The Farmer starts a new project

The Farmer and I are alike in that we like to keep busy. We don’t bore easily, and we appreciate quiet time, but we seem to enjoy always having at least two jobs going at once. Now that he is retired from teaching he is quite busy as a real estate agent, and then of course we do have a beef cattle farm. But apparently that isn’t enough. He likes having somewhere to go every morning, so now he has a new project. He is going to build a log cabin.

It all started when I invited some friends over for dinner. The discussion came around to a surplus of cedar logs that our friend had on his property. I could see the wheels in my husband’s head beginning to turn. This man loves to build things. We have four-foot tall dollhouses in our basement that he built with his own hands. They were big enough for Sarah and Amy to sit inside when they were younger. They have proper wooden shingles and one of them is covered in artificial stone.

We also have a miniature playhouse outside that is quickly becoming an art installation, as it disintegrates into the earth. I have pointed out that a more urgent project might be repairing the floor on that structure so that our grandchild doesn’t injure herself in it. His reply was, “She’s small. I have a few years before I need to worry about that.” (So if you bring small children over to visit, beware the broken-down playhouse. I don’t think the staircase inside is safe either.)

My husband has built four houses, restored an old farmhouse and he has also built a couple of birch-bark canoes by hand. He is happiest when he is covered in sawdust, breathing in the smell of fresh-cut wood. He has a bunch of wood-working equipment but I just saw the Lee Valley tools catalogue arrive so I suspect he will be getting more. That makes Father’s Day and his birthday easy this year: gift certificates so the carpenter can go shopping.

The Farmer went out to survey the log collection. A deal was struck, and plans were made to trailer the wood to our house. Now he spends his evening studying a book on how to build a log cabin. I may pull up YouTube on the big screen and find him some DIY videos but I’m pretty sure he prefers to learn the old-fashioned way, by trial and error. He never follows the recipe when he cooks, either, and his meals always taste amazing.

I asked him where he was going to install his new cabin. I imagined he might want to use it as a cabin in the woods. A getaway man-cave for when I’ve got the house over-run with children and grandchildren.

“I can’t put it in the field with the cattle,” he explained. “They will poop all over it.”

I laughed, and then I remembered the year we had the cattle stuck in the log barn beside the chicken coop. They loved it in there. It was small enough that if they wedged themselves inside, it was cool and the bugs actually left them alone. We couldn’t keep them out of there and they kept pushing on the walls, threatening to heave the heritage building off its foundation. Eventually we had to nail a door on the outside to keep the out. They were most disappointed when they discovered it. Much mooing ensued.

No, the Farmer says he is going to build a log cabin on the front lawn. Well that sounds nice. Our grandchildren can use it as a play house. Or maybe I can put a bar and stereo and lounge in there and call it a party shack. I haven’t told him my plans yet. I will let him happily build it before I give him my suggestions. I’m sure they will be well received.

As we say goodbye to 2015 and hello to 2016, take a moment to reflect on how much has changed in the past twelve months, and brace yourself for the next. We can’t choose our future but we can choose how we are going to react to it. Enjoy every moment and try to slow life down a bit. All the best, from me and the Farmer.

Order your copy of “The Accidental Farmwife” book by Email: Dianafisher1@gmail.com

Choosing a Christmas tradition

Well this has been an interesting month. First, our grandchild is born a month early. Then, my book is ready months ahead of schedule. Two babies in one month. I’m so excited my head might explode.

This Christmas, as we sit down with family and friends over a meal cooked with love, we have so much to celebrate. But as we pull the same decorations out of the closet year after year to hang on the tree, we are reminded of Christmases past.

One Christmas in particular comes to mind for me, as I watch my daughter with her new baby and wonder what traditions she will keep, and what new ones they will develop as a family.

It was somewhere around 1993 or ’94, and I was living with my first husband in a subdivision just outside Kemptville. He was raised in the Czech tradition at Christmas, where “the angels” bring the tree, fully decorated and laden with gifts, while the family is eating their holiday meal in the next room. Now let the logistics of that endeavour soak into your mind for a minute.

While I suppose it is possible to drag a fully decorated tree into the house and install it, with presents beneath, all while curious children are in the next room, I don’t imagine it is easy. The kids are supposed to be kept out of the “Christmas room” for about a week leading up to the big day. In the time of larger houses and formal living rooms or sitting parlours, this may have been somehow possible. The door was closed, or a blanket hung as a curtain to block the view of the goings-on on the other side.

The children did not peek, because they were threatened with the possibility of being discovered and scaring the angels away. Much like the North American version, you don’t want to get caught spying on Santa Claus. You’re supposed to be tucked up in your beds, fast asleep while he is doing his work.

Back to the angels. They work behind the curtain for days, adding to their decorations, and occasionally making noises that only add to the excitement when heard by the children. Finally, during the holiday meal that is always held on Christmas Eve, not Christmas Day, a bell is rung. That is when the children know it is time to go and discover what the angels have been up to in the other room. The angels ring the bell when they are finished their work.

Well, that Christmas in the early ‘90s, my three little girls were eating their breaded filet-of-sole and delicious, addictive potato salad (the traditional Czech holiday meal) when they heard the bell. Their forks stopped in mid-air and their eyes grew wide.

“Mom…” my eldest whispered. “Is that….the angels?!”

“I think so,” I answered, smiling. I told the girls they could get up and see what was in the other room. The room they had been forbidden to enter for nearly a week. The room that they swear they could hear angels working in. (I use the term “they” loosely. My eldest was four or five, my middle one was one or two, and we had a new baby.)

Just as we got up from the table and I pulled the baby out of her high chair, their grandfather rounded the corner of the room, a big smile on his face.

My eldest, 5-year-old Milena, stopped in her tracks and looked at him in horror. He was still holding the bell. I looked at my husband. He smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand and shook his head. Then I looked at Milena. I could actually see the wheels turning in her head.

“Jedda (spelled “Dede; Czech for grandfather)….did the angels leave their bell?”

“Yes! Yes! I found their bell!” yelled her grandfather, relief and joy on his red face, redeemed by the innocence of youth.

I can’t remember how many more Christmases the angels visited our home while the girls were young. Santa came too, and left a stuffed stocking for each girl as his calling card. We had a mixed-culture Christmas tradition and somehow, it worked.

Here’s wishing all of you a very Merry Christmas. Good luck keeping Santa and the angels and any of your other traditions as secret and magical as they were always meant to be.

Email: dianafisher1@gmail.com

The season of joy and sorrow is upon us

Imagine you’ve just lost your mother, and it’s Mother’s Day. Everywhere you look, the world is celebrating mothers. Now multiply that feeling by one hundred. That is what the holiday season feels like for many local families this year.

In some cases it’s the head of the household who is missing. The role will have to be assumed by someone else from now on. Holiday traditions may change a little, but many will remain the same. The missing person may be remembered with stories and anecdotes. In some cases a place is set for them at the table.

We miss the people we have lost. But Christmas and all year long, I believe we have a responsibility to be a witness to their lives.

Some cultures prefer not to mention the dead. They feel it is easier to move forward in their lives if they leave the past behind and never mention the name of the one they have lost.

In our house, it has been nearly eight years since we lost my Dad. The pain, although dulled over time, still swells up forming tears and catching us by surprise occasionally. We find bringing up stories of the past, using Dad’s favourite quotes and including his memory in our traditions helps to ease the sting of loss. This year we have much to celebrate with a healthy new baby in the family. We are not rich, but we have enough. We are trying to keep spending down, so that our credit balances do not rise out of control. I am following the plan of buying our daughters “one thing they want, one thing they need and something to read.”

For myself, I am really trying to slow down and pay attention. Long before the distraction of social media and cell phones, I have always been a person who finds it difficult to live in the moment. Big events tend to whizz past me and I realize afterward I didn’t take the opportunity to connect with people. In the end I am the one who loses.

I am practicing being present. Every evening I turn Facebook off early so I can enjoy conversation with my husband without distraction. Those pings and bells aren’t really conducive to a good night’s sleep either.

On the weekends, I also try to keep social media activity to a minimum. That way I pay more attention to what’s happening outside on the farm, and in the house with the ones I love.

It’s nice to feel connected to friends far away through Facebook and Instagram but they can wait. This Christmas I’m focusing on family. We are so lucky to have five generations of women getting together for a family photo. The new baby and her mama, my mom and I will head into the city to see Great Great Grandmas Vicky and Mabel. I don’t take much time off work over Christmas but I hope to grab a day here and there to extend the celebration a little bit. Being busy with family get-togethers over the holidays is a true blessing. Not everyone has time with family to look forward to at Christmas. I realize this, so I’m trying to make every moment count.

We have another little baby coming to our family this holiday season – the one that was due the same day as my daughter, December 31^st. Gloria and Matt are probably on edge, watching and waiting for the signs to start appearing. With any luck we will have two little babies to pass around over the holidays.

We also have a loved one who is in palliative care. This will be her last Christmas. We will be making some time to spend with her as well.

As we head into the holiday home stretch, I encourage you to put the phone down and look around. Notice the people who are hurting, sad or lonely and consider giving them the gift of your time and attention. It doesn’t take much – just connect with them and see if there is anything they need, or if they would like to get together and chat over a coffee.

Even a simple Christmas card with a handwritten note inside can go a long way to remind someone that you are thinking of them during this difficult time. You can help make their holidays a little more bearable.

email: dianafisher1@gmail.com

For everything there is a season

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; …a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance…” ~ Ecclesiastes 3

Our little Leti was born this past week, about a month early. It was exciting and terrifying at the same time when we realized Annie was not just having false contractions but was in labour. She was one day short of 36 weeks when the pains started. The staff at Winchester District Memorial Hospital were focused and awesome - and I use that word accurately as I spent much of my time there in a daze, my mind wandering back 24 years to when I was pregnant with Annie. 

The new mom and dad called us in to meet Leti when she was about an hour old, after she had had her skin-to-skin time with both her parents, and they had all had a chance to introduce themselves.

Leti was making a squeaking noise, like voiced breathing or high-pitched snoring, every time she breathed. The nurse said that, although it sounds ‘cute’, it actually means her little lungs were straining as they pumped outside the womb for the first time. The nurses took Leti over to the weigh table and made her comfortable. Then they put a little mask over her nose and mouth and pumped air in and out, slowly expanding and exercising her lungs. Leti closed her eyes and raised her arms to fall back alongside her head. She was totally relaxed. “She’s at the spa,” smiled the nurse.

Born at 6 lb. 7oz. and 20 inches long, this was not a small baby by any means. In fact she was likely growing a bit too long for her petite (and very active) mother and that is why she came early. She didn’t look premature; her skin was plump and pink and she cried heartily. But getting this little one to eat would take some convincing. She probably felt she was owed at least another month of womb service before having to do any work on her own.

As I write this, baby is still at CHEO, where she was taken the evening of her birth. There she was given an iv of sugar water that would stimulate her stomach acids and wake up her appetite. Her father fed her her first meal of mama’s milk through a syringe and baby bottle nipple. I dropped in for a visit the following day just as Annie and Leti were teaching each other how to breastfeed so the benefit of my 3+ years of nursing came in handy. Within minutes we had that hungry little fish latched on and demanding a good supply. I don’t think Annie will have any trouble with nursing.

By Friday it became apparent that Leti was a bit jaundiced and would need to go under the sun lamp for 24 hours. Another spa treatment. Now two days old and full of mama’s liquid gold, her energy levels were high. She found and tugged on her various tubes and wires and set off alarms regularly, getting constant attention from the nurses. On Saturday, the sun bed had done its work but the doctor decided another 24 hours on a low light would be ideal to avoid any further complications. But now Mom and Dad could take turns feeding and holding and changing her before putting her back in her spa bed.

After a few routine tests, Leti should be able to go home for real on Tuesday. Everyone is very excited to meet her. She has made a grand entrance to this life.

On Sunday evening, as about fourteen of us were gathered around the dinner table celebrating Leti’s birth, someone else was making his exit.

Harry Pratt spent the past several weeks in an intense battle with pancreatic cancer. Finally, he was at Kemptville District Hospital, the place he had valued so highly in his life, spending countless hours volunteering his services as an MC and auctioneer to raise funds for much-needed equipment. His family and friends turned the cafeteria of Kemptville District Hospital into a ‘winter wonderland’ chapel on Saturday, so that he could be part of his daughter’s wedding celebration. On Sunday, a close friend told him that everything had been said, and everything had been done. If he needed to go now, it was ok. So he did. Harry was just 68 years old when he passed away.

My mom worked with Harry at Towne Construction when she and Dad first came to Kemptville in 1965 so he and Sheila were always good friends of our family. But we all have memories of the great man and the work that he did in this community – some of it public, much of it private. He was caring and generous to a fault. He treated everyone like an equal and he exuded a positive attitude while wearing an infectious grin. While sifting through your own memories of Harry Pratt, I would recommend you make sure there is at least one in there of Harry dancing. Because I think that is what he is doing now. Rest in Peace, Mr. Kemptville. You will be remembered. 

Ready for baby

I bought a carton of cream with the expiry date of January 9, 2016. As I read the date I realized by the time this cream expires, my granddaughter will be born. Baby season is ramping up around here on the Fisher farm.

Saturday was Anastasia’s surprise baby shower. I am truly amazed that we managed to keep it secret all this time. We had a little help, because she was a bit preoccupied.

Earlier in the week, Annie got a call from one of her husband’s friends. They were planning to kidnap him for a Baby Bachelor Party. Apparently this is a thing.

Around 1:30 in the afternoon on the 21^st, the Wiggins were sitting in front of the TV, watching an old Anthony Hopkins movie. They were just getting to the scene of a bear attack when four men, their faces covered, entered the house from four different doors. It was a bit of a shock, but not all that terrifying, because although they were wearing hockey masks, they were also carrying cheerleader pompoms. And one of them was in a Scooby Doo costume. Anastasia, who was in on the whole thing, concentrated on keeping their four hunting dogs from attacking the intruders.

Andrew was manhandled out of the house and into the driveway. Then the men revealed themselves to be his hunting buddies, and his heart rate went back to normal. I was just happy to hear the whole thing hadn’t gone horribly wrong – the last guy who was kidnapped for his bachelor party was taken naked from the shower. One of his abductors ended up with a broken nose. I think if you’re going to plan this sort of thing, it’s a good idea to have the subject’s partner in on it so they can run interference. Anastasia made sure Andrew was out of the shower and dressed before zero hour when the kidnappers arrived. And if the partner is pregnant, as in the case of Anastasia, it is more reason to ensure she is in on the game. Otherwise she might panic and go into early labour, and no one wants that to happen.

So Annie had plenty to talk about when I picked her up to take her “boot shopping”. That’s what I told her, anyway. She said she was suspicious about the plan, and wondered if it might be a ruse to get her to her surprise baby shower. But when I suggested I would make lasagna for dinner and invited her to join us, she was scratching her head again. She didn’t consider lasagna a typical offering for a baby shower. But she didn’t realize I had about thirty people coming late afternoon, and they would be coming and going to and from work, so I planned a potluck dinner. Everyone was bringing something. I made lasagna.

People started arriving at the farm at 2:00pm. I took off to get Annie at 2:20. As per the plan, I left my cell phone at home. She was so excited about The Abduction of Andrew, she just kept chattering away and I doubt she even heard me when I said I had to go back home to get my phone before we could go “boot shopping”.

She was still re-enacting the events of her afternoon when we pulled into the driveway and she saw the pink balloons the Farmer had tied there. “Oh, Mom!” she said, finally cluing in. There were so many cars, we had to park in the hay field up the drive. She was crying before we even got in the door.

We played a couple of games with our guests, while the little mama sat in her decorated chair of honour and opened her gifts, for two hours straight. It’s a good thing she grabbed a plate of sandwiches and a glass of punch before she sat down. Many of the things she received were hand made, and some barely-used items were handed down. The Wiggins family is pretty well equipped now, and that baby can come today if she has to (although we hope she doesn’t).

Anastasia was very pleased to discover that there actually was a pan of lasagna at her baby shower. And I ran out last week to get her a pair of Ugg-style boots for her swollen mama feet, so she had that surprise as well.

Just over a month to go until the due date. Christmas will be the second most important thing happening around here this holiday season.

Email: dianafisher1@gmail.com

The womanly art of having babies has changed

Well, I don’t think the essential art of having babies has changed much. But the culture around it certainly has. I walked into a baby-supply store yesterday and was completely overwhelmed by all the stuff the world says we need. I feel sorry for today’s expecting mom, trying to equip her layette and household with everything she will need when junior arrives. Where do you begin?

We have two babies in our family due on exactly the same date. Anastasia, our daughter, and Glorianna, our niece, are due December 31^st. Gloria isn’t too concerned about the coming child. She has had a baby shower or two but she will likely give birth with just a bassinet for the baby to sleep in, a package of diapers and a car seat for the baby to come home in. She will get the rest of the items as she needs them. Daily trips to Babies R Us will keep the new daddy busy. Her baby registry is only about a dozen items long.

Anastasia’s gift registry is five pages long. She has worked as a nanny, and she used to run the infant program at the local Montessori school. She knows what she needs and what she wants. She is organized.

Both mamas-to-be have items on their registry lists that I have never heard of before. For example, what is a wiper warmer?? Gloria said she went into the baby store and just stood and stared at the wall of baby bottles. Then she turned around and walked back out. Gloria has a consultant advising her on what she will need. She also has a lactation consultant, a pre-natal consultant, and a doula. Anastasia doesn’t want to do any of that training-for-childbirth stuff. As with everything in life, she prefers to learn on her own. Thank goodness her doctor doesn’t seem concerned. She says she will teach Annie everything she needs to know when the time comes, about when to breathe deep, when to breathe shallow, when to hold her breath, and when to push.

When Gloria opened her gifts at her baby shower on Sunday, she got a little weepy. It’s part hormones, part anxiety about this whole new world she is entering. As an elementary school teacher, Gloria is very familiar with little kids. It’s the whole baby thing she has to get used to. She held up each little outfit, and imagined it filled up with fat baby boy. Her eyes welled up with tears. The little mamas have just over a month to go. The doctors tell them their babies are already four pounds.

I like that these young mothers have so many choices open to them. In the ‘50s and ‘60s, modern women were told they should bottle feed their babies formula. Certainly there were the earth mothers and the hippies who breastfed but most suburban moms felt the bottle was a sign of progress and independence. 

I was twenty-one years old with my first and I was determined I was going to breastfeed my baby. I had La Leche League on speed dial, and I called their experts day and night. I soon learned that making milk wasn’t going to be a problem if I learned to sit still long enough, drink enough water, and stop worrying so much. In just a few days I got the hang of it. And baby got enough milk. I fed her for a year, her sister for about eighteen months, and her other sister for nine months. I made their baby food by blending up unseasoned cooked meats and veggies, and I used cloth diapers unless we were going out of the house. Neither Gloria nor Anastasia have cloth diapers on their list.

I think I bought maybe one bottle of formula in the entire time I had babies in the house. I never bought a jar of baby food. I was proud of my ability to provide for my children, and to keep costs down while ensuring I was providing the most natural care and feeding possible.

But would I have used a Diaper Genie if offered one? You bet your buns I would.

email: dianafisher1@gmail.com 

A love story's final chapter

The Farmer meets me for lunch nearly every weekday. He wants a simple meal, like you can cook at home, so we usually meet at one of the local diners. I tell him I can make us soup and a sandwich to take to work and save him the twenty bucks. He says he likes the break in the middle of the day, where you get out of the office, and have someone else make your tea. I think it’s an old habit from his bachelor days but perhaps he is on to something.

Many times we would see the same couple dining at a nearby table. He was broad-shouldered with a ready grin. She was petite and often had her eyes turned to the newspaper. They both had white hair.

If the Farmer caught me watching them he would sometimes give me a little nudge with his foot under the table. I tried not to eavesdrop but I couldn’t help it. The gentleman had a voice that was soft, but it carried. He called his wife sweetheart in every second sentence.

Their conversations were mostly him asking questions, her answering. He would say, “Where are you from, again?” or “Why did we never move to British Columbia? I always wanted to live out West.” She would answer, patiently, in a manner that revealed she had provided the same responses to the same questions, many times before.

Sometimes we exchanged smiles and waves as we went our separate ways after lunch.

Then one day, perhaps a year ago, I saw the woman sitting alone. I realized I hadn’t seen the pair for a few weeks, and now it was just her, on her own, reading her paper. I ventured over.

“Hi there. Where’s your sweetheart?” I asked her.

“Oh, he’s in the home,” she responded, soft and sad.

“He’s at home?” I was confused, and a bit daft.

“No, he’s in the home sometimes, and he also has to go to the hospital sometimes, but now he’s back in the home.”

“Oh.” And then, “You must miss him.”

“I visit him, but he keeps asking me when he can come home,” she says, and I can tell she is getting upset. I tell her I’m sure they are taking very good care of him and I’m sure he loves her visits.

I make a point of going over and saying hi every time I see her sitting there on her own. Sometimes her daughter is with her. We talked about how difficult it is to make life-changing decisions, about getting rid of most of the contents of the home you’ve lived in for decades. About leaving town and simplifying your lifestyle to accommodate your new requirements.

“Well you don’t have to decide to move right now, do you?” I ask.

“They took away my license,” she reveals. “I sit there in that house and my daughter has to come from Ottawa to drive me out to see my husband in the home.”

Plans are made for a garage sale, so that a lifetime of model airplanes and other unique collectibles will go to appreciative new owners. I think of how hard it must be for her to part with the things that her husband made with his own hands. But there is no room for these things in her new home, and perhaps she is looking forward to her own little space without them.

She moves into her new home, beside her daughter, in Ottawa. She will have help for the yard and the driveway. Her living quarters will be small enough for her to manage on her own. And her family will be close by in case she needs them for anything. I tell her I think she is making a very good decision for herself.

And then, like a confirmation, her sweetheart dies. There is nothing tying her to the home they lived in for so long. She is free to go, to enjoy her life, in its new shape.

She may be in a completely different environment now, but I’m sure she often feels the presence of a broad-shouldered man with a ready grin, sitting across the table from her, his big hands reaching for hers. Rest in Peace, George.

Email: dianafisher1@gmail.com

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