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.