One of my dear cousins had a terrible chore to do this spring: emptying the house she grew up in.
She's an only child, so at least there weren't any fights over an inheritance. Her father died quite some time ago, and it's been a couple of years since her mom passed, but she needed to wait to bring herself to start dispersing the house.
In the end, she held an auction, the old-fashioned 'countryside' variety, with tables on the front lawn and a church group offering hot dogs and pop and pie at a lunch table. It must have been a nasty job getting ready: not only dealing with the detritus of two lives and a marriage, but also sorting through her own grief and loss, and in a way, losing her family all over again, as items are discussed and bid on, then scattered to other peoples' homes.
I was there if not to bid on anything, at least to stand near my sweet cousin and just (boy do I hate this far overused phrase) be there for her. Eight other cousins made the trek to the farm for the sale, too, along with every remaining aunt and uncle well enough to travel. It was pretty fun watching two aging aunts, both of whom have a certain level of hearing loss, thinking they were being stealthy as they contemplated certain items at the top of their lungs. "That was Mum's, you know," one of them bellowed, pointing at a sturdy little rectangular glass measuring cup. The other one hollered back, "I remember she kept it in the drawer at the top of that dresser in the old kitchen..."
I had my eye on a few things, and sadly missed out on a gorgeous old 8-cup glass mixing bowl because I was in a laugh-fest with a cousin about an old blue enamel drinking cup we all remembered from the shelf at the top of Grandma's wood cookstove. It was the cup designated for thirsty grandchildren to use on our regular Sunday afternoon visits. It was never washed, just rinsed and put back on the shelf for the next kid to use. There was a chip in the rim that I can feel even now. It turns out, each of us asked our parents about that cup when they went through the divesting process twenty years ago at my grandparents' house. One cousin was texting her sister about it, joking that 'THE CUP" had just sold to a stranger for 2 bucks. We were laughing at how quickly she would get back to us, when I missed my chance and the auctioneer sold 'my' bowl, right into the hands of another cousin! Oh, well, it would have been awkward to have gotten into a bidding war with her, anyway.
Plus, just a few minutes earlier, I had snagged another, very cool glass measuring cup. I had been my grandmother's, and apparently, she stored it in a drawer at the top of a dresser, in the old kitchen.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010- Staycation
I'm enjoying an extra-long long weekend this week, using up the vacation time I just didn't manage to take over the last year. I certainly never thought I'd be one of those people forced to take their holidays, but when you love what you do, it's not hard to find several months slipping by.
It's tragic, really, how the weather has turned, leaving me basking in sunshine and 20s, just in time for the week off. Now, don't tell 97.7's Garden Guru, Heather Ritchie, but yesterday, I went ahead and planted the tomatoes I had grown in a sunny south-facing window this spring. I'm pretty sure we're safe from any more freezes. We now enter watering season.
My plans for this week were simple: I was going to read. I was going to sit in my backyard and read the big stack of magazines and books that have been growing and growing on my bedside table. Haven't cracked one yet. First, there was a rather full weekend, then a Toronto visit with a girlfriend for an awesome dinner and much giggling. That was followed by a morning at the St. Lawrence Market, where there are still a few things for sale that I can't get up here; not many any more, but just try to find Wakame for miso soup anywhere "north of nine".
Today, I really will sit down, I swear - just as soon as I return the wrong-sized cushions for our outdoor chairs and replace them with the right-sized ones. Oh, and walk the dog and hang some laundry and move those plants that are crowded by the rhubarb, and while I'm at it, make a rhubarb pie and mow the lawn and .... I think I know why people wanting a rest actually leave town!
Once I finally manage to sit, these are the books I'm planning to finish this week: I Am Hutterite, Making Toast, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and The Imperfectionists. Two memoirs, two novels. A nice balance. Better get to it.
It's tragic, really, how the weather has turned, leaving me basking in sunshine and 20s, just in time for the week off. Now, don't tell 97.7's Garden Guru, Heather Ritchie, but yesterday, I went ahead and planted the tomatoes I had grown in a sunny south-facing window this spring. I'm pretty sure we're safe from any more freezes. We now enter watering season.
My plans for this week were simple: I was going to read. I was going to sit in my backyard and read the big stack of magazines and books that have been growing and growing on my bedside table. Haven't cracked one yet. First, there was a rather full weekend, then a Toronto visit with a girlfriend for an awesome dinner and much giggling. That was followed by a morning at the St. Lawrence Market, where there are still a few things for sale that I can't get up here; not many any more, but just try to find Wakame for miso soup anywhere "north of nine".
Today, I really will sit down, I swear - just as soon as I return the wrong-sized cushions for our outdoor chairs and replace them with the right-sized ones. Oh, and walk the dog and hang some laundry and move those plants that are crowded by the rhubarb, and while I'm at it, make a rhubarb pie and mow the lawn and .... I think I know why people wanting a rest actually leave town!
Once I finally manage to sit, these are the books I'm planning to finish this week: I Am Hutterite, Making Toast, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and The Imperfectionists. Two memoirs, two novels. A nice balance. Better get to it.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
May 8, 2010- Where the bunnies might be...
I think I might have a clue today to where the Missing Bunnies of Hume Street might be.
As I walked the beloved pooch the other day on the rail-side trail north of Collins street, a fellow dog-walker was still and staring up to the pine trees to the west of the tracks. She had found the Great Horned Owl family that has taken up residence in the area! I have been hearing rumours from the outdoors-minded around here of a developing rookery, but I had seen no evidence, in spite of clear instructions: "On the back of Sproule, just up the trail!"
But there they were, two of 'em and I realize now there's a reason they're named the Great Horned Owl, rather than the decent horned owls, mediocre horned owls or reasonable horned owls; they're enormous.
They don't move much, either, or didn't while I was there, staring. Although I'm pretty sure I got a whiff of bunny when I saw one burp.
As I walked the beloved pooch the other day on the rail-side trail north of Collins street, a fellow dog-walker was still and staring up to the pine trees to the west of the tracks. She had found the Great Horned Owl family that has taken up residence in the area! I have been hearing rumours from the outdoors-minded around here of a developing rookery, but I had seen no evidence, in spite of clear instructions: "On the back of Sproule, just up the trail!"
But there they were, two of 'em and I realize now there's a reason they're named the Great Horned Owl, rather than the decent horned owls, mediocre horned owls or reasonable horned owls; they're enormous.
They don't move much, either, or didn't while I was there, staring. Although I'm pretty sure I got a whiff of bunny when I saw one burp.
Friday, May 7, 2010
May 7, 2010 Whither Buggs et al?
One of my favourite sights on the streets of Collingwood is the family of bunnies that live on several properties around Hume and Peel streets. I first started noticing them a few years ago and their population really seemed to swell in the last few years. They were reproducing like, well, rabbits.
Their little noses and funny ears make me smile every time I see them, which has been pretty much every day for the last couple of summers.
But the bunnies are nowhere to be seen this year, nor is there any evidence of their long-eared ways. Even my doggie doesn't seem to know where they've gone, and she always gets very excited to pass through their territory, sniffing wildly at their no-doubt cute smells.
It's a little distressing, not to mention dangerous, since I crane my neck in all directions when I go through that area of town.
Where'd they go?
Their little noses and funny ears make me smile every time I see them, which has been pretty much every day for the last couple of summers.
But the bunnies are nowhere to be seen this year, nor is there any evidence of their long-eared ways. Even my doggie doesn't seem to know where they've gone, and she always gets very excited to pass through their territory, sniffing wildly at their no-doubt cute smells.
It's a little distressing, not to mention dangerous, since I crane my neck in all directions when I go through that area of town.
Where'd they go?
Friday, April 30, 2010
April 30, 2010- Not Really Spring Cleaning
If it rains tomorrow, as it is scheduled to, I have an inside job all ready to go.
I'm going to tackle The Beast, the beast I call Wedding World. WW lives in my basement and has done so since we moved into our house six years ago. Six or seven shelving units filled with miscellaneous things, mostly kitchen-type stuff received as wedding gifts, things that have not yet made it into circulation in the house. They're just.... well.... not our taste. (is that a polite way to say ugly?)
It's been, yes, six years. But while we really could use the extra space, we can't just throw out the items in WW, or sell them at a yard sale; that would be plain wrong. They were heart-gifts: carefully chosen by people we cared enough about to invite to Our Big Day. Furthermore, I know if I had a yard sale, somehow the gift-givers would show up, especially the givers of the very ugliest gifts.
It's terrible having this kind of guilty conscience. Even though I suspect one particular box of kitchen storage boxes was actually a regift, unless the other tag is actually in there, I can't tell and there it sits, accusingly. These items are occasionally moved around within the basement, although, generally just to the other things around them, the ones I actually use and, well... like.
So this weekend, since I can't bring myself to part with these tactile pieces of affection, Wedding World is officially being moved to another corner of the basement. Where at least I won't trip over all that love.
I'm going to tackle The Beast, the beast I call Wedding World. WW lives in my basement and has done so since we moved into our house six years ago. Six or seven shelving units filled with miscellaneous things, mostly kitchen-type stuff received as wedding gifts, things that have not yet made it into circulation in the house. They're just.... well.... not our taste. (is that a polite way to say ugly?)
It's been, yes, six years. But while we really could use the extra space, we can't just throw out the items in WW, or sell them at a yard sale; that would be plain wrong. They were heart-gifts: carefully chosen by people we cared enough about to invite to Our Big Day. Furthermore, I know if I had a yard sale, somehow the gift-givers would show up, especially the givers of the very ugliest gifts.
It's terrible having this kind of guilty conscience. Even though I suspect one particular box of kitchen storage boxes was actually a regift, unless the other tag is actually in there, I can't tell and there it sits, accusingly. These items are occasionally moved around within the basement, although, generally just to the other things around them, the ones I actually use and, well... like.
So this weekend, since I can't bring myself to part with these tactile pieces of affection, Wedding World is officially being moved to another corner of the basement. Where at least I won't trip over all that love.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
April 27, 2010 - Finishing Up
I always thought I was a finisher. 'Get the job done, even if it's not perfect.' But I've had to have a wee re-think on that, considering I am just now, four long years after beginning a modest renovation on a powder room, finishing it off.
To be fair, it was an unintentional renovation. I just wanted to see whether there was real oak underneath that hideous grey paint. By the time I got five layers of paint off one wainscoted wall, I had ruined the linoleum. Since I was pulling up the linoleum, it only stands to reason I should get rid of the ugly vanity, and if the vanity had to go, we might as well get a new loo, the low-flow, environment-friendly kind, and since we're putting in a sink, well, we might as well pull out that ugly cupboard while we're at it. Plus, in addition to the five layers of paint, (probably lead paint, which would explain a lot..), there were three layers of wallpaper, and I had to learn how to tile and grout.
But still; four years?!
Again, to be fair, two of those years were foolishly spent waiting for the return of a plumber after I said, 'Oh, I'm not in a hurry..." when he asked when I wanted some pipes moved and replaced. Happily, in November, my sweetheart and his friends found the time to rip out the old pipes and replace them with new ones. Funny enough we now have extra water pressure upstairs, too.
And finally, I can see the finish line. I've figured out the basic carpentry (and only had to re-purchase one the boards for the bulkhead after screwing it up...), I've boxed in the new pipes, installed a piece of drywall, mudded, sanded, and today could be the day I paint. We'll see. I have even figured out how I'm going to repair the trim I mangled in my excitement to install the new sink. A lovely carpenter gifted me with a nailset, so my new trim will be tidy.
Yes, in another couple of months, after I've used up my last excuse, I will finally be able to say, "Oh, indeed, I did the whole thing myself; it wasn't hard at all!"
To be fair, it was an unintentional renovation. I just wanted to see whether there was real oak underneath that hideous grey paint. By the time I got five layers of paint off one wainscoted wall, I had ruined the linoleum. Since I was pulling up the linoleum, it only stands to reason I should get rid of the ugly vanity, and if the vanity had to go, we might as well get a new loo, the low-flow, environment-friendly kind, and since we're putting in a sink, well, we might as well pull out that ugly cupboard while we're at it. Plus, in addition to the five layers of paint, (probably lead paint, which would explain a lot..), there were three layers of wallpaper, and I had to learn how to tile and grout.
But still; four years?!
Again, to be fair, two of those years were foolishly spent waiting for the return of a plumber after I said, 'Oh, I'm not in a hurry..." when he asked when I wanted some pipes moved and replaced. Happily, in November, my sweetheart and his friends found the time to rip out the old pipes and replace them with new ones. Funny enough we now have extra water pressure upstairs, too.
And finally, I can see the finish line. I've figured out the basic carpentry (and only had to re-purchase one the boards for the bulkhead after screwing it up...), I've boxed in the new pipes, installed a piece of drywall, mudded, sanded, and today could be the day I paint. We'll see. I have even figured out how I'm going to repair the trim I mangled in my excitement to install the new sink. A lovely carpenter gifted me with a nailset, so my new trim will be tidy.
Yes, in another couple of months, after I've used up my last excuse, I will finally be able to say, "Oh, indeed, I did the whole thing myself; it wasn't hard at all!"
Thursday, April 22, 2010
New Year's, Christmas, Your Birthday and the Last Day of School
Yes, every favourite day of the year, wrapped in one fish-scented, hungover, sleepover campout weekend for the boys.
As I write, three grownup, responsible men are in my living room, agonizing over the grocery list for Fishin' Season Weekend. Somewhere in Niagara Falls, a different set of grownup, responsible men, are rifling through assorted frozen meat from a year's worth of hunting, to bring to share.
It's hard to describe how big FSW is to these guys, and my sweetheart in particular. They talk about it all year long, keep track of the weather for several weeks in advance, keep photo albums of adventures from years past and every 'last Saturday of April', off they go to a favourite spot in a bend of the Pretty River, the same one they've been going to since high school. They pitch their tents, drink some beer (caesars or scotch nowadays), and tell tall tales about FSWs past. Like the time one friend took a swim in the 'empties pool' (literally, one of those little plastic backyard swimming pools), and needed nine stitches. I'm so sorry for the nurse who had to look after him. Or the time two girls fell into the river while dancing, and had to hang their clothes by the fire, watching them steam in the frigid April night. Or how's about the nickname one of the guys was given because of his antics in 1987, and who goes by that nickname to this day?
These days, the equipment is high tech; no styrofoam coolers of cheap beer. One guy has a teepee complete with a woodstove and camping cots, another brings a whole tricked-out camping kitchen, complete with drawers for storage and an oven.
Friday night at midnight, the trout streams officially open for the season. It's the reason for FSW in the first place, and sometimes, someone will even catch a fish.
But mostly, it's about the friends, and now, the memories.
And I vow never to fall in the river again.
As I write, three grownup, responsible men are in my living room, agonizing over the grocery list for Fishin' Season Weekend. Somewhere in Niagara Falls, a different set of grownup, responsible men, are rifling through assorted frozen meat from a year's worth of hunting, to bring to share.
It's hard to describe how big FSW is to these guys, and my sweetheart in particular. They talk about it all year long, keep track of the weather for several weeks in advance, keep photo albums of adventures from years past and every 'last Saturday of April', off they go to a favourite spot in a bend of the Pretty River, the same one they've been going to since high school. They pitch their tents, drink some beer (caesars or scotch nowadays), and tell tall tales about FSWs past. Like the time one friend took a swim in the 'empties pool' (literally, one of those little plastic backyard swimming pools), and needed nine stitches. I'm so sorry for the nurse who had to look after him. Or the time two girls fell into the river while dancing, and had to hang their clothes by the fire, watching them steam in the frigid April night. Or how's about the nickname one of the guys was given because of his antics in 1987, and who goes by that nickname to this day?
These days, the equipment is high tech; no styrofoam coolers of cheap beer. One guy has a teepee complete with a woodstove and camping cots, another brings a whole tricked-out camping kitchen, complete with drawers for storage and an oven.
Friday night at midnight, the trout streams officially open for the season. It's the reason for FSW in the first place, and sometimes, someone will even catch a fish.
But mostly, it's about the friends, and now, the memories.
And I vow never to fall in the river again.
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