Wednesday, Jun 6, 2012 | Chores, Kids, Play, Readings, Soccer, Word of the Year, Work, Writing |
how does your garden grow?
It never rains but it pours.
Those old tried and true phrases sure are tried and true. My kids love them, especially AppleApple, who is a word-fascinated child, and a writer in the making. Here is a funny poem she wrote recently: “I dropped a glass upon the floor / My mom came charging like a boar / Now I have an extra chore / To pick that glass up off the floor.”
“You captured me very accurately,” I said. (I hate messes; I probably do charge exactly like a boar when I hear the sound of a giant mess being made.)
“But I don’t really have chores to do,” said AppleApple.
Well, we all make things up. If you’d like to hear about the things that I make up, you can come to the Waterloo Public Library this evening at 7pm. I plan to read a story I’ve not read before, and will also be answering questions like, Did that really happen? What’s true? What’s invented?
It is raining and pouring very nice things these past few days. It is raining writing work, frankly, and I’m pleased. Some of the work I’ve been doing is essentially invisible. I’ve even taken on work minus a byline because the pay is good. Perhaps as a proud writer, I should not confess such things. I work just as hard on every single task, whether or not I’m getting credit, due to my obsesssive-compulsive character. But then, I work just as hard on learning how to kick a soccer ball, truth be told. It would be nice to be able to regulate this dial, to turn down the inner perfectionist, but hey. It’s brought me here. I accept it.
Not to get too far off topic, but I’d like to share my theory about work. I figure I’m about a decade behind where I would have been, had I stayed at my job at the National Post. And I’m not fussy about it, or regretful in the least, because those were years well-spent with my children, and yes, I did continue to write fiction throughout. But I also accept that I have catch-up work to do, and experiences to gain, and therefore I’m willing to take jobs that are not particularly glamourous. Experience is experience. I would like to be an excellent interviewer, and I would like to write stories that dig deep into subjects that call out to be explored, to have light shone upon. Those are my goals. This is the path I’m choosing.
As a proud writer, I’m also thrilled to share the news that I’ve been invited to the Vancouver International Writers Festival in October. Insert large paragraph of exclamation marks, here:
I’ll also be at the Winnipeg Writers Festival in September, and Eden Mills Writers Fest also in September. And Word on the Street here in Kitchener. It will be a busy fall.
Meantime, back to work. I’ve got some interviews to do.
Tuesday, Jun 5, 2012 | Readings, Soccer, Writing |
Writing this morning. Soccer this evening. Meals and children in between.
If you want to see me, or talk about The Juliet Stories, or blogging, or writing, come to the Waterloo Public Library tomorrow (Wednesday) evening, 7pm. I’ll be there.
Meanwhile, I’ll be here, working with words. Wish me luck.
Monday, Jun 4, 2012 | Chores, Cooking |
trampoline kids at dusk; not food-related …
**Monday’s menu** Noodles in broth. Spinach salad with strawberries and sunflower seeds.
**Last-minute** I was doing a writing week, of sorts, so our babysitter stayed until late, and I had little time to throw something on the table before the girls’ dance class at 6. Leftover noodles went into homemade stock. Admittedly unexciting, even jazzed up with Chinese five-spice. But the salad was a hit.
**Tuesday’s menu** Black bean chili with steamed rice.
**Oops** Again, it was a writing afternoon, and I was late letting our babysitter go (she actually had to knock on the office door because her husband was here to pick her up!). And then I realized supper had to be whipped up from scratch in about twenty minutes. Which is exactly how much time it takes to steam white rice on the stove-top. Leftover black beans were quickly turned into chili, thanks to my home-canned tomatoes, and a bag of last-summer’s frozen corn. This was the evening that we realized we have only one car. Which we do know, but somehow temporarily forgot. That meant six people gobbling supper and racing out the door en masse. AppleApple and I were dropped at the field forty-five minutes before warm-up officially started. But we made lemonade out of these lemons, and had a blast practicing together in the warm sunshine.
**Post-soccer-tableau** Arriving home at nearly 9pm, with tired children in tow, it is not the most thrilling sight to view upon the table: the abandoned meal and accompanying dirty dishes. Sigh.
**Wednesday’s menu** Salmon roasted on the bbq, baked potatoes, steamed broccoli.
**Last-minute, again** I invited my former boss, Noah Richler, to come for supper before his reading in Waterloo, and he accepted, and was kind enough to remind me, when I worried, that he comes from a family of five children and is familiar with kid-induced chaos. It was another writing day, and I decided to ignore the messy state of the house. Before dashing off to the girls’ piano lessons, I scrubbed a bunch of potatoes and put them in the oven. When Albus called my cell to say he and friends were home from school, I instructed him to turn on the oven. This works really well, actually. On the way home from piano, I swung by our local fishmonger and bought 3 pounds of beautiful salmon. Kevin cooked it perfectly. We were again racing against the clock as I’d discovered at around 4pm that CJ had his “congraduation” from nursery school starting at 6pm — and that he really wanted to go (cake and juice had been promised!). But with some good team-work, supper was on the table and we dined with enough time.
**Passable** I would categorize this meal as bland, but fine. The salmon was tasty. Everything else was terribly plain. I put salt and pepper on the table.
**Thursday’s menu** Leftovers: baked potatoes warmed up, with chili and rice.
**Uninspired** But it saved me time.
**Friday’s menu** Hot dogs and buns from Bailey’s pickup. Plus roasted asparagus, and cherry tomatoes.
**Easy-peasy** No rush, no hurry. A late meal, because we had swim lessons first, and then Bailey’s pickup (Bailey’s is our go-to source for much wonderful local food), but the kids snacked on cheese sticks and pretzels and we enjoyed relaxing around the table together. And then we watched Modern Family! A perfect end to a busy week.
**Saturday’s menu** Pad thai with shrimp and tofu; hot and sour soup.
**Because** We had all the ingredients on hand, and I received a burst of energy at the end of the day, when Kevin arrived home from his training class. It cheered me up to cook and feel productive after a lazy, rainy, blustery, quiet, indoors day.
**Leftovers** We ate the leftovers for Sunday’s supper, along with carrots. And that’s the week!
Now, what’s on the menu for this week ….?
Sunday, Jun 3, 2012 | Big Thoughts, Chores, House, Running, Sleep |
newly arranged living-room
Saturday. Day of quiet and rain.
Sunday. Day of hopping out of bed early for a long run. Oh, and more rain.
Saturday evening we decided to rearrange the living-room. I’m not sure why, but it always makes me happy to rearrange a room. Baking bread has a similar effect on my spirits. So does going for a run. Life is full of simple cures that are next thing to free for the taking.
practicing for imminent piano recital
The newly arranged living-room changes the focus, upon entering the house, away from the television. (Hurray!) Instead, you’ll see the beautiful painting, as shown in the top photo, by Barry Lorne, which he generously gave us as a wedding gift. You’ll see books, too. Hidden behind the old brown couch is the art section. There is room for a communal computer.
Here is what I am thinking about on this blustery weekend.
This morning it was so easy to go for a run. Yesterday, I felt lethargic, as immovable as stone. Life may be full of cures free for the taking — but I confess that some days it is harder than others to take that first step, to put the best plan into motion. There have been times, lately, when I wonder what I’m doing wrong, wonder why I’m so tired, why I’m dropping the ball as often as not. Maybe I wish I were superwoman, leaping from role to role effortlessly, existing on little sleep, splendidly strong and competent and certain.
Instead, I’m just plain me. Rearranging the furniture, and making pad thai for supper, and falling asleep on the couch with a book.
Friday, Jun 1, 2012 | Writing |
I’ve been doing research recently on the 1920s, particularly here in Canada. To that end, I pulled a few books off the library shelves purely for their photographs. I need to see something to feel like I really know it. (Even better to walk through it, smell, taste and hear it, absorb it; but I haven’t figured out how to time travel yet.)
A few days ago, I opened one of these books of photographs and thumbed through. I was looking to see what children would have worn on their feet in summertime (I’m guessing most went barefoot). And suddenly I was stopped cold and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. For real. I’d turned to a page that showed two photographs. One was of a large family posed around their car, in front of their stone farmhouse. The other was of a group of men working in front of a barn.
I knew that farmhouse. I lived in that farmhouse.
The caption said that George Black, of Ayr, Ontario was a farmer who welcomed technological advances. The caption went on to say that George Black had himself been an inventor who built a windmill on his barn that powered a lathe and a grain separator.
I knew that windmill. I knew that barn.
My family lived in the Black farmhouse from 1987 until 1991. The Black family had died out, and the farm had been bought by the neighbouring farmer who rented the somewhat restored farmhouse to us. We also had use of the barn and some acres surrounding the house. The house and barn were endlessly fascinating to us — filled with odd inventions, and relics from the past. We knew that the Black family name had died out with George’s children, and we knew that the house had last been occupied by two sisters who never married. We gathered clues from the things we found on the farm. My siblings and I made up a lot of things, too, for the purposes of thrilling guests. (It was a good house for ghost stories.)
But the one thing we never saw was a photograph of the family who had cleared the land and built this house and lived in it. And there they were, smiling out of an odd little book of Canadian history, published in 1988, which I just randomly happened to pull off the library shelf. The photo credit says “private collection,” so there’s no tracking it down.
I wonder. Have they come back to me for a reason?
(And I apologize: I don’t have a scanner and can’t illustrate this post with the photo; ghostly face discovered on chalkboard will have to suffice.)
:::
Update: My dad has scanned the photos for me. Here is the family with their car, in front of their beautiful fieldstone farmhouse (which, if I recall correctly, was built in 1874). Wow.
