Why I love doing research

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.)

Ominous horoscopes

My horoscope has been full of ominous warnings lately. Do you read your horoscope? I don't read mine regularly, and I don't take it seriously. But every once in awhile I take a glance and something rings true. Lately, my horoscope keeps warning me to slow down, to take time, to rest, lest I risk burn-out.

Hm.

As I contemplate the full evenings, tumbling one after another, and the early mornings, and everything sandwiched in between, it can feel not just relentless but insurmountable. An impossible pace. The readings! The soccer! The writing! The meals! The exercise! I am longing for a week away, come August, when we will go to a cottage and do nothing but eat, drink, and swim. And read! (Remember reading? I do it now at bedtime, and it's a battle between my practical self reminding me to put the book down and go to sleep, and my word-fed self refusing and fighting the lowering eyelids until they literally drop, and the book too.)

Still. Full is good, I tell my horoscope. And there's room, in full, for relaxed stretches of simple play. For instance, I spent nearly three hours outdoors at a park on Tuesday evening. Sure, it was a poorly planned outing and supper was rushed beyond all reason (this is due to being a one-car family, and forgetting, on occasion, that we are). But when we got to the park, super-early for soccer girl's game, the two of us had time to walk together, talk together, and practice soccer together. As her teammates trickled in for the game, they joined in our completely informal practice -- a practice I wouldn't have had the confidence to lead without joining that soccer team myself. It was so much fun. We had so much time, and it was so luxurious. When the real practice started, I went for a short run in the cool woods nearby. Then I watched her game; the boys wandered over after Albus's game to join me. Then we walked over to a nearby field and caught the end of Fooey's game.

We arrived home to supper still on the table, lunches to be made, laundry to be hung, and tired children to put to bed. And it was already well past bedtime. But would I trade that evening outdoors with my children for a different version? I can't imagine anything better.

Or more exhausting.

You may be right, horoscope. But I'm hanging on. I'm hanging on for dear life.

Night Sky Wheel Ride, by Sheree Fitch

Sheree Fitch, the author of Night Sky Wheel Ride, gifted my children with her new book. It is beautiful. Beautiful colours, beautiful lines of poetry, and deeply moving too. My eyes filled with tears as I read it quietly to myself.

What moved me so deeply is Sheree's portrayal of the goodness of a strong sibling relationship. Set at a fair, brightly and magically illustrated, a brother and sister hope to ride on the ferris wheel.

Are we big enough this year, Mama?
Are we brave enough, Brother?
Sister, are you ready to fly?


The repetition and development of these seemingly simple lines struck me with their poignance. Yes, the brother and sister are big enough this year -- a wonderful thing, a moment to celebrate, but also, as all parents know, a sign of change and age. There is always a fragment of mourning in our joy as we watch our children grow.

Yes, they are brave enough. Yes, they are ready to fly. Joy.

I love how the brother and sister are asking each other for support and reassurance. They are testing out their limits and fears together. They are being brave together. They are touching the sky.

Maybe it's because I cherish my own siblings so much. (I posed the book, above, with a photo of me and my brothers, circa 1985.)
Maybe it's because I hope my children will weather the rivalry and jealousy and squabbling, and find in each other real friendship and support.
Maybe it's because Sheree knows what it means to love and to let go.

I don't know. But this book touched me. And I hope you'll take Sheree's night sky wheel ride too.

Birthday party photos

The weekend in suppers

date-night dinner

Sorry, folks. I have not got back into doing my "week in suppers" feature. With soccer almost every night, we're eating early, and that means a rushed and thrown-together meal. Quick sides, lately, include asparagus oven-roasted with salt and olive oil, and spinach salads with homemade dressings. Seasonal happiness. But nothing very special.

However, Kevin and I had an at-home date on Saturday. He sourced the ingredients, and I was the chef. And it was really good. Seared tuna steaks served atop smashed, roasted potatoes, topped with a reduced red wine sauce with capers and scallions. Plus the stand-by of the asparagus mentioned above, also roasted with portobello mushrooms.

Seriously yummy. Kevin made us a couple of martinis. And we watched a funny/sweet movie, completely chosen at random, called Adventureland. I'd recommend it.

:::

Yesterday I ate a banana for supper. Not recommended. I played a soccer game from 4-5:30, then raced home to shower and wash the blood off my knee (seriously; I was playing against a rough defender), and pretty myself up in order to bike to another reading. The banana was all I had time for until arriving home, nearly 10pm, when I devoured Saturday night's leftovers. I love leftovers.

I also managed to bake four loaves of bread yesterday, and make and freeze six meal's worth of turkey stock. Productive! Which is good because Saturday was most unproductive. I felt myself melting into a anxious stasis. General exhaustion. On Friday afternoon, racing to squeeze in one last errand, I found myself fantasizing about just stopping. Standing still, refusing to go on with the tasks before me. Of course, that wasn't an option. Instead, I kept up the momentum, and biked off to pick up the kids from school for swim lessons.

Worst outing ever. (Maybe I should have just stopped everything ...)

It was so hot! Everyone was so grumpy! The complaining! The epic whining! And to top it off, we had one kid bleeding from a pedal injury before we'd even reached our destination. And I hadn't brought bandages. Let's just sum up this adventure by stating for the record: Everyone survived!

Parenthood is not the most romantic occupation. If anyone's trying to tell you otherwise.

:::

On the plate for this week ...

:: I'm in Burlington tomorrow morning at Books & Brunch. Readings start at 9:30am.

:: Wednesday evening, I'm looking forward to hearing my former boss, Noah Richler, talk about his new book What We Talk About When We Talk About War. Here's the invite on Facebook. Join me? Starts at 7pm, at the Laurier Centre for Military and Strategic Disarmament Studies (now that's a mouthful).

:::

One last thing to note. Another lovely blog review of The Juliet Stories, this time from a fellow red-headed mama. Read on.

Unexpected messages

A nice thing has been happening recently. I open my email inbox and discover -- a letter from an unknown person who introduces herself and says she's just read The Juliet Stories, and that she had to write and tell me that the book moved her in some way. (And, yes, so far these messages have all been from women.)

I can't really tell you how bizarre and lovely that feels other than to say that it kind of blows my mind. That people out there are reading the words in my book, and responding to those words. And I'm just here going about my every day work.

Here is someone who read The Juliet Stories and then wrote about it on her blog.

Another reader left a comment on my blog on Mother's Day. She wanted to tell me that her 16-year-old daughter had brought her breakfast in bed that morning -- along with a copy of The Juliet Stories.

:::

This has been a very busy, short week. I've squeezed a lot into four little days, met a few deadlines, made some good contacts, accomplished some research, and even gone for a few runs. And cooked a few meals. And washed a few too many late-night dishes.

And it doesn't stop just because it's Friday. Tonight, I'll be visiting a book club.

:: On Sunday I'm reading at an event called "Un/Certain Words" at the Grad Lounge in the Student Services building at Wilfrid Laurier University, starting at 7pm.

:: On Tuesday morning I will be in Burlington for Books & Brunch, hosted by A Different Drummer Bookstore.

:: And on the following Wednesday, June 6, the Waterloo Public Library has invited me to give a talk about writing, and "green dreams," and The Juliet Stories. More on that last event soon, as details get finalized.

There's more, but that gets us mostly caught up for now, I think. Must squeeze in two more errands before biking to get the kids for swim lessons. Happy Friday!

What am I missing?

empty chair

What am I missing? I asked in my last post.

Well, this morning I was missing my sanity, at least briefly. A left-behind lunch box required a hasty drive to a far-away school. And it felt a bit like the straw on the camel's back. What am I missing? Maybe the whole point. Life is good when it is busy, but it can get just that much too busy. So busy that instead of hugging my kids goodbye, I'm racing out the door yelling hurry, hurry, hurry! Because it feels like there isn't a second to waste.

Is there a second to waste? What, exactly, would I be wasting in that second, anyway?

What am I missing?

Yesterday, a friend's wife passed away. Cancer. I never met her, except through her blog. She was the mother of children close to the ages of mine.

That much-repeated bit of advice about holding your kids while you have the chance? Yes. That's all.

Yes.