Bonfire Night

Remember remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder, treason and plot.

I see no reason why gunpowder, treason

Should ever be forgot...

On a clear, cold November night, the time is right to gather friends around a bonfire to herald the shorter days that are upon us, and to remember the story of Guy Fawkes. This English tradition of burning a "Guy" to represent the man who, in 1605, attempted to blow up the British Parliament has taken on contemporary meaning as thousands of protesters involved in the "Occupy Wall Street" movement donned Guy Fawkes masks, perhaps celebrating his rebel's spirit.

Around here, we build a "guy" out of old clothes stuffed with newspaper. I proudly draw his face; somehow, I always manage to capture that expression of both defeat and disdain for his captors that I imagine Guy Fawkes wore when it came time for his exectution, all with a Sharpie marker! The man himself was executed by being hung till almost dead, then drawn and quartered. The English sure know how to deal with dissenters, don't they? That'll teach 'em...

 We howl and hoot, and raise a glass to all rebels and dissenters everywhere. Not that we condone blowing things up to get your point across. But you do kind of have to admire Guy Fawkes' spirit, right?

 The children are even more delighted than the grownups.

I used my fancy nighttime lens to get these cool shots. No, I didn't. I just did the best I could with my beloved little cheapy. Jude's latest headgear is an old skiddo helmet, a gift from his grandpa.

This is one of those traditions that I suspect my children will carry with them into their adulthoods. They'll remember the feeling of anticipation as daddy lights the fire, and mommy lights candles all around the front porch to welcome our guests; the excitement as friends arrive, and the wild abandon of being out late on a cold November night, the moon and stars adding their light to that of the bonfire.

There is a certain magic to Bonfire Night that has made it one of our family's favourite traditions.

scenes from the woods

:: dirty feet :: textures in green and brown :: the ziiiip of a tent zipper :: a roof of moonshadows :: staying up way past your bedtime :: naps here and there, whenever you feel tired :: feeding the "wild" life :: a first canoe ride with daddy :: teaching my son to roast the "perfect" marshmallow :: the kids being too busy to fight :: sleeping through a thunderstorm :: the cold baptism of lake water :: the fun of wrestling with your cousins :: wolves howling in the late-night darkness :: the simplicity of all I hold dear in one little tent :: making do :: a smoky cup of Earl Grey tea :: reducing your wardrobe to a bathing suit and a towel :: clearing my schedule of all but walks to the beach, knitting, and reading :: having time and the presence of mind to be present with my children :: thinking of only the moment I'm in ::

There's nothing like camping to give you perspective on what you really need,

and what clutters up your home, your head, and your time. My children learned so much from

this week in the woods. Seeing them blossom under my undivided attention

taught me a lot, too, about how I chronically overbook myself and my time.

Thank you, trees and sunshine, leaves and sky, for reminding me of something I

all too often forget: that THIS is life. Feeding my children, playing with them, putting them to bed when they're tired IS life. All the other stuff is just...stuff.

There's nothing like a week in the woods to remind you of what you already knew.

carefree

Camping is fun. Packing for camping is not.

Back in my late teens and twenties, it was almost a competition amongst outdoorsy types, to see how little you could take with you for a week long canoe trip. A Thermarest, a sleeping bag that stuffed into a sack the size of  a loaf of bread, a little Primus stove, and a pack of matches...that was about it.

I'm five days into packing for a family of five's five-day camping trip. I've created framework organisers to keep track of every-weather clothing for all of us, packed and unpacked the kids' suitcase, and have anticipated every possible ailment that might occur. I'm ready for days of rain, with a bin full of playdough, craft materials, books (fiction and non-fiction!), and games. I have fishing rods, boogie boards, snorkels, goggles, and bikes.

All this packing had me exhausted before we've even leave home, and wondering if it's all worth it.

Then I remembered days at my cousins' cottage, when I was a child. There was always a dry towel wrapped lovingly around me when I finally emerged from the cold, northern lake. As the evening chill came on and the fire was lit, there was always a warm sweatshirt and a pair of track pants ready for me. We never thought about food; our mothers just set out cereal, peanut butter sandwiches, and copious amounts of Koolaid to get us through the day.

One of the many gifts our mother gave us was a carefree childhood. Of course we didn't think about bring rubber boots or bug repellent...kids shouldn't have to think about those things. Everything we needed was just there, as if by magic.

And now, all this packing feels like a privilege; I can now offer my children the same thing my mother gave me: warm pyjamas, plentiful snacks, dry clothes after a swim, and little flashlights to play with in the tent.

Of course, I've packed a basket of goodies for myself, just in case I find a moment to relax, after all this packing.

Here's to all the mothers out there, who work behind the scenes (birthdays, Christmas, trips, holidays) to make sure that their children's lives are fun, stimulating, safe, and most of all, carefree.

this place

A path leads through the woods, to a place where all of my children learned to splash, then wade, then paddle like mer-people.

This mama has walked this path alone, then carting a baby, then pregnant with a toddler in tow. The light begins to glimmer as we near the end of the path, then flashes off the water that greets us as we emerge from the trees.

There's a dance of glee when we are the first to arrive here, and have our pick of beach spots.

This boy stays in the water till he's wrinkled and shivering, going out where the water is deep enough for us to call, "Come back!" I thrill to see him taking to water, as he was a toddler who didn't want to splash or wade. Faith and patience brought us here, to a day where we have to coax him out of the water with watermelon.

The day before Violet was born, I walked these paths with my little son, showing him toads and the stools they sit on. Later in the day, I bared my belly to the sun and felt peace wash over me as I whispered a prayer for this new child that would soon join us. Two weeks later, we returned with our newborn daughter, and my husband lost his wedding band when he shook the sand off the old quilt. Now, she's our little Nut Brown Maid, in and out of the water like a selkie.

Days at the beach aren't so busy these days, and I can get a bit of knitting done as everyone plays,

or naps.

At this place, there are no chores to be done, no phone ringing, and no toys to fight over. There are rocks to climb on, sand to build with, logs to float on, driftwood to improvise with. Friendships grow and are forged by sunlight and water.

These are the days they will remember. I remember every moment, too.

Farm Friday: The Pirate Ship

Some kids live in cities or suburbs and attend classes, lessons, courses, and tutorials of all sorts.

Such things are not inaccessible to country kids, but it's a little harder when you have to drive 45 minutes to the nearest "big town".

Nah, country kids are lacking in opportunities. Life on a farm is boring.

Oh, except for the pirate ships.

I can take no credit for this construction; somehow, my husband conjured it out of some old 4x4s, logs, planks, and a tall post that was already in the ground, without my noticing (until it was done).

A bicycle wheel became the steering wheel (I know there's a technical term for that but, not being a mariner, I wouldn't know it). Old ropes serve as rigging, and that old windsurfer sail that's been kicking around for years? Just the right touch for this seaworthy craft.

Jude declares himself the Captain, and finds lots to occupy his imagination in this pile of boards.

This piece from an old bamboo windchime is the telescope...land ho! Check out that piratey stance (and that ever-fashionable pj pants and rubber boots ensemble!)

Grace O'Malley, the Irish pirate queen, drops anchor, then gets ready to hop in a rowboat to head to a nearby island, seeking treasure.

And the ever-present, pantless Cabin Girl practises her "Yarrrrr!"

My husband is a creative guy. He fixes things around the farm in his own quirky way. He sees purpose in items that others would write off as junk. I spend a day with the kids, and feel frustrated at how little I get done. He spends a day with the kids, and creates a Pirate Ship. God, I love that man.

Wading

I follow the trail, like so many breadcrumbs from the porch, down the steps, and across the lawn.

It doesn't take long to find Gretel,

And her brother Hansel.

In the ancient language of children, their bodies shout with the joy of free play, cold water on their feet, and sunshine on their bare shoulders.

this moment

No words, just a photo of a moment I'd like to treasure in the midst of the madness that I call my life:

Have a peaceful weekend.

Inchworm!

Poor little inchworm

with all his inchworm traits,

crawled onto the yard stick

but he was only seven-eighths.

“It’s because of your posture”

his mother did say,

“There’s a hump in your back

that just won’t go away!”

“I forgot about my hump!”

he said with a laugh,

then he stretched himself out

to an inch and a half.

~Charlie Parant

"Look, Mommy! He's moving!"

If I am a woman who celebrates small beauties, who revels in the common magic that surrounds us and waits so patiently to be noticed, I have my mother to thank.

My mother, who stopped to pick trilliums in May. My mother, who caught fireflies in a jar to hold under our quilt at night. My mother, who laughed with glee every time we brought her the treasure of an inchworm, found twirling at the bottom of a thread descending from a tree. I learned to cherish the quirks of nature from her: to run outside every time there was a rainbow, to celebrate each new bud and flower, and to stop to take it all in.

Now that I am a mother, busier than I have ever been in my life, I pause to thank her for these lessons; when has stopping for a moment to breathe and appreciate this wonderfilled life meant more than it does now that I have children with whom to share it?



Mayflowers

The humble trillium is a fleeting beauty, blooming on deciduous forest floors throughout Ontario. Somehow, it knows that its time to shine is in May. It is not a showy creature, dressed in bridal white with three no-nonsense petals. It does not like to be picked (in fact, when we were young, we were taught that it was against the law to pick them, as they are the provincial flower of Ontario and very slow to reproduce).

My mother is a law-abiding citizen, generally. But she cannot resist seasonal plants. When we were kids, she would drive the getaway car as we crept into a local cornfield to cut a few stalks for her display on the front porch or altar at church. Pussywillows were also treasures to her. My dad used to get the task of finding boughs at Christmas time (he would always say, "I'm off to get your bows, love", as he bowed and bowed like a performing penguin.

Trilliums in their natural habitat...a forest floor rich with leaves and fallen branches.

Imagine the thrill we had each Spring, then, driving home from visiting relatives in Quebec...mom would make dad stop on the roadside in sight of the "Welcome to Ontario!" billboard, and we'd hop out to pick few for our kitchen table. I still experience a feeling of illicit excitement when the trilliums come into bloom, remembering my mom teasing from the car, "I see a car coming!!", causing us to scramble back up the bank for our big getaway.

The rarest gem on the forest floor: a showgirl trillium appearing amongst the shyer white ones, wearing scarlet to the party. The other trilliums don't like her, but we all know they're just jealous!

Trilliums, otherwise known as the Mayflower: enjoy them, but don't pick 'em (says the reformed daughter-accomplice of a class-one offender!)

Sugaring Off: Maple Taffy

When the sap has been collected and the evaporators are at work, there might be a lull where you can enjoy the fruits of your labour.

Pat down some of that melty, crystalline snow you find in Spring. We used a garbage can lid, but you can do this on a cookie sheet if you want to try it at home!

Gather some sticks.

 Boil the syrup until it reaches the soft-ball stage (it clings into a little ball when dripped into a glass of cold water). Pour it in strips across the snow, then let it sit for a minute. Before it hardens completely, take your stick and squish it into one end of the maple strip...now roooollll the strip up onto your stick! (Check out Jude's look of anticipation!)

Pass quickly to the nearest child. Ignore the warnings that the tooth fairy is whispering in your ear about your child's dental health. Making maple taffy outside is the clearest memory I have of my childhood visits to a sugar shack.

Gooey, sticky, sweetness dabbed with bits of ice and snow...incomparable and unforgettable!