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.