Merry Christmas (2021)

It’s a perfect day. It is Christmas Eve but days like this happen every once in a while for no apparent reason. In some ways today is nothing special. We are hanging out with Odie who happens to be semi-quiet at the moment. The temperature is going between -19 and -20 C, and the sky is a brilliant blue. It’s actually pleasant in the sun.

    We had a dump of snow last night and when we went out to shovel this morning Richard got warm enough to take off his parka. The snow was powdery so it wasn’t terribly heavy work although my Fitbit did tell me I got 23 minutes of cardio out of the activity. We don’t often shovel snow together, but today, as I was walking down the hall I saw Richard putting his keys in his pocket. I asked him if he was going to shovel the snow. He was and I was just on my way to the back door for my coat and boots. We decided to do it together. It goes much faster that way. We did the front walk, then the deck. I don’t know why I want to shovel the deck. Maybe it’s because I love to see the warm rich colours of the wood as I look out the window. Maybe it’s because I imagine taking a chair and a cup of tea to sip in the snowy landscape. I haven’t actually gotten the chair or the tea but if the deck is clear the possibility is there.

    I have wonderfully warm clothes. I wore the down ‘duvet’ that is slime green and that I got years ago for half price at MEC. I hate the colour, although I have friends who love it and I’ve had compliments on it while I’ve been shopping. There’s no accounting for taste, mine or anyone else’s. I wore the sealskin mitts that I bought from a hunter in Pond Inlet, and I topped the outfit off with a toque I crocheted just the other day. The pattern said you could finish it in an hour. Um, not in my universe! I pulled the thing down at least 6 times but ended up with a result I’m happy with. Oh, and I wore my new boots. They are actually a Christmas present but Richard wanted me to try them on to make sure they fit and once I knew what they were, I saw no point in having him wrap them up and put them under the tree even though he offered.
    

    They are Wind River X-ice and the only boots that CBC Marketplace found to really be anti-slip. (This is not a commercial.) I won’t say I can’t slip in them but if I don’t push off too hard with my toe they are amazingly steady on ice. I’m still careful crossing slippery streets but it’s nice not to have to do the ‘senior shuffle’ quite so much.

First coat of poly on the uke

   

 
 Another reason today is perfect is that I’m done making Christmas presents and have been for about a week. This has never happened before and I found myself a bit at loose ends because I had time to spare. I’ve been able to concentrate on getting ‘Lilred’ my current ukulele ready for finish. Every time I thought I was ready to go and get the finish, I found another flaw that I needed to take care of. This could go on forever, of course, so today I finally dunked the cotton pad into the polyurethane and wiped on the first coat. Because we’re not going anywhere for Christmas I’ll be able to babysit the finish which takes about 3 hours to dry between coats. I should be able to get another coat on shortly and then keep building up coats over the next few days. I haven’t worked enough with this finish to know exactly how to handle it to get the best results so it will be kind of fun figuring it out. The nice thing is that it’s a thin finish and I can always sand it down and start again if I need to. I don’t think it will come to that.


    Tonight we will head off to the Christmas Eve service, masked and triple-vaccinated. I’ve only missed one Christmas Eve service in this church since I was about 14. In 2019 we had the privilege of visiting family in Vancouver and attended a late service there. Last year we had shower curtains up to make individual booths for the singers and there were no people other than those involved in the service in the sanctuary. This year we have a cap on numbers. People signed up ahead of time and vaccine status will be checked at the door.

    Two years ago we had barely heard of Covid 19 and last year there were no vaccines by this time. This year we thought we might be getting out of the woods when Delta and then Omicron descended. We had just started to invite people, one or two at a time, to see our newly renovated house. That’s on hold again. With all the changes I’m becoming a bit more used to plans being cancelled and I think I’m calmer when things don’t work out the way I want them to. There are still days when I’m just plain mad at all the upheaval in the world in general and my world in particular but then I have days like today when I’m both happy and content.

    I have a house that is now a delight to live in. We have heat and running water, sunshine, snow, and sparrows in bushes loudly expressing their opinions. Odie looks at me, blinks his eyes, makes purring noises, and laughs whenever we do. Most importantly, though, I have kind and generous people in my life. Although we won’t be gathering in person again this year, it doesn’t matter so much. Christmas Day will be slow and casual and there are many ways I can contact those who enrich my life. I may not be able to hug them but I hope that will come. So Merry Christmas. I hope 2022 will bring good things to each of you each day and if, like me, you have days when you’re just plain cross at the whole world, may the memories of perfect days when there is really nothing special going on, lighten your mood if only for an instant.

Ukulele #3 update

  

'Lilred' the current uke under construction

     A photo turned up in my ‘memories’ on my phone the other day. It was a year ago and the photo was of Richard’s ukulele. I'm about at the same point on my current build, maybe a bit farther along. Time for the bridge. On the other two ukuleles Jake has made the bridges for me. A bridge comes out of a small piece of wood and the idea of getting a piece that size near a router bit or even a drill press makes me quite nervous.
    It’s not that I’m against power tools or woodworking machines but I am very nervous around them. They get things done much much faster than I can with hand tools but things can also go wrong much much faster. I always feel I lack control around them, even the ones I use fairly often like the band saw and the spindle sander. But it’s not even that that makes me hesitant to flip the switch on the machines. It’s the maintenance.
    I may be sounding like a broken record here. If my car doesn’t work I can take it to a mechanic. If my bandsaw isn’t in top condition, which at the moment neither of the two I own is, it’s up to me or me and Richard-the-Long-Suffering to figure out what the problem is and to fix it. I find the prospect overwhelming and tend to throw up my hands and walk away allowing the machine to collect dust, or I keep using it in less than optimal condition until it completely balks. Richard is good at troubleshooting. Even if he doesn’t use the machines, he can see how they are put together and figure out how they ought to operate. Working on shop machinery is not his idea of a good time so I hesitate to ask him for help.
    But back to the bridge. I’ve been thinking hard about whether I could learn now to make a bridge using only hand tools, not because I’m a purist but because I’m a chicken. I could learn to use the router table using guide blocks so that the operation would be as safe as possible but I wouldn’t enjoy it. I’m in the truly wonderful position of not having to do any kind of woodwork in order to put food on the table so enjoying the process is my first priority.
    I’ve been experimenting with various tools for the past month or so and, over the course of nine practice bridges, I developed a method of working that left me confident enough to actually cut into the piece of wood designated as the bridge for the current ukulele. As I was cleaning up the walls of the small mortise that holds the piece of bone I pressed a bit too hard and split the whole block of wood lengthwise. I got out the glue. (No I'm not going to point out the split in the photo.)
    I’ve seen tests on YouTube and read articles that say that modern wood glues, when properly applied and cured, are stronger than the wood they bond and certainly when joints I’ve made have broken it’s the surrounding wood that has failed and not the glue joint.
    I glued and clamped, applying sawdust to the wet glue as a filler and to hide the join. I did this several times and then picked up the work where I left off. In an ideal world the bridge of the uke needs to be of one piece of wood because it takes the most strain and is essential to the proper intonation of the instrument. Since I didn’t have another piece of rosewood and I wanted the bridge done, I took a chance.
    When Jake checked it, he thought I would need to build another one because the repair wouldn’t be strong enough. He asked my permission to try to break it. Might as well find out now rather than get it on the instrument and have it fail at that point. He wasn’t able to break it so we decided it was probably strong enough to withstand the stresses of the strings as the instrument is played. I still have some work left to do on it before it will be ready to install and I’ll see how it holds up as I work it. Jake has some more rosewood that I can use if I need to, or choose to, make another bridge. Regardless of whether I make another bridge for this instrument or not, I intend to keep building instruments and I will be quite content to build my bridges using hand tools.
    Jake can build a bridge in about half an hour. It takes me probably three to five hours to build one but I listen to my audio books, take my time and am perfectly content. Because the band saw is not cutting accurately enough when I’m ripping stock, I’ve even taken to ripping the blanks for the bridges with a hand saw. It’s a challenge and the more I do it, the more accurate I’ll get. I understand hand tools. The tool has a sharp edge that you push or pull through the wood. Period. If I keep my tools sharp and keep working to develop my skills I will have a system that I can manage comfortably.
    I’m not ruling out a time when I’ll choose to have the machines do the work, and I’m not going to sell off the ones I have in the shop. For now I’m content to poke away at my woodworking tasks sharpening as I go. As I putter, I tip my hat to my grandfather and great uncle who were trained on hand tools even as they embraced the speed and accuracy of machines.

Richard's ukulele under construction a year ago

A curmudgeonly yarn

    Okay, we have cell phones with processors more powerful than the computers that put the Apollo astronauts on the moon. We can call and text each other from almost anywhere on the planet. A cell phone means that we are never without a camera. So many innovations to make our lives more convenient. Why then is it that no one seems to have figured out a good way to package yarn so that you can retrieve the correct end easily?

    I have wondered this for many years and now I’m just old and crusty enough to complain about it. I’ve recently gone back to crocheting. I did a lot of it in my early 20’s when I spent hours upon hours in the relative darkness backstage listening to string quartets. There are worse ways to spend time but I found the time passed more enjoyably if my hands were busy. I crocheted afghans and scarves mostly. Then I lost interest and gave away all the crochet hooks.

    In retirement a friend took up crocheting and I was reminded of how I really did like it so, I bought a bunch of new crochet hooks and yarn. This time I crocheted slippers, messenger bags and toques using various weights of yarn and different patterns. It was fun and I gave away a lot of what I made. Then I put the yarn and hooks in a box and stuffed them away in the cupboard until a few months ago.

    There was a call from our church for prayer shawls. I’ve made them before, both knitted and crocheted. I had the hooks and the yarn so why not. I dug the stuff out again. Much of the yarn I had I rerolled into balls instead of working it from the skeins. My method of working is pretty simple: toss the ball or skein I’m working from into a shoe box. Put the shoebox on the floor beside my chair and have at it. When the skein gets down close to the end I often roll it into a ball because it is easier to keep together that way.

    Makers of the skeins chirpily tell you that to start a project you reach inside the skein and pull on the interior end. That way your yarn will come out smoothly and it won’t flip the skein around as you’re working with it. It’s a great theory. The problem is when I reach in, all I feel is a jumble of yarn. So I try it from the opposite opening in the skein. Still nothing. I stick fingers from both sides into the skein and root around some more.

    Eventually I get frustrated, grasp what I hope will be a clump near the end and pull. The yarn comes out politely for about a foot and then gets caught. Too late to back out now so I give it a good yank. Nothing. I yank it again and out comes what I can only describe as the yarn equivalent of a hairball. Now I have two blobs of muddled up yarn: the shell of the original skein and the guts that came from the inside. Not an end in sight.

 
    I start gently picking away at the guts, tossing them lightly and trying to get my fingers into the spaces to untangle the mess. No perceptible progress and if I start passing the blob over and under strands of yarn I’ll never get it untangled. I put it down and look at the husk of the skein. As I turn it over I see an end! This is where I’ll have to start. I grab the end and start to wind it into a ball. Eventually that part of the skein has become a ball and as I change from the husk to the guts. the yarn seems to be unravelling smoothly. Keep winding!
  

 Too good to be true. There’s a clump. I tuck the ball into my armpit so it won’t go rolling across the floor as I try to deal with the clump. It’s not a very big one and after a bit of teasing apart with my fingers it droops into a single strand. I keep rolling. There are a few more clumps but nothing that tempts me to just cut it out and knot the pieces back together. That really is a last resort.

    Now after all that fuss I can finally start to crochet the project. I’d like to report that this tussle with the yarn is an anomaly, but it happens more often than not. Sometimes I think any sane person would just rewind the yarn into a ball starting from the outside but somehow, that would be giving up and as I approach each new skein of yarn I hope this will be the one that will present the magical end to my probing fingers.

    In the meantime, I put the ball into the shoe box so it won’t run all over the floor, make a loop, take up my hook and begin to crochet. Surely the actual project will be easier than trying to find the end of the yarn.

Sparrows

Sparrows. My grandfather hated them. He even went so far as to change the words in his copy of the old blue United Church hymnbook. The hymn reads “God sees the little sparrow fall, it meets his tender view.” Pa crossed out ‘sparrow’ and changed it to bluebird.

No shortage of sparrows

I’m not crazy about sparrows either. I know they’re an introduced species and they are ubiquitous, spring, summer, fall, and winter. They don’t have gorgeous plumage although I do admit that there are many shades of grey and brown on their back feathers. Then there is the challenge of trying to tell sparrows apart. My Birds of Western Canada lists 20 different species of sparrow. So far, I’ve identified only 4, house sparrow, chipping sparrow, clay-coloured sparrow, and song sparrow. They are all little brown birds and unless I get a good look at the facial features through a pair of binoculars they are all pretty much the same.

When I see red-breasted nuthatches on the tree outside the living room window I get excited and grin like an idiot. The downy woodpeckers that visit occasionally get the same reaction, and the merlin that paid a visit once had me practically jumping up and down. Sparrows? Not so much.

I haven’t made bird watching a priority in that I don’t get up early in the morning to go to places where there is a greater variety of species. I do watch birds and watch for birds. When we’re out for our walks around the neighbourhood I keep a mental list of the ones we see, sparrows, magpies, pigeons, crows, northern flickers, and the occasional gull. Once in a while we’ll see a hawk, a downy, or a hairy woodpecker. I’m able to recognize the disappearing butt of a flicker by the white patch on its rump.

There is a thick hedge just across the street from us and I think it must be the equivalent of the sparrows’ pub. During the daylight hours there is usually a racket of cheeps and squeaks emanating from the bushes. We pick on the sparrows by sneaking up to the hedge and then saying, ‘woof!’ The sparrows quiet for a few seconds until we are past the hedge and then resume their conversations, complaining I imagine, about the two stupid humans who find the silly trick amusing. Lately, even though we don’t woof at them every time we pass, they seem to quiet as we approach the hedge. The brains of birds are mysterious places.

During the pandemic I’ve spent more time that I ever though I would watching the sparrows. They are constant. They show up around 8 in the morning, noon, and again around 2 in the afternoon. I have a pair of binoculars sitting by the living room window and today I watched 3 of them taking dust baths in the dirt at the base of a lilac bush. They also seem to appreciate the birdbath I made last year and 7 of them have tried to inhabit it at the same time. Some sparrows are better at sharing the space than others and there was one bossy little one who, with an open beak, fended off attempts of others to join him in his bath. The others retreated to a nearby bush until he flew off and then 3 of them got into the bath.

Dust bath depressions

Sparrows also provide lots of practice for me and my long lens. I need only raise the camera to practice capturing sparrows eating, sparrows preening, sparrows bathing, sparrows flying. They are little, quick, and challenging. Although I haven’t spent a lot of time sitting on the step with my camera, I know that they are always there to help me develop my photographic skills so that when a nuthatch, chickadee, or downy woodpecker decides to pay a visit to the yard I’ll have a better chance of a decent photo.

Now I just need to take those few steps out the door. The bird book, the binoculars, and the camera are waiting by the window. I love birds and love to watch them. If sparrows are the only birds whose availability I can depend on, maybe they aren’t so bad after all.

Enjoying the imperfect

    When I first started in woodworking I made a lot of boxes. Wooden boxes have always fascinated me because of their variety. A box can be plain joined with butt joints and nail or it can be an extremely intricate puzzle box with many intricate, interlocking pieces. When I started I didn’t have a lot of skill and I joked that only a mother could love what I built. But I did love them, loved the wood, loved the tools, and even though they often looked a bit odd I was pleased with what I learned from each of them. Fast forward to my latest project: The Frankenstool.

The Frankenstool!

    We need stools to go at the island in the new kitchen and there are some gorgeous off cuts from the deck and the countertop so my plan is to use those off cuts to make stools that match the counter. I’m not crazy enough to just start cutting into the good wood so I searched around for a bunch of scrap that I could use for the experimental stool.
    I like the look of a three-legged stool and one of my favourite hand tool YouTubers has a video and plans. Like most other projects this one could be done with power tools but I wanted to try it without. The longer I work the more fascinated I become with the work that is possible when a skilled woodworker uses hand tools. I bought the plans and started in.
    I have a piece of fir that was part of the bar top in the basement when R first got the house. It was an incredibly ugly thing complete with black and gold mactac on the front of the bar. The fir top was just painted. I cut a chunk of that fir to use for the seat. My stock of 2X4 lumber is running low and I thought of buying some but I’m trying hard to find things in my stash that I can use before I buy any more. I managed to round up enough 2X4 for the legs and the stretchers. Some was fir, some was spruce and all of it was knotty. It would do for practice.
    I admit to using the bandsaw to rip down the 2X4 for the legs and stretchers. I’m not yet proficient at using a rip saw on long cuts and I didn’t want to take the time on this project. The other consideration was that we were going camping for a week. I wondered if I would be able to construct the stool using hand tools, clamps and the picnic table as a workbench. I got some of the work done before loading up two boxes of tools and heading out to camp.
    There are some tricky bits to this simple stool. In order to get the legs into the seat you have to drill three angled holes, ideally all at the same angle. For that I used a brace and bit. I have a good brace and a number of bits that belonged to my grandfather. The plans called for 1” round tenons and I didn’t have a bit that big that would hold well in the brace. I did find an adjustable bit in my collection and ended up using that. As for all the angles being the same, well not so much. It’s amazing what skilled craftsmen can do by eye but it takes practice and I need more. Because it was only a prototype I carried on anyway figuring if the thing actually held up to being sat on, it would be a small victory.
    

making the round tenon

What delighted me the most about the build was making the round tenons to go into the holes. The plans said to find the centre of the square stock and mark it, then to take the brace and bit and score a circle around that centre mark. Next, mark the depth of the tenon and pare off the edges little by little until you have a round tenon that fits in the hole. Since the drill bit is the same one used to drill the holes in the seat, the fit can be quite accurate.
    I worked away figuring out how to use clamps to hold work to the picnic table. Some days I worked until my hands were too cold and I had to go into the van to warm up. Some days I didn't feel like working on it so I didn't.
    

By the end of the week and was able to finish the stool. I won’t claim it’s a thing of beauty. I am surprised that, given where knots have come out and other weaknesses in the wood, I’ve been able to sit on it for the last few weeks and it hasn’t broken. It is quite comfortable especially with your feet on the floor although the stretcher across the front is in a very good place for a foot rest too. You do have to be aware that there are three legs and not four, and given the crookedness of the build, it pays to be cognizant of where the three legs are at all times. I nearly took a header one day when I was preoccupied and misdirected my weight as I sat down quickly. Consequently, I’ve decided this is not the design for the kitchen stools. I want something with four legs that anyone can sit on comfortably and safely without having to first go through a briefing. I think the Frankenstool may eventually become firewood, but I may make another one of this design to replace one of the stools I have in the shop. Both are quite rickety and I'm expecting one of them to break any day.
    

    

While the Frankenstool is far from perfect, it delights me. I can see many more possibilities for building with hand tools and maybe on the next one I’ll do a better job of the angles. Meanwhile, I can use what I’ve learned by making the Frankenstool when I make the four-legged version for the kitchen. Stay tuned.

Camper vans I have known

We are in Little Elbow campground. When we leave it will be closed for the season and already there are many campsites that are closed so that the workers can paint the tables in preparation for the next season. We have been coming here for 35 years. At first in a tent with R’s parents, then in Kermie, the slime green Volkswagen van, then in Flopsy so named because of the imprecise steering. Now we have Vinnie, the Road Trek. 

When we first came with Kermie we used to, on a whim, pick up on a Friday night and head for the eastern slopes of the Rockies. Sometimes we’d leave as late as 8:00, pick up subway sandwiches and drive out to stay for a couple of nights. On Sunday morning we’d get up early so we could drive back into the city, shower and make it to church on time.

There were many campfires and much conversation until the wee hours of the morning, and, in those days, there was also wine and scotch for Richard and fuzzy navels for me. That made the stars brighter and the relaxation after a week of work seem deeper. 

One time we camped in the sunshine only to wake up to a van covered with snow. It must have been May because I remember needing to get back into the city for the high school graduation ceremonies. Before we left we went for a short walk, not long enough to be considered a hike, down the muddy road that led to a backcountry campground. We didn’t walk that far and when we returned to the van our boots were covered in mud and the huge soft snowflakes clung to our toques and settled like down on our shoulders. 

We brushed ourselves off, knocked as much mud off our boots as we could, and cleaned the snow off Kermie without a snow brush. We neglected to bring one. After all, the weather was summer-like when we left. We drove back to the city gas heater cranked up to keep us warm

Each of the camper vans we have owned has had its own special quirks. Kermie, the VW, had an air-cooled engine which meant that the cabin couldn’t be heated in the same way a vehicle with a water-cooled engine could. The gas heater could take the van from below freezing to tropical fairly quickly. There were two problems however, the heater used roughly a liter of fuel per hour, and it was quite stinky. The smell was not only unpleasant, it coated the windshield with a slimy film. At that point Kermie was the vehicle that Richard drove to work. Instead of turning on the gas heater, he wrapped up in parka, heavy boots, toque, scarf and heavy mitts for the drive.

It was a long straight drive and by the time he had to make a turn the whole drive train had cooled to the point where it was stiff and turning was difficult. Richard had to haul on the wheel as if he was driving an 18 wheeler without power steering. Another Kermie quirk was that the throttle had a tendency to freeze in the open position so that the driver needed to put the roaring beast in neutral, drift into the nearest parking spot, get out, engine still roaring, walk around to the rear engine compartment, wiggle a rod, which caused the engine to calm down, hop back in the van and continue on the way.

After a few years of this and a change in focus for us from canoeing to cycling, we decided it was time to sell Kermie. We sold it to the shop teacher at my school. He was delighted to get it and had the skills to put a new engine in it.  I lost touch with him when I moved schools but I hope Kermie gave him years of enjoyable trips.

After Kermie, we bought Flopsy from Richard’s mom and dad. It was a bigger van and had a V8 engine. We joked that it could pass anything on the road except a gas station. Because of the interestingly floppy steering, driving Flopsy was fairly hard work and it reminded me of the overcorrecting I did when I first learned to drive. At first I turned the wheel too far one way, then I turned it too far in the other direction in an attempt to compensate. The difference with Flopsy was that you never quite got to the sweet spot where you could keep the vehicle straight with only small movements of the wheel. You’d be driving down the road with the wheel canted to the left or the right to stay in a straight line. Then a gust of wind would come up and you’d slow as Flopsy did a little dance and you recovered control once again. Because of that, I didn’t like driving Flopsy and poor long-suffering Richard did most of the van wrangling. 

There was a lot of that. In addition to bringing Flopsy to this campground for short getaways, we drove it out to the Okanagan and the west coast to visit friends and family. On one of our first trips, we decided to visit Tofino. It’s the only time we have ever been there. We had a great time flying our kite on the beach and hanging out with a colleague who happened to be in the same campground.

Then it rained. I’m a pretty sound sleeper but Richard woke up to water pouring in through the high side-window. He quickly moved all the items sitting on the ledge below the window and placed towels to soak up the water.  The morning found us in a hardware store buying silicone sealant in a tube to fix the leak. We hauled a picnic table over to the van so Richard could reach the window. It wouldn’t win any prizes for beauty or skill but the silicone stopped the leak.

Poor old Flopsy had no garage to protect it from the winter weather so it rusted. In 2013 when Flopsy was 29 years old, we drove it to the Yukon to hike the Chilkoot Trail. It rattled and banged along and we decided to add a trip to  Inuvik via the Dempster Highway after we finished the Chilkoot Trail hike.

There are advantages to driving an older vehicle on a road like that. It’s gravel and, with the vehicle being in less than pristine condition to start with, there is less worry about rock chips. Parts of the highway are made from local shale and those sharp pieces can slash tires in an instant. We were very lucky in that we made it from Dawson City to Inuvik and back without a flat. There was an unusual noise by the time we reached Inuvik so on the advice of a guy we met on the ferry, we took it to The Midnight Mechanic. The parking area outside the shop was a mud pit as it had been raining for a couple of days. 

Both the owner and the dogs looked suspiciously at us when we pulled in. Richard explained to the owner that he had been recommended to us and, with that, he relaxed a little. He had a look at the underside of the van and told us to come back in a couple of hours. We headed into town in the rain to sit in a café and drink coffee while he worked on it. 

When we returned, he told us he had found a bolt missing and had replaced it. He also found a few other things which he fixed.  He charged us a very reasonable fee. We thanked him and headed on our way.

On one of the ferries on our way back south, we met a woman who had worked in the post office in Inuvik and who had just retired. As we chatted, we mentioned the mechanic. She laughed, “Well, it’s a good thing that you got to him this week because next week he’s headed to jail for serve time for a drugs conviction." Maybe that accounted for the suspicious reception we initially got.  Regardless, the work he did held up until we sold Flopsy at the end of the next season after a trip from Calgary to Newfoundland. But that’s a story for another day.

A stranger's story

I was in the camper van this morning with the door open looking for a headlamp. I heard a man’s voice say, “Hello?”

I thought it was maybe one of the guys who are working on the reno wanting to ask me a question. When I stuck my head around the corner I saw a rather thin guy wearing a Saskatchewan ball cap and carrying a backpack that had half a watermelon, in a grocery bag, tied onto the back of it.

He chin-pointed to the old Toyota Previa van that was parked on the opposite side of the pad. “Are you thinking of selling that?” he asked

I smiled, “No.”

“I was talking to my buddy and he says those are really good vans. My wife has had cancer for the last 6 years and we’re just now able to get out. I’d like to be able to take my family places. How old is it?”

“This one is 28 years old.”

“So you’re not thinking of selling it any time soon?”

“Nope. I’ll drive it until I can’t get parts for it anymore.”

“Ya we’ve been looking them up, my buddy and me, the prices and stuff, and that’s what he says that they’re great to drive but you might have trouble getting parts for them. I know some mechanics. I’ve got connections.”

“The problem is,” I reply, “there aren’t parts available. It was broken into in a backcountry parking lot about 12 years ago.” His face wrinkles in concern. “They took a crowbar and levered up the back hatch. We got the second last tail light in North America.”

“Oooo, I’m sorry you got broken into. I’m one of the sixties scoop kids. You know about the sixties scoop?”

I nod.

“I grew up in Ontario. If this van was in Ontario it wouldn’t be in nearly this good shape.”

“There’s a bit of rust.”

“Ya, but it would be way worse if it was in Ontario. People don’t believe I’m First Nations with a name like Carlos. My mom was First Nations and my dad was white. My foster dad was German and he had a farm, cows, pigs, chickens.”

“He told me, ‘if you can work for me you can work for anyone.’ I didn’t know what he meant. Some of the folks took in kids because they wanted the money. My family didn’t. They took me in because they wanted to help.”

“My foster dad said to me, ‘When you go to work what do you take with you?’ Tools, Dad, I said, You take tools. ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘and when you go out into the world you’re going to need life tools. You may not recognize them for 20 years, but every day I’m going to give you a life tool. I’m going to put it in your backpack so when you get into the world, you’ll be able to reach into your backpack and pull out a tool.’ He was strict. He disciplined me. If he thought I wasn’t behaving, even if we were in church, he would grab me by the ear and hoist me up. I learned. If you show up on time, do what you said you’d do and your work is good, nobody cares if you’re black, brown, or white. He was right: it’s taken me 20 years to find those tools. Sometimes I reach back, hunt around, and there’s another one.”

He shakes his head. “These kids today, they can’t wait until they’re 16. They can’t wait to get away from home and they don’t have the life tools. They’re like a pet dog that you take to the park and you take the collar off and let it go. It goes to run with the wild dogs and it doesn’t come back, so you put a blanket out and hope it will come back. It won’t come back. It has all this freedom, so why would it come back? But it doesn’t know how to get along because nobody ever taught it. My dad taught me. I’m lucky.

My wife is from the Philippines. People say those people work hard and they do. They’ll work three or four jobs so they can save and afford to buy a house. We’ve been married for 25 years. My oldest daughter, she’s a lawyer, beautiful person. My youngest daughter, she just turned 18 and got a job. That’s why I’m looking for a van. It would really help her to get around. I’m a painter. My foster granny lives just up there next street over. Every day I go to see her. I gave her half the watermelon. She said she couldn’t eat a whole one, so I’m taking half home.

Some folks say to me, ‘You can’t be Native,’ and when I say why, they say ‘cause you don’t have a skinny ass.’ Then I tell them my mom was Native. ‘Well, you got your dad’s rounded ass they say.’”

I laugh and Carlos smiles.The timer on my phone goes off. I have laundry to put in the dryer and I haven’t found the headlamp I was looking for. I turn off the timer, put the phone in my pocket and step down onto the pad.

“God bless you, Ma’am,” he says as he turns away to walk down the alley.

“You have a good day,” I say to him, as I close the door to the van and lock it. Turning toward the garage door I hear his, “You too.”

My love / hate relationship with sunscreen

When I was a kid there was no such thing as sunscreen. My mum had skin that wasn’t especially bothered by the sun but my dad, fair-skinned and blonde, burned like a lobster. So do I.

Neither of my parents had a clue as to what to do to prevent sunburn and, in fairness, I don’t suppose anyone else in that day and age did either. I remember going to Crimson Lake on a camping trip, playing in the water with the other kids, coming out of the lake and riding the merry-go-round, one of those push affairs, with bars stretching from the centre to the outside of a circular wooden platform. You grabbed one of the bars, heaved, and when the platform began to move, you grabbed the next one and gave it another heave, so that the contraption gradually picked up speed. The next order of business was to grab a bar and jump on. If the timing was off you might get whacked in the teeth, and if you slowed down the rotation by much you were sure to be subjected to a series of raspberries from the other kids who were already safely aboard.

When we got tired of the merry-go-round, or were so dizzy that we couldn’t walk straight, back we went into the water. After a day of this I had a pretty serious burn on my back and shoulders. I’m not sure what Dad had been doing while I was enjoying the beach but he was pretty red also. Mum didn’t know what to do. I think she put cream on my back but that didn’t stop the sting and the incredible heat. She probably gave me aspirin and I remember her telling me later that I spent most of the night whimpering in my sleep.

I don’t think I felt much like playing with the other kids the next day. It hurt too much to move. I was so hot that I really wanted to go back into the lake to cool off. I don’t think Mum was thrilled with the idea but she compromised and let me go if I put on a hat and wore a T-shirt. That was fine with me. From then on I was a little more cautious, wore the T-shirt, and spent more time in the shade. Well, most of the time.

A while after we got home, when the heat had gone out of the burn and the pain had turned to an itch, I remember sitting downstairs with Dad in his office where it was cool, peeling sheets of blistered skin off each other’s backs. I didn’t find that the least bit weird. Peeling off the dead skin decreased the itch.

No endorsement for any of these

After that I didn’t spend a lot of time in the sun. I remember trying cacao butter on my skin at one point, not to tan as the baby-oil set hoped to do, but to prevent me from burning. I don’t think it worked although it may have done something to keep the skin a bit more moist.

By the time I was an adult there were sunscreens and I used them. I like the feel of my face when it is freshly scrubbed and feels just a little bit tight. To have to ruin that lovely clean feeling with a lotion or cream was cause for considerable whining, although the memory of the few bad burns I had had were enough to eventually shut me up and get me to apply the stuff.

Once I had a job and steady income, I became interested in various outdoor sports, snowshoeing in the winter, a bit of downhill skiing, hiking, cycling and canoeing in the summer. Putting sunscreen on was part of the ritual of getting ready for the day’s adventures so, while I didn’t like the sensation of it, I did look forward to the miles in the forest, on the roads or on the rivers that it heralded. I joked that there should be a sunscreen setting on the shower so you could just jump in and douse yourself.

I managed to avoid serious burns for a number of years until I got married. For our honeymoon we went to Radium Hotsprings. Of course we had to take advantage of the pool and they didn’t allow any lotions or creams in the pool. No problem. Just stay in for a few minutes and then get out, go into the shade or the air-conditioned hotel room.

As we were enjoying the pool, someone called to Richard. It was a person he knew from teaching so we went over, stood in the chest-deep water, and chatted, and chatted, and chatted. I was enjoying the conversation and didn’t realize until it was too late that I was starting to sport that old familiar lobster glow. I knew from experience that the redness and pain would continue to increase for several hours even after I got out of the sun.

We said our goodbyes, got out of the pool, and Richard went in search of Solarcaine. It has a chemical smell but it does help to dull the pain of a sunburn. That certainly dampened the romance of the honeymoon. The only way I could stand to be touched was with a hand applying Solarcaine to the burn. I felt miserable and was cross with myself. If I had only put on a T-shirt, the burn wouldn’t have been limited to my face and arms. If I had left Richard to chat and gotten out of the pool sooner. If, if, if. Luckily Richard is a forgiving sort and he did not try to trade me in for a less crispy model. That is the last time I had a severe burn.

I still don’t like sunscreen and I’ve found myself recently staying in because the only kind of sunscreen I have is the mineral variety i.e. zinc. There have been advances since the skiers used to slap it on their noses so they looked like someone had covered their noses with vanilla icing, but I still think it makes me look like a failed mime or a ghost. And, it gets everywhere! I noticed a white film on the driver’s door the other day when I got out of the car. My collars and hats are streaked with white. Plus, it gums up the razor when I shave my legs.

Today I had a serious talk with myself. The weather is nice, not too hot, not too smoky, and it is absolutely ridiculous to stay inside because you don’t want to put on sunscreen. I checked out the Canadian Dermatology website for recommended brands, slapped on the zinc and walked to the nearest drug store. I now have a tube of what, I hope, will still protect my skin but will be a little less nasty.

Thank you sunscreen for keeping the burning rays at bay. No thank you sunscreen for being just plain icky. I have a feeling this love / hate relationship is not about to resolve anytime soon.

Of novels, sketch books, and friends

I recently finished reading The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue. There were parts of the book that I liked very much but somehow, it didn’t quite come together for me. I could launch into a detailed book review but that’s not what this is about. It is about how we remember and are remembered and it made me think, this morning, of three friends.

One is a former student who reached out to me after nearly 30 years to tell me that I had made a difference in her life. One is a Jewish friend who has adopted me and welcomed me into her home on ordinary days and High Holy Days, and one is someone I have known since both of us were in our teens. I’ll call the first one P because I have not asked permission to name her. I’ll call the second one S, and the third one L for the same reason.

P reconnected with me through Facebook and we have kept track of each other for several years now. Today P made a post that sent me scurrying to one of my notebooks. Actually, it’s an artist’s sketch book and, for me, it’s not quite a journal, not quite a scrapbook. It holds the important things that can be captured on paper either through words or images. I copied what P posted today, into my book on September 25, 2020, just after the death of feisty US supreme court judge, Ruth Bader Ginsburg. It is used in Reform Jewish Liturgy.

Meditations Before Kaddish
From the Mishkan T’filah

Epitaph
by Merrit Molloy

When I die give what’s left of me away
to children and old men that wait to die.
And if you need to cry,
cry for your brother walking the street beside you.
And when you need me, put your arms around anyone
and give them what you need to give me.

I want to leave you something,
something better than words or sounds.
Look for me in the people I’ve known or loved,
and if you cannot give me away,
at least let me live in your eyes and not your mind.

You can love me best by letting hands touch hands,
and by letting go of children that need to be free.
Love doesn’t die, people do.
So, when all that’s left of me is love,
give me away.

Today I needed to remember this. B’s mother died earlier this week at age 96. She lived a long and full life and there is relief in her passing. P and S are both wrestling with family issues, and I am feeling tired and worn down, for a host of small reasons.

Today the sky outside is a smokeless blue, the temperature is moderate, and I have made my first cup of tea at our new coffee station. We will soon be able to inhabit our new spaces and with that will come a purging of what no longer serves us from the past. We mourn not only people. We mourn experiences we will never have again, relationships that might have been different, and objects, once so important, that we will never use again. Perhaps as I go, unwillingly, through the collection of stuff, these words will help me to focus on what is truly important and allow me to let go of the rest. All things are no longer possible but there are still exciting possibilities. Perhaps “Epitaph” will help me achieve a balance between appreciating the past and anticipating the future.

May it be so.*

https://www.patrickcomerford.com/2020/01/when-all-thats-left-of-me-is-love-give

*The Reverend Erin Klassen of Scarboro United Church in Calgary often ends her messages with these words and I hope she won’t mind my borrowing them here.

A bit of smugness

I suck at selfies

There are many memorable moments. Sometimes they are huge and life-changing but, more often, they are the small incidents or brief encounters that are unexpected and delightful.

As you know we are having our house renovated. The reno, as most do, has been dragging on. This is through no fault of the contractor or the sub trades who have been working their butts off when they have time and materials at the same moment. We have anticipated stinky painting twice before and have gone off in the van to leave the house to the painter. Because of one thing and another, neither of those times actually resulted in the lacquer being applied to the cabinets inside the house. We had fun in the time away anyhow. This past week painting was, once again, on the schedule. Instead of heading for the hills we decided to stick around and get out of Dodge on lacquer day.

Yesterday was lacquer day. The painter came and told us it would take her about an hour to prepare. We finished our morning beverages, found the national park pass, after a bit of hunting, and headed off to Banff for the day.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been in Banff and, of course, it’s far from the town I knew when I lived there almost 40 years ago. We had been warned to park at the old railway station and walk into town. When we got there we were ready for lunch so we headed to a restaurant we’ve been to a few times and found we were ahead of most of the crowds. By the time we finished, there was a line-up at the door.

Fenland Trail

It was over 30 C so we decided to walk in the shade. New to me, is a pathway along the river from downstream of the bridge to the start of the Fenland Trail. We were going to head for Bow Falls but decided instead to take in the art walk in the other direction on the path. We carried on past the library and decided to walk the Fenland Trail Loop. In all the time I lived there, and all the times I’ve visited, I’ve never walked that loop. We were a little nervous because the sign at the beginning of the trail said that bear encounters were likely. We didn’t have bear spray with us and took a chance, hoping that all the bruins would be sleeping in the heat of the day and that enough people were using the trail that the bears would be elsewhere.

It was an enjoyable walk and I was happy to be in the shade rather than huffing up a mountain in search of great views. On the way back, we noticed there was no line-up at the canoe rental place. We debated about whether or not to rent a canoe and then, following my new ‘senior’s’ directions I asked myself, “If not now when?” We rented a canoe for an hour.

The canoes were fairly nice ones with no nods at all to the fact that they would be paddled mostly by people who understood little about how to get a canoe to do what you want it to. I’m not knocking those who want to have some fun by being on the water and who have little or no experience in canoes. That’s primarily why canoe rental places in tourist spots exist.

We filled out the waivers and R left his drivers’ license as collateral for the canoe. We got fitted with life jackets and then one of the guys working there handed us each a paddle. I asked for a shorter one; R asked for a longer one. I was in luck; R wasn’t. Paddles in hand we made our way down to the dock.

I didn’t realize that the most difficult part of the whole experience was going to be actually getting into the canoe. The canoes had moulded seats and it was a very long way down! I had my paddle across the thwarts and ended up kind of flopping into the canoe, without disturbing the balance of the craft. I wondered how inelegant I would be extracting myself at the other end.

Paddling upriver on the Bow

The guy gave us a gentle shove and we fell into our regular rhythm on our regular sides of the canoe. It felt familiar, comfortable, and companionable despite the chaotic traffic around the dock. We saw one canoe where both paddlers paddled on the same side and then when the direction went wonky they both changed so that they were both paddling on the other side. Nobody was actually going in circles although there was a lot of enthusiastic zigzagging going on and the majority of the canoes on the river seemed to be out of control to some degree. Some folks seemed to be enjoying the adventure while others looked entirely frustrated by a boat that was seemingly incapable or unwilling to go in a straight line. We paddled our way out of the chaos as soon as we could and then relaxed as we made our way up river. The current isn’t terribly strong and although there was a bit of a headwind we could make as much progress as we wanted to depending on how hard we wanted to work.

We both felt out of shape and realized that an hour’s paddle would be quite enough. Still, we had not forgotten the basic skills of moving the canoe and putting it where we wanted it to go. We kept our eyes out for sweepers and deadheads although we got fairly close to one because the river was murky. We figured out how long it would likely take us to get back. Because we were paddling upstream and against the wind on the way out we figured we’d be faster on the way back.

Mount Rundle from the canoe

The breeze on the water was lovely. We saw the remains of a beaver dam, some horse riders on the left shore, and a few killdeers flying along the shore and then landing farther upstream. We weren’t close enough to make out their colours but I recognized their characteristic flight. There didn’t seem to be any others going our direction but we kept meeting people coming down the river. Some folks had kayaks, some had paddle boards and others were in canoes. We exchanged greetings with some, and most looked happy to be out.

We decided to turn back shortly before our set time and the trip back was quicker than the trip out. We both remarked that, in the morning, we would probably feel a few muscles we hadn’t noticed in a while. As we came toward the rental area we rejoined the chaotically zig-zagging boats. We were confident that we could avoid any of them if we needed to. We stopped and let others approach the dock first.

When the guy on the dock motioned to us to come in we headed for the dock at a leisurely pace, came alongside and then I did a cross-bow stroke which brought us perfectly in line so he could grab a thwart and steady the canoe. “Wow,” he remarked, “You don’t usually see a cross-bow draw. That’s the best docking job I’ve seen from anyone who didn’t work here!” I was quite pleased with myself, quite pleased with us that some of the skills we developed over the years of wilderness canoe trips were still available for us to call upon. Neither of us had any illusions that we were capable of hopping in a canoe and undertaking a wilderness river trip but it felt extremely good to have caused a nice young man to take notice of the two old people who knew how to dock a canoe.

As predicted, getting out of the boat was humbling and not particularly graceful. R got out first, then braced himself, extended his hand and hauled me to my feet. From there I put a knee on the dock, climbed out, and then stood up. Not graceful, but grinning all the same. I think I will advocate for us to rent a canoe whenever the opportunity presents itself. It was a delightful experience and it will be one of those memories we return to often. ‘Remember the time we went to Banff when the kitchen was being painted and we rented a canoe?’ We will both smile. 

If not now, when?

The end of a personal era

I had an unusual childhood in that I never moved. No, not even once. Most of my friends moved at least a couple of times before they reached adulthood and moved out on their own. I moved out in my early 20’s to take a job in Banff and then I moved back home when I decided to return to university.

My parents were very generous in that way. Mum told me she thought she could feed three of us about as cheaply as she could feed the two of them, so lived there without paying room and board while I went back to get my degree in education. I had enough saved to pay for my tuition and books, to run my car and have some spending money. When I finished university and got a teaching job, my dad was sick and I stayed home. This time I split the costs of the household with Mum and helped her pay for some improvements to the house. When Dad died, I continued to live with Mum. We got along well and I was happy to look after the cats when she wanted to travel.

When Richard and I married and I moved into his house, I continued to feed the cats and look after Mum’s house when she travelled. In addition to talking to her on the phone almost every day, I visited her often, usually on Friday afternoons after work. I’d call her and say, “Put the kettle on. I’m coming over.” We would chat and drink a pot of tea before I left to have supper with Richard. Sometimes, I’d call him and the three of us would go to Mother’s Pizza for supper. It was a comfortable routine and I was in her house at least once a week unless I was away on holidays.

She stayed in the house for 19 years until she decided that it was time for her to move to a place where she would no longer be responsible for the upkeep of a house and yard. Over the years we had found good people to take care of the yard and had made modifications to the house to make it easier for her to live in it as she aged. Having always said that we could take her out of the house feet first, she decided on her own that the scenario had changed.

I remember driving her back to the house from the visit to the assisted living facility where she had just signed the papers. As we drove along the familiar Sarcee Trail she said, “Well, I hope I’ve made the right decision. If I haven’t I have no one but myself to blame.” I don’t think she was sorry, at least she never said so to me.

Of course that decision to move was followed by the cleaning out of the house. Richard was a huge help. He was available during the day at that point and if Mum fussed about something, he picked up the phone and dealt with the issue. He helped her sort through belongings to decide what she would keep and what would go. She was pretty unsentimental. She spent twenty-five years clearing up after Dad who was a bit of a packrat. I don’t think he crossed the line to hoarder but he certainly saved things because they might be useful later. Mum was determined not to leave that kind of chaos for me to clean up.

Mum hired a realtor and the day the sign went up, the guy from next door came to the house with an offer to purchase. Mum pointed him to the realtor and, in a matter of hours, the house was sold. I remember the realtor telling me he had chatted with the buyer, telling him he hoped the house was not going to be knocked down; it had good bones, and years more life in it. Over the next few months, we hired a company to move and disperse the rest of the stuff Mum left in the house. I remember walking through the house after the last load went out, leaving the keys, and writing a note to the new owner telling him how good the house had been to us and expressing the hope that it would be good to him as well.

After that, we watched as the house got another renovation to accommodate 4 suites. Whenever I drove by I saw the house numbers that I had painted on a piece of acrylic beside one of the doors. I also kept track of the spruce tree I planted when I was in grade 3. It was taller than the rest of the ones that still survived in the neighbourhood. Even when I didn’t drive down the actual street the house was on, I knew where to look for the tree as I passed the intersection.

A few years ago there was a ‘For Sale’ sign on Mum’s house and the one next door. We looked up the price and it was over one million dollars for both properties. The sign came down. The houses remained. Earlier this spring I saw a sign on the house next door. I didn’t actually see whether it sold or not but I never saw a sign on Mum’s house.

Because of the reno, we have been out of town a few times while the painter has been working. After our last trip, I drove by the familiar intersection on my way home and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a construction fence. Immediately, I drove round the block and parked. There was nothing left. Both houses were gone. All the concrete was gone. My tree was gone. I had always hoped that I would have enough warning before the house was demolished so I could, somehow, salvage some of that spruce tree. The scenario had changed.

I always knew that would eventually be the fate of the house. There are now only two of the original bungalows in that block on that side of the street. I knew that the guy who bought it tried to purchase all the land from the house next door to the corner of the block on the other side of Mum’s house. Nobody wants to purchase that much land to keep 1950’s bungalows on it. Although Mum sold, owners on the other side of her didn’t, so the new owner of Mum’s house ended up with only the two properties side by side.

Once I get over being sad about the demolition, it will be interesting to see what kind of a structure replaces it. I’m betting that land will house eight units or more. Densification is the name of the game in these old, inner city, neighbourhoods. I was fortunate to grow up in a single-family dwelling with a big yard, on a relatively quiet street. I am fortunate now to live in a single-family dwelling with a smaller yard and a workshop. Now that Mum’s house, for it will always be ‘Mum’s house,’ is gone I will not have to watch it become scruffy or decay. It is frozen in time, frozen in my memory for as long as that memory continues to work. Time moves on.

Improvising the minutia

The renovation is getting closer to being finished each day. We are, of course, excited about the finished product and are getting a little impatient for it to be done. That said, it’s more anticipation than grumpiness because we have no complaints about the way the work has gone. The folks who are working on the job are all great, friendly, eager to answer our questions, and thoughtful. The quality of the work itself is impeccable. Each person who has worked on this has taken the same care they would take if this were their own house. We can’t ask for more than that!

As I headed to the shop today to do a pile of dishes, having gotten lazy and not done the ones from yesterday, I got the thinking about the accommodations we have made that are now just part of the routine. We collect the dishes in a dish pan downstairs where we prepare and eat most of our meals. We carry them up the stairs and into the shop where the out-feed table for my table saw becomes an auxiliary counter for the clean dishes. Since it’s raw plywood, we put down a tray with an absorbent dish mat inside it and onto the mat we put a dish drainer. I also lay a dish towel down on one side of the out-feed table to catch the drips because the table is wider than the tray. We take the tray downstairs and set it on a cabinet that has been displaced so that the main water shut-off to the house is readily available.

If we have more dishes than will fit into the dish pan, I have a piece of board from the old kitchen cabinets that I use to cover my sharpening stones on the right hand side of the sink and the extra dishes can sit there while they wait their turn to be washed. It all works pretty well and it will take us a while to get used to using the new dishwasher when it comes. In all of this I’m reminded of the people in Canada who don’t have access to clean water and for whom the system we have might be a luxury.

I have grumbled a bit about the set-up we have for hand washing in the bathroom although it does work quite well. About once a day one of us dumps the water from hand washing into the shower drain, rinses out the plastic tote, and takes the detergent container up to the shop to refill it with clean water. The push button on the detergent container is very convenient for washing hands. I don’t remember where I read that camping tip, but I’ve been grateful for it for the last month. We can use regular towels and our washer and dryer work which is another bonus.

Lighting is another thing we take for granted: flip the switch and you get light. At the moment there are very few switches, or lights, on the main floor. The bedroom and studies haven’t been altered so we still have lights there. There are also lights in the garage, on the outside of the garage, and in the entrance from the garage. There is one plug-in lamp in the living room and there are no lights in the kitchen or the dining room. No light in the hallway or the front steps either. We’ve had to think ahead a little when we’ve been going for walks at twilight. Leave a light on in the living room. Make sure the flashlights on our key rings are working so we can see to unlock the door.

That’s not much of an issue at the moment because the front steps have been demolished so we are using the garage as the entrance to the house and we have a very bright, motion-detecting light that shines on the cement pad. I have taken to leaving a pocket flashlight in the shop for whoever shuts off the lights for the night. That way we can turn off the landing light and see to get through to the bedroom.

During the presence of the recent heat dome we were without screens on the windows. We put a bed sheet up over the window in the bedroom and left the light off as much as possible. It was a bit more difficult when I wanted to work in my study after dark. I tried to work with the window open just a crack and only one task light on. The moths seemed to be able to get in anyway and I did end up swatting a few mosquitos. The screens we always took for granted are now a fresh delight every evening when we need to cool the house down.

In some ways, making our way through this reno has been a bit like camping: things are simplified. We don’t worry about the things that can be done later. We have food, water, a sturdy roof over our heads, and a reasonable level of convenience. I know that eventually all the changes we have made to the house will become part of the background to everyday living, but maybe it’s not a bad thing to have routines disrupted every once in a while so we can be reminded of how fortunate we are to live far beyond the necessities of life.

Renovation Day ... I have no idea!

The reno continues and we are happy with the results, although as we get farther and farther into it and can see glimpses of what the finished product will look like, it gets harder to be patient.

There have been regular bumps along the way and the supply issues caused by Covid 19. Each day the build moves in the right direction and that is what matters when combined with the first-rate workmanship of all the trades who have been here so far.

We have enough deck boards now so that we can sit out on the deck as I did yesterday morning. It’s not quite as pleasant as listening to the red-winged blackbirds that frequented the campground we stayed in this week, but it’s not half bad for being in the middle of the city. The house shades the deck in the morning and the Manitoba maple tree shades most of the deck in the afternoon and evening.

Now that we’ve been doing this since April, we know where more of our stuff is and so spend less time looking for things. We haven’t had a mirror in the one working bathroom for the last few weeks and when I see myself in a mirror I think,”Huh, so that’s what I look like.” We do have a full length mirror in the bedroom but I don’t often look at that one in my day-to-day comings and goings.

We have the dishwashing system working well and it will be a treat when we again have a dishwasher. The thing I will be most glad to retire is the jug-and-plastic bin set up for washing our hands in the bathroom. Somehow walking upstairs and into the shop to wash hands is just too much of an annoyance, hence the jug and bin. The shower works so when the bin gets full we empty the water down the shower drain. We fill up the jug about once a day. The washing machine and dryer still work although they share their space with the set of shelves that have been temporarily displaced from the bathroom. There’s a certain obstacle-course quality to laundry days.

With the heat we have been eating a lot of salads so haven’t needed to cook much. The Instant Pot does a great job of hard boiled eggs. Every once in a while we buy a dozen, hard cook them and use them in salads and sandwiches. We have three working fridges if you count the one on the van so we can certainly keep things cold.

We were out of the house last week so painting could happen. The cabinet fronts aren’t here yet so we’ll have another round of painting when they arrive. The floor is done and we love it! We have new windows but no screens. It’s been so hot we’ve needed to have the windows open and the fan going at night and. Knock wood, we haven’t had too much of a problem with tiny winged creatures getting into the house.

The rest of the boards for the deck are somewhere in transit and we’re hoping they will be here next week. I think the new front door should be here fairly soon as well and that means that the front of the house can be finished. We will still have to have a security screen door made since the new door is wider than the old one. All the appliances are at the dealer’s so there won’t be any holdups there when the time comes to install them.

We’ve been able to visit Odie a number of times. He is always glad to see Richard and, in his own quirky way, glad enough to see me once he has fawned over Richard for a while. This is the longest time he has ever been away from us.. Soon it will be time to pull out all the pieces of his cage, drag them to the front lawn and clean them all up with the hose, then hope we can figure out how the cage goes back together again.

Having said we haven’t had much trouble with bugs I just dispatched a very quick little white bug motoring up the handle of my tea spoon.

I think that’s enough of a ramble for the moment. Concrete work is still to come as is the installation of cabinet doors, counter tops, appliances, lights, switches and faucets. It’s coming together and we can see now that the new configuration will work very well for us. Patience, patience.




Stay tuned.

Finding the extra-ordinary in the ordinary

This is a different sort of post. This Sunday our church is starting a theme that will take a number of Sundays to explore: The Extra-Ordinary and the Ordinary. As an ex-English teacher I'm all over that kind of thing so I volunteered to be the first one of the congregation so say something about it. This is what I will say. I hope some of you will also think about the requests I have at the end. Don't worry; it won't cost you anything and nobody will know if you do consider them or not.

The last year and a half has been extra ordinary for many reasons and because of that I have been forced to spend more time considering ordinary events, events that, in other circumstances, I would likely have passed over without much thought. By spending a bit more time on the small and ordinary, I have found extraordinary joy.

As most of you know, I was a high school teacher. I have no siblings and I have had very little to do with young children. We live in an older neighbourhood which is now seeing young families move in. Three children of elementary junior high age live across the alley. Two children, one in kindergarten and one in early elementary, live next door.

The girl across the alley loves to draw and paint and the compact greenhouse that backs on the alley bears the slogan ‘grow tall little plant.’ She has painted colourful flowers all over the front of the green house. Whenever I see it, I smile.

She is also interested in our parrot. One day Richard received a text from her mother saying that there was something for me outside our garage door. When I went to look, I found a clay model, a couple of inches tall of Odie complete with the correct colours of his head, breast and back feathers. This ‘quiet version’ (the real version is quite noisy) of Odie now sits on shelves above my desk.

During the early days of the pandemic when children were out of school for the first time, this same artist painted Odie on her patio door. As the seasons changed so did Odie’s attire. At first, he was just plain Odie, then as Christmas approached Odie showed up one day with a Santa hat on and a string of Christmas lights near his foot. I’m wondering if Odie will sport a cowboy hat this summer and wait eagerly to see whatever version of Odie appears. If he has served his purpose as a window decoration, and is replaced by something else, that’s okay too.

On our anniversary last summer, we looked out the door to see the words ‘Happy Anniversary’ on the sidewalk in front of our house in brightly coloured chalk.  It was the work of the girls next door, with some help from their mom.

The other day when I was in the house and Richard was outside, the younger of the two girls picked a blossom from their tree, walked over to him, handed him the blossom and announced it was for me. When he finished his conversation, he came in the house and delivered the present. I set it on the desk beside me where it briefly scented the air. 

Perhaps these are the ordinary things children do but I am only now discovering them, and to me they are extraordinarily lovely.

So today, I have two requests of you:

First, this week take time to look closely at ordinary things so you may find in them extra-ordinary things

Second, note each time you find something extra-ordinary. There will be time in upcoming services for you to share your experiences so we can all enjoy them with you.