Confession

I made Juni some Gluten free play-dough because I know myself too well. Old habits die hard.

Funny to find myself amongst mountains. The wilderness here is huge, and impossible to know. Even with the spring surges of water, carving out new designs in the hillside, I always knew where everything was back home at my grandparent's house(now my sister's) in Jordan Station, Ontario. Wine country with the outlaw vines climbing up the trees. It was as if the moving mud simply displayed parts of the land I already knew. I feel as if every single grain of dirt - on the surface of the forest, or buried deep within the land, or pushed by the creek - I've touched with the bottom of my boot, with my eye, with my mind. And is it ok to know I will never know this place like that? 

"It's Gypsy"

(This is my take on what happened. I wasn't there. My imagination fills in where facts are lacking. I wrote this and put it on hold because I wasn't sure it was my story to tell. I've come to the realization that it is my story. As Nick relayed the events of her death to me I experienced it and was traumatized by what I could see in my mind, and I was traumatized by his grief, and I grieve still).


     I answered the phone. It was our good friend Nick from treeplanting. The one who convinced me to come back for another season after my premature "tree-tirement." My crewboss, and Jon’s right hand man. Our very own Zorba the Greek; an accidental wise man who often muddles the words of common sayings in such a way as to make them less cliché and more true to life.  I was so happy he was calling. It's always great to hear his voice. I wanted to hear about their plans, when he and Carrie would finally be done the berry-pick, finished with the season so they could join us in the Yukon.

I must have joked to him about something. It was always jokes between us. Then silence.
“This isn’t a happy call,” His voice broke. He inhaled and a raw choking, guttural weeping noise came over the phone. “It’s Gypsy.” And instantly my heart was pounding. I was begging him to say she was ok. The words flew out of his mouth. I saw it happen. I witnessed everything through his words. I choked and wailed. Looking back, I have never cried so freely, with such lack of self consciousness. OFten I have cried and become wrapped up in the romance of it and when the sensation of sorrow passes I make an attempt at keeping the tears flowing. This time I did not have to try. The sorrow did not pass. We were in the car, parked outside the ambulance station where Jon works and I didn't care who saw or heard me. I was saying no! No. No. No. The whole time. I was seeing it. Nick is a storyteller. I was there.

They pull up at the side of the dirt road and let the dogs out of the truck. Spade and Gypo run off to do their thing. The four veteran treeplanters amble around to the tailgate. Sit and light cigarettes, and drink strong coffee from dented travel mugs as a sparse rain falls. It's early September and all of the trees are in the ground. These four have paid their dues and so they are granted a few extra weeks work at a decent day-wage for picking berries that will later be processed for the seed, grown in a green house, and replanted as part of forest reclamation projects. It is meticulous, though easy work. There is no quota and the day rate allows lots of time for breaks, making it an ideal cool down to the hardcore pace of the planting season.

There are fresh truck tracks in the mud of the road and the planters don’t think anything of it. The dogs run free, happy to be out of the motel for a day of work. Spade darts into the bush, Gypo  up the road to check things out. 

A few days before Nick came upon Gypsy with a discarded deer head. He took a video. “Here’s my little dog, my little girl," He says affectionately. "I don’t know if you can see what she is doing, but she is eating the brains out of a deer head.” She was not one to frolic with the other dogs, she commanded respect. Not aloof, just damn majestic, a husky-greyhound hybrid plucked as a puppy from the kennel of a legendary Dawson City musher to live the nomadic life of the dog of two treeplanters. I once saw this dog chase a black bear through a clear-cut and bite it in the ass. At the time, terrified, I screamed out her name. She ignored me. She knew what she was doing. At a plant north of Fort MacMurray she flew with us in a helicopter, sitting tall and peering out the window in wonder as we commuted from our remote camp site. Carrie said Gypsy had realized her life long dream of flying like the birds. 
Throughout my time as a planter, I wouldn’t see her for a year and then I would, and I would call to her and she would run towards me at dog-race speed, smiling, teeth barred, she would say a quick hi, take a pat, then go off and do her own thing. She didn’t like to be fawned over.

On this particular day last fall, the group climbs back into the truck and  they continue up the dirt road, looking for a good work site for the day. They round a bend. A pick-up truck appears up ahead in the drizzle and Gypsy is running along beside it on the other side of the ditch. She is getting old but still has an elegance to her stride, her waist tucked in dramatically behind her deep chest, betraying the greyhound genes within her. The planters gain on the truck. (I’m watching it all in slow motion as Nick speaks). Perhaps the occupants of the truck yell out to her, because Gypsy bends her neck ever so slightly, looking over at them. There are two of them. It’s somewhere in Northern Alberta. Lake La fucking Biche or some shit hole. And this beautiful creature is running along side this strange truck. Her strong, graceful neck arched towards them. The group of four berry-pickers get closer and closer. And then they see it. A gun. Pointed at their beautiful dog. There is nothing they can do. They hear it. A single shot. Those red-neck fuckers fucking shoot her. A deafening bang and she falls hard to the ground, her neck twisting back, her bright orange collar visible amongst the luscious wet greyness of her fur. She is heaving in the wet grass of the shallow ditch. The truck drives off. I can hear the incredulous screaming. "You fucking shot my dog!" 
They carry her bleeding into the truck and Carrie holds her. The love of their lives. Their entire universe. They want to follow the truck but are scared of the gun, scared to go anywhere but towards help for Gypsy, bleeding and moaning. They wrap her up and Carrie holds her as they drive to town, her rain gear sopping red with blood. Just blood everywhere and she is in so much pain and she is dying and she does die. She turns cold in Carrie’s arms. And Spade is never the same dog after that. And no one is the same. And I am not the same. I saw it all through Nick’s words. I felt it all through Nick’s grief, as well as through my own.

Tidy Sapling

My business is picking up. I am almost at the point where I can work completely for myself. A few more clients and I am there. What I do is I clean houses. I am good at it and I charge a fair price. A few of my clients say I am a marriage saver. lol. I believe them. They are telling their friends about me and I am growing by word of mouth alone. The best, most sustainable way in my opinion. And I like cleaning. It is exercise and satisfying work. Buddhist, almost.

Of course this isn't my "PASSION" but it is what will pay the bills. (on top of my part-time job at Starbucks, my sporadic freelancing gigs, and my occasional stints as a supply teacher)

My hope is, when life has been simplified, and all I have to worry about is my business, I will have time for the writing and painting I have been putting off (and sharing this writing and painting on the blog).

When I look at all of this, no wonder life feels scattered. I basically have four jobs and I am a mom and partner and dog owner.

Fwig.

My Kind of Yukon Gold

Sometimes the world is so bursting with inspiration it hits me over the head. That's what happened today. I was tucking some clothes away in the crawl space and letters and photographs rained down from the walls. 

Of course I read them. They were over 20 years old and written from various women, all to the same man, all within the same 3 year period, all about how much they long for him, love him, culminating in a 14 page letter written by the jilted woman who was carrying this mans child!

And so I am crackling with fictive energy, pregnant with poetry!

cursive hearts hidden 

still beat, fatherless

children still breath

Am I a terrible person for finding these letters? For reading them? For sharing some of the most poignant excerpts on my blog?

(Names have been changed)

 

Mary:   I just got one of my sculptures fired (actually 2 of them) but one I'm really pleased with. It broke and I    

                           need to repair it but I think I can do it so it won't be obvious.

Cath:  P.S. I left the earring on your dresser so it should be there if you found the        

                  other in your truck.

Josie:  (expect me when you least expect me

              with the baby in me or in my arms)

I ache for these women. I too have attempted to repair beautiful broken things, left talismans behind,  worn our child like a wedding ring.

We got a house!

I still can't believe it. I didn't want to talk about it because I was afraid our dreams would be dashed. It was a multiple offer situation, but it was the house we wanted so we went for it, intuition and balls out. And we got it! And we moved in a month later. It happened so quickly but we are now all moved to our new house and things are great. 

All I want to do is read and write and make art looking paintings. And snuggle in our very own respective rooms. In our very own little house.

 Just snuck in and got this while she was sleeping:)

 As you can see we are still waiting on furniture but Welli doesn't mind.

The old cabin above had a loft that housed our bed and Juni's crib all together. I can't believe we lived like this for so long. Sleep was scarce. Juni would wake and see us and start to cry to get our attention. Often, because I have night terrors, I would be the one inadvertently waking her up. And Jon, with his shifts and us waking him up at all hours, probably got the brunt of it, as was evident with his grumpy middle of the night rages that he probably can't remember lol.

Oh, whatever. It is over and we have a beautiful little house with rooms that have doors. And it likes us. And we like it. A lot.

Wisers Whisky

There is a place under the oats, under the sky, where you buried treasure for your future children. To make them strong. They would dig not knowing how deep. Not knowing if they were in the right place, until they were, or until they gave up. 

If I were to talk about it, you wouldn't remember the time you bled the walls red. Your blood Josef. Painted the walls. I made you believe you were asleep. Cleaned you and put you to bed. Alone I scrubbed away the traces. Rung the towels until the water ran clear.

It was the car I loved if not you. Volkswagen Jetta. Sheep skin seats. Filthy as fuck but well built. It was the same colour as your skin exposed to the sun all those hours working outdoors. 

Most saw the smile lines and freckles, the arms, large and brown. They thought you were simple. And you were. Except your simplicity was a distillation of great wisdom. There is something to be said about brawn gained stacking bales of hay, and brains nourished on fresh air and open spaces. You were dazed and rugged to everyone else, but pristine in private as I read you to sleep.

Do you remember the night I screamed? Everyone heard. You woke and it was real and you were scared too. The bear breathing inches from our heads. Huffing and sniffing. And then terror. The huge paw pressed against the wall of the tent. And I was wrapped up in it, suffocating and so I screamed bloody goddam murder. So loud Saskatchewan heard me. But then it wasn't real. It was just nighttime and I was just dreaming and you said "What the Shit" in the stoned-surfer way you had of speaking sometimes when you were half asleep, and the people camped around us who thought I was dying laughed when they heard you because they knew I was okay, you were there. 

I'm convinced you knew I was begging the universe. Chanting, chanting, chanting. Taking the Whisky like it was communion. But it wasn't time. They found your car abandoned in the airport parking lot. Your tin of weed wrapped in a bread bag, wedged in haste under the seat, 4 joints expertly rolled.  

You were gone. They'd tease me and tell me you were coming back to dig us out of the mess we were in. You'd bring a flat bed truck loaded with dirt bikes for everyone and we wouldn't have to walk for hours through the mud anymore. I believed them. Time trudged on, knee deep. And gradually your absence became so real and everywhere felt so empty. I stopped looking. Stopped waiting. Stopped and savoured how completely free I was to remember the straw of your hair, the lines of your face, and the smooth white skin underneath it all.

ride it through

i watch the clouds

make believe themselves

mountains 

and shiver behind the wheel

for months and months

drive too fast 

find myself on ice 

at a turn

and ride it through

 and never learn

Where's Woody?

um holy crap!

Just found this above photo in iphoto. It is 5 days before Juni was born. The photo was really dark so I adjusted the lighting and bam! There I am. HUGE! At this point I had been on bed rest for about a month

I remember thinking my body would never be the same again. But here I am, 15 months after the round photo and I am a rectangle again. Yup, that is me. A selfie. How silly and embarrassing. I propped the photo on the stairrail and it is lopsided. There is hope, ladies. Go forth and multiply without fear. 

Okay so how embarrassing and shallow is that really? It's the truth for me okay.

Juniper grows

last winter

last week

last winter

last week

a day at home

1. wake to baby crying
2. nurse baby
3. put baby back in crib
4. repeat a few times (kinda like hitting the snooze button except the button is a person)
5. eventually get up and turn on kettle and radio
6. put baby in highchair
7. give baby cheerios whilst making oatmeal or something else (this is important, baby is hungry, baby will complain loudly aka cry or scream if not given cheerios to eat and/or throw at floor aka dog while baby waits for real breakfast)
8. drink tea and smoothie while feeding baby breakfast, eat gluten free cereal myself mmm
9. surf internets and become angry at ridonkulous house prices in yukon
10. listen to Jian Gomeshie cooing through the radio
11. get baby and me dressed
12. curse at the front door which is nearly impossible to open without a crowbar
13. let dog out
14. yell as dog runs away with neighbour's dog
15. do dishes
16. play / deposit every toy and every book on the floor
17. pick up all of the toys and books
18. make lunch
19. feed / eat lunch
20. let dog in feed him water him
21. do dishes
22. change baby
23. play upstairs in loft with baby
24. read story to baby
25. sing song to baby
26. nurse baby
27. let baby turn light switch on and off a few times
28. deposit baby in crib
29. nap and or diddle on the computer while baby sleeps or doesn't sleep in crib
30. wake up and play outside or inside
31.  think about making dinner
32. make dinner
33. welcome dada home for the evening!
34. eat dinner
35. do dishes or bathe baby (we trade of on this)
36. play
37. read stories
38. put baby to sleep
39. collapse on chesterfield
40. eat something like popcorn/giglet/or chips while watching something on net flicks (or sometimes we just ignore each other and he diddles on computer while i read or vice versa.
41. SLEEP 
42. wake up to baby crying and feed or ignore her  x 3

kids today, lots of kids

I'm subbing a kindergarten/grade one class all morning today, then helping out with outdoor ed all afternoon. This will be my first assignment as the times I was called in the past I was busy with my other jobs (mom, barista, housecleaner).

How will I keep Arnold out of my head?

I will purge all of the quotes from the movie right now:

It's not a tumor

I'm a cop you idiot

Who is your daddy and what does he do?

Shhhhhhhhhuuuuuuutttttt uuuuuupppp

Got anymore guys?

I'm fairly certain...

... the amount of cows saved, plus the amount of flatulence inducing foods eaten by me since becoming vegetarian, results in  way more methane gas eating up the atmosphere than before...

Cloud Atlas concept drawing by George Hall
(The fabricant slaughterhouse / recycling plant scene that erased my desire to eat flesh.)

And now I fart. A lot.

In case you were wondering

I could probably count how many times I've thought to myself:  "dang self, I love winter" on the unicorn or narwhal like bony protrusion on my forehead. 

Zero times.

This was on the inside of our rental cabin window at -30ish

Dear every single lip balm i've ever owned:

Where were you when I needed you?

YUKON QUEST START! dogs dogs dogs!

This is going to be a quick one but I want to pound it out or else I won't get it done.

The 1,000 Mile Yukon Quest sled dog race started in Whitehorse today. (I did a summer placement with the Quest when I was pregnant with Juni. Having just moved to the north I was new to all of this mushing stuff and had to learn fast so I could inform tourists who popped by the office and research and write a few issues of the newsletter. Scroll down through the newsletter link and look for the little piece I wrote about how Brent Sass trains in the summer and another piece about one of my favorite mushers Normand Casavant and how a few of his retired dogs are livin' the dream.

 Ok...here we go...the family...

A dog truck. Lots of barking and excitement. A few of Casavant's dogs are getting a back rub from his handler/ladyfriend Karin up by the fence.

Musher Brent Sass gets a kiss from all of his dogs before he takes off. Pretty much the more adorablah (rtm) thing ever. 

Some of my favorite dogs are in Dave Dalton's team. They are a gang of blue eyed beauts who spend the summer getting jacked by pulling fat toursits around on a glacier up in Alaska.

3 people have to hold the sled at the start because the dogs are rearing to go. These are more of Brent's dogs. The one on the far side looks like one of the "Silver's" puppies. The mushers start in 3 min intervals.

And here is team Wild and Free in action at the bridge where the convergence of the two rivers are just north of Whitehorse. 2 seconds after this I pocketed the cam and gave Brent a high-five and a dorky "you're awesome man." 


I have a bunch more photos and some vids but who knows if I will ever get around to posting them. I still have the photos I took of Marcelle and the Russian at the finish line last year. The race goes back and forth between Whitehorse and Fairbanks every year. Oh man this is pretty much the coolest sport ever. So much adventure and history and excitement. So many dogs! And it is my birthday today so oh my dog it was a good one! I hope they all stay safe on the trail, it can get sloppy out there climbing a bunch of mountains and crossing icy rivers and 

woody the creeper

Getting ready to sit down to breakfast the other day when i happened to glance out the window and meet the unblinking gaze of the neighbor's dog. Wtf Woody? It freaked me out a bit. He just sat their staring at me. So I tried to call him over to me, and he wouldn't come. Then I sent Welli out to rouse him from his trance and Welli ran up to him with his tail wagging and kinda slowed down when he got closer and was like "dude, what is your deal." I could tell he was weirded out too. Eventually he trotted off to his cabin but man. Weirdest dog I've ever met. And I've met some weird dogs:

Atticus
Abbie
Lexie
Trixie
Wally
Lucy
Duc
Ranger
Talouse
Shilo

I could go on. Funny thing is most of those dogs are treeplanting dogs. 

Sugar Sasquatch

Ever since coming in from the wild the Sasquanch has been obsessed with clothes. I understand the allure to a certain extent... going so long without clothing must make him want to ensure it never happens again. But really, does one person need so much clothing? 

The only plus side to this (other than being on the arm of a snappy dresser) is he sometimes he sets me loose in a store with a couple hundred dollars to make himself feel better about splurging.

I was raised by a mom who was frugal to extremes. And a DUTCH step-dad. (Enough said?) Let's just say my wardrobe growing up was hand-me-downs, Biway, Good Will, and Wolco. 

Nothing wrong with this. There are certain things I will never spend a lot of money on. I still go to Walmart for underwear (Fruit of the Loom makes a nice boy short style I like). I will always buy cheap pjs (the last pair i purchased from Mark's was on clearout and cost me $10). 

Actually, if Sasquanch didn't have a say, I would probably still be shopping mainly at Value Village, but who is going to argue with someone who is encouraging you to spend money on your wardrobe? 

So yesterday I tried on an amazing cardigan/wrap sweater at a local shop. It had an orange sale sticker which I glanced at ever so briefly as I swooped the fine wool garment over my shoulders. I thought it said $24 and it didn't really matter because once I had it on I knew is was going home with me. It is a reversible  elegant purple/grey thigh duster of a silky, fine knit. Beautiful and flattering over jeans or tights, or anything really. 

Upon closer inspection I discovered it was knit of baby alpaca wool. And. AND! It wasn't $24 dollars. It was $240. ON SALE. 

And so I bought it. Partly out of spite. Partly as an experiment to see if it would irk Sasquanch at all. And mostly because I couldn't imagine not owning it.

Upon returning home he was PROUD of me! "Great purchase," he said. And now I am wondering how many garments I have enabled him to buy guiltlessly and for how long with this one splurge.

i bet you'll think it's about you

And it is.

I've been writing fiction lately. Doing what I like with people and places and events of my past. Twisting settings and conflicts and loves every which way. Reliving and creating.  

For example. In the summer of 2009 a man I was involved with came close to throwing hot tea at me. Stopped and glared and tried to scare me with the fact, he could have. I wasn't scared. I was too busy revelling in the freedom of no longer lying to myself. I was leaving him and he was angry, had the arrogance to believe he could tame and keep me forever. 

In fiction the tea gets thrown. Thank you for the dress rehearsal Mr. Gilbert Blythe, jilted lover, cheesy dresser who talks like a cowboy but is an east coaster. "I reckon" haha oh I am mean. For some reason it still irritates me. How someone is convinced their love alone is enough to sustain a relationship, when the other person involved has clearly stated their indifference. 

And this irritation stems also from my own sense of guilt for my own stake in this convincing. Had I not weaved myself into his family, learned his grandmother's recipe for cinnamon buns and sat and charmed his parents at so many weekly family dinners, and oh god spent an entire, all expenses paid week, on a yacht in the Bahamas with them. 

Out of so much awkwardness. Out of guilt. Out of uncomfortable pangs of nostalgia for someone I tried to love once and the failure of fate to fetter me to this simple capsule of an island and this tidy island family and this island nice guy who was so nice and knew he was so nice he couldn't compute my desire to leave. Out of all this emerges words on a page, chiseled and sculpted as I choose. 

I used him. Sure he let me. But I used him. And I am not finished.

i still read ya know

A few books I've read lately:
The Antagonist - Love
Friends like us - Like


A few books I half read (am still planning on finishing) lately:
The Joy Luck Club - Love
Taft - Love

A few books I want to read soon:
The Diviners - an old Love
168 Hours: You have more time than you think - I love self help books and am into trying to curb my time wasteages.

Tidy Sapling

I clean houses. Basically, I get paid to go the therapy. Yes, cleaning houses, especially the houses of others is therapeutic. Here's why:

-Exercise. Bending, stretching, climbing stairs, VACUUMING!
-Alone time to think
-Experiencing the transformation of dirty to clean...
-Dirt is one thing in life we can control.

There are two kinds of houses:

The minimalist. They don't have a lot of stuff and everything they own is functional, simple and beautiful. There are no pets and no children. When I clean here I NEVER have to take out the trash or clean a sink full of dishes before I clean the kitchen. 

The maximist. Chaos. Teenagers. Pets. Busy. Busy. Life. I spend most of my time getting down to the surfaces and barely have time to clean them. Dishes everywhere. Laundry in various stages of doneness. Garbages overflowing. Archeological kinda shit in pots and pans and forgotten backpacks. 

And then there are all the houses in between. But of the two extremes I can't decide which one I prefer. 

At the minimalist house I harbour the secret fear I am miking the house dirtier just by entering it. (I have a dog so I use a lint roller on my entire body, including and especially the bottom of my socks, before I enter the house.) One time ALL of my cleaning rags were covered in the dogs hair because my daughter got into the cupboard and threw my rags on the floor. It drove me insane and I had to vacuum every surface I wiped. If all goes well, I am in and out of this house in a few hours. It is the same routine every time and so becomes easier and quicker. When I leave the house is pretty much the same as when I arrived, immaculate, except now it's immaculate with a bit of a shine.

At the maximist house it is always a surprise. Will I spend the next three hours climbing mount laundry or will I discover a new form of penicillin? When I get there I take the garbage bag from the kitchen and speed around the house picking up refuse wherever I go. Then I tackle the bathroom and the kitchen and I barely have time to vacuum floors and get them scrubbed and four hours have passed. I could spend a week in this house and still have stuff to do. But after a few hours of my time, the house looks completely different. The occupants come home they say AHHHHHHHH, for one second. And then they get back to life and back to keeping me employed.

I dislike winter. There.

Trying to be positive and write clearly thought out blog posts is making me mute. So here are a few half thoughts.

1. Cloud Atlas the movie made me swear off meat. (Reasons being the mass production of animals just for our consumption is something I have a hard time ignoring). A few times in my life I've been on a highway and passed a truck filled with live pigs. Plus the idea of forcing animals to eat their own selves to fatten them up for us to eat.... repulses me. Cannibalism. Horrifying. I should read the book. Game meat is different. I would eat it. But still this is hypocritical because I would never shoot anything unless my life or someone else's was in danger. I think.

2. Working at Starbucks. Why is it so enjoyable? Is it the constant stream of free drinks? Is it the constant stream of people to watch? Is it the camaraderie with fellow baristas? Is it the smugness of knowing I am in control of the sanity of a great many people in this town... police, medics, veterinarians, politicians... here's your coffee and a psychotic (not even ironic or forced) smile..

3. Night has eaten up the day. I'm cold. It is dark for too long.

4. Why doesn't Canada own a warm island somewhere? Oh. Because everyone would live there and we need people here to mine and drill and chop down trees. right. and there aren't enough mexicans to do everything.

5. "So you got mountains? That don't impress me much."

6. How many times did I utter the word Yukon before living here? 1 in grade 4 geography class? Yeah. Once. I don't like this place compared to pretty much every other place I've been in Canada. And I've  been everywhere else except NWT and NFL. But there are jobs here. A good life for our family. 3 months of decent weather.