the chickens went to market, Turkey Lurkey was alone. We gave him to our daughter who raises laying hens and she snuck him into her coop under cover of darkness. When the sun came up the next morning he was pretty much accepted into the fold. We ate him for Easter. 

Growing your own food is risky business, but it’s worth it (I say as I watch my husband roll out the chicken wire, from my safe vantage point on the porch).

Not my Donkey, not my circus

 

For those people who messaged me, worried that my donkey may have been on the loose over the weekend, thank you but it was not my beast of burden. Our donkey was shipped out years ago when we found a new home for our sheep.

Of course, I’m not sure what farm he calls home at the moment. If he is still in the area, it could very well be the same donkey who used to earn his keep watching over the sheep at our farm. He sure did enjoy a springtime escape and walkabout.

One foggy morning a few years ago, I was headed down the road to work when the pre-dawn mist cleared in front of me to reveal two big butts. The little grey one belonged to Donkey and the big gold one belonged to our Belgian horse, Misty.

I slammed on the brakes and climbed out of the car to give chase. I tried running circles around them like a sheepdog and then I remembered that Donkey would do just about anything for an apple. I went back to the kitchen and grabbed a few. Within about ten minutes I had the two of them back in the barnyard, safely secured. I even made it to work on time.

I think Donkey could get out of just about any gate if he really put his mind to it. He would spend hours nibbling at locks and chains with his dexterous lips, using them like fingers. Sometimes he got out and visited the horses down the road. Many times I would glance up and find him calmly nibbling the flowers in my garden.

Occasionally Donkey used his powers for good. One night at dusk he broke through the yard gate and came to the kitchen window. It was getting dark, but I saw the whites of his eyes. I don’t know what his next plan would have been if I hadn’t seen him.

When we went outside, Donkey headed off down the field at a clip. That’s when we noticed the sheep weren’t in the barnyard. We jumped on the ATV and followed Donkey, who led us to the sheep in the back pasture. They had climbed through a hole in the fence but when dark fell, they couldn’t find their way back out. As we opened the gate and Donkey led them back up to the barn, we could hear the eerie choir of coyotes singing behind us.

That rescue gained Donkey a few points, but the next day he erased them by wandering over to the neighbour’s house and peering in her patio door as she sipped her coffee.

We had a sheepdog and a dogsheep

 

There once was a sheep who thought she was a dog. When Gracie was born, her mother either died or rejected her – I can’t remember which – sad stories are best forgotten on the farm. Luckily, she took to the bottle right away. She also learned to steal from other ewes when they had their heads in the feeder and weren’t paying full attention to who was under their udder. She wasn’t a dumb sheep, by any means. But she did have a very vacant look on her face. It was like a perma-smile. She never looked alarmed or sad – just happy. All the time.

While most lambs totally forgot about me as soon as they were turned out of the barn onto the fresh new meadow, Gracie had total recall. All I had to do was shake a pail of sweet feed or call her name and she would come running, bleating her excitement. I think she eventually got used to the sound of my rubber boots crunching across the gravel. You didn’t have to call for very long. Gracie was never very far away and she would let complete strangers pet her.

Gracie was also a bit of a show stealer. She loved the spotlight. I gave a presentation at the Literary Follies one year and my daughter held Gracie in the wings off stage. When I pulled a baby bottle out of my bag and clicked my tongue Gracie was released and came bouncing across the stage to be held and fed in my lap.

Years later, Gracie was part of the local Christmas Parade. She seemed to be smiling at everyone from atop the float. If she could wave, she would. Her little stub tail was wagging, like the dog she thought she was.

When we decided to get out of sheep farming, I just couldn’t say goodbye to Gracie. I kept her for a bit longer. The donkey and horse let her join them on their daily walks, and the three of them looked like the Bremen Town Musicians. At night, though, they stood while Gracie lay on the cold ground. She didn’t have her comrades to keep her warm any longer. I decided it was time to let her go to a nearby farm where they also had sheep. Donkey went with her, to guard the flock.

I heard that Gracie eventually found her calling, entertaining residents at a seniors’ home in the area. What a great idea, to have a bit of a hobby farm on site where many former farmers could visit or even help to take care of the animals. I’m sure Gracie basked in the attention.

Springtime on the farm is good for the soul

My first lambing season on the farm was January of 2008. That was the same month that my father died, after a brief but intense bout of pancreatic cancer. The numbness that tends to plague many of us in the winter months was intensified for me because of this loss. I was also fairly overwhelmed with the emotional involvement of lambing – the adrenalin, the worry, and the sadness when a newborn doesn’t make it; the utter delight when you see one thriving and bounding around the pen like a springbok.

I barely remember that winter. It’s all a blur.

Springtime, however, was another story. After eight weeks, it was time to let the first lambs out onto the new green shoots of grass that were poking through the last few puddles of snow. We opened the doors to the pens, and the first of the brood poked their heads out into the aisle. Seeing an escape route, the rowdier ones pushed them on from behind. Soon everyone was at the door to the barn, waiting for me to open it. They poked their noses at the cracks in the door, the sunlight peeking through.

As I slid the door open, bright sunshine beamed in and blinded the lambs who were used to the filtered rays of the pen. They shook their tiny, bobbed tails and blinked. Then, one tentative hoof on the concrete ramp. Oh! It makes a tapping noise. Tap, tap, tap. She did a little dance and spun around. Her cousin followed. A tiny mosh pit of lambs was created on the ramp before the first ewe stepped out, stretched her neck up to the sun and gave them a good shove out of her way.

Once on the grass, the lambs seemed energized with a sudden high voltage. They sniffed, bleated, jumped and ran. Some, realizing they had lost their mothers on the outside of the pen, began to run around in circles, butting udders with their heads, in a desperate search for something familiar. They were repeatedly nudged away until, finally, they found the ewe that belonged to them.

The ones that had been on the bottle sometimes needed a top-up at the end of the day, when we brought them back inside. For the most part, though, they forgot all about me. Life was suddenly so much bigger than the soft hay in the lambing pen and the warm sweetness of milk.

Watching those lambs celebrating life helped me to remember that our difficult seasons come and go. Life is a cycle, and death is just one tiny part of it.

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No arachnophobes in this house

 

When I travelled to Australia, I made the mistake of reading the Lonely Planet’s guide to the most poisonous animals on the continent. For the first week I had trouble venturing outside as a result – until someone told me that you are just as likely to find a funnel web spider or carpet snake inside as out. That information came in handy when I found out that the thumping in the wall behind my bed was actually a harmless carpet snake climbing up to the loft, where she would slither inside, coil herself around the rafter and spend the night.

It was also helpful to learn that the larger huntsman spiders tend to be harmless. There certainly were enough of them, in the garage and under the sun visor of our SUV, ready to pop out and surprise us at any moment (once our startled driver almost went off the road). I also met the shower spider when I was in Brisbane. When the power went out, I showered the sea salt off myself in virtual darkness. At first, I thought the fuzzy thing that had fallen onto my foot was a facecloth. Until it moved.

When I’m frightened, I go completely silent. I got out of the shower and without drying off, wrapped a towel around myself and opened the door to the kitchen. My host and his uncle were sitting there on the couch, drinking beer. “Did you meet Harry, then?” they asked.

That introduction to the wild world of arachnids was good practice for me, when I became a cottage owner. Otherwise, I might have been a bit put off when I realized a family of wolf spiders (cousins to the huntsman) had taken up residence in the closet. They introduced themselves one day when I was sitting at my desk, by skittering across my laptop keyboard. They made me jump, then they jumped themselves. They are actually kind of cute and they do eat other bugs (like the dreaded mosquito) – but I swept them outside anyway.

The other day I realized that there is a daddy longlegs on the ceiling above our shower. It seems to be catching ladybugs, so I let it remain. The ladybugs are terrible pests – I vacuum or wipe them off the window every day, but they still find their way into my bed – and my water bottle – most nights.

Then the Farmer pointed out that the daddy long legs has a wife. And she appears to be nesting. I don’t mind sharing my bathroom with one bug-eating spider, but I’m not sure I want a whole clutter in there, watching me shower.

Even the robin's flight south was cancelled

 

 

I was walking Fergus down the road the other day when he stopped and stared up at a tree. I followed his line of sight up to one of the fattest robins I have ever seen. Even the dog seemed to think it strange to see a robin here in January. Worms are frozen this time of year, yes? I look forward to seeing the first robin every spring, as a harbinger of warm weather and the end to winter. Don’t tell me we have totally messed up bird nature with climate change too.

I’ve seen other people in Eastern Ontario posting photos of robin sightings online. Apparently there are quite a few of them that decided to stay for the winter. Someone even caught a picture of a robin fishing in the open river for a minnow. I did some research and this is what I found out.

Robins are nomadic, so while they may have left your property, they may not have flown south. In the colder month their diet has to change, so they will relocate to a place where they can find berries or fallen apples. And they aren’t actually fat – the bird I saw was likely doing something called “rousing” – a fluffing of the feathers for optimal warmth. Robins have more than one layer of feathers, so they can trap warm air next to the body, to stay dry and warm in winter.

According to most online sources, there isn’t much you can do to help robins in winter. If food becomes scarce, they will simply move on. They won’t eat from your birdfeeder because they have learned that food is found in shrubs or on the ground. You might try leaving out some suet, berries, raisins or chopped apples. But they are pretty good at fending for themselves.

Someone else suggested a warm bird bath might be helpful, because the robin spends most of its energy in winter shivering to stay warm. If it had warm water to drink, this might help.

I don’t know who to believe with this conflicting information, so I’ve got all bases covered. I’ve put out some suet and berries, and my warm water bird bath should be here next week. I just hope it doesn’t attract every member of the winter animal kingdom. I don’t want to look out the kitchen window and see a coyote out there enjoying the spa.

The main cohort of robins is expected to return right on schedule in spring when the ground melts and worms can be found again. That’s one mystery solved. Now what about that huge murder of crows?

The gold chain

My dad was a snappy dresser. He was the last generation of public-school teachers to wear a suit to work, every day. He never wore running shoes because he had no intention of running. His sweatpants never made it outside the house. He ironed his jeans. He wasn’t fond of jewellery, except for his thick gold wedding band, and a flat serpentine chain. 

When my dad passed away in January 2008 after just four months of illness, we were all in shock and struggling to face a world without his huge presence in it. I decided to throw myself into a new challenge at work and found the learning curve quite steep. I needed quiet, so I could focus. Mom had gone to Florida with friends, and the house was empty. I packed a lunch and brought my work there. I spread my files out on the coffee table and opened up my laptop. I sat quietly on the couch and closed my eyes. The house hummed with the energy that our family had embedded in its walls over the previous twenty years. I felt a sense of total comfort and support, as if he was still there, sitting in his favourite armchair to my right, answering my questions and encouraging me. My mind was clear and the words came easily as my fingers flew across the keyboard. My focus on that first assignment was laser sharp. The work led me into a whole new path in my career. I doubled my salary overnight and began making what my writing was worth – for the first time in my life. 

A year later I had taken on yet another challenge, as project manager on a documentary film project. It was completely out of my realm of professional experience, but I felt pushed and supported by the trust of the Indigenous group that had requested me on the assignment. As we packed our bags to head up to Northern Quebec, I realized I didn’t have a suitable jacket for the damp chill of springtime in the North. I borrowed one from my Mom. 

As I walked out on the frozen Rupert River to assist our film crew on that chilly April morning, I slid my hand into the pocket of Mom’s coat. My fingers closed around something, and I pulled it out to take a closer look. I recognized it immediately as the gold chain that my father wore continually in summer. It had been polished to a shine by the leather of his tanned neck. I put it around my own, under my scarf. I felt him walking with me as I stepped out confidently onto the ice. 

It took my mother a couple years until she was ready to bury my father’s ashes. His remains are on a soft hillside overlooking the creek in Oxford Mills. We have found deer prints there occasionally, near his headstone. He would like that. But I don’t feel his presence there, so I don’t visit the site often. I can’t visit the old house anymore either, as it has been sold and my mother has moved on. Now, when I want to feel close to my dad, I wear his gold chain. 

I realize it would be unwise to form an attachment to this inanimate token of my father’s memory, because that would just lead to my losing it. I need to find other ways to keep his memory alive, before I forget the sound of his voice, the tilt of his smile, the touch of his hand and the glint in his blue-green eyes.

Remembering Larry / Grandpa / Dad, and keeping him alive in our hearts

 

Larry Andrew Alan Leeson

September 4, 1941 - January 14, 2008

It’s been fourteen years since we said goodbye to a very special person.

He wasn’t a saint. He wasn’t always easy to live with. But he loved teaching, laughing, dancing, and driving. And he lives on in the memory of so many. If we could, we would pass these messages on to him today.

Hi Dad, 

We keep hearing your favourite song "Rasputin" and catch ourselves mimicking your dance moves along to the music. 

We still have dreams of you where you are helping us to be good moms - where you would have been a great grandpa, and Dad. 

Miss you so much. ~Cathy.

Dad,

I keep hearing funny stories about you – so I’m writing them down before I forget them. I hope you don’t mind – I might turn them into a book someday. There are more than a few life lessons in there for all of us. From you, I learned to follow my heart and do my best. I learned to notice that everyone is good at something, so we shouldn’t compare. I learned that if someone gets the courage to ask you for something, you should give it to them, if you can afford to. And if someone asks you to dance, dance.

I love you, Dad. ~Dee.

Dear Larry,

Wow!  Fourteen years since you left us; the years are going by so quickly now.  

Your family of five generations misses you and we talk about you often, your favourite music and crazy sayings, so the younger ones will know you too.

During this pandemic, I have felt so grateful to be living comfortably in my own home and with wonderful memories of our43-plus years together ... raising our two beautiful daughters, building homes, boating, snowmobiling, travelling.  Thanks for spurring me on so often to make those life-changing decisions that make my life what it is today.

You were one of a kind and will always be loved.  

Maureen

 

 

What is your WOTY for 2022?

 

Many different organizations around the world declare a Word of the Year for different purposes. Usually it’s the word that has had the greatest impact on the population. The Merriam Webster Word of the Year for 2022 is: VACCINE. In 2021, the word was PANDEMIC.

Well, those words may indeed be the stars of the search engines these days, for many different reasons. But I prefer to choose my own personal Word of the Year each January as a positive guidepost of sorts. It’s my form of New Year’s Resolution.

In the past, I have chosen words like: Present (to remind me to stay focused on the here and now, instead of getting caught up in things that have already happened or worrying about what is to come); Less (as a reminder that I already have more than enough, so why eat / drink / buy more? Except where books are concerned, of course – you can never have too many books); and Listen (another way to stay present and grounded, as I work to develop my grandmothering skills). This year, I have chosen a word that will remind me to make time for my favourite lifelong pastime, because it brings me joy and relieves stress.

As a little girl, I kept a daily journal. I had the traditional kind with the tiny lock and key. Each evening I listed things like what I ate, what I wore, who I saw, who hurt my feelings, and what new song I heard on the radio. Into my teen years I secretly listed the names of the boys I liked, while carefully recording the fashion and hairstyle details of the girls I admired. I didn’t write with any particular goal in mind. I certainly wasn’t planning to publish my journals some day. And yet, I wrote. If not every night, then at least every week, without fail.

Journaling helped to keep my brain organized. It was like a data dump of worries and concerns that allowed me to clear my head so I could sleep soundly. I found it especially helpful when I was a young mother. Sometimes at the end of the year I burned my journals, as a symbol of a hopeful change in direction for the year to come.

Over the years as I took on writing professionally, I let my journaling habit fall by the wayside. This year I have been gifted a brand new journal and I plan to use it. Who knows? Someone might find my notes interesting in the future, after I’m gone. My word of the year is WRITE.

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2021: The Farmwife Year in Review

 

Well they say we should never look back but I always like to do a quick review as one year ends and another begins.

As 2021 began we were in the thick of quarantine and isolation from loved ones. The upside to this, if there is one, is that we rediscovered The Great Canadian Winter. My memories of January and February are about meeting family and friends at the toboggan hill, burning Christmas trees in a fragrant bonfire, and skating down a winding forest trail. We bundled up, poured the cocoa, and made the best of it. It looks like I will be dusting off the snowpants again this year.

As the snow melted and the calendar pages flipped we braced ourselves for another wave in the spring. Two of our daughters’ households were hit with Covid and we held our breath until they made it through, virtually unscathed. Our Easter gathering was cancelled and schools closed, but we managed to get out to the dog park often so that we could see each other.

For Mother’s Day, my daughters surprised me with a picnic in the back meadow. We had charcuterie and mimosas on quilts surrounded by dandelions, under a sky of rolling clouds. I might request that again this year – it was more fun than a restaurant reservation.

In May I started a new job that allows me to work from home permanently. Like many others during this pandemic, I have taken stock of my priorities and made changes to reduce the stress that comes from getting up before dawn to commute to the city. I can also shift my working hours to accommodate personal time with grandchildren. This has deeply enriched my quality of life, and I truly believe it has led to improved health and quality of sleep.

We spent the summer at the cottage. My family bought me a kayak for my birthday, and the Ferg and I enjoyed many leisurely paddles around the lake. The cabin was a great retreat from the pandemic, and I became a happy recluse.

In the fall we were able to host our traditional large Thanksgiving gathering at the farm. I am really glad that we were able to do this safely, because I had really missed our extended family over the past 18 months.

Christmas 2021 was once again held outside in the stable but hey – that’s where it all began isn’t it? We might keep at least part of that as our holiday tradition going forward. Everyone seems to enjoy a hot drink beside a campfire in the snow.

Now that we have made it safely through another pandemic year, we are ready to launch ourselves (masked) into 2022.

Wishing you and your family a Very Happy – and Healthy - New Year!

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