Take your bad romance elsewhere

The RCMP reports that the Canadian Anti-Fraud Centre received 1,249 complaints of romance scams in 2021. That doesn’t count the victims who were too embarrassed to report what had happened to them. The total amount lost over those 1,249 complaints? Fifty million dollars. Most of us have been targeted by a romance scammer through social media or email. It starts with a friendly message or simple connection request from a stranger. You click on their profile, they appear to be legit, maybe they even have some interests in common with you. But look a little closer. Do you have any friends in common? How did they come across your profile? Do they have more than a dozen posts on their page or is it something new that they just set up? Is their profile a common name with an underscore and string of numbers? Most people come up with a more unique and individual profile handle. If it looks like a name that a robot could have generated, you should see red flags waving. Most victims of romance scams tend to be people who don’t use social media often. Maybe they don’t even use their email very much. So when someone starts an online friendship with them, they are easily duped. And the scammers are getting smarter. They will create profiles using stock photos of good looking people, male or female. Once they make a connection with a target, they explain that they travel a great deal for work or they live many miles away, so they can’t possibly meet in person (this last part could be very true, by the way. Your scammer is quite often part of an organized crime ring in somewhere like Nigeria). After a few weeks or even months of cultivating a romance online, when they feel their target is sufficently involved in the relationship, the scammer will pull the trigger and ask for money. They will say they need it for a medical emergency for someone in their family, or even to pay for a travel visa so that they can come and meet their online sweetheart, and start a new life together. I have never been in a position to fall for one of these schemes, but I have accused real people of being scammers in my paranoid skepticism. And I have met a victim of a romance scam, a nice farmer in the States, who rarely used his computer. When he did, he met someone via email who used my photo and name to con him out of tens of thousands of dollars, all in the name of love. -30-

Raising women in the age of Barbie

 

I was a fan of Barbie when I was young. I had an old apple basket that I used to transport my dolls. I would bring them to the backyard where I would imagine they lived in treehouses (in the boxwood hedge we had around our yard). Occasionally there was danger, when G.I. Joe arrived with the help of the boys in the neighbouring yard. Joe was far too aggressive for Barbie’s liking.

Being a brunette myself, I was always on the lookout for dark-haired Barbies. I remember getting scolded for misappropriating a certain doll from a friend’s house, and having to return it to its rightful owner. I do not remember thinking that I should aspire to look like Barbie when I grew up. That never crossed my mind. It was a ridiculous idea. She had no curves to speak of. She was plastic. She was a doll. I didn’t imagine I was expected to try to look like my Dawn doll either.

I was, instead, a victim of the airbrushing era of the 1980s supermodel in beauty and fashion magazines. But that is another story.

I remember being told that I could grow up to be “whatever I wanted”. I can’t remember who told me that (perhaps a teacher) but I believed them. I had no reason not to believe them. I competed for highest marks with the boys in my class. I often won. I felt I was being treated equally.

And yet, as I matured, I realized that something weird was going on. Slowly but surely, society began to carve out an image for me and my girlfriends. We were expected to act, dress, walk and talk a certain way. We weren’t supposed to be too loud, ambitious, competitive, or victorious. And that wasn’t necessarily coming from the men. Our female mentors, teachers, club leaders and coaches also advised us on society’s expectation of a nice, young lady.

I’m telling you it held us back. Made us falter when we should have spoken out against injustice, harrassment, maybe even assault. Had us questioning our instincts and doubting our own abilities when we were developing and daring to pursue our dreams. Society told us, in so many soft little whispers, that we were wrong. That it would be too hard.

Now, every chance I get, I encourage my daughters and granddaughters to trust their instincts and listen to their gut. To try new things, and find what gives them joy. I hope they will do those things, because the world needs more Barbies who have busted out of their boxes. The world needs more joy.

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Pictured: Dawn doll "Lily" circa 1972

Festival season has begun

 

Well that was the show of a lifetime. I have loved Shania Twain for about 25 years now, and I finally got to see her in person, at Ottawa Bluesfest. The lovely surprise was that this megastar is so down to earth, you feel like you are watching a smalltown musician’s performance on a school auditorium stage. She just exudes “Ontario girl” when she performs, giggling along and never taking herself too seriously. She brings a touch of Vegas to this show, however, with her impressive light show and graphic video special effects that transform the stage into Twain Town Saloon.

I love that this 57-year-old mega superstar is just like me – reinventing her look at every opportunity to play dress-up. Heck, if I was on stage 5 times a week I would wear a different outfit and a new wig each time too. It doesn’t mean she isn’t happy with her looks. She just likes to have fun. And I love that she created all of those costumes herself, by just going through her closet and redesigning pieces that she already had.

The songs were right on point too. Every tune was just as recorded, just as expected. Yes, Shania has in recent years lost some of her singing ability due to trauma in her vocal chords from Lyme disease and she may have been singing along to her own vocal track at some points but that doesn’t bother me. It’s still Shania. And she has been performing live, several times a week, in different cities each time. That has got to put some strain on the voice, and the body.

All in all, it was a good show – and it more than lived up to my expectations after reading so many harsh reviews. What I wouldn’t give a good review to, however, is RBC Ottawa Bluesfest itself in its handling of this oversold event. With a capacity of 30,000, the LeBreton Flats space had trouble accommodating the extra 5,000 people that were sold tickets on opening night for Shania. About an hour before the 9pm show began, the gates flew open, security stopped checking tickets and bags, and they even allowed people to scale the fence, because there were so many people inside, you could barely squeeze in past the electronic turnstiles.

You’ve got to do better, Bluesfest. I am glad you are bringing in these big names but you have to move to a bigger venue, just on the edge of town, where your happy crowds can spill out into the surrounding fields without issue. Maybe partner with the Hard Rock Café on the south edge of town. Your fans deserve to be safe and comfortable.

The Class of 2023: One for the history books

 

 

Another year, another graduation ceremony. For fifteen years now, my mother, sister and I have been presenting an award in my father’s name to a deserving student who is truly interested in science. As I sat there this year, watching one student after another shaking hands, or enthusiastically hugging or clapping the back of their young principal, I realized that something was different. There was an unusual vibe permeating the festivities.

The grads were dressed creatively, as per usual, with each one attempting to shine in their own individual spotlight. Of course, one or two were trying to blend into the crowd, but most were taking the opportunity to express themselves. They left their grad robes open in front, to expose their brightly patterned tropical shirts and shorts, their flip flops or cowboy boots. I swear I even saw the telltale red soles of a pair of Christian Louboutin designer stiletto heels.

Last year we were asked to ‘hold the applause’ until the end of a group of graduates. That didn’t work very well. This year the organizers just let us clap at will. Some students illicited hoots and hollers from their biggest fans and closest friends. Things proceeded in a fairly orderly manner, but there was a really casual tone to the event.

As one young man accepted his diploma, instead of returning to his graduating class, he kept right on going out the exit door. He called back to one of his friends, “Steve! Come on!” But Steve did not follow. The teachers just smiled. The principal shrugged.

Maybe they played “Pomp and Circumstance” as the class filed in, maybe they didn’t. I don’t recall. But it was definitely more like a house party than a convocation ceremony. And that’s fine. I mean, who am I to judge? As I contemplated this, I realized that this was a very special graduating class. This particular class started in the fall of 2019 – a mere six months before the worldwide pandemic hit, forever changing what their high school careers would look like.

They learned how to complete Grade 9 and 10 in virtual classrooms. By the end of Grade 11 in 2022, the smoke was beginning to clear. But they had been changed forever. These resilient, resourceful students had found a way to succeed in an impossible situation. Dozens of them graduated as Ontario Scholars, with an average over 80 percent. There were remarkable students in the group, winning thousands of dollars in scholarships and awards.

Yes, some students barely made it through. But perhaps they learned far more about themselves than a textbook could ever teach them. And now they go out into the world to teach the rest of us.

June is a month to be proud

In case you missed it, June is Pride month. This is the month where we provide a platform and space for members of the LGBTQ2SIA+ community to speak up, support each other, and educate the rest of us on what it is like for them to face daily challenges just by being their authentic selves.

I was born and raised in a small town, by a school teacher and an administrator. We didn’t have many people in our community who identified as gay – at least not openly – but I feel I was raised with a healthy sense of acceptance and an open mind. I can’t say the same for some in my community – and I’m not sure what they are using as an excuse. Perhaps they were raised by bigots, or they aren’t aware of what the Pride movement truly stands for – or maybe they are just afraid of things they don’t understand.

It’s still a shock to me when I hear someone say there should be a Straight parade as well. Educated people. People who should know better. Straight people have not been criticized, ridiculed, discriminated against, bullied or even physically attacked and killed for their lifestyle. That is why we have Pride. Because everyone deserves to live authentically, as their true selves, free from hate. The world would be so boring without all of those rainbow colours.

Gender expression is one thing, and sexuality is another. It can get complicated and confusing if you try to put labels on people. I have learned it is best to let people introduce themselves. They will tell you what you need to know about them. Everything else is their own private business.

I took part in this year’s Pride parade for the first time, along with my theatre group. As I marched, I noticed my former junior high teacher on the sidelines. When she caught my eye, she put one hand on the shoulder of the woman beside her, and one hand over her heart. She was introducing me to her sweetheart. After all these years her private life had been just that. Private. That moment was the highlight of my day.

The perfect ending to the day was a Pride comedy event at Bubba and Bugs, our local café and safe place for the LGBT+ community. They will also host Queer Prom this month, so that those who feel they don’t fit in at their school prom can still celebrate their graduation with someone they love, on their own terms.

To learn more about how to support someone in the LGBT+ community, visit https://pflagcanada.ca/.

I am proud of how my little community is progressing in acceptance and pride – but we do have far to grow.

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The peanut butter in the sandwich

My mother is a wonder. Not only is she a reliable, dependable and devoted mother, ready to spring to action the instant my sister or I ask for help, she is also a dedicated daughter. She is the proverbial peanut butter in the sandwich, holding the team together with her strength and love. 

My mother’s mother passed away at the age of 102, a few years back. The last few years of Grandma Vicky’s life, Mom spent nearly day at her side, taking care of her basic needs, ensuring she had everything she would require to be comfortable and happy in her cozy room, even playing (and purposely losing) cards for hours. Mom generously gave of her time, energy and resources until Grandma decided to bid the world adieu.

Then it was my other Grandma’s turn to need some support. A few scares with high blood pressure and a tumble or two made Mom realize that Grandma needed someone to check in on her each day. My mother spends a large amount of her time there, now, making sure pills are taken and Grandma is feeling ok. We just celebrated her 100^th birthday in February.

I have no doubt my mother will live to be 100. She is coming to the end of her 70’s looking and acting decades younger. What keeps her young? It could be the two litres of water she tries to drink every day, her daily walks, her weekly exercise class, or maybe it’s her evening glass of white wine for medicinal purposes. But honestly, I think it’s her optimistic spirit, her generous heart, her love of laughter and her tendency to dance around the room when she hears a favourite tune that keeps her healthy and happy. I hope I have inherited some of her joie de vivre too. She never complains about the number of miles or hours she puts in to looking after the rest of us. Because her heart is involved. She wouldn’t have it any other way. And I know exactly what that feels like.

I know what it’s like to get a call in the pre-dawn hours about a sick grandchild who needs daycare, or someone else who needs to borrow a vehicle or a few bucks until payday. I am a busy mom and grandma, and consider it a true privilege that my children know they can turn to me for help.

And someday, when it’s my turn, I will be ready to look after my mom too, the way she looked after me, my children, and even my grandchildren.  I will take my place in the middle of the sandwich.

 

Happy Mother’s Day to all the Mothers out there.

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The play's the thing

The first play I remember being in was “School Days”, in Grade 6. I played the schoolteacher. I had to sing a song about students and their excuses for not doing their homework. I still remember the song. Our play director was also the choir director. He taught me how to project my voice to the back of the room. I was on the front page of the Advance on opening night!

I was bitten by the acting bug, to be sure. Moving into junior high and then on into high school, I was in the play every year. Sometimes I had a supporting role, but more often than not, I had a lead part. (I could project my voice, after all.) Only two of the plays stand out in my memory: “The Children’s Hour” (an edgy, progressive piece about two female schoolteachers accused of a romantic relationship, set in 1934) and “The Farm Show” (performance art and skits – I played the grandma standing in her washer, showing off her photo albums and delivering a lengthy monologue on family).

I loved the camaraderie of the cast. For weeks and months leading up to the performance dates, we learned our lines, developed our blocking and practiced reacting to each other. It was exciting to watch it all come together. Opening night was almost a let down, because it meant our fun was almost over.

Flash forward close to 40 years. I went to the NAC to see the musical “Come From Away” with my husband. At the end of it I was on my feet, laughing and cheering, with tears streaming down my face. I realized how much I missed being part of something like that. So, I signed up for the North Grenville Community Theatre’s spring production. Lucky for me, they had someone drop out and the part of Lady Catherine was available. It is a minor role, so I don’t have to test my powers of midlife memory too much.

First written in 1902, “The Admirable Crichton” is a story about the family of a manor house and their servants. The group goes on what is meant to be a short trip but they are caught in a storm and their yacht sinks. They end up on a desert island, where it soon becomes apparent that the serving class is far more equipped for survival than the Lord of the Manor and his daughters. It’s kind of a twist between Downton Abbey and Gilligan’s Island. Tickets are available online and will soon be at the B&H. We are on stage at The Urbandale Arts Centre May 24-28! Come on out and enjoy some community theatre.

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Recycling: a Chinese New Year Tradition

Welcome to the Year of the Rabbit! While 2022, Year of the Tiger, was about energy and getting things done, 2023 on the Chinese Zodiac calendar is meant to be one of reflection and relaxation. Well, I’m all for that. But allow me to add another “R” word: Recycling.

Every Chinese New Year, I get the urge to clean out things I no longer need. This is likely a leftover tradition from when I lived in Asia, where people were encouraged to clean out the old and bring in the new, both at work and at home.

As the inhabitants of a rather large farmhouse with many closets and empty rooms, we are the recipients of the castoff furniture and clothing of many of our family members. I am feeling the urge to get rid of some of these things, as they still have use but not for us. My plan is to ask on our family chat if anyone wants these things and then I will put them up for grabs on Marketplace or some other local Facebook page.

This year I will be saying goodbye to: books I did not enjoy (but someone else might); a baby stroller that isn’t great on my dirt road (more for town dwellers); a bassinet; several baby chairs; an assortment of baby toys; and clothes that no longer fit me. Getting unwanted clothes away from my husband is something I gave up on a while ago. He likes to keep things, even if there is little to no chance of ever fitting into them again.

I also need to say goodbye to multiple serving platters, dishes, teacups and oddly shaped plates that I will never use. They came here when my father-in-law moved out of his home and we inherited about 60 years worth of stuff. It can go, along with the Christmas-themed decorations and tchotchkes that came from who knows where. They haven’t made it out of the basement for over 5 years, so they need to vanish.

I know it will take at least a whole weekend to sort these things into a pile in my basement, take photos of each item and post online – but I will be so relieved to see them go. If no one wants them, they are headed to the Score or the Salvation Army – where they will no doubt find a good home. While I’m there I will likely find a few bags of new things to put in my basement – where they will sit for a few years until it is their turn to leave. That seems to be my version of recycling. Works for me.

 

Remembering Dad / Larry / Grandpa on the 15th anniversary of his leaving.

Dear Larry, 

Today I am thinking of the fifty years we spent together and I am so grateful for the memories and our family. 

You are an unforgettable, one-of-a-kind, man who will always be remembered by all who knew you. 

There's a saying that "a life that touches others will go on forever" ... and you touched so many. We are still hearing stories from former students of your impact on their lives, and every June we give your award to two high school graduates going on to further studies in science. 

Your family misses you and keeps your memory alive by sharing your stories and funny sayings.  You will certainly be missed this February when we celebrate your mother's 100th birthday but I know your presence will be felt as we show photos of you. 

R.I.P. Thumper!  You will always be in my heart.  Love, Maureen  XXOO

 

Dear Dad:

“It’s been 15 years now and I still dream of you. I feel your presence in significant moments in my life. I miss you and wish you were here to guide me.”

“Oh, I miss my Dad.” It doesn’t take much. The tears still come easily. Followed by that feeling of a bowling ball rolling to the centre of my gut. An empty space you once occupied. You were my assurance, my reminder, my steadiness.”

We all remember you in different ways, Dad. When we hear a snowmobile ripping by on the trail. When we eat Habitant soup. When we see someone laugh so hard that they go silent, with tears running down their beautiful smile.

Grandpa:

“I had a dream and you were in it. You were in jeans and a crisp button-down shirt, sitting at a picnic table with Grandma. There was a street party going on and you were on the sidelines, observing, blue can of beer in your hand.”

“Grandpa would LOVE this snow.” He loved winter. The chance to race across a cornfield on his Yamaha.

"She has his smile, and his sense of humour." 

We haven't forgotten. It's impossible to forget such a big presence in our lives. Fifteen years. Fifteen minutes. You are still here.

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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