Category Archives: Small Town Living

The season of the flood

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Spring is finally (FINALLY!) here and the sound of ice cracking and robins singing is sweet music to my long-frozen ears.

It’s so wonderful to be able to whistle down Elmvale’s sidewalks without picking through ice. I’ve happily hung up the shovels and packed away my Michelin-man inspired parka.

JF and Tobias, after his bath

JF and Tobias, after his bath

To thank Tobias for getting through the winter, I sent him for a bath this morning. A kind lady named Deb cleaned him top to bottom and he is beautiful again. Our relationship is so much better now that the roads are dry.

Neighbours tell us it has been an epic winter – cold, drawn out, and remarkably snowy. I believe them. For at least a month our front door wasn’t visible from the road thanks to massive piles of snow in our front yard.

What I’m now learning is that with epic snowbanks comes epic flooding. So far (knock on wood) the melting snow hasn’t swallowed our basement. But our driveway looks like this:

To celebrate Elmvale’s first afternoon in the dougle digits, JF and I explored the Minesing Wetlands today. We spotted roads and front yards totally overtaken by water. Still, it was good to feel the earth under my feet and hear rivers rushing past.

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It’s a small county after all

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You know how I’ve been sorting through old stuff lately? Well, I recently found this journal my mom bought me several years ago.

Winnie the Pooh children's book cover

Here’s the front cover

Thinking I’d get to re-visit angst-ridden teenage poetry, I flipped open the first page.

Instead of a journal entry, guess what I found? A biography about Heather Smeding, our house’s former owner.

Here's Heather's bio, with our attic mentioned right in the first paragraph

Here’s Heather’s bio, with our attic mentioned right in the first paragraph

My mind was boggled. I suddenly had this feeling that the cosmos has big plans for me,  that everyone is connected and that someday, I’d find my favourite socks.

Then I remembered : Simcoe County only has 446,000 people living in it. The chances of someone from Perkinsfield meeting someone from Elmvale (15 minutes away) are pretty good.

Damn. I guess those socks really are lost.

Even though the whole thing wasn’t destiny, it was a nice reminder that like-minded people find ways to connect.

When I met Heather, I liked her instantly. She had amazing art, talked straight, and had a subtle (but sharp) sense of humour. She was part of the reason this house appealed to me.

My favourite part of the journal is the last page, where Heather tucked a little list of journal entry prompts.

These prompts came in a sweet little recycled pouch

These prompts came in a sweet little recycled pouch

I thought I’d share some of my responses:

  • Dear past me : Your poetry isn’t good
  • If I could change one thing : I’d find my favourite socks
  • Three good things : BBQ chips, snuggling and puppies
  • Things I always did with my mom: read Winnie the Pooh
  • Three things I would grab if my house was on fire : a photo album, the blanket my avò made me, and my purse
  • If I knew I couldn’t fail, I would : be a painter
  • Thing I’ve done that I didn’t think I could : sing for a crowd

I think I might use this journal to keep track of the many things I’m grateful for, starting with my mom, good food, friendly people, and happy coincidences.

One of my journal's inside pages

One of my journal’s inside pages

Flexitarian

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Since moving back to Simcoe County, I’ve spent a lot more time in the kitchen. Bring on the crockpot lentils stews. Why? Because cooking is cheaper and healthier than eating out. Also because I can count Elmvale’s dining options on two hands. They include:

  • Steelers Pub: specializing in wings and beer
  • Alma’s Café: classic greasy spoon
  • Pieces of Olde: soup and sandwiches prepared by little old ladies
  • Cheezers Pizza: famous
  • Life’s a Slice: not famous, but still quite good
  • A’s Fish and Chips: self-explanatory
  • New Golden City Chinese Food: chicken balls and fried rice
  • Kozy Kitchen: full breakfast for $3

steelers-elmvaleThere are also a few chain joints (Elmvale has the only Coffee Time I’ve ever frequented that isn’t filled with drug addicts and undercover cops), but those don’t count.

Elmvale’s restaurants are surprisingly good, but they don’t exactly offer the plethora of cuisines I’m used to. In Toronto, we had Indian, Japanese and Thai food delivered to our door regularly. New Golden’s wontons just can’t compete.

Also, when I go to most of these restaurants and say I’m vegetarian, I pretty much get the classic response from My Big Fat Greek Wedding:

But sometimes, I just can’t be bothered to cook. And when I go out for food, I find myself eating the occasional fillet of halibut with fries. It’s either that or pick the bacon off an overdressed Caesar salad.

Classic fish and chips. So hard to resist.

Classic fish and chips. So hard to resist.

My new, flexitarian diet feels really strange. After nine years of skipping finned creatures, popping fish back into my diet doesn’t seem natural. As I ingest flakes of trout, I think guiltily about giant nets scraping along ocean floors and chemicals being poured into vats full of squirming, farmed fish.

Still, that golden, battered, deep fried fish is crispy. And it disappears as quickly as my morals, apparently.

Friends ask if I’m going to start eating chicken or beef and to that I say no – or at least, not now. I’m encouraging JF to purchase some of the amazing local organic meat we have in the neighbourhood (check out my colleague Mark’s farm!) but I’m not ready to go there myself. This flexitarian will only flex so far.

It's okay guys, you're safe.

It’s okay guys, you’re safe.

The province of Toronto

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Some people in rural Ontario feel that Toronto is a noisy and crowded pit of depravity populated by spoiled elitists selfishly hogging hard-earned government resources.

This week, the editor of Elmvale’s free local paper claimed that if Toronto were to secede, the rest of the province would rejoice.

The editorial from Springwater News

Despite slight factual incongruities (Michael don’t you know Torontonians leave the city as often as possible?), this piece made me grin.

I would add that some Torontonians think of places like Elmvale as quaint little backwaters filled with gun-toting, simple-minded, conservative rednecks. That is, if they even bother thinking of rural Ontario as anything more than a hodge podge of ski hills, cottages, and cute little downtown shopping areas.

What’s important is that in both cases, “some” means a minority — hopefully. Both stereotypes carry a grain of truth. And as a citry girl, I’m delighted to be able to laugh at both the big smog and the boonies.

You get what you give

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Volunteering is awesome. Maybe it’s my non-profit background talking, but I think everyone wins when you join a committee, sit on a board, or commit to a weekly shift.

A group of people sits around a table

I snapped this photo at the last 2014 Festival du Loup Committee meeting.

I volunteer to support organizations that do work I find valuable. But when I sign up, I know I’ll also get to meet great people, gain valuable experience, learn new things, watch my impact over time, and (big picture) build up my community. Plus there’s that “I’m awesome!” high-fivesque feeling you get at the end of a great event, meeting or project.

There are downsides, of course. My mom taught me that committing to something means giving it your all. Pile a few volunteer roles together (I can’t help myself!) and the result is a packed schedule. When I’m tired, I’d just rather sit on my couch and eat Cheetos.

But in the end, the pros always outweigh the cons, orange puffed cornmeal snacks and all. Especially now that I’m giving back to my community – the place that shaped me before unleashing me on Toronto in my late teens. My recent causes include:

Le Festival du Loup: I’m Franco-Ontarian, and this event brings frenchies like me together for a weekend of live music, beer, dancing and gossip. The tunes are toe-tappingly good – sometimes square-dancingly good. This year’s festival is on July 18, 19 and 20 in Lafontaine. We’re currently looking for sponsors, recruiting artisans, and figuring out how to sell tickets online.

The Midland Cultural Centre: North Simcoe is a secret hub of artistic greatness. We’ve bred authors, painters, musicians and everything in between. The MCC means all those talented people finally have a place to hang out, and an outlet to share their work. If you haven’t been to Saturday Open Mic or visited Quest Gallery, you should. Or better yet, sign up to become a regular box office or event volunteer.

The Georgian’s Got Talent (or not) Benefit Concert: What better way for me to give back to my employer than to help with its annual talent show/benefit concert? I’ll be singing and playing – which, frankly, is terrifying. All proceeds support Georgian College students who need a financial boost to get through school. Performances are on March 20 and 21 and you can buy tickets through Bear Essentials.

There are so many great organizations to get involved with around here, it was really difficult to decide where to direct my occasionally flailing enthusiasm. Some of my other local favourites include La Clé, Shelter Now, Chigamik, Community Reach, Waypoint and United Way of Greater Simcoe County.

Wherever you are, you’ve no doubt got similarly awesome local non-profits just waiting for someone with your skills and talents. If you’ve got time, consider diving in and helping out – you won’t regret it.

Embracing winter

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The crappy side of winter. Driving in this.

The crappy side of winter. Driving in this.

This winter feels about as long as high school. For all my happy thoughts about shovelling, I’m tired of having my hands freeze to gas pumps. I don’t want to buy any more sidewalk salt. And I simply refuse to get stuck driving 70 km/h on a barely snowy one-lane highway – or, as JF calls it, getting buick-ed.

The worst part is, I never had to deal with any of this shit when I lived in Toronto.

The constant biting winds have my (poor, overworked) optimism constantly rewinding back to when winter was awesome. Twenty years ago, I could do backward crosscuts, make ice forts, and spend whole days building snowwomen – my mom is a feminist, can you tell? – in our backyard. Today I can barely do up my snowpants.

Me and Alicia, in the early 90s. Yes, that is a one-piece neon snowsuit.

Me and Alicia, in the early 90s. Yes, that is a one-piece neon snowsuit.

Memories of epic childhood snowball fights and two other things are currently keeping me going:

      • The Olympics. Because they are an excellent reminder that some people actually like snow and ice.
      • My lovely friends. Because they keep booting my butt out into the fresh air.

Thank you to: Mireille for getting me to the skating rink, Danielle for loaning me her Krazy Karpet, Kyra for trekking through deep snow in Tiny Marsh with me, Happy and Sam for getting married in an ice palace, and JF for forcing me to use the snowshoes we got for Christmas two years ago.

Mireille, my skating buddy.

Mireille, my skating buddy.

Warding off the winter blues is tough. But it might be a lot easier if instead of just thinking about when winter was great, I actually did great winter things.

Maybe I’ll try curling, or maybe JF and I will build a massive igloo in the backyard. Either way, I am determined to kick February in its snowy, white ass.

Unlearning what I have learned

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Tonight, mom and I went to Hope Lives Here, a fundraiser for the Georgian Bay Cancer Support Centre. The big room was filled with people celebrating cancer patients and survivors – bound together by shared experience.

I was moved by stories of courage, loss and, most of all, hope. I was also a bit overwhelmed by faces from my past.

If you aren’t from a small town, here’s what it’s like: there’s no use hiding in the bathroom when you’re guaranteed to know the woman peeing next to you.

If you were a total misfit and weirdo most of your youth (ahem), this lack of anonymity can be trying. But most of the time, it’s nice to feel connected to those around you. I think that’s what most mean when they use the word community: people who share a common story.

When I first moved to Toronto, I made eye contact with everyone I passed on the sidewalk, talked to anyone I rode more than two floors with in an elevator, and always made friends with seatmates on the subway, whether they smelled like garbage or not.

Fast-forward to now. The chatty salesperson trying to recommend a product makes me want to claw my eyes out. The old lady asking me where I got my coat gives me tappy-foot syndrome.  The waitress who can’t stop talking about the weather is deeply irritating.

My ability to remain disconnected from (or inability to connect with?) people I bump into every day is sad. In the words of Yoda, I must unlearn what I have learned.

This event was a good start. A reminder of the importance of community – in helping people heal, giving us purpose, and bringing our days meaning. I’m going to carry that lesson in my back pocket these next few weeks and see where it takes me.

 

Citry girl in New York

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These days I kind of feel like my Portuguese mom would have felt a year after moving to Manitouwadge from the Azores: super confused about my identity.

I’m not a posh Torontoist, but I’m not a bumpkin from Perkinsfield anymore either. I scoff at people in crocs, but snort at those who order espresso. It’s an interesting space to inhabit.

I’m a country-turned-city-turned-country girl, or (another hybrid word!) a citry girl. And this citry girl just got back from an extended weekend in New York.

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Mireille and Cynthis in Times Square

I’m not going to lie, the trip kind of made me miss Toronto. Not because New York’s not awesome, but because big cities can be.

We shopped for sunglasses at 2 a.m. in Times Square, ate amazing Indian food on Diwali, and bought handmade jewellery from an artisan’s market in Greenwich Village. Somehow Elmvale’s gift shop, Chinese food and farmer’s market can’t quite compare.

Ghost busters stand in a group

Halloween in NYC means meeting Ghost Busters!

Exploring some parts of New York felt to me like bumping into childhood friends – your guts say you know them but you don’t actually. Wall Street is like Bay street, but with better bagels. Fifth Avenue is like Yorkville times 20. Central Park is like High Park, but bigger and, well, central.

Rockefeller Tower

Rockefeller

It was pretty wonderful to be in the thick of it all, but at the end, it was equally wonderful to park my car next to my big red house, step out, and smell the fresh country air.

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Skyline with lady liberty

A big, warm thank you to Mireille and Cynthia, my travel buddies, for sharing the big apple with me. A little city adventure was just what I needed to appreciate where I’ve been and where I’m going.

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Me at the Staten Island Ferry

Kansas

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Sometimes I feel like Dorothy. Yesterday, I learned that Flynn’s Irish Pub in Penetanguishene becomes Uncle Flynn’s Daycare during business hours.

Huh?

When I hear about stuff like that, I can help but think “Mikaela, you’re not in Toronto anymore.” I’m actually in Kansas. Or what most Torontonians think of as the equivalent of Kansas: Ontario farm country.

Here are two other examples.

1) The other day I asked a colleague from Elmvale where I could drop off my dry cleaning in town. The answer surprised me.

“The gun shop,” she said.

“!??,” I said with my face.

A quick call to her husband, a local tradesman, confirmed it. Watson’s Sports is where you go to get your clothes dry cleaned in my town. While you’re dropping off your silk shirts, you can also pick up a new Ruger and some Hula Poppers. Amazing.

That night I – the pacifist vegetarian – stood in front of the gun shop on Queen Street East with an armload of dirty officewear, looking for some sign that they cleaned clothes.

My eyes found a barely legible, tucked away old placard that either said “French cry leaners” or “French’s dry cleaners.”  I hoped it was the latter and went in.

A man stared me down as I dumped my blouses and trousers on the glass counter – right on top of the ammo. He didn’t offer to help me. Didn’t even bat an eye.

“Do you take dry cleaning?” I asked.

“Yes we do,” he volunteered.

“…?” I said with my face. “I’d like to get these cleaned. How long will it take?”

“Two weeks,” he replied as he slowly moved to fill out a receipt.

I tried not to look shocked (two weeks!?) and walked around the store. I’m pretty sure there was a mounted stuffed dear head behind a rack of camouflage coats. Pray for my favourite blazer.

2) This past weekend was the Elmvale Fall Fair, in all its carnivalesque glory. There are so many reasons to love this event.

For starters, all of the moms and dads with kids at local schools take a day off work to watch their children march in the Friday afternoon parade. Apparently it lasts all of 15 minutes. That, friends, is community.

Then there’s the Saturday afternoon parade, which features pretty much all non-school-aged Elmvalers – everyone from grannies on scooters to farmers on tractors.

Also worth seeing at the fair: the tractor pull, oddest-shaped vegetable, best barley, most beautifully decorated pancake, and of course, the top cow.

This year, my old roomie Steph and I watched a handful of (we thought identical) three-year-old jersey cows walk around in circles and compete for a shiny red ribbon. A dairy farmer sitting next to us explained that judges look for cows with veiny udders and great “angularity” – that means bony.

But what I love most about the fair is that basically every living person originally from Elmvale comes to town, plus several extras like me. We could probably have sold parking spots in our driveway.

This really is a whole other world. My personal Oz.

The eighth oddest shaped vegetable in Elmvale

These cows are for eating, but at the fall fair, they are treated like queens.

These cows are for eating, but at the fall fair, they are treated like queens.

Off her rocker.

Off her rocker.

Mini princesses at the parade.

Mini princesses at the parade.

Elmvale is...

Rural Elmvale is… where we come back

Rural life.

Rural life.

Steph at the top of the ferris wheel

Steph at the top of the ferris wheel

Settling in?

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It’s been 2.5 weeks and our house is starting to feel like home. Sort of. We’ve finished de-wallpapering, painting and unpacking two out of 13 rooms. Two important rooms — the kitchen and living room — but that is still a measly 15% of the spaces in our house.

The good news is, we’re really enjoying that 15%. Tonight we sat on the couch and surfed the internet for several hours. That was great.

Living room before and after.

Living room before and after.

 

The bad news is, the rest of the house is in shambles. Pockmarked walls, smelly grey carpet, and a few sticks of furniture. I generally pretend those parts don’t exist. Or I attack them with spackle in the hope that they can soon be painted and prettied up.

Dining area before and after.

Dining area (in the kitchen) before and after. I need a bigger area rug.

 

I don’t think I’ll ever claim the main bathroom and damp basement as ours. They might be lost causes.

Kitchen before and after.

Kitchen before and after.

Neither JF nor I have fully absorbed the implications of home ownership. I still treat my mom’s like a grocery store. And JF still refers to the Toronto apartment as “home.”

I say THE Toronto apartment because, as of August 31, it is no longer OUR Toronto apartment. Aside from the baby squirrels that currently live on its dining room windowsill, it’s vacant. And soon, someone new will take over the lease.

Generally, we haven’t had any time to ponder the deep, existential, seismic change that empty apartments represents. We haven’t even cut our lawn yet. I’m waiting for that “holy crap this is real” moment.

In the meantime, we will keep trying to enjoy our new life while chipping away at the monstrous project we started when our mortgage went through.