It's got to be done soon, doesn't it?

It's -12 C. With the wind-chill, it's -22 C. We are in the midst of a snow squall. March begins on Saturday. And yet, I find it hilarious that just because the sun will set at 6 pm, I believe the grip of winter is weakening. 

I'm not alone. The birds believe it, too. There's no extra food for them but they're singing to beat the band when the sun shines. And suddenly there's an abundance of squirrels in my neighbourhood, gathering dead leaves. Are they re-insulating their drafty nests or are they hoping to make little squirrel babies?

The snow has thawed and refrozen enough times that my front lawn looks and feels like the inside of my freezer. It just has more twigs. I hope. My freezer probably has more drifting pepperoni, though, so we’re even.

Winter has to leave. It’s just not fun anymore. My kids can’t dig snow tunnels or make snowmen out of this stuff. Sledding is an exercise in pain. It’s just tough, granular, immovable junk stuck on everything. In awfully big ugly piles. 

Only the sun can help us now!

The Right Tree

July 2011

We want to pick a tree to plant in the front yard of our new house. The lawn, which is currently baking to a nicely-browned crisp in the heat and dearth of rain, could so happily benefit from the shade of trees. However, we do not live there yet. We are still trying to sell our old house. We cannot rescue the abiding lawn; we cannot water, weed nor plant. The new house is empty and has been for six months; tall spiny weeds are the only squatters living there now. So I must wait to plant this unchosen tree and this gives me time to ruminate.

Right now, a palm tree would seem to fit in the desert-like conditions of our persistent heat wave, but eventually the temperature will drop below -10 C (or 14F) so this kind of tree will not do. How any creature can live in a climate that spans over 60 degrees of temperature (or 90 degrees, depending on your thermometer), especially one that cannot flee the elements, say, under a tree, is beyond me. So this new resident on our property-to-be will have to be hardy.  But also hospitable.

Well, there are evergreens, the other extreme applicant for our climate. We have grown them in the past but they are often the opposite of hospitable. Spiders and birds love them, but humans cannot climb them or even trim them without pain--and suffering, if you’re like my husband and develop hives from their acidic scratches. Anything green living underneath a coniferous tree doesn’t have many years left; evergreens are experts at out-shading any chance at photosynthesis. So our candidate must be hardy, hospitable and shady, but not to the point of a gangster.

Our current house has an uneasy peace with a very tall backyard weed called a locust tree.  It grows several feet every year in all directions, sends up treelets all over the place—I’ve even found them in the front yard—and is host to a huge number of tiny leaves that don’t rake up without a fight. Its cousin, the mountain ash, is in the front yard, with similar leaves and with springtime flowers that exude a strong “stinky fish” aroma, as identified by my unappreciative family. These types of trees, that seem to feature “rude” as their particular identifier, will not enter onto our list.

What about birches and aspens?  They are strong contenders for gracing the front yard. Aspens sound blissfully like a waterfall when stirred by the wind, and birches, with their beautiful white bark, look good year-round. But these trees can be fragile and often do not live long.  I have had enough smaller plants die in my care that it would break my heart to have to uproot an adolescent beauty of a birch that has not made it.

I think I will be satisfied with a good old maple tree. They have great shape when mature, they shade terrifically in summer and in autumn they are unmatched in colourful display. And being Canadian, these trees hold a special place in my heart! But it’s not just up to me; I will have to win over the rest of my family to the maple family. Speaking of which, there are over six different varieties of maples: sugar, red, silver, norway, sycamore maple, Japanese maple…  

 2011

How Do You Tuck in a Superhero? And Other Delightful Mysteries of Raising Boys

Written by Rachel Balducci, this book is a slightly bewildered look at the hilariously unpredictable antics of Balducci’s five young sons.  How Do You Tuck in a Superhero?  And Other Delightful Mysteries of Raising Boys is terribly funny, sometimes poignant, and thoroughly enjoyable. It reads like a blog, with each chapter a new discovery of adventurous and outrageous behaviour, documented with love. It’s a light read, only a slim 203 pages, and grouped into sections (she calls them chapters) with each “bloggish” entry given its own title. The sections’ theme categories range from Proper care and Feeding, (lots on hygiene) to The Other Heroes in Our House (like Chuck Norris) to The Sweet Side (which is just that—how her kids melt her heart, often unsuspectingly).

Here’s an example of her wit:

“Stuff I say that no longer sounds crazy (to me):

-I am not a wrestling mat.

-No, you may not, and if I find a knife stuck in my kitchen cutting board, you will be in big trouble.

-Stay off the roof.

-Why are there blocks of wood cooking in my oven?”

With my own three children, (two girls, one boy) I have also found that I have spewed such things, usually with a note of disbelief and barely-contained laughter.  Ms Balducci sounds like a great mom—someone who will get into gargling contests with her kids (so that mouthwash is fun) and who understands that brotherly love between her kids can be an exercise in pain. Physical pain. Limb-twisting, karate-kicking, shriek-inducing pain. But it’s still love.

She’s attempting to find that balance we all want our kids to have; the freedom to experiment and be creative but always within acceptable limits. As in: “[y]ou can try to invent a jet pack, but I will not buy the fuel for it.” I’ll bet she usually comes close to getting it right. And somehow, she also finds time to write books, too!

I think she brings it all together nicely when she expresses her understanding of her kids’ worldview:

“When they grow up, boys want to be all those things you would guess—a construction worker or a fireman or possibly a superhero. Depending on what powers that would involve.

They want those things for you, too.

One of the boys once told me that he thought it would be cool if I could add a few more titles to my job description.

‘What if you were a mother slash assassin slash double agent?’ he asked, gazing into my eyes as if it were already so.”

As a mother, I have experienced such moments myself—and the sentiment intended in those gazing eyes is pure love and even respect. In that moment, you know you’ve been given an honourary distinction:  Mom, who understands me! In reality, Mom is trying hard to do just that.

Originally posted on Nonfiction Book Club Blog

Seguin Solace

Every autumn we leave it, shuttered up dark and quiet. Every winter, we dream of its summery light, dappled by leaves and reflecting water, and its quiet warm evenings.  Every spring we reopen it, assaulted by ravenous blackflies, and retreat into its dusty interior, serenaded by spring peepers. And then, come those summer days, we journey the three hours as often as we can to soak up our little northern property on the lake: our family cottage.

Now just to say—it’s not my cottage. It’s my father’s cottage. It’s just a few kilometers south of Parry Sound, Ontario, on an inland lake, a little bit of a distance from true “Muskoka” territory.  It’s only been in the family for 13 years, so it’s not like I had my childhood summers there. But it was one of the first places my own children visited on earth, and they each have a powerful love of this lakeside cabin.

My youngest child found it too hard to believe that the warm shallow water at the little beach would freeze solid in the winter. As a two-year-old, he would argue that this lovely summer paradise was being denied him in January and February. Last year, we finally brought him and his sisters to see the cottage in the winter (my husband pulling him in on a toboggan for a half kilometer) and I think that finally convinced him that we weren’t just depriving him of one of his favourite tropical places.

At the cottage, my children have mastered many valuable life skills. All three babies learned to navigate stairs there, using the rise of the three carpeted steps from the living room to the “upper hall”. Here my eldest first tackled climbing into a bunk bed, barbequing for a Brownie badge and paddling a kayak.  This is where she and her sister tried archery, snowshoeing, stargazing, fire-building, marshmellow-toasting and weiner-roasting. And the cottage is where all of us are still learning how to tolerate or terminate the flying and swimming beasties that are blood-loving.   

Even thinking of it now, on a cold Mississauga night, it is the memory of the light that evokes the cottage best for me. I can recall standing on the deck next to the front door, spellbound by the moonlight on the winter snow that overextended the lavender shadows of the barren trees like a Lawren Harris painting.  At Thanksgiving we enjoyed the autumnal view of the surrounding forest; the trees seemed to glow with their own light source, such was the brilliant colour of their leaves.  And in the glorious summer, the sunlight bounces off the lake, through the myriad leaves, all the way up the hill to our cottage ceiling, right above where we eat dinner.  It can be mesmerizing: just ask my lake-tired children as they resist eating their suppers, lulled into peaceful contemplation by the dancing light. How dreamy, even 228 km and many months away.

2012

The Never Again Potato Salad

For years, my mom would not tell us how to make her absolutely delicious potato salad. It wasn’t a secret family recipe--she had those, too--she’d just made it so many times that she didn’t look at the recipe anymore and wasn’t sure if the original would come close to her improv version. Then came one year and she made a big batch and it did not taste the way it was “supposed” to taste. We all thought it was good, but I did agree that there was something that was not quite the same as the classic. Later in the summer, (when else do you make potato salad in Canada?) she tried again, but that salad came out different yet again. After a long and deliberated search –is this the one? maybe I got it from this cookbook?--out came the recipe. 

When she made the salad once again with this technical support, the result was closer than the other two editions had been, but still there was a subtle difference. After that, she did not dare to make the salad without the recipe, so never again did we experience the unique combination of flavours that she had so confidently thrown together in the past. I have this version of the recipe, the Slightly Less Than Perfect Original Potato Salad, and every time I make it I try to imagine what the illusive missing ingredients are that made up the long remembered dish from my childhood. So many of my recipes are my mother’s and since she passed away a year ago, I am constantly cooking with her beside me. Sometimes it is lovely to have her there; sometimes it is still too fresh and painful.  I can’t help but think how brief and elusive a loved one’s life can be; full of flavours often so subtle you cannot taste them all at the time and yet you can savour so much as time passes.

Slightly Less Than Perfect Original Potato Salad

6 potatoes, peeled and boiled

2 eggs, hard boiled and chopped, reserving a few “coins” for the top

1 stalk of celery, chopped

½ cup chopped cucumber

½ white onion, or 3 green onions, chopped

Dressing:

½ cup light mayo

1/3 cup yogurt

2 tbsp cider vinegar

2 tbsp Dijon

2 tbsp honey

Celery seed (to taste)

While potatoes are still warm from boiling, sprinkle cider vinegar on them to keep from turning brown. Make dressing while potatoes are boiling and let sit in fridge. Add all ingredients; best eaten the next day.

2010

Scatter, Adapt and Remember by Annalee Newitz

So do you want to live in a dystopian, post-apocalyptic world? All the latest cool fiction is doing it, so why not embrace it as a life choice? With the weight of scientific (biological, medical, atmospheric, psychological) evidence leading us to this unfortunate hand-basket theory, it is tempting to jump on. However, let me introduce you to Annalee Newitz, an author whose book Scatter, Adapt and Remember: How Humans will Survive a Mass Extinction can provide you with post-post-apocalyptic inspiration on a scientific level.

I first became aware of Newitz from the superlative science website i09.com, where she is editor and contributor, and where articles about physics or comparative global population distribution are interspersed with ones on the year’s best fantasy movies.  Like the website, the content of her book ranges from the solemn to the humourous, but with solid scientific backing and a very engaging writing style.  

For me, one of the best parts of the book is the “Preface to the Canadian edition: Moosejaw on Venus”, written for the Penguin Canada imprint of the book. Newitz has a special place in her heart for Canada, and a deep respect for the city of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. She believes that Saskatoon epitomizes the city of the future, calling Saskatoon “a model for human survival” because of its success in dealing with a difficult climate. “[P]eople there have found ways to incorporate the latest scientific advances into agriculture and urban design without overspending,” Newitz states, which she feels can inspire other urban centres to adopt similar methods. 

As for outlining the theory of her book’s title, Newitz doesn’t just look at human models, like the Jewish diaspora, to illustrate the virtues of “scatter”. She posits “adapt” using cyanobacteria that, united, can become, as she says, "Mighty Morphin Power Ranger-like". In other words, super powerful, but expressed in a way much more fun. She advocates humans emulating the capacity for deep “remembering” that the majestic gray whale has, as a species, for international migration, with constant variation in their routes taken.  

Coming back to the human world, Newitz looks at a variety of approaches to survival. Along with mining science fiction for evidence of "pragmatic optimism" (not her strongest chapter), she also strongly advises rethinking civic planning with profound creativity. From ancient Catalhoyuk (where residents "dropped in" on their friends literally, entering the house from the roof), to underground cities, to a Waterworld-inspired tsunami-proofed model city built at Oregon State U; adaptability and resilience are key concepts that cannot be left out of planning. To round it all up, Newitz looks at the million-year plan, which involves terraforming a la Star Trek 2 but on our own planet, asteriod-crushing situations a la Deep Impact and beyond, and replacing our wimpy body parts a la RoboCop. All the cheesy movie references are my own, don't worry.  

This book has its fair share of cutting-edge scientific theories and cuttingly witty ways to express them. Here’s an example of Newitz's charm:

“If there had been a paleogeologist among the last of the dinosaurs, she could hardly have pinned the blame on her peers’ demise on any single factor. The entire ambiguous history of the planet would have to stand trial for murdering brachiosaurus and letting a bunch of little monkeys take over.” 

I don’t know about you, but I can certainly picture that denizen of the Cretaceous scolding me with one of her three front toes shaken in my direction--how fun is that?

Originally posted on Nonfiction Book Club Blog

The End of Country by Seamus McGraw

What would you do if someone told you that your unsuccessful farm was sitting on top of one of the world’s largest natural gas deposits? What if this someone was standing at your front door, with the paperwork in hand to lease access to your land for drilling, and promised you unimaginable riches? What would be the many implications of your decision? The End of Country by Seamus McGraw looks at a community of Pennsylvania farmers who struggled with this very scenario.

Without guidance from the United States government or lawyers, and under pressure from the eager natural gas corporation reps at their doorsteps, these homeowners wrestled with this dilemma both individually, and as a community.

What were some of the entanglements of this overly idyllic situation? Environmentally, the cost was extensive; the drilling machinery caused injuries, there was resulting noise and air pollution, and toxic taints to the land and to the water table accumulated as the drilling continued. Water wells even exploded from trapped gas. But the most difficult of the consequences to navigate were the rising tensions between neighbours with differing views on the evolving situation, since each landowner was able to make his or her own decision unilaterally, without consulting the community.

In The End of Country, McGraw goes beyond the predictable cheering for the underdogs. He doesn’t just malign the money-hungry natural gas corporations but looks with a critical eye at the costs of the choices made by all involved. This is a great read, full of humour and affection for all the varied personalities that stepped up in Susquehanna County, Pennsylvania.

There was one particular part of the book that brought home to me the author’s intent. McGraw, who had grown up in Susquehanna County, met up with Ken Ely, one of the ad hoc leaders in the community. “I remember you.” Ely had said. “You owe me a hundred bucks for gas and bullets.” McGraw recalled:

“I didn’t remember that. As far as I knew, I had paid Ken every cent I ever owed him. But I wasn’t going to dispute it. Ken Ely had a long memory. I didn’t have a hundred dollars on me, but I promised I’d write him a check. ‘Don’t bother,’ he told me. ‘I don’t need the money anymore. Wait till you get rich on the gas and then give it to someone who needs it.’”

McGraw doesn’t even let himself off the hook. He, too, profited from the good and the bad through the writing of this book and owns up to it.  He’s a class act.

Originally posted on the Nonfiction Book Club blog

We’ve got seagulls in our eyes

Well, we finally did it. For years we had wanted to show our three kids parts of Canada other than our own. They’d enjoyed the frequent drive from the concrete jungle of the GTA to the Canadian Shield on the way to my father’s cottage since they were babes. However, my husband and I wanted them to see more; to smell, touch and experience the varied landscapes that make up our country, their country. We wanted them to hear Canada’s other official language spoken unhesitatingly in different accents. Our budget was small. It would have to be a camping expedition, so our combined health, and development (our youngest is 3), would have to be strong and capable, at least at the departure! This was the year. East we went.

I like to recall the trip through their eyes. They were the inspiration for it, after all. What do they remember? Water was a major theme, since it was alongside us for most of the trip. We tracked sightings of the great St. Lawrence River, from Brockville to Quebec City, and further east along the TransCanada, watching it widen and begin to develop tidal flats when the ocean began to change its river-nature. We watched the seafaring boats venturing inland as we traveled toward the ocean.

Other waterways earned starring roles in our journey, too. We drove through Jacques Cartier National Park, just north of Quebec City, while listening to the Magician’s Nephew audiobook, breathlessly watching the tree-covered mountains rise from the Jacques Cartier River as we were read the same view from the creation of Narnia.  As we turned south into New Brunswick, we hooked up with the Saint John River, traveling through several covered bridges, the longest by foot, and looked in vain for a chip wagon in the French Fry Capital of the World, otherwise known as Florenceville, NB.  At Hopewell Rocks in the Bay of Fundy, a new rule emerged on our adventure: all bodies of water require barefooted testing. This was a messy, but apparently necessary, development. Messy also was the other persistent water that followed us, as it fell from the sky and into every cranny of our camping equipment.  Unfortunately that also introduced new odours for our kids to experience and they weren’t pleasant ones!

Our children became connoisseurs of shorelines. There was the crumbly red shale along the St. Lawrence, which is great for skipping; in New Brunswick, Parlee Beach’s off-white fine sand was home to tiny scurrying crabs; Hopewell had pockets of gluey mud, slippery rocks and sharp stones on its ever-changing beach.  Over the ocean bridge to PEI, we discovered more kinds of sand: coarse paprika sand at Cabot Beach; fine light brown-sugar sand at Cavendish (if you covered your legs in it, my eldest discovered you looked like shake-and-bake chicken). The kids scaled the rocks at Peggy’s Cove, along with hundreds of other tourists, but didn’t attempt to do the barefoot water test, much to their mother’s relief!

There were tastes and smells that were new for our children, too. Eating food from the water was frequently discussed but timidly tried, like small samples of their parents’ lobsters and sips of big sister’s delicious seafood chowder. The ferry to New Glasgow, Nova Scotia, let them feel the ocean wind and smell the salt.  They almost happily tried turnips and molasses cookies for lunch at the French fort in Louisbourg!  However, Mom’s bannock, fried on a skillet at the campsite, was not as appreciated by the younger Maritime adventurers as even the more exotic fare. 

Coming home, back to landlocked central Ontario, we had one more beach to experience: the freshwater wonderland at Sandbanks Provincial Park near Picton. There were no crabs or red Cavendish jellyfish but there were plenty of clumpy algae that clung to our hair and the insides of our bathing suits, and lovely big warm waves in which to play. My three-year-old son still asks when we are going “back to the beach”, which sometimes means Parlee Beach “with the baby crabs” or Sandbanks, which he proudly calls by name.  And, as my middle daughter cranks up her beloved Great Big Sea songs, I wonder, too: when?

2010