Letter to 2016

Dear 2016,

It's been a tough go, hasn't it? You really didn't make it easy for yourself, which I sort of respect, but you've taken a lot of flak from a lot of people, mostly Democrats and pop culture fans. To be fair, they aren't wrong. I mean, damn. You took Ziggy Stardust, Professor Snape, Princess Leia, Admiral Ackbar and R2-D2. You gave us President Trump, the Holocene Extinction and Pen Pineapple Apple Pen. People were bound to talk.

In light of this, you really can't blame us for drafting plans to transfer Betty White and the last of the manatees to a bunker in the Cheyenne Mountains, and star-gating the whole mess to a safe and distant corner of the universe.

But that's not why I'm here. I'm not here to sling mud and point fingers or to shrug and say fuck it and light some tires on fire. I'm here to celebrate you, 2016. I'm here to give thanks. Despite all of the many irreplaceable things that were taken and in spite of the many disturbing things that have been given, 2016 was still a pretty great year. 

An okay year. 

Oh, thank goodness it's over.

So.

Thank you for reminding us, repeatedly, that life is fragile and finite, a thing to be treasured. It seems hard to think of a world without our favourite people in it, whether it's our heroes, our loved ones, or my sweet Jesse girl. Nothing focuses our attention on the things in our lives that we love as effectively as loss. Nothing will ease the sting of their absence but time.

On the topic of stinging, thank you for Sriracha, the number one food trend of the year, and for Tums.

Thank you for the fading trend that is the Man Bun. It's been hilarious. Now stop it. Ditto on the gym selfie, the bathtub selfie, the just chillin' selfie, all the other kinds of selfies, Instagram photos of artfully lit and carefully grouped possessions, the "nofilter" hashtag, and the selfie stick. Please. People. Know that you are valued and loved by someone, probably lots of someones. Now just...just go read a book to a senior, or mow a neighbour's lawn. Do something genuinely "likeable". And then don't tell anyone you did it. You'll feel better than that time you got 38 likes for posting a picture of your sunglasses and an eos lip balm on a beach towel #lovethebeach #butnotenoughtotakeapictureofthebeach.

I've lost the thread, but obviously hit a nerve. Where was I? Right.

Lastly, thank you for the discovery of a ninth planet (not Pluto, get over it) in our solar system, for Earth's second moon (we have a second moon!) and for the scientists, stars and heroes of the next generation who won't stop creating and exploring, who will never give up. 

It's Getting Hot in Here

Husband, whose heartbeat is the steady beacon by which I navigate, is the sunny yang to my broody yin and without whom I would be adrift in an endless sea of emptiness, has finally left the house and gone for a cross-country ski by himself, thank the stars.

I love that man to distraction but we nearly had a spat over soap foam on the clean dishes this morning. My friends, we have achieved Cabin Fever. 

It took a 3-day Manitoban snowstorm to do it. After days of snow, blowing snow and snowed in streets, we have de-evolved from a loving unit into a pair of sweaty-eyed maniacs, each grappling for the axe in an attempt to smash through the bathroom door and empty the cat box on the other's head.

Thankfully, it turned up sunny today. We desperately needed the solace of doing something damn else, and thus it was with great relief that we gave each other a Look. Without a word spoken, Husband and I had the following conversation.

"Sweetie, I love you and it is vital to the continuation of this love that I love you, passionately and completely, from the mezzanine overlooking the Polo Park Chapters at the junction of Empress and Maroons, by the mall. For, like, at least three hours. Don't worry about the road conditions, it's only a 45 minute walk. I'll snowshoe there if I have to."

"Ditto. Meeker and I are going skiing."

When I moved to this gorgeous province, I thought it was a charming quirk that all the locals seemed to be so moody whenever the sun was blocked by a passing cloud. The wee dears, with their Vitamin D tablets and their UV lamps and their homicidal road rage. So sweet.

I get it, now. 

For Husband, whom I love completely, but never more than at this moment, as I sip a decaf tall flat white with skim milk, easy foam.

All Netflix and no sunshine makes us both crazy people.

All Netflix and no sunshine makes us both crazy people.

All Netflix and no sunshine makes us both crazy people.

All Netflix and no sunshine makes us both crazy people.

Levelling Up

I rely on hope when it comes to recipes. It's about trust, really. I trust the instructions will, if followed, result in a pan of stuff that will at least in some way resemble the photo. I'm successful enough, often enough, to consider myself a half-way decent cook. There have been some epic failures, The Incident of The Purple Stew being chief among them, but on the whole I can be counted upon to follow a recipe and produce something which, while it may not exactly match the photo, at least matches the definition of 'food'.

Unless the recipe came from Mother, who is crafty and leaves things out. She changes small ratios, which cause Yorkshire Puddings to fall. She omits important tricks, like chilling bowls. She fails to impart the arcane secrets of cold vinegar in pastry. She writes in hieroglyphics. She is sly.

Which is why I am always so pleased when I catch her in the act and why my Chocolate Oat Delights this year will finally be as glossy and rich as hers. 

Use large flake oats. Cool at room temp.

She is sly.

It's Coming On Christmas

As I write this I am listening to a podcast given by Commander Hadfield, one of the few Canadians, indeed, one of the few humans, who have passed Christmas in space. He explains that Christmas is well kept on the ISS. They hang a wee tree on the ceiling, and stockings above Pod 3. Each astronaut celebrates in their own manner, as they pass over their respective home time zones. They all open cards and gifts and hope that they don't wake up in the morning to find a suffocated Father Christmas floating outside the main bay doors. 

I think that's quite a lovely thought. Not the suffocated Father Christmas, that's just wrong. Obviously, he'd be a frozen, suffocated Father Christmas, but I do think it lovely that the traditions of Christmas have made their way out into the stars.

On a much more modest scale, Husband and I have brought traditions with us as we travel across Canada. When we started out, as fresh-faced marrieds, we tried to do all of the things that our two families had done for all of the reasons that things are done, because that is the way they have always been done. As we've moved from place to place, we've packed with us the more portable bits and left behind the bits that, for one reason or another, either weren't the meaningful  bits to us, or were impractical given the regional geography, or just tasted weird.

What's left is a sort of Christmas concentrate and I think it has become a wonderful expression of who we are, as respective representatives of our families. Husband must have a stocking filled individually wrapped surprises. He likes eating an assortment of homemade cookies, although not necessarily baking them. He likes going to Mass with his mom, if the occasion allows, and really glows with joy when he watches me open all of my individually wrapped stocking things. 

I am a creature of the senses, in that I trust the things I can touch and see and understand to be true. So...I enjoy the smells of Christmas, of pine and sweet treats...berry scented candles. I like the special quality of light you get when there is snow on one side of the window and twinkle lights on the other. I like the feel of being warm on the inside and cold on the outside, whether it's in my big puffy coat or my snug little house. I only like the taste of candy canes during the month of December. Of course, I also like the way my heart feels, when I see Husband skip like a startled puppy down all the stairs on Christmas day, to stare in wonder at a tree under which we both placed gifts less than 7 hours earlier. 

We haven't just taken things off the Christmas list, we've added things too. We like spending a lot of time outdoors on Christmas day, to ski in the crisp air, or snowshoe with our dogs. We like to have a house full of friends at some point over the season, because Spoons and Flip Cup are hard to play with only two. We send earnest and glittery cards across the globe to family, and friends who have become family, and then wait by the mailbox for the reciprocals.  We like toboggan races. We like Bailey's on Cheerios. We like Buddy the Elf, Snoopy, and John McLean.

We like Christmas, our way. Light on materials, heavy on cheer.

Merry Christmas, to our families and friends.We weren't kidding about the cards. 

Charlie Brown Was An Amateur

I have a great idea. Let's PRETEND I spent 5 hours decorating a tree, moving furniture, dusting, sweeping up needles, rearranging the furniture some more, dusting again, sweeping up more needles, and finally moving the furniture one last time because I forgot to water the tree the first two times and now it's totally blocked in...

...and instead, I'll go snowshoeing with Meeker. Mmmm-kay? 

I get it, I do. Christmas trees are suppose to be the something something of the season. For we secular folk, I feel it's historical symbolism has become watered down enough for us to feel comfortable having one in the house, without allowing the tinnitus of our own hypocrisy to drown out the sound of the cat slowly destroying Nana's antique ornaments.

It also smells great. 

But I'm not decorating it. I mean, I put some lights on it and there's a lovely glow in the room of an evening that for once doesn't come from a phone screen. It certainly looks more festive now that it's dead in my living room, than it did when it was alive on the farm and exchanging carbon dioxide for oxygen. So there's that.  

I just think having a lovely fir tree visit for a few weeks is joy enough for me for the season. I've named our little Christmas tree Red, because my father would find it funny. I've decorated it only with lights because it drives my mother crazy to know that somewhere in my house is a giant bin of unused ornaments and there's nothing she can do about it. I have a tree at all because Husband smiles so big when he looks at it that I feel as though my heart will burst.

Now if you don't mind, I have to see a dog about some snowshoes.

For The Rank and Philes...

today is the day

you can feel it

the sky is different, the colour of the air is different

today is Bookstore Day

maybe it's a sad day

or maybe it's a day you want to celebrate

maybe you need a distraction

a challenge

a reward

it doesn't matter

it's Bookstore Day

head to the one you love the best

out of all of the ones you love the best

two stories worth of stories

and every word in the universe

the one with the bearded guy 

who always hangs out by the staff picks 

and vocally argues with the dust jackets 

although he occasionally makes a good point

and you both agree that the adult colouring craze

is more than just a bit maudlin but okay as long as the gin is cold

only the best store will do on Bookstore Day

pause at the top of the escalator

and ignore the surprised grunts of the riders behind you

for this is your moment of potential

the moment before your next book

it might be the inspiration you were looking for

it might be the frustration you need to vent

it might be something about mystical time travel to the 19th century,

where romance, daily rape and cholera 

are only a dashing rogue in skirt away

because nothing contrasts quality literature 

like really really really bad literature 

or James Patterson

and sometimes that sort of thing can be a bit of a palette cleanser

or to switch metaphors

a laxative 

it's all good on Bookstore Day

you should probably step away from the escalator now

You're Not The Boss of Me

Got a letter in the mail today. Addressed to me and everything. 

'Dear Spouses or Spouse-ish Type People,

We know you value your time with your partner, who has been deployed, delayed, tasked, on course, on exercise, on stand-by, and many other things that have repeatedly taken him or her away from you for the last (13) years.

We also assume that you have no idea what your partner does because communication is a lost art and when have you had any time to take an active interest or even ask, what with all that time away?

To honour this time apart and the frankly poor level of data retention on your part, we are hosting a "What do you even DO, really?" event.

On a Saturday.

There's, like, 52 of those in a year so you will happily spare one to come and be talked at for a polite 5 hour lecture on how to ask your spouse where all this money has been coming from every two weeks for the last 13 years, and maybe get an explanation of why their clothes all match.

Plus, there's a lunch! It won't be as nice as the brunch you had reservations for at that place you love. You know, the one that does the eggs that way? Call and cancel because we have cold sandwiches and instant coffee!

To ensure your willing attendance we're going to give your partner a rare weekend off. This way YOU get to feel what it's like to sit in a drafty hangar while your partner does alone all the many things you had planned to do together.

Unless he's a section head. Those guys have oodles of spare time on the weekends. That guy will be in to work FOR SURE. And what better way to spend some quality time together. Really, it's like we have to plan your marriage for you.

Honestly, if you both just took the time to ask a few basic questions about what goes on all day, or had bothered to come to any of the last 13 years worth of family day tours, we wouldn't find ourselves in this situation.

Annually. Because, good news, we're probably going to host one of these every year!

Sincerely,


Your Partner's Boss, so...no pressure.'

Bonum enim est ex familia! ~ For the good of the family!

Something Funky

The front hall is filled with boots and bags 

and mysterious bits of unconstrained, 

self-contained underwater breathing apparatus.

There are balled up socks on the stair.

Meeker is blissfully asleep 

atop a pile of unmentionables that I won't mention.

Jesse is doing her best to descend into the basement

where a Bon-Tempi, Easy-Beat-One version of "My Music At Work"

is being sung by a voice that makes my heart jump,

my throat tighten and my eyes fill.

 Hello, Heartbeat. You're home.

Domestic Bubbles Burst

It's just the two of us for Thanksgiving this year, Husband and I. Normally we would have a house full of folks too far from their home province for a quick weekend trip, or we would be invading someone else's house for heaps of turkey and endless board games. 

This year we are keeping it simple. I mean, relatively simple. I had suggested a simple picnic and some turkey subs from Subway but this was obviously too simple and resulted in a Look. So this year, we're simply having a simple meal for two, consisting quite simply of turkey with citrus and cranberry dressing, gravy, creamy mashed potatoes, roasted turnip and sweet potatoes, fresh corn, peas, maple-glazed carrots, Brussels sprouts sauted with bacon and almonds, honey slaw, and pumpkin pie with fresh cream for dessert.

So simple even I can do it.

Division of labour is determined by skill set. I will do all of the cooking because I am very good at not getting distracted by shiny things or politics or accidentally constructing a wing suit instead of not burning the house down. Husband will do all of the clean up because I am doing all of the shopping and prep and cooking. On a sunny day off. In the Fall. Indoors. Nowhere near my canoe. 

It occurs to me as I write this that while I was out buying all of the simple ingredients for our simple dinner and not, as it were, selecting a cute gingham table cloth and a bottle of wine for the romantic Fall picnic of my dreams, that I may have forgotten to purchase dish soap, which we are now simply out of. 

I suddenly seem to be incapable of peeling even an apple without using four pans and a muffin tin.

Friendly Manitoba: Weather You Can Stand It Or Not

It's Fall now. In Manitoba that means rains and mist and much passionate wooshing about of leaves in the wind and there are few things that will brand you an outsider faster than your reactions to the local weather. I tend to carry an umbrella when the weather is foul, partly because I think an umbrella adds the touch of class that a hoodie will never match and partly because some day there will come the ideal convergence of sidewalk, gutter, puddle and lamp post for a moment of epic Gene Kelly perfection. I will also wear extra splashy, super sassy, lace-up rubber boots at the slightest provocation.

Seriously. They're plaid and go up to here.

Many times in Manitoba have I been told "you mustn't be from around here." More than in any other province apart from B.C., where for practical hurricane related reasons, an umbrella is really just a sacrifice to the capricious gods of wind and shingling.

I'm just saying that in general, I like to be ready in case of rain. Apparently this attitude is considered frivolously light-hearted and suspicious. Such things are not to be tolerated in a province where the population is so endearingly dependent on their steady intake of Vitamin D that I have seen people stop in their tracks to glare at fluffy-duckling clouds on a summer's day, in much the same way one reacts to line jumpers and people who talk during the movie.

I am not going to change, because clearly I am killing it when it comes to living life, but I am thinking I need to buy many more umbrellas in many more obnoxious colours.

Maybe plaid, to match the boots.

A Poem of Much Busyness

I was supposed to be writing yesterday. 

At least, that was the plan. I didn't, however, 

account for the abysmal,

you will agree, 

disorganization of my book, 
as it were,
shelves. 

Who put Darwin next to Gary Larson 

and why are all my Pratchetts out of chronological-by-story arc order?

You see my problem.

No one could be expected to work

under these conditions.

Which is why going out and buying a new bookshelf

was the only way I was going to get any writing done.

Foam packing material is quite diverting, the static clingliness

must be investigated. It sticks to 

walls, 

sweaters,

black dogs,

orange dogs,

but absolutely will not stick to inexplicably jittery cats.

Extra pieces left over. Pffft,who needs them? Seems sturdy enough 

without "small dowel #2 and associated flanges." Not a word I 

get to use often enough: FLAN-ges. Fuh-LAN-ges. 

Ah, look at all this room. This space, such a luxury! Who will live here... Natural sciences? Philosophers? Douglas Adams?

I can only hope that tomorrow's writing tasks go half so well.

Remember to Dress in Layered Cliches

I keep the secret hidden for most of the year,

Behind Star Wars t-shirts and scuffed sneakers, 
And a giddy optimism that I will use like a blunt object, 
Or a deflector dish! Yes, let's go with that one.

I wear my true colours in the Fall.

When the leaves are a-twirl in a wind that can't decide if it wants to be warm or cold. 

When the sunshine and the rainclouds wrestle for the same patch of bluest blue sky.

When the green flees the fields where the geese start to gather.

That's when I don my Lulus, head to the nearest cafe with book of Important Essays in hand, 

Declaring to the world with my tall flat white coffee,

Unapproachably oversized dark sunglasses, organic lip stain flavoured with honey from only the most self-righteous of bees,
And wearing a meticulously messy top knot over a perfectly baggy sweater emblazoned with a single, profound directive like "Be" or "Dream" or "Verb"...

This is when I declare that YES, I am a white girl.

Jesse's Name

They call me Old Girlie, because my cinnamon has turned to grey, and Sweet Potato which, as a descriptor, is perhaps a bit too accurate, but I don't mind, as long as the peanut butter toast keeps coming. They call me Dearest and Baby Girl, and Come-On-Honey-Bee when I take too long to think about things as I sniff along the trail. They call me Silly Sloot, as I lay in the sun with my privates on glorious display.

I am alright with this. 

I am even okay with being called Jesse, even though that is not my name, because I hear my real name in their voices.

I hear it when She uses my back for a pillow while She reads to me, even though I don't really care for post-apocalyptic fiction. He speaks it as he rubs my hips on cold mornings to make the ache a little better. I hear it when they call me over and over in the too-early morning, when my warm bed is all I really want. 

I hear it when I suffer the indignity of being lifted down from the car, before my legs betray me and I fall. 

I hear it every day.

My name is Awesome.

Happy

Husband is the the powdered sugar coating on my lemon filled doughnut. He is the breeze through my hair on a summer bike ride. He can build and operate a sound system from two coconuts and a jar of capers. He can hot wire a snowmobile, for completely legal reasons, or set off a flare responsibly, outdoors and not anywhere near our sofa. He is the tinkle in my wind chime and the long, deep, heartfelt sigh that expands my chest and eases away the stress of the day.

And I only just recently realized that I am his brakes. 

This wonderful, happy, silly dreamer of mine, who believes I should quit my day job to write full time and make millions, "because you're so funny sweetie", who believes that people can change even though they will likely just carry on being grumpy and small, no matter how hard he tries to show them that that is simply not enough, but he still leaves the house every day to try again...this man chose me. A worrier.

When I say worrier, I don't mean about the big stuff. The world and the universe will be fine without us, long after we have self-immolated atop a gasping and desperate pile of last minute efforts to save ourselves from ourselves and we won't be missed, least of all by the universe and specifically by all the other brother-species we destroyed or served battered, with ketchup.

I worry instead about things like housing costs and interest rates, how will we look after our parents as they age, how often we get out with other people to gauge what is still normal and are we "it", money, the cost of broccoli, how much red meat we are eating, does this latte come with refills, how many calories are in an apple, Husband's heart and my pancreas, whether I'm ever going to be comfortable with the fact that I think I might be a bit of a psychopath who's particular brand of crazy just happens to be really wanting to seem like a regular person and maybe I should talk to someone about that, how much bleach is too much bleach when I clean my floors as a dog owner, why I can't seem to knit or make a decent souffle or get French accents to work on my new laptop, and many more things before breakfast. 

All of this translates into a crippling caution which Husband respects, even when he is frustrated by it.

As it turns out, Husband worries about none of these things. His only worry, in the face of raising costs of living, aging parents, distant drop zones, and occasional burned eggs, is me.

That's also something I worry about.

I want Husband to have a life free from worry, which is not rational. But I also want his life and our lives together to be as happy as we can manage, which so far is really quite happy indeed, despite not living in a trailer on a drop zone in the middle of Alberta, or in an Adobe house in Arizona, or in a cabin in Half Mile House, BC, or in a van on Long Beach, or in a ski lodge in the Laurentians, or France.

Today is our 10th wedding anniversary. Don't be upset if you didn't know, we aren't that demonstrative. I have been wracking my brains over what I should give Husband this year. Tradition says that it should be tin. Hallmark, capitalism and a very good friend says it should be diamonds. 

I think, instead, I can give Husband something more meaningful than a pile of empty pop cans or shiny rocks. 

I'm going to give him my bravery. Fewer what-ifs and worries, less caution and flinching. What is the worst that could happen, if we chose one of those adventures for our next 10 years together? 

...I don't know but I'm secretly making a list.

Happy Anniversary, Handsome. I love you.

Quackers

In the rush and bother of everyday, 

when the city life swoops past, flicker-flick, 

I find myself thinking, 

"Did I just see a man trying to teach a little white farm duck how to safely cross the street?"

Yes?

Oh, thank goodness.

To the Duck Man, whom I spotted on the corner of Portage and Main about a week before fame launched him into the public eye. I am glad you are real.

CBC News item here

SAY MY NAME

Let me give you a hint...

I am polite to a fault, unless you cut in line, whereupon I may harrumph, quietly, until you make eye contact, and then I will say absolutely nothing at all.

I like camping, even in the rain. In fact, if it doesn't rain while I'm camping, I'll have to invent some other reason why my camping trip was so totally epic despite hardship and the nearly insurmountable disinterest on the part of my listeners.

I am not really all that fond of Tim Horton's coffee, but I will defend it to the death if I hear any one else slagging off about it.

I know how to pair the appropriate beer with every occasion. Christmas? Have a chocolate stout, with my compliments. Just mowed the lawn? You'll need a crisp, fruity ale. Friends coming over? Better pick up a taster double pack from your favourite micro-brewery. Annoying coworkers dropping by? Anything produced by the Budweiser Company. 

I can light a bonfire, a barbecue and a firework, occasionally from the same cigar. 

I will brave muskeg and mosquitoes to watch the Northern Lights from the roof of my van.

I really, really like to talk about the weather.

I like to think of myself as environmentally conscious, although I could probably put in a bit more effort to live in a more reasonable sized home, choose a more fuel efficient vehicle, or take a shower that lasts less than the usual 5+ minutes. 
I like to laugh, often at my neighbors but mostly at myself.

I pay more for wifi, fuel, hydro and lumber than nearly any one, but less for health care than a whole lot more.

I sleep safely in my town, without fear for tomorrow.

I can love whomever I choose.

There is very little that moves me to aggression, but compassion will often drive me to stand in defense of the smaller person with arms crossed and eyes hard.

I am not perfect. Mistakes do get made. 
I will say sorry and work hard to make it right. 

I am Canadian. I am strong. I am free.

Happy Canada Day, everyone.

Gifts

Dad is the reason I am an adventure lover, a story teller, a seeker of wild strawberries and the truths hidden under old stones. Because of him, I am silly without shame and awed without irony. He is the reason I read and the reason I write. This is all his fault. 

It began early...

The Nanquan is a sleepy little river that winds from Lake Scugog all the way up to absolutely nowhere. Seagrave, the town in which my father was born, straddles this river about midway along it's meander. It is a tiny town in which absolutely nothing has ever happened, except all the best things in the world.  My father described it in such a way as to bring to mind a sort of Rockwellian Narnia, with a dash of Robinson Crusoe and a liberal sprinkling of Mark Twain. It sounded perfect, and it probably was.

My brother and I used to beg Dad for stories about his childhood. He would tell us tales about building a raft and poling up the river with his older brothers or his best friend. His stories were filled with wonders, epic battles and great deeds. Pirates were defeated, enemies overcome, dragons slain and, occasionally, if all else failed, a damsel was rescued. They fished and whittled. They cooked over campfires they lit themselves. With matches. Like real cowboys. River cowboys who fought dragons and pirates.

This freedom my father experienced as a child was a magical idea for my brother and I. Of course, we were granted liberties that parents today would recoil from. Even though we were close to a small city, we were heaved out the door on the first day of summer, armed with a Star Wars Thermos filled with green Freshie and told not to come home before lunch time. Still, there were rules. Don't go inside any one's house for any reason, not even with a friend. Don't play in the exceptionally fascinating abandoned barn (whoops) and do not ever for any reason, ever go in the river, ever. No, not even if you see a dog that needs rescuing. No, not to retrieve a fallen sibling. No, not even if you were dared by the local bully to just put one toe in. Never, ever. It never occurred to us that the river was dangerous, but it was verbotten and that was final.  

Fair enough. We figured if we followed rules one and three really closely, that rule two should be a reasonable negotiating point and, should the topic ever arise (for example, if we were ever caught), we were certain the blinding logic of this would be on our side. The Enemy and I would travel miles on our bikes, safe between the boundaries of the Trans Canada highway on the east, and the Scugog River on the west. 

Ah, but at the family cabin, things were different. At our summer campground on a tiny lot of land in Upper Canada, owned by our grandparents, we were afforded even further liberty. We could roam anywhere along the five miles of creek valley and over-grown orchards and homestead foundations, as long as we didn't mess with any cattle and stayed out of the old abandoned mill by the creek (whoops). Provided we were together and provided someone knew, in theory, where we were, the creek was fair game.

Maybe our parents should have been more thoughtful with their edicts. Cattle? Even the hardest fought cow patty battle held scant interest once the wilds of the Maiden's Mill Creek were made available. Fueled with the certain knowledge that we were the children of Canada's own Huck Finn, we had endless adventures on that creek; adventures that took us probably quite a bit further upstream than our parents planned. Whoops. 

We fished, we caught frogs, we dug for clams. We skipped rocks, waded for duck eggs and built bridges. When all else failed, we fell in. Then one summer we salvaged an old pallet and some empty drums for a raft and set out for the open seas.

We discovered that the dragons my father had defeated in his youth had not perished, but had hidden themselves away on our quiet riverbank, to nurse their wounds and regain their strength. Once again, pirates threatened the peace of the land. Wars were raged, battles fought and won, and all before lunch time. 

It was glorious. Not the best time of my life, surely, as there is still so much left to see and do with my new partner in crime, but certainly the best foundation for the yet-to-comes that anyone could ask for.

It was a combined effort on the part of my parents to ensure that my brother and I made it to adulthood alive and armed with a decent set of morals and manners. They gave us guidance, strength, encouragement, and as much freedom as they could, to try and fail and try again. My mom gave us her heart and soul and every moment of her day. My dad gave us a universe filled with wonders to be discovered and edges of the map to fill in.  

Thank you, both. And thank you Dad, for all worlds you promised would be out here. They are.

Also, Freshie was totally a thing in Ontario. Haters will assume I mean Kool Aid. They will be wrong.

The Big Book of Manitoba, Chapter 3: What's in A Name?

I am fascinated by the way my language changes as I move across Canada. It's a testament to the many cultures which have found a home here. I am learning new words for food and animals, places and pastimes. 

Manitoba and it's accompanying seashore is home to quite a bit of the most interesting wildlife in Canada. Some of them I fully intend to go and stare at, and not simply in the rather sad zoo they have here. They are easily recognizable by name, such as Polar Bears, Bison, Belugas and Bowheads, and many others which do not comply with my alliteration. 

But. 

I feel as though I may be the victim of an adorable prairie prank. There are creatures here who's names I simply do not know. What, I beg you, is an Army Worm? Is that a new name for Tent Caterpillar? Is it the same thing as Drop Worm, which they also tell me live here in numbers? I figured out that Fishflies are actually Alderflies. I'm fairly certain that Lily Bugs are in fact Scarlet Lily Beetles, and that there is no such thing as the Kill You in Your Sleep Wasp.

Do not get me started in ticks.

Weather words are different everywhere. In Alberta they have Chinooks and Clippers. Nor' Easters scour the Maritimes, and Vanvcouver Island has Oh-My-Actual-God-Is-That-Snow. If you're in Wawa, Ontario, it's a Nanaimo Bar, but in Gimli, Manitoba, it's a dainty. Presumably in Nanaimo, it would just be a bar. Some provinces generalize locations. "We're going to the lake" could indicate one of literally thousands of lakes in Manitoba or Ontario. You don't get those same generalizations about mountains, maybe because Albertans keep score?

In Ontario, there is a tradition of wedding showers called Jack and Jills, where you might invite the people who would not otherwise attend your wedding. They may bring a gift, but just as likely the bride and groom may simply wish to throw a big bash for all the people in their lives who won't fit in Nana's back garden. You might sell raffle tickets and jello shots, or run a back alley style betting ring on rain gutter goldfish races. The intent is essentially a party and secondary to that, a small amount of funds may be raised to off set the cost of say, the bar at the wedding. In Manitoba, they have socials which, while steeped in fine tradition, seem to be about money. Tickets for entry are sold to all comers, not just causal work acquaintances who would be otherwise awkward to seat at the reception. No gifts are given, but many further tickets for libation and draw prizes are sold. Success is measured in dollars made. I think the ROC could learn a few things from Manitobans, and maybe Manitobans want to consider cutting out the middle man and just set up a standard gofundme page.

There are many more things to learn and I am excited to continue the journey, fully covered in protective netting to avoid insects and regional folk music. 

NOPE

This was supposed to be a clever post about the perils of hiking in tick territory. I planned on juxtaposing the joy of walking dogs through perfumed spring air with the paralyzing fear of finding a tick on your dog, after said walk. There was going to be poetry. 

This is not poetry.

This is a tick. (Actual size of horror, tick not to scale. Nearly.) 

THIS was in MY hair. And then it was flying through the air, then bouncing off the deck, then squished in heroic fingers, thank you dear, and then swirling down the toilet bowl of an accommodating and lovely person, who was completely okay with a stranger sitting for the next two hours, nervously scrubbing her scalp (not hers, mine) and rocking back and forth on her porch (not mine, hers).

In light of this latest experience I am going to have to revise my Provincial Scale of Danger...Scale...as follows:

1. Manitoba, on account of the ticks
2. British Columbia, (previously Number 1) for retired air force members behind the wheel, and sharks
3. Alberta, neighbours
4. Ontario, humidity and sudden hillbillies (sorry, bro)
5. R.O.C., mosquitoes and whatnot

TICKS: you should go back 
inside (not the ticks, you).