My Huckleberry Friends

Doesn't that sound like something you'd see on a box of impossibly cute (and super cheesy) Japanese candy?

Come play with your Huckleberry Friends!

We have super happy day! 

(insert picture of dancing berries with vague humanoid features, 

fake looking scenery 

and smiling huckleberry bushes holding hands)

I blame my obsession with cheesy Asian candy on Choco Boy, the cookies I saw at a grocery once upon a time. "Have fun with your friend Choco Boy!" it advertised. And there he was, little Choco Boy (looking more like a mushroom) tongue sticking out and feet sliding everywhere as he attempted to hang on to the words. His sidekick, a tiny green-billed bird, looked as though he'd just been kicked in the head by Choco Boy and was spiralling off to the side, smiling in a rather dazed fashion, head surrounded by stars. The biscuits resembled mushrooms in the cover art. I was captivated. I bought the kids a box each. We exclaimed over their cuteness.

The cookies inside tasted like rancid oil. No one would eat them. That's hydrogenated palm oil for you.

While we were at the beach I managed to pick several quarts of huckleberries. These are the red variety of huckleberry, tart and juicy, and they were everywhere this year. I had some children (they might have been mine) helping me pick all those huckleberries, although sadly they were neither smiling nor frolicking when they were picking those berries. I closed my eyes a couple of times and pretended they were floating on little blue clouds over happy mushrooms instead of what they were really doing, which went kind of like this:

"How long do we have to do this?"
"How many huckleberries do I have to pick before I can go?"
"I could be swimming right now."
"Do you really need help doing this? Don't you like doing this?"
"How come you pick so much faster than I do?"

"FDPG is picking my bush!"

"Dominic is picking my bush!"

"I got here first!"

"No, I did!"

"Will you two stop arguing and start PICKING?"

"Wait! Where are you two going?"

Fortunately when we got home everyone remembered our huckleberry days in a more favourable light. Especially when we were eating the huckleberry jam. And the huckleberry crisp. And the fresh huckleberries on our dinnertime salads.

Phew. Thanks, Choco Boy. 

Smells Like Teen Spirit (Or Crabs)

 It started here. If this creature had kept quiet no one would have twigged. I'm sure he started complaining only because he was penned up in this cage. He'd far rather have been shedding hair everywhere, puking on someone's shoe, evading our grasp, and digging himself into safe places, like, oh, say, under the gas pedal. Or the brake. He's done that before. Which is why he is PENNED UP.

Then there was the teenager. He was sitting in the very back of the van, silently disgruntled at not being able to sit in the front passenger seat (which is MY seat). He thinks it should be his seat. He could have a career as a Professional Perfume Smeller if he weren't quite so melodramatic. As soon as the cat started whining he joined in:

"Something stinks in here. Mom! Mom! I said it stinks in here! Is that crab in here somewhere?"

I hate being called Mom. I've explained til I'm blue in the face that I am a Canadian mum, not an American mom. Evidently it amuses him to annoy me this way. I guess we all get our cheap thrills from somewhere. And yes, I do know that it could be worse.

Did you notice that he didn't ask if anyone else smelled it? That's teen spirit for you. He doesn't need anyone to confirm what he already knows anymore. Even if he's wrong he knows he's right. It would be charming if it weren't so irritating. That was when I decided to take a leaf out of his book and pretend not to hear him. I opened my window and pretended to usher an ant out, despite the fact that the open window  - at 110 km per hour - considerably dislodged hair, newspapers, and card games. There was the added bonus of great wet sheets of monsoon rain spilling into the window. Dominic wailed in what I thought was an overly dramatic fashion while Katie shrieked "WHO OPENED THE DAMN WINDOW?"

A rhetorical question if I ever heard one. Who do they think opened the damn window? Again, I feigned deafness, chatted to my imaginary ant and shut the window, hoping that the brief influx of fresh air would change the subject.

Sadly, it did not. The whiff was still there. And yes, it was my crab. My lovely but also very dead crab. See it sitting there? It's in that cardboard box next to Richard (at this point still blissfully unaware he's sitting next to it). The crab itself is beside the moon snail shell in the plastic bag. Actually, it was in two plastic bags.

I guess it should have been in three plastic bags.

It did stink a bit.

But I digress. Here's where I found the crab. We were on holiday at this beach. This is the far off reef we were walking along. I won't tell you where it is because not many people go to this beach and I'd like to keep it that way. It's a very nice beach.

We were walking along this reef at low tide, observing all sorts of treasures: hermit crabs, spider crabs, moon snails, tiny eels, tiny shrimp, bullheads, and starfish.


Sorry but I just cannot bring myself to say "sea star." To me it's another example of idiotic political correctness run amok. And yes I DO know that it's not really a fish.









 We saw 29 moonsnail collars (see photo below). Some of us counted them. Out loud. Each time. Every time. Sometimes some of us had to recount just to make sure we were counting them properly. Some of us might have argued with our sister over who saw which ones, too. Finally, I took a photo of one, hoping to silence the soundtrack of each new discovery, to no avail. In fact, it just encouraged more audible counting, more audible arguing, and included a plea to photograph each new moonsnail collar. One of us might have swore a little bit at this point.

And then I found the crab. It was almost completely intact. And very dead. It would be a perfect watercolour model. As long as I could get it home. Without anyone noticing. Evidently I failed at that part, because now everyone - including Richard (slightly aghast at the fact, especially after telling me five times that I MUST leave the crab outside the cabin on the fence until we went back up in August) - knew it was a) in the car, and b) in the car stinking big time.

I did the only thing I could have done under the circumstances: I wrapped it in another plastic bag and placed it on the floor near my feet, where no one could grab it and throw it out the window.

And we drove home. Another 94 minutes and 27 seconds in the car. The smell wasn't too bad.

When we got home my crab was the first thing out of the car. Here it is here, sitting on the deck rail, delighting the city flies, who have probably never smelled such a charming salty stench before.

When it dries it won't smell at all. Don't ask me how I know this.

Things To Do With Strawberries & Monsoons

Make strawberry vinegar! Simply described: steep slightly mashed strawberries in apple cider vinegar for a few days, then strain through a fine mesh (shown here, in a brand new vintage knee high from my very own sock drawer). Slowly heat, adding sugar, then boil briefly and remove the scum that forms. Seal or bottle.

The resulting vinegar is incredible: sweet and sour and shockingly fruity. You'll wonder why you never made it before. At least, I did. My only regret is that I made it with the last of my strawberries, so there's no chance of making more this season.

Here's a harvest basket shot. Purely gratuitous. There's something about the blend of green and brown that makes me feel very happy about having a garden, especially right before dinner, even though it's been raining, humid, wet, sticky, buggy, overcast, damp...well, you get the picture. I have so many plastic tarps slung round the garden it's getting hard to arrange tasteful photo ops.

This shot occurred between a thunderstorm and a monsoon. Don't let anyone tell you I am not wildly resourceful. I also work swiftly.

Things That Make Me Happy

Looking down from the sundeck

This is one of them. Looking over the deck rail I can see this little garden, which used to be the Garlic Bed. I can see the neat little rows of beets, carrots, lettuce, and shingiku. I can radishes. Kale. Chives. Onions. The rose that I dug out of the crowded front garden, which has inexplicably turned into a standard bush and is madly flowering, as opposed to last summer when it did nothing at all (no doubt protesting its undignified position on the edge of the Butterfly Garden). The stepping stone that Dominic spent an hour painstakingly making (arranging tiny rocks needs such concentration). The piece of driftwood Richard lugged off the beach for me, in a Stealth Mission that involved parking the van in a No Parking zone, me keeping lookout and him dragging it, all in the dark while the kids were at track (we liberated it from the posh beach across town, where they actually FINE you for removing beach wood). The other piece of beach driftwood that looks like a Beluga whale and has a vastly less dramatic story, mostly involving having it, along with the three kids a cat and a guinea pig plus assorted holiday items in the car with a grouchy Richard for 4 hours on a hot day. The remarks "Why do you always pack so much crap home every year?  Are those beach rocks under that seat? Do you know how much gas it's going to take getting this junk home? If I have to stop suddenly that stupid piece of wood is going to slide forward and take my head off!" might have sprung from his lips but all that's water under the bridge, right? Then there's old CD rack my friend Andrew gave me. Not sure if he knew I'd be keeping it out here but with scarlet runners twining around the shelves it looks miles better than it would inside, although I could do without it tipping over every so often. Finally, the little sticks jammed in to keep Toffee from taking his, err, morning ablutions. Nothing like having to replant tiny seedlings with the odour of cat poo wafting past one's face.

All framed by the clumping bamboo, so green it's almost shocking. It's a short story, that little garden. A short story with a happy ending — on our eventual dinner plate.

tip: if you want to plant bamboo in your yard make sure it's this kind, it doesn't spread by underground runners, just sits nicely in tidy clumps

How My Week Went 4

 I wish I could tell you all what an entrancing week I had but to tell the truth it's been a bit of a grind. I don't think it's too much to ask that I be allowed a few romps with these foolish bunnies, but FDPG is ever vigilant with them, despite their obvious stupidity.

I mean, look at them. Look at me.

They have no idea I'm watching them.

No idea at all.








It's almost boring preying on them. Such silly creatures. I mean, they even POO where they sit. Ick. The things I do for an appetizer.

But I persist, because one of them is getting lovely and plump. Here I am while they are getting their cage cleaned. I thought they'd want to make a break for it, but no, they just sat there, still as mice. I can't think why, but I waited a good 30 minutes and they hardly moved once. Very annoying.

Then they had the nerve to disturb my nap. There I was, sleeping as sound as can be, when they barreled up and started SNIFFING me. Once of them even nibbled on my Build-A-Bear basket. Now the stitching is uneven. I will have to get FDPG to fix it for me and she's a rather unmotivated seamstress. Sigh. Good help is so hard to find.

The things I have to endure.







Instead I put on my Build-A-Bear sunglasses and tried to ignore the indignity of the situation, but it was hard with all the snickers.

Those bunnies are just jealous. It's hard to wear sunglasses when you have such a tiny brain, err, I mean, head.

As opposed to mine.





Fortunately, there were some high moments in my week:

For example, here I am, demonstrating once again why I am such an excellent fit with this house. Don't we go well together? I think they must have had this floor installed to set off the highlights in my coat. The only trouble was, I had to sit like this for at least 10 minutes waiting for someone to take a photo of me. I call that very poor service.

 Even my iPod Holder is getting a little sloppy. Look at this photo! Don't I look like I'm in absolute agony? He hasn't a clue, tragically. He always forgets that I don't like Pitbull (the connotations are so odious, you know) and he never seems to remember that I prefer a little Arlo Guthrie in the morning, as opposed to Skrillex or Deadmau5. Arlo always looks so happy (if a little shaggy) on the covers of his CDs, and I like starting my mornings with happy music. Skrillex pains my ears, while Deadmau5 merely taunts me and my hungry tummy. Imagine what a mouthfull he'd be.

So I went and hid in Sheila's bedroom but FDPG followed me and started mauling me. I did my best to look aloof but it was hard with her squeezing me so tightly and saying idiotic things like "Who's a silky soft widdle pussycat?"

She doesn't take me as seriously as I would like. Must work on my glare a bit, I guess.










After that it was a simple matter of puking in the grass, killing a few mice, a dragonfly or two, and in for lunch.

Why they feel the need to document these undignified moments is beyond me. Just pretend I'm a lion in the jungle or something.

Fierce!

Terrorizing!

Accessorizing!

Pulverizing!

(oh, just a little feline wordplay - keep up with me, humans)



Finally, I gave up on everyone and went and hid in a tunnel in the back yard. Unfortunately I did not realize until it was too late that it was the bunny run and everyone - once again - was laughing at me. It was a tough week, I tell you.

 Well, that's it. Until next time, dear Readers. Until then, keep those cards and letters (and small dead rodents) coming!

Love, Catmera

 Read about my other adventures:

How I terrorized some budgies.

How Caesar got the better of me.

A Day in the Life of...Me! (who else?)

The Name of the Rose

I was introduced to David Austin roses a few years ago by the neighbour of a friend. She had recently divorced and was seeking to rid herself of ex-husband memories, and asked my friend if he wanted a couple of roses her ex had planted in between their houses. My friend didn't want them but he knew of my inability to refuse a free plant, so he called me and the two of us went over to dig them up.

It was a difficult task removing those roses, mostly because they had been planted against a house and beside a concrete driveway, in a very small amount of soil. They were leggy and thorny and getting them out was fraught with disaster: we broke roots, we had to prune them fairly drastically, and one had grown so far under the driveway we ended up having to just yank it out, breaking the root almost to nothing. I got them home, sank them into buckets of water and bone meal and kelp meal, and transplanted them, hoping they'd survive.

Fortunately they both took immediately. Then came the task of finding out what their names were.  Those first blooms were so beautiful and so fragrant and so amazingly gorgeous. They were everything I thought a rose should be and everything my current roses weren't. I poured over the online David Austin catalogue and even took a bloom to a local rose supplier to narrow down my choices. Obsessive, me? Well, Maybe a little.

 The yellow rose was easy: Was it Golden Celebration or Graham Thomas? The rose grower and I both decided it was Golden Celebration. (I can see some of you snickering, stop that now) The other rose was more difficult and this was where it became rather more fascinating, because the colour changed slightly as the rose settled in. At first I thought it was Shropshire Lad, but this year I realized it couldn't be, so back to the catalogue I went. Now I think I've found the name: Lady Emma Hamilton. What do you think? Is this the name of my rose? Keep in mind that the catalogue photo is enhanced a bit, whereas mine was taken on my deck this morning by mine own hands (and mine own vastly cheaper camera).

Lady Emma Hamilton was Horatio Nelson's lover, according to the David Austin catalogue, and this rose was named to celebrate the 200th anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar. Rather apt, I think, because I've always called these two roses my Divorce Roses (because they came to me as the result of a smaller but no less significant battle of their own).

David Austin's Lady Emma Hamilton

Where Time Goes

Another chunk of time has slipped by without a post, I see. And yet the days are so busy: I've discovered Gardener's World magazine, Max is writing high-school exams, Dominic and FDPG are deep in grade 5 angles (second time round and I STILL don't like them, lol, they seem so, well, so  pointless), and the garden is growing quite well considering the gloom that has been our June.

High school exams?

How did that happen? It just crept up on us all, home-high-schooler included.

This morning Max and I walked down to the local high school so he could write the grade 10 English exam with other grade 10s (this is the way distance learning schools operate here). We walked through the crush of students on our way to the gym. I was surprised at the atmosphere, having mostly experienced some of these students at the tiny shopping centre adjacent to the high school. That crowd, the kind that buys slices of pizza from the pizza shop and tankers of pop from the grocery store, defines the word INSOLENT perfectly: they loiter in the middle of the outside walkways, are zealous swearers, and are obnoxiously oblivious to anyone outside their little gaggle of cronies. So I was prepared for some jostling but it was oddly genteel in that hallway. Even Max was surprised, which was even more surprising given the fact that he was preoccupied with the idea of taking his First Official Exam ever.

Watching him study for these exams gives rise to all sorts of reflective Homeschooling Parent Moments, mostly in the What Would I Do Differently? vein.

Did we do enough reading and writing? Well, he's quite a good writer but I wish that he'd done more reading. At one point during his adolescence we locked horns on the whole topic of reading, with him insisting that he was "just not a reader" (a little toss of the head thrown in for good measure). So, taking my cue from everyone who told me Pick Your Battles! I picked this as one of the battles I wasn't going to engage in; it soured the atmosphere and made us resent each other. When all was said and done, I thought, he was a good kid doing all his other work without any quibble. I decided not to stress about it. He'll come round, everyone said. I hope so, I thought. Instead, I assigned essays and the odd short story but left the topic of books alone. He did not come round. He read computer and music magazines, joke books, and all our Horrible History books, but not much else, unless, again, it was assigned. With two other kids to do school with I eventually forgot my angst. Then he signed up with a distance learning outfit and the first thing he had to do was read a few books. This gave rise to much hilarity: me finding it mildly cathartic; him feeling a bit OMG-ish, not to mention a tad sheepish. "I wish you'd made me read!" he said to me once, to which I replied "remember that phrase when we start calculus!"  Now he's discovering for himself why being a reader is so critical: it doesn't just help expand one's vocabulary - it also adds to one's depth of comprehension. Because, as I like to drone on and on tell the kids, "you can't learn in a vacuum!" If you don't read a lot of literature you don't get all those sideways tangents, meandering trails, and interesting perspectives (especially the ones that might differ from your own), especially the ones that come up time and time again in other places: books, newspaper articles, interviews, conversation, university courses. You also miss all those cultural references and touchstones that pop up - even if it's a minor Biblical reference in a Margaret Atwood novel - you miss it. We have some summer plans that include reading more, although if Richard gets his way there is a list of Recommended (by Dad) Classics hovering in the background.

Did we do enough math? Yes. Math is one of those areas where it's hard to overcome bad curriculum, a lack of comprehension, or a lack of practice quickly, particularly when faced with an unfamiliar textbook and a number of timed exams (not to mention being graded on them, eeks). For that we have Singapore Primary Math, Singapore Challenging Word Problems, Singapore Home Educator Manuals, and Chalkdust Math to thank (not to mention my friend Mrs Deeply Suburban). We couldn't have done it without you all. Come for tea sometime. I'll even serve cookies.

Would I do the classical route again? Yes, yes, and yes! All that poetry memorization, narration, word root study, and copywork, started early on, gave him a very solid grounding in listening carefully, grasping the meaning of unfamiliar words, writing clearly, and organizing his thoughts cogently, not to mention being a whiz at memorization. Plus, the chronological 'living books' history study gave him a decent understanding of what went on way back when and who invented what and why. He's learned that history is less a bunch of wars and heros and more a long and infinitely fascinating thread of people, times, and places. And no, we did not censor our history studies to cut out the nasty bits. Google 'bowdlerization' and you'll find out why I am firmly against the 'focus only on the positive' study of history. You're short-changing your children with that method, trust me.

Did we do enough? Well, yes and no. As anyone who homeschools their kids will know, it's hard enough being a parent, let alone being a parent AND an educator, and frequently those worlds collide, sometimes happily, other times unfortunately (give or take a little puberty, lack of sleep, additional siblings, broken appliances, or outside drama). Sometimes I let things go. Sometimes the other siblings needed more help. Sometimes we were sick. Sometimes I needed to see the latest Miyazaki movie more than I needed to know that they fully understood fractions. Give and take. Ebb and flow. Off and on. Use whatever metaphor applies best. Interestingly, while I was standing in the gym watching Max sign up for his exam, I felt pretty good about the last 8 years of homeschooling, despite its ups and downs: he's a really good person, he's helpful, he looks you in the eye when he talks to you, and he realizes the value of applied effort. He's also managed to get a series of straight As despite never having been graded before, too. In the long run that's really all I wanted out of this journey. A nice kid I was proud of. What's better than that?