apple pressing

the annual apple pressing party, this year not on my wedding anniversary. I'll be out of town for it this year, which is a blessing. Such an awkward day. About a half hour before everyone arrived, Hamish built a long table out of sawhorses and planks, felix countersank the screw holes his brace, patched pants and red gumboots, straight blonde hair, gap toothed smile. The usual friends showed up, the little boys disappeared for most of the day, making random appearances, carrying either buckets, trowels, pruners, toy tractors, a muffin, rocks. Towards the end of the day, they started wheeling each other around with the dolly. Hamish put on a great playlist to keep us motivated as we spent half a day chopping apples, the wheelbarrows filling with cores and rotten bits, to be brought to the bears in the bush. After the pressing was done, the women kept going, immediately starting to prep dinner for seven and canning the first round of jars of juice, clean up after the hard labour was done and the men played with tractors and fire. Felix's tooth, bottom row, front left, had been holding on by the slimmest of margins all day, flopping around in his mouth. When we were resting around the fire at the end of evening, Felix shimmied under the garden gate, pulled up half a dozen carrots and brought them back to us, proud, chest puffed up. That's when we realized, in the light of the fire, that the tooth had finally left him. We're going back to the thompson okanagan at the end of this week. I am more than happy to pull F out of school for a few days, it's stressful for me when he's there in attendance. It doesn't sit well with me and it was a rough first week. There's a spot in the base of my spine that squirms when I leave him there. Institution. Institutionalized. I knew what to expect but it still knocked the wind out of me. And how did I know realize that suddenly he'd be spending more time at school, away, than at home? He's gone all the time now. Except for the last two days of this past week, when he immediately got sick after a few days of school and I gleefully kept him home. He loves school though, so far. I showed up at his lunch break on the first full day, a little worried, only to see him from half the playground away, in loud and full command of a small gang, yelling directions in a game they made up, strutting like a rooster. We're going to the ranch again, in fall this time. Blue skies and yellow fields, cold nights. We'll stroll through kamloops this time. It's usually too hot when we visit in the summer. I'll meet with an old mentor, now she's a tibetan buddhist. I've reached out to an estranged friend, offered an olive branch after six years of nothing. I'm in a blur of processing the garden harvest before I go, an avalanche of tomatoes on the windowsill, baskets of beans and chard and kale and basil. The time away will give me time to think of what to do about my kid's schooling. There's been some major soul searching happening. I need the time alone and I so looked forward to it, but I can't ignore the institutionalizing that's happening to my beautiful son, can't ignore the warning signs and yellow flags, my and my mother's gut feelings.

eve of school

harvest time, overload, abundance. the kitchen window sill is full of tomatoes, left to right, two layers deep. there are baskets and boxes of apples and plums on and under the counters and the dehydrater and slowcooker are both working around the clock. We've had a week of rain, a taste of what's to come, but no cold mornings yet. The freezer was found dripping and wet one day, having been unplugged somehow. It was a chance to make decisions about some long term residents in back corners, and I came face to face with the plastic bag full of snappis of my milk. I ended up, ironically, with a surplus a couple years ago, having found that my kid didn't like the taste of the lipase that is a result of freezing milk, and also because he weaned. It was sacred stuff though, and I didn't know what rite or ceremony was fitting for it's disposal. And then the freezer thawed and there it was and that night, it came to me that it needed to go in the creek. Down the creek and to the ocean. And so it did. I sent it on it's way, without telling anyone else, and cried a little, remembering the blood and sweat and fevers and medications and begging and sleep deprivation and tears that milk cost me. Loving that my body had made it, that I had made it through that time. Thinking of how often spilled milk actually IS cried over. I was saddened by the slowly peeling strips of painters tape alongside the milk containers, where I recorded the time and amount, in mills, of how much I had squeezed out of me with each hand pump session. There were some containers that were two thirds cream, thick and whitish yellow, superfood for developing brains. Off it went, down this little rainforest creek, among cedar roots and banks of moss, salmon berries and elders, off to join the next creek and then half a kilometer down, the Salish Sea, the Pacific Ocean. It's a fitting time to say goodbye to those last physical remnants of that time, of the first handful of years of my child's life, as he starts kindergarten this week. I am not more ready for or enthusiastic about public school than I ever have been but this is happening and as my dear neighbour mom friend reminds me, don't fret (it's what I do) and take it a day at a time. There are other options. For me and many others, that option would ideally be village life. Those that are apt, teach those that are young, a mixed age group. Outside, inside, math and skills through the work. Or, if not that, an option where felix's passions are supported, built upon, the restoration, the archaeology, the watches, the fine motor control. Where seasonality and natural rhythms are followed and natural products are used and music and mythology and storytelling are central and art is a big deal and tradition. Oh, right, that's waldorf. Will a gaggle of waldorf enthusiasts and teachers just move up here already?! I could be, 'should' be providing those things, but I am barely holding it all down as it is. My career, the garden, the property maintenance, the domestic work, the childcare, and trying to pursue some of my own passions. A horse ride, a fiddle jam, yoga in the mornings. If I had a real partner, if only, the things I could accomplish. If there were two adults here, both bursting with energy and motivation...; this is a frequent thought, the sky would be the limit. The potential is incredible. But my coparent shows up sometimes, somedays, sometimes all of him, sometimes just some parts are present. And sometimes just for a while before suddenly he's in the grip of something and speeds off, gravel flying, in truck or on motorbike. Felix says, papa shatters our peace. He says I can't let papa see me crying! He says, Papa is like the Earth, and the feelings he can control are like the thin Earth crust and the rest of him is hot molten magma and there are diggers on the crust and they're excavating sometimes and then lava explodes out.

cats and crickets

my kid fell asleep in the backseat on the drive home, long day, late bedtimes. I parked at home but left the headlights on and turned up the country station, always makes me maudlin. A single lamp on in the kitchen, and then the low headlights, there are horses in the pasture out there in the dark, the cats emerge into the light to greet me, then go back to hunting crickets and shrews and spiders under the stairs. I unload the car from a shopping trip the Island, from the dim house, through the dark, to the headlights of the car, following the country music, it makes me want to dance, drink, stay up late, climb roofs, show off my legs with boots, it gives me energy, wakes parts of me that have been shoved to the edge of extinction since before motherhood, since that previous life. But that's not the maudlin part; listening to country music, alone in the evening but honestly anywhere, anytime, brings up incredible sadness, mostly for Ham and I. It is so linked with those early days, early years and they were intense. All my bones want to two step, in the grass or a deck or a quiet kitchen, just on the edge of porchlight, headlight, kitchen lamp's glow, with crickets and cats in the dark edges and horses snorting and farting further out. I miss liking each other. We used to learn new dance moves together, practicing over and over, flips and spins, when we trusted each other, when we actually came into physical contact. We'd get compliments at fairs, rodeo dances, bars, parties. That previous life.

9pm postering telephone poles

midsummer burnout, group project burnout, is it them or is it that I am an overfunctioner? I don't see how it's a bad thing to make things happen within the time frame the group has intended, and when others keep dropping the ball, I take on the project and make it happen, grinding my teeth and feeling resentful and further burrowing myself in my endless lists and sliding deeper into a To Do hole. I can see, a little bit, that it's an addiction, a pattern of mine, I can feel the pull of the familiar anxiety of keeping it all together, the lure of self sacrifice, plus high germanic standards plus the lived experience of watching my single mother keep a beautiful household while raising a child and working. I see it's doable, I would be failing if I didn't handle this well, it's not within my capacity, in no bone of my body, to let things slide, to forget the list, to leave things where they fall. But I do overextend myself. I guess I usually justify it culturally -"it's a germanic thing," "canadians' motto is 'good enough' so there's a disconnect there," but the proof is actually in how I feel, right now, deflated like a spent balloon, shuddering at the list, wanting to nap in the hammock but not letting myself, limbs heavy, no appetite, dreading Monday. Does the self sacrificing pattern come from becoming a parent figure to my parent, as a child? I see the pattern in my strange marriage situation too. Saying 'husband' feels strange on my tongue. More and more he's 'Felix's dad'. I needle felt watermelons for our activist group while watching world cup, stay up late handsewing brooch pins on them while watching herbalist plant monographs. The weekly garage saling continues, another addiction. Making core memories for Felix though. His mother waking him early with breakfast waiting in the car, list of addresses in hand.

Disappointed

felix and I came back to the yard from pruning back the blackberry along the driveway, after hamish had peeled out, drunk and irate, when felix found his dart board impaled by a huge round file, thrown angrily. he was just so disappointed, he kept saying, it's my dartboard...what the heck? he didn't seem confused or mad, just really disappointed in his father. Welcome to the club kid, to having shit broken randomly by this man. "here you are again, spending the whole session talking about him, what you can do to change his actions, what if? This is codependent, but I get it. Women, forever, have been doing whatever it takes. We buy time to save money, to find an escape route, to gather ourselves, till the kids are a bit older, till we find a place, we do what we can to keep the peace and to create a sense of stability and keep our stuff from getting broken for another day, have a peaceful dinner, etc. I get it." The racoons have been so relentless that we havent slept with the sliding door open as we usually do on warm nights, but it's actually become unbearable, so I move the cat food dish into the bathroom and drop the heavy curtain over the open door. my mama ears woke me to a soft sound in the night, immediately I knew it wasnt one of the cats, it was the sound of two little hands groping in the dark for the cat food box. I hissed loudly and there was a wild scampering. I've got ring tans, a blood blister, flea bites, blackberry scrapes, shin bruises, and some vet wrap around my hand covering a plantain poultice over a secateur slice got while pruning the grapes. The wisteria has fallen and is hanging over the kitchen window. The mama deer gets into the garden almost regularily, day or night, despite all my attempts at fencing. The morning and evening rounds through the veggies are trepidatious, my heart in my throat, expecting to count casualties. I literally put my beans to bed each night, covering them with big sheets, though I know that's neither slug or deer proof.

Dropping branches

a counselling session after a long time without, with the woman who for ten years has been advising me, listening to me, breaking into my dark corners, knocking things off my shelves and putting back the things worth keeping, swearing at just the right moment, knocking me straight and usually I'm crying but grateful at the end of it all, though bruised a bit. She would make a great deep tissue massage therapist. I'm tearing up over everything today, the day after, feeling a bit raw, without a hard shell on. Just sad, but not with any ego involved, or fear. Just grieving what could have been in my marriage, grieving the past, sad at the potential I know is there, but that most likely won't be reached. Sad for the refusal to do the work, sad for my son. Sad at all the chances I have given him, and still do, even when he's yelling in my face that I'm out to get him. All the songs on my massage playlist at work gave me the feels, even the pre hamish tunes, the Harry Manx from the last summer at Purden, alone in the yellow aspen fall, cleaning up the park in grey coveralls and in love with those little toyota pickups and a tall sassy ginger. A word, like a mantra, has settled on me to carry me forward, peace, and it's what I want, not necessarily seperation or togetherness, just the flowing absence of aggression and volatily and sudden mood changes and broken boundaries and feeling like I am a negotiator in a hostage taking, speaking calmly, so carefully neutral, keeping my tone and movements light as he roars up in the truck, throws equiptment around, open ipa tall can in the console, starts erratically throwing wild allegations, badgering an overheated felix to ride his bike some more on the hottest day of the summer so far. the exhaustion afterward he's peeled out as if I just had an encounter with a bear and managed not to run but to calmly back away. Peace is also the founding and central theme of my little activist group, it's what we rally around, the dove, the white, the opposite of rallying against war, rather for calm. A fitting personal goal. "you're trying to run together but one of you's a sprinter and one is an endurance runner. You're on completely different wavelengths. Love changes. Needs change. You birthed a child with medical needs and then had to parent your drunk husband who wonders why there's no spark. Your system doesn't know what's safe or not, everything is on high alert, and the purpetrator of your trauma is in your kitchen everyday asking for a hug and then swearing at you five minutes later. Of course you have health issues." I can't leave our child with him unsupervised, another layer of heightened danger surveillance for my nervous system. "So you'll for sure not be in the tree dropping branches for the hour and a half felix is with you, right? You'll find something else to do?" Yes of course, assurances, he's an arborist, what am I even worried about. I come back and felix is tear streaked with papa checking for blood because he dropped a branch on him from up in the maple. I can't say anything, 'but write it down,' says my therapist, 'just in case you need proof, worst case scenaros, it can get ugly.' I remember the moment I moved from Silver Creek, everything hurting my heart and the creek told me it'd be all ok, there was another place waiting for me. And now that I'm wanting to believe the same is true here, I spend time at our little creek, looking for the same assurance.

blue moon

a peaking of manic bubbly energy, community everywhere, a horse connection, a sick boy. in one of those rambling hundred year old Wildwood backyards, under an apple tree, various members of the rally group needle felting watermelon pins. Felix had a snack station under the table, played on the floatation device repurposed as a swing , investigated the old trike in the yard, reported back on the lupines blooming further back. We started talked to each other at the table about where we came from, saskatchewan, austria and the trapline, france. My new favorite person, pierre, mentioned something about having been a horse logger. We have known each other as rally allies for a year and a half, it's been a gentley unfolding friendship, but never did we think we had drafts in common. Replaying yesterday in my mind, I realize that we alienated everyone else for the next hour and a half, "you're STILL talking about horses?!" everytime Lorrie came back to the table. Talking made both of us miss the north and drafts and leather and brass and snow and hay and that hard work. We found a two degree connection via the Caravan Stage Company, and I pulled up old pictures on my phone of tandems, log skids, horse archery, me riding into my wedding on a big black percheron. my fiddle teacher way down the street on her bike, we recognize one another from a ways off, wave in passing. Felix gets a closer view and explanation of the flour mill and the nut grinder at the bulk refillery while I do my shopping, the owner gets me the sauerkraut from the basement that she hasn't put on the shelf yet. I spend the saturday noon hour with the rally group as we wave signs, shake our heads at the state of the world, hug and cry with strangers over global and middle east sorrows. The days are the perfect length, the mood is high, the skies clear. The creek meters behind the cabin is bubbly and robins call out and bumbles hum zum around, the garden is popping. Giant foraged salads are a dinner item again, as long as I eat lots of bitters and warm tea too, and there are early morning colouring sessions with my kid and he's lost his first tooth and wanted the tooth fairy to bring him a bean seed in the night. She did. We planted it. The kind was called Painted Pony. The sauerkraut at dinner smelled off to Felix, he questioned it and we convinced him it had just been in a hot car all afternoon and that it'd be fine. Maybe it was the dates he had later, that I hadn't returned yet, after I had seen vegetable oil on the ingredients list where it never was before. They smell like canola oil. Either way, as I was reading Charlotte's Web to him in bed, he said he had the feeling of sharp metal spikes in his stomach. He woke an hour later in more pain and then neither of us slept more than ten minutes at a time till 1 am, when he started vomiting and we moved out bedding to the bathroom floor. I blearily read through many many homeopathic remedy finders and symptoms lists while he writhed and moaned on a sheepskin beside me squeezed between counter and shower. We didn't make it outside till noon, but the pain has lessened. I don't think it's to do with his Hirschsprungs, and we may not need to go to the ER for IVs. He's so detailed in descriptions of physical symptoms. Later, he felt up to laying in the hammock tucked in while I did some gardening, planted the discounted peonies and the sunflowers I started inside ages ago. He was like a little butterfly cocoon. He does better inside though when he's sick. I'm the opposite. He gets to watch kids shows in bed, hamish is passed out next to him, and I'm sitting half naked in the blazing sun on my little deck, shady cedar forest to the left and too hot garden on the right. I dreamt of driving draft horses. Flies and dust and hard hooves and chestnuts, docked tails and hame balls adn tugs jingling, horse snorts and farts and big bellies.