Falling into Gardening

September 22, 2016, was the Autumnal Equinox (also known as the first day of autumn). Fall is my favourite season because it can still be warm enough to swim, wear shorts, play and work outside, and have plenty of daylight.

Yesterday afternoon I took advantage of the blue sky, warm temperature and slight breeze to garden. The last thing I want to do here is give anyone false ideas. Garden? I cannot garden. But I did take my hand spade and dig out what very much looked, to the non-gardener, like weeds. Then I realized that even a non-gardener would need some gloves, a taller spade and a cultivator. Off to Home Hardware I went.

Half an hour later I was back home with my new supplies. I slipped on my pink gloves, which to my delight came in size small. I stood in a rectangular patch of all sorts of things that are not terribly pretty. The space was at one point used for an above-ground swimming pool. Now it is what appears to me to be a bunch of weeds.



I've lived in places where there was plenty of space to garden, but that was when I was the between the ages of zero and twenty-something. That was when I had absolutely no interest in planting or weeding or raking or cultivating. The closest I came to gardening in my twenties was when I fled to northern Ontario to plant trees to make enough money to have fun.

Now I am thirty-something and am ready to do more than water my succulents. I've got the gloves. How hard can the rest be?

Lost Among Voices

I've been lost before. I've definitely been lost in the physical sense. Where do I turn? Did I pass the building I was looking for? Should I check Google maps? You know, that kind of lost. It normally happens when I'm driving with my mother. Correction: it normally happens when my mother is driving.

Last night, though, I was lost in a sea of song.

A week ago I hopped on my bike and headed to Liverpool's Zion United Church for a choir audition. The Queens County Community Choir accepts everyone, so audition is a loose term. Really the audition is to put people in their places - bass, tenor, alto, soprano, etc. I stood by the piano and, in a fit of nerves, barely sang a thing. My voice was stuck on pause or mute. But I must have sung something because the choir director told me to join the soprano group.

Then last night arrived. I ate dinner, had a shower, brushed my teeth and hopped on my bike again. When I got to the church, I walked tentatively up the stairs and stood behind the back row of chairs.

"Do you know where you're supposed to sit?" asked a woman.

"No," I replied shyly.

"You're soprano?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

So she suggested I sit somewhere I could see the director.

Fewf, I thought. I know where to sit now. This map isn't so hard to follow!

And then began the warm up. The director played scales as we warmed our voices. After warm up, we dived right into a song. The path I'd seen clearly a moment earlier was suddenly blocked. I moved my mouth as realistically as possible. Occasionally the tiniest sound would escape. My voice was on pause again. As the practice went on, I began to relax a little and take this lost time to observe and listen.

At the end of practice someone approached me. "You're coming back next week, right?"

I nodded.

"If you were lost, you'll won't be as lost in a few weeks," she added.

I hopped back on my bike and rode the two blocks home in the dark. I knew exactly where I was going. Next week, I will go back because, lost or not, I won't give up that easily.  

This old house

ain't just any old house. It's the one we looked at two years ago. Our eyes saw the red shingles, the covered porch, the sweet little barn, the big back garden. And then our eyes adjusted to what lay inside.

It wasn't perfect. Actually, it was a project waiting to happen. But it didn't happen, at least not then.

Last March, L and I returned to Liverpool to house hunt. There we were again looking at that lovely red house with its covered porch. There we were again stepping inside. We both forgot how small it was and how much work we would need to do. Yet, we were still drawn to it.

Offer made. Offer accepted. Suddenly, it was closing day. Even more suddenly, we were following Halifax traffic over the bridge to Dartmouth to get our U-Haul. We ate Chinese food because all our dishes were packed. We loaded the trolley again and again and again until our luxury apartment was almost empty. The tile floor and white walls were bare. The only thing left was the echo of emptiness.

So southwest we went. A couple of hours later we pulled into the driveway of our house. Since it had closed a month earlier, we'd gotten a fair bit done. That fair bit was a blip on the map of what still needed doing.

For two years we'd wanted that house. Even after walking through the back door half a dozen times and being reminded of how much work lay ahead, our want didn't wane. And it still hasn't.

Ca-Ching

It's that time of year again.

Ca-ching, ca-ching, hear it ring
Soon it will be safety-inspection day

For Nova Scotians, this magical day happens every two years.

Five years ago, my car and I met. She isn't fancy or terribly pretty. She's a gilver (not-quite silver, maybe gold) Toyota Corolla. From the day we met, our relationship was pretty solid. Don't get me wrong, there were hiccups here and there, like having to replace her engine and brakes. She's never been a fan of rain or humidity. But overall, she and I got along well. She took me to Newfoundland three times and  back twice - not bad for an old dame.

Unfortunately, Monday was the day things started to go down hill. A simple oil change ended in the realization my Toyota Corolla and I will finally be parting. The time has come, the Walrus said.

At first, thinking about the reality of living without a car, after five years with one, was disappointing. As minutes and hours have passed since Monday, though, I've come to realize a car is a habit. I've been in the habit of driving places I definitely don't have to drive. I will not pretend it's not going to be a little bit of a pain - especially in the winter. But I also have to remind myself I've been a car-less adult.

For about two years in Ottawa and a year in Halifax, I survived (imagine) without a vehicle. The sky didn't fall, and my friends and family didn't ditch me. I biked, walked, bused and used my best manners to occasionally ask for a lift.

This is all to say, living car-less will not mean not living.

Dear Women, Men, Xs

This week has been more than unsettling for CBC Radio’s Q fans far and wide, as former host of the popular arts, culture and entertainment show is alleged to have assaulted and sexually harassed multiple women.  

While Q listeners might be upset and puzzled by the avalanche of emerging information, those most unsettled, I would guess, are the ones courageously speaking about what happened to them.

I am guilty. I am guilty of, when hearing Ghomeshi’s news, immediately assuming whatever happened was exaggerated and this elegantly spoken host would soon be cleared of any and all allegations.

And here I, 34-year-old woman, sit now thinking I wish I hadn’t immediately assumed anything.

Let’s forget for a moment that I am a person who identifies as female. Let’s call me X. If one day I told one, two or 30 million friends I had been assaulted and harassed, I couldn’t think of something more insulting and degrading than that friend or those friends saying, “X, are you sure that happened? That guy’s pretty cool. Maybe you had too much to drink that night or maybe you’re upset about something else. Don’t do anything rash.”   

It takes a hell of a lot of courage to tell the stories that have been appearing on social and mainstream media. It’s certainly not something most people would decide to do for fun.

Women, men, Xs, if you’re saying something happened to you, I’ll think strongly before assuming the other story is the truth.