The Country Mice

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.

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!

Soccer is such a beautiful sport. Pure and unadulterated running. Full-out, fast-as-you-can, go-get-’em chasing around the field.

The children remind me of colts. Lots of leg, singularly focussed (for about a minute at least) jockeying for position in the herd.

The pink shoes are the sole declaration of femininity. Any more would be brash — although a bandana came into play earlier in the season.

The Orange Team was pretty strong this year. Co-ed, there was no particular gender bias when it came to player strength and talent. That is to say, all the Really Good Players are not playing namby-pamby house league games. They’re on Serious Teams. Where the motto is,  “It’s not how you play the game. It’s whether you win or lose.”

They most likely would not allow pink shoes or bandanas.

And none of this co-ed business either.

And thus the Orange Team did not win the tournament. They actually placed near the bottom had a lot of fun.

‘Cause it ain’t whether you win or lose…

As we herald the arrival of school — enthusiastically by one, reticently by another — we return to some of our post-abroad “responsibilities,” a very Montessori manner of saying ” Here’s your job, kid. Get to it.”

The young lad above recently acquired a new-to-him instrument. Bigger, bolder, $$ and capable of making him sound — hmmmm — a whole lot better. Rather nice.

However, bigger also means heavier. This is a 3/4 violin, only a couple of inches away from a full-size instrument. There’s a fair degree of weight to balance between chin and shoulder, as the arm doesn’t shouldn’t be holding up the violin at all. Thus the medieval straps and posts and bindings pictured above.

Can we stop with the pictures, already?!

This is the droop. It creeps up on one after a time, especially during periods of concentration. The idea with the straws and pencils and Liliana’s hairbands is to create a frame of reference so that the maestro can see when he resembles a forgotten houseplant.

Much better. Once you get the corrected feeling into the muscle memory, it starts to come together.

And then they do it wrong just to taunt you.

Nice bow hold, however. Fixed that one with elastics and mousetraps too.

Just kidding about the mousetraps.

Sorta.

We love chickens. We keep them for their eggs, which the children collect every day. The gals are very tame — they likely sense a soup pot is not in their future.

They roam about the yard, digging in the dirt, exploring the beetles and bugs, taking dust baths, much like N&L.

We like the heritage varieties. This means the birds are smaller, tamer and weirder. This charming pair is a breed called white-crested black Polish.

This fellow was about the size of a crow but still boss of the barn-, er, chicken-yard.

In the fall and spring we travel to a little event called the Mount Forest Fur and Feather Fair.

Farmers travel from around Ontario to sell and trade their chickens, ducks, turkeys, pigeons and pheasants. We’ve also seen puppies, kittens, llamas, alpacas and donkeys. Something for everyone.

And we always depart the fair with a stash of peepers in the back of our vehicle.

Twice a year we travel to that fair. Twice a year we haul back a new batch of chicks and ducklings, sometimes a guinea- or a pea-hen. Twice a year we arrive back home hopeful and full of promise.

Something in the farmer’s spirit, even ersatz farmers like us, says never to give up.

Because the word in out there — we hear them howling our address every night — that there’s one great line-up of fresh, organic, free-range chickens available for the taking. The wily coyote need only jump a fence in broad daylight and leave with a few tasty morsels in its muscled jaws. It happens every time I go away. Good Neighbour Bill waters and feeds and checks on the gals daily. Gord takes care of them similarly when I head off on my various journeys. The birds stay put when I’m home but when I leave… something goes amiss.

Neighbour Bill let us know while we were overseas that Mr. Coyote savaged our chicken population. There’s still a couple of gals and one duck remaining but we’ll be heading back to the Fur and Feather Fair in October for a new cluster of chicks and whatever strikes our fancy.

Because hope springs eternal.

We have heard, additionally, that donkeys are especially good at keeping away the coyotes. Anyone for a barn-raising?