Home & Whole

What a rush!
The alarm went off at 5:30 a.m on Saturday, and we simply threw the bags in the trunk and took off. The air was bitingly frigid as we got into the car, but we pushed the thought aside for the drive. I would be lying if I said it was a peaceful journey. There was no traffic, and the scenery was beautiful, but I was so nervous that I made my stomach hurt. A sense of foreboding had taken up residence in my gut. The closer we got, the higher the hills that dotted the horizon. And by the time we pulled up, I had convinced myself we were about to ski Everest.

Well, it wasn't Everest, but the rooky Ottawa girl was awed, just the same. From start to finish Tremblant was a novelty. First, the place was run like a well-lubed machine. The flow was fantastic. Even the longest lineups at the lifts were relatively quick to get through. Second, the scale. . . BIG! The main lift up to the top was called a "gondola": An enclosed capsule with two bench seats that could accommodate up to 8 people. I came to deeply appreciate this piece of ingenuity when the cold really set it. As for the slopes themselves, they seemed never-ending. Had you strung four Edelweiss runs one behind the other, they would still not have equalled the length of a Tremblant run. They took fifteen minutes to get down. I believe we only managed 8 runs over the five hours we were skiing.

The weather, unfortunately, was prohibitively coooooooooold! We did happen to go on a ridiculously cold day, but the wind that hit the top of the mountain must make even mild days chilly. We made the mistake of trying some of the runs on the North side of the mountain and had to endure a wind blasted ride up the hill on an exposed chair lift. But that's not all. I haven't mentioned the fog yet. At one point, one side of the hill was completely coverd in a dense fog that reduced visibility to perhaps five feet. We avoided those runs altogether, but it was mesmerizing to watch skiers disappear into the sunlit fog one after the other.

The scenery. . . I have been to BC, so I can't say that these were most majestic views I had every beheld, but they were breathtaking nonetheless. Obvious beauty was found in the hills themselves. Once you reach the top, you have a panoramic view of alpine hills spread a far as the eye can see. A less obvious source of beauty was the snow encrusted trees lining the slopes. The hill is riddled with snow-making machines. Much of the snow misses it's mark, coating the evergreens with a thick layer of white. Certain chairlifts swept us passed stands of heavy white pines that looked like they had been transplanted from a winter faery tale.
Despite the initial intimidation, Aidan and I held our own fairly well. Mind you, we weren't taking many risks. We did not stray from the intermediate runs at all. The few encounters we did have with a black diamond portion of trail left us on our behinds. I have no idea how people tackle powder moguls, but it is not a skill I have yet aquired. I was very impressed by my husband's skiing abilities. I trailed behind him for the most part and watched him execute tight, perfectly parallel turns. Following along, I imitated him, and actually fine-tuned my technique just by observation. I had eight fifteen minute self-instructed ski lessons, and reached the bottom a better skiier each time.

We set out for a dose of exhilaration, and found it. Now we are back to the grind with sick kids and work to do. But these things are our life. The mountains and small thrills in between are just a bonus.

Five years

Aidan and I have been married for five years now. Five years. It is incredible how much living happens in five years. "With ease," I keep saying. But I am well aware that the "ease" of which I speak is, in fact, God's hand of blessing upon us. He has granted us five years of calm seas. No trials or tribulations, only blessing. And, like a squirrel, I have been mentally storing up the memories of God's graciousness throughout these years so that I might reflect upon them, and draw from them, when harder times come upon us. It is a certainty they will.

How do two people celebrate five years of marriage? A funny concept, really, since every day marks new reasons to rejoice. The occasion, however, does offer us an excuse to do something we rarely can afford to do. Dinner out? No. Night at a hotel? No. We are going to launch ourselves down the biggest ski hill around: Tremblant. Neither of us have spent much time skiing, but we are passably able. One of my goals this winter is to learn how to get down a bunny hill on a snowboard. I have a narrow window of opportunity before another baby comes along. That will have to happen closer to home though. Tremblant is intimidating to begin with, let alone hurtling down it with both feet strapped to a board.

So, here's to five years. Think of us. Pray we arrive home exhilarated and un-concussed.

Little sinner

This creature is responsible for three consecutive nights of near complete sleep depravation. I have calcualted an average of 3 to 4 hours a night. And counting . . . Yes, he looks harmless, but really, he is trying hasten our expiration.
Gabriel is 11 months old. A teeny tiny little person. But he is already so evidently a fallen little being. Two days ago, I had my first startling taste of his capacity to sin. Baby-barnacle, I have recently dubbed him, was inhibiting my progress on lunch preparations. When I put him down on the kitchen floor, he proceeded to clench his little fists, jut out his chest, and roar in my general direction. I stopped to look his way, and he looked me in the eye, roaring again with so much force it made him tremble.
And that's not all. Once I finally retrieved him, he grabbed a fist full of my hair and yanked, emitting a growl, as if to say; "So there."
This fills me with dread. What will he become? Just a reminder to you all, our little bitty sinners need praying for. Oh, and their parents need praying for too, because the good and righteous path becomes far more difficult to navigate in a fog.

Flickering flame & Moonlit faces

I do realize that this post follows on the heels of another, which reflected upon the importance of things. But here's the thing. We just purchased a new camera, and it will certainly make things more interesting around here. My first photo: In the dark. No flash. No tripod. Beautiful. My favourite things are those that shine out of the darkness: Flickering flame & moonlit faces. These things were completely impossible to capture with the camera we had been using. Now, they stand a chance of being trapped on my lense.

Truth be told, I feel there was a wee bit of self indulgence involved. But I also feel an enormous desire to run out and capture our world in this lense, and see it reflect itself back at me so that I can learn from it.

We are thankful for what we have. And what we have will not be wasted.

Clay bowl

A man made his way across a lonely landscape. His feet were bare and caked with dust. His clothes were worn and tattered. In his arms he carried the only three items he could call his own: A bowl made of clay, a silver spoon and a rusty hunting knife. He came upon a creaky bridge, and as he crossed it, the silver spoon slipped from his grasp and was lost in the whirling water below. "Oh, my knife! Gone forever!" He continued on, holding his remaining possessions closer than before. He passed into a deep forest. It wasn't long before a monkey swooped down out of a tree and snatched his silver spoon from his hands. As the monkey disappeared in the treetops the man cried, "Oh, my spoon, lost to me also!" The bowl, he clung to with all his might, folding it into his garments so that it stayed close to his skin. However, he came to a broken wall, over which he had to climb. As he picked his way carefully across the boulders, his clay bowl slipped from his grasp and shattered on the stone. The man paused. No move he made. And then, with his head thrown back and his arms raised to the sky he hollered, "Free!." And he carried on, with a bounce in his step and his arms swinging.

I don't remember where I heard it before, or even the details of how it was told, but the essence of this parable stuck with me. The weight and responsibility of things can be so tiring. On occasion, the life of a pilgrim has appealed to me. Hold on to the ones you love, and go. . . leave everything else behind. I have never worked out the how or where of this scenario. But the idea is still exhilarating. No ties to anything but one another.
The Acts church did it. They sold everything they had and gave it to the ministry, and to support one another. In today's reality, however, love would, likely, only get you so far in this climate, and then you would either have to become dependant on social assistance, or freeze to death in the snow. What's the balance? How do we become people freed of our proverbial clay bowls?
Aidan and I spent the Lord's day with a family who is about to do just that. They, and their six boys are heading off to Africa to train up local men to become pastors. In their wake, they will leave behind everything. And I mean everything. We were taken on a tour of their empty house, and offered the last of their furniture and appliances. The boys will be allowed to fill one small suitcase apiece. No bikes, no skates, no stuffed bears.
This same family followed us to our building site later in the day, and toured our home-to-be. They loved it. Offering it high praise, and hinting that this would be the place they come on furlough. Surely the awkwardness this situation presented is evident to you. While this couple was in the midst of purging themselves of all of their wordly posessions, Aidan and I were equally as busy compiling our own.
Mercifully, it wasn't long before we were offered this little gem; "We have been greatly blessed by wealthy friends who's wealth is their ministry. Everything they own is given in hospitality and fellowship." You have much? Then give much. The more I meditate on this the more I understand. God has given us all clay bowls. Those of us who cling to our bowl until our knuckles turn white will never find peace. But those of us who hold on lightly, treating it as a thing to be passed around, will be just as the man who's own bowl slipped out of his fingers to the ground: Free.

Tradition

These are the holiday traditions that belong to me and my family:

Saint Nick's gift exchange, spent with Aidan's extended family. This involves lots of poetry, the presence of a "real" Saint Nick, (the orator of said poetry), and the result is much word garbling and laughter.

The Christmas Play: Always perfect in it's imperfection. This year, Elijah was a sheep who wanted to be lost. He tore away from the flock to get to Daddy at the far end of the sanctuary, and despite the head shepherd's best efforts, remained lost. A different end to the parable we all know.
Christmas Eve with the Van Dyk's: Rare visits with Aunt Stasia and Uncle Evan, who always come bearing great loot for the kids. Delicious Christmas bread: sticky and sweet and always polished off. An array of gourmet cheeses and tapenades. Orange peel tricks and sparking flames. Games, along with a healthy dose of family competition. (See Einstein Riddle below) And carol singing around the piano. The enjoyment of which I seem to forget from year to year, but rediscover after the first piano chord.

Einstein's Riddle

---

ALBERT EINSTEIN'S RIDDLE

ARE YOU IN THE TOP 2% OF INTELLIGENT PEOPLE IN THE WORLD? SOLVE THE RIDDLE AND FIND OUT.

There are no tricks, just pure logic, so good luck and don't give up.

1. In a street there are five houses, painted five different colours.
2. In each house lives a person of different nationality
3. These five homeowners each drink a different kind of beverage, smoke different brand of cigar and keep a different pet.

THE QUESTION: WHO OWNS THE FISH?

HINTS

1. The Brit lives in a red house.
2. The Swede keeps dogs as pets.
3. The Dane drinks tea.
4. The Green house is next to, and on the left of the White house.
5. The owner of the Green house drinks coffee.
6. The person who smokes Pall Mall rears birds.
7. The owner of the Yellow house smokes Dunhill.
8. The man living in the centre house drinks milk.
9. The Norwegian lives in the first house.
10. The man who smokes Blends lives next to the one who keeps cats.
11. The man who keeps horses lives next to the man who smokes Dunhill.
12. The man who smokes Blue Master drinks beer.
13. The German smokes Prince.
14. The Norwegian lives next to the blue house.
15. The man who smokes Blends has a neighbour who drinks water.

ALBERT EINSTEIN WROTE THIS RIDDLE EARLY DURING THE 19th CENTURY. HE SAID THAT 98% OF THE WORLD POPULATION WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO SOLVE IT.

(Guess who solved it? My super smart husband did! It didn't take him long, either.)

Be on the lookout for this logo. Aidan and Colin will make a famous beer brew one of these days and it will appear in glasses just like this, maybe in their own pub! Colin made these particular glasses for us.

Christmas Night & Day: Sqeezing everyone into the Millar household for the night. This means that 11 people are divided into three bedrooms. This year the men all piled into the master bedroom at the front of the house, and accordingly slept peacefully the whole night through. The rest of us . . . attended to a crying baby and a coughing girl from 3:00 a.m until dawn. Who cares. It's just one night.

The day always begins early in our family. This year, due to sleep deprivation, we actually made it to 7:00 a.m. before getting up. We all file downstairs to bulging stockings and hot coffee. The bigger gifts are opened from youngest to oldest. A very practical arrangement, since Elijah's enthusiasm could NOT be bridled. And then comes the BIG breakfast. The menu most years is fried eggs and thick pieces of smoked ham. But I had to throw homemade waffles and whipped cream into the mix this year.

Had there actually been SNOW this year, we would have spent the day sledding or romping in the snow, but this year there was no such option. Instead, I napped for three hours, while my father upended our 30 pound turkey's boiling juices onto his foot and recieved a very bad burn. Please read his version of this tale here.

The traditional turkey meal is consumed and much appreciated. However, I have big plans for garlic and rosemary chicken one of these years. (Recipe courtesy of Jared.) And then we play games until we can fit dessert into our bellies. This year, orange cheesecake topped with blueberries, and pecan torte was available, but we were all so tired we went home before we got to it.

Boxing Day: Games day. One of Aidan's cousins began a Boxing Day tradition of filling the day with games rather than shopping. She recently stopped hosting the event, but we like the idea. So we will likely continue it in the country with snow sport, or games around the wood stove. Yeah! This year Aidan's parents treated us all to a day at the Museum of Civilization and an Omnimax movie.

New Years Eve & Day: I have enjoyed this celebration so much these past few years. One of our friends and her family would open up their country home to twenty of us or so. We would all bring a mix of food and hang out all night long. Lots of games and laughter. Often, in whiter years, the males would race across the fields on a ski-doo. And the women would talk and talk and talk. We have never established a midnight protocal. One year we sang psalms right through. Another, we stopped to pray. Another, we spoke allowed our hopes and prayers for the year. After midnight, (and beyond for some), we would spread out throughout the house and get some sleep. Bodies everywhere!

I think what has warmed my heart most about these years has been the inclusion of our children. Twenty childless youths, and our little ones, whether they cry the night away or not, have been welcomed and cuddled and loved at every turn. Makes parenting easy to know that we, and our children, are loved that much.

This year, as is often the case, the tradition had to be passed on. We will now be the hosts. With much preparation, eight of us gathered at my sister's after evening worship to enjoy a three-part fodue. Smoky bacon cheese, pork and peanut satay, and velvety chocolat, to name a few. And while we all just vegged out in our pygamas, the intimacy of the group made it the happiest place in the world to be. The roads were icy, so we all bunked down all over the house around 2:30. In the morning, we had a crepe and whipped cream breakfast, using up the extra chocolate sauce and fruit.
The holidays are over. And I know they have been a blessing when I tingle with anticipation for them to begin once more next year. Lord willing, we will have a cosy country home to offer to all the people we love next year. New traditions will be established, all firmly anchored in love and fellowship.

Home of Tomorrow

The older I get, the more aware I am of the ebb and flow of trends. Some are a cause for concern, while some are not. But all are noteworthy, because they are societal tide-markers, revealing information about the collective whole that, if studied, give some indication of what is to come. There are people out there who are paid to do just that: take note, and extrapolate. Recently, I read one such application with regards to the housing market. And apparently, in twenty years, most of us will be living on top of one another.

By 2026, the average city dweller will buy into a condominium, and remain there throughout their entire life cycle. While this idea sounded truly distasteful to me, I found that I wasn't the least bit surprised. Top priorities of the average Canadian:

• convenience and ease
  
• speed and access
  
• work and money
• self at the center
  

Condominium living would certainly appeal to people with such priorities:

A small condominium [is] suitable for the dating, clubbing and the first job season of life. Many couples will [then] pick a larger three or four bedroom condominium . . . reluctant, when kids start arriving, to abandon the liveliness of downtown and the many conveniences of condo living. Developers will [also] be offering increasingly attractive perks [such as] improved security, larger rooms and storage facilities, more built-in appliances (including more sophisticated electronic access), and more in-house services ranging from daycare centers and medical offices to beauty salons and dining clubs. . .

-John Bentley Mays. House and Home (December '06)-

As for family life:

Bedrooms will look more like hotel suites, each with it's own bathroom ...web-based audio-visual center and better sound insulation...

Just think, you too, could eat, sleep, shop, workout, receive dental care, medical care and child care within the confines of one building. A bubble-- recycled air and all. And if you don't like your kids, don't worry, they will fade into obscurity, holed-up in their bedrooms.

Of all of the joys heralded by condo-happy developers, one benefit I cannot ignore: less driving. Building up keeps more people in the core, and more cars off the highways. But I can't help but wonder if it would all level out in the end. Will there be a tangled river of vehicles streaming from underground condo lots on Friday evenings, as people flee to the countryside, redefining the terms of our current rush hour, as they go? Or, alternately, and equally dour, will people mute their longings for nature, say goodbye to fresh country air, and become content in the confines of their concrete jungle?

All this talk about the city. What about us rebels? The ones who shake the dust from our sandals and turn our backs on the city to settle in the countryside? Apparently, we will become as good as foreigners. Members of "New Villages." Tiny, self-sufficient, nation states with our own network of home-based businesses, avoiding the pain and expense of driving into the city for our needs.

Twenty years has yet to come and go, and perhaps life will remain pretty much the same, but if any of this comes to pass, making a prophet out of some man, many of you will, apparently, be taking the elevator down to have a cavity filled, and I will be designing a personal state flag, and waving it every now and then to remind you I'm here, just beyond the borders of condoland.

Fourth Birthday

Four years. Four years of being taught how to parent by a precocious, independent-minded, dancing, prancing, talk-your-ear-off, joy of a daughter. We love her so much it hurts. And it is becoming clear that she has a life brimming with love ahead of her. We gathered together all the dearest people in her life to celebrate her day. Aunty Karin's sewing handiwork: A pink hat, mitt and scarf set.

A phone call from Aunty Kate , wishing her a happy birthday from on the road.

Bowling. Six kids: Six adults. And every adult was absolutely necessary to keep chaos at bay.

Elijah's tiger mask. "Grrrrrrr."

Beautiful baby Gaby

Things I have learned:
1. Six children have more than enough energy to make for a rousing party. I am not looking forward to future experiences of parties by the dozen.
2. Afternoon parties are great. The stress of creating a huge, well orchestrated meal is lifted from your shoulders. And, instead, a hodge-podge of finger foods can be thrown together without any complimentary-taste requirements. As for the little guests, they are much happier arriving on a lunch-filled stomach, and leaving before bedtime has expired.
3. The entire present opening ritual is incredibly uncomfortable. I have always thought so, even as a kid. And now I am learning all about the awkwardness of being a parent in these situations, as the child vocalizes their very honest assessments of the gifts they receive, and the parents do damage control as best they can.
4. Take great care with the guest list. It is so easy to miss someone, or, conversely, to over do it. A fine balance that must be re-negotiated every year as the circle of important people expands and shifts.
5. In the end, pray grace upon yourself by the bucketful. And, while you're at it, pray grace upon the attendees aswell. Both will require a large measure of it in order to enjoy the experience, and come away from it whole, and unharmed. On this particular occasion I somehow managed to be careless and hurtful to atleast a handful of people. And the reality is, I am certain to do it again. The wonderful thing, however, is that the very people I unintentionally injured are the very ones that love me enough to forgive me.

It was a good day. A hard day, but some of the best ones often are.

Creativity: Mache Plate

This one was the most involved yet.
Process:

1. I used one of our dinner plates to make a ten-layered papier-mache mold. (Rub it with vaseline before you start putting the wet paper on it or it will never come off again.) To reinforce the shape, I cut out circular cardboard inserts for the middle. Once dried, I pried the mold off the plate and trimmed the edges. This took weeks and weeks and weeks.
NOTE: Mache paste: 1 part white glue to 3 parts water.
This being my first mache project, I hadn't learned how to keep it bubble-free. The plate has a bumpy surface. But it adds to the character, right?

2.When it was all dry, I used sandpaper to try and smooth out some of the rough spots.

3. Put on white primer.

4. Painted and painted and painted. I had to use opaque acrylic or I would not have been able to paint vibrant flowers on top of a black surface. It also dries quickly. A very imprtant factor when sneaking paint time in between my boys' naps.

5. Two layers of varnish. Done!

Photo Journal: December

Winter in the country. We had just a taste of the pleasures in store for us and our children during the winter months. A pile of dirt was left behind from the fill work, and has since provided us with a nice sledding hill. At a good starting run, I managed to get the sled to the tree line at the far end of the yeard. Fun!


Where we are now:
Trusses are all up. Next up: insulation and wrapping, followed by windows and doors.
Basement floor is heated. Soooo nice. You walk down the stairs and the temperature goes up by 15 degrees. I can't wait until the main floors are done.
Waiting for mortgage to be sorted and fixed into place.
New benchmarks have been reached, but for me, the end is still nowhere in sight.

Mercies

I remember stepping off the curb. And I remember a hand catching the back of my coat. One strong, sharp yank backwards. And then I remember a muddy red and white blurr pass mere centimeters from my nose as an city bus swept past me on Rideau street. I could smell the bus. Taste salt on the wake of air it belched in my face. And I have never since been at ease when one speeds by me on the street in a lurshing rush of metal and smoke.
My father says the hand that grabbed me was that of a well dressed woman who, once having saved my life, then promptly melted into the Pre-Christmas bustling mob without a word. Who was she? I don't know. Would I have lived without her attentiveness and quick reflexes. Nope. Not likely.

Mercies. We have all heard about them, read about them, experienced them. And yesterday I lived through another. My daughter plummeted through a gap in the floor of our framed home, onto a concrete floor below, with only a bump on the head to show for it. She was making her way down the newly constructed stairs of our home-in-progress when she stumbled, pitched sideways onto some light foam that had been laid across the opening to the basement stairs, and disappeared below.
I was behind her. I saw it happen. I heard her shriek. I saw her curl in on herself. Saw the blue foam snap in two. And then saw nothing. And in my head: Please. Please. Please. Please. Then she cried. And I knew she was alive, and that it was ok to breathe again.
After her grandfather tore down the steps after her, and carried her back up to us, it didn't take long for us to discover a long raised bump on her scull where she, no doubt, smacked her head on a step before she hit the concrete. No bones broken. Memory intact:

"What did Oma and Opa give you for St. Nicks?"
" A faery--no, an angel dress."

And after a bit of well deserved sniffling, she was back to munching on raisin bread and arguing with her brother. I know that God giveth and taketh away. But he chose to keep her safely within our wordly grasp this day. And I have been thanking him all day long.

Whimsy

More lanterns. More faeries.
Hey, we all have fixations. Let me have mine!
This is a silhouette I painstakingly cut out with an exacto knife. I painted a sunset onto some tissue paper for the background with watercolour paints. And am now hunting for a glass container, or lamp shade the right size, upon which to mount it. I wish I had a nightlight like this when I was little.

I would if I could, but I can't, so I won't.

Please believe me when I say that you do not want to see any more pictures of the house, for the time being. Those of you who have been following along have seen all there is to see for now. Electrical wiring, additional trusses, insulation . . . these things don't make good pictures. Suffice it to say, I am as eager to see change as you. And change there will be. Eventually.
I have been awaiting the birth of the tudor facade. But that is going to have to wait until spring. The boys decided to leave the exterior until their fingers can work in warm weather again, and until the tudor panels can be installed in their expanded state.
Likely, posts over the winter will be on a micro-scale: concerning all things small, and seemingly insignificant. Like front doors, for example. I am very excited to introduce you to my garage sale beauty of a front door. Or dining room tables. We are stripping, and refinishing Aidan's late Oma's heavy wooden table. It might be the oldest thing we own.
I hope the slower pace doesn't stop you all from checking in every once and awhile. Piece by piece, a house will become a home. Patience.

Firsts

Got our first hydro bill today for 3496 John Shaw Rd. . .
Other exciting news, our basement floor has finally been poured! We are almost ready for winter.
Aidan is out there at the moment finishing window boxes so we can install a beautiful set of windows on the main floor. Our sills will be soooo deep. I love it. I can envision a jungle of greenery in every window.
Next will come the upstairs windows, and two doors. And voila, ready to wrap up the house against snow and unwelcome critters. I am looking forward to a winter of progress on the inner guts of the house. The place where the living will happen. Soon.

Creativity

I just had to show off my latest handiwork. A lily lantern made of wire and tissue paper. I have been on a craft binge! It has always hit me in waves, but I am currently riding a tsunami. Creativity is oozing out of my pores. In one month I have successfully produced, a new card design series, a faery costume, two or three chapters of a book, a faery lantern, half a strand of small paper lanterns, and am moving on to papier mache . . .

Bumbleboy

First, something from the archives:

Two little

faeries.

20 years apart.

Like mother, like daughter?

And now, I present to you Bumbleboy & Co.

Playing Dress-up

There will always be delicious memories attached to this time of year for me. Not candy-delicious, (although that was always a perk), but a more experiential-deliciousness. The day, in it's entirety has, to me, always been an ode to creativity, and to the beauty of a chilled, crisp night.

Anticipation. The build-up would begin in class a week or two early. Crafts would involve, orange and black, cats and pumpkins, glitter and glue. Stories would be told in hushed tones, making my skin tingle with the anticipation of cool evening air on my skin, and the smell of candle-roasted pumpkin in my nose. At home, the roundest, most beautiful pumpkin would be carved into a Jack O'Lantern, with Dad as creative director and supervisor. Without his guidance, our lanterns would never have been more than a few soggy, haphazard perforations. Time and time again, he managed to maintain something that ressembled a face, despite our best efforts.

Creativity. The yearly costume. . . My mom had a good friend who was wonderful with a sewing machine. Gypsy, Peter Pan, Black Cat, Clown, Magician. Not original ideas, but each costume was made by hand. And with such detail. The year I was Peter Pan, I carried a pouch of pixie dust on my belt. Unbeknownst to most, but not to me. I was very conscious of it's presence, should I have needed it. There is something so fantastic about that. The effort put forth by my parents was not lost on me. My Dad once spent four hours trying to concoct an elaborate suit of armour for my brother out of cardboard boxes. I'm not sure it held up for long, but it was beautiful while it lasted.

Laughter. Halloween is a celebration of self-directed laughter, or otherwise. The most ridiculous costume I have ever worn was the dreaded blue alien custume. If only I had a photo for you. . . It involved blue full-body spandex, and a foam protrusion on top of my head. It was meant to be a spiral, but, rather, had the effect of a lopsided stuffed cone. I am still amazed I had the guts to show up at school in that custume! Good for me. Where did that self-confidence go? Such a free flow of good humour. I can still hear the belly laughs that burst forth from the adult folk when we kids filed in, in full garb, for inspection. Occasionally, outright laughter was replaced by smothered grunts of suppressed mirth when it was clear we wanted to be taken seriously.

Night. What child is not excited by the prospect of embarking on a walk in the dark, safely flanked by friends and family, with a bag full of candy to show for it in the end? The young rarely trespass upon the dark hours of the evening. For one night, however, darkness is tread all over by tiny laughing children, colourful and full of their own light. This is the darkness I associate with this day. A candle-lit, sparkling darkness. The true darkness from which the day arose, and the darkness that some smear all over it still, in wickedness, has nothing to do with the activities that take place in our home. Words, written by my cousin on the subject resonate with our family's stance on the celebration.

This year, our house will be aflutter with winged creatures: faeries and bumblebees. I sent Caelah off too school with a box of butterfly "faery cookies" to share with her classmates. She turned the cookies into frogs this morning with a wave of her magic wand. But I'm sure they were restored by the time they got to school.

Fun night ahead! Bumblebee pictures forthcoming.

School Photo

Oh dear. . . If any of you have met my husband, perhaps you see what I see when you look at this photo: him!

Aidan's hair is- unruly, at best. So too are Caelah's dark locks. Observe the bird's nest of a braid on the left. I'm guessing she had an itch in the vicinity of her right ear, and scratched it for all she was worth. I have never seen her maintain the integrity of a hairstyle longer than it takes to get out the door.

And the look on her face! I really ought to scan Aidan's old bus pass photo, and place it alongside this one. The same. Exactly. It looks like he was in a police line-up, waiting to have the finger pointed at him. But apparently, he feels at home with this look, and wears it often. This photo, by comparison, does not accurately reflect Caelah's personality. She's a giggle bug! As it turns out, she was scared of the camera guy. Or, perhaps, the camera. One of the two. Both of which surprise me, since she has never shown much of an aversion to either.

So, while we will not be ordering prints of this little gem, we will certainly be keeping the proof. At the moment, it makes me want to cry, and throw my arms around her. But it is a certainty that this same photo will have us in stitches later on down the road.

Belated thanksgiving for an unlikely friendship

I am a part of one of those families whose generations have overlapped, creating some interesting relationships. For example, my daughter's best friend is my seven year-old brother.

Time and circumstance, under Sovereign guidance, of course, landed my mother with a baby at the age of 42, followed, four years later, by her first grandchild. We laugh about it now, but at the time, the news was met with a few tears as well. Joy was intermingled with a distinct sense of weariness. A re-play buttom had suddenly been pressed on my mother's life at a time when she was just beginning to enter a new phase of life. And the changes heralded by the coming of Connor Timothy did, in no way, stop there.

For one, he jolted his big sister out of a very bad place. At the time, I had been rebelling horribly. Pure and simple selfishness to the point of blind insensitivity towards either of my parents. I reasoned that if I didn't listen, I wouldn't hear. And if I didn't hear, I could carry on with minimal guilt. But then, my carefully manufactured detachment began to crumble. My mom began to feel sick. She needed to visit the hospital more and more frequently. Her emotions were---unsteady, at best. In short, she needed me. No more thinking about only me.

For seven months, I became my mom's hospital companion. I became invested in her care, and deeply connected to the growing bump that was my brother. I continued on a crooked path when I was off duty, but I was no longer shutting out my mother's loving words. They began to take effect. Connor was born early; tiny and red-headed. I found him irresistable. He became an accessory in those early years, glued to my hip. He also changed the pace of life. Our family was rejuvinated by a fresh dose of excitement over things such as holidays and birthdays. We had long since lost the magic-laced intensity that comes along with youthful anticipation. However, we were now presented with an opportunity to re-live it vicariously through Connor, if only a little less intensely.

I was challenged in unforeseen ways by my youngest brother's arrival. When my first child was born, it occured to me that I had, rooted within me, preconceived ideas about the role of a grandmother. Naturally, these were based entirely on my own experiences, having been doted upon by my own two grandmothers. Spoiled with time and attention. These were resources my own mother didn't, and doesn't to this day, have in abundance. What time and energy she is able to muster, on any given day, is rightfully lavished upon her own child.

Certain uncomfortable situations played out as a result of the similar position my mom and I found ourselves in. A peer relationship began to develop, bringing with it some unpleasant tendencies. The last thing I had ever envisioned for myself was to be placed in a position of direct competiton with my own mother, comparing parenting skills and squabbling over the personality flaws of our children. I can only think of a handful of such occasions, but few though they were, they left me feeling disturbed and angry at time and circumstance for landing me in such a position. It felt like the natural order of things had been skewed.

Perhaps the saddest consequence of it all is that any natural brother/sister relationship that might have developed between Connor and I, had the timing been different, was transplanted by some hybrid variation. Even now, I have to stop and remind myself that he is not my nephew, nor one of my children's neighbourhood pals, but my own brother. My little brother. I remember weeping over a look Connor gave me once. He wouldn't meet my eyes, and it had struck me forcefully that he rarely did. He must have thought of me as he would a teacher, or a friend's parent he was not quite comfortable with. I was not his sister. "Do I scare you?" I had asked him, my voice shaking. I don't even remember his answer. I don't think any answer would have calmed me down.

It has been four years since I first became a mother and that new role took precedence over my role as 'sister'. Time has passed. And the same Divine timing I once felt had stolen a brother from me, has yielded up a most unlikely gift. This thanksgiving weekend re-affirmed a sense, growing steadily in me, that one of the greatest blessings Connor has given me is his friendship to my children. "Uncle Connor" is my daughter's dearest companion. He is a teacher and playmate. If I want shrieks of glee to erupt spontaneously from my kids' lips all I have to say is, "Guess where we're going today?" I don't even have to answer. They do it for me.

I await the day, with resigned sadness, when four years will make a big difference. And Connor will inevitable feel a bit foolish romping around with his little nieces and nephews. They will be hurt. He will wish he didn't feel the way he does, and there will be a distance between them for a time. But then they will all grow out of the confinements of age, and become friends once more. Friends who can really talk. And they will make memories, and talk about their dreams. Maybe they will be in one another's wedding parties, and have children who grow up as closely tied to one another as they themsleves were. God knows.

What I do know is that what Connor brings to my children now, just by being him, is beautiful and invaluable. And I love him dearly, no matter how time has shaped the way that my love is related to him. I am truly thankful that he was sent to us seven years ago. Not a moment too late; not a moment too soon.

Larsen Truss

This has been a long time coming: a tutorial on the ingenious energy saving feature of our home. The one that will allow us to laugh behind our hands at your heating bills.

The trusses are the wooden "ladders" running vertically along the exterior walls.

A larsen truss is a system of adding large amounts of insulation to a house by putting light weight trusses around the perimeter, separate from the structural parts of the building. Ladder like trusses are installed outside the structural wall. The system gives many of the advantages of a double-walled house, including:

1) Thick insullation (12+ inches) gives high R-Value (40+ total insullation).
2) Staggered truss/frame members means no continuous thermal transfer from outside to inside, (increases whole-wall R-Value).
3) Having the vapour barrier outside the structural wall means it can be continous from the sill plate to the top plate (foundation to trusses), creating a super-sealed house.So, with the combination of thick insullation, no continuous wood members from the outside to the inside, and a continous vapour barrier, measured R-values of Larsen walls come very close to the theoretical values of it's insullation. American government measures a standard larsen wall (around 12" of insullation - R40) having a tested whole-wall R-Value of about 38.2.

A canadian guy named John Larsen was cold enough to come up with all this. Thank you John.