Remembered

I went down to the corner tonight, something that I have done on the last Monday of August, for many, many years.  It's the day after Decoration Day at the Avonbank Cemetary. It is a beautiful and touching place to visit on a soft and gentle summer evening.

I am always moved by the display of love, caring and remembrance. Last year, there was a single gladiolia beside this broken stone that has been carefully placed by the foundation of the church. This year there was an entire bouquet laying on a bed of evergreen. I am so curious as to who it is that makes such a thoughtful gesture, but in a way, I like to hang on to it as a mystery.

I set to wondering who it is who it is that takes the time and trouble to lay flowers at the gravesites where the headstones have become illegible, or are over a hundred and fifty years old. Is it relatives or is it some kind soul who is performing random acts of kindness and colour.

I did, by chance, find out tonight who left the sweet little bouquets wrapped carefully with little foil flower pots. It was a darling teenage neigbhour girl who is carrying on a tradition that her late Grandma did.  What a wonderful way to honour her grandmother as well as the people where she laid the flowers.

I am also very curious about who it is that lays the flowers on the grave of the family that used to live in this house. Some day I'm going to have to go down there and sit and wait, just in case they are family and can tell me some stories about them.

I love that someone takes time to honour others in such a simple and beautiful way even when they would not possibily have known them.

It is indeed a lovely place to go and reflect on the kindness of the human spirit.



Got My Goat

On April 2^nd, 2008, I wrote a post entitled ‘Goatless In Avonbank’.  It’s no longer true.

On Christmas Day, I came in to the kitchen to see Ashley and Brian sitting on the couch, looking at the computer.  They looked very guilty when I asked what they were looking at. ‘Oh, nothing.’ they giggled and quickly shut the laptop.

Later I heard a little rumbling that Ashley had gotten Brian baby goats for Christmas. ‘No, she wouldn’t do that.’, I said confidently. 'She KNOWS I don't want anymore goats.' The subject was dropped and I was sure that we were safe. A few days later, in my computer 'history', I discovered a photo of Gibson standing by a tiny little pygmy goat.  Oh no … Goat Girl has struck again. 

I had put up with goats for twenty five years, enjoying them for sure, but also not overly impressed that I could never have flowers.  I was quite content and comfortable being Goatless.  Brian on the other hand has missed the goats.

So, Bill and Ted came to live in Avonbank. “Buildin’ Ted” as Gibby calls them.  I have basically ignored their existence, afraid that if I got all chummy with them that they would come up to the house to visit. 

I have to admit, I have really enjoyed seeing some youthful antics on the property. Everything here is geriatric - the donkeys ... US.  We all move slow and aren't too often described as playful anymore. New life was refreshing.  The goats were fun to watch. They stand on their back legs and butt each other; they jump on the donkeys’ backs. They scamper and cavort. It’s been a very long time since anything scampered and cavorted around here.

They’ve stayed away from the house, so I had come to accept them and in fact was glad to have them. They keep Ransom company and follow him everywhere. Brian loves them and comments often that Bill … or is it Ted – I actually don’t know which is which – is the best looking goat he’s ever met in his life.  Ted is a girl. Or maybe Bill is the girl; I don't know. I’m with Gibby – I just call them ‘Buildin’ Ted’ as one entity.

Did I mention that I’m happy with my flowers? I am. I finally have some grown-up landscaping.  Not a lot, but compared to the sparseness of colour that has been my life for the past quarter century, I am downright vibrant.  In the past three years my perennials have become established enough that you can tell what they are. I get a little kick out of ‘free flowers’ after all these years.

So, when I came home the other day and saw my beautiful, glorious phlox plant trampled and eaten, I was not impressed.  I said rude things to the goats. I said rude things to Brian too. I thought rude things about the Goat Girl giving such an irritating, inappropriate gift. The next day I came out and they had devoured all the sedum buds that hadn’t even been fully born yet.  I said rude things again. More forcefully.

A few days later I was in town, pushing Georgia in the stroller, Gibson walking beside me. We walked past some lovely flower beds and Gibs said ”Look at those bee-ootiful flowers.” “Yes, they are.” I said sadly. “I used to have beautiful flowers, but Bad Goats ate them.”  As always, when anything happens in his life that could be construed as a negative …  broken toy or balloon, spilled milk, even being hurt – he said in the sweetest little voice: “But that’s okay, Nana. You can get MORE flowers.” “Yes, Gibby, I guess I can.” I said, ‘but it still makes me sad.”

Still walking, he moved right in close. I looked down and there he was, hugging my leg with in such a sincere and comforting way that I instantly felt guilty.  I changed my tone immediately and said with considerably more confidence and no hint of self-pity. “YES, I CAN get more flowers, Gibs. For sure.”

Whenever I think of my missing flowers now, I see that dear, angelic boy, extending more compassion than you would ever think a three year old was capable of. To get to witness that and know that already he has such a good heart, was worth the loss.

I don’t have flowers. But I do have a sweet little grandson that knows exactly what to do when someone is feeling blue.  That’s a bouquet that will live in my heart long after the flowers would have faded.

But ... the goats STILL tick me off.

Burn On

This would seem like an ‘out of nowhere’ subject, but I’m trying to get into the habit of writing again. The biggest stumbling block to that seems to be: ‘what do I talk about? Other than animals?' Sometimes random stuff just pops into my head, so Random Stuff it is today.

When we moved into this farm, 23 years ago, one of the things that were on my ‘Have GOT to change THAT’ list, was the light fixture in our bedroom. I thought that it was, without a doubt, the weirdest, ugliest, most garish light that I had ever laid eyes on. I recall showing someone through the house and their comment was ‘What a beautiful light!’ I was sure they were being facetious, or at the very least had questionable taste. Replacing it was at the top of my ‘Must Do’ list.

As it happened, a few hundred other things required time and money, so a new/different light moved way down on the priority list. After all, no one would ever be in our bedroom anyway; never mind that it was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes, and the last thing I saw every night. Every single time for years and years, I would think – ‘my gawd, what a horrendously ugly, ugly light’. The plan was that when the bulb burned out and I had to figure out a way to get it apart, that would be my opportunity to get a new one.

Over time though, my attitude shifted when I laid there looking at the light. Sometimes I’d study to see exactly HOW they made it, but then the thoughts would detour back to WHY. The stems are done in a shaky hand with a weird coloured, kind of gross gold paint. The petals though – that was what bothered me - I happened to detest orange, and especially orange-red.

The years have gone on … and on … and on. I like orange/orange-red now. In fact, I’m drawn to it. When I see the the rough and shaky stems, I think of the hand that painted them and wonder who they were and when & where it was created. I have kind of grown fond of it in a ‘face-only-a-mother-would-love’ sort of way. In reality though, it is still pretty homely.

I was surprised then, a little while ago, when Scotty came into my room after spending the night and said, totally out of the blue: "You know Nan, that is the most BEAUTIFUL light I have ever seen." Quite amazed that a nine year old boy would notice, let alone make mention of something like that, I said ‘REALLY?’ Very seriously, he answered: “Yes, I’ve ALWAYS thought so – my WHOLE life.”

All that aside, that is not the amazing or interesting thing about the light. What makes this light stand apart from any other light is that it is PERPETUAL. Never once in twenty three years has the light bulb been replaced. Really, truly, honestly - not ONCE. That is especially remarkable in the fact that we live with constant power surges and light bulbs burn out here in record time. I think it must have known that if it ever came to taking it down, that would be the end of it. It burns on and on – most likley from long before we moved in. I’m curious as to what kind of bulb it is - it must be an antique, but I’m not about to take it apart to see. I’m leaving well-enough alone, and watching with great interest to see if it lasts longer than me.

Burn on, my homely friend, burn on. 

The Newbie

Two years ago, a babe missed my birthday by hours – arriving on the left side of the day. This year, it was just a few hours on the right side. No matter, it still was a significant day, a better one to arrive in fact.

I was rushing off to town to get stuff for the big WINGS picnic. I was already in my car, backing up, when I noticed that Lani was standing at the fence looking at me. That wouldn’t be a red flag to anyone else. I knew instantly that something was up; Lani would not be standing alone, trying to get my attention. She and Victoria are inseparable – you don’t see one without the other being five feet away.

The two fields are very large, but when I climbed the fence, instinct took me right to Victoria. She was laying in the coolness of the shelter – not a big surprise, other than she was doing it without Lani. I had just checked her a day or so earlier, so I wasn’t expecting to see a baby, and sure enough – there wasn’t one. Still strange for her to be alone, again, instinct took me in for a closer look. When she stood up, there was afterbirth still connected.

‘Oh no’, I thought – ‘She’s lost her baby.’ Of course I couldn’t leave it lay somewhere – I’d have to find it. The fields are big and the grass is as tall as the donkeys in most places. A needle in a haystack to find a wee donkey laying down. Victoria though, looked like she was on a mission so I followed her. And there it was – way off in the corner, a tiny little foal stumbling around. I was shocked that she would be alive - it was unheard of for a mother to go off and leave her babe. My guess is that it was just too hot for Victoria and she needed to get somewhere cool to finish the birth process.

I blessed my lucky stars that I listened to that inner voice that made me question why Lani was alone. That tiny wee baby would not have survived in the heat of the day, she was already seeming weak when I scooped her up and carried her to the barn. Victoria followed close, and Lani just inches behind that – there was no way we were going through that gate without her.

By the time the gals arrived for our WINGS picnic, the baby was strong and looked older than the six hours that she was. I announced a ‘surprise’ and they followed me to the barn. There they met the newest gal to join our WINGS group … a mascot of sorts. There’s been a discussion on the Facebook group page about what we’re going to call her. It seems that the name that is garnering the most positive response is Maxi. Maxi with WINGS.

Today she is running around, hopping and kicking. But then she laid down in my lap and went to sleep. She’s got a huge amount of personality already – spunky and feisty, yet gentle and calm. She’s one of US for sure.

OUGHTA

And so … another year. Older. Wiser, not so sure. Although, if wise were the mission of the day, I would treat it like a ‘new year’ and get myself into planning mode like I do in January and September. I need that extra month to get my act together. It’s just like the quote that Jae told me the other day … ‘If you look after the oughtas and gottas, the shouldas and couldas look after themselves.’ Well, I definitely OUGHTA get it together and I definitely GOTTA get in gear.
I don’t know … this year has spun on it’s own axis. That’s fine in many ways, but it definitely has been responsible for me losing track of a few things that are quite important to me.

Not People … that is always Priority One and absolutely continues to be. My days are filled with all kinds of wonderful relationships that enrich life … little folks and old folks, old friends and new ones, family that are friends and friends that are family. That’s all good and I don’t harbour too many shouldas and couldas in that realm.


It’s the Creative part that has suffered a bit thus far in 2011. I love to write but that has been remarkably absent. I haven’t written in my journals, or even my daily diary type thing that I have been consistent with for over 20 years. I haven’t written here. It’s not even the time, because we know, if it’s a priority, we always FIND time for it. No, it’s more that I can’t seem to conjure up words. It seems like I can’t write – don’t know how to write, have little or no desire to write. That has absolutely GOTTA change. I think I have just starved that part of me for so long that it’s shrivelling up. I am going to have to just ‘show up at the page’ and see what comes of that.

And photography. Oh my, is that strange to not have the camera beside me at every waking moment. I have stopped ‘seeing’ pictures. Usually I can stand in any given spot and find dozens of things that jump right out at me. The other day when I realized that I am not seeing in four by six, it scared me. I looked harder but it wasn’t there.

Who would I be if I didn’t write and take pictures. I haven’t used my hands to make anything either, and can’t seem to get focused in that vein either. What’s with that?

Actually, I think it all stems back to the fact that I had a Real Job for the first five months this year. I felt that kept me busy enough so when I wasn’t doing that I needed to focus on Priority One. I also wonder if it was because it was a left-brain type of job that my right brain just wasn’t being greased enough.

So … today I am going to get the grease out; get the lead out … going to start to think more effectively and get to the OUGHTAS so I am not whining at the end of the year about the SHOULDAS and COULDAS.

Never Long Enough

I walked to the cabin today, alone. First time. Ever. And to get the newspaper; and to visit the donkeys and up to bed – unnaturally alone. I automatically shut the livingroom door then realized there was no need. I’ve done that ten times. When I come out of my room in the dark, I veer to the left, but there is no need. There was no one sleeping there. I went to town with the strangest feeling just walking out and came home feeling even stranger when there was my arrival went unnoticed.

I knew I’d miss her. I wasn’t prepared for quite THIS much. I see her everywhere – every square in of this place - inside and out. Every way I turn I see a snapshot in my head with her in it. I hear the jingle of her collar and last night, I was sure I heard her bark. I walk around alone and I can hardly stand it. I have an uncontrollable urge to go to her and plead ‘Wake UP, Abby – you HAVE to wake up!’

It’s likely worse because Brian is gone for the week and I don’t do ‘alone’ all that well. I’ve never had to, I had her. I hardly took a step that she wasn’t in the picture somewhere. Sometimes it was an enthusiastic ‘Wait for me, wait for me! I’m coming!’. Often it was just her quiet presence in the background, my silent guard, my shadow of almost fourteen years.

December 4th, 1997 is when she came to be with us. The house was still filled with the noise and chaos of children and teenagers. The yard was filled with chickens & goats & cats & horses & pigs & donkeys and a menagerie of other critters that came and went. All that’s left now are my geriatric long-eared friends and one feral cat that we’ve been feeding for eight years who still refuses to let me touch her.


She got us through the transition of the empty nest. We still got to keep a ‘child’. Someone still to fuss about and fuss over. Being an ‘only child’, it probably was a little bit ridiculous how much fussing that entailed. We would turn the television on for her when we left, so she wouldn’t be lonely. She’s been deaf for at least a year, but we would still have a discussion about what program she’d want on. I’d insist that she didn’t LIKE golf – it was too slow and boring; Brian would say ‘sure she does, she loves sports.’ ‘No. She likes CHICK stuff.’ I’d tell him. More times than I can count, when I’d get in bed, Brian would say ‘Is Abby in?’ I’d say: ‘Really... has Abby EVER spent one night her entire life outside – why wouldn’t she not be in tonight?'

I’d be a little bit put out when Brian was away and he’d call home and only ask how Abby was. I asked why he never asked about the kids, just the dog. He said ‘Well, I KNOW you’ll look after the kids.’ Like as IF I wouldn't look after the dog too. He always fussed and worried about her. He said ‘You know, I could stay in Newfoundland for months if it weren’t for missing Abby.’ I say ‘What about the kids?’ His reply was that he could talk to them, and they’d know he’d be coming back. One night, a number of years ago, she was sick had climbed onto our bed. In the middle of the night when I got up, I tripped over Brian laying on the floor at the end of the bed. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked. He said ‘I didn’t want to disturb Abby when she’s not feeling good.’ was his answer.

Abby came to be with us on December 4th, 1997. There was teacher’s strike at the time and the government had sent families with children in elementary school $400 for the inconvenience of child care. I was leaving for a week long sculpting class in Montana early in the morning on December 5th. It was after supper when we were reading the newspaper and saw an advertisement: “Airedale puppies: $400.” That was about half the usual price because she was unregistered. 'Papers' aren't a pre-requisite for love in our house.

We had made it through the grief of losing our beloved Airedale, Bobbi Jo, in June and we were not coping very well with having no dog. We ignored the lateness of the evening, the impracticality of me leaving the next morning, Christmas in three weeks and the challenges of trying to train a puppy in the winter. We happened to have four hundred dollars that had come unexpectedly, so surely it was a sign. We loaded the four kids in the car and headed off for the hour drive to look at the puppies, knowing full well that there would not be a chance of us coming home without one.

We brought her home and she sat on my bed while I packed my suitcase. We talked about what we would call her and decided on ‘Montana’ because of my trip. I felt a little guilty leaving them all for a week with a new pup, but they managed fine and she had lots of attention. When I arrived home and got to know her, it was quite apparent that her name wasn’t to be Montana. It just didn’t suit her. We tried ‘Striker’ for awhile, because of how we got her, but that didn’t fit either. It was into her third week of really having no identity, when her name presented itself. She was fun and silly and did crazy things all the time. I went out to Brian’s shop and said: “That dog is just not normal. I know her name. It’s Abby. Abby-Normal.”

And hence she was our Abby. Our big beautiful, sweet and gentle friend. The time with her went far too quickly, as time always does. I wasn’t ready to let her go, but of course, I never would have been. We are never ready to say good-bye to our dear friends.

Playing Favourites

You shouldn’t have your favourites when it comes to your family. But I do. Four-legged, long-eared family that is … definite equality amongst the two-legged ones.
In my asinus relationships, Ransom is a stand out. But shhhh … don’t tell my other sweet and gentle friends – I love them too. I just have a particular connection to my big guy.

I first met him when he was two years old when I stopped into a big donkey farm about 5 hours from here. I was a tiny bit obsessed with donkeys back then, sort of like I am now but even more intense. I wasn’t shopping for a donkey – I already had two who were providing me with my fix of my little Disney-like babes. I just wanted to LOOK.

As I walked through the field, this big honkin’ guy kept following me. Whenever I stopped, he’d come up and put his head on my shoulder. He was lovely, but he was BIG. We just had miniature donkeys, which were particularly good with the kids and for the fact that we only had an acre of land.

But, we were just in the process of moving to a real farm, with a real barn and real pastures. That opened a whole new world of possibility for me.

I couldn’t get Ransom out of my head. Two week after we moved to the farm, we made the trip to bring him home, and of course had to bring along a friend of the same size for him.

That was 23 years ago in July which makes my gentle, handsome Ransom twenty five years old. Such a grand and beautiful creature.

His wife, Erin, passed away a number of years ago. She was sick for quite awhile and dear old Ransom laid in the field beside her, sometime with his head resting on her. After she was gone, he mourned for her for almost two years. He stood alone, hung his head, ate very little and wouldn’t ‘talk’ to me. He was depressed – it was the saddest thing to see.

He still doesn’t hang out with the other donkeys much. It’s curious how they keep apart – you’d think being the same species would matter more than size, but there definitely has always been a separation. I hate that he’s alone a lot of the time. I also hate that the little mini-jack rules over him and chases him into the barn just to prove his superiority. He’s such an ass. He should leave my friend alone.  My friend with the big doeful-soulful eyes. My friend with long, soft, pet-able ears. My dear and loyal friend who keeps the secret that he indeed is my most favourite, but knows full well that he is.
When I was out working in the yard today, I let Ransom out to hang around with me. He loves it and so do I. He follows me around, comes up for ear rubs, then heads off to enjoy his freedom, then comes back to find me. He wanders into Brian’s shop and just generally makes himself at home, savouring his freedom and feeling pretty proud of himself. It takes people aback when they drive in and see a mega-ass roaming around like a dog. I don’t think they get it. They think that animals should be corralled. And animals should. Friends shouldn’t.

Hard on the Heart

My friend is fading away. How hard that is on the heart.

Our sweet and beautiful Abby is growing old before our eyes. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised about that as she will be fourteen years old this fall, but right up to the beginning of this year she has been a puppy.

She never got the old face like some dogs …no white whiskers and milky eyes for her. No lethargy and laziness. She was ever enthusiastic with her greetings … always with a little skip and a wag. She woke us up in the morning by bumping around the perimeter of our bed, which felt more like an elephant was trying to shake us awake. When she wanted attention, she would come up and hook my leg with one of her paws or bump me with her whole body. When we went outside together, even at thirteen years old, she would have such exuberance – so pleased that there was an adventure awaiting somewhere.

She’s been stone deaf for a year, so our dancing days have been over for awhile. She particularly loved accordion music & when I’d have a Newfoundland CD on, she would come up & hit my feet with her paws and we’d dance together. I’ll never forget the time we had a NL party here & had ‘Mummers’ arrive. There were five or six of us, dressed up so people didn’t know who we were. When we entered the kitchen and the CD went on, Abby instantly picked me out of the group, hit my feet and started dancing. She could be sound asleep and hear a bicycle coming a quarter mile away and be up on her feet to check it out long before it arrived. The deafness hasn’t affected her much though and we forget about that and talk to her like she can hear.

It’s been shocking how the weight has dropped off her. She’s been a big dog – never fat but substantial for an Airedale. She’s lost half her body mass since January and we work at finding things that she will eat. She’s done with dog food. I’ve tried every kind and every brand. I tricked her for awhile by topping it with grated cheese or melted butter or vanilla ice cream; she’s not falling for that anymore. It must bother her stomach. She’ll eat eggs and cheese and ice cream and the occasional bite of something else but precious little.

She still goes with me from room to room and lays at the doorway when I go up to my studio. She still made the trip to the cabin with me and laid on the porch, but she walked back on the bridge rather than galloping through the water like she always has. Last night, she didn’t come out to greet the car when I drove in. It was strange to walk to the house alone. And she didn’t come upstairs with me when I went to bed. She stood at the bottom of the step, looked up at me and thought about it. Then she turned and went back to the kitchen. She always waits until I get up to come down and walks every step beside me. Lately she’s been slow and walk every step beside her, in case she were to get weak or dizzy. It was sad this morning, when her bed was empty and I walked down the stairs alone … shades of days to come.

She has slowed down substantially but she does not seem to be in pain or discomfort, just frail. She’s serious now rather than playful. A dozen times a day she comes and stands beside me, puts her head in my lap and looks at me with those beautiful big brown eyes. We both know her days with us our numbered, and yes indeed – that is hard on the heart.

Day ONE

Honestly & truly. Today is the very first day in 2011 that is MINE. I have no agenda, no appointments, no events that I am either organizing or attending. I am not working at a Real Job. I have commitments at all.

I don’t know what to do with myself. Of course, I could and should clean my house. But I’m NOT.

I’m going treat it like New Year’s Day and spend some time thinking about what I am going to do with this next little chunk of time. It’s been an even crazier than usual year for me, with squeezing a Real Job into my already too full life. That already is a little bit of a blur and hardly seems like it really did happen.

Every single day has been filled to the top and beyond, but somehow I feel like a big chunk has been missing. I am anxious to resume the things that I have let slip. Getting back to this blog is one of them. And my Daily Muse.

I’m feeling particularly excited today. The sun is shining and the day is MINE!

Getting A Handle

An entire month since I wrote. Ridiculous. More than a quarter of the year is gone already; slipped through my fingers like a greased pig. My days took a detour that wasn’t on the agenda on the first of January; a foray into the Working World.


It has been fun and interesting and challenging. I enjoy getting dressed in something other than jeans and slippers day in and day out. I enjoy walking along the street, computer bag in one hand, handbag in the other, looking and feeling more like a business person than I have in years. I love getting to have colleagues; people to chat to and laugh with every day. I love a new challenge and doing something so totally different than I ever expected to do.

I don’t love that I have had to let my writing go. Or that I not only do not have time to write it, but also no time to think it. I don’t love that I don’t have time to play pictures – take them, edit them, find quotes. I am behind in my Daily Muse. I don’t love that I don’t even seem to know what a muse is anymore.



I particularly don’t love that I seem to be losing time with my wee ones. That Spencer almost made strange when Jae left the other day. That Georgia looks at me with a bit of a question in her eyes, like ‘WHO exactly are you?’ That Gibson ran to me the other day yelling ‘Nana! Nana!!’; threw his arms around me, buried his face in my neck and said ‘I MISSED you! I missed you SO much!!. I don’t love that the girls need a break from their babies and I have not been any help. I don’t love that I feel I have neglected my friends and some other important things that are a high priority. I don't like feeling that I do not have a handle on my life.



It’s not just work though. A fair bit of time and head space has been given to our new organization WINGS. And every moment between working and that was spent trying to get ready for the show. Now that that is over, and I’m down to three days a week, I have got a lot of catching up to do.


First thing is to get back into a mind set of writing here more regularly, and back to my Daily Muse. I desperately need to get back to using my head, using my camera, nurturing my creativity and my relationships.



This sojourn into the working world has been very good for me. It’s made me realize how much I took my time for granted. It’s made me appreciate my flexibility and freedom more. It’s made me want to streamline my life and rid of myself of excess things so I can focus only on what’s important.



I know what’s important to me and I’ve got to get down to the business of getting a handle on it I’ve got to do better, simple as that.