winter has arrived

This afternoon, in my Kitsilano rubber boots, the ones with pink and green swirls on a black background, I went outside to heft a shovel over my shoulder and check that the drains outside our house were draining and the ditches outside our property were, well, ditching. I do own much more utilitarian boots - plain black rubber, solid footbed, thick sole - suited to serious garden and outdoor work. But today's objective didn't include serious work, simply a quick check to make sure we wouldn't soon be driving up our property value with the addition of an indoor swimming pool. 

Besides, I don't often get a chance to wear my Kits rubber boots these days so I was happy to get out in them. They were fine for walks to the beach on rainy days, but if I'm going to be a serious farmer, I must wear serious farm boots. Swirly pink and green fairly scream city newbie and I'm already worried that we leave a wake of people shaking their heads behind us. And so, my Kits boots usually venture only as far as our property line, and only when I'm alone and not contemplating any serious work that might put a scratch in the paint, so to speak.

Boots on, I headed out to survey the winter scene. And Old Man Winter has indeed come to Metchosin. Local media are reporting an accumulation of 41 cm of snow, more than is currently measured at the North Pole. Given the amount of snow, my first concern (after the issue of the  indoor swimming pool) was the safety of the locals. So, first stop was a quick check on one of them. He seemed happy enough, despite being up to his armpits in snow.

The next local I visited also seemed to be faring well, perhaps too well. Such a hardy critter will surely be unfazed by any attempts on our part to protect our newly-sprouting veggies come spring time. This is one well-fed looking long-ears. All I can say is that his lucky rabbit's feet are working for him. If we weren't a couple of vegetarians, his days would be numbered.

I continued to crunch along, breaking through the frozen crust of the snow. Even before I got to the ditches I could hear the water flowing. No need for the shovel over my shoulder. Since temperatures have risen in the last few days, the melt has started but, fortunately, water seems to be flowing in the right direction. 

A quick visit to the seasonal pond was next. It has been appropriately seasonal and filled up. I would never have imagined in summertime that this grassy expanse could possible form a pond. But, there it is, complete with an island in the middle. The ice on its surface is now reduced to a few slushy flows drifting in the current, but last week in the middle of this snowy period, it was a postcard scene waiting for the camera to arrive.

Environment Canada is predicting a warm, wet stretch over the next while. Does this mean that spring is soon to make an arrival and that we won't see any more of this?

Or this?

There's lots to be said for seeing the snow go. It's difficult to get around, the boys can't get out so easily (and it takes forever to get them ready to go out) and the cat gets cabin fever and starts chewing on us. 

In some ways, though, I'll miss the snow. The quiet that falls with the flakes and blankets us in its embrace. The shock of pressing a warm nose to a cold window pane and watching the snow disappear in a fog of breath. The snuggle of two small boys in flannel pajamas when they crawl into our bed on a dark morning and knowing that it's another day of hot chocolate and popcorn and games.

If Old Man Winter wants to stay a bit longer, that's okay. Besides, it would give me a chance to wear my Kitsilano boots again.

Brussels sprouts, the new "it" vegetable

Which would you rather do: 1) get your annual flu shot, or 2) consume a helping of brussels sprouts? If you're like most people - or, at least, most people I know - you'll choose option number one.

The poor brussels sprout has somehow earned a reputation as a vegetable of the lower order, well behind the socially-acceptable broccoli, the ubiquitous carrot, even the sometimes-marginalized cauliflower. But I aim to change the standing of the lowly brussels sprout.

Recently, in our quest to educate ourselves about the farming community of Metchosin, we made a visit to Bilston Creek Organics, a farm run Nao and Trevor Peterson. While we were admiring their green houses and discussing what grows well and what sells well, I couldn't help but notice a long row of brussels sprouts marching down the length of one of their fields. And so, being an enthusiastic sprout eater and never one to pass up the opportunity for a local, organic veg, I offer to take a couple of stalks off of their hands.

As I was loading the brussels sprouts into the back of the car, I realized that most people do not even know what a brussels sprout looks like in its natural state. Their only experience of them is in the produce section of the grocery store where they lie like a heap of Lilliputian-sized green cabbages being passed over in preference of the above named "acceptable" veggies.  For those of you scratching your heads and saying to yourselves "what do they look like in their natural state?" fear not - I will keep you from losing sleep over this one. Here, for your edification, is a pic of brussels sprouts in all their green glory.

Leaves on,

leaves off.

Those darling sprouts simply need to be removed from the stalk with a sharp knife, given a good rinsing, have a few outer leaves peeled off and Bob's your uncle - a delectable veggie treat awaits you.

Stop cringing. It is possible to make brussels sprouts absolutely delish. 

First off, please remember that brussels sprouts are not meant to be eaten with a straw. That means don't over cook them! They should stand up and fight back when you stab them with your fork. You could settle for simply steaming them, but here's a way that will bring even the most reluctant sprout eater to the table asking for more.

Take 25 or so brussels sprouts and give them a rinse. Remove outer leaves to reveal a perfectly glowing green globe of tender leaves tucked around each other. Give them a quick blanching in rapidly boiling water. The sprouts should be a vibrant green, calling to mind fresh spring growth. Quickly drain and plunge into ice water to stop the cooking process ( remember: no straws required). Finely mince a thumb-sized piece of ginger. Sauté the ginger in a bit of butter for 30 seconds or so, add in a tablespoon or two of brown sugar and the drained brussels sprouts. Squeeze the juice of half an orange into the pan. Keep stirring until the sprouts are heated through. Serve immediately. Keep a cricket bat handy to beat back the crowds. Yes, you must share but you want to make sure that you're rewarded for your effort with a sampling of this tasty treat.

May you embrace the beauty of the brussels sprout the way that I have and join me in my quest to elevate the standing of this woefully misunderstood veggie.

A Field Trip to Sooke

Last weekend we decided to take a break from the farming life to explore our surroundings. Destination? Whiffen Spit at the far west side of Sooke. It was almost like a Sunday morning walk at Kits beach. Except that there were hardly any people. And the few that were there weren't drinking cups of Starbucks coffee. Nor were they draped head to toe in Lululemon. Or talking on cell phones. Or dodging packs of Sunday morning long runners. Okay, I guess it wasn't anything like a Sunday morning at Kits beach. But it was beautiful...

And then this, on the drive back home. We're definitely not in Kansas anymore. Buffy's must be the place to be.

Speaking of burning...

You recall that old green house and chicken coop and fencing that we had multi-talented Septic Steve have a go at with his excavator? And those five small pines and the unfortunately located birch tree that had to go? And all the overgrown shrubbery that we've slowly been hacking back? Have you wondered where it's all gone?

It's been accumulating in four large piles towards the back of our property. The "burn piles" we call them. In truth, they're a bit of an eye-sore, four large piles of broken two by fours, bits of plywood, dead limbs of trees, knots of roots. So, inspired by the recent public burning that we attended, we decided that it was time to get on with our own burning. 

But, before striking a match, it's time for a bylaw check: 

1. No burning on Sundays. Hmmm... will we burn somewhere else if we burn on Sunday? Better not risk it.

2. Maximum fire size is 6'x6'x6'. I can live with that. Quite frankly, I don't want to see a 6'x6'x6' fire anywhere near our house.

3. As a courtesy to the neighbours, check the ventilation index. It seems there is something new to learn every time we embark on a project here. Little did I know that there is such a thing as a ventilation index.

So, smallish fires, Monday to Saturday, but only on days with good ventilation. Yesterday and today were just such days. And so, the match was struck...

Where there is smoke, there will, hopefully, be fire.

Just a few more tree branches to really get this humming.

And we have fire! 

And watching over all of the madness, making sure that nothing (and  no one) got out of line, our very own fire marshall, at the ready with the hose. Thankfully, there were no wild flames needing attention, only the occasional hosing down of a parent.

I'm happy to report that at the end of two days of burning, during which I found many muscles that have lain dormant since my last step aerobics class in 1987, our inventory consists of one and half burn piles and one extremely large pile of ash.

Next project: find a use for ash but be sure to check bylaws for any restrictions on its use.

Progress Report

You may be wondering if we are spending all of our time here going to Hallowe'en events, meeting with Ladies Who Lunch and hanging out with Preschool families. Though those things are occupying some of our time, we are actually getting work done around here to turn this place into a farm (I prefer to call this place a micro-farm).

So, after having our big knock-down, drag-out event that cleared out the old (chicken coop, green house, fencing) we've made way for the new. 

Jim, the mechanic at the local volunteer fire hall, who plows fields in his spare time, brought around his tractor and had a go and our wee fields.

Once the plowing was done, the seeding of the winter cover crop could begin. We planted a combination of vetch, winter wheat and pea. The idea is to let this grow over the winter and then turn it into the soil in the spring before planting time. It will feed the soil and help build structure. That is if the family of quails leaves any seed behind. They come through everyday, darting out from the thicket of blackberry bushes at the side of the property, and have a peck at the ground. We'll have to watch for signs of sprouting. If nothing happens but the quails get fatter we'll know where the seed has gone.

And then, we planted garlic, about 100 cloves in all. Next year we'll either be eating a lot of garlic or learning about which animal has Mediterranean roots and likes to sneak through and chow down on our plantings. I don't think the quail are interested though. They seem to be sticking to the cover crop seed.

There's something to be said for a public burning. 

It draws people out of doors. They forget their political differences and gather together, mesmerized by the lick of flame, the brush of heat on the skin and the prospect of crisped up marshmallows.

We attended our first Metchosin Hallowe'en event on Friday evening. Trick or Treating is out of the question here - the houses are too far apart and it's so, so dark. There's no light pollution to speak of, just that "can't see your hand in front of your face" effect. And so, off to the Volunteer Fire Hall for the community event.

Though we're only an eight minute walk from the Fire Hall (which might be useful when it comes time for us to tackle our own burn piles out back - never hurts to have help close at hand) we decided to drive there. Fortunately, we planned to go for the start of the event. Had we left later, we might have been parking almost at our house, the cars were stacked up so far down the side of the road.

And what did we see? The biggest burn pile I've ever laid eyes on. It had to be 20 feet high before they tossed the match.

And I say "tossed the match" euphemistically. They used a "tiger torch" to light it up. What is a tiger torch you ask? Basically, a huge blow torch attached to a propane tank. You could do some good weed clearing with that thing! 

So, we stood in the glow of the flames, watching the volunteer fire fighters hose down the surrounding trees and the BMX bike park, and taking in the scent of smoke mixed with hotdogs. A reliable source (Jim, who by night rototills fields with his tractor - namely ours - and by day works as the mechanic at the firehall) reports that last year they went through 600 hotdogs. Rural legend or fact? You decide. But, as I say, the source is reliable.

We had to take our little dinosaurs home before the marshmallows came out for toasting and the fireworks started up. Bedtime took precedence. But I can see that this will be a good event for our little family in years to come.

This coming Friday we're going to a different sort of public burning: we're going to an all candidates meeting for the upcoming Metchosin elections. This is a hotbed of political opinions and conflicting ideas. Hopefully, the community will once again gather together amicably but this time, without the need of the fire fighters to put out the flames.

It's a rural, rural world out here.

One minute, you're happily picking apples from the tree on a sunny afternoon and the next you're sitting in darkness, wondering when the lights will come back on.

Recently, we attended the monthly parents' meeting at our son's pre-school. Each meeting starts off with a guest speaker, followed by pre-school business and class meetings. Sounds tedious? For us, though, it's almost as good as a night out. We line up a baby sitter and get to spend two hours in the company of other adults. When we're finished, we come home to two sleeping boys and a quiet house.

So imagine my displeasure when, at the last meeting, the speaker, who was the head of the local volunteer fire hall, actually had the nerve to speak of such weighty topics as safety in the home and emergency preparedness, topics that demanded my utmost serious attention.  This was not the light social night out I had anticipated. Where were the chocolate chip cookies? Where was the coffee?

What did I learn? That we need to check all of our smoke detectors to ensure that they work. That our windows are a safety hazard because they open only about 45 degrees, not enough to allow an escape route. That in this backwater location, we should be prepared to fend for ourselves for up to six or seven days in the event of a large scale emergency, not the three days as the province advises. That every room should be equipped with a fire safety kit that includes a hammer (to break said window that doesn't open wide enough for a person to climb out) a rope ladder (so that one doesn't end up with broken limbs after break the above noted window and making a timely escape) towels (to stuff under the bottom of the close door to prevent smoke from seeping into the room). There might have been other items, but at this point my brain was getting rather full as our new digs morphed from a home with potential into a death trap.

At this point in the discussion, the topic of household fire safety kits came up. Someone mentioned fire extinguishers and the need to have them checked regularly.  Someone else mentioned white flags to extend on poles out of windows to alert firefighters to the rooms in which we might be trapped. Someone else asked where in the house we should keep our fire safety kits (as if we all have them at home, sitting on the kitchen table just waiting for that perfect storage spot). Answer? How about next to the emergency preparedness kit.

I confess: at that point I broke down in slightly hysterical giggles. Emergency preparedness kit?What a good idea. The way the answer was tossed off and everyone around me nodded their heads sagely, it seems that we are the only ones in the community who will be fighting with the cat over the kibbles in the event of a disaster.

Really, though, I have no excuse for being so woefully unprepared. Years ago, in my former big city, pre-kids life, I worked for a large department of the provincial government. As part of my job, I participated in a mock province-wide emergency response. I got a clear view of what could happen if the big one (or even a not-so-big one) hits and it wasn't good. I know that I should have food, water and blankets in my backpack and in my car. I know that I should have a stash of batteries and flashlights in every room of the house. I know that I should sleep with my hiking boots under my bed. I know that I should always sleep in a full complement of clothing (otherwise I'd look pretty silly running around naked in my hiking boots trying to find the kibbles) I know these things. Truly. I have no excuse beyond laziness and optimistic disbelief.

So, we have some work ahead of us. Hammers in each room and a case of canned salmon by the basement door. And perhaps one in the back of the car. And maybe an extra bag of kibbles for Rudi.

For next month's meeting, in an effort to preserve my state of optimistic denial, I volunteered to be on snack duty. I think I can already smell the chocolate chip cookies baking.

Wanted: women's plaid flannel shirt, size six

Tonight I became a card-carrying member of the Metchosin Garden Club.

I paid my five dollars and sat in a church basement to listen to a well-seasoned gardener talk about all things bulbs, corms and tubers. Her talk was complete with a slide show, handouts and sly garden humour (did you know that Allium are downright promiscuous, spreading their seed everywhere?)

As I sat listening from my grey metal chair at the back of the room, peering around the bodies in front of me to get a clearer view of that lovely Dog-toothed Violet on the portable screen, I couldn't help but notice the size of the shoulders around which I was peering. Some were worthy of line backers. Egads! and these were on the women.

Don't misunderstand. At break time, everyone was more than welcoming, wanting to know how long we've been living in Metchosin, where exactly we live ("Oh, did you buy Ruth and David's old place?" "Yes." "You are so lucky. It's such a great place! Are you renting out the suite?" and so on), where we moved from and why we chose Metchosin. But I couldn't help noticing a similarity among these women (and of the 25 or so people gathered in that church basement, 22 or 23 were women): there was a lot of plaid flannel in the room.

As we chatted over the ginger cookies and oat snaps that were on offer from the scheduled "coffee treat person", it became apparent that almost everyone in attendance has been living in Metchosin for at least 20 years. And 20 years has taught them one thing, if nothing else: deer will try to eat almost anything. And in 20 years, these women have tried every plant known to to the seed catalogues and obscure mail-order nurseries. Year after year, they have optimistically donned their flannel and wool and rubber boots and ventured out into the rain and wind and worked their soil, hoping that this time, they will beat the nibblers.

So, perhaps, in the process of developing their gardens they have developed large shoulders to be able to carry the quantity of optimism needed to keep trying. And if they choose flannel for their uniform, so what? Perhaps it's not being worn by the cool kids on the block, but clearly, for these practical and pragmatic women, it works. And, as I suspect they know something of Metchosin that I don't, I'm not going to be overly critical of their fashion choices. Who knows? Perhaps I'll find that there is room for plaid flannel in my own closet.

But I will keep an eye on the size of my shoulders.

Divining

First, make your divining rods.

To do this, take two metal coat hangers. You know the ones, the kind that you get from the dry cleaners, the ones that seem to multiply in the back of the closet and get relegated to supporting your old clothes, the clothes that are next in line for the Sally Ann. These hangers actually hide a divine purpose: sourcing out our life source.

To transform these utilitarian hangers into divining rods, cut off the curved hook and one of the shoulder supports. Bend the remaining shoulder support and bottom brace to form a right angle. You are now holding divining rods. 

Take your rods outside. Begin divining.

Start the process by preparing your divining rods. To do this, hold a rod in each hand, grasping close to the end of the arm of the rod. Extend your arms and spin the rods quickly. Stop spinning after 30 seconds or so. Now, hold the rods in front of you in an upside down "L" position with the horizontal portion of the "L" pointing straight ahead of you. Begin walking forward slowly. As you pass over a water source, the rods will slowly turn in your hands, following the line of the water coursing below your feet.

This works. Truly. As I walked slowly across our field, rods at the ready, I couldn't help but feel skeptical. But then I couldn't stop myself from laughing when the rods started to turn in my hands, aligning themselves perfectly to show where a lost irrigation pipe ran under the soil beneath my feet. And though the process in also called witching, the experience of having the rods turn in my hands, of feeling their energy work independently of the hands holding them, feels less of witchcraft and more of divine purpose, for there, below my feet, lay water, that substance upon which all life survives or fails. And though this exercise revealed only an irrigation pipe for which we were searching, divining will also reveal other previously unknown water sources. Divining for water is a true connection to the land. It gets no more basic than this: the earth revealing its most valuable resource to us. All through two basic divining rods formed from the waste of modern, industrial life.

Imagine.

There's no going back

Now we've done it.  And really done it.  There's no going back. 

There was a time when I'd get up in the morning, stumble around the kitchen making coffee and then, clutching my cup in two hands, artificially introduce myself to the day while staring out the kitchen window at this:

All in all, not a bad way to wake up.  But then, this arrived:

And look what it did to a perfectly good chicken coop!

There aren't going to be anymore chickens in this coop.

Okay, so it wasn't actually a perfectly good chicken coop.  Admittedly it was in need of repair, to the point that even some rats who had previously taken up residence in it had decided to move on. Perhaps it was an issue with the room service and lack of regular meals. Anyway, we decided that the chicken coop had to go.  And the co-dependent green house.  It was definitely time for the green house and the grapevines to establish some independence from each other. Learn to stand on their own two feet (or collapse, as the case may be). And then, of course, the cyanide-leeching pressure treated posts for the fencing around our future organic garden had to go. And then some unfortunately located trees.

End result? A large open expanse of soil, turned over and awaiting tilling.  As I said, there's no going back now.

Enter the visual world...

Finally, some visuals.  A bit out of date, but here they are...

Waiting in the line up at the BC Ferries terminal in Tsawwassen, British Columbia for the ferry that will take us to Vancouver Island to begin this great adventure.

The happy campers arriving at their new house.  (Note the smiles. Clearly, issues with movers and faulty appliances have yet to come.)

Mike investigating the tangled wilds of the back of the property. 

On the road to self-sufficiency (or is it the equivalent of climbing K2 without oxygen?) Sorry about the orientation of the photo.  Any hints out there on how to flip this around?

Nothing like some good, honest manual labour. Start 'em young, I say.

That's it for now.  A little teaser on the place where we have landed.

Ladies Who Lunch

The women of East Sooke (which borders on Metchosin) give new meaning to the term "ladies who lunch."

I'm not sure where else in the world a group of 10 or 12 women would gather around a table laid with fern fronds and fresh flowers, a backdrop of the East Sooke basin rolling out beyond the floor to ceiling windows, and talk septic systems and drainage. 

Seriously. 

These are renaissance women. They are equally comfortable with dirt under their nails or polish on top of them. They can "talk muck" with the best of them, or politics with the worst of them. They are informed, informing, involved, opinionated, smart. And they are welcoming, so much so that I had the great honour of sharing a lunch with them and feeling right at home. 

I could learn much from this group. Conversation topics ranged from international emigration to septic systems to building permit acquisition to public forums on land usage to local history.  All in a two hour span. Should these women become fired up about an issue and decide to bring their collective force to bear, I would fear for their opponent. I'm sure that in the most eloquent of speech, they would make a lovely mince tart of the offending party, served up with a lightly spiced whipped cream. They break all stereotypes held by city folk of people who live "in the country." And if I'm lucky, I'll receive an invitation to the next gathering of "ladies who lunch."

What happened to August????

Did anyone see where August went? I seem to have misplaced it. Perhaps it got trapped out back in the thorny grasp of the blackberry bushes. I'll have to look for it when I'm next out there picking berries and rescue it with the loppers. But if I can't locate August, I'll move on. September is a beautiful month and I'm looking forward to getting outside and getting my hands dirty in the garden. And there are any number of outdoor projects with which to get my hands dirty, not the least of which is pruning back lots of plant material that has been left to its own devices for too long.

Some pruning has already gotten underway, thanks to the English rellies who have come to visit. It seems that change is as good as anything for a vacation. We've had willing volunteers to hack away at overgrown butterfly bushes and wieglea and underproductive fruit trees. And in fact, the pruning has revealed quite an array of tasty plant life already growing here. We've discovered:

• yellow plums
• blackberries
• purple plums
• transparent apples
• a few varieties of red apples
• hazelnuts
• blackberries
• walnuts
• Japanese plums (which look like big cherries)
• grapes
• fig
• rosemary
• blackberries
• oregano
• mint
• rhubarb
• blackberries

Not a bad selection to begin with.  Sure, most of it needs some attention, but we've been enjoying yellow plums and transparent apples and will soon to be harvesting a good crop of purple plums as well as lots of red apples. 

Those of you paying attention, though, will notice that blackberries appeared a few times on the list of harvestable plant life. That should give you an indication of the quantity of blackberries that we have on our property.  They're quite yummy and make a great jam (yes, I made blackberry jam!) but they are also capable of lifting the roof off of a shed. And they have totally surrounded our most productive apple tree. My plan? To pick the berries from around the apple tree and as I pick, to take loppers to canes and chop away. I figure that by the time the apples are ready for picking I'll have slain enough of the blackberries to have a safe passage to the apple tree.

And the blackberry canes that were attacking the storage sheds? They've already been acquainted with the loppers, though I understand they are tenacious beasts and, rather like aging rock stars, inclined to make a comeback just when you think they've finally gone away.

Now, I must sign off. I must save my strength for tomorrow's battle. I can hear the blackberry bushes rustling away outside. They must be strategizing their surprise attack, deciding which arching cane with particularly long thorns will wrap itself around my arm and which one will suddenly reach over my head and attach itself to the back of my sweater leaving me no chance of defense. But I'm on to them now. I've seen what happened to August. I'll lead the charge with my loppers and we'll see who comes out victorious.

Two week progress report

We have been in our new house for two weeks. We're still surrounded by stacks of boxes but now, instead of being of tsunami magnitude, the stacks are more on the scale of the wake of a BC Ferry - enough to cause trouble should you get caught out but not enough to bring about your demise.

So we are making progress.  We finally have all of our stuff from the moving company. No, they did not deliver. Instead we had to rent a van and Mike had to make a day trip to Vancouver to retrieve the final bits and pieces of our belongings. As well, we had to rope in the assistance of some friends who happened to be coming over for a visit and who also happen to own a minivan. But, no matter. We have our things. And, joy! We have our barbeque, for what is summer without a barbeque at least one a week.

Unfortunately, when we fired up the barbeque to get that warm, summertime feeling going, we had a hotter experience than expected. Halfway through cooking our halibut steaks, flames started spewing out from underneath the barbeque. So, fire down the barbeque and flip the the steaks into the fry pan on the stovetop. Somehow, it just wasn't quite the same thing. Another project for the list - if we ever get around to putting the list to paper, which we really don't want to do since we'd have to slay a small forest to produce enough paper to accommodate all the items on our project list.

Other items underway that we can check off that non-existent list?

Our team of manual labourers (Mike and Liam) have been out working on the septic system.  You'd be surprised how much dirt an almost-four-year-old can move when he think it's play. Our front yard cum septic field is now full of a bunch of 18 inch deep holes with which we are going to monitor septic field "activity." I think that when it comes time to do the actual monitoring which involves measuring liquid levels, I'll be busy indoors alphabetizing my spice rack. Don't laugh! When you're in the middle of cooking and the crucial moment to add spices is upon you, you don't want to be caught out unable to find your turmeric or cardamom.

Our new dishwasher has arrived and thanks to a generous offer from my brother-in-law to assist with the installation (okay, I admit it - do the installation) we now have the quietest dishwasher I've ever had the pleasure to not hear. When it's running you actually have to put your ear up to it before you can tell that it's on.

We've enlisted the services of a neighbour to come and cut our dandelion field for a small fee until we have a chance to do a comparative analysis of John Deere versus Husqvarna.

Garbage collection has been arranged. Yes, we must arrange private garbage collection. No city collection here. Up until now, our method of dealing with garbage has been to stash our bags in an old, defunct chest freezer outside by the sheds. Seems the perfect set-up. No hungry animals can get at it and any smell is contained. As I said, perfect. That is, until the chest fills up.

To do?  Get rid of the old dishwasher. Although, it kind of makes a nice set with the old chest freezer. And with our dandelion fields, all we're missing is an old, rusted car parked up on blocks in the yard to make us look like some kind of junkyard hillbillies. There's been a bit of a problem with home break-ins around here recently, so maybe cultivating the junkyard look isn't such a bad idea. Really, what are the chances that we'd have anything worth stealing?

Those are the highlights of the last two weeks. Stay tuned for a cultural experience report.

Perhaps we could get used to this place...

This morning I woke at 5:15, just as light was entering the sky. I got up to look out the bedroom windows and saw three brown rabbits sitting in the grass on their haunches, noses to the wind. Later on, in the full light of morning, Liam and I walked up the road to see the cows at a neighbouring farm. The sun was shining and the sky was that post-card perfect bottomless blue. Blackberry bushes stretched out their prickly arms towards us, showing off a profusion of hard, green berries, a promise of the harvest to come. Overhead some hawks rode a thermal updraft in lazy circles. An afternoon exploration of our property revealed several apple and plum trees in fruit. Tonight, we had dinner sitting on the back deck, from which all we can see are shades of green melting one into another as the sun sets behind the trees. I think we could get used to this place.

Irony of ironies

We received a delivery early today, an event almost unheard of in the world of large household purchases and cartage companies.

Let me explain.

For a variety of reasons (well, two mostly - Liam and Kai) we decided that we would invest in a new bed once we moved to our new home.  Our old bed was fine, just a tad crowded in the early morning hours once everyone had migrated from their own beds into ours. Throw a cat into the mix and we were in need of a bit more bed real estate.  But, to accommodate more bed real estate we needed more house real estate and, so, the decision to invest in a king size bed was taken.

And oh, we found a beauty. Upon my first test flop in the store in Vancouver, I knew I had reached sleep nirvana. Organic latex with an organic wool and cotton covering. Probably manufactured in the shade of a protected rain forest by indigenous peoples still wearing their traditional costume. When it wears out in 25 years time we can toss it on the compost pile. But I digress. It was a bit on the pricey side, but when we divided the total cost by the anticipated number of nights sleeping on it, we convinced ourselves that it's almost a bargain. Certainly a thrifty purchase. The only problem was taking delivery. Could we get it before we left Vancouver? Nope. But the sales rep assured us that deliver to Metchosin would be no problem. We could expect it to arrive a few days after our move.

So, upon arrival in Metchosin, we decided to set up our old bed (or perhaps I should still refer to it as our current bed?) in our guest room. No point in setting it up in our room only to have to disassemble it in a matter of days and move it downstairs to make room for the new, majestic King size bed. Besides, we needed the guest bed for my father who agreed to cat sit for us while we moved and would be arriving soon after our move date to deliver said cat and visit for a couple of nights. A few nights on a foamy on the floor of our bedroom wouldn't kill us.

Five days after moving we had taken delivery of our cat, Dad had been and gone and my hips and shoulders were starting to ache. And then the phone call came from the bed store. The bed would be a few days late in arriving. We were looking at sleeping on the foamy for another four nights.

Next thing, we were stripping the bedding off of the foamy and hauling the mattress from the guest room up the back stairs and into our bedroom. That was yesterday. Laughingly, I said to Mike as we flopped the mattress onto the floor, "I bet the new bed comes early."

This morning the phone rang at about 7:00 am. Considering that very few people have our new number yet, and that even fewer of them would call us so early, this was quite an event. So much so that we even answered the call. It turned out to be the delivery company for the bed store. They had our bed and would be delivering it today. Today! At 11:00 am. Tonight we could be sleeping on our new bed!

First task after breakfast was to clear out our bedroom to make way for the masterpiece. As we were about the haul our old mattress back downstairs Mike stopped us. "What if the new one doesn't arrive for some reason?" he asked. "What reason?" I said. Mike shrugged, but he suggested that we leave the old mattress in the living room until the new one was delivered and in our bedroom. Just in case. Very wise. I knew there was a reason that I married him.

Our new bed did arrive today. Not at 11:00 am, as predicted, but at 3:00 pm. By this time, I had gone out to do some laundry and order our new washer and dryer and dishwasher (we'll see when they get delivered!)

This new bed is latex, as I mentioned. As a consequence, it is heavy and floppy. Nothing like a conventional mattress.  And did I mention heavy?  It's got to be two hundred pounds. Two hundred very floppy pounds. The delivery man was, apparently, a nice guy but had his limits. Fighting two hundred floppy pounds up the stairs was not in his day planner. We need more bodies to move this beast. Friends are coming over later in the week for a visit so we'll do things the country way. Instead of having a barn raising party, we'll have a bed raising party. We'll play a little folk music to set the mood, I'll make potato salad to feed the crowd, and we'll herd that bed up the stairs. And, eventually, we'll get horizontal on our new bed and float off to sleep nirvana.

In the meantime, we've shuffled the old mattress back onto the floor of our bedroom while the new mattress is safely stored away on the floor of the guest room. Irony of ironies. A major purchase actually arrived early and we're still sleeping on a mattress on the floor of our room. At least Mike had the foresight to suggest that we wait to move the old mattress back downstairs.

One leaky faucet at a time, one bed at a time.

It take 18 minutes to get to Rona

Here we are, finally deposited in our new home. 

Okay, it doesn't quite feel like home yet, but we're working on it. The movers haven't delivered all of our belongings yet (they estimate they'll have our things delivered to us by August 3rd, but that's another story); we're surrounded by a jumble of boxes that defy my logical packing plan (kitchen boxes are stacked in the mud room; Liam's things are spread between his room and the living room and my clothes are in the dining room); we have no oven apart from a small countertop convection oven that's probably 15 years old, holds nothing larger than an 8x8 pan and has it's own ideas about the value of heat in the cooking process; and the list of "projects" grows exponentially each day.

But not all is bad. It's comforting to know that some things are reliably consistent, no matter where you go. For example, a Big Mac in Paris tastes exactly the same as a Big Mac in Prague and The Gap and Starbucks Coffee can be found in every city in the world. I'm not suggesting that these are necessarily good things, just that consistency has it's merits. Closer to our immediate needs, we've discovered an amazing consistency with Home Depot. On our second day here we began the inevitable parade to the home improvement stores and found that the staff at Home Depot in Langford are as woefully inadequate in their knowledge of home improvement projects as the Home Depot staff in Vancouver. So, really, we felt quite at home. All that orange shelving and not a soul who knew anything about the issues at hand. 

On the upside, we've found that Rona has more knowledgeable staff than Home Depot and is about 4 minutes closer to home. In fact, it takes about 18 minutes door to door. Result? We now own an impressive array of wrenches and have a functioning bathroom faucet (rather utilitarian looking, but it works) and a functioning kitchen faucet (looks fantastic but highlights the dismal state of the rest of the kitchen). Check two projects from the list.

Tomorrow we'll be deciding on a new washer and dryer and dishwasher. The laundry is starting to stack up so it's either buy new appliances or buy more socks and underwear. The dishes we're managing to stay on top of the old-fashioned way but we don't really need any more chores than we could, instead, automate. So soon we will be able to apply three more check marks to our list.

One day at a time. One box at a time. One leaky faucet at a time.

Out with the tide

This is it. Our last night in Kitsilano, our lovely neighbourhood by the beach. Tomorrow the movers will arrive and start loading our boxes into their truck to be hauled off and deposited at our new life. Our new life, as if we're off to conquer some new world.  As if it should be capitalized. Our New Life.

I must admit, though, that this doesn't seem real. Oh sure, there's plenty of physical evidence around me should I choose to look at the towers of boxes rising up like waves on all sides of me, ready to crash down on my head and drag me under.  In fact, I've filled and stacked a good deal of these boxes, carefully wedging in the jars of dried beans and rice next to the crackers and dry pasta so that nothing shifts around during transport.  I've debated over the wisdom of packing lampshades and towels together, wine glasses and plastic plates. So yes, I know that we are leaving here. 

But it still doesn't feel real. In fact, I have a hard time envisioning life after Tuesday, July 15. That's when this tide that we're riding will roll up to our house and leave us there in the driveway, stranded on dry ground.  That's when we will be faced with our boxes of flotsam. That's when we will have to reconcile all of our familiar belongings with our new, unfamiliar space.  And, I wonder, at what point will we realize what we've done, that we've landed on these shores and there is no going back? Will we have regrets? And if we do, will we be able to admit it to ourselves?

Big questions, but perhaps these are just momentary jitters, to be expected before tsunami-magnitude change. Truthfully, I know that we are ready for this and that in the long run, this will be a good change. But until that 'long run' kicks in, if I see a rat treading those waters beside me, I can't guarantee that I won't be checking out the ferry schedule for the next boat back to Vancouver.

We are land barons!

Yesterday we took possession of our new digs, so now we are land barons, the owners of two fine properties.  Granted, this is a short lived state.  Soon we will return to our regular status of one small fiefdom when the sale or our current home closes on the 15th of July.  But, temporarily, we can refer to our "properties."

The possession of the newest landholding was heralded with much signing of forms, first at the lawyers office and then the bank.  We collected about a pound worth of papers for our files, the sort that you keep forever but never actually look at again. So, it's real. We are going.

I'm discovering, though, that the logistics of moving to a new town is quite different than moving within the same town. The movers will be around to collect all of our goods on the 14th of July and will deliver them to our new house on the 15th. EVERYTHING must be ready to go on the 14th.  There will be no running back to the house to pick up the last few things, so all those odd-shaped, awkward items which would usually be carted over to the new abode in our car have to be packed in protective boxes, ready for stacking in a moving truck. But, there are a few items which we will transport ourselves:

• two small boys with car seats
• one playpen that doubles as a bed for smallest boy
• diapers and other necessaries for smaller boy
• overnight bags with toiletries and two days worth of clothes for two adults and two small boys
• one stroller
• two coolers stocked with ice, fridge items and snacks for two days
• cleaning supplies to be used at new house
• hand-held vacuum for use at new house
• one cat, bag of kitty litter, litter box and cat food

Is all this going to fit in the back of our Subaru Outback?  And if it doesn't, what do we ditch?  We may need to make alternate arrangements for the cat.  She's been hanging around at the neighbours a fair bit lately, so Mike suggested that we might want to leave under cover of darkness while she's over there visiting.  An idea, definitely, but I think we'll have to come up with another Plan B for her.

Luckily, though, we have reservations at the Hotel Merriam for the night of the 14th, so we don't have to worry about transporting sleeping bags and foamies for ourselves, which would definitely put the car on overload.  The Hotel Merriam, located in lovely Langford and a quick 15 minute drive from our new house, has been our regular accommodation on our various forays to the Island over the last few months.  The proprietors are lovely folk but very choosey about the guests they accept.  I'm not sure how we made the cut but it must have something to do with the long history I have with one of the proprietors. We go back to grade one.

So, ten days left to complete our packing, do our final round of visits with friends and perhaps fit in a day excursion or two that would be to Liam's liking.  And then we'll be taking our last ferry trip for awhile and eating our last round of deep-fried ferry food.  Organic eating, here we come!

Remedial Packing 102

My packing system has fallen apart.  I got lost somewhere in step two.  I now have boxes packed but without the requisite coloured stickers.  But that's okay as I haven't assigned colours to the rooms since I haven't been able to extricate the coloured markers from Liam's tight little fist.  And, I confess, while the final destination of the boxes is noted on all sides of the boxes, the contents are only noted on the top.  Too many boxes to pack and too little time to spend on listing contents.  I guess we'll be sipping our scotch from used paper coffee cups. Remedial Packing for me.

Advanced Packing - 401

In three weeks the moving truck will pull up to the curb and start loading up. Three weeks to get our mounds of stuff out of the corners and crawl space and garage and packed into boxes in some order and ready to go.  Three weeks of panic - maybe.

But not if one has a system.  Yes, a system.  Some would say "Karen?  A system for packing? But of course."  Others might say "There is a system for packing?!?"

So, here's the system:

First, either lay hands on or draw up a floor plan of the new residence. 

Second, gather up your sheets of coloured stickers. What? You don't have sheets of coloured stickers?  Off to the dollar store. Chop, chop.  Don't waste time.  We've got things to pack.  Okay, got your stickers?  Good.  

Third, assign each room in your new residence a colour that matches one of the sticker colours (for example, red for the kitchen, green for the living room).  Mark the colours on the floor plan, preferably in coloured markers that match your colour assignment (for example, use a red marker to label the kitchen red). If you have, perhaps, bought too large a house and have more rooms than sticker colours, you might run into problems here and have to run back to the dollar store for more stickers.  Just be sure to get different colours, not shades of the same.  (ie. No navy blue, royal blue and powder blue.  In the eyes of movers, blue is blue is blue.) Oh, and don't forget the matching coloured markers. Okay. More stickers and markers? Good. We continue.

Fourth, gather up your stock of boxes and packing materials (bubble wrap, tissue paper, styrofoam peanuts).  What?  Again with the whining that you don't have such things.  Well, alright.  Off you go again.  Moving companies will supply you with such things for a fee.  If you feel you can spare the time, do the rounds of the liquor stores and photocopy shops to see if you can snag some free boxes.  Just don't blame me if you're still rounding up boxes in three weeks and not a thing has been packed.  And don't underestimate how many boxes you'll need.  No point in having to repeat step four, especially since it's been scientifically proven that the hour at which one is most likely to run out of boxes is 3:00 a.m. and I can pretty much guarantee that you're not likely to find empty boxes readily available at that time. 

Fifth, pack like a demon.  (Note to those overly-confident types:  here's your chance to show your superiority to the rest of society.  Your challenge, should you choose to accept it, is to weed out the junk as you go.  No point in moving that old Beta video player or the collection of salt and pepper shakers that you haven't unpacked from your last move.)

Sixth, label all boxes and apply colour coded stickers.  This sounds straight forward, but for many, this is where system failure will occur if careful attention to detail is neglected. Not only must you ensure that all boxes are correctly colour coded (for example, all kitchen boxes are coded red) but that all boxes are labelled and colour coded on all four sides as well as on the top.  Top labeling alone simply will not suffice.  If you choose not to accept this little nugget of wisdom you will soon realize the errors of your ways when you are looking for the scotch glasses and are faced with a tower of boxes of which only the top box's final destination and contents can be identified.

Sidebar: alternate steps five and six.  Do not, under any circumstances, assume that you can pack half a dozen boxes and remember what was in the first box.  Believe me, you will never find those scotch glasses when you need them.  So, unless you like your scotch from a used takeaway coffee cup, label as you go.

And finally, the seventh and final step in the system.  When you arrive at your new home, post your colour coded floor plan beside the door so that the movers can match up the boxes to the correct room. Ignore the strange looks that the movers give you when you explain to them your system. Remember, these are people who are probably not even wearing matching socks.  You are the customer and, after all, it's just as easy for them to put a box in the correct location as it is for them to put it in an incorrect location, so why not get the kitchen boxes in the kitchen instead of the basement rec room?  Occasionally, the use of a referee whistle will be required to encourage reluctant movers to embrace the system.  A few short blasts directed at a mover about to deposit a lavender laundry room box in the middle of a sea of aqua mud room boxes usually brings the offender in line.

And that, my friends, is the system.  So now I must go pack.  Only first I must find my collection of coloured stickers, which, I think, might be packed away in a box in the garage from the last time we moved.  And then I must try to steal some matching coloured markers from Liam, who seems to think that colouring is an activity more approriate to a preschooler than his mummy.  And then boxes.... I think I know of a 24 hour photocopy shop on Broadway.

Septic 101

Pop quiz:  How many chambers are there in a septic system?

I never imagined that I'd ever need to know such things.  Or that I would be able to sustain a whole conversation on the subject while driving across town in busy Saturday morning traffic.  Or that a discussion of sludge and the role of microbes in its breakdown would qualify as suitable conversation over the breakfast table.

But there you have it.  For the last several days we have been fully absorbed with matters of sludge and percolation rates, and have learned more about gravity fed systems versus pressurized systems versus the Cadillac of septic systems, the treatment system, than any city girl should reasonably be expected to know.  But now I can speak muck with the best of them rural folk.

So what does all this mean?  It means that we are soon-to-be proud owners of a defunct septic system.  Yes, today we finished haggling over price adjustments and the septic system is ours. We take possession of it on Wednesday, 02 July.  As a bonus, it comes with a mid-seventies house that will provide us with endless hours of project entertainment.  Although we will have plenty of room for a big screen TV we won't be shopping for one any time soon (big or small) as I expect that we'll be challenged enough at the end of the day to muster enough energy to brush our teeth, let alone prop open our eyes and focus on a TV screen.

I'd list the projects that we've already identified after our initial walk-through of the place, but it's getting close to bedtime and I don't want to give myself nightmares tonight.  Let's just say, we'll be busy. Okay, here's a teaser, since you insist. I'm not entirely sure if the mature grapevine is holding up the green house or if the green house is holding up the grapevine.  They seem to have become one over the years.  But that's just a minor outdoor project that can wait until we take care of some of the more pressing indoor projects - such as installing an oven.  Yes, an oven, that basic of basic appliances. Not only is there no oven, but also there is no place to put an oven without renovating the kitchen. The current owners renovated in 1997 and for some inexplicable reason chose not to include an oven in the complement of appliances that they installed.  Curious, very curious. And then there's - oh, wait.  I wasn't going to get started.  I do need to sleep tonight.

The upside of this place? We'll be within walking distance of the metropolis of Metchosin where one can dine at the only restaurant in Metchosin, the My Chosen Cafe, have coffee at the one coffee shop, buy feed for your chickens, stop at the general store for canned beans, iceberg lettuce, rubber boots, teapots and gardening tools, check on your public services (police, volunteer firehall) and see what's happening at the community hall.

I shouldn't sell the place short.  There are other upsides. The house has the space we need and is structurally sound.  Sure, there are changes to be made to make the place more current and in keeping with our chichi tastes, but basically it's a good house.  The land is beautiful.  The Galloping Goose trail is just at the end of the road.  Everyone in the community with whom we've spoken has been very friendly and welcoming.  And they make great coffee at the coffee shop.  What more could we need?

Nevertheless, it's an understatement to say that this is going to be quite a change from our life here in Kits.  But perhaps not as big a change as this move could have been.  We've managed to get our hands on only one acre of land instead of the five or so that we had hoped to secure, so our farming operation will be significantly smaller than it might have been. Instead we'll take some time to develop some paid employment options to support us while we learn more about soils, micro-climates, crop rotation, green manures and all those other handy terms that I've read but never put into practice. Oh, and monitoring septic systems.  

A-farming we will go...

I haven't played pinball in years. Are those machines still around or have they all been snapped up and squirreled away in wood paneled rec-rooms in the 'burbs? Picture it, though: a silver ball pinging its way around a sloped surface, lights popping and bells jangling as it ricochets back and forth between flapping paddles and spring-loaded pylons, valiantly trying to avoid its inevitable descent into that little black pit at the bottom of the play surface. That's us in our effort to figure out where we want to live as July 15, the closing date on our increasingly attractive Kits duplex, looms closer.  It would be generous to describe our decision making process as non-linear.  Non-functional would be more apt.  

In the space of two weeks I have been absolutely certain that we should: 

1. live on Saltspring Island and run a B&B/organic farm
   
2. build a house on a small acreage in Metchosin (see the posting about the wind)
   
3. buy a property that required extensive excavation and the installation of drain tiles to deal with a swamp (or try rice farming)
   
4. rent an old, drafty farmhouse on an organic farm and embrace communal living, and;
   
5. buy a level, one-acre property in Metchosin with a perfectly serviceable house and start with micro-farming while we also attempt to line up some contract work.  After all, the financial returns on farming are poor at the best of times.  Living off of micro-farming may by a little, shall we say, thin???
   

I love Saltspring Island.  Truly, I do.  It's got a great "mediterranean-like" climate and no one looks at you twice if you wear something tie-dyed.  But those ferries.  You can only miss so many sailings and have to kill a couple of extra hours with two small kids in a crowded BC Ferries terminal before you think twice about signing on for the long term.

Building on a small acreage?  Or, more accurately, building in a wind tunnel?  Nope.

Excavation and drain tiles? Ka-ching, ka-ching.  And it wasn't even clear it could be done.  And a protected zone around a nearby creek ate into the property.  And the house smelled of dogs (Bull Mastiffs, specifically) and needed all new flooring - and there was a lot of floor!  More ka-ching, ka-ching.  Though I do like rice...

The old, drafty farmhouse option would have been like going to summer camp. This was no mono-culture operation.  Instead, it was an absolutely idyllic collection of gently sloping fields covered, seemingly randomly, in herbs, flowers, fruits and vegetables. As we walked through the fields with Mary, the farm owner, I brushed up against lush foliage warmed by the mid-afternoon sun and the scents of earthy sage, warm tarragon and lemon thyme, and countless others I couldn't place, engulfed me. Not a single mechanical sound could be heard over the chatter of birds and the steady hum of pollinators.  Mike could have done an apprenticeship with Mary. I could have learned how to make cheese. And Liam and Kai?  They would have had the best playground going chasing after the chickens. One catch:  the farmhouse is currently being used for daily communal lunches by the handful of apprentices working on the farm and Mary wanted to continue the tradition with us as participants. This involves a rotating schedule amongst the apprentices of cooking, serving lunch and cleaning up. So, daily, someone would be occupying the kitchen for several hours. And there was some minor issue about the apprentices accessing the high speed internet connection in the house.  And the laundry facilities. But, living there would have been an experience that stretched us and forced us outside of the warm cocoon of our independent, anonymous lives.  We would have learned so much about the practical aspects of farming. (I'm sure there was a precise order to those fields, even if it wasn't readily apparent to me.)  We decided to go for it; we were ready to throw open the kitchen door and embrace the farm, communal lunches and all.  Mike placed the call to Mary to finalize arrangements. In passing he mentioned that we have a cat.  Mary's response? An enthusiastic "Oh good, we have rats!"  Rats? Now, a little communal living is one thing. Communing with rats is quite another.  Mary confessed that they have taken up residence in the walls and between the floors of the house.  Sorry, can't do it.  At least not with Liam and Kai.  So the rat house is out.

Which leads us to option five: the smaller parcel of land with a very liveable house for quite a comfortable price.  Enough room to practice some very small scale farming but close enough to Victoria to establish some other, more financially rewarding options. So Mike went off by himself to Metchosin today to view the house.  Yes, I may be signing on for a house that I have never actually laid eyes on. This is either a sign of abject desperation or faith that Mike and I are on a superior plane of communication so that we fully understand each others dreams and desires.

Okay, we're desperate.

We made an offer today. Maybe by this time tomorrow we'll be homeowners. And today is only the 6th of June.  We've still got 39 days to spare.

We wanted something different.... but a commune?

Kitsilano, Vancouver's own little corner of paradise, has been good to us. Back in the early 90's when both Mike and I arrived here from our respective corners of the globe (mine: the Vancouver suburb or Burnaby, his: Newcastle on the north east coast of England), it was a little sleepier, less well-endowed with coffee shops and much less expensive to rent a decent place to live.

Over the years, Kits has evolved as we have.  By the time we met, Capers had replaced the car dealership and Starbucks was making serious moves into the  neighbourhood.  Sophie's Cosmic Cafe had line-ups down the sidewalk every weekend morning and you could still walk down Fourth Avenue without getting caught up in a stroller jam.

Fast forward a couple of years.  We managed to snag a decent place to live before half a million bucks got you a shoe box in a basement and we are the ones trying to fit a double stroller through the front doors of Capers, past the ill-situated display of organic mangoes jammed between the cash desks and the magazine rack.  (Lesson learned: don't try to get into Capers with a side-by-side double stroller unless you want to be the proud owner of many bruised mangoes.)

But life is good in these few square blocks.  The beach, community centre and library, all services that are required by those with small children, are close by.  We've met a great group of supportive parents and kids.  We should be satisfied with life.  And we are.  For the most part.  Except when Mike has to get on a plane to travel for work.  Except when we can't make it through the front door for the strollers lined up in the entry hall. Except when the living room becomes a serious hazard zone for the toys strewn across the floor.  Except when Liam at the age of three is pretending to be Daddy, chatting on his cell phone (a toy car held to his ear), typing at his computer (a puzzle box) and towing his suitcase (his backpack) behind him as he heads off toward the front door, announcing "My taxi is here.  I'm going to New York."

We feel the urge for something different.  Something more connected to the natural world.  Something that will offer Liam and Kai, our newest addition, a different perspective on life.  Something that will show them that there is life beyond a job in an office, beyond devoting two hours a day to sitting in a car, beyond squeezing real living into a couple of spare hours on the weekend.

But commune living?!?!