The Country Mice

I have tried, quite unsuccessfully FOR YEARS to grow eggplants. This year to my great excitement — success!

This time, after the other tender annuals had been transplanted to the garden, I left the eggplant sproutlets in Good Neighbour Bill’s greenhouse. I thought more heat, earlier and longer, might prompt some activity in the flower production department, along with an army of honeybees to take care of the pollination management.

That appears to have been the ticket.

I just love the looks of these globes. Misshapen, bulging, purple — how many purple vegetables are out there?

They look so witchy and mysterious.

They remind me of a children’s rhyme, with apologies for recitation in the wrong month.

Five little pumpkins sitting on a gate

First one said, “Oh my! It’s getting late!”

Second one said, “There are witches in the air,”

Third one said, “Well, we don’t care!”

Fourth one said, “Get ready for some fun!”

Fifth one said, “Let’s run and run and run!”

Woooo-oooo went the wind

And out went the light

And the five little pumpkins rolled out of sight!

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I’m quite enamoured of the lowly potato this year.

Over a summer that’s been too cool for tomatoes, too rainy for pumpkins, too weird for much of anything, the tubers of the ‘tater sit unassuming under the ground, waiting.

It’s a kind of potato divining — sticking a fork into the ground and predicting that on the first pry back, something will be there.

And all just from one plant — which itself began from a small piece of a potato tossed in a hole in late spring.

The potato was the first food to be grown in outer space.

I suspect they don’t do fish and chips at the international space station.

I had a Mr. Potato Head in the early 1960s. Mr. P was the first toy ever to be advertised on TV. In those days, the toy consisted of body parts to be pressed in to a raw potato. These days, the toy arrives with the body parts and a plastic potato, holes pre-assigned.

It’s still a weird little toy.

So at the end of the day I grated up these beauties, combined them with a small yellow squash and crumbled feta cheese, added a chopped onion and beaten egg, made them in to patties, brushed both sides with oil+melted butter, and baked them in the oven for a half hour.

Skeptical at the start (“Squash?!”), my lovelies ate and ate the patties, daubed with sour cream.

Yes, I’m liking these spuds a whole lot!

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The patient appears still well and perky today. He even gave us a crow from his basement suite whilst L practiced her cello.

And he’s feeling good — good enough for a little personal grooming.

Always aim to look your best.

Because you never know who might drop by.

Take this highly ferocious feline for example.

She’s dropped by to check out what’s new in the food department.

Our little friend is on extreme high alert.

But Ferocious Feline is merely checking out the hospital fare — molasses, boiled egg and baked potatoes — and determines it’s not worth her time.

And moves along.

While the little guy’s legs just got a little bit stronger.

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Found this beauty splayed out on the floor of the coop when I opened them up one morning on the weekend.

He’s a bantam Blue Cochin, very sweet natured and one of our favourite breeds of chicken.

Despite his having no apparent strength in his legs his eyes were bright, his appetite good and his neck and wings strong.

We’ve had chickens limp and muscularly flaccid before and they’re usually dead in a short while — no water or food will entice them. The symptoms don’t resemble avian flu so I haven’t been particularly worried. If you keep animals, some are going to die.

But this guy was so perky, it was worth doing the research to find out what was ailing him.

Enter the internet:  Turns out he’s contracted botulism — and a very mild case from which he can recover. The bacterium lives in soil, water, dead mice — anywhere in the great outdoors — so it’s not a huge surprise that one un-medicated chicken in a free-range flock will come down with some challenging ailment.

You can see here how he’s pitched forward to balance on his legs — he’s able to stand but has no real strength in his lower limbs.

In time, his liver with break down the toxin and life will be back to its routine of wandering, roosting and dust baths.

In the meantime he’s enjoying life in the basement. His space is bright and airy, N&L hand-feed him tomatoes and cucumbers, and he clucks and cackles every time we walk by.

It’s a good life!

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Liliana was 13 weeks old and we were in the car on our way to a doctor’s appointment for her first check-up.

At 10.30 a.m. I stopped for gas en route and the attendant asked if I’d heard the latest about the World Trade Centre. I thought it was the start of a joke.

“It’s been blown up.”

Pardon? I was already muddled from three months of interrupted sleep, driving with a map and a compass as I still did not know my way around my new province and the wee babe was making noise in the back seat.

I quickly tuned in to the CBC and listened to what the rest of the world was learning in horror.

I thought about the time I’d joined a friend for lunch on the 54th floor where he worked.

My ears had popped as we went up and up and up in the elevator.

I’d felt the building sway as we ate our meal in the windowed cafeteria.

I’d felt relieved to be back on terra firma later that afternoon.

When we returned from the doctor’s appointment I sat in front of the television and spoke on the telephone with journalist friends in B.C.

It didn’t take long to find someone who knew someone who’d been killed in the debacle.

But mostly I thought about the choices we make. And where life takes us.

Have a good day, everyone.

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They get this teen-ish look going sometimes.

The lean and lanky legs that keep growing until the pants become capris and the capris become shorts.

And the waist size hasn’t changed since kindergarten. Sigh. This is true.

And while this one has always had the smile that shines from the corner of her eyes, this one who looked particularly mischief-prone when her hair was curly and matted and curried once a week whether I liked it or not, this one who I was told was “going to be a real handful,” it’s the other one whose smile too often eludes the camera.

I don’t want to say it I don’t want to say it I don’t want to say it I can’t help it when did he get so big

And then they’re the summertime goofballs again:

Ski socks. One up, one down. Why do you wear ski socks in September on the first day of school?

It’s a cool morning. And they are blue. And they match. Because recently, things have to match.

I’m catching a theme.

Someone is wearing the liner of her winter jacket. But it’s not that cold.

And in this instance nothing matches. It’s important not to match too often. Because that could mean someone is a girlie girl. And someone most definitely wants everyone in Grade 3 to know she is absolutely not a girlie girl.

…

They hold my hand as we walk into school. They kiss me good-bye. In front of everyone.

And they run to see me when I pick them up at the end of the day.

Not yet the teen-ish thing.

I sigh.

All is well.

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After a couple of years of kicking the ball around the field, the soccer league becomes slightly more sophisticated.

For one, the players are bigger. Their legs are longer, their attention spans greater and they begin to “get” the strategy of the game.

They still tend to cluster around the ball or get jammed up in an end of the field only to discover the ball is somewhere else but for the most part their skill set transcends that of their younger siblings.

In this case we wear red shoes rather than pink and white socks — just to be different.

A Super Serious Team would not be impressed with being different. This year’s coach, conversely, had a creative approach to building team spirit. When the team was losing badly after the first half, say, 6-0, he’d say, “Hey, boys! Let’s see if we can win this half.” And, they often did. The score would be 6-1 or 7-3, but our team would still have *won* the second half.

What also happens at this older age is understanding and using the idea of a *pass.* Sounds easy. But it’s actually intimidating. Here, White Socks is slightly head of his team mate, but Black Socks has the ball.

Black Socks glances up, sees White Socks pulling ahead. Green Hornet is in hot pursuit but Black Socks is faster.

Black Socks gives a mighty kick and the balls soars ahead. Green Hornet is out paced while White socks collects the ball further up the field.

Alas, another Green Hornet is waiting for White Socks and they battle for the ball anew.

Hmmm. The Green Hornets got the ball. Again. And again. To the tune of 6-3.

But as the coach reminded them at the end of the tourney, “Hey, boys! We won our half!”

And everyone cheered!

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