Summer's Daze

Some people in this house turned 13 this month

Is it me or has summer gone by too fast? I looked at the last post I wrote and it was written in JULY. A month ago. And now the days of August are heading towards the past tense. Seems hard to believe.

As you can tell from the photo above, some people in this house turned 13 this month. There are now three official teenagers living right near me. I hear a lot about how teens tend to be wildly annoying, wildly angst-ridden, and wildly histrionic, but so far all I've really noticed is how much they resemble ME in my menopausal, absent-minded, fog. They forget stuff. Lots of stuff, like phone calls (they forget there's a notepad on which to write messages too), where they left their bike key, why they never put their dirty dishes in the kitchen next to the implement with which we clean those very same dishes.

Which is mostly amusing. I don't feel like such a ditz. I've got company.

Here's a behind-the-scenes shot of the Birthday Duo swinging on our Beach Holiday Extravaganza. As you can see, FDPG likes a little danger with her swinging.

Dominic and I both watched this with our mouths slightly agog, after which I shut down the action immediately. She doesn't believe me but she really DOES want to grow up with her brain and skull intact.

 FDPG and Dominic departed from their usual Birthday Gift requests this year. Every year that I can remember they've asked for LEGO. This year they didn't. When I expressed my shock and amazement, FDPG offered up this excuse: "We thought you were sick of buying us LEGO." To which I expressed even more shock and amazement. An era has ended, methinks.

Note that I do not say "legos." Many of my (mostly American) friends do, and while I try not to judge them, I have to confess that I do. I feel like Tom Cruise's character in Magnolia: "I'm silently judging you." 

Go on Sheila, tell us what you REALLY think.



 So this year FDPG asked for, and received, a kayak. As you might note from this photo, provided you look carefully enough. In the middle, with the yellow, red, and blue striped sail, is her father and her brother in the Topper, while at the right is a teeny tiny little blue blip. That's FDPG. No fear, that girl. At least we were able to refuse to let her go out without convince her to wear a life jacket.




To the right is someone we didn't know, but who spent his afternoon following them around. Maybe it's a sailboat thing, I don't know.

 On this very same beach holiday some of us spent a lot of time looking up the status of the sea boats near us. There is (I say with some surprise though I don't know why in this age of Omnipresent Media Attention To All Things) a website where you can track all the ships in the oceans near you. It's quite cool: you can see the stats of the ship, what it's called, where it came from, and where it's going. Eldest Son discovered this site a while back and now spends much of his time tracking large ships then pestering me to take him down to there he can view them with a scope. Fortunately we live on an island so it's easy to get to a coast to view these behemoths. The ship in the photo is a Disney cruise ship. The cruise ships are easily the most impressive boats going up and down the coast, and as they usually glide past in the early evening, lights all aglow, it's an enchanting sight. According to Eldest Son's scope, this was a Disney ship, and he could even see the giant screen playing The Lion King.

 Another dreamy shot of the coastal range mountains on the mainland. We live in a lovely place.

 

How I Spent My Sunday

Driving up the island to the site of so much summer fun.

Taking out water pumps, draining water lines, filling toilets with antifreeze (so they won't crack in the winter), raking leaves, listening to the kids run around in the back yard exclaiming at the cold, looking at the beach from a fall perspective instead of a hot summer sun perspective.

 Watching the boats go up and down the coastline. Tugs. Sailboats. Ferries.

Seabirds scattering at the approach of a few intrepid kayakers.

People hauling seaweed for their gardens.

Lunch on the beach. 

Then back in the car and home again, home again. 

Jiggedy jig.

Holiday Snapshots #1

We were sitting on the sand.

Hot sand. Very hot sand. So hot you couldn't walk barefoot. We were therefore squished together on several towels, drying off from our swim.

Dominic was stretched out like a starfish, perhaps he was even pretending he was a starfish. He was doing his level best to ignore our repeated pleas to stop hogging the towels. FDPG was deep in an Agatha Christie novel, reading about her hero Hercule Poirot (or Pwa-Rot as we like to call him). Max was one log over, pretending he was a cool DJ Guy relaxing on his yacht after a sold out show. Every so often he'd sit up and fix his hair, using his reflective sunglasses as a mirror. I snuck photos of him when he wasn't looking.

Richard and I were reading. Richard - his usual deeply intellectual fare: The Origins Of Political Order. Me - my usual deeply unintellectual fare: Gardener's World magazine. I was just admiring a charming photo of Alan Titchmarsh, immaculate in a periwinkle vest, cutting a large handful of thyme with his equally immaculate pruners, pleasantly determined look on his face. There's something deeply comforting about Alan. Whenever I need a pick-me-up I read his Tales From Titchmarsh column. He's always so nice and encouraging. Black spot on your roses? Never fear! He has 10 top tips for that. Mildew on your squash? Ah, you haven't used your baking soda spray yet, have you? Wilting delphiniums? Try some cheery painted bamboo stakes - practical AND picturesque! Every problem has a happy solution. Even if it IS something you've already tried (and failed with), Alan makes it sound both easy AND feasible.

But I digress.

I was sitting on the towel, trying to ignore the elbowing starfish to my left and a sniffing FDPG to my right (both twins took up the completely irritating habit of sniffing every 20 seconds this summer) when a large flying insect showed up on the sand. Not a hornet. Not a wasp. Not a bee. A bit of all of them: large wings, stripey body, aggressively long torso. It would alight on a speck then fly off, very quickly and very unpredictably. It came closer and closer to us, even landing on my clogs at one point. It kept flashing its wings and waving its antennae menacingly, waking us from our torpor and causing us to skitter about on the towels in an effort not to be its first victim.

When it attacked the grasshopper we all gasped. It clung to the grasshopper's head and made some determined clicking noises. The grasshopper waved its legs feebly as we looked on, horrified. Dominic threw a little rock which bounced off the sand but the insect took no notice. We watched the poor grasshopper writhe and roll around on that hot hot sand, until finally I went over and smacked at the insect with a stick. It flew away and FDPG moved the stunned grasshopper to a little bark house, out of the sun and out of the way of the insect, which by then had returned and was scanning the sand for the grasshopper. It was even more insistent and alarming than before, so of course we all started dashing about and bumping into each other in an effort to avoid it. Even Richard (who is usually quite oblivious to anything but the most urgent of disasters) moved hurriedly out of the way. Things were getting a wee bit panicky. It was a very pugnacious insect.

Finally my stick managed to connect with the insect. I think I stunned it somewhat. I scooped it up in a clam shell and placed it on a log, where it could hopefully settle down and rethink its grasshopper-attacking strategies. Then I went back to my magazine, intent on learning the Four Ways To Banish Bindweed.

Dominic got up and went over to the insect. He picked up a large smooth rock and smashed the insect with it, hard. He banged and bashed for at least a minute while we all watched, startled. Then he put down his rock and went back to being a starfish.

We settled back to our sleepy sunbathing activities, albeit slightly uneasy should another winged terror appear.

A few hours later we were packing up when Dominic went over to the log where the by now completely unrecognizable remains of the insect were. It was definitely a Former Insect. He examined the tiny specks of shell and wing closely.

"I think it's dead now," he said.

No kidding.

Not Just Any Soil

I had one of those coveted A-ha! moments the other day, although to be honest I felt mildly embarrassed by its belatedness; by all rights that A-ha! moment should have come to me at least 30 years ago. Instead, as per usual, it took a rather circuitous route to get to me. Better late than never? I guess. And what, you ask, was my A-ha! moment all about? Well, let me tell you:

I was using the wrong sort of soil to start my seeds in.

I know, I know, that sort of statement probably makes you want to shriek "You had a revelation about POTTING SOIL?" all the while thinking I really need to rethink this friendship with this person, she sounds completely idiotic, right?

But — if you've ever planted seeds and had them pop up only to pass on to the next life almost as quickly, well, then, my NEW friend, read on and my A-ha! experience might come to you earlier than it did me.

It happened on Sunday: Dominic and I were due to spend the afternoon transplanting tomato seedlings, in preparation for their Big Move to another, more accommodating greenhouse. My greenhouse, let's face it, is not only cramped, it's already crammed with stuff (you listening to me, trays of potatoes? get out into that garden already!). Every year I swear I won't have a repeat performance of my Patented Overcrowded Seeding Habit but every year I do the same thing, mostly since I can't say no to a seed. Why plant just enough basil seeds when I can use up the entire packet and spend countless hours later on trying to find places to stick JUST ONE MORE basil seedling (don't laugh, that very method is why I still have pesto in the freezer). I see this as a charming personality quirk, even if I have heard Richard use the word pathology once or twice.

Which reminds me of why my greenhouse is crowded in the first place: I'm waiting on my Greenhouse Builder (aka Richard) to build me a bigger greenhouse, and a part of me thinks that if he sees how crowded conditions are out there he might take pity on me and put a greenhouse higher on HIS list than it is on MY list. Quirky AND hopeful!

So there we were, attempting to transplant the tomato seedlings. They were still too small to transplant, but heck, I am a Master Transplanter. I coaxed those little slips out of the soil they were in, held them in my palm, and stopped.

And that's where I had the first inkling that all was not right with my methodology. The soil they came from looked, well, woody. As did the soil they were going into. Really woody. Barky, even. And it was a weird brown. It also looked clumpy, like dry clay. The seedlings themselves looked alright, but the marigolds next to them, in the same soil, looked as though they were choking to death. I had a definite feeling that we should not proceed. "We can't transplant," I told Dominic, "we don't have the right potting soil. These things will wilt and die, I just know it."

"What are we going to do?" he asked, uneasy.  Dominic hates it when events don't proceed as expected, and he was expecting those tomato seedlings to be transplanted so he could get on with more pressing matters, like checking his room to see if his sister pinched any of his LEGO while he was outside. Or checking the freezer to see if there were any ice cream bars left.

"We're going to make some better soil, that's what we're going to do!" I announced. Dominic likes it when I make announcements like this, because they often presage Exciting Times, involving cars and stores and gumball machines and maybe — don't hold your breath —a free cookie somewhere.

So off we went to find some proper potting soil. We looked at a lot of different bags, so many that I was starting to despair by the time we hit up Home Despot. It all seemed very heavy and reeked of moisture retention, something I wanted to avoid at all costs (encourages damping off). Fortunately we found some, although I had to ignore Dominic's sniggers upon reading the front of the package (WHAT THE PROFESSIONALS USE it announced, rather grandly). We got it home and I was able to give him a quick mini lesson on How To Make The Proper Seed Starting Medium. I don't think it was quite the A-ha! moment for him as it was for me, but he did remark on the difference between our old woody potting soil and the new mixture we made up (we added some clean play sand to ours, so it would drain well, as well as some rock phosphate and a little bone meal). It was almost impossible not to notice the difference, so Richard of course took note when we brought the new trays up onto the deck. "What's that?" he said, peering suspiciously at my trays. "That soil - it looks different than the stuff you gave me for my ferns. It looks better - did you give me the crap potting soil?"

"Yes, I did" I said.

I didn't really, but given that he and I have a sort of Who Grows Better Houseplants war happening, he was unlikely to believe me if I denied giving him crap potting soil. Besides, it's rather amusing to pretend that I'm more devious than I really am.

"I knew it!" he said, incredulously, triumphantly. "You'll do anything to kill my ferns!" Now, at this point I should probably say here that Richard has two humungous ferns in his office, ferns he worries about when we're on holiday, ferns he coddles with special watering bottles and soaker pads, ferns he insists are superior to our ferns at home, so he ALWAYS thinks I'm out to poison his stupid ferns. Of course he would think I'd give him inferior soil while keeping the good stuff for myself. And of course I'd let him think that.

"Oh stop it," I said. "I realized that the soil I was using wasn't right for my seedlings, so Dominic and I made up some new stuff. It's way better than anything I've ever used before. It's so good I wish I had a new greenhouse so I could seed even MORE stuff." I stopped and looked hopefully at him.

I'll leave the conversation there, because it never really went anywhere, although he did take some of that soil to work, to his bloody ferns. Maybe if I promise him more ferns for his office he'd build that greenhouse.

At least now I have some decent seed starting medium. And you have this story. And my A-ha! moment, so you don't need to have one when you least expect it.


 

My Funny Valentine

Valentines Day used to happen this way: me preparing madly at night while little babes slept in their beds. Morning would dawn and hey-ho it would be Magical Hearts everywhere. Then we'd wander the neighbour looking for excitement. Drop into coffee shops for kid hot chocolates, visit the library for special storytimes. Wander past the florist on the way home for a nice rose or two. Then home for dinner, exhausted from all the fun. Bedtime involved happy valentine stories.

Now we're all older and, well, different. Some of us are rather self-conscious about making too many public displays of affection, not to mention having a number of high school commitments due every second of every hour. And this was probably the first year I was too harried (from various volunteer jobs - why does everyone think stay-at-home-mums have lots of time on their hands?) to be ready for it all. Like I said, different.

I didn't manage to make heart-shaped cards, but I did produce some heart-shaped pancakes with home-made peach butter. Somewhat to my chagrin this eclipsed the card situation. And I am nothing if not quick to take advantage of an Opportunity Coming My Way.

Dinner will be MY valentine to you all, I announced.

And so it was. Chili truffle filling sitting in the fridge? Cake toppers! The rest of it turned into a miniature cupcake batter.

FDPG's hand there? She withdrew it after one taste. My chili truffle recipe isn't something to be truffled with.



Winter greens sitting in the garden? Doused with sizzling garlic oil! Mandarins peeled and tossed alongside! Fennel blub and sorrel leaves on top. It was a Nutty Madcap Salad, but don't tell Max or he won't eat it ever again just because of the name I gave it.
I've got a new crush in the foodie world, and this was his Quick Puff Pastry recipe, wrapped around some very rare steak, thinly sliced raw fennel, and a few chunks of jalapeno havarti.
It was really good, if I do say so myself.
And for dessert there was a chocolate cake.
A really excellent chocolate cake.
I don't have a photo of it.
I wish I did.
Some of us had heart-shaped chili truffles on top of ours. Some of us kissed afterwards, and felt glad that we'd had all these nice heart-shaped days.

Christmas Eve

I wake up in the dark, with the cat licking my hand and purring in the way he does. His purr sounds like he had a particularly bad case of pneumonia when he was a kitten; it's crackly and uneven and wheezy. If he were one of the kids I'd be inclined to say "get a drink of water for heaven's sakes.." or worry about incipient bronchitis, but since he's a slightly neurotic cat I thump his tummy instead, hoping to get him to shift a little and lower the decibels.

He doesn't. Instead he crawls up the bed until he's lying right in my face, which means his butt is right in Richard's face. He purrs louder, rumbling like a poorly maintained dump truck. Richard is sleeping so he doesn't know that Toffee's bottom is in his face, but the idea of it, combined with his usual reaction when Toffee does this ("Toffee, I do not find the sight of your anal glands very attractive"), causes me to start giggling. Toffee is pleased and starts licking my shoulder vigorously. Together we manage to wake Richard up. Richard is not pleased. He does not find Toffee's early morning wheeze amusing.

It is Christmas Eve. And this is the start of my day.

I don't know what Christmas is like where you live, but where I live Christmas is a big deal: stores close early on Christmas Eve, with signs posted that say things like "Our staff is having a Christmas party this afternoon so we're closing early! We reopen December 27th. Have a Merry Christmas!" Yes, you read that right - things actually shut down for more than a day. When I first moved back here from six years in California I remember feeling quite indignant ("What? I have to think ahead about how much milk I have in the fridge? How LAME is that!"), but the feeling gradually wore off. Canada is quietly and fiercely proud of its parochialism, and six years in the heady wilds of pre-recession California made me forget briefly that I was, for better or for worse, not an American.

We have spent much of the week on our usual Christmas pursuits: making things that smell good, baking things that taste good, crafting things that look good, and getting together, for better or for worse, with relatives and friends. Some of these get togethers are pleasant and we all look forward to them; some we simply endure, like we do the flu, hoping they will end swiftly and without too much trauma. This last instance is why we now have a Post-it note stuck to the answering machine, with various telephone numbers written on it; this is my version of the Do Not Answer list.

"It's _____!" shrieks FDPG (who lives to patrol the telephone) "Do I answer it?"

"NO!!!!" I shriek back, fear and horror gripping my heart like cold death.

Sigh. Christmas.

Bedtime Stories

There I was, lying in bed, intently watching another gripping episode of Monarchy on my iPod. What better way to unwind at night than to watch someone at least 30 years older than you work like a dog? Even better, work like a dog while dripping with jewels and surrounded by glorious room decor? I find it strangely relaxing.

I was deeply absorbed in a particularly complex explanation of Black Rod when Richard came into the room, brushing his teeth noisily. He peered over and a wave of spearmint fumes hit me. He stared at the screen solicitously. I had earplugs (oops, sorry technologically superior teen child - earbuds) on, so he couldn't hear the commentary, but Prince Charles was shaking hands with someone and grimacing in the way only Prince Charles can. Without concern for any future Black Rod knowledge I may or may not have been stashing away for later (Jeopardy battles being rife around these parts), he launched into his usual nightly behaviour. This generally involves bouncing into bed noisily and interrupting me cheerily while he decides which book to read from the tottering pile at his bedside. Sometimes he brandishes the cover of each book so I can be privy to his inner deliberations (I tell him to pick the nice yellow book). Sometimes the pile falls over (clouds of dust ensue). Sometimes he yanks the covers about if he thinks I'm hogging the duvet (we wrangle pleasantly about who has more blanket). Sometimes he launches into a discussion about the complexities of the tile cutting saw he saw in the Canadian Tire catalogue (I remind him he already has a tile cutting saw). Every now and then he madly leaps up and races around the house, remembering doors to lock or bread to remove from freezers (I remind him that the kids are - or WERE - asleep). Once he's chosen his book and his page he clicks off. Abruptly.

After this evening's performance was over, I returned to my Monarchy viewing. We read and watch for a while. I am just getting into a particularly tense scene involving an irritated Queen and a number of sheepish looking Corgis when Richard blurts out of nowhere:

"Think he'll ever be King?"

"Huh? Who?"

"Prince Charles. Think the Queen will outlive him? Throne pass to Wills?"

"What? Are you kidding? She won't outlive him! Poor Charles."

"It's happened before. It's not unthinkable. There IS precedent."

"What? When has it happened before?" (the Corgis are forgotten)

"The Black Prince. His father outlived him. Throne passed on to Richard II."

"Who? The Black Prince? What? When was this? Recently?" (in spite of myself I am starting to screech a bit)

"Fourteenth century."

I burst out laughing.

"Oh my GAWD! That's only 700 years ago. Practically yesterday! I'm sure it's something that weighs heavily on Charles' mind. The Black Prince. You are INSANE." (I roll about in the pillows, feeling quite hysterical at this point)

Richard smiles smugly. "Don't laugh. It IS a precedent. I'm sure the Queen knows about it."

For some reason this strikes me as both wildly improbably AND hysterically funny. Richard goes back to his book, with a rather knowing look on his face. I return to my iPod. The Queen is traipsing up a very long staircase in a white evening gown, looking barely out of breath. Camera shifts to Prince Charles, looking red faced and rather less robust than his mother. I peer at his face on the tiny screen, wondering.

I glance over at Richard. He smirks.

My How We Change

I know, I know, I've been AWOL. All I can tell you is that I've been disinclined to blog, disinclined to read blogs, busy with tedious 4-H bureaucracy, busy with canning and preserving and reading and getting ready for fairs, and wildly busy being outside in the garden.

That said, a couple of people in this house turned 10 a couple of weeks ago. Double digits! Look at them when we lived in another town in another year. A year when this duo were still but cute little two year olds. And gosh, how cute they were.

Funny thing is, they still ARE cute. Nice that, being blessed with cuteness...

Being A Father

We never see our parents as people, do we? People who might have had real lives before we came on the scene, people who had adventures, people who did cool things just because. We might have a glimmer of this when we're older, perhaps when we're looking at photos of them from long ago, but by that time we've got kids of our own and we've discovered ourselves just how uninteresting our former lives are to them. But in the meantime we see them as ladders to our next steps, or a form of bank manager, or even the camp cook.

I came home last night, having spent the afternoon up island with FDPG, and Richard was playing guitar in the family room. He is trying to master a song that we saw initially in a lipdub. It's a very catchy tune and it reminds me of many a British pop song, past or present. Given that Richard is from Britain, it doesn't surprise me at all that he likes this song, but it perplexes his teen son, who of the age where watching his father play a pop song on a guitar - and sing, for heaven's sake - seems just plain weird. He doesn't stop to consider his own long hours, sitting in his room, banging away monotonously on his keyboard, droning out the same chord over and over again, evidently.

As soon as I walked in the door he sidled up to me. "Dad has been playing that song all afternoon," he confided, as though we should be getting out the Advil.

"Oh," I said, "he likes that song. So do I. He just wants to learn it." "Why?" Max replies, still unable to comprehend that his father might have the same pop star leanings he does. I could say that his dad used to be quite the classical guitarist, that he'd even won competitions in his teens, and that when I met him he was the guy who played guitar and sang at beach parties, but I don't. It would probably cause Max to run screaming from the room. His parents - doing cool things? Eeks.

"Because it's a fun song and he likes playing the guitar," I say instead. I am laughing by this time, and so is Richard. It's funny seeing a 14 year old so unnerved by his aged, past it, should-be-sedate-by-now parents.

"Oh," he says, finally. "Hmm. IN-teresting." He then thumps down the stairs to his room, sits at his desk, and resumes his monotonous, bass-heavy, banging away. I file this memory away for another day, for the day when the grown up Max is a father himself, watched by his own puzzled children as he hauls out his aged keyboard and picks out his own tune, thinking of other times and other songs. A day I might not be around to see, but I know it will come. They always do.

Happy Father's Day to all you fathers out there. And to all you potential fathers.

In Which We Get A Lemon House

It all started with this: two lemon trees, a concrete wall, some mulch, and a cold frame.

It seemed so easy at the time. Stick them in the ground. Watch them grow. Harvest lemons - in the event that they fruited. What I didn't bank on was how much growing them - this not being your typical lemon growing climate - would obsess me.

Okay, maybe I did. I might not have recognized it at the time, but hindsight is always 20/20, isn't it?
So I planted the lemons, and left them. Then I started looking at the path to the cold frame from this angle. The cold frame is at the end on the left, that small blob of plastic. But the path was so very crooked. Bumpy. Hard to mow. Awkward when picking peas and beans from the arbour (on the right). I will flatten this path, I thought. I will lift the sod, remove some soil, then replace the sod. The path will be flat and smooth...

...and it will lead to a Lemon House.
Fast forward several months, some discussions with family members (some willing, some rather, hmmm, let's just say recalcitrant and leave it at that), and many many discarded ideas.

Here is the germ of the method we finally settled on - in the bed of that red pickup. An old glass door set into a wooden frame. The man on the left (AKA: Willing Father) built it; the man on the right (AKA: Recalcitrant Husband) assisted in getting it into this truck. He has no idea what he's in for, which is probably a good thing.
Ignorance really IS bliss in some cases.
Once we got the glass over to the back yard of our house, there was, this being a Male Building Event, much measuring and discussion.

Endless measuring and discussing, actually.

Which was when I noticed that Recalcitrant Husband was standing on my lemon tree.

Bad Recalcitrant Husband.


We have a brief break while I intervene in the Male Building Event. Recalcitrant Husband, for all his wonderful qualities, has a long and distressing history of standing on plants in the garden without any clue OR concern whatsoever. When apprised of his Plant Standing Transgressions he doesn't bat an eyelid, either. "Well, what's it doing there?" he says, sometimes rather rudely. "That's not a good place for a —" I point out that he's actually IN the garden, where plants are SUPPOSED to be, but he never quite grasps the irony of my remarks. So I must be vigilant.

Here we have Lemon trees with Protective Coatings.

They laughed when I did this. Recalcitrant Husband might even have rolled his eyes at Willing Father a little, but I remained firm: either the lemons have a cover throughout the entire Building Experience or I stand around barking out remarks like "YOUR FOOT IS ON THE LEMON TREE!" and "WATCH THAT LEMON TREE!" and "ACCKKKKKK! THE LEMON TREE IS GETTING SQUISHED!" and maybe even a little "GET YOUR FEET OFF THAT LEMON TREE."

Fortunately everyone saw the sense in keeping the covers on the lemon trees.
They then resumed their endless measuring and discussing.

Measuring.

Discussing.

Measuring some more.

Discussing some more.


Then there was this lot, who spent a lot of time goading other people into getting ice cream from the freezer and eating it. They look innocent enough, but don't be leaving them near your freezers any time soon, lemme tell you.









And then suddenly it was up. The glass was on, the posts were in place, the frame was straight, the supports were screwed in.

It all looked wonderful, from any angle.



















But it was when I was taking this picture, ostensibly of the post and concrete block, that I noticed how, well, sunken the lemon trees were.

The lemons were sprawled on the ground, too. They'd been like that all winter.

Not a good look for a lemon, if you ask me.




So today I dug them up and set them on a base of soil and compost and manure. Built a little brick box around them.

Took another picture.







Stood back.

Admired.

Gazed.

Then thought "Hmm, it needs a little something on the sides."





And there you have it: The Lemon House

Must Have Been A Full Moon

First, I wore my shirt inside out all through the Chinese grocery today. I only discovered it when I went to replicate the trick the man in front of me at the checkout did for FDPG, to show Dominic (who had been busy looking for coins under all the tills and as such wasn't involved in the checkout antics but managed to find $2.74 in change). The joke, which was weird and inventive, involved sleeves and wrists and when I went to pull my sleeve down, to demonstrate, I discovered that the hem was unusually, well, hemmed. I've had this shirt for a while and I'd never seen the hem look quite like that, so I followed the hem up to the shoulder seam and noticed that the seam was outside the sleeve - a place it normally isn't. I glanced briefly at the front placard and it was only then - yes, call me slow - but it WAS only then that I realized that my nice white peasant top was INSIDE OUT.

I felt extremely idiotic. Even more than usual. I was still laughing rather immoderately when Max hopped into the car, after having put the cart away.

"What's so funny?" he demanded, in his demanding teenagerish way.

"MY TOP IS INSIDE OUT!" I shrieked, in between much hysteria. The twins were in the back, Dominic still wondering what was so funny about wearing a top inside out and FDPG, wondering WHEN I was going to get to that funny joke because she had SUCH a starring role in it.

"Why did you have to tell me that?" he said, much put out. "That is just so embarrassing, MAAWWM." This is his new way of referring to me: MAAWWM. I have no idea what the significance of his American pronunciation habit is but it's highly annoying so actually that might BE the only significance...my usual ripost is to call him MIX, pretending that I am in fact from New Zealand, which highly annoys him. Mature of us, I know.

Then, after dinner, I was walking around with my mug of tea, looking for something. I'd tell you what I was looking for but it would only make me look even MORE idiotic so I won't, but I will tell you that at one point I LOST my mug of tea. I spent another 10 minutes looking for it, then went and whined to Richard, who told me that I'd left it in the hallway cupboard. I went to the hallway cupboard, highly (and vocally) critical that I would leave a mug of tea in a cupboard, and gosh, but there it was. Sitting on the shelf amongst the tins.

"How did you know I'd left it there?" I asked Richard, my mind swimming with spy cams.

"I know your thought processes," he said, not taking his eyes off the newspaper.

So I decided to regale him with my Inside Out Top story. "Guess what I did at the Chinese grocery store today?"I asked him.

"You wore your top inside out," he said, still not taking his eyes off the newspaper.

He swears no one told him.

Merry Christmas!

Come & Cheer Our Spirits By Walking In The Mire...

I'm reposting a few things during Advent. Here's one on carol singing.

Warning: don't read if you find levity during carol singing rude.

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A long time ago, in a country far away...

Huh?

Let's start that again.

A long time ago, I had high hopes of being a Musical Person. Someone who could fling themselves daintily around in meadows whilst trilling melodiously. A sort of Julie Andrews, sans nun's garb. Those hopes, sadly, were dashed after listening to myself on my guitar-playing then-boyfriend's tape recorder. I console myself with the fact that I was not the only one singing thusly, but there it was: I did not sound like Julie Andrews. I didn't even sound like a nun.

But I digress! I haven't let a less-than-delightful voice stop me from singing, or from helping my kids enjoy singing. We sing to Billy Bragg (what other 6 year old do you know who can wail "Shuuuuuurrrllley" in a Cockney accent?), we sing to Ron Sexsmith, we sing to the Beatles, we sing to the Beach Boys, in our last city home we sang hymns in a glorious, stained glass-drenched church, and now, with Christmas fast approaching (only 28 money-draining, err, shopping days left, O Gentle Reader), we have started singing Christmas carols. I wish I could teach my kids to do the Roches' version of For Unto Us A Child Is Born, but there's only two of us who have any hope of carrying a tune right now, so we're sticking with carols that don't require so many sopranos. And I, being possessed of many a carol book, have been singing all kinds of obscure carols with my kids, most of them not known to AM radio,and teaching them all the verses, although we've found some carols take the odd tack every now and then. Take We Three Kings, for instance:

Myrrh is mine; its bitter perfume
Breathes a life of gathering gloom;
Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying,
Sealed in a stone cold tomb.

Cheery, isn't it? I usually sing this verse alone, while FDPG peers closely at the words in case they've changed to something more in the Jingle Bells vein. Max looks uneasy and shuffles a lot, worrying no doubt why people are bleeding gloomily and why he has to sing about it.

Here's another unusual song we came across, and I am somewhat abashed to report that initially we laughed rather immoderately, well, after we first gaped in disbelief. Do you know Here We Come A-Wassailing? I've always been partial to this song, mostly because of the lilting aspect of the verses, but let me draw your attention to the last verse:

Good master and good mistress
While you're sitting by the fire,
Pray think of us poor children,
Who are wandering in the mire.

Charming, wouldn't you say? After I explained to my kids why other kids might be wandering in mire somewhere, begging food from rich people, we felt almost too depressed to sing this carol ever again, then decided to stick with the first, third, and seventh verses (and yes, there were more than seven verses of this stuff, no wonder the Victorians were depressed).

Happily, our clouds of gathering gloom were chased away by the inexplicably bizarre. Remember Jolly Old St. Nicholas? Well, listen again, O Gentle Reader, to the last verse. Max and Dominic are completely unable to hear this, let alone sing it, with a straight face:

Johnny wants a pair of skates,
Suzy wants a dolly.
Nelly wants a storybook,
She thinks dolls are folly.
As for me, my little brain,
Isn't very bright.
Choose for me, old Santa Claus,
What you think is right.
(emphasis mine)

Well, you have to love someone who owns up to their feeble brain, right?

And since I should probably cease with the irreverent and end on a more dignified note, I will leave you with a truly atmospheric verse, even if it's usually sung too low for my croak. I like the themes of hope and light and renewal here. Plus, it's just plain poetic. This is from O Come, O Come Emmanuel:

O come, Thou Day-Spring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here;
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death's dark shadows put to flight.

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So there you have it. Right now we're working on our second Advent stop-go video but given colds, busyness, and lack of time, it's been slow going. Read this and remember us when you're singing carols this month.

Why Certain Aspects...

...of the eco-obsessed movement will never enter our lexicon.

Look at that fireplace. It's a good thing, to quote my friend Martha. A very good thing. Where else can you warm yourself whilst lounging on a giant ball whilst reading?

We Had No Idea Things Would Go This Far...

News Flash!

Historians admit to inventing the Greeks:

"We were young and trying to advance our careers, so we just started making things up: Homer, Aristotle, Socrates, Hippocrates, the lever and fulcrum, rhetoric, ethics, all the different kinds of columns - everything. Way more stuff than any one civilization could have come up with, obviously," he added.

Obviously.

"One thing led to another and before you knew it, we were coming up with everything from the golden ratio to the Iliad. That was a bitch to write, by the way..."

***************

And this just in: kids can understand irony.

No kidding, Sherlock, I could have told you this. Case in point:

My house, dinner. Dominic is eating brussell sprouts and exclaiming over liking them. Richard says "Funny you should like them. I don't. Maybe I'll call you BS - as in brussell sprout."

I object, on the grounds that the first thing people think of when they hear the initials BS won't be brussell sprouts. I frown at Richard. Richard smirks, pleased with the hilarity of this double entendre. Dominic looks shocked. Then annoyed. FDPG and Max howl with laughter. Dominic glowers at this new and unwelcome intrusion on his sense of personal dignity.

"Would you like me to call you F?" he asks archly.

We gape as one at Dominic, then burst out laughing. He's grasped the essentials of the ironic insult and turned them back on Richard with a certain amount of oddly mature sarcasm. Then again, he's always been like that: a very adult wit for such a very small body.

Summer Correspondence

Letter to the wasps in the disused oil furnace chimney:

Dear Wasps,

I know that chimney is probably the perfect place for a nest, particularly such a honkin' big nest as yours, but as one of the residents in the house attached to that chimney I must protest. Call us heartless but we are not big wasp lovers, although the young woman up the street who protested our attempts to cap the chimney probably is. Why don't you try her house? I can pretty much guarantee that she'll leave you until winter, at least, that's what she told Richard to do. He was a bit short with her, I admit, but seeing as how that was his 8th time on the roof shooing you all away AND it was at least 35ºC at the time, I think you could probably cut him some slacks, no? And maybe even stop squeezing through the taped up slits in the grill on our fireplace doors (prompting me to be rather more charitable to their glassy chrome ugliness)? You are spooking me and the kids with these antics. We know you are trapped and doomed to die in that chimney, but flying drunkenly (and ash-coveredly) around the room is getting to us. It's been four weeks now and your hive shows little sign of ceasing and desisting. I have a 25 year mortgage on this house, so there won't be any ceasing and desisting from my end either. How can we resolve this? Please respond by going away post haste.

signed,

Perplexed and Distressed House Owner

Letter to a girl who had to do the morning dishes:

Dear FDPG,

We know that doing the breakfast dishes is no fun. We know that it positively RUINS the summer holidays for you, and we know that we SHOULD really go out and buy a dishwasher if we weren't so darn cheap, but have you ever stopped to reflect on the fact that almost every other chore in the house is done by someone other than you? I counted the dishes this morning and there were only 11. Surely that isn't too much to ask, considering you had a toothsome repast of sweet tea and fresh blueberry muffins? And no, we aren't going to start handing out allowance as a result of all this frenzy of labour, either. We're too cheap.

Love,

Your (cheap) parents

Letter to sail on sailboat,

Dear Sailboat,

Why did your stupid dratted %$#&ing sail have to rip NOW? I realize it's over 30 years old but that's no excuse - I am over 30 years old and I don't rip during times of bleak financial outlook. I soldier on, like the good Jane Austen heroine that I am. I don't require Richard to spend upwards of $300 on me in order to get me back to reasonable working order. Hmm, now that I think about it, maybe I should. I need some new clothes, actually. But that's no excuse for you. You're just playing on the fact that he's obsessed with you, aren't you? I'm warning you, sailboat. This had better be your last attempt at wresting the Alpha Diva Position from me. There's only room for one diva in this house.

Love,

Alpha Diva Sheila

Letter to van,

Dear Van,

Thank you for having air conditioning. I love you and your cold air. And thank you for not running out of gas on the Malahat the other day, even though I had forgotten to fill you up prior to our little excursion. I know that 70 minute traffic jam left you rather short of breath. It left me feeling quite horrible, trust me. Nothing like running out of gas on a long and winding mountain highway with only one's rather disapproving teenager for company. Hearing over and over again that one should have filled one's gas tank is not what one likes to hear when one is in imminent danger of running out of gas, particularly when there is no gas station for miles. So thanks again. I will try not to repeat this.

Love,

Me

Letter to girl up the road who likes wasps,

Dear Girl Up The Road,

I realize that we have offended you with our callous treatment of the wasp nest on our roof, but that's no excuse for picking some of my roses this morning at 5am. How do I know it was you, you ask? Because I was sitting on the front porch watching you. I was having trouble sleeping and sitting on the frigid cold porch seemed (at the time) a charming alternative to continually shoving the 10-tonne octocat off my legs in bed. I practiced benevolence this time, mostly because it was 5am and I was feeling a little more dishevelled than usual, but next time I will stand up and scare the pants off you. Trust me. That was A Shropshire Lad you plucked. Sure, laugh all you like (it's a weird name but I'm partial to it now) but I was saving it for the Rose Bouquet: 5 In A Vase category at the county fair next week. I am most displeased with you. You might have cost me $5 in prize money. Next time pick the plums, I haven't entered them in anything.

Holidays

Here's pretty much how I spent the last little while: hat, beach bag, towel, and water bottle.

Oh, and lots and lots of sand.

The kids spent their mornings doing this with their dad. It's a small boat so we had to do it in turns.

Max flipped it one night, prompting Richard to ask a nearby canoe-paddler to take him out to where Max was so he could show him how to right it. I asked Max if he was scared when it flipped and he said "No, all that went through my head was a bunch of swear words."

Here's FDPG (aka "Only _ More Days Until My Birthday" Girl) trailing Dominic, making sure he doesn't get one minute more time on the boat than she does.

Some of us spent some time in trees reading.

Max spent a lot of time building highly elaborate and finely structured sand cities.

At night we wandered. Down to the sand cliffs. Over to the park. Along the water front. Over to other people's beach cabins.

And now we're back and gearing up for the Cupcake Extravaganza Party. Fondant may or may not be involved. Martha, beware!

Randomness

Overheard at dinner last night:

Boy2: Can we put a spiral staircase off this deck? How about a slide? It could go right into the pool!

(for the record, deck is approximately 20' off the ground - it is a very high deck)

Girl: Only 17 more days until my birthday. Sixteen if we don't count today. I love avocado.

Boy1: Why do we pay for internet? Look, my Touch says there are two unsecured connections around here. How can you like that gross green stuff?

Father: (eats dinner silently)

Mother: I need a haircut. This is the albatross of having short hair. It needs cutting all the time. I have hag hair. I hate having hag hair. I'm poofing.

Post Script

I meant to mention this in my post last night but forgot. Then this morning, while I was outside getting another look at my pruning work from yesterday I remembered.

If you're planning a summer party later in the summer, in, say, 4 weeks from now, for some smaller people having a Fancy Multi-Cupcaked Birthday Party Extravaganza and you want all your almost-at-the-end-of-their-blooming-period perennials like balloon flowers, campanula, daisies, roses, digitalis, and even bergamot to be covered in gorgeously unrestrained blossoms for said party...well, this would be the time to prune them back rather severely.

Not Mommy Dearest pruning (nasty, brutish, & short), more a Super Nanny pruning (firm, loving, & eminently sensible).

This method works well on perennials but isn't always as dramatic with plants like pansies. Maybe it's my pruning method, but they take longer to come back with blooms after a prune.

Garden Recipes

I posted a few recipes for chocolate zucchini cake, cucumber relish, and peach pie filling for those of you with gardens and heaps of produce to deal with in the near future.

Well, it wasn't Saint Patrick's Day today, but it wasn't until we went into Home Despot this afternoon and the teller we passed said "Hey! You guys all match!" that we noticed. I think I should get Quick Wit points here because when the teller said that I tossed back "We plan our wardrobes every morning!" and we all laughed merrily, me without knowing what the heck she was talking about, her no doubt thinking I was a total weirdo parent. Then I went striding off to where the shortie hoses were kept and glanced back to make sure everyone was with me. It was then that the penny dropped.

We were all wearing green shirts. Even Max the Teenager. When I pointed it out he moaned. "Why didn't I bring a hoodie?!" he groaned, "we look so dorky!"

To be honest even I felt kind of dorky. We were the Slacker Von Trapps.

Green, green, and more green. The funny thing was when we came home: no one changed.

Now that's weird.