47 Days of Thanks/Gratitude, Week 3

Here are the posts from Week 3. To see "What the heck is this?" and weeks 1 and 2, go here and start at the bottom.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 15: I'm grateful for days when the toughest pre-9 a.m. decision is "Is THIS gorgeous sunrise worth taking pictures of?"

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 16: I'm grateful for friends whose infectious laughter cuts through the hubbub of a restaurant and makes everyone smile.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 17: I'm grateful that I stopped to investigate that black thing bobbing in my morning coffee. It WAS a bug. And now it's down the drain, and I get to drink fresh coffee while sitting inside, dry and warm, on a windy, rainy morning.

47 Days of Thanks, Day 18: I'm so grateful the high winds haven't knocked our power ou--

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 19: I'm grateful our power is back on. In this house, that means not only light, heat, refrigeration, and Internet, but also running water! Flush toilets and warm showers!

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 20: I'm grateful that of the ~25 trees we will have to deal with (not counting ones that fell that we're leaving), only two came close to structures, and the damage was minimal (one eave).

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 21: I'm very grateful to be married to someone who, when hearing that trees are down, rubs his hands together and says, "This will be fun!" Then he gets out the chainsaw.

And here's what I learned.

1. Never say "I wonder what Week X will bring." Week 3 brought gale-force winds and a big storm that brought down trees. As you might have gathered. Which was slightly freaky to me, as you also might have gathered. On the up side, being without power for more than 30 hours has made me more mindful of the little things: Lights that come on when you flick the switch. A functioning plumbing system. The invention of things like candles and batteries.

2. Doing this exercise has kept me mindful longer of those things, which is usually not the case. When I'm sick, I long to feel well. But when I'm well, well becomes "normal" and I long for something else. Because of reviewing the things I can be grateful for, the gratitude for normal has stuck around longer.

3. As I told a friend over coffee, I would suck as a Chilean miner. It wasn't so much the discomforts of being without power that bugged me--those were minimal. It was the not knowing, and the many, many arenas in which I couldn't know. When would the lights be back on? Was that balsam at the point coming down on the little camp? Where else would the roof leak? What's happening in town (they also lost power in spots)? That balsam--we should have taken it down but how could we when it wasn't safe? And speaking of safe, when will it be safe to go outside and check the trees? Et cetera.

4. Even in the middle of the gale, there really was a lot to be grateful for. Namely, that I was in a house, however leaky when rain is driven at the windows with such force, and thus relatively safe. Also, 30 hours is not that long in the scheme of things. It's October (though the weather has turned chilly), not January, so heating was not as big an issue as it could have been. Lots of extenuating circumstances and I was more aware than otherwise of those, thanks to this gratitude exercise.

LOTS of learning this week. Evidently I enjoy control and routine. Also being able to take a shower whenever I want. Which isn't learning so much as re-learning or being reminded of. Which is okay, too.

A Clampett Moment (30+ Hours Without Power)

I hail from Oklahoma. Got my higher education in Arkansas. Clampett country, all of it, though I have to say that my own family isn't particularly Clampett-esque. Love the Clampetts. Nothing wrong with 'em. It's just that normally, I ain't one.

However, sometimes having the Clampett cultural reference to draw upon helps explain things. Such as the tires as landscaping aids (which did not in fact get to the dump, er, landfill this summer, darn it all). Even though these things aren't even in the U. S. of A. Even though they're in Canada.

Here's the deal. We have had 30+ power-free hours around here since Tuesday. I don't respond well to the lack of control. Also, with the wind and rain came leakage around the windows. That's water dripping in around the HOUSE windows. Water to the extent that we have to rig up plastic tubs under those beautiful bay windows I love the rest of the time.

Also, when we lose power, we lose the ability to flush toilets and take showers. I can do that when I camp. I can also live by candlelight and huddle near the wood stove. But living in a house should not be camping. Also, the control.

Here's what the wind has been up to. And this is later, when it was calm enough to go outside, y'all.



Here are the other results of those gale-force winds that caused our power outage. They are generally not as bad as they first appear. (This post is labeled "today" even though these are more properly "yesterday.")



This tree is barely kissing the front of the larger camp. No windows were damaged in the uprooting of this tree. No roof damage occurred. Whew.

Speaking of uprooting, let's take a virtual tour of the smaller camp, shall we?

Uh-huh. These would be the roots, as in, "what was left." Here's what happened.



Yikes! I get the willies looking at it and I know how safe this was. Here's the damage:



Yup. That's it. That's all. Just a bit of roof on the corner of the eave. It's not even leaking (from THAT spot, anyway) into the camp structure proper.

We have been watching this tree since May. I would swear I had taken a picture of the base, but perhaps I just shuddered and walked past instead. Anyway, the trunk was pretty well eaten away by bugs and birds.

We (both of us) had wondered how we (Roy) would fell this thing without first fretting us (me) to death. We could not figure out a direction to take it down that wouldn't endanger the camp, other trees, and/or the worker(s).

And now it's done been done fer us.

Whew and double whew.

In the ultimate Clampett moment, Roy said, "At least there's been enough water leaking in to flush the toilets with."

That's my Finn-Swede Clampett husband, folks. Just looking on the bright side.

In Celebration of Our Wedding Anniversary

Dear Mother, to use the name you signed to the letters you wrote,

Sorry to bother you wherever it is you are. I suspect heaven, to be heaven to you, would include a class for you to teach, and you are probably pretty busy. But I think you're going to like what I am going to say. It was something I couldn't or wouldn't tell you while you were alive.

Remember how furious I was with you for selling the middle portion of the family property in the mid-1980s? Of course the property was yours to sell, and you had what you thought were good reasons to sell it. I did grow to appreciate the nice bathroom you added to the bigger camp, because it allowed us to take hot showers while still experiencing the rusticity of the original camp property.

However, the sale occasioned much wailing and gnashing of teeth on my part. Lots of “How could you?” and all that. While I grew quieter about it, I never really got over it. Partly I was afraid that you'd sell more of the property without consulting us kids. But mostly, I grieved the loss of the whole—our family legacy had been ten acres in the most beautiful place in the world, our Paradise, and now the middle was gone.

Not only that, the buyers bulldozed most of the trees and built a honkin' year-round home there. Who knows what nefarious plans they had that would change our experience of the place? And before I could relax about that, they had to sell to some other couple with two kids, all complete unknowns to us. At least these new people owned a canoe, let trees grow up, and left much of the shoreline natural, which we considered hopeful signs.

But still, as the years became a deacade plus, I
harbo(u)red a resentment, the one that starts “if only.” If only I had been older and presumably more flush with the money you needed. If only I had won the lottery or cured cancer or published a spectacular best-seller or otherwise amassed enough wherewithal to prevent that sale. Ah, I sighed, “If only.”

Well, I am telling you today what I should have known all along: you did the right thing. Not only is it okay that you sold the property. It was the wise and right thing to do, and I am grateful for it. You were right, an infinite number of times over.

Here's what happened. The family that bought the house endured happy times and sad times. The kids grew up and spread their wings. The wife grew sick and passed away, because sadness and death come, even in Paradise.

Seasons change. Eras come to an end. You knew this. You had watched your own parents age and, eventually, die. I heard you talk of it, but I didn't understand the consequences of the turning of the earth and accumulation of years. I know now.

As it happened, the man living alone in the house still knew himself to be Paradise, even in the sad times, even in the fallow time after his wife's death. While he waited for life and hope to grow again, he watched the fawns appear and grow until they lost their spots and even had fawns of their own. He saw a fox dancing with snowflakes. He skied over his property, and ours, and he walked carefully and lightly on it, and he saw that it was beautiful.

You'll recognize this, Mommy: “Reader, I married him.” How could I not—a man of such sense and caring, who shares my values so explicitly? Three years (thirty-six months) ago today, in fact, we stood on the beach in front of the little camp where I write this, which your father built 85 years ago. We cried through the reading from Ecclesiastes—“To every thing there is a season and a time to every purpose under the heaven”—and through our vows to ourselves and to each other. This morning, I woke up with my husband in the house you made possible some 25 years ago, when you sold the middle part of our Paradise.

I cannot say enough good things about this man. Get this: he likes the family. Really, he does! He welcomes friends and relatives, some of whom are virtual strangers to us both, and helps them enjoy our Paradise in whatever way they like best. He was my Mr. Knightley in the time of Daddy's sickness and death. He somehow accepts me as I am, with all my imperfections, and yet challenges me to be my best self.

I'm not sure what I do for him. Sometimes I bring him coffee or bake scones. When we go out in the canoe, I let him steer. He gets to do projects. For example, he put a new roof on the little camp and dug the piano out of the collapsing floor in the back room and shored up the floor and foundations. He has the fun of using his chainsaw on the trees that threaten the various structures here. These things seem hardly enough, yet he claims they are plenty.

Mom, I am not daft enough to imagine you could have foreseen this particular life for me. But you and Daddy were people of faith. You believed, among other things, in the inherent goodness of humanity. You believed that we all have the responsibility to do what we believe to be the right thing, even when that action is unpleasant, while trusting that doing the right thing is the best way to serve the greater good. So you showed that faith is a verb. You sold the property and you trusted in the outcome.

And that is the greatest lesson for me in all this. I can't see the future, but I read Ecclesiastes, and I know that death will come again to Paradise. As if I needed a reminder, gold leaves are falling from the birches as I type this. Someday, my husband and I, as well as the rest of your “kids” and grandkids, will have more decisions to make. They may be hard decisions. They may require active trust and faith in the process of birth, death, and renewal, of a time for every purpose under the heaven.

Fortunately, we have your example to guide us.

Best of all, we don't have to make those decisions today. Today, our only decision is whether it's a good day for canoeing, because in Paradise, the best way to celebrate one's third anniversary (or pretty much any day) is by going out in a canoe, or on skis, depending on the season. Or even for a walk, perhaps with a chainsaw or camera.

In closing, Mother dear, I'll say again: thank you—you were right.

Love,
Marion

Hopes for the Summer

This summer is different than previous years in lots of ways. For one thing, in the cosmic sense every year is different (to me) because I'm different. For another, every year is different because the lake is different. Also the trees, some large number of which reach the end of their lifespan and fall down, usually in an inconvenient spot. And this year, we have unrelated people living next door.

It's also a different year because our projects are different. Except for the trees, which never seem to get tired of falling down.

Anyway. See this picture? Speaking of trees and some falling down.



See the green thing on the tree? That's a piece of tape. That indicates a trail. A nascent one. Call it a trail-to-be. For skiing. For walking on. For admiring views.

In previous years, the projects here have been focused on the camp, and seriously structural to boot: shore up the foundation. Put on a new roof. Re-roof the bathroom. This year, knock on wood, we don't have those--just painting, but I suspect that will be like the trees, never what you might call "finished."




But in the distance (like the corner of the "it may be a shack but it's our shack," above), I can see a time when NOT ALL the projects fall into the "because the place will fall apart if we don't" category. We'll be doing things like cutting the deadwood (and junk brush) out of those trails.


When we're not sitting on the beach, of course. (The spots in front of Caribou are kayakers. This is also one of those photos of a loon.)

It will be interesting, come September, to take stock and then to make our new resolutions for the fall. Resolutions being, like trees, never quite finished.

Drawing the Line: Me/Not Me

What is there to say about the earthquake in Haiti, really, except that it gives new meaning to the term "horror," and let's all hope it moves us all to a new personal definition of "compassion."

And then. To add to the physical and emotional suffering, Pat Robertson chose to pile on with some spiritual claptrap: obscenity, profanity, blasphemy, whatever you want to call it. I don't want to legitimize what he said with a summary or even a link. Google it if you must.

However, I do think it's important to say this: Pat Robertson does not speak for me.

Yes, we share some features:

• I, too, am a U.S. citizen.
• I was born and grew up in a state below the Mason-Dixon line, which technically makes me a southerner, as he is.
• I am named Marion. Seriously. He is apparently one of those men named Marion who (yippee) choose another name, like John Wayne, born Marion Mitchell/Robert Morrison. Whatever.

I am also affiliated with Christianity, as Pat Robertson claims to be. My relationship to the faith is difficult to define, exactly, but it includes a history of belonging to Methodist churches. I now go to a church that is part of a Christian denomination: the United Church of Canada.

I have been uncomfortable saying "I'm a Christian" for a long time, in part because of the actions committed by people who are extremely comfortable claiming to be Christian. Like Jerry Falwell. Oral Roberts. Various popes. George W. Bush (also a Methodist, sigh). And now, like Pat Robertson.

But I see, finally, that the Haiti earthquake has created a situation analogous to the political situation in the U.S. during the previous presidential administration. I have said that it's impossible to have a real discussion with conservatives because of people like Ann Coulter, whose venom masquerades as thought. She and her ilk claim to speak for Republicans and True Conservatives. Until intelligent conservatives and Republicans say, "Wait a sec, she doesn't speak for me," we have to assume that she does. Few if any of the people she purports to speak for have taken her on, and political discourse in the U.S. is the worse for it.

It means nothing for liberals and Democrats to point out flaws in her thinking. Her opponents are automatically assumed to be misguided. Not worth talking to. Not worth the air they're breathing. And ignoring her, which some prescribe as the antidote, makes her more bold and shrill.

It's up to the people who she claims as allies to force her into irrelevance. They do this by drawing the line: This stuff over here, this belongs to me. I speak to it, I answer for it. That stuff over there: No. Hers.

So that's what I'm doing in relation to Haiti. As a person-with-relationship-to-Christianity, I must say this: Pat Robertson doesn't speak for me. I can't say that he is not a Christian, but the Christ he purports to know isn't the Christ I know of. The God he claims to serve is not the God I claim.

He has a bully pulpit and a following. But he stands over there, in that space of hatred and self-righteousness. That's his.

And I stand here, without explanation or blame for a disaster such as the earthquake in Haiti, and certainly no blame for its victims. I can do little that is of concrete value to them but give money. I can, however do that. This I claim.

As a side note: I am also extra grateful, these days, for the roof over my head and the Canadian Shield beneath my feet. It's snowing today. I watch the snow drift by and wonder--how long until I have seen 100,000 snowflakes, one for each person expected to die in Haiti?

Things That Go Boomp

From gillies and ghosties and long-legged beasties and things that go boomp in the night: Good Lord, deliver us.

I remember this poster (about 11" X 17") from my parents' home. It hung on the door in the downstairs back bathroom. The image isn't a great photo of the collage, but you can get the idea. Grandma liked sensational images.

Family lore says that the poster really belongs in the bathroom at the "it may be a shack but it's our shack" camp. Not this particular collage, but one like it, spent time in the outhouse in the family's early days of camping. Being out in what feels like the middle of nowhere makes you more attuned to noise. Night trips to the outhouse were among the most frightening experiences of my childhood, except for Fire Prevention Day in grade school, which apparently freaked me right out of my imaginative little gourd (according to my oldest brother, who was babysitting me that night--I don't remember it myself).

I do startle easily, even though we live in a house, not a shack, and even though decades have passed since Fire Prevention Day. The other night we were sitting on the couch. My husband was napping. I was looking out into the darkness where I couldn't see the lake, wondering idly how cold it would get that night.

Then I heard something strange--a quiet kind of thud or two. It sounded a little as if someone came onto our front porch, but no one rang the doorbell. It must be something in the house, I thought (though it sure didn't sound like it). Just as I was able to convince myself that it was nothing, I heard a similar series of thuds, as of walking feet. Even my husband woke up.

Winter is a noisy season in these parts. Snow accumulates on the roof and melts a little when the sun shines on it. Sometimes a bit slides off when you're not expecting it. Sometimes the wind howls through the vent over the stove. The heater gears up in the basement and then begins to blow, and that progression of sounds is different depending on where you stand in the house. The well, pumps, and septic system make their own variety of noises--some happier to hear than others.

It's taken me awhile to get used to the noises, and sometimes I'm still not. Sometimes I still find myself alert in the middle of the night for no reason, awakened all the way by something I can't identify and dismiss. We live in an area that is something like "the country" but also a lot like a neighbourhood. I tend to forget the fact that people live near our cocoon.

The other night, it took a few seconds for us to look at each other and say, "We did hear that, right?" At first, we (meaning I) thought it might be a person--a friendly person. Perhaps someone was stranded and needed help. But we hadn't heard a car or any other sound, like a snow machine. And it was far too cold for someone to be out for a walk and decide to stop by.

When we went to the front door, which is on the land side of the house, we found the cause of the noise: a deer. It stood in silhouette, chewing away at the cedar bushes between the house and the car. Its hoofprints showed in the snow of the sidewalk. Of all the things that could have gone boomp, that was definitely the most picturesque.

It was also reassuring. If the doe was comfortable enough to walk around in our yard and chew the bushes, our neighbourhood must be pretty safe. Or at least it was that night: I slept well. (And yes, I have evacuation routes from each room of this house all planned out. I try not to think about those, though.)

Lessons from Above

I've said this before. When you're at a camp (southern Ontario: cottage; Colorado and Manitoba: cabin; parts elsewhere: I don't know), the line between inside and outside is, well, fluid.

Sometimes more fluid than one would hope, if one would hope a camp structure doesn't include, say, the occasional rodent.

And yet. However blurry the line between inside and outside, the line between up and down remains quite solid, thank you very much. As I re-learned this week.

Last summer, we re-roofed the main part of "it may be a shack but it's our shack."

This summer, we are finishing by re-roofing the bathroom and breezeway. Starting with de-roofing, or pre-re-roofing. As in, destroying.

And I have learned a few Life Lessons.

First, knowing you should stop doing something is NOT the same as actually NOT DOING IT. Specifically, banging my kneecap on the ladder. The first time I thought, "Wow, ouch. I need to not do that again. Okay, lesson learned." The second time, I thought, "Damn, I forgot. But no more." The third time, I thought, "To hell with it. Maybe I should stay off the ladder till I get some physical grace." But not enough time has been invented for that to happen. Fortunately, we were more or less done, but I am not sure I've really figured out how to not bang it.

Second, when you're on a roof prying out nails, be careful to face in the correct direction. If the nail you're working on suddenly comes free and you fall backward, you don't want "backward," "downhill," and "over the edge of the roof" to be anywhere near the same thing. If you're squatting, point your rear end toward the uphill slope. If you're sitting, your feet should be lower than your (banged-up) knees.

Fortunately, I didn't have to learn this Life Lesson the hard way. Having a vivid imagination was enough to catch my attention and ensure that I wouldn't make that mistake. Which probably used up the attention I should have been paying to my kneecap.

Third, as shown in the photo (what you see is the lids of two tin cans, held on by tar to the plyboard roof), there are ways and ways of patching mistakes. Some are uglier than others, some are less effective than others, and some are both ugly and ineffective. Similarly, some are attractive and serviceable. So I'll try for that last combo. Even though I do have to admit that ugly and ineffective patches are kind of interesting from a family history/archeological standpoint 40 years down the road.

So, got that, people? Uphill and downhill are different, as are knowing and doing. Ugly/ineffective is different from attractive/serviceable.

And watch your kneecaps. There's a funnybone in there somewhere, and you really don't want to find it.

I'd Prefer an Expert

A Canadian hardware chain has been running tons of ads lately. It's using a concept in which an employee, looking like someone you'd see in the neighbourhood, smiles and shows a customer something that is apparently just what the customer didn't even know she wanted. Delight all around!

I haven't really paid attention to this campaign until recently, in part because the "just-folks" personalities don't have lines. There's just a manly-man voiceover. But then I figured out what they were singing: "Homeowners helping homeowners."

No, thanks! I don't want the guy next door helping me with a home renovation or repair project. Actually, I personally did even marry the guy next door in part because he knows how to do all kinds of home care projects and cares about my "homes" and he "helps" me (see summer photos of the roof). But in theory, no.

Just like I don't want the couple next door, under the direction and guidance of some "designer" who's famous for being on a TV show, to make over a room in my house in 24 hours. Are you kidding? I've seen what-all that next-door-neighbour couple leaves in their back yard. I've heard their screaming. I've smelled their barbecue.

At the risk of talking about the recent U.S. election again, this commercial echoes the idea that what the public wants is "someone just like them," or "the American Idol" candidate, to run the country. No, we don't. We want someone who knows more than we do, so we can go back to doing what we do best as our contribution to the whole.

So if I have to take time from the work I do best to figure out something in the house, give me an expert to help. Someone with a license and a business and insurance and a track record. And if that's who this hardware chain employs, great--tell me that.

Crapture, Eh?

I've been afraid to say anything about the Canadian installment of The Crapture, or as we will call it, The Crapture, Eh?

Part of my fear is that the final acts of Crapture won't happen before snow flies and we'll be looking at all the stuff under snow all winter and watch it emerge in the Brown Season (aka pre-spring, aka April). However, it's also possible that I will be able to schedule a bin this month.

See, here's the deal. We have structures on this property. One has a new roof, and the old roof had to come off to put that on. Both structures have storage places. The larger structure had a basement. In these storage spaces were large containers full of CRAP. Crap from my grandparents. Crap from the wonderful couple who shared our summers here from about 1970 through the mid-1980s. Crap from my parents.

Crap like this. A plastic bag (stiff and crackling) full of margarine tubs. Dirty torn bedding. Old ice chests. Plastic water containers, broken, with the broken bits in a plastic bag carefully tied to the handle. A billion glass jars (empty, thanks be), some with lids but some without. And (shudder) evidence of mice and squirrels. Brrr.

No more. Now it's all piled next to our woodpile. Well, all except the mouse-infested contents of the work shed back of the bigger house. That's a project for this weekend. It's very satisfying.

But honestly. Look at that pile. No wonder the working title for The Crapture, Eh? was Clampetts in Shuniah.

And if all goes well, I will be able to get a bin out here. Then the last ritual can begin--the winding down of The Crapture. It will feel good.

Wackiness Ensues

I am, of course, speaking of the political conventions south of 49 and the whole political situation up here.

Down south, we have dueling "God's on my side and let the weather prove it" stories. We also have people in clay shoes, which isn't a problem; we're all human and all that--except that you invite criticism when you run on the "holier than thou" platform.

Up here, we have attention span issues. the Prime Minister claims that the opposition parties won't cooperate, when they have rolled over for him on EVERY SINGLE ISSUE. And he's getting away with this claim. It's very perplexing, especially because "everybody knows" that "nobody wants" an election.

In light of these oh-so-serious events, I would like to discuss something near and dear to all of us: television. Specifically, two TV shows from the U.S.; therefore, everyone can follow along. (Canadian television wouldn't afford us this same luxury. My sister had never heard of Little Mosque on the Prairie before this summer. Nobody I tell about the Maria show can believe it. But that's a different issue.)

First, The West Wing and the whole "Gee, Obama sounds like Matt Santos" (the guy played by Jimmy Smits) thing. I can't give you the source, because I read it in a column by the local TV guy, who said he'd read it somewhere but didn't say where, that the lead West Wing writer saw the 2004 Democratic Convention, looked at Obama, and went, "Hey! What if this relative unknown came outta nowhere to be a contender?"

In the West Wing Universe, Santos ran against an elder statesman/moderate Republican senator, played by Alan Alda. I think Alda is taller than McCain, but the casting was pretty obvious. I won't tell who won but honestly, if you don't know by now, rent the show. Start with Season 1. There's some excellent writing. Have your encyclopedia ready to refresh your memory about Smoot and Hawley.

In a sad case of life imitating art, John Spencer, who played Santos's vice presidential candidate, died of a heart attack partway into the last season. The death was written into the show.

So yes, Obama is much like Matt Santos, with some differences. Obama is a senator, where Santos was a member of the House. Obama is African-American; Santos was Hispanic. Both have small kids. Both are relatively unknown. Both depend on the experience of their running mates to give them credibility in the eyes of the public.

Now for the other TV shows. The Republican convention, before it was hijacked by Gustav, seemed to be paying closer attention to Commander in Chief, a short-lived series from 2005. In this program, Geena Davis played a formerly Independent Congresswoman who was chosen as the running mate of a Republican president, who wins. She finds herself in the Oval Office when the President dies of a cerebral aneurism in office.

So, the similarities: Mackenzie Allen/Sarah Palin? Who's that?

My real point is this: in both shows, important people on the ticket die. I hope Biden and McCain are paying attention. Yes, they've both trotted out living mothers. And I would be the last person to play down the relative vitality of today's 60-somethings--one spent the month of July replacing the roof on our yellow camp.

But I do hope they, and the American public, are paying attention. Honestly. Is Sarah Palin someone you can trust as President? And it's a serious question--we should all be doing some homework. After all, the last relatively unknown governor to become President was...

Yeah, that's why.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled wackiness.

Stay-cation

I'm not much for trendy bizspeak, but I happen to like this one.

A stay-cation, for those out of the know, is when you stay at home for your vacation. In some ways, my entire life these days is a stay-cation because I live where I used to go for holidays (and serenity, and sanity, and sanctuary). However, I also work while living here. So living here really is different from coming here on vacation.

Now that the bulk of the WORK-work for the summer is finished, it's time for me to have a holiday (to find serenity and sanity in my sanctuary).

I had a bit of a break when my brother and his family were here for a week. Yet the roof wasn't solid, and the grass grew up around the house, and various other projects needed to be done while the weather was fine.

This time, while my sister is here, I'm trying to make it more of an actual holiday. I may be here, as in online; I may not. I will likely check email--likely discover that nobody has really noticed I'm not online much.

But that's where I am. Sitting on the rock/sand beach with a girl drink in my hand. Avoiding work gloves, yellow rubber gloves, bleach, and Mr. Clean. Ignoring the shop-vac and the lawnmower, the loppers and the chainsaw, and my ear protection (fashionably studded with shoe stickers). Noticing the rowboat and canoe and what my mother used to call "life preservers," aka Personal Flotation Devices.

Wish me luck. Knowing me, I'll be up piddling around on projects within a half hour. But a stay-cation: it's a good goal.

Leak-Free At Last, Leak-Free At Last!!

I could also call this "A man, a plan, a credit card, a few trips to Home Depot, a bunch of sweat, a roof."

But truly, I am rejoicing to the point that "hallelujah" blots out all else.

Saving the 80-year-old structure my grandfather built has been wearing on my psyche since I first really understood that the structure was vulnerable. So, somewhere between ten and fifteen years.

During the first five years, I had to learn to take responsibility. I'm still working on it, but I made huge strides during those years. For one thing, I learned to ask hard questions about legal and financial matters (though baby steps, as it turned out). And like that there.

During the middle five years, I had to learn how to do things. Those years were the hardest--actually into the sixth and seventh years, I still despaired. Any project I undertook to make the place feel less forlorn--painting inside or outside, clearing mouse habitations from various places (ick), spraying against ants eating through the roof--were ultimately undone by the leaking roof.

But before anything could be done about the roof--which actually was replaced maybe ten or twelve years ago, but not properly--we had to figure out how to resolve issues with the building's foundations. Thanks to the weight of a piano over the course of fifty years, the entire back section was sinking into the ground. The front sleeping porch was sliding off to the right, and the bathroom was falling off to the left.

However, the world is a different place today. Since the summer of 2004, I have known that eventually this day would come. We have addressed the issues of the foundation (and when I say "we," I mean Roy). The roof is on (also Roy) and new flooring (ditto) is nearly ready to accept the piano, I hope for 50 more years. Now the tasks I undertake, like painting flooring, aren't equivalent to rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.

Yes, there was more responsibility-taking along the way. Yes, there has been more learning how to do things. But the biggest thing I've learned is that it is possible to find solutions to issues. As a wise woman used to tell me, you always have choices; you may not always like them, but you always have them.

But possibly the biggest lesson I've learned is the true meaning of "labo(u)r of love." And what a gift THAT has been.

Some Other Day--Like Today

You know how it goes: rain rain, go away, come again some other day. It could come today. Really, it could.

Rain has been the theme for this summer.

Early on, rain prevented us from working on the roof at the little camp.

Then it stopped raining and we tore off the roof.

Once the roof was off, it rained some more and we hoped and tarped everything inside and hoped some more.

Then it stopped raining again, and Roy put up the layer of plywood and tarpaper, and that stopped most of the leaks. Warm weather + damp house + suddenly mostly waterproof house = mildew, so that's made cleaning up a bit of a chore. But hey, at least it had become mostly waterproof and cleaning up was no longer synonymous with deck chairs/Titanic.

As of Monday, Roy thinks he's done with the rolled roofing. In other words, he thinks he's done. But now he wants the rain to come, just so he can check.

And of course, rain (plus snow) is what makes the whole project necessary in the first place. As the Arkansas Traveler might have said, when it ain't raining, the roof is as fine as any man's. However, given rain, a new roof was necessary.

In any case, that's why this summer has been all about waiting on the rain.

So come on, rain. And none of that little spitty stuff, either. Give us your best shot. Give us a downpour. Let us sit inside, listening to the patter of rain on the roof instead of the dripping symphony of rain hitting countertops and floor.

Geographically Challenged

If you're not sure where Thunder Bay is, you're not alone. (That's a nearly re-roofed camp, left. All except the roof part.)

And if you live in the U.S., you at least have an excuse. How many Canadians could pinpoint the location of Downey, a city of about 100,000? It's the same size as Thunder Bay, roughly. Give up? I consider myself to be a fairly well-educated person and I had to look it up--and actually, all I know is that it's in California.

Still, one expects some people to know where cities are located. Those who deal with maps every day, for example.

This morning I discovered a geographically challenged person where I least expected it: doing weather on national television. Jeff Hutcheson talks about weather in various locations throughout the country most days and has been doing so for a very long time. Yet he doesn't seem to know where Thunder Bay is.

A reminder: Thunder Bay is in central Canada. When Jeff talks about the West, we're just off the map. Then the map rotates to show the Eastern half of the country, out through the Maritimes. We get a glimpse of Thunder Bay as it rotates, but once the map comes to rest, Jeff stands in front of our spot to talk about weather elsewhere.

All of which is fine, really. We catch our glimpse of the icon for the day, it's usually out of date, and otherwise, we're ignored. That's OK. Often, when you're ignored by the weather person, that's a good thing. No hurricanes.

But today, Jeff said--at least twice--something slightly disturbing. As the map rotated past him, he actually mentioned Thunder Bay and gave our forecast (sunny) and predicted high temperature (25, which is upper 70s in American). And then he said, "And in Ontario..." and described forecasts for other cities.

Jeff: Thunder Bay is IN Ontario. Southern Ontario (including Windsor, Toronto, greater and lesser suburbia, up to Ottawa and Kingston--those "important," or self-important, places) is not a separate province.

Except that it sorta is. Or rather, Northwestern Ontario is.

One of the cottage industries up here (or should it be "camp" industries, that being what people up here call what people in Toronto call "cottages") is complaining how Toronto, specifically the provincial government, is ignorant of Thunder Bay. Solutions to civic problems in large metro areas don't work up here; costs are different; infrastructure needs, as in highways and mass transit, are different; power needs are different; delivery of health care is (or should be) different. Et cetera.

And of course, there is truth in those statements--things up here are different. They're different all across the province. Communities in the far north of Ontario, along Hudson's Bay, face similar yet also different challenges.

And yes, Toronto thinks it's the hub of the universe.

But we're all in one province. Which I'm sure Jeff knows, if he stops to think about it.

Mostly, I think I'd prefer to be ignored. Limbo isn't a particularly comfortable place.

Pronunciation III

And while we're at it...

What do you put cut flowers in?

Where I grew up, we put them in a "vase," which rhymed with "face." Recently, which is to say in the last seven years or so, I have heard more and more people calling that thing a "vahz." Where I grew up, we found all that there fake French stuff mighty pretentious.

However, it has crossed my mind that perhaps "vase" is another word that's pronounced differently here. In fact, I started wondering if it's another word with regional pronunciations in the U.S. (Not much happening on the roof; lots of thinking time.)

Yes, Virginia, what you call the "vase" Santa brought you may vary throughout the U.S., according to dictionary.com. Apparently you can rhyme "vase" not only with "face" but with "phase" as well as "paws." We Oklahoma hicks need to get off our high horses about faux French things.

For "vase," the Canadian dictionary (not online) lists two variations of pronunciation--one with the "a" sounding like that of "barn" and one with the "a" sounding like that of "hot." In both pronunciations, the "s" sounds like a "z."

And how did you mentally pronounce that "z"? Aha! That's a "zed" on this side of the border! What I find most interesting about this pronunciation is that they still sing the alphabet song, and in spite of singing about "gee," "pee," and "vee," not to mention going on to sing "Now I've said my A-B 'sees.' Next time won't you sing with 'meeeee,'" they don't feel the need to rhyme that last letter. They happily sing "double-you, ecks, wye, and zed."

To me, that's just silly. But what do I know. I rhyme "route" with "doubt."

Pronunciation Woes

Sometimes it's not what you say, it's how you say it.

One of this summer's projects is re-roofing the 83-year-old summer place. As you can see, we're taking off green rolled roofing tarpaper stuff (technical term) to expose boards that used to serve both as ceiling and as roof. When we're done with them, they will be merely ceiling. We're putting in a layer of plywood and then more rolled roofing.

My pronunciation problem is with "roof" because I am "supposed" to pronounce it with the "ooo" as in "ooo la la." In contrast, I drop the vowel in "roof," not to the point of "ruff" but somewhere between "ooo la la" and "ruff." I catch crap for it up here, in much the same way I catch crap for pronouncing "route" to rhyme with "doubt" instead of "boot."

So (having enough crap in my life without catching more) I am trying, sometimes consciously and sometimes not, to adjust my pronunciation. (I tend to talk like the people around me, which can get embarrassing when I travel, especially in the Deep South.) In any case, my vowel is ascending. But I stutter with it: "re-roofing," in particular becomes "we-woofing."

This past week or two, I've been pursuing my new hobby of "de-roofing" (I love to pull nails out of boards), also known as "pre-re-roofing." It's a lot of time in which not much is happening in my brain, which has taken the opportunity to go on walkabout and bring back things for me to ponder.

Something that surfaced recently is another "problem" word: niche. I grew up pronouncing it "nitch," but then again, I grew up in Oklahoma, where "route" rhymes with "doubt" and the word "root" doesn't sound like "boot" but instead has a lower, nearly "yuh" sound in the middle. Anyway, "niche": In the U.S., I used to hear more "nitch" than "neesh," but then again, I left as "oh MAJ" (grr) became popular. Up here, I've heard only "neesh" and no "nitch," which one might expect in a country where some people actually learn French.

I recently checked pronunciation guides. In the U.S., "nitch" is preferred, followed by "neesh." And according to my Concise Canadian Oxford Dictionary, "neesh" is the ONLY way to pronounce it up here.

This means that every time I say "niche," I tell Canadians yet again that I am not from around here. Fortunately, it's not a large part of my vocabulary. Plus, I think they can somehow tell I'm not from around here just by looking. I'm still working on exactly how they do that.

Say What?

Recently, I've been catching some crap for how I talk. That's nothing new--in second grade (up here they call it "Grade 2"), my friends coached me to speak properly. I learned to say the word "borrow" as "BAH-roe" instead of "BORE-oh," and "tomorrow" became "to-MAH-roe" instead of "to-MORE-oh." According to these Oklahoma gals, I had learned to "talk funny," presumably because of my "foreign mother."

Imagine our family's surprise when we realized that everyone in Thunder Bay shared our mother's idiosyncratic pronunciations. In fact, the folks up here sounded weirder. Everyone here says "PASS-ta" for pasta, as my mother did. However, she'd lost the tendency to say "BATT-ree" for battery, which is normal here. I never heard her pronounce "corollary" as "kuh-RAW-luh-ree" instead of "CORE-oh-lair-ee"--also normal in these parts.

Roy informed me last week that the Premier of Ontario isn't the "pre-MEER," he's the "PRE-meer."

Those decals you put on your car windows are "DECK-els," not "duh-KALS."

You say "roof" with your lips pursed--I invariably say "woof" instead--instead of tending toward the short "u" sound, as in "rut." Also, "route" doesn't rhyme with "about"--think "root," those things plants send underground. Only not "root" as I've heard is pronounced down south, which also tends to "rut."

Canadians, of course, are all polite and most strangers, therefore, don't give me crap about my accent to my face. However, sometimes they can't help themselves. When I was ordering the tray of Nanaimo bars for our wedding, the woman at the deli asked me to repeat myself several times and finally said, "I'm sorry; your accent throws me off."

MY accent? She was kidding, right? I'll just sit in my office (view in the photo) and ponder that.

Progress: Invisible but Indelible

Today, we are working again at the small family camp. This morning, I got quite a shock. In the back kitchen, I pulled on the door to the kitchen and stood, open-mouthed, as the door swung free.

That door has stuck on the concrete floor for ten years. Part of learning to be there is learning at what point on the door's arc to lift up so you can open the door all the way. But today, it opened all the way to the shelving on the wall behind it. No scraping. No sticking. Not even any creaking.

It's a little thing, but it's a welcome sign. Starting early Sunday afternoon, we altered our M.O. for fixing the smaller camp. We moved from the inside floor to the outside walls of the bathroom. The bathroom is a semi-separate structure added to the main house in the late 1960s. The bathroom has been falling backwards away from the rest of the house for at least the past decade. Roy figured out that because all the various roof sections are connected across the entire house, and because some of the walls are standing mostly because they're attached to the roof (the flooring beams and joists are rotten in a large area), we have to fix the bathroom sooner rather than later.

Once the bathroom structure is upright and stable, we can then go back to the beams inside the house and get them upright and stable. The walls, too.

Eventually, when we're done tinkering around with the foundations and solidity of the place, we can put that new roof on, which is what I've been wanting for a good five years anyway. When the roof no longer leaks, then the inside won't deteriorate further and we can paint walls and floors. Then it will be easier to enjoy being there--currently, it's tough to overlook all the projects that need to be done and have a simple vacation.

Meanwhile, the little bit of work we've done on the bathroom is invisible when you're standing inside the main structure. The walls are still skew-gee. The back kitchen still sinks toward the spot where the piano was. Still, the work has yielded visible results: the door opens easily. Progress. We are making a difference.

What Archimedes said was true: give me a lever and a place to stand, and I can move the world. He was right in the metaphoric sense, too--given a little success, my imagination can conjure the end state. We're not there yet, but we can see it from here.

Inside? Outside?

Sometimes it's pretty easy to distinguish between "inside" and "outside." Or, depending on what you call it, "indoors" and "outdoors." If you've ever been camping, you may know where I'm going with this.

My husband lives in a pretty traditional house, where the above picture was taken (of the rain, sorta, through a screen door). (Yes, I will soon live there too. What can I say, it's a process.) When you walk into his house, you cross a threshold into "indoors." There, you are protected from the rain. It's a small three-dimensional part of the planet that is climate-controlled, for the most part. Even with all the hoop-de-doo in the past ten years about "indoor/outdoor living," the spaces are pretty much separate.

However, the situation is different at our family camps. One is more house-like. It was built only about 50 years ago. It's uninsulated, one-and-a-half stories, with cubbyhole bedrooms in a semi-finished upstairs, one bathroom (added in the 1980s), and a pump organ. Because my grandparents wanted it there, that's why.

The other camp, the "little" one, 80+ years old, is far less house-like. Only boards separate its occupants from elements--no insulation, no interior walls. The roofing boards are covered by tarpaper roofing material which desperately needs to be replaced.

When it rains, as it has for the past couple of days, it's even more difficult to tell whether you're indoors or outdoors, even if you're standing on wood flooring under spruce beams. You're likely to be standing under a persistent drip as well. The foundation beams, which were sturdy enough 80 years ago, sag in spots. We're working on shoring up the back room, now, and after the foundation is solid there, we'll put a new roof on. That will help separate the indoors from the outdoors.

Still, even with these improvements, only the faintest of lines will prevent those staying at this little camp from being outside. That's part of the allure, of course. Waking up in the morning to the music of waves and loons and gulls--well, there's nothing like it. And that's why my family wanted this camp in the first place.