Cross Your Heart And Hope To Die...

Whispering secrets.
Originally uploaded by ms_geek_chic

Stick a needle in your eye!

How dark. How gory. Ever wondered where all these strange childhood rhymes come from, or what in the world they mean?

I think it's amazing how the superstitious lore of childhood - crossing your fingers behind your back nullifies a promise, stepping on a crack will "break your mother's back" - are passed along from generation to generation, spreading through playgrounds like weeds.

In ages past, our ancestors lived in a verbal culture, and stories were told, remembered, and passed down with an accuracy we find hard to believe. Are these childhood fables the last remnants of this?

There is something solemn and serious about the passing on of this secret knowledge. Hands are cupped around ears, and rules are whispered on hissing breath: "Never let a black cat cross your path!"

Will little girls forever pluck the petals of daisies, murmuring "He loves me, he loves me not..."?

Will I always make a wish when the clock reads "11:11"?

Will schoolyards ever ring with the hauntingly familiar cry?:
"Jinx! You owe me a Coke!"

Death

I sat at a funeral yesterday, listening to many words being poured out: Attention paid to the smallest gesture of kindness and generous action, credit long overdue finally being paid.

Death lends grace and forgiveness to us that we cannot seem to extend to the living.

I'm thinking about this now, as I consider the effect that Michael Jackson's death is having on the world. Why is it so much easier now to choose to remember and honour only the very best of him?

Is it that we are able to open our hearts to him now that he's gone, secure in the knowledge that he can't hurt us or disappoint us again?

Or have we been forced to confront his (and our) human frailty? Is it the realization that even the brightest of us cannot live forever, that death comes to us all?

Whatever it may be, there is something precious about the depth of forgiveness death grants. And something very precious about experiencing it with millions of others.

Wouldn't it be great if we could hold on to just a little of this feeling?

To remind us to hold on to what matters.

To see the flesh and blood humans around us not simply in the fleeting moments they appear in our lives, not in reference to ourselves, but with a long view, the view that somehow blurs the mistakes and sharpens the most beautiful parts of a life.

T.L. Snider, J.O.A.T., M.O.N.

I've always wanted letters behind my name.

They carry with them such an air of distinction; The more obscure the better.

The letters in front of your name tell a different story: A "d" and an "r" together make people stand up and pay attention. An "m", an "r", and an "s" tell that man hitting on you that you probably don't want to see the inside of his houseboat.

Unfortunately for me, I don't have a degree, and my theatre school didn't give out letters, only a fantastic education.

These last two months have been an education in themselves for me, as I've been working at a series of "odd jobs": From painting a carport, to alphabetizing a library, to catering a funeral, each day brings something new and interesting. I've been collecting skills, putting them in my back pocket for a rainy day.

Therefore, the letters. I've decided to add them myself:

T.L. Snider, Jack of all trades, Master of none.

Have Your Cake And Eat It, Too

My dear Granny had her 80th birthday bash yesterday and, in preparation for the event, I volunteered to make the cake. I decided to be ambitious and try for a three-tiered, fondant covered, raspberry and lemon-filled monster cake. From scratch.

Little knowing what was in store.

I gathered the ingredients in multiple trips, since each time I got home with the supplies, I would realize with extreme frustration that I had forgotten something.

I set about whipping up the cake batter - quite a process with only my arm for a mixer. The oven in my apartment's little kitchen is from the seventies, and the elements are a little like Saturday Night Fever: Hot in places and crap in others. My cakes were coming out severely lopsided. Two dozen eggs and five hours later, I gave up and went back to the grocery store.

Remember when I said I little knew what was in store? There were the cake mixes: Three for four dollars. In the store. I bought them and went home.

Seriously, friends, they taste just as good as the homemade version. I'm not usually about the easy way out, but in this instance, those mixes were like a gift from Heaven. (As my mom likes to say: "That's why God invented Duncan Heins").

I filled the many layers with lemon curd and raspberry filling, iced them with buttercream, inserted dowels for support, made some mint-green fondant, rolled out the playdough-like fondant and smoothed it over the cakes, attached ribbon, wrapped 'em all up, and called it quits.

After two full days, my creation was complete!

I must admit, it was a pretty cake all stacked and decorated as it was with yellow and purple pansies.

But looks can be deceiving, can't they? I put a forkful of cake in my mouth and it was...Dry. Hmm...Definitely dry.

Luckily, my family loves me, and nobody said anything. But it goes to show, don't spend too much time worrying about looks while ignoring the inside.

You'll end up hard and dry as a graham cracker.

(*As a shout-out to my awesome mother-in-law, today's picture is the cake she made for our wedding. Pretty good for her first try. It was a looker AND tasted great.)

Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road?

"Mr. Snyder"
Originally uploaded by ellievanhoutte

...To get the Chinese newspaper. You get it?

No?

(I guess the chicken got it.)

Member At Large

Board meetings: Serious business, suits and ties, florescent lighting, and paper cuts.

This is what a free-wheeling, twenty-something gal like me thought of when I first considered joining the board of directors for the choir I was involved with for ten years of my childhood. But I thought about how great an experience the choir had been for me, and how good it feels to volunteer, and I took the plunge.

So last night was my first ever Board Meeting. I felt nervous going in (What if I don't measure up?!) and I sat under the florescent lights at the large table and swiveled in a big, puffy office chair. I held a pen in my hand (since everyone else was doing it) and put on my best 'serious business' face.

And then...

We started chatting. Jokes were made and we laughed. Suggestions were made and we voted. Business was discussed, but through it all it was very clear that these were good, kind people, giving of their time to promote an organization that they believed in.

In the end, I went home feeling very good, and I decided I didn't need to go out and get myself a power suit and blackberry after all.

Holy Cow

Have you ever milked a cow? Neither had I.

The teat is rougher yet squishier than I expected as I milked a cow for the first time this week. It was a little tricky, but after a couple of tries I managed to produce a few quick squirts of milk. Unfortunately, I couldn't coordinate the cereal bowl beneath the cow.

It made me think about how much distance most of us have from our food. There is so much to know about the operation of a farm, and I was fascinated as my friend Andrew explained the feeding, milking and care of these large mooing animals that provide so much of my daily sustenance.

I'm not a vegetarian, but I might be if I had to do the killing myself. Does this make me a hypocrite? I've always thought I'd like to take up fishing, but every time I catch a fish I lose my nerve to do the deed and end up throwing it back.

My mom says it is partly biological. That, as a female, I am hardwired to nourish and nurture, not kill. But then I think of all the women on homesteads throughout history, grabbing a chicken out of the yard and wringing it's neck for dinner. And my husband was just as soft-hearted toward that gasping fish.

Are we soft? Or do we leave these things to others because we have the luxury to do so?

I don't have any answers. But I think that if you have the opportunity to milk a cow, you should go for it. That tall glass of milk will taste just a little bit better.

So, Um, The Worms Have Disappeared

That's right.  

The TWO HUNDRED worms I lovingly collected, the ones I've been feeding and tending for weeks, are AWOL!  

It's honestly baffling, but I've searched painstakingly through the piles of decaying food and worm castings, and cannot find a single worm.  It's disheartening, really.  And just when we were really starting to gel.

So, um, I'm not exactly sure what to tell you.  I haven't really decided what to do.  Do I throw out the bin along with my good intentions?  Do I go get more worms and start again?  

Or, do I wait by the phone, hoping they'll call? 

An Impromptu Dip

duck on a pond
Originally uploaded by BotheredByBees

Today, as I walked through the fields in my rubber boots and shorts, wet grasses slapped my bare knees in an itchy kind of way and mosquitos buzzed around my head.

Puffy, white clouds sailed over green hills to the distant Bay, so I did my best to ignore the insect hum as I made my to the back woods. 

Two cows watched mournfully as I went.

The bugs were aggravatingly thick in the woods, and soon had me heading home. As I went, I stopped by a large pond. Geese floated on the far end, and every now and then a fish would plop up through the surface of the water.

I itched my knees and looked at the water, dark and glimmering, hesitating but tempted.

And then SPLASH! I was in.

There's something special about pond-swimming. It's a very different feeling than swimming in a lake or an ocean or a pool:  Your small head poking up out of the flat, glimmering water sees only sky and trees and tall, whispery grasses on every side. 

There is a shimmery sensation of calm as you float on your back beneath the bright sun, and a quick gasp as every now and again a fish brushes past your leg.

Poetry To Pass The Time

Getty Museum #11 (Venus Reclining on a Sea Monster with Cupid and a Putto)
Originally uploaded by kevindooley

So if you haven't noticed, I've been scandalously absent from the blog boards this whole week. Blogger's block is real, I tell you! Nothing for it.

And still it persists. So, to assuage my guilty conscience, here is a bit of poetry I wrote a few years ago. (Even though, according to the CBC, poetry is dead). I think I must have been reading Homer or Dante or something.


The Poison Cup

O my dear, what bliss! What bliss!

A cup of poison, slit of the wrist!

A silent, dark and maudlin twist.

It’s bliss! It’s bliss! This treachery, this!



Now deep in the bowels a steamy hiss,

The foul stench of stagnant piss,

The monster smiles with pointedness,

She cannot miss! She cannot miss!



How hotly burns the treason kiss,

The coins that pass from fist to fist.

They’ll eat the bones, the bile, the grist.

The innocent succumb to this.



The angel choir begins to twist

The clouds roll dark and ominous,

The monsters in their dirty tryst

Are crunching bones and smacking lips.



Now sweet the voice behind the mist:

“Angelicus! Angelicus!

Now all rise up and come to this!”

Her song all golden gloriousness.



From deep below they hear a hiss:

“You never will succeed at this.

For Man was made to seek this bliss,

This hot embrace, this devil’s kiss!”



“For O my dears, what bliss! What bliss!”

Another hissed in wickedness,

“O cup of poison, pile of grist,

The weak ones will succumb to this!”



The mountainside grew dark with mist,

While ocean swells began to list,

But in a desert oasis,

A small companion raised her fist.



She cried, “Oh wicked viciousness!

If ever there was truth in this,

I’ll fight you and I won’t resist,

You’ll nevermore make prey of us!”



A vicious pop and sizzling hiss,

In pain the monsters writhe and twist,

As arrows of Angelicus

Pierce scaly hides of wretchedness.



“But O my dears, what’s this? What’s this?

This wretched sizzle, burn and twist!

How did it all come down to this?”

The monsters fell into the pits.



The small companion dropped her fist,

She kissed her hand, she danced with bliss,

While in the sky, Angelicus,

Sent up the cry, “Victorious!”

Birdsong Radio

Headphones
Originally uploaded by flattop341

On May 14th, I blogged about how an overload of human noise can increase stress in our lives, and mentioned how refreshing it was to be surrounded aurally by nothing but birdsong.

So I was pleased yesterday when listening to the CBC, to hear the story of a man who works in radio in Great Britain. He told how he used a forty-minute recording of birds in his backyard as a test sample for a new radio station he was working to set up. He did this to protect the secrecy of the new radio station, and was shocked when people responded in droves, praising the birdsong radio!

It seems people were thrilled to listen to nothing but birds as they fought commuter traffic, relaxed in the bath, or waited in the dentist's office. It was popular with prison inmates as a connection with the world they could never see. One crafty real estate agent even opened all the windows of a home during an open house, put on Birdsong Radio, and then went on about the "charming country feel of the place"!

After eighteen months on the air, Birdsong Radio has been replaced with an easy-listening station, to the outrage of many devotees.

Because Celine Dion is okay, but really, she can't hold a candle to a chickadee at dawn!

Listen to a sample (Scroll down and click on "Live Dawn Chorus Birdsong Stream").
More about Birdsong Radio.

What I Found In The Forest

A huge, black, slobbering dog took me for a walk through the woods yesterday.  He loves the forest, and dashes this way and that, sniffing up one tree, marking another.  As we neared home (my husband's parents' place), he bounded away and didn't return to find me.  I was left alone under the trees.

I stopped to check out some bark that was peeling off onto the forest floor, when I spotted the strangest looking mushroom I had ever seen.  

It was huge for one thing.  The cap was almost as big as my fist and looked like a strange brown brain.  The stem was thick and white with folds and wrinkles that looked a little too much like human skin not to be eerie.

I've got to admit, it looked seriously phallic.

At this point, I had absolutely no inclination to eat aforementioned phallic, brainy mushroom, so I left it where it was and returned to the house where people were gathering to celebrate the wedding anniversary of Grandma and Grandpa Reid.  Everyone was sitting in the late afternoon sun in adirondack chairs out on the patio.

"You'll never guess what I found," I said.  

But I was wrong, they did guess.  They knew as soon as I described it to them, that I had found a morel.  One of the most sought-after, prized fungi around.

"Go get it!"  they said, eagerly.

So I did.  I brought it back in a pail, and we chopped it up and fried it in enough sizzling butter to supply Lobsterfest for a week.

I chewed on the rubbery, butter soaked morel and contemplated.  To me, the taste was certainly not worth all the fuss, but I think the real mystique and appeal of morels is in the finding of them.  This is one kind of food you can't just go into the grocery store and buy at any time of the year.  Morels must be hunted, stealthily, through leafy places in the glimmering wood.