Heading back to the church

They are predicting some days of snow, so I'm thinking about returning to the church early instead of waiting for January. I'm trying to think whether it's better to be snowed in there or at home. At home I have people to chum with and more activities to do (really exciting stuff, like cleaning out the crawlspace or organizing the filing cabinet). But at the church I can exercise Brio without having to go outside for great lengths of time, and he can play ball (which is difficult to do in deep drifts of snow). So while I'm trying to decide what to do, I'm putting together supplies, ready to dash when there's a break in the weather.

Merry Christmas!

 It's a weird celebration this year, for sure, without grandkids piling into presents around the tree, or a big family dinner, or Son #2 and his partner driving to the house in their pajamas Christmas morning. It will be quiet and low-key, just us and Son #3, and there's meatloaf for dinner instead of the whole turkey shebang. I'll likely spend the day shoveling snow and doing puzzles. But the holiday itself is still as vibrant and relevant as ever, and if ever the world needed a saviour, it's now. I am grateful for parents who taught me to focus on Christ at Christmas instead of the Santa/presents trappings. The rush and glitz of consumerism has never appealed to me, and at Christmas it's especially appalling. I much prefer listening for the still, small voice in the hush of a peaceful morning, watching the snow fall and reading the old familiar story from the Bible while the house sleeps gently around me.

Butter Tarts!

 It's that time of year again -- the making of the butter tarts. We're going to drop some off to various people we know who are alone this Christmas, and some will go to a young piper we know who fell in love with them last year (he'd never had a homemade one before, and after he tasted them he told us he was ruined for life from ever eating store-bought ones again). They're a simple thing but have become part of our Christmas tradition. Our record is 300 at once.

Following along with Gurdeep Pandher

Every day I go on Facebook and look for Gurdeep Pandher's posts. He is a Sikh fellow who lives in a small cabin in the Yukon, and he spreads joy and celebrates life (and keeps warm) dancing out in the snow in subzero temperatures. Sometimes I try a few steps myself, though I can't get too vigorous with my trick knee. But the joy he spreads is contagious, and somehow he distills life down to its essentials. I come away from watching with a feeling of peace and well-being. Really, life is that simple -- finding happiness in small things.

It also brings home to me how important it is that we be joyful and lift each other up during this pandemic. Happiness is contagious, but depression is too, and we pick up others' moods without realizing it. Our impact on others is more pronounced now than ever, and our mode of being can heal or hurt. I am vowing to be more conscious of that going forward. Every January I choose a "theme" for the year and try to focus on it in my life. I think 2021's theme will be "Spread light."

Some good news

 I've had another manuscript accepted -- hoping to be published in July 2021. Yay! It's been a bit of a dry spell for a while, when other things seemed to take precedence over writing, but I have gotten back into the swim of things lately. Covenant is currently considering three other manuscripts as well -- one non-fiction, a novella, and a children's book. I may not be terrific, but I'm prolific!

The novella is a bit of a departure for me, but could be the beginning of a new series that combines an Armenian detective and a Vietnamese Buddhist monk as a crime-fighting duo. Hey, it's Canada; why not?

A soft descent into decadence

Maybe it's the time of year. Maybe it's the stress at work. Maybe it's the effects of lockdown. But I can't seem to get enough comfort food lately. Cheese and pudding and pasta and chocolate. This morning for breakfast I had two slices of pumpernickel with Nutella and a glass of eggnog.

Well, at least I spread the Nutella on bread instead of just gobbling it straight from the jar with a spoon.

That was yesterday.

Mmm...Eggnog Cookies

 Well, I managed to get two bags of cookies into the freezer before I could stuff ALL of them into my mouth...

Holiday Baking

I took half a day off work today to make eggnog cookies, and maybe butter tarts (still deciding). I love that feeling of working in a warm kitchen while snow falls outside.

Lots happening on the writing front

This couple of weeks of solitude at the church have been productive for me. Sent off another manuscript to the publisher. Am waiting to hear back on a second one. And I heard this morning that a third is going to be published. Whoo! We're on a roll.

Peaceful Morning

Went for an hour-long walk this morning with Brio, through quiet, cold fields. Sun just coming up. A farmer waving from his tractor, already at work. Bird song from the forest. A perfect start to the day. I am thankful for quiet, for a beautiful world to live in, and for farmers who provide my breakfast.

Tree down

The neighbours had a rotting tree cut down today. Massive thing that shook the earth with a huge thud. But it missed our roof and landed neatly without killing anyone but a Rose of Sharon bush. Grateful it didn't come down on our heads.

I'm staying a second week at the church so that I'm here for the final furnace installment/propane hook-up on Monday. Was supposed to happen today but the furnace guy had a doctor appointment. So instead I'm cancelling my doctor appointment tomorrow so I can stay on... Sigh. Almost done, though! Then we have a reprieve from the larger renos for a while. I hope. Knock on wood.

Heading out of Town

 I am going to go isolate at the church for a week or two, but I have internet there so can still keep in touch. I'm alarmed at how many Covid cases there are in my area, and yet they're not shutting down restaurants or schools. I think we need a stay-at-home order for a couple of weeks, and then we could interrupt the terrible trends. Since the government doesn't seem willing to order that, I'm going to take it upon myself to do it instead.

Summer and Winter

 It has been an amazing, balmy 22 degrees celsius this week. I've been walking the dog without a jacket on, and the sky is that bright cloudless blue of mid summer. And yet there are crunchy leaves underfoot, and the smell of someone's wood stove, and the garden looking barren. You know winter is coming, and yet it doesn't seem to come. I've got my boots and coat ready, the snow shovel by the door, the bag of de-icing salt in the garage. New tires on the car. I'm letting Brio's hair grow longer to keep him warm. And yet I'm still in capris and sandals. It's a sort of schizophrenic feeling.

My favourite thing about summer is the smell of newly-mown grass, and getting my hands into the soil in the vegetable garden. My favourite thing about autumn is the sight of bottled fruit lined up neatly on the shelves, and that scent of apples and leaves and damp earth. My favourite thing about winter is...well, staying indoors with a book, to be honest. Or that smell of fresh snow. The hush when you first get up in the morning to a white world, unblemished by car tracks or footprints. The glazing of ice on every twig of the trees. The soft bubbling of stew on the stove. Yeah, I guess there are good things about winter too.

I can't believe the size of the maple leaves this year

 

Connections

 I am still here at the church, but I have internet access now, and I'm a bit amazed how much more alive the place---and I---feel now that I can connect to the rest of the world. Not only can I now work from here, via my laptop, but I can also phone and talk to my husband through Skype. I can stream music into the vast, echoing space. I can watch the CBC live, and tune in each morning (timidly, with one eye) to see if the world has gone up in a blaze yet. I watched a Hallmark movie on Youtube one night, and last night I joined some of the women from church for a meeting on emergency preparedness.

I feel perfectly safe here, but it's nice to know I can reach home or help in a hurry if I need to. And I'm suddenly very aware of how much I miss music. Since we've been taking boarders into our home for the past three years or so, I've been reluctant to play my music aloud for fear of disturbing someone. Someone is always there. But here, I can crank up Michael Jackson or sing along to Primary songs and it doesn't bother anyone. I can spin around in the sanctuary to bluegrass music and no one will snicker at my dancing. Or roll their eyes when I watch Seven Brides for Seven Brothers for the hundredth time. I even settled down to some writing for a while, and it's been a long time since I felt in the mood to do that to any extent. I find when I'm here, I'm reconnected to myself.

Where I am

 I'm going up to the church this evening and will be staying for at least a week to manage some things up there. The theory is that internet will be installed on Monday morning, and then I will be in touch with the world again. However, if for some reason it doesn't happen, I'm incommunicato until my husband can come pick me up again next weekend. Wish me luck!

Final fall clean-up

The garlic is planted, to snuggle in the soil and lurk until spring. The last few years, the snow has come before the leaves have fallen, making for an interesting mess. But this year the leaves appear to be starting to fall on schedule. Usually I use them as mulch in the garden, but my husband complains that they blow into the pool, and of course every spring we have to pluck out a million baby maple trees. So this year I am going to bag them up for the city to compost, and I will haul in straw to mulch with.

We got the cracks in the patio repaired. The pool cover is about to go on. There might be one more lawn-mowing. I have a dozen onions left to pick. A fountain to put away. Tools to clean off and sort and stash. Patio chairs to wrangle into the shed. 

I didn't do any bottling this year. I still have a lot left from last year, and I'm not feeding hordes anymore since Covid has kept the kids and grandkids away much of the year. I've frozen or dehydrated the garden produce. And...that's it. I think I'm done for another season. Time to stock up on books and hunker down for another winter.

Library!

 After eight months of dearth, the library is open again! There are some strict protocols, and if you browse anything you don't end up taking home, you set it aside in a bin and they quarantine it for a few days before re-shelving it. But even wearing mask and gloves, I felt so at home to be there again!

I walked straight in, scooped up three Jenny Colgans and two William Kent Kruegers, and checked out without touching anything else. Came home with my treasures in a bag. It's like having candy after eight months of cabbage. This stash will let me stretch out my small stack of purchased used books, in case Covid shuts us all down again.

Books are one of my greatest joys in life.

Basement Blues

 The company renovating our basement had a few set-backs, including the painter catching Covid. So a different painter is coming tomorrow.

Son #3 picked the paint colours, as he uses the basement for his bedroom. He has a good idea for colour and composition, and picked some textured grey carpet with two shades of gray-blue for the walls (mostly a lighter colour, with accent walls the darker shade). I think it will look very nice when it's done---hopefully by next week.

I have discovered in my middle age that I am no good at colours. I can't really tell them apart or tell if one tone matches another. When the cement people poured our front step, they sloshed cement on the green stucco of the house, so my husband and I went to pick some green paint to cover over it. He could tell instantly which colour matched best. I stood there with a fan of gradated swatches and honestly couldn't tell what worked and what didn't.  I'll just have to trust his judgment.

A Day with the Grandkids

 I was remembering back to the last day I spent with my grandkids this summer before we went back into isolation. It was a hot day and I suggested we walk to the park. My 8-year-old grand-daughter agreed it was hot and told me to go put on shorts before we went. I told her I didn't wear them and didn't own any, and she thought that was funny.

At the park, she decided to dig in the sandbox to the centre of the earth. And asked me to take a photo of it. I told her I didn't have a camera with me.

"Use your phone," she said.

"I don't have one."

"Oh."

A while later, I told them it was time to go back to the house, and she told me to phone her dad to see if it was time to leave yet.

"I don't have a phone."

"Oh."

I found it interesting how big a role a phone played in her day-to-day life. She just assumed it was a feature, a tool, always ready to hand. She couldn't grasp that not only was my phone not with me, I didn't even own one.

We started to walk back home, and she suggested we stop at the store for ice cream on the way.

"That would be fun, but I don't have my purse with me. I don't have any money on me."

She thought this over, and then said, "You don't spend money, do you?"

"No. I try not to if I don't have to."

And then she said something like, "You're different from the way it is at my house." And I had to laugh. Yep. A bit different. Grandma is a little bit out of step with the rest of the world, I think.

I like being able to cope without electronics and gadgets. I like kneading dough by hand and grinding my own spices with a mortar and pestle. I like reading by candlelight sometimes, and washing dishes by hand instead of using the dishwasher. I like the feel of rolling pasta through the pasta machine and shelling peas and snapping green beans. I like the slow, contemplative threading of the loom and the soft click of knitting needles. I prefer sewing by hand instead of with my sewing machine, and all the towels I weave are hand-hemmed. I like writing with a pen and paper better than typing on a clacking keyboard. I keep my recipes on---gasp---recipe cards, handwritten, in little drawers.

Son #3 was listening the other day to the Andrews Sisters, and with a nostalgic sigh, he told me, "I was born in the wrong era."

Me too, sweetie. Me too.

Speedy Recovery

 Our heroic contractor arrived first thing in the morning, soldered a new pipe piece in, patched the drywall, and went out to get a fan to help dry things out faster. Water back on within an hour. The plasterer followed the next day to do the mudding and taping. They let that dry, and then returned to sand it, and now we're back on track. Priming today. Paint colours chosen. Carpet being ordered. What a great crew!

Slogging along

 Well, so we were about to start painting the newly-drywalled basement, and the end was in sight. But when I got up at 3:30 this morning to let the whining dog out, I heard a weird noise in the basement. I went down and found a hole punched through the wall and water spraying out at high speed, soaking the floor and drywall in one area. I guess someone nicked the water pipe during the construction work, and it has been leaking down inside the wall, and finally punched a hole out of the drywall to escape. Luckily the water inside the wall has been snaking its way to the drain in the laundry room, from what I can see.

Being the capable and calm person I am, I dashed upstairs and woke up my husband (nearly giving him a heart attack). He put on his bathrobe and plastic clogs and went downstairs...and slipped on the muddy floor (water plus drywall compound dust makes for a mess). Down he went. Luckily okay, not injured, just muddy. He turned off the main water valve (silly me for not thinking of that first) and sent a message to the contractor. So we're without water today. The wet drywall (and maybe a stud or two) will have to be replaced, and the place dried out. Then we can start again!

This all keeps getting better and better.

Thoughts about Richard and Mental Health

 Today is a somber sort of day for me. Thirty years ago today, Richard Aaron Van Meer died. He was seventeen.

My husband and I first came to know Richard when he was fourteen, when we were both working at the state mental hospital. Richard was a patient on the youth unit, hospitalized because he was considered a danger to himself or others. Freckled, buck-toothed, with curly blond hair and a great smile, Richard was the survivor of an abusive and challenging childhood. He had had over three hundred suicide attempts, all of them calculated not to be serious enough that he couldn't be saved. One night he was locked down yet again for another violent incident. Patients had to have a one-to-one watch if they were in isolation, and my husband, a psych tech, spent the night sitting with him and talking. 

At one point my husband asked Richard why he kept doing these things. Why didn't he try to behave so that he could get out of the hospital? Didn't he want to get out? Richard's reply brought him up short: "No. I don't have anywhere else to go."

My husband explored this with him, and Richard admitted he felt no one wanted him. To which my husband replied "We want you." He told Richard if he could become healthy enough to leave the hospital, he and I would take him into our home as part of our family.

From that night on, Richard had no more suicide attempts. He worked hard to control himself, buckle down, and dump his demons. He finally felt someone cared whether he lived or died. My husband gave him a key to our house as a token to remind him of his goal. We ran into some opposition from the hospital unit director, who said it was a conflict of interest for us to take Richard home (even though other staff had done the same with other patients), and ultimately, after some power struggles, my husband ended up moving to a different unit, and I quit and went to work at the police station. But we kept working with Richard and the state foster system. To get around obstacles, he was released to a different foster home and then transferred to our care, and at last we were able to bring him home. As I recall, the foster system housed him with us, but we weren't officially foster parents and received no financial support from the system. I wouldn't have wanted it anyway. To my mind, Richard was family, and he felt the same toward us. I still have a brief note he wrote to us, telling us he thought of us as his mom and dad. We looked into formally adopting him, but they wouldn't allow it because I was only six years older than he was. (Yes, I was a young bride!)

Richard was of a sunny disposition, despite his rough start in life, and we never had any problem with him. He listened to Alphaville and was at that awkward age when he wanted to appear to be an adult but still had stuffed animals on his bed. His only quirk was that he didn't like to eat white foods, like potatoes. We enrolled him in high school, bought his new school clothes, painted his room blue. We had a newborn at the time (Son #1), and Richard was tolerant and patient of the baby's crying and fussing. 

To make a long story short, Richard lived with us for a long while without incident, and he managed to reconnect with his birth sister. When it came time for us to move to Canada, we offered to bring him with us, and after much debate he decided to remain behind and try to build a relationship with his sister to see if some part of his family could be salvaged. 

A few months later, I received a call from a friend who was a nurse at the mental hospital. I remember my back against the wall of the kitchen, sliding down to sit on the floor, holding the phone, as she told me the news. Richard had ended up back in foster care, had pulled a gun on his foster father, gone to juvenile detention, and then ended up back in the mental hospital. Once there, he was back under the care of the antagonistic unit director we had been in conflict with earlier. Suicidal, Richard was placed by the psychiatrist on a one-to-one watch, meaning he couldn't be left alone for even a moment.

The unit director, however, ordered Richard's one-to-one staff member to a staff meeting, against doctor's orders, and Richard was left alone for twenty minutes. That was long enough for him to hang himself in his bedroom closet. I feel sure it was yet another attempt made with rescue in mind; he probably trusted that his one-to-one would be back shortly and would save him. He never meant to die; all of his earlier attempts had been cries for help and attention and not deliberate attempts to kill himself, and there's no reason to think this time was any different. The unit director knew Richard's history of attempts and surely must have been able to predict what would happen when he pulled the staff member away against orders. The official cause of death was suicide, but to my mind it was murder.

I had to tell my husband when he got home.

There was never an inquest. Richard had no family who was able (or maybe cared enough) to demand an investigation, and we had no legal standing to demand it because we weren't related. There are a lot of questions around it, and no repercussions happened for the unit director. Even as we were first grappling with our grief, though, I knew that I needed to be able at some point to let go and forgive, or I wouldn't be able to survive it. The unit director would have to deal with his own conscience and face God about it. Only he knew the truth of it. I had to find some way to move forward. I might not be able to forget it, but I could let go of the anger. 

It has been a struggle. I've flip-flopped and squirmed and tried to get this jagged rock in my shoe to fit in some way that I could live with. I told myself Richard was too damaged, ultimately, to have been able to live a "normal" life. He would have struggled with mental health issues all his life. I told myself he was now at peace. I envisioned him hanging out with my late grandfather, being taken under his wing, not alone. I tried to console myself that at least, during Richard's short time with us, he got to experience a happy home and what a family felt like. I reminded myself that now I had a different perspective that could help me comfort others going through the same ordeal.

In the end, I'm not sure the consolation worked, but ultimately it boiled down to this thought: I had tried. I had given it my best. I couldn't control the outcome, but I made the best decisions I could at the time, and even though it didn't end up how I wanted, I could say that at least, when I saw a child hurting, I had done something. Maybe that's all we can say about anything, really.

Thirty years later, I feel a quiet sadness, and on the anniversary of his death, I find myself talking to Richard. Asking God to watch over him. Wishing things had gone differently. 

One of the healing moments over the years was when we petitioned and received permission to have Richard sealed to us in the temple. In our religion, it is essentially like a posthumous adoption. In the eyes of God and the church, Richard is our son, the same as our other boys.

We have had other children come to stay with us over the years---another foster son, a Syrian refugee, a deaf homeless boy, the son of friends who just needed a break, various young renters. We've had our three boys, and now we have grandchildren. When we gather together, Richard is always there, hovering at the back of my mind, and when people ask how many kids I have, I say four.

Moving Gravel

I have been putting down gravel and pavers in the garden to cut down on the mud and weeds. My edges aren't too straight, and this isn't the best time of year to show off the fading garden beds, but here you go.

Steve

Meet Steve. He has been living in my garden, but he's about to meet a nasty end in my shepherd's pie.

He doesn't seem too stressed about it, though. When I started to peel him, he just closed his eyes and took it.

Basement cracks and Beheaded trees

Busy around the homestead today! I've beheaded the two catalpa trees at the end of my driveway (I always feel brutal doing it, but it's kinder than letting the heavy snow break the branches this winter). And today we have the electrician rewiring the basement and two guys filling the crack in the foundation that leaked last time it rained. Yes, water issues both here and at the church. It's all needed to be repaired for a while, though, and we can't have Son #3 living with soggy and moldy carpet in his room. I have learned two important lessons these past few months -- always use the right tool for the job (saves frustration) and do things once and do them well, so you never have to do them again.

You know you're a gardener when...

...you see Claude Monet's beautiful French garden and the first (and only) thought that pops into your head is "How do they water that many pots?"

Gravel

So earlier this summer I bought 3 yards of gravel and about 3 yards of small stone to refresh my Japanese gravel garden in the front yard. Last week I got three more yards of gravel to put in a path in my vegetable garden. I mowed the weedy area really short, put down landscape fabric, put down the gravel, and then re-laid the pavers, and it looks pretty good if I do say so myself. It will certainly cut down on the weeds and mud. I also put it in the corner around the two compost bins to tidy that area. There was some gravel left over, so I'm also putting some down between the raised beds (usually I use straw, but it has to be replaced every year).

Little by little, I'm trying to get the yard under control so there is less maintenance. I see other people sitting on their front porches in the summer, listening to the ball game on the radio or reading or just chilling out, and I wonder how they have the time. It seems there's always mowing or weeding or pruning to do. If I can reduce the labour in the yard, I'll have more time to work on my stained glass. Oh, or my writing...I keep forgetting there are deadlines for that...

Fun with Architecture

There's a street near my house where I walk quite often with Brio. It is quiet and tree-lined, but what makes it really fascinating to walk along is the wide variety of architectural styles, all standing side by side. Today I took the camera along with me and tried to capture some of the flavour of the street.

There's this traditional home:

just down from:

A few houses down we're in the 1970s

and across the street is this more modern twist on the theme:

Then down the street is my favourite house (with a courtyard and funky garage):

which is directly across from this:

Down the street is a more muted late 70's-early 80s area:

But around the corner from that, someone has taken one of these latter styles and given it a modern flavour with stucco, which is actually an ancient material.

Fascinating what you can find within a five-minute walk!

The Joy of Books

My eight-year-old grand-daughter has discovered the thrill of reading, and she devours books for hours every day. It has been great fun for me to hunt down my old favourites to share with her -- Ramona the Pest and Ribsy, Pippi Longstocking, The Great Brain series, The Borrowers, Sarah Plain and Tall, and so many more. Or maybe "share" isn't the right word -- it's more like tossing fish to a hungry seal, and she gulps them down without pausing to discuss them with me or even to let me know if she liked them or not. She just wants to read. It warms my heart. Her five-year-old brother is a more reluctant reader, but he has decided presents are a good thing, so I've also been giving him some little books for his own. Today we sat together on the couch and read Splat the Cat and Mortimer.

I remember in grade school having teachers and the librarian read to us, and we worked with older students as reading tutors. When it was my turn to be a tutor to someone younger, it felt like revisiting all my old friends to return to Dick and Jane. Yes, I am old enough to have grown up reading Dick and Jane.

As part of my preparation for the anticipated quarantine this fall, I went to Valu Village and stocked up on a stack of books, mostly novels, to tide me over. It has been so long since I could go to the library! But I've already made quite a dent in the stack, so I may have to go get more. I collect the already-read books in boxes in the dining room. At one point I was going to take them to a nursing home, but I think that's kiboshed now with Covid. Also the idea of having a little book sale. Maybe next year. Meanwhile, they keep piling up. Which is good, because if we get to the point where Valu Village has to close, I may need to re-read all these books. Because I can't imagine a single day going by without reading.

A time for letting go

Autumn is my favourite season, when I scurry around putting away food for the winter like a squirrel. I love the cooler air, the smell of dry leaves, the scent of the neighbour's wood stove starting up, the coziness of sweaters. But it's also a bittersweet time, when you let go of a lot of things. It's the time to pull out old pea vines and zucchini plants, oil and put away the tools, wrap up the lawnmower cord, and empty the fountain. We get ready to say goodbye to the sun for the next six or seven months. The sandals are put in the closet, and the lovely catalpa trees are soon to be beheaded.

It's made more poignant, this year, because it's also the time to give my grandkids a last hug and kiss, since they will be off limits once they return to school. We'll have to wait to see what the Covid levels do, but I suspect it may be months before it will be safe to be with them again. I've enjoyed having them over a lot this summer to swim, sending them home with goodies and books. We spent one memorable night in the tent in the backyard, and one day we tried to dig to the centre of the earth in the park sandbox (my grand-daughter was quite expectant that we would hit lava). I went without seeing them in person for four or five months this spring, and now we enter it again, and it's sad. But necessary. If they are going to run the risk of in-class school, they should limit their risk everywhere else. And with my own health not the peachiest, I have to be cautious.

Love you, my little ones! Thank goodness for Skype.

Beans!

My favourite fall activity is shelling dry beans from the garden. I planted a 50-pack and so far have harvested about 3 litres of beans, and there's a lot more coming. Nowhere else do you get that kind of return on investment!

Address of new blog

For those who would like to follow along, I have started a new blog about the church renovations at

www.buyingachurch.blogspot.com

I can't promise it will be anything profound or where it will end up -- the journey promises to be a rather long one with unpredictable plot twists and an unforeseeable ending. But I'm happy to drag you along with me through it all if you'd like to come!

We Bought a Church

You know my addiction to looking at real estate ads. I've looked at everything from

to

to

But recently my husband and I stumbled across this:

and without giving it time to frighten us, we bought it. It's on a double lot within walking distance of a conservation area, in a little village twenty minutes from the nearest Walmart, and an equal distance from Lake Huron. It was super inexpensive, but we will eventually need to do some rather costly things like replacing the furnace and maybe the septic system. We will make an apartment in the basement, and the balcony/choir loft will be my writing and weaving space. The big empty sanctuary with its 20-foot ceilings will become...well, anything! Meditation hall, yoga space, bagpipe practising space, emergency evacuation centre, woodworking studio---anything it needs to be, we've got the space for it! Just have to figure out zoning and all that. Right now it' still zoned institutional.

The church was the hub of the community for many years, known for its music and the annual fall suppers that fed up to 800 people. It functioned as a church from 1939 to 2012. We will bring back the food and music, restore it as much as possible to the original, and make it a gathering space for people.

The best part of the church is its 11 stained glass windows, which are in need of repair because the lead cames have softened and sagged at the knees, leaving the windows bowed and stressed. One by one we are removing them, and I am gently coaxing them flat again, repairing the stress cracks, replacing the cement, and re-soldering the joints. My husband is doing the woodworking, restoring the frames that hold them in place. Each window is inscribed with someone's name, in memory of them, and I've looked them up on Ancestry.ca to learn more about who they were.

It's going to be a long labour of love, a project that will probably take years, so I think I will start a separate blog to track its progress. So in case I get a little quiet on this blog, you'll know where I am.

Tomatoes!

You may recall that last year I trialed three new tomatoes developed by the University of Florida. I had seeds left from two of them, so that's what I planted again this year. And once again they have flourished, turning into medium-sized trees that bend the wire tomato cages with their heavy branches, despite my pruning them faithfully. The tomatoes are the size of softballs, meaty and juicy and flavourful and such a deep colour that I know they must be vitamin-rich.

I had one plant go rogue and develop blossom end rot, so I doused it with calcium, and it has started turning out good fruit now. I'm picking about ten a day right now, but there's lots more to come. After eating all I could stand in every form I could think of, I stewed a bunch and froze them for future spaghetti sauces, even though they're beefsteak and not really paste type. But the flavour will be amazing this winter when I use them. I'll probably have to stew a few every day to keep on top of them all.

Such abundance! Such generosity!

We're fully into harvest mode

Peas still producing (they're Swedish Reds and produce all through the summer heat). Green beans by the bowlful. Zucchini the size of small clubs. Tomatoes finally beginning to come in about seven at a time, big fat things with a rich tang to them. Basil, to be whizzed up with olive oil, salt, and garlic and spread over pasta. The spaghetti squash look more like watermelon. Lettuce gone to seed. Kale crawling upward like something Jurassic. Evenings spent shelling dry beans. And soon it will be time to dig potatoes. I love this time of year!

Food Prices Rising

The news reported yesterday that there be a food shortage coming in the U.S. Prices are rising. The usual migrant agricultural workers weren't able to come this year due to Covid. The distribution chain has been restricted somewhat. So things could become worrisome as time progresses.

It won't be a quick fix. Crops left to rot in the fields can't be recovered at a later date. I'm not sure why, if unemployment is so high in the U.S. right now, they would be reliant on the absent migrant workers, because it seems to me they should be able to employ others who are currently out of work. (The work isn't terribly hard to learn to do. Is it unwillingness? Just lack of coordination?)

I see my humble little garden with fresh eyes, measuring out how much yield I think I'll get this year, and thinking about how to expand it next year. We own a building lot a couple of hours from here, and maybe I can figure out a crop to grow on it that won't take constant babysitting, so I can manage it from afar. I still have a lot of my bottled stuff left from last year, so I wasn't planning to do much this year, but maybe I should go ahead and do it anyway while I can. That way I can help feed my children and grandchildren and neighbours, if it comes to that. I will examine my inventory of food storage and figure out what I need to stock up on.

Back during WWII, people planted victory gardens. Maybe now is the time to push for people to plant Covid gardens in the spring.

Heat Wave in Ontario

It has been in the low 30s (celsius) all week, with high humidity. Today apparently it's supposed to feel like 46 degrees. Riding the bus and subway with a mask on is like walking around with a wet pillow pressed to my face. It's the kind of bone-melting heat that makes you want to spend all day in the swimming pool or draped over a patio chair under a tree with book and strawberry lemonade in hand. It's not the kind of weather that will let you get anything done. It's too hot to clean house, too hot to do any hobbies (because your skin sticks to everything), and too hot to cook or even eat. So I have given myself permission to accomplish nothing for the next few days other than the bare minimum. The garden can go to weeds, the green tomatoes toasting slowly in the sun. The housework can wait. After all, what's a little dirt and dust? Taking the long view, in the end, we're buried in dirt. Or cremated and turned to dust. A little in advance isn't going to hurt anything.

Summer in full swing

Garlic cleaned and stored for the winter. Weeds almost under control. Bushes in the gravel garden have been pruned. Lawn mowed. Green beans, zucchini, cucumbers, raspberries, and basil all being harvested daily. Lavender harvested and baked into cookies for the freezer. Pool is at 85 degrees. And I have this week off work. Ahhhhh...

Garlic Harvest!

I planted five varieties: Zajac, Red Russian, Georgian Fire, German Music, and my usual nameless Ontario variety. So far the last two seem to be the best producers. Looking forward to tasting them all!

Look what I found on a drive this weekend

Being a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I found this sign delightful.  I looked up the history, and apparently there was a settlement of LDS converts who joined the church in the 1830s in that area. In 1846, they hacked the Nauvoo Road through the forest to link up with the main road running to Sarnia, Ontario, where they could cross the border into the U.S. They all eventually made their way to join the body of the church in Nauvoo, Illinois, and there weren't many church members in Ontario after that until the 1950s or 60s. Fascinating! And neat that they've kept the road names.

Found in Omagh Cemetery, Halton, Ontario

Andrew Suiter, from Ireland, and his wife Hannah Green Suiter, from the U.S., had seven children, three girls and four boys, and then the oldest daughter died in 1845, age 15. They had two more daughters, bringing the number of living children to eight. And then in one month, in 1851, seven of those children died. They ranged in age from 19 to 3 months. Only one son was left alive, Robert, age 9. The Suiters had two more children, a boy born in 1853, and a girl born three years later who lived only one day. So after giving birth 11 times, Hannah Suiter was left with only two sons.

Andrew Suiter died in 1863, age 56, and Hannah died in 1879, age 68. And then Robert, the only son who survived the epidemic or whatever it was that killed seven of his siblings, died two years later at age 39. I looked up his death record; he died of suicide.

The one remaining son, Andrew Jr., appears on the next census in 1881, age 28, a clerk, living in what looks like a boarding house. The last of eleven children, carrying on alone. I haven't found a marriage or death record for him. He doesn't appear on the family headstone, and I don't know if it's because he moved away or because there was no one left to bury him. It breaks my heart.

Close Encounters of the Furry Kind

I was letting Brio out at 4:30 the other morning, and luckily I had him on the leash, because he tried to take off barking after something in the yard. I saw a dark shape go clambering up the drainpipe and onto our roof. Raccoon. (The word sends shudders into the soul of every home owner.) Anyway, there was nothing I could do about it, so I went to lie on the couch and snooze for another hour before starting my day in earnest.

As dawn began to break, I heard scratching and rattling on the roof overhead. I peeked out the window and saw the raccoon dangling by his front paws from the rain gutter, trying to get a toe-hold on the downspout with his back feet so he could get down again. I knocked lightly on the window, and he turned his head and looked at me, and then did a mighty chin-up and pulled himself back onto the roof. A moment later, his triangular head appeared over the edge of the roof directly above me, and he gazed upside down at me for a while before apparently deciding I was no threat. A moment later he lowered himself by the front paws from the rain gutter again, reaching with his toes to grab the downspout, and finally managed to grasp it. I could hear a scrabbling of claws on metal, slither slither frantic slide ping! and he was down. Hilarious! You always imagine wild creatures as perfectly adapted to their environments, graceful, adept. Not clumsy and awkward. You don't picture a flock of birds colliding with each other mid-flight, or a deer snagging his antlers on a tree while trotting through the forest. And it hadn't occurred to me that a raccoon could be quite bad at climbing. Endearing!

Garlic Scapes and Lavender

Summer is officially under way! The garlic scapes are ready, those smooth, soapy-feeling curls of utter goodness. And the lavender is just starting to bloom, meaning it's time for lavender cookies. Every road has its milestones and landmarks, and mine is studded with such miracles as these.

Canada Day and Thoughts about Fireworks

Almost 15 weeks in quarantine. Next week it will be July already, and this year there won't be public firework displays or parades. We'll each quietly celebrate at home, possibly in our groups of ten, perhaps alone. In place of fireworks, I will watch the peonies blooming in the backyard, and instead of beavertails bought from a food truck, maybe I'll make deep-fried scones with honey butter. The pipe band can't march, but hubby might stand in the driveway and serenade the neighbours. We won't have a big barbecue bash for the family or go to the lake, but I can float peacefully in my pool while the sun comes up.

I don't mind having a quiet holiday this year. It's good now and then to have a time of introspection, when you can just count your blessings and reflect on all the factors and history and people and sheer luck that combined to land you where you are now. I'm in a good place, and stopping to appreciate it and be grateful is just as patriotic (or more so) as waving flags or parading.

A Word from my Husband

Me, looking at real estate (surprise!): "I'd love to live in one of those modern homes that's basically a one-room, simple, glass box, overlooking the ocean. But there'd be no separation and we'd be on top of each other."

Husband, without missing a beat: "Not if I have the whole ocean to throw you in."

Fun with Home Insurance

I have renewed our home insurance, and I spent some rolicking time today reading all the fine print in our policy. Basically it says "We cover you for all of this, but if/when you make a claim, we won't cover it." It even says, essentially, "this isn't covered even though we said it would be." Flood coverage won't cover water damage, but only fire or explosion caused by flood. (Fire caused by water? Trying to picture it.) Terrorism isn't covered either, so there goes my claim if Erin Mills is suddenly attacked with napalm. And the fun thing is that the contents are valued at the same cost as rebuilding my house (I look at my Valu Village secondhand furniture and giggle).

The policy is meant for residential dwellings, and it says all over the first page that if your home is a total loss, you have the option of receiving payment for the value of your home without being obligated to rebuild, in case you decide not to. And then in tiny print it says this does not apply to residential dwellings. Um...

My favourite clause, however, which left me scratching my head, says this, verbatim:

"We do not insure loss or damage caused by mysterious disappearance of property."

Immediately my mind tried to envision what sort of scenario might result in the mysterious disappearance of one's house. A UFO hovers over the dwelling and beams it up to transport to a far galaxy? David Copperfield throws a blanket over the house, mumbles "abracadabra," and whoosh! it's gone? How fascinating! A surreal glimpse into the mind of whoever crafted the wording.

Thirteen Weeks In

On Friday it will be thirteen weeks that I've been at home. The first couple of weeks it felt sort of like hunkering down in a fortress against a siege. There was a weird unreality about it, as if I were in one of those post-apocalyptic movies. Do I have enough food? What is my back-up plan if it gets so bad no one is operating the water treatment plant? Do I have a good supply of books and puzzles at hand? It was right at Passover, and it felt as if I should start painting lamb's blood on the lintel. I did a bit of research on the Spanish Flu and watched the news a lot and wondered what was coming.

After a couple of weeks there was a brief period (about a day) when I was really irritable. The people in my house wouldn't stick to the rules; they kept going out. Nothing was exactly how I wanted it. I harboured unworthy thoughts of wanting to move into the pool shed to get away from everyone. I found it exhausting having to join video-conferences every day. I had no interest in any of the things I'd thought I'd accomplish while in quarantine. I couldn't settle down with a book, and all I wanted to do was eat chocolate. My dog turned into Velcro and couldn't be away from me for more than a minute. I noticed a more desperate tone on social media as well -- people expressing things about having chosen the wrong person to quarantine with and joking about knitting a noose. A video of a teacher screaming went viral.

And then people around the world started doing creative, crazy things -- clever videos and home haircuts and singing from balconies and putting on concerts and holding "Living Room's Got Talent" contests and rewriting the lyrics to musicals. It was hilarious, watching some of the things people came up with. It was as if everyone's latent creativity just burst out and went haywire. Shy, ordinary people became movie directors and comedians.

As the days passed and the sun started coming out, I got into more of a routine, and working from a laptop all day became easier. I saw that we weren't, in fact, going to run out of toilet paper. And the water treatment plant was still running. We became a nation of bread bakers and gardeners. We figured out how to do things we never thought we'd do, and we found we could trust ourselves to learn them. We learned we could find instructions for anything on Youtube. We discovered we're pretty resilient. Things seemed to snap into priority and perspective, and people started talking about realigning their life with their values once things returned to "normal." My husband and I went on a couple of short drives in the countryside, but it didn't feel like escaping. I started participating in regular guided meditation and yoga sessions on line.

Now we're heading into week 13, and I have to say, it feels like normality, as if we've always lived this way. I don't find as much funny and creative stuff coming out of people's homes into social media lately. It's as if we no longer need to make jokey videos and laugh about home haircuts. There's nothing left to gasp or groan over, really; we just quietly adapt and groom our own dogs and sew our own masks or whatever else needs to be done. I am filled with comfortable contentment.

I ventured out today to Walmart to buy much-needed shoes (my only pair developed big holes in the bottom, so I was walking the dog basically in my socks). And I found the whole process of shopping annoying, not a relief at all, and I really don't want to ever do it again. I am content to live small, stay local, be more self-sufficient. I want people's distress to end, of course, and for no one to die of Covid, but I am not at all eager to get back to life BC. I prefer this new normal.

Forty-five Years Ago Today

Forty-five years ago today, I was baptized a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I was baptized by my dad, and my good friend Sheri was also baptized on the same day. My faith has been a constant source of comfort and strength to me all my life, and I find it especially so right now during this pandemic.

Ten Days Later...

I hadn't realized it's been ten days since I posted. My goodness! I've been busy. Moved five cubic yards of stone (with Son #3's help). Weeded and weeded. Transplanted some stuff. Levelled off the hill around the composters and laid down landscape fabric and gravel. Finished planting the garden. Replanted the garden after the squirrels had a hey-day with it. Opened the swimming pool. Went swimming twice. And, um, read a whole lot of books and did a difficult puzzle. And watched a lot of Merlin on Netflix. Oh, and of course, worked my regular 8-hour days on the laptop. Did some writing. Made homemade bread twice. So yeah, I guess it has been a productive ten days!

Time seems to zip by. I've been at home since March 13, and it feels like a couple of weeks to me. Not beginning to be bored or run out of things to do yet. The weather is finally warming up, and it feels like I'm unfurling to the sun like a flower. A wonderful feeling of contentment and security. I'm so grateful to have a yard to play in! It makes all the difference with quarantine.

The Garden is Finally Going In

We've finally gotten some warm temperatures lately, so I've started planting the vegetable garden. So far I've put in carrots, kale, green beans, cucumbers, zucchini, spaghetti squash, lettuce, and spinach.Still to go: beets, tomatoes, basil, peppers, hull-less oats, broccoli, potatoes, and dry beans. I've probably forgotten a few things in there, but that's the basics.

I'm also going to take my composting more seriously this year. I've levelled out the ground around them to put down a thick layer of gravel, to keep weeds down, and I'm going to build a larger collector for grass and leaves. Feeding your vegetables is really just feeding your soil, and while it is very healthy at the moment, with lots of worms, all the produce I take out of it each year depletes it of nutrients, so I need to be better about putting them back in.

I've also gotten better about incorporating flowers into the garden, so along with the patch of lavendar I now have allium, soapwort, sedum, and violets. I did have some lupine, but they seem to have died off. I found some beautiful tulips in the Breck's catalogue that I might splurge on too. Even though they don't last long, they add a nice punch of colour.

They are encouraging us not to mow our lawns for the month of May, to help out the bees, but I finally had to give in and mow yesterday. I wouldn't have been able to mow at all if I'd let it get much longer. No doubt the dandelions will recover! I also have a lot of thyme in my lawn, which is pretty.

We had a lot of pool bags spring leaks this year, so my husband is cutting them up and stapling them as a weed barrier on the back of the wooden walkways in the garden, which is a clever reusage of materials.

Lastly, I am going to lift my paving-stone path and re-set it in gravel to clean it up. Over the years the pavers have sunk into the ground and are slowly disappearing. When we're done, the garden will be rejuvenated and welcoming. And this year, with the quarantine, I'll love being out there more than ever.

Is it Wrong to Love Quarantine?

I’ve always known I was an introvert. I spent a lot of time as a child playing by myself, just enjoying my own company, lost in my own thoughts, which usually revolved around whatever I was reading or watching on TV at the time. After reading Snow Treasure, I was smuggling Jews out of the country during WWII by way of the secret door formed by the A-frame of my swing set. After watching Grizzly Adams, I was a boy named Jeck Rex who lived in a cave with a mountain lion. When I was in first grade, my teacher sent me to the school psychologist to explore why I preferred walking around the playground by myself instead of playing kick-ball with the other kids. (Um…because I fear pain, maybe?) I spent hours wandering around the wooded hillside near our house, observing nature and creating hidey-holes under the trees. I got very good at walking across the fallen log over the creek. Well, okay, it was an irrigation ditch, but it was overhung with trees and wild grapes, and “creek” sounds much nicer.

When I was about thirteen, my interest in writing blossomed into a real passion, and I spent hours every day sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor in front of my blue electric typewriter, swimming in the depths of my imagination. I had acquaintances at school but only occasionally enjoyed “hanging out” with friends, and Mom had to bang on the ceiling downstairs with a broom handle to summon me to family dinner. Church classes and school events were torments for me, and I avoided gatherings in general. When I was a Junior, my distant cousin (as isolationist as I was) who was a Senior asked me to the Senior Dinner-Dance. Mom bought me a long, pretty dress, and Cousin and I went to dinner, and then came straight home again. Neither of us even fleetingly thought of staying for the dance part. The dress was hung in Mom’s walk-in closet, where it probably still hangs to this day. I never saw it again.

When I was fifteen, I lost patience with high school, applied to university, and was accepted. We lived near enough to campus that I could still live at home, though I remember Mom threatening at one point to make me move into the dorms to force me to socialize. I entered a program that overlapped with the Masters program, so many of the students in my classes were older, married, some with children. I had braces on my teeth and wore my hair in two braids like Laura Ingalls. Not much social interaction there, and my peers were still in high school, so I felt removed from them.

A Bachelors degree in Linguistics (specializing in Welsh, of all things) did not adequately prepare me for any kind of career, and I sort of fell into working in administrative support (I had never taken a typing class, but as a banjo player, I could wiggle my fingers fast). I joined a Young Adult church congregation where I was assigned to teach the women’s class and everyone was older than I was. Little by little, over the years, I was prodded and kneaded and pulled into situations where I needed to act like an extrovert. And I could pull it off. I could make small talk and conduct meetings and teach and interact with work colleagues. And I would often enjoy it at the moment. And then I would go home and crash, exhausted and drained and feeling weepy, without understanding why.

Flash forward thirty-odd years. I was married with three kids and two grand-kids, worked full time for a medical regulatory body, was still teaching at church, and was giving gardening and writing workshops and seminars on the side. I’d written ten books and done some book signings and presentations to book clubs, but writing was no longer something I did for me; it was something I did for others according to external expectations. I developed a few small health problems (not surprising at my age), I was starting to slip into depression, and I just felt a deep need to change something. 

Without really planning it, one day I pulled the Bishop aside at church and told him I needed a break. I said I’d been going full throttle since the age of fifteen, I’d been teaching for over thirty years, and I needed some time to cocoon and just let my inner introvert rest from all this hard work and stress of being forced to act like an extrovert. He agreed and released me from teaching.

About two weeks later, Covid hit.

Suddenly not only was I allowed to cocoon, my political leaders and health authorities were telling me I had to. No interaction with extended family or friends. Work moved home, and I was told not to even shop for food or go outdoors unless absolutely necessary. My inner introvert perked up, blinked around in disbelief, and then broke into a gleeful dance. I couldn’t believe my luck!

And then I remembered that Covid was killing people, frontline workers were strained to the breaking point, the economy was tanking, and the world was in crisis.

But I was giddy with happiness.

What was going on here? Was I an insensitive clod? No, I knew I wasn’t impervious to the distress going on around me. I could feel others’ pain acutely, and watching the news moved me to tears. And I wasn’t just experiencing a shallow pleasure at no longer having to face a long commute or line-ups at the bank. After some examination, I realized I was happy because, at last, I had the chance to be my authentic hermit self without explanation or apology. No one would take offence if I crossed the street when I saw them walking toward me. No one would push invitations on me that I would have to scramble to tactfully decline, or end up having to reluctantly accept. No one expected me to show up at church unfailingly cheerful and friendly and ready to serve. No more face to face meetings. No more figuring out the logistics of travel. I didn’t even have to make small talk with my hairdresser. The relief was deep and visceral. Other people are struggling right now with isolation. I crave it like a hot fudge sundae.

Without enforced quarantine, I may have gone on---unaware---for the rest of my life, suppressing my true self and biting off pieces of me in order to force myself to fit with the world around me. But being granted this chance to slow down, be quiet, and listen to the voice in my head and the pace of my heartbeat has been an unlooked-for mercy.

Of course I want the virus to end. I want to be able to hug my grandchildren and have my kids over for dinner. I want people to be able to resume the lives that make them happy. But I am now acutely aware that one of the key things that makes me happy is solitude. Quiet days spent puttering in my garden. The sun slanting through the window. A good book and a blanket. My dog’s fuzzy head on my foot, under the desk. 

I know at some point I will return to my office. I will go back to the hairdresser and the dog groomer, and I’ll venture into stores---though probably not often. I can enjoy others’ company but recognize and allow for my limits, instead of pushing myself to emotional exhaustion. As life returns to some semblance of normal, I will be better about building into it frequent pauses, pockets of quiet, and opportunities to be alone. I've always known I needed them, but I hadn't realized how keen that need was, and I'd always felt guilty for taking them. Luckily, my husband is good at solitude himself, and he can recognize (probably better than I can) when I need it too. I know I’ll still need to stretch myself sometimes for my own good, like exercising a muscle so that it doesn’t atrophy. But with new awareness, I will also acknowledge what I need, without apology, and allow myself regular time to be a happy hermit.

What have you learned about yourself during the Covid experience?

Politics have Changed

In my scripture reading this morning, I came across this:

"...they began to be scornful, one towards another, and they began to persecute those that did not believe according to their own will and pleasure." (Alma 4:8)

I seem to remember it used to be that people allowed others to have differing opinions. We might argue and disagree and think ourselves superior and correct, but we allowed others the right to have their own opinion. It was understood that the freedom to believe whatever you believed was a privilege extended to all.

It seems more and more lately that what you see (at least as shown on the news) is people being angry that others have differing opinions. They are offended when someone doesn't agree with them. They hate people who see things from a different point of view. And they are dismissive of anything that doesn't corroborate their own view.

In Alma, this led to war and strife and death for many people. History can -- and often does -- repeat itself. I hope we come to our senses before that happens again. That we'll remember it's okay for people to be different from us, to have their own views and values. That compassion and tolerance aren't just pretty slogans on a mug.

Here in Canada, we have what's called the Opposition -- the party that is not in office but is there to provide balance and a differing view, to keep the one in office in reasonable check. Their official role and whole purpose is to be oppositional, to make the leading party remember they need to act in the best interest of all citizens, not just their own supporters. So the ones in power don't ever swing too far to one extreme or another, because the Opposition is there to pull them back and remind them that there are differing views and needs. I think it's a pretty good system -- not flawless, but the intent is right. It's good for all of us to remember to allow everyone to have a voice, not just those that agree with us.

Japanese Garden

The time has come to refurbish the Japanese garden we have in the front yard. Over the years the plants have grown a bit too large, the gravel has scattered or sunk into the ground, and the bamboo fencing has sagged. Last summer we removed the huge hedge around it, leaving bare ground four feet wide on two sides of the yard. So my husband has been valiantly pruning and trimming, and this week Son #3 and I are spreading five cubic yards of gravel and stone. I think it will end up quite nice, and definitely less work than the hedge was. I just need to figure out a "lip" to keep the stones from rolling onto the sidewalk.

And then I'll need to soak in a steaming hot shower for about three days. Stone is heavy!

I should have kept the dog in the attic

So we have a raccoon in the attic. And my lovely dog has hurt his back playing ball too vigorously in the yard. $$$ to get the humane critter-control people to come. $$$ for the vet bill. It seems I could have avoided both problems if I'd kept the dog in the attic.

Lunch in the Garden

This week I made a salad entirely from my back yard: lettuce, spinach, kale, onion, asparagus, radish, wheat grass, and chia leaves. A little homemade poppy-seed dressing. Yum! I love that I can just take a fork into the garden and eat.

I see His face

I woke up this morning with a simple tune in my head that seemed to need words, so I sat down and wrote some. It needs the music with it, really, and will need lots of refinement, but this is where the song stands at the moment:


I See His Face

I see His face behind a plastic shield,
His gentle gaze above the tight-fit mask.
He looks into the eyes of the dying
and holds their hand when family can't be near.

I see His face in many all around me
who do their work in spite of their own fear,
the postal workers, surgeons, and the grocers,
interpreters for those who cannot hear.

(Refrain:)
  We're told to have His visage in our countenance
  that when He comes we'll know Him right away.
  I'll have no trouble recognizing Deity
  because He's here around me every day.

The teacher reading stories in the driveway,
the trucker who would rather be at home,
the children gathered 'round their Grandpa's window
to remind him he is loved and not alone.

Delivering meals, they follow the Deliverer,
standing apart they act as one.
The parent turning into teacher, barber,
counselor, cook, and nurse, they're never done.

(Refrain)

In quiet ways continuing what they always do,
caring, loving, serving in His place,
but now we are aware,
we see they've always been there,
and now that we can see, we see His face.

Six Weeks In

Not a bit stir crazy yet! I'm kind of surprised. I knew I was an introvert, but I hadn't realized just how much I enjoy the quiet home life. And as the weather slowly improves and I can get out into the garden, it will be even more enjoyable. I am content to putter and read and dig and bake and crochet. I really don't need much else. The only thing I really miss is being able to cuddle my grandkids.

What I've Been Doing

Another set of kitchen towels fresh off the loom.

Food in the Time of Cholera---er---Covid

Threw some bread in the bread machine this morning. Thought about making the fat-free loaf, and then thought, "I'm planning to put beans and wieners on it. What's the point?"

Why is it that food tastes so much better right now, while we're staying at home? Is it just that our stressed-out bodies are craving fat and sugar right now to comfort themselves? Or is it that we're finally taking the time to slow down and taste our food without other distractions? How often did I used to eat at my desk, typing at the computer with one hand while holding a sandwich in the other? How often did I drag home at the end of the long work day and throw together just any old thing for supper that was quick and easy? And then eat it mindlessly in front of the television?

This quiet time at home is the chance to redefine our relationship with food. And when I consider it's almost time to start growing vegetables in the garden, I am giddy with joy. The snap of pea pods, the crunch of radishes, the soapiness of carrots, the abundance of kale... God was very kind when he allowed us to help with this tiny bit of creation.

I just have to share this

You may know I work for eleven physicians, and so this video that appeared on Facebook especially touched me. So beautiful. I hope this link works.

Physician Choir

These Are Quiet Days

These are quiet days,

busy lives grown calm and slow,

daily noise distilled to this:

soft humming in the kitchen,

wind whistling at the window,

snapping flames in the fireplace.

No longer in high motion,

multi-tasking, dashing out.

Steps confined to the back yard,

we take the time to listen,

feel, ponder, and to wonder

at bright stars, bird song, sunrise.

No more lunch gulped in the car;

now there's the chance to savour

tart oranges, crisp apples,

nourishment for heart and mind.

There's time for contemplation,

grounding the soul, sheltering.

It's not the time to make plans,

bustle, dream up big journeys.

Content instead with today,

this moment's small joys enough,

full of thanks for simple things,

family and home.

- K (written for my brother's birthday spent quietly at home)