Yes, Virginia Louise, there is a snowman...

...in my backyard.

Louise, a friend of mine from Blogland, emailed me on Friday to tell me about the sudden weather change in her part of the world. She lives in the UK. I live in Canada, not the Atlantic part, but all the way across to the West Coast. Louise and I have a lot of land and water between us. But Friday it seemed as though geography changed its dimensions, because we too had weather from the proverbial brass monkey. Five days earlier, we'd had temperatures hitting 24ºC. Tee-shirt and shorts weather. I planted Walla Walla onions, blueberry bushes, peas, carrots, radishes and a few early scarlet runners. We had breakfast on the sundeck. We walked around without coats or sweaters. Then Friday came, the skies hunkered down, and we got hail.

You know, hard white balls of ice falling heavily from the sky? Frigid temperatures?

And later, just when we thought it was all a bad dream, we had snow in the night. Snow!

Enough to make the ground white. Enough to make the daffodils droop. Enough to make me turn the light back on in my cold frame. Enough to make me dig out my sweatshirt from the dirty clothes pile (I hate laundry so it tends to remain in the "pile" proportions). I felt like Lady MacBeth: "the milk of human unkindness is freezing all over my bloody perennials." I could have done the "Out damned Spot!" bit but our snow, sadly, was more than just a spot. It was more in the large-and-annoying-drift vein.

We had to cancel our Friday track and field practice it came so fast and furious. We showed up, but there were only two hardy mothers willing to trek through the blinding white sleet to keep time for the 50 metre. These two women are in the Teutonic bloodline, I'm sure. They are tall. Their legs are long. They gleam with ruddy blonde health. They also stride (their kids stride too). I hunched into my feeble anorak, feeling a little on the short side, and watched them stride off with a falling heart. I so did not want to go off into that good night that snowy day. I felt a bit like Cassandra: "It's too cold for this!" "You'll get wet!" "I might freeze to death!" My kids raced off, thrilled that someone was finally on the same wavelength. After twenty minutes, thankfully, everyone realized the futility of such a venture. I was by that time sitting in a friend's van, watching them. I am, I freely admit, a weather wimp.

The kids were upset after this sudden cancellation, so I consoled them with a blast of Good King Wenceslas from our Naxos Carols of the Advent CD. I know, it hasn't been Christmas for ages, but for some reason my kids like to sing this song together at least once a day, particularly if we're in the van. I've almost forcibly encouraged them to try a new carol, but they always revert to this one. And by some fluke I'd dug the CD out from the Christmas box that morning, so I popped it in and listened to their delighted shrieks of "Is this _______????"

Then we went to see some newborn lambs at a friend's house, drink some tea, watch FDPG inflict herself on an woefully unsuspecting 12 year old, offer said 12 year old our deepest condolences, and drive home. The snow fell all the while.

Saturday morning Richard and I awoke to find that snow had fallen all the night. We didn't have more than an inch or two, but in my not in the least bit humble opinion it was an inch or two too many for April. I could see my shorts and t-shirt pining away in the corner. Nevertheless, being the April fools for frigid weather good parents that we were, off we went to take the boys to their Scout outing. FDPG and I hung out a bit at the library - where FDPG found a Nausicaa graphic novel - and a bit at a coffee house, where we read the graphic novel and drank hot chocolate. Many hours and many warm layers of clothing (to keep out the biting wind) later, the day was over. I went to bed hoping it would all disappear and never come back.

Sunday update: The snow is gone and the high today was 19ºC. The shorts and t-shirts were back out. The Pig From Guinea was frolicking in the grass. FDPG was basking. The boys were rolling down the hill and flinging Lego everywhere. The Richard was mowing. The Sheila was gardening. And laundrying. And baking. A good day was had by all.

Poetry Friday

April Optimist:

Always Marry An April Girl

Ogden Nash

Praise the spells and bless the charms,
I found April in my arms.
April golden, April cloudy,
Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy;
April soft in flowered languor,
April cold with sudden anger,
Ever changing, ever true -
I love April, I love you.


April Cynic:

Spring

Edna St. Vincent Millay

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots,
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.


Poetry Friday is being hosted over at A Wrung Sponge where you'll be able to see an impressive group writing project, a corona of sonnets, one of which was written by Cloudscome herself (for a more detailed explanation of this project, visit Kelly at Writing and Ruminating).

The Purpose-Driven Blog

That's me! Or, rather, the blog I write. According to my pals over at Four Friends and a Blog, that is, which is in itself well worth a read. These four women (Heather, Samantha, Nicola, and Katherine) blog about food, knitting, gardening, kids, art projects, and chocolate. And if you click on their names you'll find their other blogs. Indefatigable, you lot are!

So thank you thank you thank you! I'm delighted. My hat is off to you all as well.

I wish I could get Alan Rickman to deliver my thanks in person, but he's very stubborn about stuff like this. He said something about a bad hair day, but said if you click on his picture he'll show something good...

One Small Square

And more signs of spring!


Dwarf Pink Heronsbill
It was a lovely day here on the Island, sunny and warm - most welcome after a few days of cold, wet weather, but for some reason we all felt uninspired and tired today. I was actually feeling restless and vaguely crabby, but one of my New Year's Resolutions was to keep a sock in Grouchy Mum's mouth, so I did my best to repress it. These sorts of days make me despair a bit, partly because I feel compelled to do something about the ennui and partly because we end up getting on each other's nerves when we're all like this, and that's never fun. Plus, the twins are young and still of the inclination to follow me around looking for excitement and adventure; it seems a waste not to enjoy the attention while it's still sweet and adoring.
So, tying an anchor to Grouchy Mum and tossing her overboard, I bagged some library books, a yard stick, some sketch pads, some string and pencils, and out we went into the Great Backyard (I wasn't energetic enough to get us all into the Great Outdoors so we settled for the backyard). Since we were ostensibly exploring the world through botanical eyes, we examined the various plants in the yard for sepals, petals, pistils, and leaf patterns. We sacrificed a few daisies and dandelions and anemones in the interests of Exploration. Some of us used a magnifying glass and some of us took pictures (Sheila coughs discretely). Then we sat in the grass and I read aloud while the kids lolled pleasantly in the warm sunshine with their eyes closed (Grouchy Mum peered over the side of the boat and glared somewhat but I managed to keep her sock in). We read Flowers, another in the brilliantly photographed David Burnie-penned DK Eyewitness Explorers series, How Seeds Travel, which has some very good pictures of seed pods and is technical enough without being too dry, critical considering I'm balancing the interests of 6 year olds and 11 year olds, The Sunflower Family, another lightly technical-yet-absorbing look at seeds and flowers, The Life Cycle of a Tree, How Do Apples Grow? and the charming but sadly out of print A First Look at Flowers. And then it occurred to me, after we read One Small Square: Backyard, to create our own Small Square in the backyard. Since it was there. And so were we. So we did.

As you can see from the picture, we strung up some lines to mark out our Small Square (give or take a few slants). I was tempted to choose a more heavily populated area of the garden in the interests of immediacy, but opted instead for a bare area so we could see the contrast when it fills in. We decided to take a picture every week for a year, if we can manage it.

The kids sketched the Square, and then we went over the plants we could see already: a scrawny fuchsia stem, feverfew, violets, pulmonaria, corydalis (have you ever noticed how the corydalis flowers look like the head of the monster from Alien? I've named my corydalis Sigourney because of this), lupin, and a teenie tiny columbine. I put the shovel into the ground so we could see what was under the ground, but sadly it wasn't half so exotic as the picture they had in the book (which was teeming most unrealistically with animals, insects, worms, and microscopic things, says Grouchy Mum). The twins began to sigh. Oops, I thought, Sheila, this ship is foundering. I dropped the shovel full of dirt back into the place it came out of, wondering glumly if the sun was over the yardarm yet (to continue our nautical metaphors) and what do you know but a little chestnut-backed chickadee swooped right in under my feet. He swooped out again almost as soon, but when he left he had a little bug in his beak. This thrilled everyone present (except for the bug of course) and things began to look up again. Grouchy Mum receded into the depths.

One of the suggestions the author makes in One Small Square is to sit with your eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the yard. So we sat, listening to sparrows, red-winged blackbirds, bushtits, and chickadees. We live quite near a bird sanctuary, and there's a lot of bird life in our back yard as a result. Max is pretty keen on birding, and has developed his call recognition skills over the last couple of years, so when we hear unfamiliar calls we usually ask him to identify them. But one bird we couldn't identify. It had a thin and piercing sort of call that sounded quite distinct from the sparrow and chickadee chirps, but we couldn't see what was making the sound. We wandered around under the Garry oaks, and eventually we saw it - a red-breasted nuthatch (sitta canadensis). I don't know why but we'd never noticed it making those calls before, but we hadn't. If you click here you can hear it for yourself.

Then, it was time to go in and get ready for Cubs.

But wait, there's more!


Here's the charming little Corydalis Sigourneyius.

Look at that jawline!
Is that or is that not the Alien head? Some days I expect to see them come after me, their little jaws snapping at my heels like bad tempered terriers (or aliens).











A frittilaria. More properly: Meleagris. Also known as the chequered lily. Deer resistant and naturalizing, apparently. About 8" tall so far.















Finally, my Narwhale. Atmospheric, isn't it? Oh I know, it's really a piece of driftwood, but it looks like it might actually swim away, don't you think?

Nim's Island

A Greenridge Movie Review

The kids were in various degrees of getting-better-from-a-sniffle yesterday, which meant that we had to miss Track and Field, which meant that they were feeling slightly sorrowful, so I decided to use some movie coupons someone had given us and catch a movie somewhere. We'd originally intended to see Horton Hears A Who, but when I saw a trailer for Nim's Island on the TV, I knew we had to go see this instead. And, no, cough cough, it had nothing to do with the fact that Gerard Butler was dressed up in leather and chaps and looking fetchingly unshorn.

Initially I was a little apprehensive because this film is based on a novel, and I'm one of those types who likes her kids to read the book before seeing the film, but then I remembered The Water Horse. The Water Horse is a truly great kid's novel, written by the truly great Dick King-Smith (here's a post I wrote about the book), and it too was made into a film only last year. We loved the novel version: it was funny, it had charming characters, it had an exciting premise, the parents were largely absent, and the champions of the story were kids - what could be better than that? Then we saw the film. It was okay, but only that. My kids gave it tepid reviews for one reason - the film ignored one of the best characters: Grumble the grandfather. Oh, and they seemed to have lost the sister along the way. It was a bit of a let-down, when all was said and watched. What we'd thrilled to read for five funny, exciting, tangential days (everyone suddenly developed a huge interest in Loch Ness and all things Crusoe) morphed into a cute but ultimately flat viewing experience. All I remember is Ben Chaplin.

After remembering this, I didn't feel quite so bad about not having read Nim's Island. I adore watching movies, and we watch a lot of them, but I hate it when the novel adaptation fails. I'm left itching with indignation the whole time. I think I've even fumed once or twice. I still haven't gotten over seeing the movie adaptation of The Polar Express, which my kids loved, but jeez, it was not anywhere near as enchanting as the book. I still cringe when I hear my eldest sing that stupid hot chocolate song. And don't get me started on Arrowsmith singing under the tree at the end. Ugh ugh ugh. Guess I should have prefaced that with an "Old & Crotchety Alert," eh?

So, we went to see Nim's Island.

The movie opens with a mesmerizing 3D collage of sorts, with lots of waves and whales and boats and a voice over, spoken by the actress who plays Nim (Abigail Breslin). The plot is this: Girl loses adventurous mother, who is swallowed whole by a whale, girl goes to live on island with father, father mourns mother but protects daughter with a fierce love. Now, I haven't read the novel so I can't vouch for any resemblances thus far, but I can tell you that we all sat there in a trance while this was laid out for us. It was everything a kids' movie should be: gorgeously artistic, luminously colourful, fantastical, sentimental, magical, and positively reeking of adventure. And did I mention that the voice over was done by a kid?

Brilliant so far.

After the fantasy sequence we are introduced to Nim's island home, her father (Gerard Butler, with a bit of an overbite - is this what happens when a Scottish actor tries to sound American?) who is distracted by a Quest of his own (nanoplankton!), her assorted island pets, and her really cool methods of travel. Ooh, boy, are they cool. FDPG even gasped at one of them. Out loud. So did I. So did Dominic. Needless to say, we all wanted to move there immediately. I could see myself frolicking in the foam with Gerard Butler, even.

Then, as is usual with these sorts of stories, dad heads out to further his research and leaves the capable Nim at home. Alone. With a book and her pets. And that is where the adventure starts: A surprise wind storm, some brave home repairs undertaken by Nim, a couple of Important Email Exchanges (I have to see if this really happens in the book), the dad in terrible peril, a new and no doubt intended-to-be-funny character (Jodie Foster: Adventure Novelist), some Nasty People with Bad Intentions, some interesting modes of travel, and another storm later and the film wraps up.

I don't want spoil the movie for anyone, but I thought that the movie looked as though it was begun by one person and finished by another - people with vastly different visions of what the film should look like. There are scenes that sparkle: Nim reading a book while the action of the book unfurls around her; underwater swimming sequences. And there are scenes that are embarrassingly formulaic and pedestrian: Jodie Foster as an agoraphobic; fat people acting like stupid fat people; port-a-potties (?). Every so often there are some inspired touches: I loved seeing the novelist's character come to life as her alter ego and there is one intriguing scene where Nim rescues someone from drowning, but ultimately I was vaguely disappointed. But just vaguely. We all really liked it. I suspect it isn't much like the book though. And I won't mention how weird it was hearing U2 blasting out at the end. Well, okay, I will (don't hold back, Sheila, really). It wasn't quite as bad as Arrowsmith, but it was pretty jarring. It didn't match the delicacy of the opening scene in any way, shape or form. I was left wondering what had happened to the person who had created it.

These Happy Golden Years

We've been reading the Little House books every morning this year, and as we were finishing These Happy Golden Years FDPG asked me where the title came from. I mumbled something about reflecting on one's life, "rose coloured lenses" and "salad days" (and maybe even something from a David Bowie song), but one page turn later and it was all laid out for us:

"Golden years are passing by,

Happy, happy golden years,

Passing on the wings of time,

These happy golden years.

Call them back as they go by,

Sweet their memories are,

Oh, improve them as they fly,

These happy golden years.

Laura's heart ached as the music floated away and was gone in the spring night under the stars."

And as I read it, my heart ached as well. People always say that these are the best years of your life, these days when the kids are still able to be nestled in laps and cuddled, and as I read the words I was struck by a terrible terrible pang, that pang when you suddenly see all the days of their childhood rushing past you in a whirling, unstoppable blur. I teared up a little, and gazed fondly (if blearily) at my three happy golden children, only to find them looking at me as if I'd suddenly lost my mind. Nothing like a kid to drag you out of a wallow in Nostalgia Land.

These are your happy golden years, my sweet little chickadees, I thought, but I didn't say it. They'll find out soon enough.

The happy golden Greenridge kids, seven years ago...

My Lawn Has Dandruff!

Well, either that or the universe is playing an April Fool's joke on us here on the Wet Coast. Either way, I am not amused. I want to be out gardening, not watching little balls of ice fall from the sky.

Look at that lawn! It wants to be basking in sunshine, I just know it. So do I. We had the most amazing weather in February, which is probably why I feel so dismayed about the weather we had for March. It was a wet, windy, and cold March. It came in like a lion, it stayed like a lion, it had a brief spell as a lion cub, then it went out like a lion. And right before it left it dropped a lot of solidified water pellets on the ground. This is the Wet Coast, O ye Weather Gods, get your deliveries straight!

And yes, the kids were thrilled. As I sat shivering in disbelief, they frolicked on the front lawn, trying to catch ice in their mouths. I tried to take a picture of them, but my fingers froze on the camera buttons. Well, maybe it wasn't quite as dramatic as that, but you get the idea: cold + Sheila = Weenie Sheila. So what do I do? Go back into my warren and dream of Spring? Oh, wait, I forgot, it is Spring. Sigh. I know, hilarious, aren't I. I can hear my mother saying "At least you aren't in Montreal right now" thinking she's giving me some much-needed perspective, but I don't need perspective, Mum, I need sun. I could resort to the Weather Chant they do at Cubs (where you simply chant the kind of weather you want, three times, over and over again) , but then the kids might start chanting "Snow! Snow! Snow!" and then where would we be?