March: List Two

My mother can say things in normal conversation that, out of context, and sometimes even in context, sound like euphemisms for

le acte de l'amour. 

Wink wink, nudge nudge, say no more, say no more.

1. Fluff the pillows.
2. Set up camp.
3. Start the dishwasher.
4. Shovel the walkway.
5. Massage the kale.
6. Your father needs to learn how to stack my bowls.

March: List One

Brief excerpts from an actually quite average conversation which are pretty good indicators that I am married to some sort of evil genius.

1. What's the worst that could happen?
2. I know what I'm doing.
3. I know what went wrong.
4. I think I can fix it.
5. It's just a little blood.
6. I by-passed the compressor.

The Sound of Silence

I find I am disturbed.

The thunder storm we were threatened with today did not arrive. I would have welcomed it, it's too quiet here.  It stayed dreary anyways, not a nice day to be out and so it's endless cups of tea and a chance to make a dent in the thick stack of books by the window. I'm avoiding several important adult things at the moment but I'm doing laundry so that makes it all better.

Our new neighbourhood is calm to point of sedation but we are starting to learn it's rhythm. The retirees to the east of us are travellers, they fly everywhere looking for warm sun and gin. No pets. Grown children. She takes an early fitness class in the city. He tinkers with his snow blower, even on rainy days like today.

The family straight across has a pair of fluffy Goldens and a low fence, perfect for meetings and sniffs. Meeker is not amused by their grins, or their freedom to romp while he sits, tied to the house in our front yard-with-no-fence. There may be repercussions in the summer. Meeker keeps score.

The neighbour to the west of us is quiet. She is shy, or busy, and we haven't had a chance for the Polite Halloo. We understand shy. We won't push.

A neighbourhood dog named Gunner, who is yellow and sweet and follows walkers in the hopes of pats or cookies, found Husband to be an easy mark. He followed along until his "sweet stray in search of love" ploy was shattered by a helpful soul up the street, who shooed him by name and shamed him home. Next time, buddy. Next time. We'll bring bacon.

I confess I find the peace here a bit smothering. This idyll we've discovered is comforting, like a blanket. A thick blanket that fights back in the night and grows tentacles in your nightmares, to pin you down and throttle your soul...

Erm.

I suppose I just mean that I have grown used to the bustle and noise of a city. Many cities. Peace is taking some getting used to, and I still rely on the radio to help me tune out the silence on the street. I didn't think I would miss traffic, blaring car stereos, sirens, air brakes, jet planes, helicopters, street sweepers, Snow Birds, car horns, construction, back-up signals, alarms, sidewalk plows, fire stations, and the occasional domestic disturbance, but I really do.

....Tentacles?

Words, Words, Words

I was in a house without books once.
It took me a moment to realize why the house seemed so empty.
I snuck away from the noise of the party to explore.
I thought, 
Maybe this house has a library.
Maybe, somewhere, there is a whole room dedicated to books.

I'll admit to being ever so slightly turned on by this thought.
Which was awkward.
At a Christmas party.

But it gradually dawned on me.
No books. Anywhere. 
Not. Even. One.

I couldn't decide if it was creepy or sad.
What I do know is that I got drunk immediately.
To forget.
And when I woke up the next morning, 
In my house, with my shelves filled with words and worlds,
I thought, creepy. 

Definitely creepy.

"A life without books is a thirsty life..." Stephen King

Settling In

Husband has retired from being a SAR Tech. So that's that. 

We've moved to a sweet little spot on the Saint Lawrence River. A sleepy little town where all the chimneys puff white smoke in the mornings and a little exploring on snowshoe in the back fields has revealed that in the summer I will be surrounded by old orchards, rambling hedges overgrown with lilac, ancient and forgotten raspberry patches, and at least three secret ponds which will certainly turn the Meeker twit green. 

The area is quite lovely. Cornwall insists that it is a vital city on the mouth of the river, with many wonderful things to recommend it to visitors and settlers alike. It certainly has a pretty waterfront and a friendly downtown. It's also close enough to some bigger cities with bigger budgets, for festivals, things to do on the weekend, and Ikea, and not so far away that it takes three days to get a part for the Volvo. 

We are smitten with our new home town and not least because many of our neighbours are direct descendants of the British soldiers and Loyalists who set fire to a famously white house just over 200 years ago. How many Canadians can say that? We'll skirt over the fact that they also set fire to the Library of Congress and all 3000 volumes it contained, and focus instead on the knowledge that that little bonfire represents the only time in American history that their capitol was occupied by an enemy force. 

And the cheese here is so cheap.

Getting settled is taking some time. The house is in good shape, but finding homes for all of our things is always tricky. Often it's a matter of "just leave it in the box and we'll probably use it in the next place." The thing is, this is the last next place. If it's not used here, it will never be used, so it's time to toss the crate of creepy china dolls, boxes of surplus shoes and (dare I say it?) the sectional to the curb. More room for a sweet new paddle board and a fat bike. 

This blog, which began the day we left Ontario a decade ago, was intended as a letter to our future selves, recording our adventures. 

I've determined that our adventure is not over, despite the fact that we have settled in Cornwall, Ontario. I know this to be true because any day in which you see or do or learn something new is an adventure.

Why, just yesterday Husband learned that tire pressure is inversely proportional to the amount of control required to prevent one from crashing a fat bike into a tree.

A Promise Made...

My sweet canoe is nestled in a moving truck, amidst mummified sewing machines and boxes of books. When we arrived in Manitoba, I had promised my canoe rivers. Rivers wide and muddy, with friendly shorelines and at least one flock of pelicans. 

They didn't happen. Neither one of us, my canoe nor I, were prepared for city life. 

Every day I came home and I would tell my canoe about my adventures.

"I found a place that sells sushi pizza!" 

"There are buskers at the Forks! They were juggling FRUIT!"

"I got spit on by a homeless guy!"

My canoe was always so excited for me, and always patient. The weeks slipped by and the shadow under her belly stopped the grass from growing. Every now and then, her sweet glass heart would leap as I pulled her out, but no, I was just mowing. Just raking. No river today.

Now she's in a truck, headed for another province. Two other families are sharing the truck, I hope they have canoes who will keep her company as they bounce along the highway. 

I haven't told my canoe where we are going this time. She doesn't know that we will be living next to the widest river in Canada, or that a creek runs right past our yard. She has no idea that we will be a stone's throw from Algonquin Park. In the small Ontario hamlet, with no buskers or sushi, no Little Free Libraries, no Zumba in the park, no food truck festivals, art galleries, or weird little shops that sell nothing but teas that smell of feet... she has no idea what she's in for.

I can't wait.

We drive out today. Ontario, here we come.

We leave in mere hours for our next great adventure. For those of you military families who are reading this, spread the word: Winnipeg isn't a frozen waste of time. It's not stinky or boring or riddled with thieves and murderers. It has a warm heart, a GREAT down town, a rich cultural history, sushi pizza, a guy with a pet duck, awesome festivals, every possible amenity you could dream of, fantastic schools with dedicated staff, and a world class dining culture to boot.

To Winnipeg: Thank you for everything. Even the mind-opening experience of getting spit at. He was cold and tired and I was too happy, because Winnipeg is just so awesome. It's not his fault.

Cheers Winnipeg!

The Perfect Cup of Coffee

Raise early, while the light is still pale and watery looking.

Stretch. Scratch.

Feed the cat.

Then start with the beans. Use the ones you like the best. 

This step isn't as important as hipsters would have you believe. Nothing needs to be organic or imported, although Fair Trade is a good call. What matters is that you use the coffee you like. If you like the grounds from a red plastic tub, or only the beans from Jamaica, lovingly packed in a hand-sewn cotton bag, use those. Honestly. 

The beans are not the coffee. The coffee is the coffee.

The method you choose to use in order to brew your coffee is a deeply personal one, each with it's own merits and all equally useful in their way. Only one is correct.

Use a standard 4 cup French press.

Measure your coffee using a 1/8 c scoop. The amount is a matter, again, of preference. Four is correct. And don't be smarmy, adding up the fractions and using the wrong measuring scoop. No one likes smarmy coffee.

Boil the kettle. 

Use this time to meditate on the choices you have made in your life which have led you to this moment. 

Stare into the abyss.

Pour the boiling water over the grounds in your press.

Stir.

Place the lid on top.

Set the timer for the desired amount of time, once again bearing in mind that this is a deeply personal choice which reflects both the boldness you desire in your coffee and the length of time you are willing to wait before your head explodes and you nearly die already.

Four minutes is about right.

Depress the plunger on your press. 

Pour the coffee into a clean porcelain mug like a proper adult.

Add cream and sugar in reasonable ratios. 

Sit. 

Breathe.

Sip your coffee and gaze into the middle distance as the sweet brown liquid warms your body and brings meaning to your existence.