How to exercise properly

There is so much ice and snow on the roads, I think it's time to turn to my treadmill.

Snow Day

The Budster is confused.

On the one paw, he likes to go outside.

On the other paw, there's this whole three feet of snow issue.

What's a mutt to do?

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair grows in me

and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting for their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry

Rolling on the River

I've hurt my right arm, so typing is difficult (and driving, and drying my hair and...) I've decided to post an old piece originally published in Canoe and Kayak Magazine.

My adventure as a Wild Woman began one frigid Christmas Eve in Montreal. My husband ordered me upstairs while he placed one last Christmas gift under the tree. Despite my uncanny knack for guessing gifts (and sensing the presence of chocolate in the house) he was confident that I would not guess this one.

I felt a rush of cold air as I climbed the stairs, then heard a crash and mumbled cursing as my mystery gift was maneuvered into the house. Ah, so it was large and it survived minus 30 temperatures. Unlikely to be that lovely Moorcroft vase I’d had my eye on. After several minutes, my husband emerged triumphant and with a smug little wink, he climbed into bed.

The next morning our three children waited at the top of the stairs while we took the annual family photos. They inched down the steps in a tight knot, tickling each other and pondering the nature of The Gift, then ran into the family room. Shoved under the tree, over the couch, across the kitchen table, its rudder resting just under the light fixture (now missing one bulb, which explained the crash and the cursing) was a bright yellow, 17-foot kayak.

“It’s a one woman kayak,” my husband said proudly. “I could have purchased a two seater, but I thought you needed to have some private time, without me or the kids. You can just take it out on the lake at the cottage whenever you feel the need. There’s even a storage compartment if you want to take a long trip.”

Wow. This was the equivalent of having my own cabin, albeit a floating one. And one available only in summer. And I’d have to paddle it. Nevertheless, I hugged my husband who had heard my pleas for quiet time and answered them with a big yellow kayak. Not exactly a week in the south of France, but still...



The following May, I arranged an all day lesson with “H2O Adventures.” I had had my own H2O adventure as a child when I tumbled off my grandmother’s dock. It triggered a life-long fear of drowning, and I could still recall the panic and disorientation as I flailed and choked before being yanked up to safety by my ashen faced grandmother.

With some trepidation, I drove to the mouth of the river where the lessons would take place. Fear of drowning was supplanted by a different kind of anxiety as I sized up my classmates. The great divide between the young and hip, and the middle-aged and big-hipped, is never so great as when both are clothed in bathing suits. My classmates were bronzed, bikinied young girls and buff young men in bandanas who slid their kayaks off roof-racks with ease. I couldn’t even reach my kayak, let alone lift it off the family van. Pete, one of the young instructors, appeared before me.

"Let me help you, ma'am."

Exsqueeze me? Tell me you did not just call me "ma’am.”

You know you’ve crossed the great gulf of youth and plunged into middle-age when cute young guys call you ma’am. I looked around at the flat stomachs and pierced navels and hugged my life jacket closer, painfully aware I hadn’t shown my belly in public since my third child was born. With a sigh, I wriggled into my fetching kayak apron and lurched to the shore of the quiet shallows where the lessons took place.

Wedging myself into the kayak without flipping proved to be my first challenge. They say women come in either Pear or Apple shapes? I’m more Idaho Potato, and it soon became clear there was no graceful way to ease myself in. Once in, I feared I would never get out, and they would have to grease me and pop me out like those portly passengers on airline toilets who inadvertently flush while sitting, thus creating an airtight buttock vacuum necessitating an urgent plea over the loudspeaker, for “all those with leftover butter pats, please report to the rear.”

Next came the Eskimo Roll, or as one of the Vegan participants corrected the instructor, the more P.C. “Inuit” Roll. Recovering from a capsize was of prime importance. However, my kayak was a stable sea kayak, so it could not easily roll over and up like a white water kayak. After a few spluttering attempts, someone took pity and tossed me an old pair of nose plugs. My young classmates rolled and shook off the water as easily as slick seals. Though I suspected I looked like an aging, synchronized swimmer who took one too many dives in the shallow end, I smiled and waved as my kayak was ignominiously flipped over by a couple of strong assistants.

While dangling upside down in the water, I hugged the kayak and brightly tapped three times on the hull to let Pete know I was okay (twice on the pipes, tap tap, if the answer is nooo....) Then, I was supposed to either execute The Roll, or do a Wet Exit - while still hanging upside down, I must lean forward, unhook the skirt, and slip out of the kayak “as though removing a pair of pants,” then swim to the surface.

Now unless I’m wearing pajamas, when I remove a pair of pants it takes several minutes to peel them off my hips and wiggle them from side to side down to my toes. My motivation for a nimble Wet Exit came in a vision of me being carted off to the local ER jammed in a bright yellow kayak, the rescuers having been unable to extract my lifeless, nose-plugged body, my family forced to build a custom designed crypt to accommodate me and Old Yellow.

However, as the day wore on, I mastered the J-stroke, the low brace turn and the reverse paddle, though the roll would continue to elude me. I learned to right an upturned, waterlogged kayak in the middle of the lake, bail it and climb back in (not something one wants captured on video if one fears blackmail.)

Our day ended with praise and an invitation to attempt a crossing of the rapids, a place referred to as The Drop. Though not part of the course, we were deemed an adept group ready for the challenge. We paddled to the base of the roaring rapids and watched as white water kayaks, built for speed and maneuverability, whipped around rocks, their helmeted occupants spinning and popping up in the roiling foam like corks. I looked at the raging river, swollen by spring rains, and my mouth went dry.

“Ma’am? You can just wait here in this quiet eddy and watch.” Pete gave me a benign smile.

There was that cursed "ma'am" again. It worked like a red flag. In my mind’s eye, I could see my husband slapping his forehead.

“Oh, really? Well, I will do it, or die trying.”

Pete waited with me as one kayaker after another struggled against the current to the other side of the river. You must lean into the current, almost to the point of water washing over you, and once you start, you can’t stop paddling, he explained. You have to resist your instincts to lean back, as the water will push the boat over and drag you, upside down and over the rocks, to the base of the river (where your lifeless body will be crowbarred out of the kayak surrounded by youngsters shaking their heads and whispering, “Dude, if only you’d mastered the Inuit Roll. Rest in peace, ma’am.”) My classmates were anxiously watching from the other side of the river. It was now or never.

“GO, GO, GO!” I could hear their shouts above the roar of the rapids. Pete was right behind me, shouting to lean in, to keep going and paddle hard (like stopping midway was an option?) My arms were leaden, a full day of paddling in the sun taking its toll. I was almost there, just a bit further. My back ached from the effort. Then suddenly, I arrived on the other side. I was surrounded by cheering kids, pounding their kayaks and waving their paddles – my comrades-in-arms. I grinned back through my tears.

“Hey, nice going.” Pete grinned and gave me a high-five.

And he didn’t call me ma’am.

Cat Butt, Little Mutt

Any doubts as to who rules the house?

A Stitch in Time

Every so often, I find myself at a garage sale or one of those small town, cluttered stores we used to call a Five and Dime. I make a point of searching for vintage knitting and crochet patterns. I paw through them with purpose, hoping I’ll find one of the chosen ones, and when I find That Which I Seek - my buried treasure, my pearl, my gold nugget of knitting patterns – I feel I have won another grand prize at Ultimate Vendetta Bingo.

Back in the early eighties, I got a job managing a tony gift shop. My boss was a relatively benign oil executive, who opened the shop as an investment. I was to have almost complete autonomy while he periodically checked in to review orders or approve a staffing change. He was pleasant and hands-off, and the business did reasonably well, so the arrangement worked for both of us.

However, there was the small problem of his wife.

She appointed herself as Chief Executive Consultant, much to her husband’s chagrin. And whenever she darkened my threshold, she took the bounce right out of my bungee.

Gliding past the counter, eyes missing nothing, she’d pick up a vase, and shift it a half inch into the “correct” place. Using a display case like a barre, she’d perform a graceful arabesque and drag her finger along the baseboard to check for dust. The window displays were never good enough, the paintings usually needed straightening, the vacuum always missed a spot. She used the royal “we” and ask why “we” ordered certain pieces. They’re selling well was not a satisfactory answer. We have an image to keep up, she’d remind me, while smoothing her cashmere sweater set over her tiny hips or twisting her pearls. She’d usually look me up and down at this point, sigh, and say she expected me to do better in future. To say she was a bit of a pain in the ass is like saying Hannibal Lector is sometimes a bit peevish.

One day, my boss let it slip that his wife used to work as a model. Now, this was curious. She only stood about five feet tall. What kind of model was she, exactly? Clothing, he said, you know, a fashion model. Fashion model? When pressed, he was vague and said she’d given it up after she had kids.

One day, I paid a visit to my mother, an avid knitter, and I came across a basket holding some old knitting patterns. I browsed through them, doubling over as I looked at what passed as groovy duds in the 60s and 70s, then I stopped and looked more closely at the face of one of the models. Imagine my delight, nay, my unmitigated exultation, when I realized what I held in my hands.

There she was, the boss’s wife, in full flaming colour, modeling a hat not unlike a polyester helmet pieced together with potholders, fastened under her chin, and embellished with what appeared to be goat testicles. Ah, life can be sweet again when the bane of your existence is thus preserved forever. She never bothered me much after that. To this day, I still stumble across the odd photo of her, and my delight hasn’t faded with time.

And if you want to see what I’m talking about, go check out Stitchy McYarnpants and the Museum of Kitschy Stitches, and Threadbared. Check out the categories in the index. Go directly to the 70s. You won’t be sorry.

http://www.stitchymcyarnpants.com/moks06/

http://www.threadbared.com/

Nature bites

My cottage is my sanctuary. It's the quiet place I go when life is moving too fast. I also go for the nature. I love nature. And when I say nature, I mean chickadees and flowers and fluffy clouds. Nice nature.

I've seen foxes, hares and deer frolicking in my hostas, though not all at the same time. I have nesting sharpshin hawks in our white pine, chipmunks in the rock garden and a woodchuck in the wood pile. We even saw two baby moose galloping down the middle of the road. Sometimes the sheer number of birds, chipmunks and red squirrels milling about the feeder seem almost Disney-esque, especially when the chipmunks take peanuts out of our hands.

But then the neighbours talked of several bear sightings.

Last summer, I was alone and preoccupied making chicken wraps for a swim meet. I had about twenty pounds of warm, spicy chicken cooling on my deck when suddenly, I heard something crashing about in the woods. Whatever "it" was, it was rustling and moving bushes and was big enough to break branches underfoot. Not a deer, which are more sure-footed. Not something small, like a raccoon. Nothing Disney about this noise.

Dressed in a bright red sundress and armed with a three dollar plastic mosquito zapper, I ventured outside for a look. The thought did occur to me that this was like the part in any horror movie when the audience shouts "Look out behind you! Get back in the house!"

I tried not to make a sound on the gravel driveway and stopped beside the woodpile. I strained to hear or see the source of the rustling and held my breath. At that moment, the resident woodchuck popped out of the woodpile for his evening constitutional and - clearly not expecting a human, dressed in a red sundress and smelling of Italian chicken - he squeaked his annoyance and caused me to start so violently, that I came as close as I've ever come as an adult to filling my pants. I beetled back to the house, and left whatever was in the bushes to its business, and the woodchuck to his woodpile. My husband, of course, didn't believe me.

Later, I took this photo on the back step:

You tell me...