House update

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I’m taking a quick break from Georgian’s Got Talent Benefit Concert shenanigans (show is tomorrow and Friday and tickets can be purchased here!) to update you all on the state of my house.

After stripping acres of wallpaper last summer and painting walls last fall, we took an extended home maintenance break.

Snowy road

This was my drive to work late last week

Probably too long a break, actually. I blame the horrid winter we’re (still!) enduring.

We hired a nice handyman named Scott to clean out our eaves troughs just after Halloween. They froze before he could get to them, so he said he’d come by at the first thaw. Well, the thaw never came.

I just did the math and that’s almost five months – or about 40% of the whole damn year – under ice.

We didn’t spend those five months hammering away as planned, but we did pick up fun new skills like pipe thawing, flood fighting, car boosting, and ice chipping – all vital when powering through cold, cold February in a Victorian home.

In any case, we’re getting back into the swing of things — our energy levels rising as the days grow longer. JF is nailing in our new powder room ceiling as I type.

First priority when things thaw? Stripping the addition’s siding so we can insulate the mudroom. There goes the hardwood floor budget, but at least we’ll avoid more long winter nights holding hairdryers to our pipes.

Here are some photos of our space as it looked last weekend. There are about a zillion things that don’t look right or need to be fixed, but it’s feeling like home.

Heather and Jerry left us this lovely sign for our front porch

Heather and Jerry left us this lovely sign for our front porch

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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.

Finding Humphrey

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Back in 2013, when we were pondering the move from city to country, we had a very specific lifestyle in mind.

Picture an ecologically and beautifully renovated old stone farmhouse on a hill, hidden from the road. Every day after work, I’d wear a big floppy hat and tend an organic vegetable garden while JF went birding with our dog Humphrey. Then we’d read together on a big, soft sofa by the fire, the dog curled up at our feet.

It was a nice dream. Instead, we bought a fireplace-less (but pretty!) victorian house on the main street in Elmvale. I’m out most evenings and haven’t touched the garden. JF sneaks in some birding between slow and painful renovations. I’ve read only two books since August.

But there’s still the question of Humphrey.

The closest I came to a childhood pet was the time mom let me keep some toads in a bucket on our deck. I was a bad toadmother and they got away. So, I’ve been asking myself two important questions:

  1. Am I attracted to the idea of a dog, or do I actually want one?
  2. Am I prepared for all aspects of dog ownership?

I’m certain there are things we should do before diving into the world of chew toys and poop bags — like actually answer those two questions and maybe fence in our yard — but the far more fun thing to think about is what kind of puppy we’ll get.

We both really want a rescue, but my nasty allergies and overzealous cleaning habits mean we’re thinking hypoallergenic and non-shedding. So, in the manner of my friend Brad’s most recent blog post, I’d like you all to vote for one of the following options:

  1. Airedale Terrier
  2. Barbet
  3. Bernedoodle
  4. Petit Basset Griffon Vendéen
  5. Schnauzer
  6. Sheepadoodle

VOTE HERE and help us choose!

Blast from the past

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One of the down? up? sides of owning a big, rambling house is that many things can fit in it. If you count the creepy basement, our home has four flours — plus several large closets, a garage and a shed. And some of the first people to notice this lavish storage space were my parents.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, really. The cast from when Patrick Henderson broke my pinkie finger, my extensive penny collection, and my coveted pair of six-hole Doc Martens all spent many years rotting in their basements. Literally rotting. As in, my poor Docs were covered in mould.

My mom was the first person to kindly drop off a bin of childhood surprises, including the following:

My granny square crochet sweater, porcelain doll, and sigur ros mixed cd.

My granny square crochet sweater, porcelain doll, and sigur ros mixed cd.

My high school student card and penny collection

My high school student card and penny collection

Last week, I spent an hour or two in my dad’s basement and was handed the following treasures:

Some of my favourite childhood puzzles.

Some of my favourite, strangely creepy childhood puzzles.

My Curious George alarm clock

My Curious George alarm clock

A few days ago, I received a large Rubbermaid full of old photo albums. Tucked away in a corner was my ten year old self’s most prized possessions: my marble collection.

Complete with theft-preventing inventory

Complete with theft-preventing inventory

These trips down memory lane were horrifying? pleasantly nostalgic? interesting.

I ended up putting a lot of stuff right in the garbage. Some, like my marbles, are now on display. And some I packed away in my basement, stairwell cubby, and attic closet — ready to be rediscovered when we move in a decade or two.

Me, age four.

Me, age four.

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.

My funny valentine

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Yesterday, I re-read my blog top to bottom. Leaned into it with magnifying glass, found a few typos, wished I’d said some things differently, swallowed a few reminders of my brashness.

See caption

JF and I at Fort Henry

I realized that not a single post paid homage to my partner, JF – the quiet, perfect person who makes me functional.

Ours isn’t a new or sparkly love. It’s kind of like our house – charming, old, beautiful, quirky, a little worn, comfortable. We work at it a lot. I’m drawn to it. It’s where I want to be most of the time.

JF fixes things, keeps me humble, and likes birds. He reminds me that I enjoy mopey folk music, makes me laugh, and raps about things like toast. He rubs my back when I’m sick and holds my hand when we walk together.

I’m a sentimental boob all of the time, but maybe that’s because I’ve got such a lovely person to be sentimental about. I’m grateful for him every day. Even when he leaves his dirty socks on the coffee table.

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.

Pros and cons of owning an ancient house

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JF and I just made this list of all the reasons we love and hate owning a 113-year-old home.

20140205-231601.jpg

Verdict? We’ll probably buy new or build next time, but wouldn’t trade this experience (or our time in this clunker grand old fortress) for anything.

Família

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An older woman sits on a deck

My grandma. Her name is Micaela and I was named after her.

Ask my Portuguese grandma how she’s doing and her response (delivered with a thick
accent) will almost always be one of the following:

  • Still alive,
  • Above ground, or
  • Fine.

Hardly cheerful, but certainly honest. I wish I had the license for brutal truth telling she currently carries in her giant, practical black purse.

When she was visiting her hometown of Algarvia a few years ago, she ran into an acquaintance on the way to church. He was bent over with old age and barely able to walk. She said to him: “You’re still alive? If I had your health I’d rather be dead.” He passed away later that week.

That kind of earnestness can be tough – especially when directed at me – but I wouldn’t trade my avò in for a hundred ladies of Fatima.

Until I was about 14, I’d go to her house in Perkinsfield every day after school with my sisters. She’d serve us bean soup, giblet stew, bacalhau or shake n’ bake – always with a side of homemade bread and practical advice, washed down with coca-cola.

Avò, my sister Alicia, and my cousins Priscilla and Nathanael. Oh, and a baby bathtub full of dough.

Avò, my sister Alicia, and my cousins Priscilla and Nathanael. Oh, and a baby bathtub full of dough.

After eating twice our weight in her immaculate kitchen we’d watch Sailor Moon from her floral couches and play backgammon with our uncle John (a.k.a. João). Then she’d bundle us up, kiss us on the head, and send us across the yard to our house so we could get ready for bed.

Avò always says that family is the most important thing. When I think about how much she’s done for me, it’s clear she lives by that affirmation.

Spending time with my grandma today reminds me of the deep tunnels my family has dug into my heart. Some memories are etched onto my brain forever, squished tight against some kind of giant, pulsing affection node.

Love like that can never hold a stain or wrinkle – kind of like her table linens. So even though I no longer eat giblet stew, I’m grateful to be able to drive 15 minutes to her place for a cup of tea and a story about the old country.

Me and my grandma, outside her house

I think we look alike, don’t you?