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.