"You're a hippy," my husband teased last night, as I offered him some of my homemade granola.
"What are you talking about?" I demanded, as I dropped vials of essential oils back into their tub to make room on the table, "Because I make my own granola?"
"Yes, that and we have WORMS in our kitchen."
"And you're just noticing this now?"
He laughed, but didn't reply. His mouth was full of granola.
"I'm NOT a hippy," I declared, vehemently.
Yet it is true that there came a day when I decided to stop bleaching my hair. And another when I decided to try to avoid chemicals in my shampoo. And another when I decided that I would pay a little extra to know where my food was coming from.
But that doesn't mean I'm into labels like "hippy" (or "redneck" or "yuppy" or "preppy" for that matter). And someday I may decide I want to bleach my hair, eat nothing but McDonalds, spend all my free time in a tanning bed.
I'm still growing and learning and changing my mind, and I hope that never stops. Because I don't think anything good comes of trying to over-simplify the complexity of a human life.
Except, perhaps, some good cable TV.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Farmers
I went to my first 'farm sale' a few days ago. That is, an auction that takes place on a farm.
I was amazed, looking around at the various characters as they poked through buckets of rusty bolts, checked out old wooden ladders, murmured knowingly over some piece of farm machinery that was a mystery to me, looking as if it had seen a hundred summers.
These men (for I was one of the few women in attendance, other than those selling pie at the snack booth) had lined faces, cracked hands, and penetrating gazes. Some wore ripped shirts and dusty jeans, others were neat as a pin in coveralls and ballcaps.
There was something deadly serious about it all, and something comical.
My wonderful friends Erin and Andrew have a farm deep in the rolling countryside. Erin is busy running around after her delightful one-year-old daughter, and Andrew works full-time for the Ministry of Natural Resources, but in their 'spare' time, they farm.
They spend hour after hour tending their flock of sheep, tapping the maples to make syrup, going through the exciting and stressful process of lambing. They make a little money at it but, with the amount of time and labour that goes in, their real motivation is love of it.
This year, one little lamb had to be bottle fed, having been born small and unable to compete with her siblings for milk. So, while we all slept soundly, Andrew rose in the dark and made his way to the barn. He held the lamb gently and fed her from a bottle, before returning to bed, only to repeat the process again before work, and after work, and after dinner, and before bed, day after day.
Thinking about this kind of dedication, I feel ashamed at my urge to mock the farmers at the sale. Their seriousness about their work is no joke. They made the choice to live a life they love even though isn't easy, they work harder, longer hours than most of us for less pay, and, best of all, they can look at a pile of rusty wire and see the possibility of plenty.
I was amazed, looking around at the various characters as they poked through buckets of rusty bolts, checked out old wooden ladders, murmured knowingly over some piece of farm machinery that was a mystery to me, looking as if it had seen a hundred summers.
These men (for I was one of the few women in attendance, other than those selling pie at the snack booth) had lined faces, cracked hands, and penetrating gazes. Some wore ripped shirts and dusty jeans, others were neat as a pin in coveralls and ballcaps.
There was something deadly serious about it all, and something comical.
My wonderful friends Erin and Andrew have a farm deep in the rolling countryside. Erin is busy running around after her delightful one-year-old daughter, and Andrew works full-time for the Ministry of Natural Resources, but in their 'spare' time, they farm.
They spend hour after hour tending their flock of sheep, tapping the maples to make syrup, going through the exciting and stressful process of lambing. They make a little money at it but, with the amount of time and labour that goes in, their real motivation is love of it.
This year, one little lamb had to be bottle fed, having been born small and unable to compete with her siblings for milk. So, while we all slept soundly, Andrew rose in the dark and made his way to the barn. He held the lamb gently and fed her from a bottle, before returning to bed, only to repeat the process again before work, and after work, and after dinner, and before bed, day after day.
Thinking about this kind of dedication, I feel ashamed at my urge to mock the farmers at the sale. Their seriousness about their work is no joke. They made the choice to live a life they love even though isn't easy, they work harder, longer hours than most of us for less pay, and, best of all, they can look at a pile of rusty wire and see the possibility of plenty.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
The Darkness Of The Tulgey Wood
Two nights ago I went for a walk on a large property my parents keep deep in the country. When we lived 'in town' as kids, this was where Mom and Dad would take us to go walking, to snowmobile, to pick apples and roast weinies over a campfire.
We called it Tulgey Wood after the Lewis Carol poem The Jabberwocky. I hadn't explored it in over a decade.
It was dusk, and the place was filled with the scent of lilacs and apple blossoms. A warm breeze blew over my face as I walked along and yet, I could not relax. I began to perceive a vague threat. As I walked further in and away from my car, my palms started to sweat, my heart to pound, and my mind became full of fear.
What was I afraid of, you ask?
The two things that haunt all my frightened imaginings: bears and bad men.
And I was conflicted because, as I clapped my hands and made noise to frighten off the bears, I also felt that I should be quiet so as to escape the notice of the bad men. Every black stump made my heart jump into my throat, and the distant sound of shelling at the tank range only added to the queasy uneasiness churning in my stomach.
Now, people are constantly saying that we should trust our intuition, but what about when our intuition devolves into paranoia?
I must admit that I see the good sense in recognizing the possible danger of my situation - far away from any help, in a wild landscape only faintly familiar, walking deeper in as the light began to fade - but by the end of my walk, the jingle of my own keys in my pocket was enough to make me jump, and my imagination was running wild with depictions of my imminent ruin. Intuition is a gift we should respect, but what about all those slasher movies still floating around in my grey matter? What influence do they have?
I laughed, re-reading Lewis Carol's poem. Maybe my dark imaginings were born in his words.
...And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The jabberwock with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came...
We called it Tulgey Wood after the Lewis Carol poem The Jabberwocky. I hadn't explored it in over a decade.
It was dusk, and the place was filled with the scent of lilacs and apple blossoms. A warm breeze blew over my face as I walked along and yet, I could not relax. I began to perceive a vague threat. As I walked further in and away from my car, my palms started to sweat, my heart to pound, and my mind became full of fear.
What was I afraid of, you ask?
The two things that haunt all my frightened imaginings: bears and bad men.
And I was conflicted because, as I clapped my hands and made noise to frighten off the bears, I also felt that I should be quiet so as to escape the notice of the bad men. Every black stump made my heart jump into my throat, and the distant sound of shelling at the tank range only added to the queasy uneasiness churning in my stomach.
Now, people are constantly saying that we should trust our intuition, but what about when our intuition devolves into paranoia?
I must admit that I see the good sense in recognizing the possible danger of my situation - far away from any help, in a wild landscape only faintly familiar, walking deeper in as the light began to fade - but by the end of my walk, the jingle of my own keys in my pocket was enough to make me jump, and my imagination was running wild with depictions of my imminent ruin. Intuition is a gift we should respect, but what about all those slasher movies still floating around in my grey matter? What influence do they have?
I laughed, re-reading Lewis Carol's poem. Maybe my dark imaginings were born in his words.
...And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The jabberwock with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came...
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Learning Forgiveness, Seagull-Style
I warned you this was coming.
Today I want to tell you about my love for one of the most hated creatures on two legs (after Simon Cowell).
But first...
Do you have fond memories of a beach holiday from when you were a kid? Maybe your mom slathered you with sunscreen and gave you juice boxes out of a cooler. You probably dug in the sand with a spoon as the surf crashed and gulls wheeled overhead. The sound of laughter, gulls, and the murmering of your parents lulled you to sleep as you lay in the shade of a striped umbrella. You dreamed of mars bars and gummy bears.
Then, later in the afternoon, you slurp greedily at your fingers, now covered in grease and stained red from ketchup chips. The bag crinkles invitingly in your other hand.
Without warning, a gull descends! Flapping wings beat your face and shrill screams ring in your ears! You surrender your bag and run back to your parents. Tears mingle with snot and sand in a dirty smear across your face. Your ketchup stained mouth now frowns like a sad clown.
Was this the moment? Was this the very moment in time that you swore to loath seagulls for all eternity? Has this painful wound festered in your heart all this time?
If so, isn't it time you learned to forgive?
My challenge to you this day is to learn to see seagulls in a new light. Watch them circle against the blue sky and be at peace. Listen to their cries as the first sign of spring, or as reminders of happy beach days. Shake your head and chuckle when they poop on your car.
My friend Blair has a 'pet' seagull that visits him on his balcony in downtown Vancouver. He's a cute little character that Blair has named Davie.
So my question to you today is: If Blair has made the step toward seagull-forgiveness, can you?
Today I want to tell you about my love for one of the most hated creatures on two legs (after Simon Cowell).
But first...
Do you have fond memories of a beach holiday from when you were a kid? Maybe your mom slathered you with sunscreen and gave you juice boxes out of a cooler. You probably dug in the sand with a spoon as the surf crashed and gulls wheeled overhead. The sound of laughter, gulls, and the murmering of your parents lulled you to sleep as you lay in the shade of a striped umbrella. You dreamed of mars bars and gummy bears.
Then, later in the afternoon, you slurp greedily at your fingers, now covered in grease and stained red from ketchup chips. The bag crinkles invitingly in your other hand.
Without warning, a gull descends! Flapping wings beat your face and shrill screams ring in your ears! You surrender your bag and run back to your parents. Tears mingle with snot and sand in a dirty smear across your face. Your ketchup stained mouth now frowns like a sad clown.
Was this the moment? Was this the very moment in time that you swore to loath seagulls for all eternity? Has this painful wound festered in your heart all this time?
If so, isn't it time you learned to forgive?
My challenge to you this day is to learn to see seagulls in a new light. Watch them circle against the blue sky and be at peace. Listen to their cries as the first sign of spring, or as reminders of happy beach days. Shake your head and chuckle when they poop on your car.
My friend Blair has a 'pet' seagull that visits him on his balcony in downtown Vancouver. He's a cute little character that Blair has named Davie.
So my question to you today is: If Blair has made the step toward seagull-forgiveness, can you?
Sunday, May 17, 2009
My Grandma's Too Hip To Be Square
Yesterday I bombed down a deserted country road with the wind in my hair, sun on my face, and my Grandma at my side.
She was letting me test drive her new Smart Car convertible.
We roared down gravel roads and she cranked up the volume on her stereo - the song was "I get around" by The Beach Boys. She bopped to the music, dancing with her arms, clearly having a ball.
I laugh, thinking about my Grandma and her wild ways: Her flashy fashion sense, strong opinions, strange turns of phrase, and totally rad new car. But why? Why do I laugh? Is it because I've been taught to expect grandparents to be boring, slow, behind the times? Many people I talk to tell tales of some peppy grandparent of theirs, one who goes waterskiing at eighty, or curses like a sailor, or speaks their mind regardless of decorum.
Do you have one of these? (I have several!)
My Grandma is driving from Ontario to Alberta in her Smartcar this summer, though her plan to do so has been met by more than a few skeptical glances. In typical fashion, she is stubbornly holding firm.
"Ah, what do they know?" she asks, swatting at the air with a gesture of dismissal, "I've been driving since I was ten..."
Friday, May 15, 2009
The Way We Worm
I spent my morning rummaging through poop. Yes, that's right.
I stood in my rubber boots in a large manure pile, picking out wriggling, writhing worms one by one and dropping them in a bucket. My husband is a trooper, and stood in his rubbers by my side scooping up pitchfork-fulls of manure and flipping them to reveal masses of slimy red worms.
Why, you ask?
Vermicomposting, of course!
You see, my husband has never had a pet, and we decided that we'd start small. We'll keep our little worm friends in a plastic tub in the kitchen and feed them everyday. Because that is basically what a worm lives to do: eat our food scraps and turn them into lovely black fertilizer.
We've never done this before, so I'll keep you updated on our successes and failures. (I'm wildly optimistic, while my husband maintains a healthy skepticism).
Now, I'd better go. I'm not finished naming them.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
The Death Of Noise
I've missed the sound of birds.
Where I lived before, apart from the cry of a seagull (more on my love for this special guy, later) or the harsh caw of a crow (also a personal favourite), the air was mostly permeated with the very human sounds of transport trucks, airplanes, car alarms.
I walked yesterday along the harbour and down past tall grasses to the beach, and all the way birds were singing. Twittering and chirping. Peeping and whistling. The wind was in my ears, and my face in the sun as I sauntered along.
Last night my husband and I watched The Lord of The Rings in our new apartment. It struck me, in the scenes of grassy meadows, that there was no background of traffic noise. It was weird. And wonderful.
There has been talk lately about noise pollution, and the effect it has on a person's health. Excessive noise has been linked to hightened stress levels, hypertention, aggression and depression. But what are we to do about it?
Stop and listen right now. Is your fridge humming? Are the cars going by?
Most of this noise is unavoidable in daily life, but in any case, it helps me to cherish those moments when it all goes away: When the sound of crickets under a starry sky is the only sound for miles.
Where I lived before, apart from the cry of a seagull (more on my love for this special guy, later) or the harsh caw of a crow (also a personal favourite), the air was mostly permeated with the very human sounds of transport trucks, airplanes, car alarms.
I walked yesterday along the harbour and down past tall grasses to the beach, and all the way birds were singing. Twittering and chirping. Peeping and whistling. The wind was in my ears, and my face in the sun as I sauntered along.
Last night my husband and I watched The Lord of The Rings in our new apartment. It struck me, in the scenes of grassy meadows, that there was no background of traffic noise. It was weird. And wonderful.
There has been talk lately about noise pollution, and the effect it has on a person's health. Excessive noise has been linked to hightened stress levels, hypertention, aggression and depression. But what are we to do about it?
Stop and listen right now. Is your fridge humming? Are the cars going by?
Most of this noise is unavoidable in daily life, but in any case, it helps me to cherish those moments when it all goes away: When the sound of crickets under a starry sky is the only sound for miles.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Whirling Like A Dervish
This weekend I sat in the comforting darkness of a theatre in downtown Toronto, watching whirling dervishes spin and spin and spin.
The pair were a father-daughter duo. She wore a white dress with a full skirt covered in mirrored beading. He wore red and black, and his cloak flared up as he spun, suspended in the air around him.
For twenty minutes I watched them spin like planets in orbit. I listened to the shuffle of their feet on the stage beneath swelling music, mesmerized.
It made me think about the orbit of my own life these past two weeks: Packing up, driving for days, arriving at my destination only to continue spinning (flailing?) toward some semblance of order and stability. My mind has been swimming, full of details to the point of blankness.
The whirling dervishes are followers of the sufi poet Rumi who, reportedly, stopped in the market one day entranced by the rhythmic hammering of goldbeaters. It is believed that he heard "la elaha ella'llah" in the sound - "no god, but God" - and was so elated that he threw up his arms and began to spin in a circle. Thus, the Mevlevi dervishes were born.
In the theatre, I was overcome by a sensation of peace as I watched them spin. They were surrendering control, throwing their arms skyward in joyful love of God.
So, even though the spinning in my life right now seems much less graceful, I'm going to try to do the same.
The pair were a father-daughter duo. She wore a white dress with a full skirt covered in mirrored beading. He wore red and black, and his cloak flared up as he spun, suspended in the air around him.
For twenty minutes I watched them spin like planets in orbit. I listened to the shuffle of their feet on the stage beneath swelling music, mesmerized.
It made me think about the orbit of my own life these past two weeks: Packing up, driving for days, arriving at my destination only to continue spinning (flailing?) toward some semblance of order and stability. My mind has been swimming, full of details to the point of blankness.
The whirling dervishes are followers of the sufi poet Rumi who, reportedly, stopped in the market one day entranced by the rhythmic hammering of goldbeaters. It is believed that he heard "la elaha ella'llah" in the sound - "no god, but God" - and was so elated that he threw up his arms and began to spin in a circle. Thus, the Mevlevi dervishes were born.
In the theatre, I was overcome by a sensation of peace as I watched them spin. They were surrendering control, throwing their arms skyward in joyful love of God.
So, even though the spinning in my life right now seems much less graceful, I'm going to try to do the same.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
A Good Ol' Fashioned Interrogation
Is it just me?
Have you ever been questioned about something you were totally innocent of, but felt yourself sweating and stuttering like you were guilty? And the more you stutter, the more nervous you get about how bad you're coming across, which only makes it all worse!
Yesterday a tall, stern faced officer of the U.S. Border Patrol took me into a small room, sat me in a chair (after a pocket and purse search), and gave me a good ol' fashioned grilling. My husband waited in another room for his turn.
The questions were all pretty reasonable: Where are you going? How much money do you have with you? Do you have any pets in the car? Do you have any alcohol, tobacco, recreational drugs, or light artillery?
He lingered on this last question and gave me a hard look. "You know, we're going to look through your vehicle, and if we find anything like this, we have the right to confiscate your car and everything in it."
I felt the wild urge to confess: Okay! Okay! We've got a box of AK47's in the back! But I swear they're for personal use!
But, seeing as we had nothing of the kind, I bit my tongue and nodded, trying to look unruffled.
I was left in a small hallway to wait, and my husband soon joined me. His face was a little red, and I could tell he was angry.
"What a waste of time," he said.
"But you're always so pro-border security."
"Ya! Except when it happens to me!" He was only half joking.
"Keep your voice down."
In the end, after an hour's wait and what appeared to be only a light car search, we were handed our keys and sent on our way.
I guess it could've been worse: By the way I was sweating, I wouldn't have been surprised if they had ordered a full cavity search.
Have you ever been questioned about something you were totally innocent of, but felt yourself sweating and stuttering like you were guilty? And the more you stutter, the more nervous you get about how bad you're coming across, which only makes it all worse!
Yesterday a tall, stern faced officer of the U.S. Border Patrol took me into a small room, sat me in a chair (after a pocket and purse search), and gave me a good ol' fashioned grilling. My husband waited in another room for his turn.
The questions were all pretty reasonable: Where are you going? How much money do you have with you? Do you have any pets in the car? Do you have any alcohol, tobacco, recreational drugs, or light artillery?
He lingered on this last question and gave me a hard look. "You know, we're going to look through your vehicle, and if we find anything like this, we have the right to confiscate your car and everything in it."
I felt the wild urge to confess: Okay! Okay! We've got a box of AK47's in the back! But I swear they're for personal use!
But, seeing as we had nothing of the kind, I bit my tongue and nodded, trying to look unruffled.
I was left in a small hallway to wait, and my husband soon joined me. His face was a little red, and I could tell he was angry.
"What a waste of time," he said.
"But you're always so pro-border security."
"Ya! Except when it happens to me!" He was only half joking.
"Keep your voice down."
In the end, after an hour's wait and what appeared to be only a light car search, we were handed our keys and sent on our way.
I guess it could've been worse: By the way I was sweating, I wouldn't have been surprised if they had ordered a full cavity search.
Monday, May 4, 2009
How To Be A Terrible Houseguest
This is an embarrassing story.
I hesitate to write it, lest I forever condemn myself as a hopeless flake.
However, here goes...
On this cross-country quest, we had a few excellent stops to make in Alberta: family in Calgary, a very dear old friend in Edmonton, and the sweetest Aunt and Uncle that a girl could wish for in Medicine Hat.
I hesitate to write it, lest I forever condemn myself as a hopeless flake.
However, here goes...
On this cross-country quest, we had a few excellent stops to make in Alberta: family in Calgary, a very dear old friend in Edmonton, and the sweetest Aunt and Uncle that a girl could wish for in Medicine Hat.
On Friday we arrived in Edmonton to stay with Allison, in her lovely downtown condo. Saturday she had rehearsal for a musical she's involved with, so my husband and I slept late, went for lunch and a walk in the river valley, then returned to her condo and awaited her arrival.
Ten minutes before she was to arrive home, I decided it would be nice to make tea. I filled the kettle, turned the burner of her ceramic flat top to high, and left it to boil.
Here it comes...
There was a sizzle, and a pop, and a very bad smell.
I ran over to find her ELECTRIC, PLASTIC-BASED kettle spewing noxious black smoke as it melted happily into the burner.
I shrieked, grabbed the handle, and lifted. The kettle split in two, leaving a ring of black plastic still sizzling and smoking.
"Help!" I yelled toward my husband, "Grab it!"
He lunged at the nearest spatula, scooped the plastic blob off the burner, and stood holding the stinking mass over the sink.
"What do I do with this?" He looked around wildly.
"I can't put this down!" I shouted. I held the top half of the kettle in one hand and hopped back and forth.
Just then, the phone rang. Allison was home and wanted to be buzzed up.
I tried to sound normal, "Come on up." When she knocked on the door, I ran over and hurried her in, "Quick! Close the door! We've got an emergency!" I was almost crying.
The place was thick with nasty, chemical-ridden smoke, and I was having terrible visions of her fire alarm sounding, fire trucks lining the streets, even for a second that the sprinklers any minute would begin a torrential spray all over her furniture and belongings.
"It's okay! It's okay!" she cried, seeing my distress. Her big doe eyes widened and she pulled me in for a hug. "I did the same thing with a plastic cutting board."
In the end, we were able to get most of the plastic mess off the stove top and the smoke cleared.
The kettle and the spatula were goners, but thankfully, Allison is a very forgiving and generous friend.
But, if you want to be a terrible houseguest...give this a try.
Ten minutes before she was to arrive home, I decided it would be nice to make tea. I filled the kettle, turned the burner of her ceramic flat top to high, and left it to boil.
Here it comes...
There was a sizzle, and a pop, and a very bad smell.
I ran over to find her ELECTRIC, PLASTIC-BASED kettle spewing noxious black smoke as it melted happily into the burner.
I shrieked, grabbed the handle, and lifted. The kettle split in two, leaving a ring of black plastic still sizzling and smoking.
"Help!" I yelled toward my husband, "Grab it!"
He lunged at the nearest spatula, scooped the plastic blob off the burner, and stood holding the stinking mass over the sink.
"What do I do with this?" He looked around wildly.
"I can't put this down!" I shouted. I held the top half of the kettle in one hand and hopped back and forth.
Just then, the phone rang. Allison was home and wanted to be buzzed up.
I tried to sound normal, "Come on up." When she knocked on the door, I ran over and hurried her in, "Quick! Close the door! We've got an emergency!" I was almost crying.
The place was thick with nasty, chemical-ridden smoke, and I was having terrible visions of her fire alarm sounding, fire trucks lining the streets, even for a second that the sprinklers any minute would begin a torrential spray all over her furniture and belongings.
"It's okay! It's okay!" she cried, seeing my distress. Her big doe eyes widened and she pulled me in for a hug. "I did the same thing with a plastic cutting board."
In the end, we were able to get most of the plastic mess off the stove top and the smoke cleared.
The kettle and the spatula were goners, but thankfully, Allison is a very forgiving and generous friend.
But, if you want to be a terrible houseguest...give this a try.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Life Without A Cell Phone
We're all so cool, aren't we?Still, here's a little tip: Next time you're walking down the street with your vanilla latte, oversized shades, chatting away into your bluetooth, feeling oh so trendy, oh so phat, or rad, or cool, or whatever the word of the day happens to be, just remember that no matter who you are, no matter what you wear, twenty years from now your children WILL be laughing at you.
Seen any good movies from the eighties lately?
(Cue the soft musical stylings of Peter Gabriel): A tanned man in crotch-hugging acid-washed jeans screeches up in front of a beach house in a flashy red convertable. He jogs casually through the carpeted, white-on-white living room, and heads out through the glass patio door toward a pristine beach. His feathered blonde hair flutters softly in the breeze as curls of chest hair peek invitingly over the top of his crisp polo shirt. The surf crashes as he pulls out his cell phone to make a call.
...And it's huge! He holds the brick-sized phone in two hands, pulls the antenna out with a flourish.
(Cue laughter and mocking by current-day viewers).
Now, my husband and I are two of the very last cell-phone hold-outs left on planet earth (or so it seems). If we want to make plans with someone, we have to plan ahead and call them from home. If we get lost, we have to rely on the kindness (or at least pity) of strangers. If our car breaks down in the middle of nowhere in the middle of a blizzard...well, then we're just plain hooped.
I'm not bragging, it's not convenient.
I'm just saying that these things that we begin to see almost as extensions of ourselves are, well, not. That the pursuit of the cache that comes with possessions is a fool's errand, and our foolishness will, in time, be revealed.
We can enjoy what we wear, take delight in our gadgets, refine our personal sense of style, so long as we cherish and encourage the things that are REAL: our relationships with one another, our strengths of character, our love of goodness and peace in the world.
Random Bug Fact Of The Day:
Did you know?
The fastest known insect is a dragonfly that has been clocked at almost 60 km/hour!
(No wonder they make such a loud SPLAT on your windshield).
The fastest known insect is a dragonfly that has been clocked at almost 60 km/hour!
(No wonder they make such a loud SPLAT on your windshield).
Friday, May 1, 2009
She'll Be Coming Around The Mountain When She Comes
So the big, cross-country move is underway (my excuse for not posting the last couple days).
We packed the car - with not an inch to spare - and set out yesterday morning. The day was bright and cloudless, and the mountains loomed large. Winding our way through the twisted mountain passes, we were surprised by flat, crystal lakes, snowy peaks in the distance, hidden valleys of lush farmland.
When we left B.C., the cherry blossoms rained confetti-like petals over our car (a gesture of farewell?) and we walked in flip-flops over green grass.
Then came Banff. And the snow.
We looked at ourselves in shorts and tshirts, passing cars with Alberta license plates. The drivers wore toques and winter jackets, and looked at us like we were crazy.
My husband's foot eased up on the gas pedal. "Want to go back?" he asked.
I stared out into the white, considering.
We packed the car - with not an inch to spare - and set out yesterday morning. The day was bright and cloudless, and the mountains loomed large. Winding our way through the twisted mountain passes, we were surprised by flat, crystal lakes, snowy peaks in the distance, hidden valleys of lush farmland.
When we left B.C., the cherry blossoms rained confetti-like petals over our car (a gesture of farewell?) and we walked in flip-flops over green grass.
Then came Banff. And the snow.
We looked at ourselves in shorts and tshirts, passing cars with Alberta license plates. The drivers wore toques and winter jackets, and looked at us like we were crazy.
My husband's foot eased up on the gas pedal. "Want to go back?" he asked.
I stared out into the white, considering.
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