Spring Equinox

Happy Spring! Actually, I have a strange reservation about spring. I'm always a little grumpy about it every year. That's strange, I know. I love everything about it in theory: the extra light, the warmth, the plants, the strange weather and on and on. But ever since I was a child I've resented the birds, how everyone is suddenly so much happier just because of the weather, and how everyone suddenly becomes an extrovert. I know, I know, it doesn't make any sense so now I just pretend to be happy about spring. 

I literally just finished planting tender, tiny seedling in the garden about four minutes ago and now it's hailing hard in the completely blue sky. So, that's a little ridiculous. I guess I have a new more logical reason to dislike spring, and that is the difficulty of gardening in the strange season. Last night I accidentally left the lid off the cold frame and all the seedlings got a hefty dose of frost. Some survived, some didn't. We had a little gathering for the equinox in the yard last night. It hailed in the clear sky, of course, but we stuck it out and got a few hours of warmth by the fire and some charred and stale marshmellows. 

Getting into the Holiday Spirit

We're walking the fine line of Christmas and the ambiguous yet-to-be-properly-defined holiday that we'd rather celebrate. We're not Christians and as parents we're crusading against over-consumption and abundant materialism, so Christmas is a frustrating time and a delicate one. We try not to be too overbearing with the Christmas lovers in our life, as long as their enthusiasm doesn't cross too heavily into our minimalistic values, as long as they don't muddle our more important parenting tactics.

But we have a homemade tree, we have lights, we have an advent calendar which a dear friend made and leant us this year. We have candles, cards, ornaments, stockings. These are nice things. Almost all the things we  have we've made, or a friend has made, or a relative has given us. Everything has a story and Sebastian always wants to hear it. 

Somehow Sebastian knows all about Santa Clause. He doesn't know what he does exactly but he knows a lot considering we haven't gone there. This year I think we're procrastinating making some holiday decisions, just enjoying the season. But we can all agree that Christmas time is going to be a constant and relentless attempt to avoid consumerism and materialism. This year I don't want to get hung up on fighting anyone. I just want to enjoy the season. December is my most important month. It's my birthday month, and it's a time when I feel the most connected to the earth, and it's a time when I absolutely cherish living here. I've travelled home to be on the Coast every single year, no matter where I am because I have my own private traditions with this place in December. This year, family-wise, there will be lots of winter walks, hopefully some snowshoeing, lots of lights, and lots of crafts. 

Morning Snow

We woke to our first snowy December morning today, and very likely our only one of the year. Sebastian and I had planned a forest hike for today before we woke, so it was extra exciting. By the time we had our wool and rubber boots on it was already slushy. But we're not far from the mountain. You're never far from the ocean or the mountain on the Coast, and sometimes I forget that. There's a head trail by our house and we were in the forest on a steep incline to the mountain in about ten toddler minutes. I have to say, Sebastian was the trouper of the two of us. My feet were cold as usual, but he wanted to "keep going up!" Eventually we veered off and found the park off the country road. There's always snow in the mountains here, and I've long pronounced this year winter of the mountain. So it begins!

November

Since I last wrote we've celebrated my dad's 60th birthday with a little bash here at our house, I've sat in front of the computer for approximately a thousand hours writing a novella, and Alex has started waking up at five thirty a.m. for some quiet writing time. I think that about covers November!
No wait! There's more. Alex built us a bookshelf, which might sound insignificant but for two writers who haven't unpacked all their books for nearly a decade it was a moment to cherish. It turns out we don't have that many books. Huh.

The two dads in my life. 

"GeeGee Archie" (aka my grandpa)

We jammed. 

Empty bookshelf number one. 

Empty bookshelf number two.

You know winter has arrived when you're dressing 

your rabbit up in doll clothes for "fun."

Ah, September. I love how it ushers in transition like nobody's business. Out with the old. I'm back in the masters program now, which means commuting in the city a couple days a week, reconnecting with writer friends and constantly reading and writing. It was a bit of a challenging month because extra responsibilities at the kiosk fell to me right when I needed them the least, and when everyone (myself definitely included) was burnt out from an intense and adrenaline-heavy summer. I've spent the month training staff to take over some of my jobs and just letting go of the uncontrollable.
School so far has been really inspiring and stimulating. I'm studying with Annabel Lyon and Andreas Schrodder this year, two writers who I respect and admire a lot. There's momentum for sure. I've started my thesis book and feel like I'm writing endless pieces on top of that. It feels good to be immersed in it again. I think the intensity of the summer has taught me a lot about how to charge into the work I need to do, and to conserve energy where need be. Whoever thinks non-creative work doesn't overlap into the arts is foolish. It all lends to each other if you let it. I was given a decent sum of money from the university and the BC Arts Council to keep on with it, which was much appreciated, and how a masters  degree should be I think.
The only bad thing I can say about September is that I had a bad fall the other night. I fell down our hardwood stairs with water glasses in my hand, and I bashed my back up and the glasses broke in my hand. I went into shock and was hysterical for too long until my parents had to help us at midnight. We're still cleaning blood from the furniture and finding shards of glass throughout the house, and I'm pretty bruised and sore.
Otherwise the month has been mostly home-bodied. We've had some good dinners on the beach with a fire and friends, a big surprise birthday party for a good friend, house guests, lots of good meals and time outside. Losing daylight rapidly has such an effect in this house, beachside with big bright windows. We haven't quite figured out how to function properly when the sun goes down. We don't even have enough lamps to function in the huge open room on the main floor, so we often find ourselves upstairs in bed, reading or talking way too early. When the moon is bright, we know it. When it's dark we know it. There haven't been clouds in the sky, such a strange phenomenon here, and I feel like we've been at the mercy of nature a little. But we have three cords of wood under the deck ready for the change in the season and a winter garden underway in the yard.

tobacco in bloom

 Rain just won't come. How strange to look out the window and see dry grass, wilting garden. It's uncommon here, to say the least, to see no rain for as long as we have. But without thinking of the rainless forecast for days to come, it's been a lovely month of more sunshine than I can ever remember on the West Coast. The crops that we grew as experiment, ones which normally would never flourish here, have been filling our shirt tails and baskets: watermelon, cucumbers, tobacco, peppers and more tomatoes than we've ever seen. The brassicas and blackberries struggle. A strange season for sure. We've been living off the garden more than we anticipated for our first year here, and enjoying the bounty of the farmers market, especially the goat cheese and winter squash now coming in. 

 


 

 

The Backyard Bounty

After a stretch of sunshine, the gardens are stabilizing. The Farmers' Market is filling out: gooseberries, raspberries, fresh garlic, broccoli, zucchinis as well as the usual suspects. Wednesdays in the Creek are becoming a tradition; Sebi and I bring a basket and some cash and stock up as much as we can. The only reason is we go to the store anymore is for nuts, the odd watermelon (we can't help ourselves), milk and cheese. Otherwise, we've stocked up at the food co-op and are trying to eat way more brown rice and beans to match our veggies. This is kind of diet used to be so unappealing to me, but I've come around. There's nothing some spices, chipoltle mayo, soya sauce or an avocado can't spruce up. It's also an exercise of strategy and creative cooking. And of course, sacrifice.

Even with the garden underway, we still can't rely on it. We baby the plants. At dusk we drown slugs, we water squash so carefully to avoid powdery mildew, and we built contraptions for the tomatoes, tobacco and cucumbers to trap heat. We see entire rows of kale and beets devoured overnight by a handful of wood bugs or one tiny slug. We can't rely on our garden yet. It will get better and better with the years, as we build the soil up, save seeds, hone our knowledge. We had a late start with moving mid-April and a wet spring, but there will always be wet springs. Or dry springs and wet summers. Or wet both, or dry both. Right now we're lucky if the garden supplements the farmers' bounty. We get a handful of raspberries from the path, or a few sweet peas or some stalks of kale. Later we will get more,  onions, potatoes, squash and tomatoes, but not now. Right now, we're turning to the native plants that thrive in wet springs, or mild summers, no matter what the West Coast throws at them, they can adapt. We have a huge salal bush in the yard (you know, the dark glossy leaves often found in bouquets) and as the berries ripen you realize you're crazy to spend the day hunched over the raspberry spindles, watering, mulching, slug-picking when you have an abundance of berries right there, thriving. They taste like grapes and wild blueberries, a tad chewy and a bit fuzzy, but you adapt. We find native blackberries buried under morning glory on the edge of the yard, and find they are so good, lemony somehow. So we pick them, freeze them, store them for a big berry mix in the freezer. We go out to the shady forests and pick huckle berries for hours. We spend the afternoon in the cherry tree and eat well for days. Next will be blackberries, that rampant, aggressive, thorny weed that blesses the West Coast all over.  Is it perfect? No. We have to leave a lot for the birds, bears and the plants themselves. We get caught road-side without water and have to eat half our bowl. We sit with children on our laps and try to ignore their little hands shovelling berries into their mouths as we pick. But man, it's satisfying, and on the best of days, even bountiful.

It's been stormy here off and on for a week or two. A lot of ferries have been cancelled, power outages, rainfall warnings and many indoor days. This is winter on the West Coast. It hits the islands especially hard, or anywhere that relies on the ferry, like here. You have to consider what you'd do if the infrastructure keeping you fed and warm should fail, if only for a week or two. Aside from being in a high-risk earthquake area, we rely on the ferries so much. A lot of the time in the winter they can't dock because of high swells and wind. It's usually okay here, because we're pretty sheltered, but we've already had a couple of power outages. So, amidst our crazy schedules, we're also trying to adapt and prepare for winter, something we haven't had to think of much living in cities for so long.

There are some items we've stocked up on:
beeswax candles
flashlights
camping stove
cast iron pans
fire wood

There are some things we still need:
more of everything
matches
batteries
a store of easily cooked "emergency" food
non-cordless phone
back up water (the water stores eventually go dry when the power is out)
old pots and pans for fire cooking

Meanwhile, we've been battling the ultimate West Coast winter problem: mould. Even living in Victoria I've had some bizarre mould encounters, and it rains so much less there. There was the orange shelf fungus I found beside my bed in the Rainbow House (to which my guy roommates replied, oh yah that's where the little white mushroom used to be) and the completely moulded underside of one of Alex and I's mattresses (never put a mattress directly on the floor!). Also, just in general, how a loaf of bread would mould almost instantly in a cold, damp house. I'm sure I have some other scarring mould stories that I've just blocked out of my mind.
Alex said something the other day that really stuck with me. I think he was just making a philosophical comment about life everywhere, but on a literal level it seemed particularly poignant here in BC. He said that we're all just constantly fighting against decay but that decay is nature. Here, it almost seems like our houses are being engulfed by nature, especially in the winter. Almost nothing you do can stop it. Our house has been almost completely redone in the last couple years, we don't have that much stuff to constrict air flow, we keep the heat on, we have new windows and so on. But we still find mould, pink, green, and, unfortunately, black. It's just surface mould, but it's a big job to maintain it. It seems like it can appear in one damp afternoon. We've made some storage adjustments, gotten rid of many things we don't need, and wiped everything down with natural bleach. Every morning we wipe all the windows down and once and awhile we check on all the nooks and crannies. So far it seems under control again.

Today, we have a rare day of sunshine. We've got to get outside and soak it all up.

The last few days have brought a subtle yet undeniable change in season. We've had almost nothing but beautiful sunny days here for weeks, and it continues, but something is evolving. The sunlight is a little different; it hits the garden differently, it's duller in our rooms at five am when Sebastian wakes up briefly for milk. The sea breeze is heavier somehow, weighted with something more than salt air. It's a strange time of year. There's always mild regret for all we haven't done this summer, and an excitement for what's to come. I love autumn. At this time of year I force myself to enjoy the last weeks of summer without thinking too intently about the changes ahead. The fall is rich with complexity, such an intriguing time. We've been fortunate to have so many people visit this summer. I wasn't sure what being immobile would be like after so much moving, but friends just keep passing through, seeking us out. In the last month or two we've had at least a dozen house guests, and several more in the next couple weeks. This week we had five alone. Some days we're tired, crave solitude but mostly we're happy to have people here, aware that the winter likely won't be so generous. We've been trying to spend as much time as possible at the beach, in the ocean, outside by the fire in the evenings. Sebastian and I wander out to the hilly garden every morning to see how things are growing. The peas, herbs and borage are done. The squash is just beginning. The strawberries never did happen, but the weed-like plants double and triple and quadrupled in quantity. The rest is in between. As the sun changes and the prehistoric-sized squash plants and sunflowers cast shadows on the rest of the plants we have to make tough decisions about what we want to survive the most. The zucchini, carrots, beets are hidden in the mass of cabbage and squash, and in the shadows of the pretty but otherwise useless (or should I say useful only with labour-intensive processing) calendular and sunflowers. Leaves are developing mildew because they're not getting sun. But it's amazing, really, how plants adapt. Their will to survive, the competitive nature when it comes to sunlight. We've crammed a hell of a lot of food into four small plots and I think it's all doing alright.
Right now I've got a one year old strolling around the house (he doesn't crawl anymore) singing, maybe a little bored, patiently waiting to go to the beach.