Fair Time

Things change slowly in a small town. Traditions get passed down year by year, so that when I attend annual events with my children, things don't seem too different from when I myself attended as a child.

The Cobden Fair will take place over the weekend of August 26-28. I know who will work the gates; the man who wraps the plastic bracelet around my wrist did it when I was 14. The kiosks selling airbrushed unicorn t-shirts and coloured feather roach clips will be set up beside the stage where step dancers and country singers will perform all weekend.

The Searson sisters, who went to high school with my husband!

The Centennial Hall will boast a farmers'/crafters' market, and we'll stop by for an ice cream at some point. The Curling Rink will hold the exhibits of garden flowers and vegetables, quilts, preserves, knitting, photography, and so on. We'll seek out the blue ribbons since we're entering some of the categories this year.

The ice surface at the rink will be transformed into a show ring; little boys and girls in white clothes and paper headbands will proudly display their calves and lambs, and we'll walk back to the barn behind the arena to see the young farmers grooming their animals for the next competition. Instead of video games, these kids' hands will hold blow dryers, brushes, clippers, and shovels to make sure their wards stay pristine for the judges. My kids will pet the lambs and their eyes will widen at the size of the cows.

Then we'll walk around the outdoor track where horses pull wagons and carts, to the horse barn. This has always been my favourite stop at the Fair. Percherons and Belgians stand quietly like tamed giants, stamping their plate-sized hooves, their tails and manes braided up prettier than Rapunzel's. I'll talk to the boys, now men, that went to school with me years ago, and lift my kids up to gaze into those horse's long-lashed eyes.

The midway is what the kids come for: the smells of dust, cotton candy, popcorn, and French fries, with a bit of grease thrown in. The young men running the rides look as bored and shady as they did when I was a girl, and I'll wonder again (as teachers do) if they've finished high school. Soon, heat and hunger will drive us to a concession stand to fill up on some greasy, sweet, nutritionally deficient snack.

Ah, the Cobden Fair. It's one of the best of its kind, if you ask this small-town girl. In a world that sometimes changes too fast for my taste, I can always count on the Cobden Fair to bring me back to a time when making good pies and preserves mattered, and a man was judged not on how much money he earned, but on how well he'd trained his team of horses. Maybe we'll see you there!

For information, call the Cobden Agricultural Society at 613-646-2426.

GratiTuesday: Busy

When I started GratiTuesday, it was to create an opportunity for stream-of-consciousness gratitude in the midst of my busy life. I don't always take pictures of what is on my list, because it usually just flows out as I write it. Gratitude isn't something we should PLAN, but something we should just naturally feel in the presence of the many blessings in our lives.

Here's my list, in no particular order...

.: my parents' generosity in helping us purchase a second vehicle (thus saving my sanity), and in the gift of tickets to see the Lion King at the National Arts Centre. It was unforgettable, for my kids and for me, and something I would never have been able to afford.

.: the gift of music, especially since it's something I can share with my husband, with so much joy. We had our first performance together in a long while, at the Bonnechere Caves, sharing the stage with many other local talents. Later, we recorded a video INSIDE the Caves! Amazing! Visiting with friends I haven't seen in ages, listening to the water going over the Fourth Chute of the river, and seeing the almost-full moon rise conspired to create an unforgettable evening.

.: getting together with a dear friend, whose children love my children. One older, reading child plus four smaller, book-loving children equals a beautiful storytime!

.: creating my first "stock"...piles of hats, felt crowns, knitted snails, and small cotton dolls to sell at a arts/crafts show this coming weekend.

.: having captured this moment: my mother fitting Violet for a handmade dress. I can remember standing on a chair in this same kitchen, my mother expertly holding pins in her mouth as she created a hem. The added beauty of this dress is that the darker fabric is from a dress my mother made for ME when I was in Grade Two. She'll be selling dresses like these at the craft show mentioned above!

.: the joy of a really great, can't-put-it-down read: "One Day" by David Nicholls.

.: always, always, the first sip of coffee in the morning

.: Brad Pitt as Tristan in "Legends of the Fall" which I watched last night AGAIN!

.: the cool nights that follow a wicked thunderstorm

.: bellydancing outside at a local farmers' market, settling back into my body, loving the breeze swirling my skirt and the warmth of the grass beneath my feet

.: looking at my husband in the early morning as he sleeps, marvelling that he looks EXACTLY as he did 10 years ago when we met: hands crossed across his chest, so peaceful, and so beautiful.

.: as always: Jude's freckles, Violet's cartoon-character voice, and Margot's fingers holding a paintbrush.

What I'm getting around to saying is that gratitude is not some polished stone that should be taken out and admired once a week. It's something I want to feel sifting into my soul throughout the week, at random moments, especially when I'm worrying about money, or the mess of my house, or how I can get everything done "on time". Because really: there is abundant EVERYTHING in my life right now.

Grab that button and link back to me: what are YOU grateful for this week?

Emergency...Kind Of.

When you live out in the country and have three small kids, you worry about things. In the winter, I worry about fire. When I was pregnant with Margot, I used to lie awake making escape plans...Violet, who was one at the time, would be strapped onto my back. Jude, age three, would hang onto my neck. I'd shimmy down sheets tied together. Forget the fact that I was 8 months pregnant at the time. In my imagination, I gained superhuman upper body strength, and catlike agility.

When my husband is away for a night or two, I make sure all the windows are locked, double check the doors, and often dial my neighbour's number, then hit "end", just so I can hit "redial" if there's an emergency.

I'm not actually a paranoid person, generally. There's something about living way out of town, though, combined with exhaustion, that does things to my mind.

Last night, for some reason, my neighbour's number just didn't seem like enough. So I thought I'd dial 911, then hit "end". Because dialling "redial" is SO much quicker than dialing 911.

Did you know that 911 connects automatically, even if you hit "end"? I didn't.

Almost immediately, I got a call from OPP dispatch. They were going to send a car out, in spite of my assurances that all was well (aside from the fact that my husband left his three children in the care of a slightly delusional woman who calls herself "mom").

While this may seem like overkill, I find it reassuring that the police check in, even if the caller has confirmed that the call was accidental. Imagine a woman in a situation of domestic abuse, being threatened by her partner to tell the dispatcher that everything was fine.

Within 30 minutes, a cruiser pulled into our laneway (it was now about 11:30 at night). The floodlight scanned the farm (I'm sure the neighbours were wondering if I was being busted for late-night crafting), and the officer approached the house cautiously.

I came out on the porch in my shawl, and introduced myself. The officer is also a mother, and sympathised with the fact that I'm on my own with three kids for a few days. She took a look around the house, reassured me that yes, 911 does work, (and quickly, even if you don't speed dial it!), and told me she was nearby if I did really need her during the night.

I almost called at 5:30 a.m. when Jude woke up with a nosebleed.

And again at 6:15 a.m when my kids woke up for the day.

It may be time to store a baseball bat under my bed, to give me peace of mind when I'm here alone at night. If that doesn't suffice, I know that the OPP will be here if I ever need them.

Houses in the Fields

"They're growin' houses in the fields between the towns,

And the late night drive-in movie is closin' down

The road has gone to the way it was before,

And the spaces won't be spaces anymore"...

Travelling down the 401, Ontario's superhighway that cuts along Lake Ontario and through the Greater Toronto Area, I was struck by the old farms I saw. Transports and thousands of cars race by what were once quiet homesteads: old houses built from the limestone that is found nearby, and pastures hewn from Canada's old-growth forests using man, woman, and horse power. Now, billboards for the next rest stop litter the fields, and big box stores and factories interrupt the landscape. Prefab homes sprout behind noise-reduction walls, where once crops grew and animals grazed.

Our little road is so far out of the way, it still isn't paved. There won't be a superhighway coming by our homestead anytime soon, but I have seen urban sprawl on the highway that takes us to Ottawa. I remember
"Old Highway 17" that took us through the small city of Pembroke, and all the forests and farms that provided us with peaceful green views until we reached the big city. There is research being done about the effect of a beautiful view on our spirits (the researchers don't refer to our spirits of course, but to the endorphin receptors in the parts of our brain that are stimulated by looking at, say, a forest scene or a lake view).

Ah...a Gaspe Peninsula Farm

Whether we think it's good for our soul or good for our brain, we can all agree that green spaces are a good thing. Billboards and box stores? Not so much. When things get hard for us financially (like right at this moment, for instance) and I feel like giving up on the homesteading dream, I just need to remind myself of all those abandoned farms, where once corn grew; I am filled with new optimism and resolve to find a way to keep my family here, come hell or high water. The world's farmland is precious, and dwindling...and certainly worth fighting for.

"Houses in the fields, no prayers for steady rains this year,

Houses in the fields, there's houses in the fields...

The last few farms are growin' out of here..."

~John Gorka

Seeds, Serendipity, and Spring Cleaning

Today we're preparing the house for Spring. No, we're not putting out pretty nests and coloured eggs (yet)! The basement has held a winter's worth of wood, and the bits of bark and kindling must be swept up before the inevitable Spring inundation. I'm exaggerating...it's more of a trickle, but enough that we have to use a sump pump to keep the freezer, furnace, washer and dryer well out of the water's reach. The cobwebs also need clearing, the shelves some organising, and the little corners of scariness tidying.

The basement is one of those unpleasant places to clean, especially if you live in an old farmhouse. The floors are rough, the walls are damp; constant vigilance is required to prevent mildew, mold, and mushrooms (I'm not joking). I've read that if the house were a person, the basement would represent our subconsious mind. No wonder they're so often damp, dark, and creepy! Ha! I'm looking forward to creating order in this neglected space. I visit it often each day, to fill the furnace with wood and the washer with laundry. I'm picturing a cold storage room full of bins of potatoes, carrots, squash, garlic, beets, and so on, and tidy shelves of jewel-coloured jars of preserves and sauces. I'm also hopefully planning to try fermenting with the help of a new friend...more on that later.

We're also getting ready to start our seeds. In years past, a dear friend and gardening mentor started all our seeds and shared the gardening work. Since we've moved here, we've had a spring baby that required medical attention, and a garden started from greenhouse (purchased) seedlings. This year I'm starting my own! We've moved a shelf into our kitchen where the south facing windows are, and are taking a look at what we hope will be a cold-storage room in the basement.

The webcam works in a pinch!

If you happen to be in the Ottawa Valley this weekend, please consider stopping by Fellowes High School in Pembroke where the annual Seedy Sunday event will take place from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. Vendors, guest speakers, live music, fresh local food, and a kid zone all conspire to entice winter-weary souls into thinking: Spring! I'll be volunteering at the door, performing some music, and selling a few hand-painted cards at a friend's table.

Hooray for the webcam!

And now for the serendipity, that quirky little force that brings good things into your life just when you need them (and least expect them). Some of you are aware that I've had some camera issues lately. I had resigned myself to reducing my normal amount of blogposts, using my mom's camera, and slowly saving up for one for myself, without any expectation of when I might be able to afford one.

Then I got a message on Facebook from a university friend who now lives in Australia. We haven't seen each other in 15 years or so. We've been in touch sporadically. She told me in her message that she is one of those silent followers of my blog, and loves the glimpse it gives her of a life so different from hers. I had no idea she read my posts, and was touched by her words.

Imagine my delight and gratitude when she told me she had a camera to send me! Turns out her dad loves to buy new technology, and sends her his castoffs. She didn't like the idea of me not being able to take pictures of those little daily moments (like yesterday's mental photo of Violet in a too-big, saggy-bum bathing suit and a Santa hat), so is generously offering me one of her dad's cameras!

To say I am touched and overwhelmed by the way life provides is an understatement. So, a shout out to Nikki, away on the other side of the globe, and to everyone who has offered suggestions and encouragement.

Everywoman: She Who Wants to Do It All

I need a new mantra. I need to look at the faces of my husband and kids and remember that they're enough, that I don't have to fill my life up with time-clutter.

Here's what my weekend looks like:

We're participating in Eganville's first (hopefully annual) "Celebrating Our Game Day", an event that hopes to bring together lovers of both hockey and the arts. All day long, there will be hockey played by all ages and abilities at the local arena, while live music is enjoyed upstairs. My husband will be involved as both a hockey player and a musician. I will also be performing. So I am in my bedroom at the moment, guitar sitting beside me, blogging instead of coming up with a set list. I'm anxious about it. Margot will not take well to me being front and centre, without being able to climb onto my lap. This has been an ongoing issue since I had kids. It's only a half hour, but still...

My husband plays at 6 p.m., and since he's new to the sport, he'd really like us all to watch. I WANT to watch. But I got a call this week that a Mass will be said in memory of my Grandma, TODAY at 5:30. You can see the problem. I want to represent our family at the Mass. The idea of dragging three tired kids and keeping them quiet for 45 minutes or so is not so tempting.

I'll bring them home, get them to bed, pick up the babysitter, then head out to tonight's "Hootenanny" (where the hockey players will play music at a local restaurant)...

Did I mention that I'm a Kindergarten teacher? And that my report cards are due next Wednesday? It took me two full days just to finish the reports for my Junior Kindergartens. Now I'm trying to figure out...when to do the Seniors' reports?

Oh, did I mention that I'm hosting a knitting gathering here tomorrow, to teach some friends how to get started on a Scrap Cardigan?

This morning I felt frustrated because Margot is clingy and cranky. She has a cough and might be teething, and had two days in daycare this past week. She's likely overtired. I'm overtired. And I was frustrated with her because I wanted to: write a blogpost, practise my music, read this terrific book I'm into, work on my report cards, get a handle on Mount Washmore (my laundry pile). I couldn't get away from her. When I get frustrated like this, my husband gets anxious and starts offering to withdraw from the things he'd planned to do today.

Until I finally acknowledged the truth. I want to do too much.

Declutter. Lose weight. Exercise. Write. Blog. Perform. Craft. Be an amazing mother. Pour my heart into my classroom and students. Farm. Knit. Read. Plan my garden. Keep in touch with friends.

And then I'm upset with myself when I can't pull it all together. And on top of that, I beat myself up for the fact that I'm looking tired, a little rumpled in the face (I am approaching my 37th birthday after all), and am starting to go grey at the temples.

Enough!

The new mantra might sound something like this:

I don't have to be everything, all the time, to everyone. I don't have to always do all the things I'm good at. It's okay to sit on the couch reading nursery rhymes for hours. It's okay to say no to requests for performances.

I could pare it down a bit. I'll work on that...maybe add it to my to-do list.

Sometimes I need a little reality check. This morning was it. I need these regular reminders to say no sometimes. So after this crazy weekend is done, I'm going to make a new list:

1. Say YES to playtime with my kids.
2. Hug my husband at least 4 times a day.
3. Get more sleep.
4. Exercise.
5. Say NO to anything unrelated to my family or my job.
6. Read and knit if time allows.

Blogging can wait. The laundry isn't going anywhere. I'll see you here when I see you.

The Peanut Gallery

An unsettling phrase keeps emerging from my mouth lately.
In the library, when we’ve stayed just ten minutes too long, and Margot is pressing the wheelchair-access button that opens the door to the parking lot, Violet is yanking her little sister back to safety, Jude is marching around in his boots leaving bits of chicken poop on the floor, and I’m standing at the counter waiting to sign out our books and movies.

At the grocery store, when I’ve given Margot a flat of blueberries to occupy her while I shop and she spills it all over the produce section floor, and Jude and Violet are long gone, doing the small-town kid laps of the store (knowing that everyone knows them and will send them back to me, as if I couldn't hear them screaming and laughing three aisles away).

At lunch time, when I've placed three healthy, colourful, balanced meals in front of them, I’ve just sat down to eat, and everyone asks for juice. Or spills their juice, rice, and peas all over the floor that I’ve just finished scrubbing for the first time in months (it only took me 3 hours, with all the interruptions).

When they're all occupied with games in the livingroom and I sit down with a cup of tea and a book, and they find me, clamouring to be on my lap, burrowing into me as if they're trying to get back inside me.

“It’s a wonder I’m not nuts”.

I always say it with my tongue firmly in my cheek, the picture of a good-humoured, well-balanced mother, a smile on my face as I wrangle my unruly children out the door. Older women smile at me, remembering when. Men and people without kids might purse their lips at how little control I seem to have over them. I remember judging women with unruly kids, back before I had my own.

The fact is, I'm exhausted. I'm always exhausted. Five minutes into the day when Violet and Margot are already starting the "Mine!" "No, MINE!" routine, I wonder how I'm going to make it. I know I'm not alone. I don't think any mother really knows what she's getting herself into. When we are pregnant with our first child, we imagine ourselves as the serene, beautiful mother we see on the front of greeting cards, gazing into her baby's face, confident that she will handle all future parenting situations gracefully and successfully. We swear we will never be that mother who snaps at her kids at the grocery store or is short-tempered ever, let alone in public.

When the rude fact appears that we have, in fact, become that mother, it can be disheartening. To the top of the list of perceived parenting failures, we can add the fact that we are not always patient, not always gentle, not always good role models, and not always good at mothering.

The reason my statement, "It's a wonder I'm not nuts" is unsettling is because...well, maybe I am nuts. I must have been nuts to get myself into this in the first place...then to do it again, and yet again!

What comforts me is that I'm not alone. If I'm nuts, then so are you...and you, and you. We're nuts because we keep getting out of bed, keep doing our best even on days when all we get in return is backtalk and misbehaviour. Mothers of children with special needs might get less than that, and work 100 times harder than mothers of healthy children.

Somedays we feel like we could just drive away and never look back. But somehow we don't. If you looked up the words "determined" and "resilient" in the dictionary, you just might see a picture of a mother. Below the picture would be a note: "see also nuts".

Have a wonderful day, all my nutty friends out there. I love you all, and know you're all doing the best you can. Keep up the good work.

Parade of Lights

Not too far from here lies a little community called Wilno. It is known to be the first Polish settlement in Canada. It sits high in the Wilno Hills, overlooking Round Lake; at it's highest point sits St. Mary's Church, and at its lowest sits the Wilno Tavern, home of amazing Polish fare and Blues Night on Tuesdays. I admit, I wish I lived in Wilno. It's a neat little place! Although the population must sit at around 70 souls, the locals manage to concoct a beautiful Parade of Lights every Solstice evening.

The simplest and in my opinion, loveliest Christmas image: a man, a woman, and a donkey (mule).

Father Christmas rode in a canoe!

Jude and Violet jumped at the chance to ride in the canoe with Himself.

"Joseph and Mary"

Ritsuko is a Wilno resident, flower arranger, gardener and animal husband, and also happens to make the best sushi around!

After the parade, there were homemade cookies, beverages, and presents for all the little ones inside the rink, followed by skating outside.

Wilno is also home to what may be the best Christmas lights in the Valley!

The Christmas Spirit is alive and well in the Wilno Hills. Thanks to Sylvia and all the volunteers who made this such a lovely event! And happy belated Solstice to all...here's to the return of light and hope in our lives.

Remembering

When I'm asked where I learned to sing, I reflect on my childhood. My parents were both very involved in community volunteering. Mom usually had us kids in tow, so we all started singing in the church choir at an early age. Gathering to sing for the residents of our local nursing home was part of the expectation of being a choir member, and I knew lots of old songs by the time I was 10.

We recently gathered once again at the newly-built retirement home where my Grandma is a resident, to join in the monthly singalong.

The kids think that the retirement home is "GG's House"...they love it, and all her "roommates"! 

They are always delighted to see "GG's pets": two lovebirds, and some goldfish!

This lady taught kindergarten to all three of my siblings. She still thinks Kindergarten is the best place to be, although she's retired. Now she shares her musical gifts with the elderly residents of this retirement home, playing good old-fashioned tunes like "Our Golden Wedding Day", and "Pack Up Your Troubles". She inspires me with her energy and joie de vivre; I hope teaching Kindergarten for the next 25 years does as much for my spirit as it seems to have done for hers!

Familiar hands play familiar tunes.

Margot wanders this place, giving random hugs and letting the residents touch her blanket.

One of my favourites; I swear these are the same songsheets we used to use when I was a kid.

This handsome gentleman spent 5 years overseas in World War II. He captured the room with his rendition of "Let Me Call You Sweetheart".

We talked about the war, and I thought about the many memories contained in the hearts of the residents here, most of whom lived through the Second World War. I thought of what it must have been like to say goodbye to my spouse, to wait months for a letter, to wonder whether my letters were reaching him. I thought of the babies that were born, and grew without meeting their fathers. I thought of the men who came home and had to somehow re-integrate into a family of strangers. I wonder about all the stories we don't hear.

Remember the fallen ones, and remember the ones who lived. If your grandparents are no longer living, contact your local nursing/retirement home and find out how you can contribute to making the lives of the residents brighter. Share a craft, a song, a dance. Sit and listen to a story. The elderly are a gift, tucked away in homes and just waiting for someone to visit. Many eyes watched with envy as we ushered Grandma out the door to come up to the house for lunch, and I would have taken them all out for lunch if I could have.

Remember them.

Don't Let Those Sunday Afternoons Get Away

If you're reading this and you're Canadian, and especially if you're from a small town, I may not have to explain much.

I'm not sure when my dad started playing hockey, but I imagine it was sometime around 1950. He tells us he used to stuff catalogues into his pants as leg protection. One photo we love shows this gorgeous, fit young man grinning cockily, completely oblivious to his missing front teeth (there might actually be a bit of pride there). He was always good: tough and fast. But he wasn't a goon. My dad took training to be a coach, and is well-respected in hockey circles for his skill and knowledge.

Throughout our childhoods, dad coached teams, instructed other coaches, evaluated exams, and ran hockey schools in Canada, the US, and Scotland. Walking into our local arena is like strolling into my childhood: the smell of rubber mats, French fries, and that instant hot-chocolate triggers so many memories. I hear the echoes of the cheers we used to shout for dad's team (Get back! Get back! Get back into the woods! 'Cause you haven't! You haven't! You haven't got the goods!) I would never have been described as a puck bunny; being the coach's daughter gave me special status. Needless to say, I never dated a hockey player. I sometimes wonder if dad didn't warn them all away. I heard a rumour once that he'd announced to his players, "If I ever hear any of you talking about my daughters the way you talk about ________, you're off the team". The warning was well-heeded.

When I was 4, my brother was born. When he was 5, my dad got him all outfitted for hockey. It was clear after one ice session that...well, let's just say, hockey wasn't in my brother's blood. He wanted to lie on the ice and roll the puck around like a wheel. His feet hurt and it was too loud and cold out there. I giggle about it now. Dad never pressured my brother the way a lot of parents seem to. When my brother got older and showed an interest in basketball, dad took him to see the Chicago Bulls play, and fostered this interest instead. When he became interested in music, dad got him a guitar.

Well, the next generation has arrived.

A few weeks ago, Dad took Jude into "town" and got him all geared up for hockey. While I don't hold many fantasies about spending my weekends in hockey arenas, Jude is just so darn cute in hockey equipment. That little jock strap! Oh my goodness.

7:00 a.m. Saturday mornings sees Daddy and Papa getting Jude ready to go.

My dad's familiar hands assisting with socks.

Young Warrior in training. I can't believe that's my skinny boy in there.

Up before the sun to play this national sport.

This picture makes me happy in so many unspeakable ways.

While I don't love the increasing competitiveness and body contact in children's hockey, or how it's becoming exclusive because of the expense, there is so much I love about this sport. Every time I hear Jane Siberry's "Hockey", I think of my dad and all those pure memories of hockey at its simplest:

Winter time and the frozen river, Sunday afternoon

They're playing hockey on the river
Rosy...

He'll have that scar on his chin forever; someday his girlfriend will say hey where...
And he might look out the window...or not
You skate as fast as you can 'til you hit the snowbank (that's how you stop)
and you get your sweater from the catalogue
You use your rubber boots for goal posts, ah...walkin' home


Don't let those Sunday afternoons
get away get away get away get away
breakaway breakaway breakaway breakaway.


This stick was signed by Jean Belliveau so don't f**king tell me where
to f**king go...
On sunday afternoon


Someone's dog just took the puck-he buried it it's in the snowbank...your turn

They rioted in the streets of Montreal when they benched Rocket Richard
It's true...


Don't let those Sunday afternoons
Get away get away get away get away
breakaway breakaway breakaway breakaway


The sun is fading on the frozen river, the wind is dying down
Someone else just got called for dinner

Rosy
Hmm...Sunday afternoon

David's Barber Shop

We live about a 7-minute's drive from "town"...town, for us, is a little village on a river, population 1300 (at last count). When Violet needs a haircut, she goes to the same hairdresser that cuts my hair.

When Jude and Daddy need haircuts, they go to the BARBER SHOP.

There is a distinct difference between the two. No modern, cleverly-packaged gels/pastes/taffies/humectants-for-hair at David's barber shop. There's not even a sign outside; just a striped pole, and a "Come In, We're Open" sign in the window.

 No, on his shelves, you will find the classic jar of electric blue "Barbicide" (isn't that what it's called when you murder your barber?), and mysterious, decidely MALE hair products.

This could possibly be the last haven of masculine tradition...a place where there are hair products "specially formulated for men". I admit, I always feel like I'm invading an sacred male sanctum, and I love the glimpse I get of what the world would look like if men really did rule (at least, in a decorative sense): there's a "Newfie clock" that runs backwards, a dust-covered duck in mid-flight (tastefully taxidermied), a wooden sailboat, and wildlife posters, all mounted on lovely wood-panelled walls.

David's father and grandfather were barbers in this same shop, just off the bridge. Old razors, clippers, and leather barber chairs stand in testimony of his right to wield scissors like an artist. And he is an artist. He's about ready to retire, but has no son to take over the shop.

When we walk in, he's always just standing there, as if he was just waiting for us to arrive, even though we never make an appointment. We never have to wait. He watches the logging trucks and tourists roll past his window. Jude may be his youngest client. The other men I've seen in the shop usually wear ducktails or that hairstyle where it's parted horizontally at the back and combed, perplexingly, forward.

"Removes loose dandruff, grooms the hair, improves appearance".

Jude always pays David himself (cash only), and says, "Thanks for the haircut". My boy walks out of that shop looking like a boy from anytime...1850, 1900, 1940...hair parted on the side, combed over to the side, as handsome and proud as you please.

I love our barber shop. It makes me happy.

Visit http://www.leighvslaundry.blogspot.com/ for more links to things that make people happy!