Category Archives: enjoying life

You know you’ve met your people when….

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The calendar has finally turned the page into September. There are many reasons for me to smile after writing that line. This means the lodge has slowed down enough so we can all have two days off in a row to catch up on our rest. This means the temperature is dipping down low enough at night that sleep is enjoyed under a fuzzy blanket while the windows are still open. And this means it is soup and stew season!

I recently saw a post on Facebook written by a woman who has come to the realization that her 1971 slow cooker has finally admitted defeat and is no longer able to keep its temperature. The collective messages were those of sadness and unwavering support. We, being soup and stew people, felt the loss as much as she did.

As a helper, by nature, I immediately sent her the link to my latest slow cooker purchase that was designed to not only cook on a consistent low temperature, but had the added feature of being able to brown meat and sauté vegetables before turning the dial to cook on that same slow temperature for six to eight hours, producing the most melt-in-your-mouth meals you could hope for.

These are my people. These people who mourn the loss of a piece of kitchen equipment that has lived through generations of their families. These people who remember Aunt Jenny’s crockpot beef stew decades after Aunt Jenny has passed, but still put the same ingredients into their slow cookers to honour her memory, and enjoy the familiar taste of her stew. These people who enjoy summer to the fullest, but secretly wait for soup and stew season to start again.

Writing little things to amuse myself

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We are now firmly entrenched in the nine weeks of summer chaos at the lodge, which means I do not have the cranial capacity to write meaningful sentences, or paragraphs, that could potentially become useful in any future books. I do, however, have the time to think about the novels I have written and remember a few of the phrases that make me laugh. But, if I am honest, those phrases will most likely go completely unnoticed by my readers.

The final book in The Relative Series has a few nuggets that make me giggle, but one keeps resurfacing in my brain and I laugh out loud every time I think of it.

A student goes missing from a university in London, England in the early 1900’s. The intense investigation begins and the main character, Adelstein Beckett, is questioned by the police. The missing girl’s name is Margaret Carillon. Her last name was chosen after a brief Google search, and I am laughing as I write this. A carillon is a musical instrument made of cast bronze bells. In my book, the police ask if Mr. Beckett is familiar with a student named Margaret Carillon. Addy’s response (I’m still giggling) is, “It rings a bell.”

I don’t know why it makes me laugh so much, but I am glad I can still find the enjoyment in the little bit of humour I wrote specifically for myself. There are other references to things that mean a great deal to me, and I am happy to leave those little bits of my life in my books. I can only hope friends and family may recognize the subtle references.

I miss writing. But while I spend the next 49 days enjoying spending time with our summer guests, my mind will still be focused on the books that are waiting to be written, the characters who are waiting to be defined, and the amusing lines I can add to my stories that will continue to make me laugh!

It was right in front of my face the whole time

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I work at a lovely resort in Muskoka called Shamrock Lodge. It is one of the last family-run places in the area, and we have many guests who return with their families each summer. On our big turnover days, there are always items that get left behind. Most families realize this when they are unpacking after returning home from their holiday, but many times we have things in our lost and found that are never claimed.

One of these random items was left at the front desk and, instead of taking it to our laundry to store with the other unclaimed items, I put it under my desk and forgot about it. Over the course of several months, I would pull it out from under the desk and examine it, trying to figure out its purpose, but I could not comprehend what this tiny pillow with an elastic strap could be.

I know the internet has creepy ways of connecting random internet searches and magically placing ads in our Facebook feeds for those exact things we typed into our Google search bar, but the internet stepped up its game and placed a few ads for something I had never googled. Fast forward to the week that has just passed. We are currently ramping up to our busy season, and my work days are getting longer. That, for me, means stronger sciatic back pain than I normally experience.

One day, while mindlessly scrolling through my Facebook feed, a picture appeared of the bizarre pillow that had been living under my desk. I had never googled it, but the Facebook deities took that moment to introduce me to the knee pillow that would lessen my sciatic pain by aligning my hips while I slept.

Last night, my knee pillow and I slept together….on the first date! I can happily report this will not be a one night stand. When I woke up this morning, I knew we were meant to be together, and I think the pillow felt the same. It had cared for me while slept, and I knew when I awoke this morning with significantly less back pain that this pillow was something special. Thank you creepy Facebook Gods for bringing us together.

Let it flow

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These are words I recently used as advice for a friend of mine. After texting this phrase to her, I sat back to let those words play over and over again, like a moving marquee in my brain, until my own message became clear. The words I shared with her also had a deep meaning to me.

I have sadly been neglecting the voices in my head. I have allowed myself to live each day in a perfunctory state of mind without paying attention to the creativity I have harnessed in the past and thoroughly enjoyed while listening to those voices. The list of to-be-written books in my brain has grown exponentially, but the compulsion to put in the work to bring those stories to life has waned.

I miss the joy I feel when I write. I miss those moments of lost time when I become so consumed by a story that hours go by before I am able to remind myself I am in my own home and I am not the central character of one of my stories, and living in a realm I have created.

I need to embrace the freedom of creativity, and I need to let it flow. I need to let it wake me up in the wee hours of the morning. I need to let it interrupt my work hours. And I need to let it add a few items to my grocery list.

Being able to create a story from beginning to end was never a gift I asked for on my Christmas wish list when I was a child. But being able to create a story from beginning to end is something I will cherish for the rest of my life. Let it flow!

The end of two eras

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Lately, I have not been able to find the time to allow myself to be soothed by the comfort I find in this writing space. This blog has been my sounding board for over twelve years, and today I needed the shelter of its warm embrace.

This past weekend, my family gathered in Oakville to celebrate the life of my Uncle Bob, or Buzzy as he was affectionately known. It was a beautiful day, and a beautiful way to share happy memories of a man who meant so much to all of us. They broke the mold when they made Buzzy. He was a kind soul, generous to a fault, and just a great guy to be around. Some tears were shed during the afternoon, but it truly was a celebration of a life well-lived, and a man well-loved.

During the celebration, I found out the second of our three historic family cottages in Muskoka had been torn down. It was a sacred family home that absorbed many of our family discussions into its wooden walls, and continually whispered our secrets during the abundant meals we shared together. Thanks to my Aunt Carol, I have a small piece of that cottage in a shadow box I see every day, and I treasure it more than she knows.

After the long drive home from the city on Saturday, and getting through my work day yesterday, I came home in the late afternoon and burst into tears. I cried for the loss of a man who meant so much to me, and I cried for the loss of the Ford cottage, a place that holds so many of the special memories I have with Buzzy. The yellow fortress that once stood amongst the pines is now a vacant piece of land, but the memories we created there as a family will live on in our hearts forever.

In my heart, I know Buzzy is standing in a kitchen in the next realm, coddling eggs and making his kick-ass Caesar salad. Buzz, you were a loving uncle, a kind heart, and a great friend. I will always treasure the times we had together.

Well pressed

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I have not been in this writing space for a while, and I’m always amused by the random things I see on social media that bring me back to this place of comfort. I saw a post on Facebook asking if ironing was still a thing, and I was immediately transported back to a time in my life when the iron and ironing board were a prominent fixture on Sunday mornings.

In September of 1998, I moved out of a familiar home, and a familiar town in Ontario, to move to Halifax, Nova Scotia and live with my best friend. I needed a change of scenery, but leaving behind my comfortable town and all the familiarity it afforded me was daunting. With the help of my parents, we stuffed a U-haul trailer full of my belongings and traveled the over 1,800 kilometers to the east coast of Canada.

The bustling city of Halifax was charming, very much like the small town I had just left, and it immediately made me feel at home. I got a job at a local bakery and was thrilled I could walk the two kilometers to work when the weather cooperated. Living in this utopia was the change I had needed.

Every Sunday morning, my friend Sandra would bring a pile of laundry into the living room, and iron the crap out of every piece of clothing she owned while watching CBS Sunday morning. It became a tradition that I grew to love, and to soon take full advantage of. While she focused on the television screen and absent-mindedly ironed her clothes, I would sneak my wrinkled wardrobe into the pile and watch as she meticulously ironed my clothes, not noticing they did not belong to her. After the third week, I knew she was aware of my devious plan, but the morning ritual continued and she happily ironed my clothes without a care in the world.

After spending a wonderful year in Halifax, I moved back to Ontario in September of 1999. We remained as close as we had always been, but in 2003, through a series of bizarre circumstances, my dear friend Sandra would be afflicted with necrotizing fasciitis (the flesh-eating disease), and I would never see her again.

Memories give us permission to access our past, to relive the moments that made us smile, even when something as simple as a question on social media gives us a full pass to those memories. I will always cherish those Sunday mornings, sipping my coffee, and smelling the overwhelming scent of freshly pressed cotton. I still miss her insane laugh (that almost made it onto a movie laugh track), and I love the fact that social media can bring a distant memory stampeding into the forefront of my brain. May Sandra forever rest in peace, and continue to wear the iconic crinkled skirts that disobeyed every law of her love of ironing!

My Bridge Day

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Yesterday marked the ninth anniversary of my mom’s passing and like I have done for the last eight years on March 7th, I woke up at exactly 7:02 am. That is the time I received the phone call and was made aware of her death back in 2014.

The first time it happened, I thought it was an unlikely chance occurrence, but it has happened every year since she left us, and when I wake up at 7:02 am each year on March 7th, I replay the phone call over in my head. Her departure was unexpected at that time, and I can still feel every emotion I felt in that moment. I remember what I was wearing. I can recall the dryness in my mouth, the uncontrollable tremble in my lips, and I think of how difficult it was to sit up in my bed and swing my legs over the edge to bring myself to a seated position.

Today is what I call my ‘bridge day’ because tomorrow will mark the seventeenth anniversary of losing my dad in 2006. After his prolonged illness and subsequent health decline, his passing was much more of a blessing than the sudden shock of losing my mother, but the loss of a loved one is never easy to process, regardless of how they leave our world. These early days in March not only remind me of how much I have lost, but these days encourage me to continue to be the person my family and friends always wanted me to be.

I willingly forge ahead with each new day, thoughtfully holding on to the lessons I have learned from, not only my parents but, all the important people in my life who have left this earth before I could mentally prepare for their absence.

I have seen this bridge in my dreams. Many times, this stone structure has entered my subconscious and pulled me onto the apex of its design. As much as I wish to see the faces of my loved ones and feel the warmth of their embraces, in my dreams, I stand alone at the peak of this stone wall. I know the spirits of those who have left my world are with me. I am so thankful, and although I cannot see them or hear their voices, I can feel their energy surrounding me, keeping me safe, and sending me implied messages and signs that they will always be with me.

Soup’s On – Part 3

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Wow, if this blog and I were friends in real life, I would have understandably been given the cold shoulder for not holding up my end of the bargain in our shared communication. It has been over two months since I paid any attention to this cherished space and given myself permission to get lost in its warm embrace. I could blame a myriad number of outside circumstances, but the only thing I have to blame is myself.

It is so easy to become so consumed by life that we let our simple pleasures fall to the wayside. Between work, drafting novels, and spending time volunteering for our local food bank, I lost sight of the things that truly bring me back to myself. Creating things in my kitchen, especially soup, is the easiest way for me to feel grounded again. But, until today, I have regarded my kitchen with indifference. It had become just another room in my house, and I had forgotten how much of my heart beats within its four walls.

Not only does creating something from scratch remind me of my dad’s reckless abandon in the kitchen, making soup sparks a different part of my creativity, and sharing those soups with my family brings me great joy. Like my writing journey, I never know what the voices in my head will tell me to do, but almost every soup is something exciting and new. No two soups, even if I make the same thing again and again, are ever the same because I don’t follow a recipe. That is true freedom.

My writer’s brain has been blocked this week, but taking the time to put my skills back to work in my kitchen has dislodged the obstacle that was quelling my creative writing. There is a reason my characters like to cook, and that reason has reminded me to get back to basics and start from a familiar place to allow myself the freedom to put my trust back in the voices in my head. They are not controlling my brain, they are merely shining a light in a direction I had not anticipated.

Two soups are now being slow-cooked into submission in my kitchen, and the neurons of my writing brain have lifted their noses to deeply inhale the aroma of motivation. Everyone is familiar with the adage ‘stop and smell the roses’, but in my case it is ‘stop and smell the soup’. Just that brief moment of taking the time to allow the familiar smells to permeate my senses has opened a new door into the book I will soon finish writing.

When we were children, my mom’s way of letting us know dinner was ready was to yell ‘soup’s on’. Well, the soup is on in more than one way in my house. The crockpots may be filled with delicious ingredients, but my brain is now filled with a profusion of ideas to get this book finished. Soup’s on, indeed!

The summer it rained caterpillars

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I had a fortunate childhood. I was born in the city and each summer we would pack our station wagon as full as it could get and we would drive North to our cottage in Muskoka to spend two glorious months at the lake. I was a water baby and could not get into my bathing suit fast enough in the morning so I could run, bare-footed, down to the dock to jump in the water. I would spend hours in that lake, eventually swimming to the point of land between our family cottages where our extended family members would come from their cottages for cookouts to fry the fish we had caught that morning.

In the afternoon, I was back in the water with my diving mask looking for undiscovered treasures or coming up for air in the open space under the dock to marvel at the number, and size, of the dock spiders inhabiting the space they begrudgingly allowed me to share. The recollections I have of being a child at that cottage continue to resurface and I hold each of those memories close to my heart.

Although I am blessed with a good memory, I could never forget one summer if I tried. I was still in single digits and the summer began as a normal summer. I was on my way to the dock when I noticed the tent webs starting to form in the V-branches of many of the trees surrounding our cottage. As the mornings progressed, the webs became bigger, they took over more of the branches and they began to assume ownership of the trees.  The larvae that had been birthed in those webs had grown and soon the foliage around our cottage was infested with Forest Tent Caterpillars. I can only describe the days that followed as something you would see in an Alfred Hitchcock film.

(the branch I removed from one of my trees this summer)

When the caterpillars reached maturity, they began to drop from their nests. The days of me running to the dock in bare feet was a thing of the past as I donned my running shoes and held an opened umbrella to avoid caterpillars landing on me as I slowly made my way along the tree-lined path to the open sky over the dock. I can still recall the sound of the caterpillars bouncing from the woven fabric of the umbrella and it gives me chills. The infestation was so brutal that cars slid into ditches because the roads were so slick after being covered by these furry little creatures and car tires could get no traction on the pavement.

The webs are back in the trees again this year, but their presence is nothing like it was that summer. Like the smell of spearmint gum in my mom’s purse, the sound of caterpillars pinging off my umbrella will live with me for the rest of my life.

 

 

 

The Day Off I Absolutely Needed

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When you only get one day off a week, you must pack as much activity as you can into an exceedingly small window of time. Yesterday, I did the opposite. I changed my regular day off from Monday to Sunday to spend a quiet day at home and watch the stream of an online concert that was both mentally and emotionally soothing. (apart from the tears because the music was SO lovely)

I have mentioned in previous blog posts that I have become slightly obsessed (in a good way) with a musical theatre boy band called Collabro, a group who won Britain’s Got Talent in 2014. These boys have gone above and beyond during the mess that is 2020 and have constantly kept in contact with their fans through social media as well as other platforms. For the first time since March 15th, these boys put together a live, socially distanced, online concert for their fans and it was brilliant.

This year can only be described as an emotional roller coaster. I feel like I have been a prisoner in the first car, slowly chugging up the track and not being able to prevent the eventual crest over the hill, the rocketing descent into utter chaos and the visceral sensation of true fear. But each day I remind myself to remember the plateaus during the ride, the moments when I can catch my breath after the turbulence and the moments of serenity before the track pulls the car up the hill for another round of torture.

Despite the state of the world right now, I seized the day yesterday and fought my way off that roller coaster for a short time. I was able to spend the day at home and not talk about, or think about, Covid-19. I did not have to wear a mask or maintain a social distance from anything. For one day, my life felt somewhat normal and it was bliss. It was the day off I absolutely needed for me to get back to me.