About Ravenwood

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In Memory of Bear

2009-06-26T16:43:00.000-07:00

I've tried to write this blog post for over two months since the passing of my beloved dog, Bear, but every time I sat at the computer, all I could do was cry my grief, the screen remaining blank and blurry in my vision.

Even now, it hurts to remember and it hurts to write about my dear companion in the past tense. How I hate those words: dead, gone, passed away. If I don't think about him not being here the intense sorrow won't come just a dull ache of loss that's been weighing on my chest since his death.

Technically, he was my sister, Cari's, dog. She was the one that found him on the local SPCA's website and decided just by seeing his smiling face that he had to come into our family. But, it wasn't long before his big goofy grin and gentle nature me won me over too. He was the first dog that I'd ever lived with as an adult and before he came into my life, I didn't quite understand the attraction and affection people feel towards their dogs.

Now I do. There is no other love than that of a furry being who forgives you your short temper when you lash out with harsh words because you've had a bad day, who doesn't question your dubious fashion sense, doesn't care if you've gained weight or haven't plucked your eyebrows in months. He loves with his full heart and his sloppy kisses just because you are you. You are enough as you are to be granted the blessing of dog love.

Bear wasn't a perfect dog by any stretch of the imagination. He had terrible breath no matter how many raw bones or carrots we gave him or how many times he had his teeth cleaned. He had reoccurring stomach troubles and the results of his bouts of diarrhea weren't pretty especially since he had long hair and a big bushy tail. I called him Stinky Bum more often than I called him Bear.

He was afraid of grocery bags and if he encountered one caught in a tree the moment it rustled in the wind all 112lbs of him would be cowering behind Cari or I begging us to kill the scary bag.

He constantly picked up sticks, sand, pinecones and rocks in his thick fur coat during his exploits outside only to somehow mysteriously shed all his treasures as he walked through the house. His head smelled like a dairy barn. I have no idea why but it did. He snored and he was flatulent. One night he set off our carbon monoxide detector with one of his Silent Giants.

Despite these shortcomings, in my eyes he was the best dog in the world. He was my best friend. He was a great judge of character. He was fiercely loyal and protective and if he had to, he probably would have even defended me against any plastic bag that threatened my safety.

On our hobby farm, he was my constant companion as I worked in the gardens. If the coyotes started to howl or a neighbour shot off a Bear Banger, he would be at my side in a flash ready to protect me. Even on the days when everything was quiet, I would look up from my work to find him lying on the septic field, which offered the best vantage point to watch over his charges. His head would be raised, his gaze focused on his flock in which I was a member. When the wind would catch his substantial mane of white hair blowing it back from his proud face he looked like a lion.

I still can't write about the details of his final day with us. He did pass at home, outside under the trees that he loved with Cari and me by his side.

So, my dearest Bear, Shmeardle Beardle, Poodle Head, Schmoodie, Stinky Bum, months later I still miss you so very much and grieve the sight of your empty food bowls and your collar placed in reverence on a shelf.

Cari and I thank you for the precious eight years you blessed us with your presence.

The Last Goodbye

2009-06-26T16:40:00.000-07:00

New Additions To The Hen House

2009-04-03T15:37:00.000-07:00

Recently, we invited two new hens into the hen house. Before their arrival our flock was all Banty hens and roosters. The two new girls are Leghorn's or as we affectionately call them, Big Ass Girls. They are about four times the size of our pretty little Banty hens. Even though their size is imposing, the rest of the gang accepted them in to the fold.

The funniest thing is that we have three roosters, two adult and a juvenile. According to all the chicken books out there, you are not supposed to be able to keep more than one rooster with a flock of hens. However we don't seem to have a problem.

The dominant rooster, Dotty (we named him when he was still a baby, we got the sex wrong. Ooops) has laid claim to the hens and poor Blue, the other adult, had no one. Or should I say, up until the arrival of the Big Ass Girls. He is smitten and probably in rooster heaven. He lucked out and is dating twins. My Oh My. I'm not sure he is ever going to be able to consummate the relationships but as they say, where there's a will, there's a way. You got to give Blue credit for thinking big.

As you can see by the picture above the size of eggs are just a tiny bit bigger than the ones we normally get from the other girls.

THE STILL LIFE OF HANNAH MORGAN CONTEST

2009-02-26T12:59:00.000-08:00

WIN A FREE DOWNLOAD OF MY NOVEL,

THE STILL LIFE OF HANNAH MORGAN

What are your dreams, your passions? What are the quiet whispers of your secret heart?

Send me an email describing your dreams, what risks you've taken to achieve them or what obstacles are holding you back.

The winning entry will receive a free download of my book, The Still Life of Hannah Morgan and your email will be posted on my website.

Send your entry to sister02@telus.net and type MY DREAMS CONTEST as the subject line.

Contest closes April 15, 2009.

When Will It End?

2009-01-30T12:57:00.000-08:00

Yes, this is another post about the weather. The seemingly endless winter. Snow, snow and more snow. If one more person points out how pretty the trees look dusted in snow I'm going to poke their eyes out with a spoon!

Yes, it is starkly beautiful, nothing but white carpeting the ground, the pine trees almost black in contrast to the blinding blank canvas of drifts. Some days the outdoors looks like a black and white photograph all black and white and shades of grey. But right now my spirit is thirsty for colour. My heart aches to see the first tender green shoots and delicate pink blossoms of spring, to feel on my skin a hint of warmth from a lemon yellow sun, to hear the lyric opera of song birds returned with the turn of the season.

This wouldn't be such a winter to be endured if all I had to do was write my next novel sitting beside a cozy fire with a glass of Merlot at my side. In fact, I think I would welcome this time to hunker down and go within. Alas, I haven't sold a million copies of my first book (yet) and I don't have household staff to buy food, shovel the driveway, take care of the livestock, take the garbage to the dump, and haul firewood. So instead, I have to dig out the driveway in the dark of the early morning so I can slog my way to work only to come home in the dark and stumble around feeding all the animals, shovelling yet again all before I can go inside and start a fire and get dinner on the go.

Three weeks after the big storm on Dec. 26 we got hit with yet another one. And this one was even bigger. We had over four feet of snow followed by rain. Roofs were collapsing, food and mail trucks couldn't get through to our village and avalanches just kept on happening. The night of the storm, I came home grabbed a flashlight and shovel so Cari would at least stand a chance of getting her truck onto our property when she came home from work. I was soaking wet from the pouring rain, my arms ached from lifting the saturated snow when I heard the sound of a freight train coming down the mountain. I could feel the ground reverberating from the avalanche as it let go. Ten minutes later it happened again.

I was never so grateful as when Cari finally arrived home and we headed in to our warm safe house for dinner. The next day we spent six hours shoveling off the barn, house and goat shed roofs and creating enough of a pathway to get to the barn. It would take another week to completely remove the snow from the walkways and driveway.

I am wise enough to know that this too shall pass and there is nothing I can do about the weather or the season. The more I struggle with this time of darkness and cold, all that will happen is I will be frustrated and depressed and winter will still be here. So, all I can do is accept this state of being for a little while longer and realize that spring will eventually makes its way around on the calendar and the light and burgeoning life will again return.

Just don't mention how pretty winter is because I still have my spoon handy.

Eighteen Inches!

2008-12-30T11:44:00.000-08:00

On December 26, 2008 in the late afternoon the snow began to fall. It was a picture postcard evening; fluffy flakes gently cascading down sparkling like diamonds, the twilight deepening to a deep violet. Mmmm. An enchanted Christmas in the Kootenay's.

Then Cari and I woke up the next morning to 18 inches of snow. We can get that and more over the course of the winter but never in one evening. The goats were not happy. And neither were we.

Armed with snow shovels and a ladder we went out to do battle. Six hours later, we had cleared all the roofs, the driveway and the paths to the barn and goat shed.

The following are a few pictures I took the next day.

2008-12-30T11:20:00.000-08:00

Snow on Back Porch and Greenhouse Path

2008-12-30T11:00:00.000-08:00

Say NO To Wallpaper

2008-11-06T11:07:00.000-08:00

Dear Previous Homeowner,

What were you thinking?

What were you thinking when you decided it would be a good idea to wallpaper the three foot wide hallway in what is now my mobile home? Were you having an identity crisis and it seemed like a good idea to put up dark green, textured, vinyl wallpaper and a patterned, floral border over vinyl clad wall board?

Or perhaps you were just craving a change? At the time, did it it seem like a brilliant solution to glue the seams down with carpenters' glue rather than to get a new haircut or a new color of nail polish?

Was Mercury in retrograde? Was it a blue moon? Were you abducted by aliens?

Please people, if you are contemplating wallpaper as a possible decorating choice, stop...shake your head... pour yourself another glass of wine and step away from the wallpaper sample books.

All of you that are guilty of this debasement of walls, you know darn well that when you sell your house the person who inherits your questionable decorating choice will be left with the tedious task of stripping off the paper. Weeks and weeks of scraping and sanding and more scrapping. Please don't open yourself up to bad decorating karma because it will come back around.

Unless you have a decorator and an income to hire workers to strip of the hideous paper when you get tired of it just SAY NO TO WALLPAPER!!!

Mourning The Loss Of My Trees

2008-10-31T09:26:00.000-07:00

Take a good look at the before and after pictures to see what I am talking about. The front of our property is actually owned by BC Hydro as the lines run down our side of Rock Island Road. Living on a mountain side has it's downside as far as power outages. We experience frequent and prolonged outages all year round mostly due to trees falling on the lines.

This year BC Hydro crews were out cutting down all the trees growing under the power lines. I do support this effort to minimize blackouts and when the nice young men on the cutting crew came to tell me what they were going to do, I was polite and understanding. I knew it had to be done but seeing the results was so very sad.

In front of our veggie garden we had five Alder trees that created a lovely shade, dappled environment I had dubbed Snake Alley as the snakes loved to hang out there. The birds use to nest in the boughs and come into the garden to eat. These lovely trees also screened us from the road and neighbours.

On the other side of our yard we had twelve pine, cedar and hemlock. Again, these trees provided us with privacy from our neighbours and created a sense of security, of being hugged by trees all around us.

Now, we are completely exposed. When I walked out to survey what the crew had done I felt like I was walking around my yard naked.

Everything changes, new energy now flows on and through our property. I'm not sure yet if it's a good flow or not, time will tell. Funny how that one truth is so hard to grasp and accept even if it is a necessary change.

My Birthday Present

2008-10-10T12:11:00.000-07:00

I am posting an email my sister, Tanya, sent me about my birthday present from her. She had asked what I wanted from London and I said I would love a pair of authentic Wellies.

Sometimes, it is not the actual present that is the gift but finding out the effort someone has gone to, to get that perfect expression of their love. So my little Sweet Pea, thank you for your love!!!

Lora, Lora. I have a confession, and today I felt like a fool! I lied about your birthday present being in the mail, it's not. It will be soon though!

Since I have been in London, I have been looking high and low for Wellingtons. Now, I've seen boots that look like Wellingtons... I have googled Wellingtons. I went to Camden looking for Wellingtons, again saw racks and racks of Wellingtons, but none of them said "Wellington" anywhere on them. I have asked friends born and raised in London where I can find Wellingtons.

The latest response from a friend was: the Burberry Factory shop in East London, the Outdoor Store in Haymarket, and a department store in Oxford Circus called John Lewis. I went to the Burberry Factory shop, and again found boots that looked like Wellingtons, but they were Burberry's and £500 which were out of my price range. I was starting to think, there must be Wellingtons somewhere!

But, I decided that before I go to another store, I would again get online. I looked at the site for John Lewis and saw "Wellingtons". Hooray!!! I found Wellingtons. So I trucked it down to John Lewis in Oxford Circus today, high street shopping. Found the shoe department, saw the Wellingtons, picked them up, and nowhere on them did it say, "Wellington". I thought I was crazy.

I went up to a clerk, and said, "I was on your site, saw that these boots that I have here in my hand are Wellingtons, but nowhere on the boot does it say Wellington." She said, "Wellington isn't a brand, it's a description of a style of boot." And then I understood that I have been looking for months for a brand name that doesn't exist!Well, I tried them on and bought them. They only had one style, the style that's in this season here in London. They do have pink in them, but no lavender, and are quite fun looking.

While I was standing in line to pay for them - and remember I'm in a department store in the heart of the city (snooty shoppers galore), the woman behind me said "And where are you going to wear those?" Which I actually thought was a strange question as I see Londoners in, what are apparently Wellingtons, often when it's rainy. I said with pride "These are for my sister in Canada and she is going to wear them while farming on her farm." I think she wanted to tell me that Wellingtons were for the farm, but I beat her to it.So my lovely Lora, I'm ruining your surprise, but I don't want to send you something you won't wear. (You don't have to click these links if you don't want to.) I got you these ones:
http://www.johnlewis.com/Fashion/Women's+Accessories/Women's+Footwear/ Wellington+Boots/8020/1/2/ProductType.aspxI can take them back if you don't like them, in the meantime I found this site:http://www.wellieboots.com/

Bye for nowLove you both lotsTanya

Lazy Days of Summer

2008-08-14T14:58:00.000-07:00

It's August and the summer is quickly winding down. Seems like just yesterday Cari and I were celebrating the last of the winter snow melting. And now I've noticed that the light has already shifted. The intense clarity of the summer sun has given way to the soft yellow of the autumnal season. Sigh!

Although it was an unseasonably wet and cool summer it still had its charms nonetheless. Our garden did wonderfully well. Thank you Garden Deva's and Nature Spirits. The roses filled the air with their heady perfume and the forest continued to nurture us and keep us safe.

We had two new additions to the chicken coop (technically we had ten new additions but they went to a lovely couple that spoil them even more than we do). Cari came in the other day to announce she had named the two month old chick. His name is Rusty. Yes, Rusty the Rooster. We now have four roosters in our flock. Strangely enough they all get along. We're keeping our fingers crossed that the newest chickie poo is a hen. Please Poultry Goddesses, let this one be a hen.

When we are not working off the farm at our paying jobs, Cari and I have been busy bringing in the harvest and slowly getting the farm and house ready for winter.

I'm looking forward to September (my favourite time of the year). My first novel The Still Life of Hannah Morgan is being released tomorrow through Lilley Press Publishing and to me it marks the beginning of wonderful and new things to come.

If you would like to check out my novel visit www.lilleypress.com or visit me at my official website www.loradeeprose.com

The Still Life of Hannah Morgan

2008-07-19T16:45:00.000-07:00

"The longer you choose to play it safe, the more miserable your life will become. The universe rewards risk my dear; you know what you need to do."

Hannah Morgan's life is at a standstill. Her dreams of becoming an artist vanished with the sudden death of her grandmother and mentor. To appease her distant and disapproving mother, Hannah gets a respectable job at a high-end day spa.

Instead of painting masterpieces, Hannah spends her days painting nails and giving facials to wealthy women. Her dreams for the future have become a hideous nightmare. And it just keeps getting worse. She catches her boyfriend cheating, loses her job, and has to watch from the sidelines as her best friend, Jasmine Blue, goes after her own dreams of owning her own salon.

Then she meets Aaron, a working artist, and finds in him a kindred spirit. And, to her surprise, she finds the courage to follow her dreams. When circumstances beyond her control threaten to destroy both her relationship with Aaron and her dreams of a bright future, Hannah fears her mother was right-that some dreams aren't meant to come true.

Genre: Romance

My first novel, "The Still Life of Hannah Morgan" will be released August 15, 2008 by Lilley Press. Come join me on August 15, 2008 at 8:00 p.m. EST in the Lilley Press chat room.

For more info on where to purchase my book please visit http://www.lilleypress.com/

What's New At Ravenwood

2008-07-04T15:49:00.000-07:00

Summer took its time coming but now it's officially here and our days have been filled with gardening and working on the farm. Our veggie garden has already provided us with fabulous spinach and lettuce. The peas are on the vine and soon we will be enjoying those too. Everything is lush and green, the air scented with the perfume from the seven rose bushes we have planted around the house.

Last weekend we had a few scorching hot days. Yesterday and today we've had spectacular thunder storms. It was so hot we actually went for a dip in the lake and gave Bear, our dog, a bath. He was none to thrilled being a Great Pyrenees and not partial to water.

Quail, one of our Banty hens, hatched her first clutch of eggs. We had already promised the chicks to a friend but we did keep one for our proud little momma hen. He or she is already learning to fly but still keeps close to Quail.

Gentle Ben

2007-11-12T08:58:00.000-08:00

If you have ever invited an animal companion into your home, you will understand the profound impact they can have on the physical, emotional and spiritual facets of your life. Companion animals teach us patience, understanding, unconditional love, joy and living in the moment. And when they are near the end of their physical lives, they teach us the even more valuable lessons of compassion, responsibility and the meaning of true selflessness.

Over the years, my sister Cari and I have shared our lives with many furry creatures and I have noticed that each animal has a distinct personality, not unlike us humans, but every once in a while there comes an animal that brings just a little bit more to their human family's lives. These special animals take on the role of healer, confidant and guardian angel in furry four-legged form. Ben was one such animal.

Like all our animals, Ben came to us as a rescue. His human family didn't want him anymore as they were expecting their first child. They had named him Corona. Corona was a very big, black, medium-haired cat with a gorgeous thick mane. He had a beautiful face with a regal nose and huge paws that had feathers of fur that grew between his toes making his feet look like snowshoes. The first time we looked into Corona's big green eyes, the color of moss deep in the forest, we knew he was nothing like a Mexican beer. In that first moment of our meeting, he became Gentle Ben.

Ben adored life and all the pleasures it held. He loved to eat, to be groomed and to play with his blue and purple fuzzy cat toys. He also had this strange obsession with water. He loved drinking out of faucets and fountains and took great delight in sploshing the water out of his water dish with his huge paws. Ben's favorite pastime was to sit amongst the flowers in our backyard and quietly watch the butterflies and bees.

Up until the time he came to live with us, Ben had been an indoor cat. When we let him outside for the first time, we put a harness and a lead on him to make sure he didn't wander away. That night we accidentally left him outside. I know you are probably thinking, "How do you forget your cat outside?" We had several other cats sharing our home at the time and when it came time to let everyone in, I assumed Cari had brought Ben in and she assumed I had. I found him early the next morning just where I'd left him, none the worse for wear, and as far as I could tell he never held it against us. From then on, we let Ben roam the backyard unfettered by a harness and he never once attempted to escape. He was content to lounge in the sun, smell the flowers and watch life go by.

Ben was a very affectionate being. Unlike some cats, he never ran for cover when strangers came to visit or played aloof. In fact, he would seek out people and revel in their affection. He had such an easy-going disposition that he would allow children to pick him up and carry him. He loved to be held tight in a bear hug and he adored having his head kissed. So much so, that he would lean in presenting his forehead waiting for us to plant loving kisses on his head. When he was really content, especially when someone was rubbing his belly, he would make the sound like the cooing of a dove. It was not a purr but a soft coo, the sound of ecstatic and blissful joy.

Ben came into our lives when both Cari and I were struggling through the emotional terrain of divorce and saddened by the loss of our beloved animals, Duffy, our dog, and, Mommy, our cat. Ben knew when our minds were weary with stress or our hearts heavy with sadness. When I was hurting, he would snuggle up with me, look me straight in the eye and gently place his furry paw gently on my cheek as he purred his love from deep within his chest. He would spend as much time with each of us as we needed and when he was done his quiet council, I always felt lighter of spirit as if he helped to release my pain.

This summer Ben came down with several unexplained bladder infections. We took him to the vet each time and followed the prescribed treatments. During one of his visits, the vet mentioned the possibility of cancer but she said it was a remote possibility, as Ben seemed to be recovering. This fall, as the land slowly released itself to the quiet slumber of the coming winter we noticed Ben was definitely not feeling well. He had no appetite and was lethargic.

I had to work the day Cari took him to the vet. Little did I know it would be the last time I would see Ben. After x rays and exploratory surgery, the vet discovered that Ben's body was riddled with cancer. Cari called me at work to tell me that Ben was not coming home.

On what turned out to be his last few days with us, Ben sat quietly on the arm of the chair looking out the window watching the rain slowly turn to snow. I realize now that he had wanted to go outside just one more time to feel the wind ruffle his fur, to feel the cool earth under his paws and to smell the intricate mixtures of the forest in the fall. I will always regret not noticing what he wanted and granting him his last experience in the nature that he so loved.

I know that all of us beings are energy, and energy cannot be created or destroyed - it just changes form. Although Ben is no longer physically with us his soul, his essence, still exists but in a place that I can't reach him. I miss being able to see him and to reach out and stroke his fluffy soft fur.

I have gone through the pain of losing members of our animal family several times and I will continue to open my heart and my home to these much-loved creatures. I believe the nature of our lives is a dichotomy; to truly appreciate the feeling of unconditional love you must also open yourself up to feel the terrible sense of loss when our loved ones are no longer here.

So my dearest Gentle Ben, thank you for choosing to spend your life with us, thank you for your gentle heart, your love and for blessing us with your beauty and your kindness. And even as my tears fall and my heart aches with the unbearable pain of you not being here, I know that this is not goodbye but farewell until we meet again in a place where there is no sickness, or sadness or pain. And when my time comes, I look forward to having you welcome me home. I will scoop you up in my arms in a fierce hug and kiss your beloved forehead once again.

Coming Home

2007-10-27T09:06:00.000-07:00

The big day had arrived. My sister, Cari and I were finally moving to our hobby farm in BC. The moving vans had packed up all our belongings the day before and we had spent a long night giving our house one last clean to prepare it for its new owner. I had spent a restless night sleeping on an inflatable camping mattress and all I wanted was to be on the farm already. But, we still had to pack up our small pick-up truck and make the six hour drive one last time.

Earlier, I had questioned Cari how we were going to transport four cats, a bird and a very large dog in our small vehicle but she assured me that they would all fit. She had even bought a canopy for the truck so that the cats would be safe and comfortable in the back during the ride.
Cari and I both got up at four that morning, as we wanted to get the earliest start possible. The moving vans would be leaving at nine that morning, so even if we had to stop to let the dog out, we should still beat the movers to the farm by several hours.

In the dark and chilly morning, we stuffed the back of the truck with four cats in their carriers, two litter boxes, a birdcage, pet food, two suitcases, a vacuum, and cleaning supplies. In the small cab of the truck, Bear, our hundred pound Great Pyrenees-cross, had to squeeze into the small space between the seats and the back of the cab. We had put our bird, Zoe, in a box and he was to make the six-hour trip sitting on my lap.

It was five a.m., when we drove away from the house that I had lived in for fifteen years. As all houses do, this one held memories and had been a silent witness to my heartache and joy.

When I moved to Calgary with my then-husband, I had no idea how many changes would occur within those modest walls. From being new in a strange city to having a circle of dear friends that I would cherish forever, from being married to divorced, from being alone to living with my sister. All these events marked a time of awakening for me; a rediscovery of who I really was and what I truly needed in my life to bring me peace and contentment.

For giving me shelter and a safe haven to grieve my losses and to welcome the new, I gave my little house in the suburbs a silent Thank-You as we pulled away from the curb in the eerie quiet of the predawn street for the last time.

We made good time on the drive, stopping only twice to let Bear get out and stretch his legs. We were scheduled to get to the farm no later than one in the afternoon. Everything was going according to schedule and the cats seemed to be handling the trip in the back of the truck just fine. That was, until we hit the outskirts of Golden. We had already encountered a few places along the highway where we had to stop for road construction, so when we hit yet another line up of cars we assumed that it was just another fifteen-minute stop. You know what they say about assuming anything.

We had been stopped in the line-up for over an hour; the dog suffering from the heat threw up in the back of the truck, and Cari and I desperately needed to use a bathroom. Cari took the dog for a walk in the shade of the forest and gave him a drink of water while I cleaned up the mess in the truck. That solved his problems but what about ours. There were no public washrooms nearby. We were stopped on a highway in the middle of nowhere. At the three-hour mark both Cari and I desperate to relieve our bladders, hiked into the woods on the roadside. I've always tried to avoid using roadside bathrooms and now I was forced to heed the call of nature in nature.

Finally, someone from the highway maintenance crew told us what was really going on. It wasn’t just another highway construction project, it was a rockslide. It had occurred literally minutes before we pulled up to the area. For three hours, the crews had been trying to clear the rocks but every time they removed a truckload, the mountain would release another avalanche of rock to replace it. What they thought would take a few hours to clear was now looking like it could take all night. We had no other choice but to turn around, head back to Alberta, and take the route up through Radium Hot Springs.

The rest of the trip was a nightmare. We drove though a snowstorm, a heavy rainstorm and then sweltering heat. Cari had to keep her wits about her the whole time she was driving. We were sharing the road with hundreds of people that were also delayed by the rockslide. To make up for lost time, quite a few drivers were taking huge risks on the road.

We made it to the farm at nine-thirty that night. It had been fifteen hours since we first left Calgary, more than twice the usual travel time. Oh, to finally be home, safe and out of the truck. It would be two months before Cari and I would get back in the truck to venture farther than the fifteen minutes to the village.

One of the two moving vans was waiting in the driveway when we pulled up to the farm. The driver had taken the longer route to Nakusp avoiding the rockslide at Golden all together. The second driver wasn't so lucky. As it was just the driver and us, we had no choice but to schlep all our belongings into the house ourselves. When we finally said goodbye to the driver it was well past midnight. We would be up early the next morning to unload the second van when the driver finally arrived.

All journeys, whether they be internal or external start with faith and a leap into the unknown. With these first tentative steps, we become emboldened, as the doors to our dreams open with ease, as if a guiding hand is there to offer support. As the journey progresses and the dream gets closer to realization there is a test of endurance, or bravery or even a rockslide.

During that seemingly endless trip, I discovered that if I wanted something bad enough no challenge is too great. Cari and I were faced with the obstacle of a mountain and when we couldn't go through it, we simply went around it. We didn't let anything not even an insurmountable pile of rocks stand in our way of our dream and the new adventures that awaited us.

Keep It Simple Sisters

2007-10-27T09:02:00.000-07:00

In today's society, most of us believe technology holds the answers to our desires and the solutions to our problems. To some degree, I believe this is true. Technology allows me to have hot and cold running water at the turn of a tap, to light my home by a flick of a switch, to write this article on my laptop sitting in a lawn chair on a sunny day and to instantly connect to my friends and family by punching a few buttons on a phone or by sending an email.

But, sometimes the things that are supposed to enhance our lives or give us ease do the exact opposite. Do you remember the promise of a shorter workweek and a paperless society when personal computers were invented? The incessant need to talk on a cell phone or text message while in public venues has created a whole society of rude people and a strange disconnect with what is happening around us. The internet has opened a Pandora's Box of ills, giving people easy access to cyber porn, online affairs and gambling with the click of a mouse.

Yes, technology has made certain aspects of our existence easier but I wonder if indiscriminately adding more of it into our lives really enriches our experience or deprives us of what we were seeking in the first place?

Cari and I relocated to a small acreage in an isolated part of British Columbia by choice. There is no cell service on the farm and we can only get dial-up internet, and basic phone service. The closest village has one main street with not a McDonalds, Wal-mart or Superstore in sight.

But even here, where we are limited in our access to the newest gadgets, when challenges arose Cari and I often found ourselves reaching for technology to solve our problems. The two examples that immediately come to mind involve two very unlikely things; bread and cat litter.

Soon after we had settled into our new home, Cari declared that she wanted to bake her own bread. Without even considering that we could bake bread from scratch, we toodled off to the village hardware store and bought the most expensive bread maker we could find. It was stainless steel and fully loaded. It gave you the choice of three loaf sizes, different crusts colors and eight different dough settings. After reading the instructions and following them to the letter, I produced three pans of inedible glue. I gave up in frustration. Cari didn't have much luck either. Her bread came out hard as a rock and only a few inches high.

Disappointed, we gave up on the idea of eating our own freshly baked bread and consigned the behemoth of bread making wizardry to the cupboard to collect dust.

Months later, we attended the Fall Fair held at the village community centre. There we met a local woman who was selling her own baked goods. Her name was Grandma Fay and she was known in the village for her irresistible bread. As we stood admiring her table laden with golden brown loaves, she pulled out a bowl, a measuring cup and three glass jars containing pre-measured amounts of yeast, flour and salt. She placed the ingredients on the corner of her table and commenced to make bread.

We watched in amazement as she swiftly mixed the ingredients and expertly kneaded the dough. She shaped the dough into dinner buns and when the dough had risen and was ready to be baked, she headed into the community centre’s kitchen. Minutes later, she handed out the most delicious melt-in-your-mouth dinner buns I had ever tasted.

The following day, Cari, using Grandma Fay's recipe and her own two hands, made her first of many loaves of bread. The whole house filled with the warm yeasty smell as the bread rose to perfection. It came out of the oven with a golden brown crust and perfectly baked on the inside. It was the best bread I had ever eaten and it didn't require an expensive machine to do it, just a few simple ingredients, a couple of loaf pans and an oven. We eventually gave our bread maker to a friend that had always wanted one.

Now, onto the issue of cat litter. We have four cats and back when Cari and I lived in the big city we had two cat litter boxes discretely tucked away in the basement for their bathroom needs. In our mobile home on the farm, we didn’t have the luxury of a basement and the only place the cat litter could go was in the bathroom tucked into the laundry closet next to the washing machine. We could only fit in one litter box so that would have to do.

Even though we cleaned it daily, the smell of used litter permeated the house. Every month the smell seemed to intensify. It was unbearable. Cari and I decided the only solution was to get an electronic, self-cleaning litter box.

Procuring one turned out to a complicated process. No store in the village carried anything like that so we tried to order it on-line from a pet supply place only to find out that they did not deliver that item to Canada. Friends of ours who had recently moved to the Burton area were heading back to Calgary for a visit. They offered to pick up one from the city and bring it back home. Four hundred dollars later, we installed the electric self-cleaning gizmo.

Three of the four cats adapted to their new bathroom facilities with out a problem but the fourth cat was having nothing to do with it. Flea is his name but I think his previous owner should have called him Flee. He is a very skitterish cat, afraid of his own shadow.

The first time he used our epitome of cutting-edge feline toilet technology he did his business and then stood just outside the box shaking off the litter from his feet. When the automatic rake began to move, whirring and grinding as it scooped up Flea's deposit, the movement and noise freaked Flea out. He scrambled out of the bathroom as if his tail was on fire.

For days, Flea wandered the house yowling miserably. I tried to coax him back into the bathroom to show him that the whirring, moving cat box was nothing to be afraid of but he wasn't convinced. I figured he would get over his fear when the call of nature became more urgent than his dislike of our whiz-bang fully loaded cat litter box.

A few days later, I was sitting on the couch talking on the phone, absently watching as Flea paced around the house, moaning and looking completely unhappy. Suddenly, he hopped up on the couch and perched himself on the cushion next to me. Flea gave out one last terrific yowl and then proceeded to evacuate his bowels and bladder. I watched in shocked amazement as an avalanche of cat turds hit the pillow. I screamed out Flea's name more in horror than in admonition. Of course, true to his flee-like-nature, my screaming frightened him and he leapt off couch sending his deposits flying up into the air. For a brief instant, my living room was raining cat poo.

After reassuring Flea that I was not mad at him for redecorating the living room, I went about the unpleasant task of cleaning up the mess. Then, I promptly pulled out the incredibly expensive, electric self-cleaning, motion-sensing piece of technology, threw it up in the hayloft and replaced it with one of our old fifteen-dollar plastic litter trays. Within days, Flea was back to using the litter box and Cari and I noticed that the horrible smell that had prompted the expensive purchase to begin with had disappeared. We were baffled.

Weeks later, when we were house cleaning, Cari moved the washing machine to scrub behind it and discovered the desiccated remains of a mouse. The horrible smell that had originally started this whole saga wasn't the foul odour of used cat litter but the putrid smell of decaying mouse. The holy grail of cat litter boxes is still consigned to the hayloft where it has become a home to the many spiders that live up there.

When a problem arises or a desire felt maybe instead of reaching for the latest and greatest, we need to take a moment to see if buying another thing is really the solution or a complication. Cari and I spent over seven hundred dollars on the bread maker and the automatic litter box. Seven hundred dollars, that if we had brainstormed other simpler solutions to our needs, we could have used to buy things that really do enhance our lives, like books, or groceries, or more plants for our gardens. Two very expensive lessons that could have been averted if only we had remembered to 'Keep It Simple, Sisters'.

The Calling of the Trees

2007-10-21T09:04:00.000-07:00

Recently, my sister, Cari, and I had made the life altering decision to move from Calgary to an acreage in another province. We found the property of our dreams, just fifteen minutes outside the village of Nakusp, BC, as if we had been magically guided to that particular parcel of land.
We purchased the hobby farm in November of 2005 but didn't get possession of it until May 01 of 2006 and because of circumstances beyond our control; we ended up buying the property sight-unseen.

We had no problem selling our house in Alberta and we had agreed to a move-out date of May 15. That meant we had two weeks where we owned two properties. That was fine with us because it meant we could go look at what we had purchased and figure out what we needed to do to make our new house a home. We were going to spend four days measuring for new window coverings, figuring out where our furniture would go and giving the place a thorough cleaning.We arrived on the property without incident. After touring the outside, we headed in to check out the single-wide mobile home.

We entered through the front porch, which by the look of it, had been a hastily constructed addition. As Cari opened the dented screen door, I felt a twinge of anxiety. We stepped gingerly into the small, enclosed space and I tried not to freak out. The inside of the porch was lined with pink fiberglass bats with plastic vapor barrier secured on top. The porch obviously leaked in wet weather because the insulation in the ceiling and walls were wet and the plastic had mold growing on the inside of it. I prayed that the condition of the front porch wasn’t indicative of the rest of the place.

As Cari fumbled with the lock to the main door, I stood there feeling my apprehension grow. She finally managed the lock and I watched in amazement as the door swung open into the kitchen, narrowly missing the fridge by an inch.

I knew that the mobile home was 400 square feet smaller than our house in Calgary but seeing how that translated into actual living space took me aback.

As we toured the house, my outlook became more positive. Yes, it was small but the floor plan was exactly like our home back in Calgary. Okay, it wasn’t exactly like our house back in the city. It was missing a third bedroom, a second bathroom, a basement, closet space, an office, a workshop and a laundry room, but I still figured I could make our furniture work in our new space. Besides, I would measure every room just to double check that everything would fit.

Once we unpacked the cleaning supplies and set up the inflatable camping beds in the bedrooms, we promptly went to work making the place feel like ours. However, as we worked, I noticed something curious happening. It was early May and the weather was a bit cool for sitting outside so we had placed two lawn chairs in the living room facing the large picture window. Like moths to a flame, Cari and I kept gravitating to the lawn chairs. Instead of industriously scrubbing and vacuuming, we sat looking out at the trees. Minutes would turn into hours and we would still be sitting, silently watching the trees dance in the breeze.
This curious behavior continued over the four days so that by the end of our stay all we accomplished was giving the house a quick clean and taking down the peach colored valances in the living room. So much for our big plans.

As mesmerizing as our farm was, when I went to bed that first night, I was hit by a wave of anxiety. Was it buyer's remorse or a sudden realization that I, a city girl, had bought a hobby farm and was moving to another province without a job? It seemed like a good idea at the time but now that the reality of what we were doing hit me I felt sick to my stomach.

I lay in the dark and looked up at the ceiling hoping to find the answers to my fears when I saw the strangest sight. I didn't have my glasses on, and with my extreme near-sightedness, it appeared that my bedroom ceiling was full of large circular holes. I fumbled in the dark for my glasses. When I put them on and looked back up at the ceiling, I started to laugh. What I thought was moonlight shining down through Swiss-cheese holes in my ceiling turned out to be those plastic glow-in-the-dark stars that parents decorate kids' rooms with.

I lay back in bed, looking at the stars in my own private sky and quietly sang, "If your heart is in your dream. No request is too extreme. When you wish upon a star. . . Your dreams come true."

I knew, right then, lying in the dark looking up at my ceiling of plastic stars that no matter what was to unfold in my future, I would be just fine. Both Cari and I were smart, resourceful and creative. We would make this new life work. As for figuring out how all our furniture would fit, well that was a challenge best left for another day.