Thoughts on Halloween

It is Halloween today, the turning of the wheel of the year into the cold, fallow season. This time of year makes me think of hurrying home in the gathering dark, walking along the edges of the sidewalks so that I might kick through fallen leaves, and hear their papery rustle beneath my feet. It makes me think of potted mums, dried corn stalks and bales of straw, of carving pumpkins and eating their seeds, toasted. It makes me think of candles glowing in darkness, of mystery and magic.

I remember Mrs. Cosman, who lived behind the school, giving out candy apples, and my mom driving us over to Nana and Poppa's so they could see our costumes. I remember the last time I went trick or treating with my friends, no parents, and getting lost in an unfamiliar neighbourhood as wet snow began to fall, and, a little older, watching Halloween over and over on Pay Per View, in the dark. I remember how my mom always had two bowls of candy: in one, the good stuff reserved for the little kids; in the other, packages of gum for the older kids.

Hay rides, haunted houses, heavy wool sweaters: all these memories come from Ontario, from my childhood and teenage years. Here in the Yukon, the rustle of fallen leaves underfoot has long been replaced by the crunch of snow: there is a foot of snow outside now. All of the things that I associate with this time of year are buried, muffled by snow. This is not the descent into winter: we are already well into that season. Even after almost 10 years here, I still struggle to incorporate these wildly unbalanced seasons into my psyche. 

I don't feel particularly festive today. My kids are not dressing up. The logistics of going to town just to collect candy I don't want them to eat are too great for me. I worry I'm depriving them of some essential part of childhood, but then again, they're young still. Perhaps a bonfire tonight in the yard, if we can uncover the fire pit.

Do any of you mark this day with something other than costumes and candy? I'd love to hear what this time of year means to you!

Fall in the Klondike Valley

While it is fall in name only in many parts of Canada, here in the North, we are most definitely in the thick of it.

Fall is birch and aspen shimmering gold; it is the leaves of the fireweed and wild rose turning yellow, orange, deep purple, scarlet. It is a breathtaking display of colours on the tundra. It makes me think of a richly woven carpet, spread out over the mountains. We take drives out to Tombstone Territorial Park, just up the highway from our house, to drink it all in.

It is a time of dark nights filled with stars and undulating aurora borealis. It is sometimes damp. It is morning frosts laying the tall wild grasses low, and sweetening the cranberries that hang ripe on the bush. 

Fall here is guys in checkered flannel jackets asking "Got your moose?" over cups of coffee in the Eldo. We head to the hills on warm afternoons, plunk our babies down in the soft moss and lichen, and fill our buckets with wild blueberries, keeping the conversation up so the bears know we're there. We hurry to get the garden in, chopping, blanching, freezing and canning, listening for the soft "plink" of the jars sealing. We work on the woodpile, bucking up logs into stove-lengths, splitting, stacking. 

Fall is the final push to get it all done before cold weather and dark nights settle in. The miners pull the last bit of gold from the ground, and the bartenders and blackjack dealers pull the last bit of gold from the miners. The seasonal businesses run down their stock, close up hotel rooms one by one for the winter; the boards are nailed up over the windows and doors. The town is quieter, now.

More than anything, fall up here feels to me like leaving. Maybe I haven't been here long enough yet to feel settled. Maybe I've just got leaving in my heart.  It is a tightness in the throat as we watch the cranes fly overhead and the seasonal workers hitch their way out of town, back to Toronto or Vancouver or Montreal.

For those of us left behind, it is a time of drawing in, and of reconnecting with friends after a busy summer. There is a scramble to find someone to shack up with, making high rent and long cold nights more tolerable. We hunker down as winter approaches, we speculate on what kind of a winter it might be, sizing it up with more than a little apprehension.

Fall here is brief and beautiful; it is hurrying up and slowing down all at once.

These Days

If I actually sat down and wrote all of the blog posts that occurred to me, well, I guess I'd have a more active blog! Instead, I tend to pass out at 8 every night, wedged between a baby and a toddler. It's a thrilling existence, let me tell ya.

We've been having beautiful weather these past few weeks. It's still cold at night, -25 or so, but it warms up with the sun. It's usually around 0 by mid afternoon. We get outside then to soak up the day. The snow has come off  the roof completely in some places, and is taking its time in others. This past week I've noticed little flocks of snow buntings at the roadsides...they usually pass through this time of year. I've even seen the catkins beginning to grow on the willows! I'm hoping this gradual spring continues, because I'm really loving it.

We've been dealing with a very itchy-headed baby lately, and it's been at its worst this week. The doctor's keep calling it cradle cap, but I'm convinced it's eczema. The skin became infected, and after trying a few home remedies, I caved and Colm is now on a course of antibiotics. The infected skin is looking much better, but his head is still red, rashy, dry and itchy. I hope once winter passes and the woodstoves burn out for the last time, it will clear. It's hard for me to take pictures of Colm, but I don't want to miss documenting this time in his life, so I force myself to do it. Looking through photos from Ontario to now, I can really see it progressing. I hope we're on the downside!

Aside from itching a lot, Colm has started rolling over! He's also begun to babble, and he's just the cutest thing since Aedan! I love this rollie-pollie, pudgy-baby, not-yet-mobile stage!

Aedan is a real challenge. He "helps" me a lot, which is cute. But he's so physical. When he gets excited at our playgroup, he'll push kids down, hit them in the face, pull hair...the other moms reassure me it's developmentally normal,and I know it is, but it's hard to parent him right now. We're working on showing him appropriate ways to play. I try to focus on his sweeter times, when he's giving kisses or hugs or snuggling up to me in bed (though that last also drives me crazy!) I'm eager for this phase to pass.

Aedan and his whale "helping" me do dishes. 

On the verge

Today was the first day we could really feel that summer is almost here. It was hot and sunny, with huge clouds like castles in the bright blue sky.

The leaves are so close to popping...there is a glimmer of green, like a haze over the hillsides and in the willow thickets along the highway. In our own yard, swollen buds have begun to  unfurl. The brief rainfall we had yesterday seems to have urged everything along. There are tiny yellow-green flowers on the soapberry bushes; the fireweed, bluebells and lupine are all pushing up out of the dark earth. 

My heart sings along with the birds: it's here! it's here! it's here!

I dream of leaving

Yesterday, I was outside raking the yard in the sunshine. I was moving my tender seedlings onto the porch to begin hardening them off. I was thinking about where I want to plant the new flowers I picked up at the Gold Show on Friday.

Today, there is about 8 cm of snow on the ground, and more falling from the colourless sky.

Maybe it's this never-ending winter, or maybe it's something more, but I spend more than the usual amount of time dreaming of a life lived elsewhere. P and I have talked about leaving the Yukon 5-10 years from now, but I find myself wishing it could happen sooner than that. I long for milder winters and more than 90 frost-free days a year. I want to be out in my garden now, I want to see green things growing and to feel the warm sun on my shoulders.

It's more than just this winter business, of course. I wish it were easier to get local food more of the year. I'm not comfortable with how far our produce travels to reach us. The farmer's market will be open next weekend, but the first vegetables won't be available for almost another month. Living here just doesn't seem to jive with so many of my values.

I try to focus on the positives: the tight-knit community, and the fact that people are trying to farm here....but I know these things exist outside of the Yukon, too.

For now, though, I must accept where I am and make the best of it. I will support the local food movement as much as I possibly can. We will improve our little homestead, make ourselves comfortable for as long as we remain...but I will continue to dream of greener pasture.

Something nice to say

My mother always told me: if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. I suppose this is the reason for my silence here for the past...week? Longer? I'm not even sure how long it's been. Honestly, all I've felt like doing is complaining about the weather. And that gets old, and fast!

But it finally feels like this longest of long winters has had its last gasp. Each day, more and more bare ground is revealed. We're lucky to have full southern exposure at our home, so the snow banks that had built up are quickly disappearing. The raised bed I made last fall is fully uncovered and (I hope) thawing out, as is the remainder of the load of topsoil we had delivered last year. My flower bed is slowly being revealed, too, and I'm curious to see if the delphiniums I put in last year have survived. There still isn't much of any green out there (though I hear the crocuses are coming out on the bluffs). There IS a whole lotta ugly...I can't wait to attack with a rake! But spring has finally found us here in the Yukon, and we're all rejoicing!

The rivers are still frozen, but the ice changes daily. Each spring there is a danger of flood for many communities, but this spring it seems especially worrisome. Should we get a heat wave and all of this snow and ice melt in a hurry, there's no telling what might happen. There hasn't been a major flood in Dawson since the late 70's, and they built a dike along the riverfront following that. But I've heard more than a few people speculating that the waters could breech the dike this spring. Certainly our friends living right on the river, in Rock Creek and other spots like it, must be anxiously watching and waiting...only time will tell!

Taken today from the bridge at the Dempster Corner, looking north along the Klondike River.

Finally...

Finally it feels a bit more like spring is here. The last two afternoons we've hit 10 degrees (on the plus side!) in the sun. Big, deep mud puddles are opening up in the walk to our house; little channels form between them, and they drain from one to the other, and then eventually down the little hill in front of the house. Our forest trail is becoming soft as the snow begins to rot away, and soon we'll have to take our walks on the shoulder of the highway. I've noticed a some silvery-soft pussy willows popping out along the road, and the tree buds seem to swell a little more each day.

There is light in the sky until well after 10 pm now, and it makes me eager for warmer weather. I think constantly of the garden, of what I will do, of the successes and the failures, too. The other day I dreamed I walked down to the garden and all the snow was gone, and I stood barefoot in the warm, muddy soil, the sun on my face. Ah, if only. I still need snowshoes to get down there right now. Next time we clean the ash out of the woodstove, I plan to spread it over the garden bed in hopes of speeding up the snow melt.

Splash! Aedan was soaked after his afternoon of exploring puddles. We need to get him some proper gum boots!

Spring? Is that you?

Once again, my blog roll is filled with images of blooming flowers and greening trees, and stories of wild-harvesting nettles, opening farmer's markets, and the first turnings of garden soil. And here we are, with 2 feet of snow still on the ground. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't discouraging. It feels like this snow will never be melted, like we'll never see green grass again...

...but of course I know that's not true. The weather is changing: last night only got down to -10 C. We've got hours and hours of daylight, and the roof is constantly dripping with snow melt, so spring must be here, right? It's mid-April for goodness sake!

Today I went out with my camera and tried (a bit desperately, I'll confess), to get a few pictures to prove that Spring is...on its way? Here already? I don't know. That it's not-winter, I suppose.

Spring Moon

Only a week ago, it was close to 40 below at night, clear and sunny and cold during the day...and here we are, all of a sudden surrounded by the first signs of spring!

~ The snow is melting off the rooftops, crashing to the ground in great thick sheets that rumble the whole house

~ The city and highways departments have been working to grade all the roads down to pavement or dirt

~ Ice Guessing tickets are on sale!

~ Starting seeds and dreaming of the garden (still lying under at least 3 feet of snow!)

~ Melting and drip-drip-dripping everywhere

~ Letting the fire go out today!

~ Opening doors and windows and letting the fresh air blow through the house

~ No long underwear and no plugging the car in!

~ Small flocks of snow buntings flitting around. I love these birds, so starkly black and white, and still remember the first time I saw them, right around this same time of year!

Now is the long haul before all this snow is gone, and the first green shoots of lupine and bluebells start to poke their heads up in the yard. 

What are the signs of spring where you live?

Goodbye January, Hello Nicaragua

I must admit, January has not been my favourite month. There have been moments of joy and beauty:

a warm afternoon with the sun bright in the sky, the wind blowing swirls of snow off the trees;

a cheery bonfire in the yard while Aedan chases the dogs up and down the shoveled walkway;

and my favourite, a Saturday morning, the house filled with golden sunlight, the wood stove keeping us warm, dancing around to the Beatles with the babe in my arms.

But this month we watched my good friend's dog, Suzie, die. We've been caring for her while my friend is away. Suzie stopped eating, and about 10 days later, she passed peacefully in her sleep. I was able to sit with her and comfort her through the worst of it that night. It is never easy to see a beloved animal die; it is harder still to see another's animal out of this life. She was a good old girl, and didn't seem to be suffering. I suspect it was just her time. I wish she could have had her own mama at the end, but I hope I was familiar enough to her.

There have been some downright frigid spells this month, with lows of -50 C at night. These temperatures guarantee crisp, clear days...which are spent indoors. The rest of the time, it's been fairly mild. January has brought a few feet of snow and day after day of grey skies. I'm tired of the monotone....

Sunday we set out on an adventure: we are headed to Nicaragua for 3 weeks! We are so looking forward to sunshine, bare feet and shoulders, swimming, fresh fruit, foods we've never tasted before, a new language, culture, history and landscape.

I'll be in touch, friends!




Rest in peace, Suzie-girl.

January Blues

January has caught up to me, burying me in an avalanche of monochrome sky. It fills my eyesearsnosemouthlungs with cold and dark; I choke on it, gasping for warm breath.

It smothers each tree, each branch and twig. Every twisted strand of lichen, each spruce needle, each dried out stalk of grass that has managed to keep its head up: weighted heavy with snow.

Each day is flat, grey, sunless. The trees offer a suggestion of green that is more black than anything, their trunks a pale brown. That is the only relief in this drear month.

I long for colour and light. Gaudy-plumed tropical birds calling raucously from trees in every shade of green, trees sporting blooms of red, purple, yellow, orange. I long for skies that scream blue, and puffy white clouds  and an ocean that glitters in the ever-deepening gradient of the Caribbean. 

I hunger for fresh fruit, juicy and ripe bursting between my teeth, flooding my mouth with stored up sunlight instead of this tiresome weight of snow and ice and dark 

dark 

dark.

I forgot what January was like. I seem to forget each year until it hits me like this.

3 weeks until Nicaragua: an orgy of light and colour and fresh fruit and oh my. Swimming and bare shoulders and bare feet. At least I've got this to move toward!

Beginning new traditions

Having a little one has me spending lots of time around the holidays thinking about how I want to celebrate. It is my hope to create some new traditions imbued with meaning, ones that Aedan will cherish and carry on. I would like to celebrate in ways that link closely to the rhythm of the seasons, with a focus on the natural world rather than on "things".

I'm sure that one day, Aedan will want to dress up for Halloween, and I look forward to seeing what he dreams up. But for now, I'm trying to start something with a deeper significance. In many cultures around the world, this is a time to remember those who have passed on. It is a time to talk about the dead, to feel their spirits gathered close around us. It also marks the end of the old year: the harvest is in, the work of preserving it is over, and the fields lie fallow.

Here in the Yukon, the ground has been frozen for weeks and the rivers are not far behind. Each day is noticeably shorter than the last. We are headed in to a dark time, a time to snuggle in close to the fire, to dream of what's to come with the return of the sun at the Winter Solstice. It feels important to me to begin to mark these special days in some way: a measure of the seasons.

So on the 31st, at sunset, I lit a few candles around some photos of loved ones we wished to remember. I prepared a feast for dinner: roasted moose, mashed potatoes, Brussels sprouts and zucchini patties (by special request). Today, Aedan and I will make our way down to the clearing where we buried Patsy, my cat who passed last spring, to pour some spring water over her grave. It feels so good to be making some new traditions, and I look forward to how they grow and change as my family does the same.

Halloween, Dia de los Muertos, Samhain or All Souls Day...what traditions does your family have to celebrate this time of year?

On the Verge

The last time I wrote here was to talk about the arrival of spring in the Yukon. 

And now, here we are at the tail end of summer, with autumn creeping in.

It comes first on the air: a chill in the early morning that lingers until close to noon:

the day warms, 

and the damp earth gives up the scent of 

dry grasses, over-ripe berries, mushroom forest floor.

Before long, the leaves begin to turn. 

Always the willows first, 

their pale green leaves turning brown--harbingers of the season's change. 

Then, patches of birch and aspen flash golden:

a single bright flame in a hillside of trembling green.

On the forest floor,

unexpected colour:

the fireweed's leaves turn red,

its purple hips release their seed on the wind. 

Wild rosehips and bearberries ripen red, 

and the tart, highbush cranberries await the first sweetening frost, 

their leaves a deep scarlet red.

The days are noticeably shorter, the sun a little lower in its rounds.

The nights are dark, now,

and the moon is faintly visible in the sky.

I welcome it back,

welcome the darkness and the cool.