If there were no rainy days, there would be no rainbows

When I was a very little girl, my Favourite Aunt used to abandon me each summer to go to this mystical, magical place called Forest Cliff. (it should be pointed out that Favourite Aunt was, at the time, a young single adult who dedicated much of her time and effort to making the world a better place) This mystical, magical place was a summer camp, and oh, how I longed for the day when I would be old enough to go to camp with Auntie.

And then, eventually, I was. And between the ages of almost 8 and almost 14, I got to go to summer camp for two weeks at a time, five summers. Unfortunately, Favourite Aunt was only there for two of them, but that’s ok – she got me there, and it’s an experience I’ll always remember.

Couple years ago, Favourite Aunt and some other Wonderful Ladies decided that Forest Cliff alumnae from “the old days” ought to retreat to camp again each year – take the chance to reflect, renew and refresh in that place that was so special to them and to me. And we got to bring our “adult” daughters! (most of whom never ended up going to camp there)

This year’s retreat was long anticipated. And then, just five days before Retreat, we got the word that our magical, mystical place would not be available to us after all this year. Much scrambling by people who aren’t me ensued, and alternative accomodation was found down the road.

Same air. Same lake. Same smell. But not the same place.

But we soldiered on. Camp, after all, is as much a state of mind as it is a place, and we were all bringing all the same baggage we would have brought anyway. We would just have to place it under different bunks.

And then, the weather. Cloudy, rainy, cold, more rainy. How would we kayak? How would we enjoy the trees, the sky, the stillness of the forest if it were all cloaked in a mantle of grey?

Never doubt that God knows what He’s doing.

Our speaker this weekend was just what we needed to hear. Sue Minns is  wheelchair-bound due to MS and a breast cancer survivor to boot. And she had us rolling on the floor as she regaled us with tales of the many blessings God has seen fit to send her.  As the parent of my very own PollyAnna (aka The Girl And The Knee Attached To Her), Minns’ message was spot-on.  You can choose to spend your life lamenting the fact that you can’t walk – or you can choose to embrace the fact that you can wear four inch heels all day without getting sore feet.

It rained off and on, stopping long enough to for the kayakers to kayak, and the walkers to walk. The weather meant we all spent a lot more time seeking out each other’s company instead of wandering the woods alone. And just as dinner was ending, the most beautiful thing happened:

I think the neatest thing was that we got to experience this as a group. Had we been at our original location, dinner wouldn’t have run a bit late. We would have  been scattered around, likely in a building whose windows didn’t face this direction, doing other things. And we would have missed this amazing view that was sent for us to enjoy together with our dessert.

Isn’t it wonderful that God gives us the ability to see a new perspective once in a while?

How I’m spending my weekend

An Echo In The Bone arrived in the mail yesterday. It’s the latest in the Outlander series, just released this week.

There are 800+ pages (hardcover) and I’m 627 pages in. So far, I have cried, smiled, laughed out loud, gasped in delight, and been taken aback numerous times.

How does she do that?

I take my learnin’ where I find it

Because of Joshilyn Jackson, I am an educated woman. I just clicked over to the daily newspaper’s Web site, as I am wont to do several times a day, and lo, look what has arrived in the Great White North:

Devastating find: Rampaging Vine Is Here

LEAMINGTON – The fast-growing kudzu vine, dubbed “the vine that ate the South” has been found in Leamington. Read more…

And I said to myself, “I know what that is! Joss has that! Joss writes about that! It hides dead bodies, even!”

I have myself a little celebrity/internet crush on Joshilyn. Much like the one I have on Lani. See, we belong(ed?) to the same writers’ email list, I stalk her blog, I refer readers to her books with a lofty, “this writer I know, she’s good.” Except I don’t actually know her, except from afar. She joined Momwriters back in the day when Gods in Alabama was about to come out, and I’ve been a fan ever since.  But because Kira met her in real life (I think?) and I met Kira in real life, well, you know how it goes…I’d like to know her. I’d like to think myself her peer. Even though I’m not. ‘Cause she’s brill.

Because of Joss, I often find myself calculating my Mental Illness Number. And Capitalizing. And although I never would have known what to call it, I have a Little Pink Sock Drawer of my own. And now I have kudzu in my backyard! (or at least in my county)

It’s entirely possible that I’m not a well woman.

See, I just said “we have kudzu!” to the Man, and he glared at me. He then gave me the 30-second version of the history of kudzu in North America, scared the bejeezus out of one of the kids, and left me thinking I may have to spend next summer personally guarding his tomato plants from the kudzu.

So kudzu’s a pretty bad thing. Bad bad bad. But Joss is a really good writer, and also, since I read her, I knew what kudzu was. Who says you can’t learn valuable information reading fiction?

**

I have not mentioned the tomato plants, have I? There are tomato plants. The Man has had some sort of inner awakening that involves returning to the traditions of generations gone by, even though his generations gone by were ironmongers. He planted, and he harvested, and he canned, and I’ve eaten more vegetables this summer than I have in my life. Fresh.

Now he’s talking chickens. Four chickens, he says, will give us enough eggs for a year. And then…well, let’s just say the kids were all on board with the eggs, not so much with the “and then.” If permitted to name the chickens, we will call them Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner and Snack.

This is only if the city decides to permit this Urban Chicken movement to cluck its way into the city limits. Although the argument goes that since we already have skunks, raccoons, rabbits and the odd (very odd) possum wandering the alleys, why not let people keep chickens?

We celebrated 20 years of marriage last week, and the man continues to manage to surprise me. It’s invigorating.  As is the homemade salsa he canned.

A little of everything

How much can I write in the time it takes to cook a frozen pizza?

 

I’ve started school, made it off the waiting list, and so far it’s okay. I think our particular community college needs to be a little more creative in how they deal with students – I’m ‘part time’, which is neither full time or continuing education. Continuing ed. happens at night, and it’s almost impossible to complete a full diploma program that way. (there are exceptions) Full time is the day programs. My program isn’t offered at night, so I go during the day but only take two classes. I am a woman without a category.

I’m also moderately annoyed at the way they deal with tuition. As a part time student, my tuition is calculated at an hourly rate x hours of class per week x 16 weeks ( a semester) So, for my one class, the tuition is roughly $240 plus whatever fees I have to pay (and I can’t even fathom the system used to calculate that)

So far, for said class, there have been six scheduled class hours (three hours once a week). Except instructor only taught 2 hours the first week and one hour the second. All indications is that this while continue. And while most of the students are going “whoohoo, we get out early!”, I’m thinking that the college has already stolen $15 of my money. If the pattern continues and we get out, on average, 90 minutes early every week, the end of the semester will bring 24 hours of class time I paid for that didn’t exist.

When do you think I should ask for my 120 bucks back?

I might not be so nidgy about it except the class starts at 8 freakin’ a.m.

However, the program itself is very interesting, and I think I’m going to like it. And the other class looks good.

**

Every time the TD Canada Trust commercial comes on, I think to myself, “I’d like that green chair.”

**

Every time the Kangaroo skypes from university, there is a boy in the background. In her room. It’s not always the same boy. Should I worry?

**

At the same time as I have embraced the life of a pedestrian, I have committed to being out of the house before 8 a.m. on two mornings a week. I’m tired, and we’re getting the hang of things, but what was I thinking?

**

Something went tragically wrong with my Outlook program this weekend and I appear to have lost everything. Nothing in there was backed up, no contacts, no folders, nothing. I think this is called learning the hard way.

**

Pizza’s done. See ya!

And the band played on…

I’m blogging more often than Linda these days – quick, somebody check to see if the apocalypse is nigh…

Kira’s doing a lovely job of making me want to try Active Life: Extreme Challenge for Wii. As someone who’s last posted Wii age was 78, I can sympathize with her and her destroyed calf muscles. However, I can tell you that one need not pursue an “Active Life” to induce the feeling that one is over the hill and halfway down the other side.

TKATGATI has a boyfriend and the boyfriend has Rock Band. He brought it over last night and the children invited me to play.

I’d tried it before at the Didn’t The 80’s Rock And Isn’t That A Great Reason To Have A Party party, and knew that my eye-hand co-ordination is shameful to one who grew up on PacMan and Mappy. So I tried a round of playing the bass and did a respectable job, all things considered.

And then they gave me the microphone.

After the first song, TKATGATI suggested I was not singing with very much energy. I lamented that, given a song I actually knew, I’d do much better.

It should be noted that of the available selection, I knew only Hungry Like The Wolf and Eye Of The Tiger. So Hungry Like The Wolf I went. Then Eye Of The Tiger.

Then I needed a nap.

I also need RockBand, ’cause it’s wicked fun. Can you get the Footloose soundtrack with that?

All the important things

Normally, I’m pretty aware of “time.”  I may not always have the best grasp of the minutes or the hours, but days, weeks and months I’m pretty good at.

Why then, does it suddenly shock me to realize that two weeks from tonight I will be the parent of Someone Who Lives In A Dorm?

It’s this chaotic broken summer is what it is. Green Kangaroo was supposed to be home only on Fri and Sat nights, being off at her camp job the rest of the time. But first there was the week when my grandmother fell, and GK came home in the middle of the week for a quick hospital visit. Then she (GK, not Grandma), got a promotion to Day Camp and the first week’s day camp was a block from home, so she was home all week. The next week’s day camp was a little further afield, so she was home four nights, gone two nights, then home again for two nights. Now it’s Week The Last, but due to a family vacation next week…

She’s only going to be sleeping at home FOUR more times before she moves.

Gah.

The pile in the corner of her room grows large – towels, toiletries, all the bits and bobs that a university dorm room supposedly requires. Tonight was a “grocery” shop, groceries consisting primarily of KD cups,  tea bags and Oreos.

Hopefully, she’ll buy a few pens and some notebooks before classes start.

I’m a Grandma?

Meet Franklin J. Haggert the Third.  He belongs to The Knee and The Girl Attached To It, and joined our family scant 48 hours ago.  We granted permission a year ago, and she’s taken her time in finding the right dog, the right time, etc.

Frankie is, according to his press, a min pin/poodle cross. He’s 3 1/2 months old, has no papers, but certainly has the leaping skills of a Min Pin. He’s also absolutely adorable and I haven’t heard him bark yet. We walked to the corner store the other day and had to carry him home – he weighs less than the bag of milk I was carrying.

He’s bonded nicely with TKATGATI, whimpering when she disappears into the bathroom. He’s getting used to the rest of us, his built-in babysitters.

And once she’d called me Grandma, well, how could I not buy him that adorable little bandanna and three different kinds of treats?

On my own two feet

Well, I did it. I cancelled my car insurance. In a little less than a month from now, on my 38th birthday, I will become a pedestrian.

I’d already been considering giving up the car on that date.  Forking over the cash for plate renewal, e-test and a few unpaid parking tickets was hard to imagine, for a vehicle that has a better than half chance of giving up the ghost by Christmas anyway. And quite frankly, a newer vehicle isn’t in the cards for a while.

And then yesterday, I got my insurance renewal notice, which featured an increase of $500 a year. I have a 22-year, spotless driving record, and my car insurance on a ten-year-old minivan was going to be more than it was when I was 16 years old.

I called the insurance company and was basically told there was nothing they could do. The drivers of Ontario, apparently, are an accident-prone bunch, and so rates were going up up up.

I work from home, in the middle of the city. The “kids” are mostly adults, who I’m not technically obligated to chauffeur around (though it’s nice to sometimes) except for the 12-year-old. She gets the school bus. The church is three blocks away. The grocery store is a moderate walk and a $10 cab ride home. And although the mass transit system here isn’t perfect, it’s workable.

So in the interest of saving an estimated $400 a month (insurance, gas, etc.) I’m putting the keys away and lacing up my walking shoes.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not anti-car. I love having a car, hassles aside. I love the convenience and the freedom that comes from having a car. But I can take a lot of taxis for $400 a month.

I’m a little nervous, but I’m looking at this as a wonderful opportunity to try something different. I’ll have to be a little better organized, think ahead a little more often, but, you know, that can’t hurt, right?

Plus, it fits in with our recent shift to try, where we can, to be a little more ecologically responsible. You know, growing some of our own food, not running the air conditioners, etc.

Wish me luck!

Hanging out with Steven

My very own Funky Bird

I am so happy I have kids that can make me cry. The good kind of cry, where you just feel all happy, or touched, or loved, or simply overwhelmed by how very, very blessed you happen to be.

That’s Steven over there on the left. I named him Steven instantly, and even though I’ve since realized he looks more like a Timothy, I’d already called him Steven, and what are you going to do when that happens? You can’t just change the names of things on a whim.

Steven arrived a few days ago. My Green Kanagroo, home from her summer camp job for a week, had been shopping at a thrift store, and presented him to me, with this explanation:

“Now you don’t have to waste time looking for your Funky Bird, ’cause he’ll be right there on your desk in front of you.”

So I cried.

Long-time readers (all two of you!) will know the signifigance significance importance of a Funky Bird. That my middle child – this wonderful, amazing, unique Green Kangaroo of mine – not only gets the reference but knows how important it is to me and respects that importance, is truly a blessing. It’s so much more meaningful than simply saying, “Quit whining and write something Momma.”

So now I have a Funky Bird and no excuses. And Steven and I have just been hanging out at my desk for the last few days trying to learn how to fly all over again.

You have to flap your wings, at least to begin with. And maybe that’s what blogging needs to be, for me – flapping. Blog posts don’t have to have a point, or a theme, or even make sense to anyone but me. They can just be me, flapping away at the keyboard, maybe flying in circles a bit, until some sort of reliable pattern develops. It’s okay if there’s no specific direction here – this is just the exercise.

**

The other day Littlest was out delivering a friend’s flyers while he’s on vacation. She mentioned having seen the mailman.

Littlest: I stopped and waited for the mailman. But he just said Hi and kept on walking. He walks really fast.

Me: Indeed he does. But he’s friendly.

Littlest: Yes. But he didn’t stop walking, so I didn’t get to talk to him.

Me: That’s too bad. But why did you want to talk to the mailman?

Littlest: I wanted to ask him if he was happy with his job.

I did not pursue the conversation, but wondered why my 12-year-old has suddenly turned into a talk show host, wanting to interview civil servants. Is she practicing to be a reporter? Interested in exploring a career in mail delivery? Looking for a kindred spirit?

It doesn’t matter. What matters is that she thought of asking, and how cool and interesting is THAT?

**

Got me thinking about the mailman. He’s delivered the mail on our block, and adjacent blocks, for more than ten years now, at least. And I realized – that man probably knows more about the goings-on and evolution of every family on his route than most of the neighbours. Think about it – diaper coupon mailers and Baby Bonus cheques, tax refunds, driver licence renewals, credit card statements, publisher rejections, magazine subscriptions, student loan forms, university application materials – life stories, learned through the mail without ever even having to open it. 

There’s a book in there somewhere.

**

Saw Julie and Julia with the girls the other night, and felt a little proud of myself afterwards. I liked it. The Julie parts in particular have not been kindly received by the reviewers. But afterwards I decided not to be jealous of someone else’s success. Julie Powell may be as navel-gazing as the rest of us in the blogosphere, but I’m not going to be annoyed that her self-examination got her a book deal and then a movie. Because you know what? She didn’t just find her Funky Bird – she figured out how to make it fly. Good on her.

I’m writing.

Letter by letter.

Word by word.

Line by line.