Off by a few CC's

Correction:
Aidan will be riding a 750. Above.
I will be riding a 600. Below.
BIG difference in weight and power.

Bikes

This has been building for awhile. It was a piece of Aidan trivia I filed away at the very beginning of us, but was able to keep in the recesses of my mind until . . . Ewan McGregor came along and opened a door that I would have been comfortable leaving shut indefinitely. . . Motorcycle dreams. This winter some friends of ours had passed along a series called "Long Way Around," involving Ewan and his best friend taking a trip around the world on motorbikes. I watched Dave and Aidan stare at the screen with hungry expressions on their faces and I knew that the dream was about to cross a threshold. You see, when one boy loves motorcycles, the dream often stays loitering within the realm of dreams, never moving on. But when two boys love motorcycles, they begin to talk about it, and pull up images on the laptop, and recite incredibly complicated model numbers, and make plans, and get licenses, and buy bikes. Ewan was the catalyst, and now we're doomed. I have to admit, though, it's a thrilling kind of doom.

Just over a month ago Dave came by with a shiny red bike. After that, Aidan began to show visible signs of restlessness. When he heard an engine in the distance he'd perk up and glance out the window. I would find him researching bikes on the computor. And then he came home with his M1. He and Dave had gone for "breakfast" that morning at a Cora's conveniently located near the license bureau. Now he's riding every chance he gets. Dave throws him the keys and off he goes while I pray for his safe return.

It won't stop there though. Aidan's missing a bike, and they are both missing their ladies. The guys have been increasingly insistent that Kate and I learn how ride the things. And, because I don't like being defeated, I did it. I drove a motorcycle, if you call puttering along in first gear "driving." Dave took me to a long narrow parking lot in the south end of the city to teach me the basics. I cannot express to you how intimidating this was. These bikes are so HEAVY. And so DANGEROUS. And this one did not belong to me, so when I dropped it. . . "How many times have you done that?" I asked Dave, with a nervous laugh. "Never." Hmph. Why do men get this stuff right away? Anyone who knows me is aware of the competitive streak within me that demands sucess. By the end of the session, I was riding back and forth in first gear, but the experience will always be tarnished by the DROP. But hey, Ewan dropped his bike too. (Yeah, he was off-roading it through mud flats and sand dunes, but still.)

Our future with these scary machines seems unavoidable. Aidan says it's for the good of the gas budget, but we all know that is just an excuse. The plan is for Aidan, Kate, Daniel and I to take a course. It will help lower insurance costs, (and the mortality rate among us.) So, please add safety to your list of prayers because if all proceeds as planned, I will eventually be riding around on this:

Nest Graveyard

I have got to toughen up. When we arrived at the lot this Saturday Aidan, without batting an eye, grabbed a long stick and began systematically smacking nest after nest from our unfinished porch trusses. I watched with my mouth open, flinching as little blue eggs went splat all over the ground. Oh! "What?" Aidan refused to feel guilty. "We can't let them think they can live in our roof." It was a little unnerving to see how easily he could smash tiny robin's eggs. But I was soon called on my hypocrisy; "Do you eat eggs?" Um, on occasion. . .

Note: My tough husband did have a moment of discomfort last week when the occupant of the nest he was in the middle of destroying perched very nearby and watched him, with it's head cocked . . . Would it call for it's other little robin buddies and dive bomb him in revenge? "It was just watching me," Aidan told me, looking around to see that he didn't have an audience this time.

What remains

Memoirs about love, fate and death are easy to come by. Everyone in the world could write one, and many have. Though many are written badly, and for evil gain, the good ones have much to offer. If the author is honest, not prone to embellishment or over sentimentality, you get a glimpse into what another person thinks life is about. Some would say that Christians already have a book about what life is about, so why read about life through another lense, especially through the lense of an unbeliever? Well, I would tell you that the merit of such a read is a broken heart. As our hearts ought to be for every single person out there, stumbling through life in the dark.

I had wanted to find a book on New York City. A historical novel about the city's era of birth. Yet somehow, I ended up with the name Carole Radziwill, perhaps because much of the book was set in New York. I began reading it knowing nothing about the story, but it turned out that she was married, indirectly, into the Kennedy family. Her husband was John Kennedy Jr.'s cousin. I have always avoided reading anything on celebrities or their lives, under the assumption that these things are spawned purely from a desire for publicity, but this book didn't seem to fit the usual mold. It was so understated, the cover muted. And it was haunting from the very first paragraph. I read on.

The author, Carol Radziwill, is a journalist. She writes like a journalist. She didn't wax and wane or play on the emotions, she just told her story. And her story utterly devastated me. Against all odds, born of a blue collar family with no connections, and without remarkable beauty, she married into the Radziwill family, a Polish royal line. Because her husband, Anthony, and John Jr. were like brothers, she becomes entwined in the lives of both John and his wife Carolyn. The four of them became deeply connected, and clearly grew more dependent on one another as the story goes on, but by the end of August 1999 Carol was the only one of them still alive. In one month Kennedy and Carolyn died in a plane crash and her husband died of cancer.

These bare facts are hard enough to digest as they are, without any meat hung on them, so to read the words of the more complete story, I can tell you, physically hurts. She starts out as an empty woman without direction or meaning, and ends an empty woman without direction or meaning. A hollow shell. An empty husk. Everything in between is what she came to believe really meant something. And then it was all taken away. Her book is called What Remains but I found not a trace of anything remaining at the end of her story, once they were all torn from her. I felt her panic rise as she realizes that the three people she has come to believe are her life are gone. Don't leave me! Don't leave!

How do godless people survive the pain? How does this woman still walk and breathe and appear on Oprah saying things like, "I'm dating again, yes, it's been long enough." Like all people without God, she must have invented a means by which to be comforted. Reading between the lines, it seems her comfort of choice went by the name of Fate. She must have talked herself out of utter despair by embracing the concept of Impersonal Happenings, as though an ancient goddess exists, who flicks her wrist, with a blank face, to impart good or bad fortune to the world. Oh, what comfort!

I think I am learning a bit about the pain of the prophets crying spare them in their hearts. I found myself praying for this woman who I do not know. Please break into her empty heart, Lord, and show her something that has meaning. My second heart response was praise for the deep, rich meaning our lives have, no matter what we endure, when there is a God that loves us more personally than we can comprehend. Thank God that the events of this world are indeed personal. That we are not left to free float in chaos, meaninglessness and pure chance. That we are loved. And that when the whole world is taken from us, everything still remains and more.

Big things

Big things are happening in the next two weeks:

We will have our well dug. Our house is not located in good water country. The soil is clay-based, and beneath it lies sulfur. Lots of it. The question for the past two months has been; Drill or Dig? The benefits of a drilled well are cleaner water, and a more stable supply. However, being on a bed of clay, makes drilling very costly. Because you pay by the foot, to drill past the clay in search of water can break the bank. What's more, once you get to water, it WILL carry the signatuir sulfiric egg smell that, untreated will blanket our beautiful home in an unwanted odour. To treat sulfure is an added cost, that we truly hoped to avoid.

Digging is the method we have settled on, but it comes with it's own set of problems. A shallow well is at the mercy of the water table's monthly fluctuations. During hot months, when the water table drops, the contents of our well will too. Practically, this means that we will have to live conservationally during the summer. Part of me thinks, no problem, we can do it. But part of me thinks about the string of visitors we hope to have during the summer, all wanting showers. And the gradens I had hoped to have that will require watering. And the predicted warming of the climate. Hey, our lives and our water are in God's hands.

Contamination is another possible problem with a dug well. Ground water runoff from the road and farmers fields seeps down into earth and makes it into a shallow well without much difficulty. This really concerned me. We are surrounded by farm fields that are likely sprayed with chemicals, and it doesn;t help that I just recently watched a horrifying documentary on U.S. Agribusiness and cancer rates. We were assured that, with proper filtration, we would have nothing to worry about. Once again, our lives and our water are in God's hands.

Our floor will be poured. Big step, since not much else can be done until that is in place. Most of you know that we decided to put inground heating into the first two floors of the house. This means that coils are laid down, and cement poured over. Because we have other things to spend on, we've decided to keep the floors cement for the first year until we can afford to put hardwood down. Sounds bleak and industrial looking, but Karin and I went to a restaurant last night with cement flouring. It was tinted dark brown and buffed. Very nice...

Recently, we aquired a new phone number! I got a call last week from a mystery number, and when I picked it up, Aidan said; "Guess where I'm calling from?" We also discovered an internet provider for our area who will be able to set us up in the near future. We were worried for awhile because the provider we thought was our only option is currently backed up until October!

Crazy days, these are. What a rush.

Two months notice

We officially gave notice to the landlady that we will be leaving here in two months time. Wow. By August 1st, we will either be snug in our beds in our newly finished country home. Or, we will be camping out in the backyard of our not-so finished country home. Tick, tock, tick, tock. . .

Ribs, fireworks and other good things

A stunningly beautiful day. It all started with ribs. I posted the best rib recipe in the world on another site, and made a tongue-and-cheek offer of Aidan's services as a barbequer to anyone who wanted to provide the meat. Well, Niki took me up and that, and we found ourselves travelling out to the country this past weekend to cook up some ribs. We have always felt so at home at the Mains' house, and yesterday was no exception. Because I haven't the words to describe the day well enough in all it's colours and textures, I will share it with you in pictures:Food. Heaping piles of jumbo shrimp. Guacamole and brie. The ribs. . . ten pounds of them, rubbed in a spicy mixture, coated in a thick, tangy homemade barbeque sauce and smoked in fresh applewood chips. Amazing. Not one of us managed to look graceful while eating. It is simply not possible. Ice cream cake and a Belgian Chocolate Torte for dessert. Oh so good.Play. The kids were on the go non-stop. Maybe that is what I love most about being in that place. There is always an attentive person on hand, not just willing to play with the kids, but eager to. It is just another place that I feel my family is loved as a whole. First there was crockett. A bit of dog wrestling with Jack. Bocce ball. Caelah became a farm girl, trailing after Rob to the pens, and making herself familiar with all the animals. She fed Violet a bottle. Held a chick. Gathered eleven eggs and fed the pigs their slop. That's my girl. We all took turns on the ATV. The kids hated the noise, but Cory and John patiently won them over until they were rumbling across the field on the big red machine, and loving it.Fireworks. Around 9:00 sparklers were passed around. I don't remember the last time I got to play with a sparkler. The smell hit me powerfully. Memories flooded back from old neighbourhood festivities. When the fireworks were lit it became a giggle session as some of them hissed, sputterd and died. But, being a city girl, I was thrilled with the experience of doing this all at home. A hands-on fireworks display. Very cool. We drove home with good food in our bellies, fresh air in our lungs, and sparkles in our eyes.

Female Companionship

I woke this morning with a sob caught in my throat and my body aching with sorrow. A single dream managed to break my heart. It was not one about pain, or death or fear. It was about rejection. In my dream, someone I hold in high esteem dismissed me. "I think we have heard enough from you. You have nothing of value to say. Leave our family be." For me dreams have always had too much power. They change me. And when they strike my heart, as this one did, I have no choice but to bring it to God and see what He would have me see. One of my greatest insecurities was laid bare last night while I slept, and I woke determined to break myself free of it's power over me.

I have been raised in love. I have always had family and friends who care deeply about me. And yet, a single ailing relationship, or unloving encounter, can make me feel alone and small. Why? Why do I draw upon the love and acceptance of others as a lifesource? Why does rejection feel like a blood wound, draining away my confidence and joy?

I know I am not alone. There are women in my life, even now, who are hurting so deeply because of a suffering female relationship. They have wrapped up so much of themselves in it that when it is unsettled their joy is taken from them. Why is she ignoring me? Am I an unworthy freind? Am I not godly enough for her?

Women have always been the most deadly critics of other women. They know how to wound with precision. They know how to judge. They know how to look another woman over from head to toe, inside and out, and then make a diagnosis of all the ills they have found. Why do we do that? So that we don't have to look at ourselves. Because we are jealous creatures. Because we have not learned how to love. Most importantly, because we have not accepted that God is our judge, and Christ, our saviour is the anchor of our identity.

Hagar. I think of Hagar. Fleeing into the wilderness out of, both her own pride, but also the cruelty of Sarah. She had nowhere to go but away from there. But she was not left alone to wander. She was called back, and sent home again. "You are the God who sees me . . ." God did, seemingly, bring Hagar comfort that day despite the pronouncement of some very harsh truths. But Hagar did not respond with bitterness to any of the unhappy things she had been told. Instead she said; "You see me." Was this her comfort? That, though on earth she was nothing but a servant and pawn without any respect or love for her person, to God she was known truly?

Spurgeon:

. . . but he is here, close by my side, and not by me only, but in me; within this heart; where these lungs beat; or where my blood gushes through my veins; or where this pulse is beating, like a muffled drum, my march to death; God is there: within this mouth; in this tongue; in these eyes; in each of you God dwells; he is within you, and around you; he is beside you, and behind, and before. Is not much knowledge too wonderful you? Is it not high, and you cannot attain unto it? I say, how can you resist the doctrine, which comes upon you like a flash or lightning, that if God be everywhere he must see everything, and that therefore it is a truth, "Thou God seest me."

We have a God who, being the Knower of Truth--and Truth itself, reduces the judgments of Men to mere whisps of smoke, without form or substance.

"A man skilled in the human heart might interpret my deeds and translate their motives, but he could not read my heart as God can read it. None can tell another as God can tell us all: we do not know ourselves as God knows us: with all your self knowledge, with all you have been told by others, God knows you more fully than you know yourself: no eye can see you as God sees you—"

I have been chosen out of eternity as a daughter. I have been loved from the dawn of everything. How can I let the tide of another woman's affections for me sway my own peace and joy, when the love of my God is unwavering and eternal? A call to you hurting ladies; find your joy in Christ, not other women. We are blessed with female companionship, certainly, but we will fail one another. We will say hurtful things, and be thoughtless. We will make judgments and be neglectful. We will not love and cherish one another as we should. But we will be loved and cherished nevertheless. By another.

Quilts and globes and loads of love

Globes. I wanted a globe. Even now, at the age of 25, I know a frighteningly small amount about the world. A few years ago, on a dare, I memorized the names and whereabouts of the countries and capitals of Europe in about 45 minutes. But, of course, it didn't really stick. In response to my own inadequacies, I am determined to teach my children how God has pieced together the nations across the expanse of the waters. For Mother's Day, Aidan gave me a beautiful metal-toned globe so that I can give my children the world.
Waffles. In was a groggy morning, after enduring a double-overtime hockey game and a cranky baby. But Aidan was determined to have a breakfast and coffee ready for me before I came down the stairs. I don't normally eat much breakfast, despite Aidan's constant urgings, but twice a year I tell him to go wild. He loves making me breakfast, probably because it is the one meal he has time to offer me. So I allow him to indulge me on days like these with crepes and waffles, and though I can rarely fit much in, I savour every bite.

Quilts. On Saturday night Caelah's Aunty Karin told her she had a surprise for her. It was a beautiful quilt, all in oranges and deep pinks. It has taken Karin months and months of work to complete it. And I know it was a gift to me as much as it was to Caelah. A forever gift that will, perhaps, swaddle Caelah's own baby someday. And so I received an extra Mother's Day gift that was made even more precious when, in Sunday's sermon, our pastor expanded our view of motherhood. He urged us to mother all the children in our lives, whether they came from our womb or not. To be attentive to them, and guide them in the way they should go. This quilt is one representation of the love that my children are encircled with. My motherly burden is made light when I am supported and sustained by the co-mothering and co-fathering of so many beloved friends.

Wild Kittens

We took Caelah to her very first soccer practice. I have to say, it was a pure entertainment. You have all heard about kids in the outfield at a t-ball game picking wild flowers and picking their noses. Well, in a tots soccer game, there is no time for picking anything. It's all: RUN! The general effect is that of a buzzing cloud of tiny people trailing the ball around en masse, like a human comet. This is true even if the ball strays far, far, off course. If one kid goes, they all go. At one point, the comet of wee folk made it all the way into the next game across the field before they were reigned in. They also, on a few occasions veered towards the bystanders, weaving between picnic blankets, and terrorizing infants. One poor boy ran into a lawn chair and winded himself.

A really fantastic twist developed when the comet of wee folk came across a second ball along the way. The group instantly split in two, creating two buzzing clouds, aimlessly kicking away. I say aimlessly because it is as though the nets do not exist. Even if the kiddos could see past one another to locate the whereabouts of the nets, they have not yet developed the coordination to steer the ball towards them. As for the goals that did miraculously occur, they were scored in whichever net presented itself first. Team Bubblegum frequently scored on team Bubblegum's poor goalie. And team Wild Kittens, less frequently, scored on team Wild Kitten's, often absentee, goalie.

Why, oh why, does there always have to be a Bad Kid? Ours took the form of a ridiculously cute kid in a red ball cap. Tiny and dark, but ruthless. He obviously viewed every child on the field as an obstacle, deserving of a good shove. Boy, girl, smaller than him, bigger than him. All shove-able. Caelah was targeted more than a few times, but though my red hot momma-bear defenses went up, I had to admit the kid had guts!

Hats off to the coaches. Derrick and Tori. I think all our hearts went out to them. First, there was the name game. The kids passed a soccer ball in a circle, saying their name and favourite colour, as the receieved it. More than a few shy girls, Caelah included, broke down and ran crying to their moms. Then there was the "passing" drill. This one was doomed before it began. Derrick spent 15 minutes trying to partner the kids and space them apart. But every time he got one pair organized, the next would have strayed apart and wondered off. Even once he did get them aligned, the balls most certainly did not go back and forth, but side to side, and all over the place. After the ordeal was over I saw Derrick mouth to Tori; "That did NOT work..."

Allow me a moment to bask in parental pride. Caelah was fantastic. First of all, she looked really cute. She happened to have these sneakers at home that look like adidas, but with pink stripes, so she looked the part. Second, despite the name game fiasco, she got completely involved in everything. She listened to Derrick patiently, and completed his instructions perfectly. And she proved to be a super runner. During a running drill around the field, she was right on Derrick's heels while most of the other kids got tired and stopped after one lap. When she did get the ball during the game, she had control. She stopped, and tried to direct it back the right way. She really knows how to kick thanks to her daddy.

I for one am looking forward to the stories that will no doubt emerge from a summer's worth of soccer for wee folk.

Images of Home: My Aunt's House {Souvenir Street}

Memories and perceptions in one's youth are so formative and enduring. The cherry cake the neighbours served at a party, which later made me quite ill, has nurtured in me a dislike of the little red fruit to this day. The rock music my parents played around the house in my earliest years still hits my ear with fond familiarity, despite having long developed my own musical tastes. And the places I visited throughout my childhood are now blanketed in an impression, formed from fragmented memories, images, smells and sounds. My aunt's house, a place visited in sporatic, whirlwind stays, was blanketed in . . . magic.

To my little girl eyes, it was a house surrounded by both wonder and mystery. An old gray stone victorian in Montreal's downtown made it exciting regardless of it's inside. Yet it was the inside, with it's trove of treasures that made me so eager to be a part of mom's journeys there. I anticipated visits with both excitement, and anxiety. Excitement because my aunt's was a study in clustered collections and colourful curiosities. Nothing was off limits. We were permitted to explore, and touch. Shelves lined with little bobbles. Petrushka dolls waiting to be opened. An old gumball machine, that, though brimming with coloured balls when we were kids, became mysteriously empty once we hit teenagehood. Large hanging plants, top lit by beautiful skilights. Skittery cats, creeping out from under beds and behind desk chairs. Mexican morraca's and tambourines. A basketball net by the entry. High, molded ceilings which made me feel so small. Walls covered in precious scraps; old pictures, cherished notes and cards, news articles. And books. Soooooo many books. And not just boring old books with no pictures, but coffee table books made to catch the eye with deliciously vivid photography. This is a place where there is room for everything, and all things are given room.

Any anxiety I felt over impending visits came from an awareness that her's was an adult house. One were little people rarely trespassed, thus making it feel a little alien to me and my siblings. It held things which, though benign to adults with their muted imaginations, became horrifying after a bit of childish meditation under the cover of darkness. I remember a poster of a cherub who's notched arrow was pointed out at the room. When our beds were made up on the floor that night, I didn't want to take my eyes off that arrow lest it be loosed on us. A wrought iron mask that had been implanted in a wicker vase full of pennies was removed after I had nightmares over it, and refused to even pass it by. An adult would see it for what it was; molded metal, but to a child it was a demon, waiting to pounce on penny-thieves. And let me impress upon you the necessity of retrieving said pennies, as they were much needed in the gumball machine upstairs.

Now, as an adult in an adult house everything has become familiar, rather than enticingly exoctic. I realize now that much of what I see in my aunt's home has been collected in love over many years. I once took it all for granted, but I know now that it was gathered bit by precious bit. Nothing truly valuable in and of itself, but each item holding a memory, and a story. And it is this that has affected me. I have come to see that houses with character are the ones I enter and never want to leave because it feels like they have introduced themselves to me and want me to stay. Houses filled with expensive items, isolated and untouchable leave no impression at all. Or if they do, it is this: come in if you must, but don't touch, and don't stay long. If we have to live in houses on this earth, shouldn't they be welcoming? Welcome . . .

What little people leave behind

As I tucked myself into bed last night something caught my attention. A tiny motorcycle sihouetted against the night sky. An unlikely place for a motorcycle, and yet . . . the right place for a motorcycle because it was placed there by a little boy who has a passion for precariously positioning his treasured possessions.

I turned to Aidan with a lump in my throat. "Look. They leave their mark on this place, don't they?"

Children imprint themselves upon your life. Some of their imprints are loud and obvious. But some are merely tiny, residual traces of themselves they leave behind to be happened upon. In my case, these discoveries often make me want to cry. Sometimes, when you are with a person, the preciousness of their presence is lost on you because you are in the moment with them, seeing and touching in living colour. But when they are not with you, and only their half-empty mug of tea and rumpled pillow are left behind, your heart aches for them.

Here are some of the ways my children have marked our home, leaving behind echoes of their daily activities. Marks which, when discovered in the quiet hours, stir up my heart, if only because when when my little ones are tucked quietly in bed, these small evidences are all that remain of them until they awaken again:


This lamp never manages to look dignified. The shade is always unhooked. It has begun to look more familiar that way.


There is a Psalm that says; "The high standing forest of trees He strips bare..." That is the effect my kids have had on my houseplants. I recently found the livingroom floor littered with leaves. The plant, from which they had been plucked, looked so pathetic, it's naked stems poking out from it as though it were having a very bad hair day. Though healing, it remains scarred.


I only discovered this little gem a few months ago. When I did, I was so delighted by the unexpectedness of it. Caelah must have snuck one of her window markers into the car sometime after her last birthday and sketched out a tiny little stick-man up in the top corner of the car window. I love that it has been there for so long, smiling out at the world as we drive by.


Caelah also left her mark on the car in a more indelible way. I remember her asking me how to spell "car" one day as we drove to the library. What I didn't know was that she was practicing her writing skills in ink on the car upholstery.


And of course, some are temporary marks, left by necessity: piles of coats for every kind of weather, and elastics criss-crossing every drawer that may contain tiny bits for eager hands to snatch and scatter.


My house has been marked by my kids, but so have I. And though plants heal, and chalk washes away, my very being will always be imprinted by these days of impromptu creativity and wide-eyed discovery.

Little sister . . .

. . . is engaged!

Ceiling Fan Blues

I just heard the most devastating news: We need a ceiling fan. No one warned me. No one even hinted at the possibility. But it seems that it had been a foregone conclusion form the beginning, with only me obliviously unawares of the impending blemish on the house. A two-story livingroom, it seems, needs a fan to distribute air into the upper parts of the house. Oh, how badly I took this news...

For years, I have seen designers on those home reno shows shudder at the ceiling fans they find in people's homes. The first thing they all do is tear them from the wall. They do it with such glee that I am left to assume they stomp and spit on it off camera. In any case, such displays have given me the strong message that ceiling fans cannot be redeemed and that their tackiness outweighs their functionality by a long shot.

I took to the internet with a mission. Find a nice ceiling fan. Find nice ceiling fan. Find a nice ceiling fan. But I made the mistake of typing in, "Trendy Ceiling Fans"--and was assaulted by the most bizaar and unattractive lighting fixtures I have ever seen:

OR

I finally just looked at the Home Depot site, and scrolled through the endless fans they had on display. And I began to have some hope. Ceiling fan engineers (?) have been doing their homework. Maybe they got tired of seeing their hard work mocked and trampled on reno shows. Now, most ceiling fans are more lighting with less fan.
I do hope that I can find one that suits me.

FIXTURE FOLLOW-UP:
We just might be buying those taps from the last post. It turns out that Aidan's brother can get us a HUGE discount. And I am more desirous of them than ever now that a lighting sale at Canadian Tire yielded these for our bathroom:

Matching! Matching! Matching!