Yes, Milady

Got this text from Anna last week:

Would you like your slippers warmed too? And hot crumpets, perhaps?

Music, Animals and Attitude: Grace

In this short 3-part series, I looked at some of the characteristics of my children through the lenses of Music (Erik) and Animals (Anna).

Part 3 today is about my absolutely adorable Grace. The 8-year old who, when touring the RCMP facility with the Cubs was pegged by the older officer, obviously well versed in character profiling. He took one look at her and said. "You're trouble, aren't you? But you're cute, and you get away with it, don't you?"

Now I'm not one for labelling the kids. They are what they are and have infinite opportunity for growth and maturity, for development and change.

But my dad snapped this picture last weekend on a walk through our fields. And I have to say, it's a pretty accurate representation of the spirited, bright, independent being that is my youngest.

Let's take a closer look...

Music, Animals and Attitude: Anna

Our farm animals are, well, a bit on the wild side. When Andrew needs to round them up, he uses a combination of stealth and trickery, with a healthy dose of sheer luck. We deliberately picked hardy stock, the kind that fend largely for themselves.

Enter Anna. Who has an infinite amount of patience, not heard of among anyone else in the family.

Anna the sheep whisperer

She can spend hours hanging out with the animals. Waiting for them not to fear her, waiting for them to get close, waiting to become friends with them.

Anna and Freedom the Llama

Music, Animals and Attitude: Erik

The school our children go to has a band. Starting in grade 4, the students get to pick an instrument...clarinet, flute, drum.

Anna, as soon as she hit Grade 4, knew she wanted to play the saxophone. Grace, only now in grade 3, already has a trumpet. But Erik...well, he can be obstinate, and he didn't want to just play any instrument that the school taught. Erik wanted to play a trombone. Never mind that their music teacher was only teaching treble clef instruments. Never mind that he has never before showed any musical inclination. Never mind that no-one in our family plays a trombone.

True to form, he's figuring it all by himself. One note at a time.

November the Fifth

Yesterday was November the Fifth, which in Canada doesn't mean much but in England is a day for fireworks, potatoes cooked in embers so that they are burnt on the outside and inedible inside, and of course the extrememly medieval practice of committing the effigy of a man to the flames of a bonfire. Burning Guy Fawkes-who was really just the fall guy for the mastermind of the gun powder plot, Robert Catesby - may have fallen out of favour in our more politically correct times (when I tried explaining what to me was a fun childhood tradition to my children, I found myself reeling from my own explanations), but Guy himself, largely due to the graphic novel and movie V for Vendetta, has made something of a comeback as the face of protest.

As interesting as this all is (and in the wake of the current Occupy protests, there are some interesting parallels) it's not what this blog is about today.

This weekend, my parents visited, and since it was such a glorious day on Saturday I had the bright idea to have a November 5th bonfire. Dad bought some fireworks, the kids and Andrew dragged wood, and I sat around sipping wine. The usual division of labour on the farm. It was a cold enough night once the sun went down, we had a brief interlude of rounding up sheep (never a dull moment), and then we settled in around the fire and managed to make it through to dark when the fireworks lit up the night.

We did not burn a guy. But we did cook potatoes in the embers to go with dinner. And they were excellent.

12-A The Green

I imagine it standing empty, forlorn, waiting. The three bedrooms that overlooked a garden, long since gone; the living room with an etched mirror and a gas fireplace bracketed by horse brasses and brass candlesticks that I loved polishing as a child; the large kitchen and walk-in pantry, and the small stone balcony that hung out over the front, over the grass that was the green.

I may have it backwards. It's been a long while since I was there. But I can see it all so clearly if I close my eyes.

It's not what it used to be. It's a bit derelict today, from what I understand, less gentile than it was 40 years ago, when we were admonished not to run because of the Misses Rastrick who lived downstairs and were getting elderly, when a neighbour tossed "sweeties" from her upstairs window to my brother and I as we played on the "green" on those weekends when we stayed there, visiting Grandma and Grandad.

I don't even have a picture, only memories. Stone steps and a huge expanse of grass to run in, all the way down to the tunnels that ran beneath the busy highway. My grandfather's whistle-loud and piercing-that meant it was time to come back for dinner. Many, many happy hours spent outside in the front, or in the back garden, overgrown and charming with a pigeon roost and a high brick wall or sometimes inside playing with toys and books that once belonged to our own father, and listening to the adults talk over the sound of the horse jumping on the television, loud so my grandfather could hear it.

The Green, as we all called it, was  a delightful spot to visit. And though I know it has gone downhill in the last 15 years, I remember it the way it was when we left England for Canada. Even when I have been back, the changes have been slight, but as I say, it has been some years now.

It has been there as long as I remember. Probably the most long-standing permanent place in my entire life so far. I wrote letters there so often over the years that the address is burned into my head and I never need to look it up. 

No more letters to go there though, so if I seem a touch maudlin, that is why. My grandmother turns 90 this year, and she is fading in and out of her past, now knowing who she is and where she lives, and now not. Reluctantly, the family has moved her into a home. For a rest, they tell her, keeping the Green flat. For now.

But I know it's the end of our time at the Green. And that saddens me. For many reasons.

The school bell tolls for thee...and thee...and thee

I don't know about everyone elses children, but mine were happy and excited for school to start again. Tuesday morning came bright and early after our last salute to summer weekend away at the cottage (one last swim in the lake--somewhat more refreshing now than it was in July, one last kayak against the backdrop of yellowing birch, one last attempt to catch and study the water snakes--we failed - they're too quick).

There's a great Vinyl Cafe story that Stuart tells about Marley wanting to make sure the first day of school is perfect for her children, and I get that. It's about starting the year off on a high note, about setting the stage for a successful year. Nutritious dinners and early nights, laid back non-rushed mornings, favourite sandwiches, and a bookbag full of fresh school supplies...these are the things that we do as if they are a talisman against things ever going wrong.

First day of school 2011

I called the school last week to find out what classes they were in, because they deal better with the first day knowing what to expect. I don't understand why some schools won't tell you until the day of school - it seems a bit over controling to me. (Then again, maybe it speaks to our reluctance to relinquish control of our kids' lives that we want to know in advance as much as possible.) And judging from what I know of their respective teachers, all three are in for a year of top notch education with teachers who will inspire and challenge them and their abilities.



My 1st day pic - at the insistence of the kids



This morning I was back in the classroom too, facing a fresh new cohort of students some fresh out of high school and others transitioning into college from the work force or other university programs. One of the many things I love about teaching is that sense of anticipation, of optimism, and of hope that crackles the air this time of year. Students in their new indigo jeans with laptops and books and plaid jackets crowded the campus and the place fizzed with excitement. It's now wonder back to school feels like the real start to the year.

Here's to September.

Summer 2011 - In pictures



There is no question about it. Summer has been full and fun this year. I've very much enjoyed having the flexibility of time off to spend with the children, and we've managed to get almost all the things we wanted to done, a remarkable feat for which my reward is three happy children. This last weekend we are back at the cottage, and after making them leap in the water (which is just a little more refreshing now than it was in July) and kayaking this morning, I am now enjoying an afternoon hour to myself, organizing the files on my laptop, updating my blog, catching up on my reading and generally preparing for next week when the lazy, low-hassle unscheduled days of summer come to an end.

But what a fabulous summer it has been. Here's a glimpse of some of the things we've been up to.

On The Ski Bob in Lake Simcoe

Grandad's Boat

At the Zoo

Grace learns to dive

Campfire

Leaping in the Lake

Cottage Kayaking

Off to Cub Camp

Medieval Festival

Making Hay

Erik Ziplining

War of 1812 Reenactment

Water Babies in the pool

Green Belts

Farm Humour

Grace came in crying this morning. One of the cute chicks we bought the other week is dead in the coop.

It happens. Chicks have a high mortality. What made this one worse was that it didn't die, exactly, but was more murdered. By one of its flock mates.

The pecking order is so named for a reason. It's brutal and disgusting, but there you have it.

Life on a farm has its share of horrible moments. Lambs die because their mother's don't feed them, sometimes even if we find them on time. Sheep die because coyotes attack. The other week the farm dog needed a paw treated for a really gross infection that had my stomach churning. All our cats vanished one week - probably fishers, but who really knows. And chickens can be really, really mean.

But these moments are few and far between really. And I like to think Erik and Anna and Grace are growing up aware of the delicate balance of life.

The children were sad. They were upset. They were looking for solutions to stop it happening again. Erik got to dispose of the body (because, you know, Mom is a wuss).

The three of them looked at it wistfully.It's head was off. Not completely though, just sort of detached.

You know, said Anna, we never named that one. I guess its name is Nearly Headless Chick*.

I've heard that doctors and police detectives develop a rather grim sense of humour to deal with the dark side of humanity. The dark side of farming has its own grim humour.


*Only funny if you're a Harry Potter fan, and familiar with the ghost of Griffyndor.

Summertime

Splashing in the pool...

Lazy days at the lake...

Red wine in the sunset...

Daytrips with friends....

Picnics on the beach...

Morning stretches and coffee on the veranda...

Walks through the meadow....

Whiling away an afternoon with a book under a shady tree...

Leisurely breakfasts with the kids...

Line dried laundry and open windows...

Flowers in the garden and the aroma of ripening tomatoes...

Paddling down a winding river...

Sitting around a campfire...

Watching fireflies on a hot summer night...

Bike rides on Saturday mornings...

Steak on the barbecue...

Lounging in the hammock...

The smell of fresh cut grass wafting on the breeze...

The Wall Came Down

You know last week, when the kids were away at cub camp, and I had the week more or less to myself...the week I was going to read and swim and make gourmet meals in between edits...yeah, that week.

Something happened to it. It was hijacked by a random thought that I had on the Thursday before the kids went to camp.

Do you think, I asked my husband, if we knocked down that wall, we could turn out bedroom into two rooms for the girls while they're away?

The short answer was yes.

The long answer involved a pile of things to do. I had to sort the room they were in, tossing and packing and organizing, taking down beds and storing desks and toy boxes and shelves in their brother's room. Then I had to clean their room. There was no way I was living with a pepto-bismol pink room, so since we were moving into their room, I had to prime and paint, and then move all our furniture across the hall.

Next the wall had to come down. Enter Andrew and a crow bar. Our farmhouse was originally a stage coach inn, so his closet was once an old inn room. By taking down the closet wall, we expanded the room by 8 feet, thus allowing us to create two rooms with windows and one room without which will serve as a den/spare room. What he realised and I did not was that the wall was original, which meant lathe and plaster, which meant mess. I realised it as I cleaned up century old dust.

Then we framed. And drywalled. And mudded. And primed. And painted.

And by the time the kids were home from camp on Saturday, our three bedroomed farmhouse was a five bedroomed one and the girls had their own rooms. Small. Unfinished (they still need trim and doors; we still have half their stuff in our room; and the new den is appropriately named-it looks like something animals would live in because I haven't quite finished cleaning it out of all the debris).

But their own.

Alike

This post is part of Capital Mom's Monday Moments series. It also follows along quite nicely from my posts about Harry Potter.

In late spring, we had a Harry Potter themed dinner, rustling up recipes from the countless websites dedicated to this kind of thing. While Erik and I were out cutting stalks of rhubarb to make a lovely rhubarb apple crumble, he said to me, Mom, you're just like Mrs. Weasley.

I have to be honest, my first thought wasn't all that charitable. I mean look at the way Molly dresses! But Erik expanded on his statement: how we live in an old rambling house and there are always good smells in the kitchen and lots of food to eat. He mad especial mention of the pies (Erik really likes pies). And somehow in his 11 year old mind, he equated the homemade pies I make for him, the cobblers and crisps and the sausages and mashed potatoes, lasagne and roast chickens with the comfortable hominess of Molly Weasely, mother to (among others) Ron and Ginny and Fred and George.

I saw it for the compliment it was. And since then I've reflected on and off about how, actually, being like Molly is a good thing.

She's protective of her family, but not overbearing. She puts her foot down, but lets them go and do what needs to be done. She keeps her children on their toes and holds them accountable (We tried to shut him in a pyramid but Mum spotted us - Fred and George) without holding them back.

Molly doles out love and discipline and caution and support in good measure. Her children think she worries too much but they also respect her, and want to stay on her good side. She in turn respects each of her children and their friends and appreciates their individual gifts. Even when Fred and George drop out of school to start a joke shop, Molly gives them grief and then, having done so, stands behind them.

And when it matters most, she is not afraid to stand up for those she loves. Witness the cheering that went on in the theatres during Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows part 2 when Molly stares down Bellatrix...she is a force to be reckoned with at that moment.

So am I like Molly Weasley? To be honest, I hope so.

Real World

The first week of summer was low key and full of possibility, then we escaped to the cottage for a fabulous week of relaxation (I did some work, but editing doesn't feel so much like work to me - it's so much fun), followed by a day out with friends at a battle re-enactment and rounded off with a dinner party at another friends where we swam in a lit pool until midnight and ate filet mignon with a lovely Cabernet Franc.

But today, reality hit once more in the form of piles and piles and piles of dirty laundry; a kitchen in dire need of cleaning after we were away for a week and my dear hard-working husband had to juggle mowing 30 acres of hay and work despite nursing a serious gastro virus that laid him low all week; and weeds that I swear were not here before we left but which are now three feet high. I washed, wiped, and weeded, saving tomato and basil and tomato plants as well as my asiatic lilies, all of which were greatly at risk from the creeping charlie and dandelions and one bizarre weed I don't recognize but which takes over as soon as I turn my back.

Got most of it done. Or at least started. Then swam with Grace and Erik. Then sat on the veranda with a Smirnoff Ice. Oh yeah. Now dinner awaits Andrew and Anna who will be home soon, and I think we are settling in to watch Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

Ah, Sunday.

Time Stands Still

I wish I painted. Even photography can't always do justice. I'm at the lake this week with the kids, and we are spending our days swimming and canoeing and reading. And last night, sitting down by the campfire, I looked up to see Anna and Grace standing beside the cliff, the lake and trees and sunset behind them, and I wanted to paint.

The sun shone into them, flickers of light that encased them in mellow gold. Grace wore dark denim jeans and a yellow peasant top and Anna had on pink shorts and an aqua shirt that I would never have imagined together, but that really worked. As they stood together, their blonde tresses flying in the breeze and their tanned, laughing faces relaxed and happy, the rosy glow from the fire before them and a streak of scarlet behind as the sun descended in the sky, I had one of those moments where you just want to capture it forever and never let it go.

I had neither camera nor brush and they'd I'm sure be rolling their eyes if I told them how, in that instant, time paused for me, and I drank it all in greedily, ignoring the smoke that got in my eyes, the haunting call of the loons on the lake, and the deer flies (oh, the deer flies) that flew around my head looking for fresh flesh. Knowing I could not make time really stand still, I wanted, needed, to imprint it on my memory.

Two girls, with the world before them. And nothing to hold them back.

Summer School

School is out soon, and two long hot, fun months of summer begin. I am off this summer - or rather working from home, which is really not quite the same, but will give me the flexibility to take to the kids to parks, the beach, daytrips, the cottage and camping.

And one of the things we do each year is summer school.

I can hear the groans now.

It isn't to be mean, or because the kids need remedial help. Not at all. But two months of summer, while relaxing and rejuvenating and laid back, is also two months away from all the writing and math and french and science, and frankly, when the kids do return to school in September, it always feels like it takes a month for them to get back into the swing of things. A little bit of work through the summer seems to ease that transition.

There is another reason. So much of what they do in school is done, well, in school. But teachers as we all know are spread thin with so many students, and summer is a chance for me to focus in on what the kids do well and help them in areas where they may struggle. The one-on-one experience also allows them to try new things, and to expand on the learning they are already doing.

For us, summer school is largely self-guided. I want to have them read books that interest them, and be able to write about them. I want them to research a topic that fascinates them, partly because research ability is crucial, but also to show them that it can be fun. I want them to get comfortable with thinking and discussing the kind of topics that you may never get a chance to do in school. And most of all, I want to show them that learning is active and hands on and exciting when you are able to engage with your subject.

So summer school. But no desks. The world will be our desk.

Happy Birthday, Erik!

In the past, for my children's birthdays, I have always posted a blog about them, with the milestones, some pictures, some biased motherly adoration and admiration. But I pause this year, on Erik's birthday.

I pause because he is 11 today, and seems suddenly to have passed out of the realm of childhood. Not that he's all grown up, but I get the feeling he's too grown up to be blogged about. I don't think he minds - he's a very easy-come-easy-go kid - but I am starting to wonder if perhaps I mind.

Had my mother written a blog when I was 11, I'd have died of embarrassment should she decide to dedicate a page to all my idiosyncrasies and delight in all the things lovable she found in me. Maybe a nod or two to the funny things I said or did, and a cute photo or two just to round things out and really make me wish the floor would open and let me fall through it.

Perhaps there is an age where it stops being appropriate to talk about our kids' lives. I don't know if that day is today, but am going to tread softly and simply say this:

Happy 11th Birthday, Erik.

The Camps of Proved Desire and Known Delight

Who hath smelt wood smoke at twilight?
Who hath heard the birch log burning?
Who is quick to read the noises of the night?
Let him follow with the others
For the young men's feet are turning
To the camps of proved desire and known delight.
~ Rudyard Kipling

How many of you have had the wonderful experience as a child of running around with friends until the skies turn black and darkness falls? Of listening to the distant chatter of parents over by a cracking bonfire while you escape into the recesses of the night. Twilight comes on grey and flat, and then the evening. By starlight and moonlight you race around, a gang of kids reporting to no-one but each other, laughing and playing and chasing imaginary dragons.

We had friends over for an impromptu dinner and fire last weekend. Six adults sipping wine by the fire. 10 children out in the wilderness enjoying their freedom. The two youngest came back to the fold early, but the older ones were having way too much fun, and when they finally came in, the embers were low and the cool spring air was chilly. The kids had smoke and leaves and dirt on their faces and clothes, exhaustion written all over them, and big smiles on their faces.

Exactly how it should be.

Historical Dinners

This week in history marks the 99th anniversary of the sinking of RMS Titanic. For a while the kids have wanted to see the movie, so we thought this would be a good time to make that happen.

 

We got to talking about the event, the girls started to google facts, and before long we had discovered interesting things such as the music played, lists of passengers, and the menus for the first, second and third class.

 

Menus...Hmmm.

 

With a rainy afternoon before us, and Anna at a birthday, Grace and I set to work to recreate a Titanic dinner menu. Now 10 courses seemed a bit over the top, so we scaled back a little. And I took a little liberty with the actual food served on the ship. This is what we made:

 

Titanic Menu

• Roasted Garlic Soup (a Chez Piggy recipe) 
• Mixed greens with chevre and almonds

(This is where the fish course would go - we skipped it. Likewise the sorbet which would be course 4)

• Chicken Lyonaisse with cream sauce
• Lyonaisse Potatoes (Lyonaisse basically means with onions, and was served on Titanic)
• Green Beans Almondine
• Broccoli with cheese sauce
• Victoria Sponge cake (not actually a Titanic dish, but only fashioned and sweet. And delicious. Thanks Nigella Lawson)

(Courses 8, 9 and 10 - we skipped them too. I imagine a cheese course, a sweet pastry course, and no clue what the other would be. Seemed like overkill. We were all stuffed.)

 

And then we sat down rather corpulently, to watch the movie. I should note that we did not have wine with every course as they might have in 1914. We had sherry with our soup, wine with our dinner, and a snifter of brandy with dessert. And the kids had juice.

 

So successful was our historically themed dinner, that the kids are keen to do it again. It struck me that with the date also being the anniversary of Culloden, we could have done that too...but maybe we'll save it for another time.

 

Now I am racking my brains for another event to mark with a feast. History is more fun when you can eat it! If you have any ideas, feel free to pass them along...

On Guard

We have a ton of lambs outside. Mewling and bleating and skipping and gamboling. There is a game they play where they creep up to the sleeping guard dog. Closer and closer and closer until...one of the lambs dares to touch her and--

Rrrruff!

They scatter, the dog goes back to sleep, and five minutes later the lambs come creeping back.

Tundra is our guard dog, a beautiful Great Pyrenees whose gentle nature with the kids, the lambs, and our house dog is matched by a fierce and protective ferocity when coyotes come near. Seriously, we have seen her rip a coyote into shreds. Since we got her we have had zero kills among our little flock. And that's good news.

But I wonder sometimes, what she is really thinking? Protect the little helpless lambs?

Or Dinner?

Emergency

Late this afternoon, I sliced the top of my right index finger open on a sharp can lid while I was sorting the recycling.

Crap, that hurt.

Now I have cut myself cooking numerous times. But I knew right away this was something bigger. Maybe it was the blood running down my finger and into the white sink; maybe the flapping skin; maybe just the absolute moment of agony. I ran my hand under cold water, grabbed paper towel and wraped my finger up in it. Classic first aid. The kids were doing homework and asking me questions. Quesitons I did not answer. Instead - and why I cannot explain - I found it comforting to walk in circles around the kitchen, clutching my finger, and pausing every couple of laps to run under the cold water. It numbed the pain.

And then I started to feel faint.

I've cut my finger open, it's bleeding, and I'm going to faint, I announced, making my way giddily into the living room to the couch.

I lay on the couch feeling the sweat of shock over my skin, and the room began to fade in and out. And there were voices.

Will she die? (Grace)
No! (Erik, scathingly). Her eyes are opening.
We should put her in the recovery position. (Grace)
We should apply pressure (Anna)
Can we put her in the recovery position? (Grace)
Get some bandaids and paper towel (Erik)
I could stitch it up. (Anna)
No! (Erik, scathingly)
She could choke on her tongue. We should put her in the... (Grace)
She doesn't need the recovery position until she passes out (Erik)
You won't die, Mom (Grace, rather cheerfully)

Good to know the first aid training they did at Cubs paid off. They sat there, Anna clasping my finger to staunch the flow of blood; Grace touching my forhead to see how hot I was, and trying to convince the others to let her practice the recovery position; and Erik taking charge and telling me it would be okay. And gradually the room receded and stabilized again. They gave me fresh paper towel, a dry towel to wrap around it, and a hot cup of sweet tea.

And hey, we were able to save the whole finger. It still hurts like heck. And when I get up the courage to take the bandage off, we'll see just how bad it is.

Until then, thank you to my little first aiders!