Last week, I listened to the wind coldly whistling outside the front door.  Each time I thought the shrieking had finally subsided, it began, more earnestly than before, all over again.  When the wind wasn’t displacing snow that had already fallen, more filled in the spaces the wind had left bare.

I am the first to admit it - I was sooo spoiled as a child.  My Dad came from a large family, including himself there were five boys and five girls.  His Mom was always planning ahead for winter so she was preserving food, harvesting from the garden and putting even more food up for the winter months just ahead.  I never got to see my Grandad’s garden as he passed before I was born but, if my Dad’s garden was anything to go by, Grandad grew a huge garden.  And I was spoiled because I grew up knowing what “real” food tasted like.  In my childhood, carrots, cucumbers, potatoes, watermelon, cantaloupe, peas, corn, beans, tomatoes, cabbage, turnips, onions and beets all tasted fresh, crisp and delicious.  My fingers didn’t become stained when I peeled the carrots and the watermelon was sweet and juicy, with a few seeds - not so many seeds the fruit fell apart.  I used to be afraid to eat those seeds because I thought they’d grow inside me.  I was so meticulous about removing ever seed before the fruit past my lips!  Dad grew, minimum, three acres of potatoes every year.  The rest of the land planted was the corn and other fruit and vegetables I mentioned.   Where we lived at Candle Lake, we grew about a quarter acre of so of tomatoes plus more cucumber, strawberries and I don’t even remember what else.  I just remember five gallon pails full of green tomatoes.  Daily we had to go through each pail and pull the ripe ones out.  Any starting to turn red were packed near the top of the pail so they were easier to access.  And we had all types of tomatoes.  I read now that nothing should touch a tomato as it ripens but ours were packed in layers of newspaper and I don’t recall having problems with them.  If anything, our problem was an over abundance.  In the fall, Dad and the family would visit my cousin near Meath Park.  After a visit deep into the night, we’d leave his home with a butchered pig covered in a tarp laying in the back of our family vehicle.  When we got home, we started cutting it up.  Dad had a Swede saw we used to cut the pig into our desired meat choices - roasts, bacon, ribs, steaks etc. - Dad salted, Mom wrapped it and it was placed in the large deep freeze for use as we needed it.  The pig was nestled between home raised chickens and turkeys we had raised and butchered.  Dad never let us girls be involved in the actual kill of the animals.  He didn’t think it was appropriate for us to witness.  I remember sneaking a peek once, a chicken had just been removed from the cone and it was too soon.  Adrenaline still coursed through the chicken’s body and I watched as my brothers chased it down.  Just as they nearly had it, the chicken stopped in mid-stride, the way cartoons stop when they realize they’re walking on air, and the chicken dropped into the mud puddle it stood in.  That was okay though.  Dad had a big steel barrel full of water.  I don’t remember what the barrel stood on but a tiger torch was lit and kept the water either steaming hot or boiling.  Dad had “quick pick” in the water.  One dip of the chicken into it and the feathers were easily plucked from its body.  The chickens came into the house then.  We had a double rinse sink that had been washed and sterilized.  It was now full of cold water and chickens waiting to be processed.  Mom and my elder sister dressed the birds and my job was to use a pair of clean pliers to pull out the pin feathers and anything that didn’t belong.  We bagged up the birds and put them in the freezers.  We sold some of the turkeys, just by word of mouth.  And we always warned people they need a big oven as the turkeys weighed between 35 and 40 pounds.  They bought them anyway.  And then placed an order for the next year.  When there were discussions amongst PA City counsel that we may be able to keep up to a dozen chickens in our back yard, I got excited.  I’d raise chickens for the eggs.  And they’d all have names and they’d be my pets until old age claimed them.  Alas, I’m not sure what happened to discussions but I don’t think city folks are quite ready to hear the joyous call of a rooster each morning.  I’d like to shrug it off and say “their loss” but really, it’s a loss for all of us.  So I started looking for alternatives… if I can’t grow it myself, where can I get it from?  

I’m virtually in a gardener’s paradise as we sit just shy of three months from the May Gardening long weekend.  I’m surrounding by gardening books, gardening magazines, seed catalogs, seeds from previous years that I’ve carried over to the next growing season and … in the midst of it all … I’ve discovered something crucial to my gardening success. Or lack there of.  It may surprise you because I talk about this subject so much … I don’t like gardening.  I dislike it immensely.  My mother stopped in her tracks and gaped at me, astonished, when I announced this to her as I began writing this article.  “Then why do you garden?”  I know why.  But I’m not going to tell her, or you, because despite her saying she doesn’t, I have reasons to believe she DOES read my column.  So I’ll give the other reasons why I garden.

I’m the first to admit; I like my creature comforts.  When I travel I enjoy having things around me that are familiar.  I pack my favourite mug, Red Rose Tea, scented shampoo and, on occasion, I stop by the florist on my way to checking into the hotel.  I usually purchase a collection of brightly coloured flowers that make me happy just looking at them.  These can include, but are not limited to: Daisies, Baby’s Breath (yes, I know it grows here as a weed in the summer, it’s still pretty) Poppies, Delphiniums, Sunflowers, Gardenias, Peonies, Tulips, Daffodils, Pussy Willows, yellow Roses … but never, Never, NEVER Carnations.  I know some of you love these flowers and I understand that… sometimes I’m a sucker for them too, particularly when I’m looking for a plant to fill in empty space.  And not to insult any of you who love Carnations in all their hues… I’m so sorry when I do.  Every time I receive these flowers (and they’ve been given to me because I dislike them so much - they’re like the ugly step-sister who photo bombs every photograph taken to record achieving another milestone off my bucket list) I’m instantly remindEd of my disdain for them whenever I see them.  And the reason for my dislike?  Well, familiarity breeds contempt.  I see them so often that I associate them with funerals.  I understand they last a long time in fresh water, and they’re economical.  I’d rather a bouquet of Dandelions, quite frankly.  In my opinion, Carnations are the prostitute of flowers … cheap and easy to come by.  See? I knew my opinion on these particular flowers would be wince worthy.  That’s okay though, I’m not expecting flowers any time soon and when I receive them, I’ll be the one buying them.  Save the carnations for my funeral, and even then, donate the three dollars you would’ve spent to a charity such as the Rose Hospice (every little bit helps.)

Lying underneath my beautiful star quilt, it’s 8:30pm and I’m already in bed for the evening.  I’ve been feeling rather rough the last couple of weeks but I’m relieved my COVID tests keep reporting negative results and I’m glad to have one less thing to worry about.  I don’t have time to take care of myself right now.  There’s just too much going on in my head and I can’t settle my mind down.  Particularly due to the subject matter of my column this week.  This story has been rolling around in my head over the last six to eight months.  And it’s a trigger for memories that I thought were buried but, somewhere along the way, emotions have eroded the barriers protecting me from having to recall those times in my life I’d rather forget.  Perhaps one of the reasons I’m not able to sweep those parts of my past under the rug is because of days such as February 23: Pink Shirt Day.  It’s an official day to raise awareness about bullying and finding practical ways to bring an end to it.  In a world where we are taught to respond to discord in one of two ways, fight or flight … I’m more of a flight kind of girl.  In fact, I’ve run from situations so often I SHOULD be able to literally fly as my arms have seen more air miles than a commuter jet giving discount flights.  But now as I get older, I notice I just don’t have the energy to turn the other cheek as often as I should and I find I’m a whole lot crabbier than I used to be.  It’s an effort to get along with others, much less myself, and I fight to keep my end of the conversation congenial.  Just when I think I’ve managed to harness my sour mood, and I’m proud of myself for keeping the peace, I discover I’ve done something snarky to tamper with someone else’s mood and contribute to them having a challenging day.  Why do I do that?  It’s a form of being a bully and, really, it’s so immature.  Why would I sneak a phone from someone, put the ringer on vibrate, then hide the phone simply because I’m bored and convince myself this is a good, clean practical joke?  As the person becomes upset over the loss of their “mis-placed” phone, this is my opportunity to pull out the device and reveal what I did.  But I don’t.  Instead, I allow myself to become more irate from the guilt over something so trivial it shouldn’t even contribute to my bad mood from an already challenging day.  But it does.  So for you practical jokers out there… when your actions leave someone upset and you’re the only person laughing … it’s not a joke, you’re a bully.