tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57575303044078000312024-03-05T06:18:12.109-04:00Field Notes ~ Cumberland County, Nova ScotiaA city girl's search for heart & home in rural Nova Scotia.Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.comBlogger1352125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-56672662760155572692021-12-09T15:29:00.002-04:002021-12-11T08:35:26.416-04:00Throwback Thursday<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkAIvSaPV_ssZwxIwMtMeMH61yLXbgO_d75Sam1TR5Ktiuh-jc-wM9tcwAbYyaUIr-rxjwCqvOZfi7QjBR-iMnII8QtRpLhjaO26zilOA52-zGPv3CRONIndbp601xI_sYHKl6NGZzGRLp7y3mFZlWKnVnSNRu-rZcgfBgg9_Zn80haJnjH-njWQuu=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="2000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkAIvSaPV_ssZwxIwMtMeMH61yLXbgO_d75Sam1TR5Ktiuh-jc-wM9tcwAbYyaUIr-rxjwCqvOZfi7QjBR-iMnII8QtRpLhjaO26zilOA52-zGPv3CRONIndbp601xI_sYHKl6NGZzGRLp7y3mFZlWKnVnSNRu-rZcgfBgg9_Zn80haJnjH-njWQuu=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></div><br />Since it's the first snow day of the 2021-22 season, I was going to post my usual photo taken through the window of my chicken coop surrounded by snow, with a slate grey sky and the yellow tufts of grass showing through the snow lying on the field. <p></p><p>But.</p><p>When I saved the photo, I saw that I have posted a lot of snow day photos over the years, so instead I decided to post a photo of what was going on my life on this day in 2011 -- the year I started this blog. </p><p>The puppy had arrived! The photo shows Stella and Abby, the pup, just a couple of weeks into their new co-existence. </p><p>Stella died in the spring of 2015, and Abby turned ten in September.</p><p>And this is the point where I tell you I will no longer update this blog on a regular basis. I don't want to say I'll never write here again, because as soon as I say that, something will come up that I want to share.</p><p>But. </p><p>My life has moved in a different direction, again. I'm not longer writing about country living. The whole "city girl, country girl" persona has wound itself down. Now I'm teaching almost every day, and my writing is moving more into the genre of spirituality and faith. I miss being home every day and living my country life to its fullest AND I miss writing every day (boy, I really miss my writing life), </p><p>But</p><p>if anyone knows that life is constantly changing, and a person is (or could be) constantly evolving, it's me. So I'm okay with these changes, knowing that at some point, they'll change again. </p><p> This blog began ten years ago after I published my first Field Notes column in the Oxford Journal community newspaper. It closed in March 2015, Stella died a month later, and six months later, I sold my first book -- a collection of those columns. So yeah, you never know what is going to happen and what path through the field you're going to find to follow. </p><p>I finally gave up that column, which had moved to a magazine, in the fall of 2020. Just couldn't hang on for another year to make it an even ten! Field Notes is part of my life, but no longer part of my daily life, or my future.</p><p>So it's time to move on from maintaining this blog on a regular basis. The publisher of my new book, <i>Alphabet of Faith</i>, has asked me to do a blog about faith, ethics and spirituality, so I created one but I don't have much time for writing posts there either Teaching takes a lot of energy and creativity, and I don't have much left for writing. </p><p>That bothers me, but I'll figure it out as I go along. Teaching every day is new to me so I'll eventually find my rhythm and learn to preserve my energy. That involves creating priorities and this blog -- writing about my country life in Nova Scotia 15 years after I moved here -- is no longer a priority. I've exhausted everything I have to say about it.</p><p>Thank you for following along. I appreciate your interest. It's been a joy to share these stories and this life with you. Take care! xo </p><p>~ Sara Jewell </p><p><a href="www.sarajewell.ca " target="_blank">www.sarajewell.ca </a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiaoqh8ScLzfcKHuIvzfLxUQaZLpkIs75CT7U8NVUxl84MuSqNQrOGHc_PgfEOPVXc0UqVD_U18qMOkMK0sKoNON-etAlbmy05RVH-qJQu2rXH0bBMjfp2E2XMGPAjniC-YPzNj-CCZ-8vJtJLzOMzj9dY5OAl3s6LhfB95_5clUzSkob-Ibg1Mg4SC=s1200" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1098" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiaoqh8ScLzfcKHuIvzfLxUQaZLpkIs75CT7U8NVUxl84MuSqNQrOGHc_PgfEOPVXc0UqVD_U18qMOkMK0sKoNON-etAlbmy05RVH-qJQu2rXH0bBMjfp2E2XMGPAjniC-YPzNj-CCZ-8vJtJLzOMzj9dY5OAl3s6LhfB95_5clUzSkob-Ibg1Mg4SC=s320" width="293" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-76100849956457354702021-11-23T13:42:00.001-04:002021-11-23T13:42:03.255-04:00Old and Tough <div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAmS1Q24PS0M-CT9cUjKJ8Jb-jN8XqdyHQD0_mBsMk9KRIE9AM_bMpBbdcE5nv3MipCxBbQFIkpUqoXaWRaM5CK7RiqR9y0Od0kxl3NfoMsabGGSB52GSkTIlb921LheRAgN_Gx2wd3ZE/s1400/AbbyCarNov2021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1273" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAmS1Q24PS0M-CT9cUjKJ8Jb-jN8XqdyHQD0_mBsMk9KRIE9AM_bMpBbdcE5nv3MipCxBbQFIkpUqoXaWRaM5CK7RiqR9y0Od0kxl3NfoMsabGGSB52GSkTIlb921LheRAgN_Gx2wd3ZE/w364-h400/AbbyCarNov2021.jpg" width="364" /></a></div><br />The long morning walk on the trail was finished and we headed back to the car, me thinking of coffee and toast, Abby thinking of her breakfast. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As we passed the gas station, the car in sight, I heard a dog bark across the road to my left. Of course, Abby responded. Ferociously as usual. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It was a German Shepherd, the pretty kind with the mostly black face, and I just knew it was going to be a male. I didn't notice if he was intact because I was focused on the fact he was likely going to cross what is normally a busy road. Thankfully, early on a cold, cloudy Sunday morning, even Tim Horton's wasn't that busy -- so he was able to cross safely to check out Abby. </div><div style="text-align: left;">She endured thirty seconds of his sniffing her backend, then she told him off. I heard him yip, and we sent him home with blood on his nose. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">That'll teach him. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This is the second time in six months that Abby and I have been "greeted" by a loose male dog, and both times, when I started to insist we ALL cross the road to return him home, she told him off. Put him in his place. And both times, the male backed off and respected her authority. Her dominance. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Abby! My girl. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">She learned this from Stella, my old girl who died in 2015 and who was with me through a lot of upheaval from the time I picked her up as a puppy in 2002. A couple of years ago, I read in a book that if you have issues with your current dog, you might not want to get a puppy because the older dog will simply teach those issues to the young dog. </div><div style="text-align: left;">As soon as I read that, I knew that had happened. That Abby's protectiveness and barking was taught to her by Stella, who was exactly the same. Given the emotional rollercoaster I was on for much of Stella's life, I guess she felt I needed protection; but it's not the same with Abby. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But seeing her in action, watching her "put the boots" to a friendly but forward, and unknown, male dog, I'm grateful for her strong protective streak. I appreciate her taking control of the situation. After all, neither male dog was listening to me; they were much more interested in sniffing Abby's backside. So she helped us get rid the nuisance, motivated by the fact we needed to get home for breakfast. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My girl! </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-75933640708256233822021-11-14T13:38:00.003-04:002021-11-14T13:38:33.059-04:00Screen Time <p></p><div style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEismexCm1stnj8MeT57jOZgbYIMbn6hjqIKcFDn-2wrevVq1szPohRztQDEMnknFQmtlDueOcuJNZKMbzW5k_4gy2F9IpUYq5Ki68Tkfb2zx6gEezK9cXfRkIw-c2ZUtWBF3bzxz-UP6vw/s1400/WhatHappenedToYou.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1400" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEismexCm1stnj8MeT57jOZgbYIMbn6hjqIKcFDn-2wrevVq1szPohRztQDEMnknFQmtlDueOcuJNZKMbzW5k_4gy2F9IpUYq5Ki68Tkfb2zx6gEezK9cXfRkIw-c2ZUtWBF3bzxz-UP6vw/w400-h276/WhatHappenedToYou.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>I just finished this book -- <i>What Happened to You? Conversations on Trauma, Resilience, and Healing</i> -- by Dr. Bruce Perry, a child psychologist and neuroscientist, and Oprah Winfrey. It took me several months simply because I was working so much, but also because it was a lot of information. </p><p>Not densely written; it's easy to read. It's fascinating, actually. The brain is remarkable, and does so much more than we realize, if we aren't reading books by neuroscientists. A lot of the information impacts me as a teacher; this knowledge about trauma and how what happens to children manifests itself in behaviour -- and how we treat those symptoms rather than look deeper at what happened to them -- that will make me a better teacher. Especially as we try to get students "back on track" in school when we finally exit the pandemic. </p><div style="text-align: left;">There is far too much information to share here, but if you are interested in how the brain works and how it governs us (there is so much we don't realize goes on all the time!), I recommend it. It's $40 hardcover so you may want to wait for the softcover or request it from the library. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">In the spirit of this blog -- about rural life -- I want to highlight something that Dr. Perry wrote near the end of the book: </div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>"At home, at work, at school, we spend hours and hours in front of a screen -- on average, over 11 hours a day." </b></div><p>His data is American but I think we can assume Canadians do the same: On average, we spend almost half a day in front of a screen -- a phone, a laptop, a computer, a television. </p><p>Dr. Perry goes on to say: <b>"The art of storytelling and the capacity to listen are on the decline. The result is a more self-absorbed, more anxious, more depressed -- and less resilient -- population."</b> </p><p>Absolutely. And the pandemic, with its lockdowns and isolation, has more this worse, has deepened our obsession with and immersion in our screens. </p><p>I wondered, though, how it was possible to spend more than 11 hours a day in front of a screen -- until I overheard a woman say that as soon as her alarm goes off in the morning, she lies in bed and scrolls through her phone. </p><p>Whereas, I get up and boil water and do yoga or walk the dog. I'll go two hours in the morning before I turn on my phone. When I go for my weekend walks with the dog, I don't even turn my phone on, until I decide I need to take a photo for Instagram! </p><p>I think an important part of resilience -- of surviving and thriving in a world that is slowly unravelling -- is being outside in nature as often as possible. Looking up at the sky, gazing out over the sea (or lake or river), walking a trail through the woods, digging in the dirt, cleaning out the chicken coop, riding a horse around a field. Moving the body, filling the brain with sights and sounds and textures and tastes. Using all the senses to interact with the world around me. </p><p>My favourite moment during my teaching term this fall? The one day we had rain and therefore an indoor recess at lunch? Not one student got out a laptop to play computer games. They played with the dinosaurs and the kitchen toys and the blocks and the race cars. Why is this significant? Because looking at a screen uses one sense predominantly: sight. Our senses, especially touch and smell, can't be involved. So we create a deficit in ourselves, in our children, when we neglect to engage all our senses in what we are doing. My student playing with dinosaurs and fake food and little cars? They were using all their senses, as well as their language, their imagination AND their social skills. </p><p>Using technology in classrooms is expected now. I have no problem with that. I love an interactive whiteboard. I use the projector and the document camera. I play videos of books. But to see 11 five, six and seven year olds engage in unstructured play for 40 minutes -- what a wonderful antidote to the data about 11 hours of screen time a day. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-2271909231587952742021-11-03T10:18:00.001-03:002021-11-03T10:18:09.329-03:00Fall Back Into Routine<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiltMxv3SHYjmm39k7g_EUhd503KEcIPaCjqjvgBDBCbXgwA2XF4_ngA4O0Yld7WcmE772uDJs1sXXGHAeFhH4I8IdrCmGO4OP_iQR_Um5PC_ps_O9VpWOTHQa6ySBxts7sv5NuuGGD4ZE/s1500/Fall+Colours+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1311" data-original-width="1500" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiltMxv3SHYjmm39k7g_EUhd503KEcIPaCjqjvgBDBCbXgwA2XF4_ngA4O0Yld7WcmE772uDJs1sXXGHAeFhH4I8IdrCmGO4OP_iQR_Um5PC_ps_O9VpWOTHQa6ySBxts7sv5NuuGGD4ZE/s320/Fall+Colours+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A photo on my photo doesn't capture how eye-catching this was</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><br /></p><p>My two-month term teaching position has ended, and I have today off. </p><p></p><p>It feels weird to be back in my "old" life again, yet very familiar -- too familiar! Falling back into that routine of only subbing a few days a week is not the new routine, even if drinking coffee and reading at eight o'clock this morning was really, really nice. I didn't book this day off, there were no jobs on offer, but I'm using it gladly to catch up on emails and blogs and maybe even write something unrelated to teaching! </p><p>One of the unexpected joys of my busy days, getting out the door at seven a.m. and not leaving school until 5 p.m., was the light. The sunrise as I headed east, the afternoon sunshine as I headed home. I'd time my drives to catch the national news at the top of the hour then usually drive the rest of the way in quiet; it helped to calm me after a day of being "on the floor" as I refer to teaching: standing in front of the class and moving around a lot. I think of it as being "on the floor" also as a way of differentiating it from other teaching jobs. I filled in for a resource teacher yesterday and while that's a great sub job, I couldn't do it every day. It's a lot of sitting and listening to students read. Necessary work but not active enough for me. Even with all the planning and prepping that goes into teaching those primary grades, I'd rather be "on the floor" than sitting at a table all day. </p><p>The one thing I do miss about my "old" life and the familiar routine is the daily walk. I made sure the dog and I got out every Saturday and Sunday morning -- even under threat of rain -- for a long, hilly walk. It meant getting up and dressed and heading out in the car, just like every day during the week, but my back and legs and lungs thanked me for it. It helped to clear my head, even during the hardest, most despairing days (which happened at the midway point, a natural shifting point from the easy days of back to school to the settling in of teaching and planning). As much as I miss the consistency and security of knowing where I am going every day and who I am dealing with, I will enjoy the shorter work days and planning-free weekends of substitute teaching for awhile.</p><p>Can you believe it's only seven weeks until Christmas? </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7d3ppcwOjDuA81mV5-jRtRlq23JoTtYyS3Sp1tTWAiC8kRfEYjqeQObDd5c5BeHw8myQtFyvzcyBTZkaqqAHysYDPVG2vdEmmJAP35fBW6TYXsWLZ5A14VPbYxaB8Rl9IGbN78C-as3A/s1400/Fall+Colours+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1173" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7d3ppcwOjDuA81mV5-jRtRlq23JoTtYyS3Sp1tTWAiC8kRfEYjqeQObDd5c5BeHw8myQtFyvzcyBTZkaqqAHysYDPVG2vdEmmJAP35fBW6TYXsWLZ5A14VPbYxaB8Rl9IGbN78C-as3A/w335-h400/Fall+Colours+2.jpg" width="335" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hiking along the TransCanada Trail in Oxford </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-21910821017968607982021-09-27T08:30:00.003-03:002021-09-27T08:30:00.193-03:00A Dog's Birthday<p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivauj4I1pkSX3J3nBf9h6nvXPQhOl4ULFz-QnHSTvT_iZWVxA5hPvTmPLipbkUL-Us2JydNAHb-Y96uPPiciqO-9e6DTkxXf-hIl2X3950kybi9_vfTnCe5bv8ozUVX5SLxvLp8uZbYW8/s1600/AbbyToy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1293" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivauj4I1pkSX3J3nBf9h6nvXPQhOl4ULFz-QnHSTvT_iZWVxA5hPvTmPLipbkUL-Us2JydNAHb-Y96uPPiciqO-9e6DTkxXf-hIl2X3950kybi9_vfTnCe5bv8ozUVX5SLxvLp8uZbYW8/w324-h400/AbbyToy.jpg" width="324" /></a></p><p>This sweet face is ten years old today.</p><p>Abby is 10! </p><p><strike>I'm very grateful she's made it to ten years with no health </strike></p><p>Let's not jinx it, okay?! </p><p>She had dental surgery earlier this month and lost two teeth plus had a small lump removed from under her tongue so... let's just say I'm delighted to be celebrating ten years with this pup. Especially since I'm not home with her every day anymore. </p><p>When I get home at the end of a long day at school, she greets me at the door with a squeaky toy then doesn't sit still long enough for me to pat her. She runs around the house like she's the one who's been away all day and is happy to be home. </p><p>I'm too tired to run with her! But we get out every weekend for walks and now that I don't get to walk with her every day, I cherish our weekend morning time even more. Let's hope for many more Saturday and Sunday walks. </p><p><br /></p>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-85156471356955119742021-09-19T19:37:00.003-03:002021-09-19T19:37:52.879-03:00The Salsa Garden<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKyULi4rSLO-EcqnZBK_-kgMVj_Oq-ubx5DhAVg3VCn_ryGxn0HxNQ3PKYqiSR8OImwR8n-fnr8LPrFN-0hwczvJA-L7awlbhemml8aERZ-CDjf5eHWkCi8y2f5YwSowFvJdbrr1QpHog/s1892/Salsa+Garden+2021+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1064" data-original-width="1892" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKyULi4rSLO-EcqnZBK_-kgMVj_Oq-ubx5DhAVg3VCn_ryGxn0HxNQ3PKYqiSR8OImwR8n-fnr8LPrFN-0hwczvJA-L7awlbhemml8aERZ-CDjf5eHWkCi8y2f5YwSowFvJdbrr1QpHog/w400-h225/Salsa+Garden+2021+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">How ironic! </div><div style="text-align: left;">The salsa garden ripened into perfect tomatoes and peppers AFTER I started school. So even though I didn't plan on doing preserves last weekend, we made another batch of salsa because I simply can't waste these beautiful tomatoes. I take no credit for how they turned out but they really are perfect tomatoes!</div><p></p><p>And the tomatoes kept ripening. So this weekend, today in fact, was supposed to be fruit relish; my recipe makes 6 jars and it's my favourite relish. But the school prep -- activities for the next three days leading up to the first day of fall -- took over my weekend. I managed to get everything done -- except for the fruit relish. I'm hoping the tomatoes last until next Saturday. </p><p>How ironic!<br />I grow the best salsa garden I could hope for -- and I'm not around to make the most of it. I am, however, enjoying all the cherry tomatoes. They, too, came on strong just in time for school and my lunch every day. It's lovely to sit in a quiet classroom and eat cherry tomatoes and cucumber slices from my own garden. </p><p>The "should" of teaching, especially for subs and new teachers, is to eat in the staff room, but I'm too old and too wise to listen to the "shoulds" any longer. I am so involved and put so much into my teaching, into my interactions with the students, that come lunch time, I don't want to talk to anyone. I need the quiet of an empty classroom to recharge and reset and renew. I'm lucky that the school I'm teaching at right now is so small, there isn't that pressure to sit in the staff room, nor is there any benefit -- we see each other in hall and in each other's classrooms all day. </p><p>I'd rather have the quiet, and the chance to work -- some think you need a break but as a new teacher, I need to know what I'm doing next and feel like I have it under control. After a weekend of working at home on the activities for this week, I'm heading into Monday not feeling like I have everything under control -- but I get to work early, and I have a morning prep while my students are at music so we'll be fine. </p><p>It's all good -- and we get to do art all week and I'm excited about that. I hope to post a photo of our creation next weekend. </p><p>So in advance of this Wednesday: Happy First Day of Fall! </p><p><br /></p>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-70814553048249437052021-09-07T12:30:00.004-03:002021-09-07T12:30:00.275-03:00The First Day of School! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqlofBkG3dAs5EEBrW_INvNskSEn_hU3L9hVmj5DJuBOs3Z8Q4Itx5t_F53Wz8Ml24oFHD4Spd5_ZTGq_s4p3PkAtDrspF_4S4GwW4-Zi8rOZQ6Zhn3H4LD1FIQX6gkITf9o4himDk2NQ/s1200/FirstDayOfSchool2021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1159" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqlofBkG3dAs5EEBrW_INvNskSEn_hU3L9hVmj5DJuBOs3Z8Q4Itx5t_F53Wz8Ml24oFHD4Spd5_ZTGq_s4p3PkAtDrspF_4S4GwW4-Zi8rOZQ6Zhn3H4LD1FIQX6gkITf9o4himDk2NQ/w386-h400/FirstDayOfSchool2021.jpg" width="386" /></a></div><br /><p>You are never too old for a "first day of school" photo! </p><p>And you can never have too many flowers in the classroom. </p><p>I had two more bags to take with me plus a box of supplies. Fully stocked and ready to roll!</p><p>I think this proves, beyond a doubt, it's never too late to be what you might have been. I wanted to be a teacher, I let someone get in the way of that, but here I am three decades later, ready and willing and perfectly capable... </p><p>to teach the kids their first lesson: You don't have to follow the rules.</p><p>Because here I am, wearing white after Labour Day! </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-35113879887279319752021-09-06T15:18:00.003-03:002021-09-06T15:18:28.934-03:00Sunflowers 2021<div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiE7LPCjsX7XPCETTGDFaswVaS1JGsBsFgLuGqQ8yTTmuuFF4g8q2sHtzBdINDg8HHBFD-SBSNL-H5G5GssnVq2kV9lYr0SJjqwZUIUcw8LJv8G-j5ZQWXzW4l0zwkt4NYiCbOKa4svv4/s1200/SunflowerPatch2021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiE7LPCjsX7XPCETTGDFaswVaS1JGsBsFgLuGqQ8yTTmuuFF4g8q2sHtzBdINDg8HHBFD-SBSNL-H5G5GssnVq2kV9lYr0SJjqwZUIUcw8LJv8G-j5ZQWXzW4l0zwkt4NYiCbOKa4svv4/w400-h225/SunflowerPatch2021.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from the bus</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm glad the sunflowers are still upright and blooming for the children to see as they drive by on the bus on the way to school tomorrow.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The first day of school! The first time this day has meant anything to me since the beginning of my final year of high school. (I suppose we had a "first day of school" in university but it wasn't really the same thing; we went "back to class" and were mostly hungover, rather than excited!)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When Dwayne went to pick up the sunflower seeds he'd ordered, he discovered they'd been sold So he had to re-order and this is what we ended up with: ordinary, regular, garden-variety sunflowers. Not the tall, multi-blossom ones we've been planting for the past few years. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">They kind of suit the summer we've had, though. Not as much sun, but everything blossomed because we had enough moisture and enough heat. Not as many blooms but every flower came out. Almost every one of the sunflowers is upright because we didn't get hit with any hurricanes or tropical storms. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The weather for the first day of school is going to start out cloudy so we'll be a little burst of sunshine for the kids as they head up the road. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Oh, and I'm taking a big bouquet of sunflowers for my classroom. My classroom! I've waited 28 years to say that... </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiOVQl5fPa3R9cqpm5xT5s_DQCiuCsQCbQGpzpTy0LzGDpn6rYzt2xUgbGChjEoJfqxY1rHTlEchx6ytbLMCAAqoRHXw4swE2fP8twva9c-E90Q8yuJgEQnEM8DWh-1TqrofLcI1q-BJA/s1200/SunflowersSept62021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiOVQl5fPa3R9cqpm5xT5s_DQCiuCsQCbQGpzpTy0LzGDpn6rYzt2xUgbGChjEoJfqxY1rHTlEchx6ytbLMCAAqoRHXw4swE2fP8twva9c-E90Q8yuJgEQnEM8DWh-1TqrofLcI1q-BJA/w400-h225/SunflowersSept62021.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In memory of Dwayne's father who died in 2020</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-4568132381716776742021-08-22T14:40:00.001-03:002021-08-22T14:40:12.487-03:00Back To School<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTNNxERe4YhHvHKGBs95-A_3l3pW6Mcr3TdkNao0nxuWRRb6jp3sP90q0D_naN2Qjz2LJZNEYc4KTHjfXqK0weco95gm-DGzqfdz7rI7ptWBHZiRiRB1d_h2GIDfJ1t6BCLP4bibO2mn0/s1500/SchoolBooksAug2021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="843" data-original-width="1500" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTNNxERe4YhHvHKGBs95-A_3l3pW6Mcr3TdkNao0nxuWRRb6jp3sP90q0D_naN2Qjz2LJZNEYc4KTHjfXqK0weco95gm-DGzqfdz7rI7ptWBHZiRiRB1d_h2GIDfJ1t6BCLP4bibO2mn0/w400-h225/SchoolBooksAug2021.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Hitting the books. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Something I should have done fourteen years ago when I first arrived in Nova Scotia but it turns out, I'm a very slow learner.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">At the start of this year, I closed the door for good on Field Notes, the book, and its publisher, which hadn't expressed interest in any of the manuscripts I'd sent to them. </div><div style="text-align: left;">But finally closing that door seems to be the secret to opening new doors -- I sold a book of my writings about faith and spirituality (coming out in November as "Alphabet of Faith"), and I sold a children's book (to be published in 2022). </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Not only that, I was hired for a short-term teaching job. Term appointments are significantly different from substitute teaching, and it's been a wake-up call for me. </div><div style="text-align: left;">I want to be a teacher. </div><div style="text-align: left;">I want to take back what was stolen from me in 1993 by that supervising teacher who told me I shouldn't be a teacher. His statement (and honestly, what kind of teacher says that??) and my personality -- not brave, not assertive, and an internalizer (as in I never told anyone) -- combined to create a lifelong struggle to figure out who I am and what my life's purpose is. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Now I know: </div><div style="text-align: left;">I am a writer AND a teacher. </div><div style="text-align: left;">I am a teacher AND a writer. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Writing books about faith and spirituality, writing children's books, becoming an elementary school teacher -- who knew 2021 would clear the path for me?</div><div style="text-align: left;">No wonder I keep singing, "I can see clearly now, the rain is gone!"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">On Monday, I participate in the new teacher orientation workshop then on Tuesday, I meet up with the teacher's whose maternity leave I'm wrapping up. So my teaching life gets started this week. This is huge, my friends. This is huge. </div><div style="text-align: left;">To combat those habits of fearfulness and self-doubt (which lead to self-sabotage), I keep telling myself that people are always losing their way, losing their jobs, hitting rock bottom, starting over, reinventing themselves. I can do this. I CAN DO THIS. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I have so much in common with the Primary (Kindergarten) students I'll be greeting in a couple of weeks on the first day of school: I'm equal parts excited and anxious about being in the classroom. But in my case, I'm in charge so there's a lot more at stake in my performance!</div><div style="text-align: left;">But this time around, I have an actual support system (and I now know to ask for help and clarification) and a renewed focus to be the teacher I've always wanted to be. </div><div style="text-align: left;">That I think I'm meant to be. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And I can't wait to get started. </div><p><br /></p>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-25414893108066166162021-08-18T12:49:00.003-03:002021-08-18T12:49:34.214-03:00Rest Easy, Big Guy<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimne8nHg3hdYZ3dWt1K7dA3JVIG0GZCxjYul9sQyjLurZDZM9_WbquhSK1D3KEbCENTsClyOawVG_B2FwV7GP28G2HkYG6e74TPjgbQORCd7jbq2eFYhjouRHqiuXfHtBDlnTZLvBWaUQ/s1338/20200706_154404+reduced.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1338" data-original-width="1124" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimne8nHg3hdYZ3dWt1K7dA3JVIG0GZCxjYul9sQyjLurZDZM9_WbquhSK1D3KEbCENTsClyOawVG_B2FwV7GP28G2HkYG6e74TPjgbQORCd7jbq2eFYhjouRHqiuXfHtBDlnTZLvBWaUQ/w336-h400/20200706_154404+reduced.jpg" width="336" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Andre Poulet, July 2020</td></tr></tbody></table></p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p></p><p>Andre Poulet, our beloved rooster, died Monday morning. </p><p>We noticed last week he wasn't crowing outside like he used to. AP always crowed profusely inside the coop as dawn broke, I usually heard him from our bedroom, but over the weekend, he'd crow once from his roost then not again. </p><p>My husband noticed the rooster was thinner and I realized he was struggling to swallow. </p><p>On Monday, Mother and I went to Halifax and when we were home again at the end of the day, sitting on the front deck catching up, Dwayne said Andre Poulet had spent the afternoon lying on the deck underneath the branch of the rose bush that stretches out and provides shade. </p><p>I'm sorry I missed that. By the time we were home, he was underneath Mother's bird feeder, trying to eat and making a strange squeaking nose as he cleared his throat. As it turned out, Dwayne got to spend Andre's final day with him. </p><p>Tuesday morning, I had to lift AP off his roost and carry him outside. I noticed he had that smell that chickens get when they are dying. I didn't realize he was hours away, rather than a day or two, though. When I got back from running errands, I'd planned to let him out to be in the yard for his final hours/days, but he was gone when I got back. </p><p>The hens were alone with the body long enough to know their rooster was dead. </p><p>I buried him in the field but near the outside pen; I thought he should be close by. After I dug the grave, I cut giant sunflower leaves to place in the bottom since I never put my chickens directly on the ground. Then I cut wildflowers, mostly goldenrod at this time of year, to cover him, and made a bouquet of brown-eyed Susans and clover and Queen Anne's Lace. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh110hUllmJz9Tn-shrg7yhcBXxUuHnrBfc_Tu1RFqFBJ87k7KR1Fl9aik4atpXexlKQXKDmk-QatUSxVxCnTHG2T47VhChsyqpe7QgfqKzok7_O5culSLTQluwTrCBJn1UUt3QlEg6ZnE/s1200/GraveBlog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="971" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh110hUllmJz9Tn-shrg7yhcBXxUuHnrBfc_Tu1RFqFBJ87k7KR1Fl9aik4atpXexlKQXKDmk-QatUSxVxCnTHG2T47VhChsyqpe7QgfqKzok7_O5culSLTQluwTrCBJn1UUt3QlEg6ZnE/w324-h400/GraveBlog.jpg" width="324" /></a></div><br /><p>As I was placing the flowers on his body in the grave, since I also never let the dirt fall directly on the creatures I bury, I heard a rustle inside the fence. One hen had shown up for the funeral, and it was Phyllis, who'd hatched out our one chick last summer. Watching Andre and Phyllis and Cheeps wander around the yard together was one of the pleasures of July 2020. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl-ZqcpKdmAsG1Pbh0d3khGwMJ_jRaYfXek5Vq0Kk-DcZUt4dERatKZ9-qgByNYrf-roBiEgUXDWwtjApd8LABX7eIS70XJLyNsEOlyTay_56wguPUXw2BX29LMuDaoBlL9SQRSdvYojA/s1179/20200706_154306.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1179" data-original-width="1125" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl-ZqcpKdmAsG1Pbh0d3khGwMJ_jRaYfXek5Vq0Kk-DcZUt4dERatKZ9-qgByNYrf-roBiEgUXDWwtjApd8LABX7eIS70XJLyNsEOlyTay_56wguPUXw2BX29LMuDaoBlL9SQRSdvYojA/s320/20200706_154306.jpg" width="305" /></a></div><p><br /></p>I admit I cried as I said a few words for Andre Poulet. He was a good rooster, not mean, never attacking. He had a personality, as most chickens do, and I think he knew his name. I could get him to crow at me if I called out for him. He was always flying out of the pen to come check out the decks and under the bird feeders, and I'll miss walking across the yard with him. He was a bit of a dog that way. <p></p><p>He was a very good rooster. Not sure how we will replace him. Some spurs are hard to fill...</p><p>This morning, after I'd let the hens out and filled their water dish out back, I walked around to the front of the coop to get their morning treat -- the grain scratch I toss on the ground -- and Dwayne was on the back deck. </p><p>"Wild geese," he said, pointing to the sky behind me. </p><p>I turned and looked up to see a small flock of six geese. Just as they flew over the pen and the spot where I buried Andre Poulet, five of the geese cut away to their left, flying over the coop itself, and one single goose kept flying ahead.</p><p>The missing man formation. The aerial salute done by jets during a fly-by to honour a fallen soldier. </p><p>I kid you not. The gap between the five geese and the lone goose was very, very large. </p><p>I might have been crying when I went inside to say good morning to Phyllis. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-76445446436013335422021-08-10T09:31:00.005-03:002021-08-10T09:32:20.915-03:00The Sunflower of Unexpectation <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUizk2RTWZA0fPt1WD-XX0DZO8naslK400tJZGjKYqv8Tm97CwNCPKgaC-Bs44z5FDtxNt_jzcFsl-np2Xznr29GNzhn9RYV07k8qn-cWILysZXzBfbdxXPYgEtsIxgt31nEb3D8zkUOc/s1400/SunflowerWeedPile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="787" data-original-width="1400" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUizk2RTWZA0fPt1WD-XX0DZO8naslK400tJZGjKYqv8Tm97CwNCPKgaC-Bs44z5FDtxNt_jzcFsl-np2Xznr29GNzhn9RYV07k8qn-cWILysZXzBfbdxXPYgEtsIxgt31nEb3D8zkUOc/w400-h225/SunflowerWeedPile.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />This is absolutely the right metaphor for 2021: the surprise sunflower growing in the weed pile. <p></p><p>Whatever I yank out of the gardens and whatever I clean out of the chicken coop gets dumped into a small section of the field close to the house but out of sight. The later into summer we get, the less I can see it because the field grows up around it. </p><p>Unfortunately -- and I anticipated this -- the noxious weeds from the vegetable gardens don't ever die so they thrive in the weed pile. I'm not sure how I feel about these awful, useless weeds (seriously, they are not lovely and helpful like dandelions or clover) taking over the field but the only alternative is burning, which is equally as noxious. </p><p>It doesn't help that the chicken poop helps everything grow. Including something I do want. </p><p>Back in July, I noticed a familiar looking plant emerging -- there's no mistaking those large leaves. </p><p>Somehow, either through my cleaning up the gardens or perhaps a bird carrying the seed, this sunflower germinated and took root and grew -- blossomed -- in the most unlikely place, in a place no one attends to, in a place where the stuff we don't want to deal with ends up. </p><p>A random, unexpected sunflower grows in the weed pile out back.</p><p>Beauty grows where you least expect it. </p><p>Something good appears in the midst of the bad stuff. </p><p>Beauty and goodness are always around us, but we must keep our eyes open to notice it in the places where we aren't expecting them -- yet really, those are the places where beauty and goodness are most likely to flourish because we need to see them. </p><p>We need that moment of joy. A moment to pause in the pushing of wheelbarrow to smile, breathe in deeply, and realize it's not all bad all the time. Joy persists. The bees keep buzzing. And there will be seeds planted here for next year. </p><p><br /></p>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-24178576958036758002021-08-03T15:36:00.001-03:002021-08-03T15:36:20.492-03:00GOING FOR A RIDE ON THE GREAT TRAIL<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNL6zw5V0m6DTvBCViGx62GAzYUBBmZW3_SRn24ic2gpLa3sMcQ5v5J4-gdLNr4t0f6k0Rfv6JBGJkL1kv02vzF3rblqTVQPP4gvKIwUFP1Ec605iZjs8FClGWm85nYlcPL-UnFSBiFw0/s1200/RideAugust2-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNL6zw5V0m6DTvBCViGx62GAzYUBBmZW3_SRn24ic2gpLa3sMcQ5v5J4-gdLNr4t0f6k0Rfv6JBGJkL1kv02vzF3rblqTVQPP4gvKIwUFP1Ec605iZjs8FClGWm85nYlcPL-UnFSBiFw0/w400-h300/RideAugust2-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />This is the face of someone who is taking a day off to go for a ride. <p></p><p>It's been ten years since Dwayne and I did a ride together, and I can't for the life of me figure why we stopped doing them. With a new-to-him off-road vehicle, of course I needed to get my ride in. </p><p>I'd forgotten how relaxing a ride through the woods is. I'd forgotten that I knew how to relax! I'm always so busy thinking of the next Facebook post or online church group poem I need to write, or of the edits for the book that are coming to me next week, or of school starting in a month that I figured my mind would be churning up thoughts like a side-by-side churns up dust. I packed a notebook but never opened it. Never even thought about it. </p><p>This is why: I love trees. I find trees fascinating. I love looking at tree and at the ground underneath them. There is so much to see in the woods, in the wildflowers growing alongside the trail, and in the ponds -- pond lilies and lily pads -- that I just rode along looking and not thinking. It was very relaxing.</p><p>It was like a meditation. The purists would be appalled because the side-by-side is noisy and moves along but the fact I was able to shut off my brain and calm down and sit still simply by focusing on the nature around me says it all: it was a meditation. </p><p>Turns out, that's exactly what I needed. A chance to rest my brain. A chance to turn off the faucet on the thoughts. The notebook stayed closed, the pen was not used. I didn't do any thinking. All I did was sit back and enjoy the ride.</p><p>And it was the perfect day for that. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq_7yyZNNKKS0XTVHijsSLE3hCMwnneMJJ0ywadclChKFYDOS9Oog6e-xnAHXFgx2rHauzs745NDgVZQpSrsgYxniAoOjAeQCpBwY8yLJ0DOu5nQXIKBetlZ7pqhKZonyx6n8Z6BOhFV4/s1200/RideAugust2-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1111" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq_7yyZNNKKS0XTVHijsSLE3hCMwnneMJJ0ywadclChKFYDOS9Oog6e-xnAHXFgx2rHauzs745NDgVZQpSrsgYxniAoOjAeQCpBwY8yLJ0DOu5nQXIKBetlZ7pqhKZonyx6n8Z6BOhFV4/w370-h400/RideAugust2-2.jpg" width="370" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, the places you can go! </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-75289830896852145652021-07-26T10:06:00.001-03:002021-07-26T10:06:11.812-03:00Salsa Garden<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZdimyFvenkK-ss1l9P-8V_QCngZ2GhdJOHLCmQBvyIGcz5ZG9bXzECNoCWTqMvEIRjopNy7dUHId1w7QuDewFJstWtdimlKOVv9BBnuDam5xBzm5PrDBTh4qMdtCdaik0Z0G_1SfFbiY/s1400/TomatoForest2021-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="934" data-original-width="1400" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZdimyFvenkK-ss1l9P-8V_QCngZ2GhdJOHLCmQBvyIGcz5ZG9bXzECNoCWTqMvEIRjopNy7dUHId1w7QuDewFJstWtdimlKOVv9BBnuDam5xBzm5PrDBTh4qMdtCdaik0Z0G_1SfFbiY/w400-h266/TomatoForest2021-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Let's set up some raised beds, she said.<p></p><p>I can use one as my salsa garden, she said.</p><p>It will be great to grow my own ingredients, she said. </p><p>It will work best to have all the plants in one spot, she said. </p><p>Egads, my friends, those are four tomato plants, one of which - I think - is just a cherry tomato. Because in June, it looked like I had plenty of room for four tomato plants. In June, those plants were small and manageable, full of the promise of producing fruit. </p><p>Actual fruit.</p><p>Not limbs and leaves. Which, at the moment, is all I have. Oh, and blossoms. There are blossoms. </p><p>I found one large green tomato lying in the grass last week. It escaped. It flung itself out of the jungle and now it's sitting in solitary confinement on my window sill. Desperately seeking ripeness.</p><p>The good news is my peppers - both green and jalapeno (the plants on the left in the picture) are growing just fine. At the moment. But those creepy arms of the tomato plants are reaching...reaching...reaching... </p><p>Plus my cilantro was ready to use about a week after I planted it. </p><p>Fourteen years, people. Fourteen years I have lived on this property and have planted gardens and grown plants. You'd think I'd have some idea by now how to do this successfully. </p><p>But no. </p><p>Every year, I add another notch to my "experimental gardener" belt and simply wait to be surprised at what grows, what thrives and what appears. </p><p>Kale and romaine lettuce. That's what thrives. The leafy stuff.</p><p>I get salad when all I want is salsa. </p><p> </p>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-29334540923418800582021-07-22T14:20:00.003-03:002021-07-22T14:20:40.793-03:00Jam Time<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge1uNKbhRXGHROXlX9dOAqb0i0AmzV0ZgwLaftzU6aBRKhkwdP1jT_nA5HS_aui2uNCYNQq0gA8TqNtH4_89XwpKUeo07FDkzsmD-a-8Gka228aO5R2x0mcF_OqSizkVNgh5k2Jc4w3IY/s1269/Blog+Jam+Cat+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="770" data-original-width="1269" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge1uNKbhRXGHROXlX9dOAqb0i0AmzV0ZgwLaftzU6aBRKhkwdP1jT_nA5HS_aui2uNCYNQq0gA8TqNtH4_89XwpKUeo07FDkzsmD-a-8Gka228aO5R2x0mcF_OqSizkVNgh5k2Jc4w3IY/w400-h243/Blog+Jam+Cat+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leonard</td></tr></tbody></table> <br /></p><p>I made four batches of strawberry jam this year because I now use so much of it for thank you gifts and in care packages. My friends love to receive a jar of homemade jam, and nothing says, "Love you! Thinking of you!" better than a jar of Nova Scotia strawberry jam. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Ma3BW3pZ0D8Pp2Imr0J3-fCkeP4tQoXQA2sFDMvtnwUyNxSiMKUzZb6ao3PaZrkTsgCKbnSh6j5pwu2lb_GnFU2bkH6Ln4aL9prjFt3lnB1puWBevlHdvNo9KLu-zbtE8kxNdsXDDeY/s1200/Blog+Jam+Jars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Ma3BW3pZ0D8Pp2Imr0J3-fCkeP4tQoXQA2sFDMvtnwUyNxSiMKUzZb6ao3PaZrkTsgCKbnSh6j5pwu2lb_GnFU2bkH6Ln4aL9prjFt3lnB1puWBevlHdvNo9KLu-zbtE8kxNdsXDDeY/w400-h225/Blog+Jam+Jars.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>I'll send two large bottles down to Georgia for my sister's family at Christmas, and my best friend, Sarah, gets a large jar every year on her birthday. When I showed her this picture, she said, "I love your jam so much, I don't care if there's cat hair in it!" </p><p>Now that's a good friend. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf7NZllxiEwsXQ6QTmiMBQSjTnnl2r9t9yLdVybuL0ElcaUV2SIgbydgTUHizlCtMzsIWvhm5rja59gvlTzTUDdrXpTF5NnVEHdnx1Bdm1vwF6uXAwIxzDAa8VW6guL9l45SSkXOwkvEY/s1200/Blog+Jam+Cat+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1179" data-original-width="1200" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf7NZllxiEwsXQ6QTmiMBQSjTnnl2r9t9yLdVybuL0ElcaUV2SIgbydgTUHizlCtMzsIWvhm5rja59gvlTzTUDdrXpTF5NnVEHdnx1Bdm1vwF6uXAwIxzDAa8VW6guL9l45SSkXOwkvEY/w400-h393/Blog+Jam+Cat+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Remi</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Now, honestly, there is no fear of cat hair in the jam. I don't pick the cats up when I'm cooking/baking/jamming, and I wipe all the berries off with a wet cloth before smushing them. </p><p>After the jam was all made and this box was empty, I put it down on the floor and the cats lie in it every so often. Cats and boxes, I tell you - it's definitely a thing in our house. </p><p>But better than the cute photos is the fact that every time I make strawberry jam, I know that my mother taught me to do this. I still use the equipment she used and I like that continuity. I'm not really a resister of change, because I've experienced too much to try and hold it back, but it's nice when some things don't change, like recipes and old pots and cats sitting in boxes. </p><p><br /></p>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-9986465478413863202021-07-20T17:29:00.003-03:002021-07-20T17:31:13.754-03:00Finally, It's Summer! <p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCaEYR2QitCUGB8CuwdumWi2UYfQ3vkVOyndLnRSgO8nByrug4v2Ih-i3_35bLdBJMRCHOlM-1ctMG867_kT7OvdJsLFwB1MlymLkGGnoylNuS7CIYEmhd2TQSIMjivxnuGPxbYIxDTcA/s1400/FirstConeof2021.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1050" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCaEYR2QitCUGB8CuwdumWi2UYfQ3vkVOyndLnRSgO8nByrug4v2Ih-i3_35bLdBJMRCHOlM-1ctMG867_kT7OvdJsLFwB1MlymLkGGnoylNuS7CIYEmhd2TQSIMjivxnuGPxbYIxDTcA/w300-h372/FirstConeof2021.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the park by the harbour in Pugwash.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />You know you're busy when you don't write for three weeks -- and it's past the middle of July before you have your first ice cream cone of the season! <p></p><p>Crazy times. I worked most of June, then had an online writing program for ten days in July, then was asked if it was possible for The Alphabet of Faith (my next book) to be ready for the fall. Thanks to Nova Scotia's lockdown in May, I had all the pieces to a second draft so I said yes, and spent three very intense days editing and tweaking and putting the book together to submit. </p><p>And get this: the designer for the publisher contacted me to say he read my book, Field Notes, shortly after it was published! Talk about a small world. He lives in British Columbia but has property in Bear River (down by Digby) so he obviously was in the province when Field Notes released. I can't believe I have that kind of connection with the person who will design my next book -- a book that has a rather creative format (not traditional essays in paragraph form), and he is quite happy to work with that format. </p><p>So the ice cream was a reward for getting the book submitted but the flavour -- which I've never had before because look at those weird ice cream colours! -- was research for a poem I'm working on featuring Moon Mist flavour, a flavour that is unique to the East Coast. </p><p>And the ice cream tasted amazing! The colours taste wonderful and it's my new favourite flavour.</p><p>I love when job when the research involves puppies and ice cream! </p><p><br /></p>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-89047173784109524202021-06-29T09:00:00.002-03:002021-06-29T09:00:00.249-03:00Hatching and Heartbreak<div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqjeXqwGqPiSo69-bo9crBLyEjSl5VeJTOyuN7JsqSriMpg9zXRuzn1B_ymccXUrDgM3Itz8q2ZkOUMIEbjJcuISB22cRQNcivbTg4cfrQkoeAkdNGW1LBVofWGUd_qdcSaXXpdpioK4E/s1400/Chick2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1261" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqjeXqwGqPiSo69-bo9crBLyEjSl5VeJTOyuN7JsqSriMpg9zXRuzn1B_ymccXUrDgM3Itz8q2ZkOUMIEbjJcuISB22cRQNcivbTg4cfrQkoeAkdNGW1LBVofWGUd_qdcSaXXpdpioK4E/w360-h400/Chick2.jpg" width="360" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We had so much fun raising a chick with surrogate hen Phyllis that when she went broody in May again, I stuck three eggs underneath her. It takes 21 days to hatch a chick out of a viable egg; one egg broke early on but chicks hatched out of the two remaining eggs -- one on a Friday and one on the Saturday but neither thrived. The chick died almost immediately. The second one made it into the nursery but couldn't walk properly; it kept falling over. </div><div style="text-align: left;">I think Phyllis killed. It had blood on it when I went to check on the pair of them, and Phyllis wanted back in the coop where she went right back to the nest box she'd been sitting in for three weeks. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So I put four eggs underneath her this time; by the end of the three weeks, we were down to one. I don't know if the eggs break by accident, or because they weren't fertilized so no one is growing in them. </div><div style="text-align: left;">I happened to be standing in the doorway of the coop when suddenly, Phyllis flew off out of the nest box and took off outside to have a dirt bath.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I checked and the egg had pipped -- there was a hole that the chick had broken open. </div><div style="text-align: left;">I fetched Phyllis back inside and as I put her back into the nest box, she stepped on the egg/chick so there it was. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Phyllis was such a good mom last year, I trust her instincts; I assume she knows what she's doing. It's nature and natural, after all. No one needs my help. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Last summer, our one chick that hatched was good right from the start, and within an hour was starting to fluff up and cheep and sit underneath Mom. These three chicks never seemed to have their legs working. When I checked on Phyllis and the chick, after supper, she didn't have it under her -- it was sitting to one side, wet and cool.</div><div style="text-align: left;">So I scooped it up and figured I'd hold it until it died. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Eventually, Dwayne came to see why I was sitting on the step of the coops.</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Just put it back under Phyllis," he said. </div><div style="text-align: left;">"But she will ignore it. She might kill it." </div><div style="text-align: left;">So I took it into the house, waiting for it to die. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It didn't die. The warmth of my hand kept it going. So I thought, well, you never know, maybe it's just runty and needs more TLC than Phyllis is prepared to give. I looked up how to feed it and discovered that a chick doesn't need food for 24 hours, at the outside 48, since it eats the egg inside before it hatches out.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Something like that. </div><div style="text-align: left;">So I held it in my hand all night, keeping it warm. I lined a berry box with tissue and feathers, and whenever I placed it inside -- in order to go to the basement to clean the kitty litter or have my bath -- it cheeped strongly. But I couldn't get it to stand up, and it's eyes were closed. </div><div style="text-align: left;">We slept upstairs in the spare room so I could close the door and keep the cats out; eight hours with a chick lying in my hands. My poor shoulders! I barely slept but the chick survived the night. </div><div style="text-align: left;">There was no miracle improvement, though; her baby feathers fluffed up but her legs wouldn't hold her up.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">All day Saturday, I kept a glass bowl with a lid half-filled with hot water -- all the chick needed was warmth; when she was cold, she cheeped. This is what chicks do: they cheep for their mother, they cheep when they're cold and when they're hungry. When I worked upstairs in my office, my little chick sat on my hand, eyes closed, resting her head on my thumb since she could only hold it up a few seconds. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitmWMY5nRxPQC8agOg9VoLfeB1UPzLgLRfbiWdw7SpGDJV_2bq_mS20BjXrvp8FUDbv_brRCYUA0GMssr1G0Nv7BQNltgRvBRdHb7YYyBM7aY5Pba_K70e_DydMJcEhRr9UWXcfhUS_UM/s1200/Chick4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1063" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitmWMY5nRxPQC8agOg9VoLfeB1UPzLgLRfbiWdw7SpGDJV_2bq_mS20BjXrvp8FUDbv_brRCYUA0GMssr1G0Nv7BQNltgRvBRdHb7YYyBM7aY5Pba_K70e_DydMJcEhRr9UWXcfhUS_UM/w354-h400/Chick4.jpg" width="354" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Mostly, she lay around in the box on the warm bowl, or in my hand. She liked to sit up, on her bum. I think she wanted to be well, she wanted to be moving around but her legs wouldn't let her. She couldn't hold her head up. This was similar to the second chick from the first hatch, but it was able to stumble around a bit before it fell over. It didn't appear likely this one would ever walk; she just flopped over as soon as I stopped propping her up.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I tried to feed her a couple of times throughout Saturday but she didn't respond to the stimulus of dipping her beak in mushy food/water. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">She just wanted to be held. Comfort. Could she feel the pulse in my thumb? Could she feel my breathing as she lay against my stomach? Was it simply my living energy she sensed? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When I wanted to have a bath, Dwayne held her and they watched TV together. She didn't cheep; she was content to be held in his hand. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But I couldn't do another night like Friday night, and I couldn't wake up every half an hour to heat the water; I needed my sleep, and I had a church service to do on Sunday morning. She'd have to sleep in her box in our bathroom (protected from the cats). So at bedtime, I cozied up her box even more and put the box on a towel in the bathroom sink; if she crawled out, she'd be safe. She cheeped loudly for a long while, breaking my heart, but she survived the night again. </div><div style="text-align: left;">And she did indeed crawl out, looking for heat. Looking for me, for the breathing, for the energy? She was wedged between the side of the sink and towel. I thought she was dead; her body was cool but she was alive. She would have been much cozier in the box. </div><div style="text-align: left;">I couldn't believe she was still alive. Such a strong little chick. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Her legs still wouldn't hold her, though, and the left one was starting to cross over the right; did Phyllis break its hip in the nest box when she stepped on the egg? Whatever happened, this chick was not going to walk and she wasn't eating. Her eyes weren't open either. She simply wasn't thriving and she wouldn't improve.</div><div style="text-align: left;">So I made the decision to begin comfort care. I would keep her warm but not hold her any longer; I'd let her pass away. She cheeped every so often, but by mid-afternoon, she'd stopped cheeping, then she stopped moving when I pulled back the cloth to check on her. </div><div style="text-align: left;">She died at suppertime, 48 hours after she was born. </div><div style="text-align: left;">After supper, I buried her in the new garden along the back deck; next year, she'll come up as lily of the valleys. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I thought a lot about this: Did my interference cause this? If I had just left the coop, let Phyllis have her dirt bath, let the chick hatch out on her own time, would this chick be fine today? Did I mess up the natural hatching process? Does the mother always leave the chick to hatch by itself, or did Phyllis know she had a quick moment to get outside and poop and drink some water and roll in the dirt before heading back into the chick? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Did my interference cause Phyllis to injure the chick? And how did Phyllis know it wasn't viable so soon? If I had left it in the nest box with Phyllis, would it have died quicker, would she have put it out of its misery sooner -- when it was too young to know anything more? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I will never know if I screwed up or if this was just the way it was going to happen. I do know next time, I'll let nature -- and Phyllis - do it their way, without my useless human help. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">I felt bereft all day Monday. I missed my little friend. She was fuzzy and warm, and she cheeped. It was fun to have her around, and I'd been looking forward to the chick experience again. I was quite willing to have a blind chicken as a pet, but not one that couldn't walk or had to be forced to eat (if that was even possible). </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I buried her with the tissues and the feathers, and some sweet-smelling clover and daisies. I lay her down on leaves from my bleeding heart plant. </div><div style="text-align: left;">I never let anything I bury - hen or bird or chipmunk - lay on the cold dirt or be covered directly by dirt. Everyone gets a respectful burial from me. A life, however short, is honoured. </div><div style="text-align: left;">I usually bury my birds and animals in the field but I wanted this little chick near the house where she spent her first and last days on earth. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Thank you, little chick," I said. "It was nice spending the weekend with you." </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">She looked the same in death as she did in life, curled up, legs tucked in, a little fluff ball, sleeping. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-56387612171525301862021-06-25T13:43:00.002-03:002021-06-25T13:43:23.045-03:00News <p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSS6Ld60Qn3CfX35HSrToG7LsckIQZ8W3meHAFLDK_-5j31frapIj247QMb1WeUkCG-HFd_jasdG1uW_FWIvrQp6upsa7nzBeQE053ugW1_9zxQCoDYlpqPDyKDl7teV9ur8hLEU3xG0c/s2048/Grade3Art2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSS6Ld60Qn3CfX35HSrToG7LsckIQZ8W3meHAFLDK_-5j31frapIj247QMb1WeUkCG-HFd_jasdG1uW_FWIvrQp6upsa7nzBeQE053ugW1_9zxQCoDYlpqPDyKDl7teV9ur8hLEU3xG0c/w399-h225/Grade3Art2.jpg" width="399" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Hello, there, friends!</p><div style="text-align: left;">I have two bits of news to share with you. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The first six months of 2021 turned out to be pretty exciting, and seem to prove that "things happen in three's". It's nice because the last eighteen months -- well before the pandemic -- I was wondering what I was doing with my life and planning to give up writing and the church work in order to have a "real" job that would give me some financial stability. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">If the book news in April -- about The Alphabet of Faith -- confirmed that I'm not to give up writing or church work, this bit of news will seem like overkill: I've sold another book! </div><div style="text-align: left;">At the end of May, I found out I'll be publishing another book -- in a whole other genre than anything I've written before: A children's picture book! </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's called "I Built A Cabin" and the photo is of a Grade 3 student's drawing of the story when I first workshopped the manuscript with a friend's class. Yep, it's inspired by my life in the country -- woods and a river, osprey and owls, a bear and a raccoon, just to name a few of the Nova Scotia animals that play a role in this fun little book. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Wow! I'm going to have a children's picture book published. Even though I wrote it and pitched it, I'm still in shock -- but I'm absolutely thrilled. It publishes in 2023. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It just goes to show: You just never know. </div><div style="text-align: left;">It's not about giving up writing, it's about trying something new. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Which leads me to my second piece of news: I have a teaching job. It's short-term but it's the perfect step for me to take in getting some classroom experience at the elementary level. Substitute teaching really isn't the same as having your own class, and even two months makes a difference. </div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm working September and October to finish of the regular teacher's mat leave so I have some reading on child development to do over the summer. Just to get into the mindset of five and six year olds before school starts again. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Maybe I'll get a swing set and kiddie pool for the backyard -- that should help me adopt a child-like attitude!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-19731667584922660892021-06-22T09:00:00.001-03:002021-06-22T09:00:00.237-03:00Eighty and Greaty! <p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6kVgZaVX9VfzzgmRfgKgo_OWR8YALdv7CzVllcj9cYwTjPj0Zejv81v6C3uYWMatdS7sM2mWG_04NjZLDtcxAfKLSkk-f-C6C7cWUiflqeT8dw5pCoiQo_5SJAghlMYJik2mYgzkOrFM/s1400/Party3+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="933" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6kVgZaVX9VfzzgmRfgKgo_OWR8YALdv7CzVllcj9cYwTjPj0Zejv81v6C3uYWMatdS7sM2mWG_04NjZLDtcxAfKLSkk-f-C6C7cWUiflqeT8dw5pCoiQo_5SJAghlMYJik2mYgzkOrFM/w266-h400/Party3+small.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;">Today is my mother's 80th birthday. </span></div></div><p>I've been so busy working, I haven't really written a proper tribute to share publicly, but don't panic! When we were in lockdown last month here in Nova Scotia, I had the time to put together a large book of photos and her writing. It turned out beautifully and the best of her writing is together in one book; there's a copy for her grandchildren, as well. </p><p>So that's where my effort went, into her gift. Believe me, while typing up her stories, I kept starting to shout down the hallway about something I was reading but remembered I couldn't let on I was doing something special for her birthday! </p><p>It's clear I get my writing talent from my mother. And she was good. First a poet then a writer of letters to her family once she'd moved out of Toronto. The famous "Epistles". She was funny and clever and creative. I'm sorry she didn't pursue more of her writing, or more of her music because she's equally talented in both. It makes me grateful I get to share my writing career with her. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaawtU7tWJmgiXd-1sct8qDPVtoZuJtBykckFsGg1FRigyc5c_Gb9grzMieyJoH9arB3tUoe9w_0XccPHIqRF3c8G902XW41sWn0qkvAP9miJTTXB3ffOv72xr8DLgZvFT0LVvgAdW27Q/s2048/1956.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1641" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaawtU7tWJmgiXd-1sct8qDPVtoZuJtBykckFsGg1FRigyc5c_Gb9grzMieyJoH9arB3tUoe9w_0XccPHIqRF3c8G902XW41sWn0qkvAP9miJTTXB3ffOv72xr8DLgZvFT0LVvgAdW27Q/w320-h400/1956.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1956</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Here's one of her early poems: </p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>BESIDE THE SHORE</b></p><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The waves lap softly at the shore</b></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>As they have done since days of yore.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The bees that buzz so loudly near</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Come close to me without a fear.</b></div></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The water lilies that float so calmly</b></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Look to the sun that shines so warmly</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>And then I feel a fragrant breeze</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>That gently stirs the grass and trees.</b></div></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>It’s oh, so peaceful and quiet here</b></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Without the crowds of the city near.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>A fish jumps, a bullfrog roars,</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Here beside these sparkling shores.</b></div></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Composed at Little Mud Turtle Lake, Coboconk, Ontario, Summer 1957, where her family had their cottage.</div><p>Interesting that I got Mother's writing talent, and my sister got her musical talent. An even split between her two daughters. That's just the way she is. And we all love to cook, and go on road trips, which is what we're doing today to celebrate this big birthday - heading out to Peggy's Cove for lunch (after visiting a bookstore, of course). </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizGKdkhCBZLo6zc7Pja2kkhBC-HDK0d5P2OpbnOrzWZRSSfUybVUeiolqiA45BRja5wZnUi-70PTRU7bWkjheuCRb4ZZ3tanfPkXryWT1oec_Dn8DBSup813dDBRM5EihcMJLDhiC4-ao/s1200/June2019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizGKdkhCBZLo6zc7Pja2kkhBC-HDK0d5P2OpbnOrzWZRSSfUybVUeiolqiA45BRja5wZnUi-70PTRU7bWkjheuCRb4ZZ3tanfPkXryWT1oec_Dn8DBSup813dDBRM5EihcMJLDhiC4-ao/w400-h400/June2019.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">It's been ten years since we built the addition on our house here in Nova Scotia so Mum could move in with us; I suppose we'll still be in this house when Mother celebrates her 90th birthday! <br />If there is one word to describe my mother, her life and our life together, that word is</div><p>laughter. </p><div style="text-align: left;">We have good times. <br />I have a good mother. <br />I have a mother in great health - eighty and greaty! <br />We are celebrating her today. </div><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYlEcEBvH0lvggKRM-7Xn3TStqD0giAfQuvFRaJalbnXCs240m9SnvenCpW8i8MIeAT-bNWJLmqlgZFzmqUQIYP47BPXUaAUb1iO00IkEpB2tZlqoIkraJlxeq5BXfJySFAR67RVzYFF4/s1400/From+Baby+Book+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="983" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYlEcEBvH0lvggKRM-7Xn3TStqD0giAfQuvFRaJalbnXCs240m9SnvenCpW8i8MIeAT-bNWJLmqlgZFzmqUQIYP47BPXUaAUb1iO00IkEpB2tZlqoIkraJlxeq5BXfJySFAR67RVzYFF4/w281-h400/From+Baby+Book+small.jpg" width="281" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Her graduation photo from teachers' college</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><div><br /></div>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-54820385422109261692021-06-19T12:17:00.002-03:002021-06-19T12:17:29.819-03:00Happiness is the Sound of Buzzing Bees<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi42LliMiBfl3UvTo59M2-_tn2FUa8V5335cxXGrUWEnU6LA5luRVw1ZIe0sphgGtjcY-uStnWqajACKG_Y1ayX0GQxK9V-eGGSe0pcZ8-gP7SVvw8Mypp3BShvxLFoGNfN8eqcPHkEpbw/s1400/LupinsJune2021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="787" data-original-width="1400" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi42LliMiBfl3UvTo59M2-_tn2FUa8V5335cxXGrUWEnU6LA5luRVw1ZIe0sphgGtjcY-uStnWqajACKG_Y1ayX0GQxK9V-eGGSe0pcZ8-gP7SVvw8Mypp3BShvxLFoGNfN8eqcPHkEpbw/w400-h225/LupinsJune2021.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />There were at least half a dozen "potato pollinators" in these lupins when I took this picture last night. So that's good news because we love bumblebees. <p></p><p>The gardens are planted which means we're into evening watering now, and the black flies are vicious this year. I'm afraid to see how big the mosquitoes are! But we're really windy this year so I'm not sure how my raised beds are going to fare; they get lots of sun but it turns out, I forgot to account for the wind tunnel that is our backyard. Fourteen years and I still don't have the hang of this gardening thing. Oh, well, as long as the salsa garden produces the ingredients to make salsa, I can live without the lettuce. </p><p>It's been awhile since I've posted here because since June 2, I've been working full-time providing literacy support to students in Grades Primary through Three. What a great job, although when one of your three part-time job suddenly goes to part-time hours, there's a lot of juggling that happens. My brain has to operate in three different ways. </p><p>Added onto that is editing essays for the book coming out next April, keeping up with my Thanatology course, and planting gardens -- it's been a really busy spring. </p><p>What bothered me most about the past three weeks was that my creative juices dried up. I've been writing poetry this year and I wrote only one poem in all that time, and it was a way of dealing with a friend's family tragedy -- I couldn't have not written that poem if I'd tried. </p><p>So that teaching job has wrapped up and my church work is down to two Sundays -- and now I'm anticipating my summer off. I know the two months of summer will fly by and I won't feel like I'm getting anything done but the plan is for writing, weeding, and reading. I don't want to touch any of my non-fiction books; I just want to enjoy fiction, fiction, fiction for two months. </p><p>Fiction and flowers. </p><p>Bee balm and bumblebees.</p><p>My chair in the gazebo. </p><p>Strawberry jam and salsa. </p><p>The perfect plan for summer in Nova Scotia. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-26060995505678175572021-06-01T13:54:00.001-03:002021-06-01T13:54:03.074-03:00Words Are Not Enough<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT707BeheNNSivGi-OmUYLboB79Pq9HDq-2snTww7Y5IQjbhsFLiRWtsEtlSxLCHPCnyeIed-uwrbNhoEqGaKiWvJiwndDoRcWLQPsNpWYuPlMCwy1ONAkCS2RJsiRJXR4oYbWz6gEY3w/s1920/Undocumented.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT707BeheNNSivGi-OmUYLboB79Pq9HDq-2snTww7Y5IQjbhsFLiRWtsEtlSxLCHPCnyeIed-uwrbNhoEqGaKiWvJiwndDoRcWLQPsNpWYuPlMCwy1ONAkCS2RJsiRJXR4oYbWz6gEY3w/w400-h225/Undocumented.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>I couldn't sleep last night. I tossed and turned. I don't feel guilty for being the descendent of white immigrants (my family arrived after the settlers took over the land) but I'm tired of being shocked and horrified and frustrated by what we put the Indigenous peoples through, and continue to put them through. Hundreds of years and through generations of abuse and suffering, denigration and dehumanization. I don't get it - how anyone could treat other human beings, let alone children, the way we've treated the Indigenous people. And to call them savages? Their spirituality is beautiful and enviable. Those of us who feel spirit in nature can absolutely relate to Native spirituality.</p><p>It's hard to be a member of a church, to be a Christian, and know these atrocities were committed by members of the Catholic, Anglican, United and Presbyterian churches. Here's what radio personality Charles Adler of Vancouver said, "The church's mission was to 'take the Indian' out of the children. It seems they took the Christ out of Christian." </p><div style="text-align: left;">Do you know the federal government is involved in litigation against the survivors of the residential schools? Likely to deny them all the compensation they deserve. Generations of government-and-church sanctioned trauma and you want to nickel-and-dime them? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I don't write about this -- I tend to listen and learn, and I don't want to say the wrong thing, I keep my privileged white mouth shut; I also don't know what to DO that will make a difference. I mean, the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women issue -- that's horrific too. But governments and government agencies ignore the truth, ignore the details, and refuse to change. That's the problem. The System simply won't budge. </div><div style="text-align: left;">And it kept me awake last night. Where is the fairness? Where is the kindness and mercy and justice? </div><p>I don't write about this but on Saturday, the following poem shouted to be written so I did what I do now: I opened a blank document, placed my fingers on the keyboard, and let it flow out of me. When I posted it to my Facebook page, fresh and rough, I encouraged those with more understanding of the issue to correct or suggest changes, but no one did. It was shared 27 times. </p><div style="text-align: left;"><div>UNDOCUMENTED CHILDREN</div><div><br /></div><div><i>(after the discovery of the remains of children</i></div><div><i>buried in a forgotten grave</i></div><div><i>at the former residential school in Kamloops, BC)</i></div><div><br /></div><div>An Indigenous woman challenged, </div><div><br /></div><div>“Imagine finding the bodies of 215 children</div><div>buried in the yard at your local elementary school”</div><div><br /></div><div>and the collective white mind replied, </div><div>“But that wouldn’t happen.”</div><div><br /></div><div>Exactly. </div><div><br /></div><div>We cannot imagine </div><div>We don’t know what it’s like</div><div>We are afraid of the truth </div><div><br /></div><div>So we deny</div><div>we ignore</div><div>we mute </div><div>we refuse to let the grief and rage</div><div>of those who tell their stories</div><div>of abuse and terror and suffering</div><div>that are beyond our imaginations</div><div>infiltrate our minds</div><div>and bleed into our hearts</div><div>just as their life bled from them </div><div><br /></div><div>In a burial register</div><div>the name, age, gender, cause of death, </div><div>dates of death and burial</div><div>and the location of burial</div><div>are written</div><div><br /></div><div>on a single line</div><div><br /></div><div>Those Indigenous children</div><div>forcibly – legally – </div><div>removed</div><div>from their families</div><div>from their homes</div><div>from their land and their culture</div><div><br /></div><div>turned over to the collective white mind</div><div>whose job it was to transform them</div><div>by any means</div><div><br /></div><div>into … what, exactly? </div><div><br /></div><div>Exactly. </div><div><br /></div><div>Even though their spirits resisted</div><div>they died or they survived</div><div>and they reconciled themselves</div><div>to living </div><div>inside the collective white mind</div><div><br /></div><div>where they were not</div><div>worth the ink </div><div>for writing a line in a book</div><div>as a record of their existence</div><div><br /></div><div>where they are not</div><div>worth the effort </div><div>of signing on lines </div><div>in recognition of their persistence </div><div><br /></div><div>the truth</div><div>is not written in ink</div><div>but in blood</div><div><br /></div><div>and dirt</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>~ by Sara Jewell</div><div> May 29, 2021</div><div><br /></div></div><p><br /></p><p> </p>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-80500346728993141352021-05-25T09:00:00.005-03:002021-05-25T09:00:00.239-03:00A Rhubarb Garden - Finally!<p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgro0qK6P_YuK14xYh2kXSUJ6U1HEh7i2Ex8UltTX81A_gKHCrtPw8WOAk8oWTuwVTwKzKo9D8f1rk_WEIqglCZ4YL8p4TcDnLq76eJ0H_I3Te6vgitltPFdl92NYOAYL0nB-L6IHIc8Z0/s1400/MarysRhubarb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="787" data-original-width="1400" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgro0qK6P_YuK14xYh2kXSUJ6U1HEh7i2Ex8UltTX81A_gKHCrtPw8WOAk8oWTuwVTwKzKo9D8f1rk_WEIqglCZ4YL8p4TcDnLq76eJ0H_I3Te6vgitltPFdl92NYOAYL0nB-L6IHIc8Z0/w400-h225/MarysRhubarb.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><div><br /></div>You may look at this photo of four rhubarb plants growing alongside a garage,<div>and you may think,</div><div>BOOOORRRRIIIING. </div><div>Also: the grass needs trimming. </div><div>And why the flimsy chicken wire fence? To keep the chickens out, of course. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I assure you -- this is a very exciting photo!<br />For two reasons:</div><div><br /></div><div>1) I have finally -- FINALLY - established a rhubarb patch. After 14 freakin' years in Nova Scotia. I know it's not up to the local standards, I mean, seriously 4 plants? For a proper rural rhubarb patch, there should be at least twenty plants and it should take up a huge amount of space. </div><div>Whatever. Considering I've been trying to establish any kind of rhurbarb patch for six years, I'm calling this a win. </div><div><br /></div><div>2) There is HERITAGE rhubarb in that patch. That's what's making my patch a patch, in fact. My two plants, put here last year, were joined a few weeks ago by two plants from my mother-in-law's patch at the home place (what Dwayne calls his family's home on the farm). I'd been meaning to get some rhubarb plants from down at the farm, in order to have some "family rhubarb" growing -- proper thing. But my sister-in-law's big patch was already too mature -- long-established, it grows quickly in the spring -- but Joan remembered that our mother-in-law had a few plants along a shed. She said the plants never took</div><div>but I tell you,</div><div>they took off when they landed in my garden. </div><div>Normally, a plant has to get rooted and acclimated to a new spot; it may not grow well after transplant. </div><div>Not the "Mary Mattinson Heritage Rhubarb"! They are the plants on the far right and the far left and they are growing faster than the two plants I've been carting around the property since 2015. My original plants grow well, no worries; I get lots of fruit from them. But Mary's rhubarb? Now that's true sturdy country rhubarb there, folks. </div><div><br /></div><div>So my small patch -- which may expand as the summer progresses, if I get the urge to dig more garden -- is growing well and making me very happy. </div><div>First we brought "Dad's couch" up from the home place, and now we have "Mom's rhubarb". I love legacies. I love keeping the memories alive, the stories flowing, and the love fertilizing my life with Dwayne. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'll stop now. That metaphor might get out of control! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-26550119139034913842021-05-24T16:31:00.001-03:002021-05-24T16:31:11.069-03:00In Praise of the Potato Pollinator<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi65PDwWBnCnrOhRX2Arl6NZ1aDGsmn2alLydyZBVFwOVSKSTp5J-am8SkrarCWTc3b3spCc4Ybpxi7Ly8b9BkOhCBb-0ssj8a2jeDBqrwnuuBdhgwvPoCj4bRHfBKCw9S_dy30u3ai_iY/s1500/BumblebeeFireweedMyPhoto.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi65PDwWBnCnrOhRX2Arl6NZ1aDGsmn2alLydyZBVFwOVSKSTp5J-am8SkrarCWTc3b3spCc4Ybpxi7Ly8b9BkOhCBb-0ssj8a2jeDBqrwnuuBdhgwvPoCj4bRHfBKCw9S_dy30u3ai_iY/w400-h266/BumblebeeFireweedMyPhoto.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>I've been writing a lot of poetry this year. Apparently, once I stopped writing articles and columns, a vein of creative writing opened up. Interesting... and enjoyable. </p><p>It means that every ponder, every phrase, every word has the potential to form a poem. Like the following, formed just as the dog and I were a couple of hundred metres from home at the end of our walk this morning. </p><p>It started with a title -- In Praise of Bumblebees -- followed by the first line -- Dear Bumble --</p><p>By the time I fed the pets and sat down with my first cup of coffee, the poem's opening lines had wandered off but I just started writing. Normally, my poetry is spiritual, and serious, so it was nice to write something fun. </p><p>I don't have a photo of a bumblebee at a dandelion but this photo of mine, of the fireweed in late August, shows the bumblebee in flight which is very cool. </p><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: left;"><b>IN PRAISE OF THE POTATO POLLINATOR</b><br /><o:p> <br /></o:p>Dear bumblebee<br />dear large body<br />dear small wings<br />dear mystery<br /><o:p> <br /></o:p>how you fly<br />how you lift<br /> what looks bulky and cumbersome<br />with those papyrean wings<br /> paper and weight<br /><o:p> <br /></o:p>as if there is a lightness<br /> inside you<br />a sense of divine purpose<br />that levitates you and propels you<br />forward<br />into the flowering world<br />even though that flight<br />seems impossible<br /><o:p> <br /></o:p>It is a miracle<br />every day<br />commonplace<br /> ordinary<br />yet so<br />extra ordinary<br /><o:p> <br /></o:p>for you<br /> king of the dandelions<br />fuzzy lion of all the flying insects<br />you<br /> are the great agricultural pollinator<br />the one who gives us<br />tomatoes and peppers<br />blueberries and strawberries<br /><o:p> <br /></o:p>the only one who pollinates potatoes<br /><o:p> <br /></o:p>without you<br />dear bumblebee<br />dear flying mystery masterpiece<br />dear miracle<br /><o:p> <br /></o:p>we would not have<br /> French-fried potatoes<br /> <o:p> <br /></o:p>So we thank you<br />dear bumblebee<br />for the miracle of<br />turning potatoes<br />into<br /> fries</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">~ Sara Jewell </div><p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><p><br /></p>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-12926813326663873722021-05-22T10:51:00.001-03:002021-05-22T10:51:31.194-03:00Rainy Day in Rural Nova Scotia<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOQIROlc5tivHl4KUB8EJ3TVYZ7XaFuZIfsUFyjbg0KhQK40x-UdQ3Bmb0UpEv8NR9QzyETWMzNvBgvEc57F5AynuKOnD3kOX0X2TgNRgdB_oTGYbUPCH0cD7_pKefXTp_q-tOJt_obRk/s1500/Greenhouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1308" data-original-width="1500" height="349" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOQIROlc5tivHl4KUB8EJ3TVYZ7XaFuZIfsUFyjbg0KhQK40x-UdQ3Bmb0UpEv8NR9QzyETWMzNvBgvEc57F5AynuKOnD3kOX0X2TgNRgdB_oTGYbUPCH0cD7_pKefXTp_q-tOJt_obRk/w400-h349/Greenhouse.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>Absolutely nothing makes me happier than a rainy day. Yesterday's sunshine had me twitching to plant gardens, but I know better -- our clay ground is still too cold -- yet the whole time I was inside working, I felt guilty that I wasn't outside planting. </p><p>Rain is much easier. Only one option with rain. Stay inside and write and read! </p><p>I must say, however, about gardening that moving the greenhouse, pictured to the right of the chicken coop, remains the best thing we ever did -- at least in the last ten years. Digging the pond, which you get just get a hint of at the top of the picture, is a close second, especially when the Canada geese hatch out their goslings. </p><p>I'm in and out of the greenhouse now at least twice a day. I'm hardening off the annuals I bought, and talking to the perennials I'm waiting to plant - Lily of the Valley! First time ever. Why do I bother to say, "No more gardens!" There always seems to be a spot that needs plants and flowers, and I'm happy to oblige. </p><p>The greenhouse is a very relaxing space, even as crowded as it is with shelving and bags of soil and planters waiting to be fill. And reams of chicken wire used to keep the chickens out of the gardens! They can scratch a garden bed to death, let me tell you. The greenhouse is warm and quiet and, I don't know why, but soothing. It's just a space, but at the edge of the field, and filled with plants and gardeny things, it feels like a little house of hope of possibilities. </p><p>Let's hope the two sunflower seedlings I dug up from the garden under Mother's balcony feel the same way, and keep growing. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-37994796519411992072021-05-03T14:12:00.007-03:002021-05-03T14:12:54.379-03:00Ospreys Return<div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkSQGQ0aZqXoAKZBwYVgAtmo5DiJtzj39WfSKBQRbc6rS1ErGi8FN1j-RONPrphl6mQOXmV53qIWflchSAU72UY2njHymIy6iPJjYu8wJ_NtrqrOWgjnpXZrRFVRufCxpGbGDusmn8HVs/s1741/OspreysBack2021-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1740" data-original-width="1741" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkSQGQ0aZqXoAKZBwYVgAtmo5DiJtzj39WfSKBQRbc6rS1ErGi8FN1j-RONPrphl6mQOXmV53qIWflchSAU72UY2njHymIy6iPJjYu8wJ_NtrqrOWgjnpXZrRFVRufCxpGbGDusmn8HVs/w400-h400/OspreysBack2021-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div>Not sure how I feel about two ospreys claiming the nest this year. </div><div><br /></div><div>Those of you who are loyal followers of this blog know the last few years have not been kind to the ospreys. Those of you who follow this blog and read my book will know these ospreys have been constant throughout my life in rural Nova Scotia; they claimed the nest the summer after Dwayne and I married. </div><div><br /></div><div>The last time babies fledged from this nest was the summer of 2017. In each of the following two years, one of the parents disappeared and the babies perished, as eggs then the following as young birds dying in the nest in the heat of July. The grief from that was excruciating; these birds are like family to us and to see them suffering, and being unable to help, was horrible. </div><div><br /></div><div>Also, eagles have moved in across the river so the ospreys may fish elsewhere and someone near us has a fish pond. Did he shoot one or both of our ospreys? (This is illegal; ospreys are protected migratory birds.) </div><div>The eagles also prey on the fledglings; in August of 2015, all three not-yet-flying fledglings were picked off by an eagle. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh my heart.</div><div>I never thought I cry at the sight of the ospreys returning to the nest. It was always a moment of relief and joy. They're back! It was good for our hearts; now we are filled with dread. </div><div><br /></div><div>Last year, ospreys checked out the nest but did not stay. We thought we were "safe" this year, figured with no babies, there was no one to come back, but this morning, one osprey is sitting on the nest and the other is bringing in sticks. </div><div><br /></div><div>We need a summer of the ospreys like the one I wrote about in my book; we need to hear them calling to each other and watch them bringing in fish and celebrate the babies flying. We desperately need to experience the joy of those first ten years with these beloved neighbours. But we are fearful, for them and for ourselves. We need their success this year; we can't handle more tragedy.</div><div>Neither can their species.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8f4_or7z5K2HOyLniE1fblBC_z8hHkDphSlTG8EEm7nFeLwIaYWSbah7MZpe2s3NvpX_JTprM6Y_T0UGZaIgLRDCjGSTL56LtnOmSK6KnhD-R0vfhcUoLoGK0PKf10m3UFy8tExim_F0/s2048/OspreysBack2021-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1705" data-original-width="2048" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8f4_or7z5K2HOyLniE1fblBC_z8hHkDphSlTG8EEm7nFeLwIaYWSbah7MZpe2s3NvpX_JTprM6Y_T0UGZaIgLRDCjGSTL56LtnOmSK6KnhD-R0vfhcUoLoGK0PKf10m3UFy8tExim_F0/w400-h333/OspreysBack2021-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>These aren't great photos. I was using my cell phone because it was handy and I couldn't get close because I didn't want to disturb them. They're not used to us. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757530304407800031.post-20560594504281490562021-05-01T12:26:00.002-03:002021-05-01T12:26:38.822-03:00A Poem: COVIDeer<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSJG-Jp1ojXbU1q-qEVMCQhLe7nvHR5IHI0irAGnFORvVb_87Brn1wVLJ6oCQXk82AVSo3-pPZ0YyOssgFldzKPsyiVNoEE7OtFbZvBbAr5AhOYmbsXyHoAK7TSLY5oL3pgPW6Sb7Jd0Y/s1080/COVIDeer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="717" data-original-width="1080" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSJG-Jp1ojXbU1q-qEVMCQhLe7nvHR5IHI0irAGnFORvVb_87Brn1wVLJ6oCQXk82AVSo3-pPZ0YyOssgFldzKPsyiVNoEE7OtFbZvBbAr5AhOYmbsXyHoAK7TSLY5oL3pgPW6Sb7Jd0Y/w400-h265/COVIDeer.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Shaun Whalen - thanks, Shaun! </td></tr></tbody></table></p><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div><i>COVIDeer</i></div><div><div><br /></div><div>She grazes close to the house</div><div>on her own</div><div>feeding on the new spring grass</div><div><br /></div><div>She eats</div><div>ears flicking</div><div>then picks up her head, looks around</div><div>listens</div><div>her ears unmoving</div><div><br /></div><div>She bends again</div><div>eats another mouthful</div><div>then again</div><div>her head comes up and she looks around</div><div>a sound spooks her</div><div>and she runs across the low end of the field</div><div>behind the chicken coop and the shed</div><div>but she’s not running fast</div><div>just enough</div><div>just in case</div><div><br /></div><div>She pauses along the far side of the yard</div><div>where the grass is growing long and green already</div><div>bends down to eat</div><div>walks forward</div><div>stands and looks around </div><div>for the longest time</div><div><br /></div><div>walks</div><div>and eats</div><div>and listens</div><div>and looks</div><div><br /></div><div>Her journey is moments</div><div>relaxed grazing</div><div>to nourish her body</div><div>total alertness</div><div>to keep herself safe</div><div>graceful and watchful</div><div>in equal measure</div><div><br /></div><div>Ears and eyes tuned to the world </div><div>what was that?</div><div>do I need to pay attention?</div><div>do I need to run?</div><div>or stand quietly?</div><div>am I safe here?</div><div><br /></div><div>And I think</div><div>she is</div><div>us</div><div><br /></div><div>our pandemic journey is moments</div><div>tweets and posts and videos</div><div>watching numbers rise and fall</div><div>walking alone</div><div>staying close to home</div><div>but ever vigilant</div><div>for danger</div><div>listening</div><div>observing</div><div>do I comment?</div><div>or stay quiet?</div><div>gracious and malicious</div><div>in equal measure</div><div><br /></div><div>A virus stalks us</div><div>hunting us down</div><div>in the air</div><div>without a sound</div><div><br /></div><div>Our eyes and ears are tuned to the world</div><div>are we safe here?</div><div><br /></div><div>We are</div><div>the deer</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>~ SJ, April 26, 2021</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Sara Jewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13862705999981164682noreply@blogger.com0