It is Thanksgiving, but my son and I aren’t celebrating. I recently started a new job, and he recently started kindergarten. We are both just happy to have a long weekend to relax.
I’m not going to make a turkey dinner for the two of us, but it is a long weekend, so maybe I’ll get something a little festive. As we walk up and down the grocery store aisles, I see the frozen tourtières. A tourtière is sort of festive, I guess. I put one in my cart.
It is easy to make. All I have to do is put the frozen meat pie in the oven and wait. My son and I enjoy our slightly festive dinner.
A week goes by. Temperatures are getting lower and the air is more refreshing. The trees look like they’re going to a festival with all of their bright leaves on display.
My son brings home an assignment that he had at school. The top of the sheet says, “Draw a picture of what you ate for Thanksgiving.”
My son has carefully drawn a brown circle. At the bottom, his teacher has written, “A little more detail next time, please.”
You can read the vignette presented in this video here.
The video includes my artwork, and also some footage from our more recent whale watching tour last week. This time we were armed with Gravol and we didn’t get sick.
Here is a gallery with some pictures from the tour and with the artwork from the video.
For many gardeners, the part of summer when the tomatoes are ripe is the best time of year. There is nothing more delicious and rewarding than a fresh tomato from your garden. Whether you grew them from seed or acquired some small tomato plants, you did it, baby! It’s time to enjoy the benefits of your labour.
Maybe you plan on making sauce, or maybe you just plan on having salads and sandwiches that are more tasty than usual. At this time of year, I just add fresh tomatoes to basically whatever I’m making. I’m making pasta? Throw in some tomatoes at the end. Omelet? Oh look, now it’s a tomato omelet. Cheese plate? Who doesn’t love tomatoes with some fancy cheese? You get the idea. We love tomatoes! It was inevitable that they would be named Garden Star 🌟 of the Week.
The waterfall at Camping Chutes Fraser near La Malbaie, Quebec
There’s a waterfall across the laneway from our campsite. After our tent is set up, we cross the little road to have a look.
Wooden stairs lead down to to the flat rocks at the top of the waterfall. We stand on the rocks and admire the scene.
“We’ll probably get a better view from the bottom of the waterfall,” I say.
My husband Phil says, “Do you want to take that trail we saw when we came in?” I agree and we head down the path.
We quickly realize that the path we’re walking on is also a roadway. We squeeze onto the shoulder to let cars pass. We bend our knees generously as we make our way down the steep path through the woods.
At the bottom of the hill, there is a parking lot. A family in a pickup truck wants to park where my son is currently walking. They reach their arms out of the open windows and bang on the metal sides of the truck, making a loud, booming sound.
Not wanting him to get run over, I pull my son out of the way, but the truck is taking up the entire parking lot. Pedestrians scatter as the driver maneuvers around the small parking lot.
We get away from that mess and onto the trail. There is a wooden bridge crossing the river and a foot path leading us closer to the waterfall. I snap several pictures and take some videos from the bridge and from the path.
We find a picnic table near the base of the waterfall and sit down to enjoy its beauty. The cool mist tickles our hot faces, relieving us from the humidity that has been clinging to us all day.
Phil decides that it’s a good time for him to get some photographs as well. He takes out his phone and uses the camera to frame the waterfall. He is about to tap the button when the family from the pickup truck walks into his shot.
They’re wearing bathing suits, tank tops, and flip flops. A guy with a mop of white-blond hair and neon pink swim shorts takes his shirt off and poses in front of the waterfall.
He bares his teeth and sticks his tongue out as far as it will go. He sticks his pointer and pinky fingers up while holding the middle fingers down with his thumb. He poses with his right hand up and his left hand in front of his belly, with his left hand up and his right hand down, and with both hands in front of his hips.
When he is done having his picture taken, he puts his shirt back on.
When Phil sees the guy walk back to his family, he thinks that this is his chance. He takes his phone out again, but the other family members also want their pictures taken.
We notice rain drops and decide to walk back to the campsite. As we walk over the bridge, we see the guy climbing up the waterfall. His shorts are blazing like a neon sign in front of the white water and the grey rocks.
A few days later, we’re at home sitting on the couch. I ask Phil what his favourite part of the road trip was.
“I liked it when we were sitting on the picnic table and laughing at that guy,” he says. “You know, the one who was throwing horns in front of the waterfall while his girlfriend or whoever took his picture.”
I was on a road trip with my family this week, which is why the video is late. It also contains scenes from our trip. There will be more posts about this road trip coming soon, and there are already some photos and videos on my Instagram.
It would probably make more sense to give butternut squash the distinction of being Garden Star of the Week at harvest time when we can actually eat it, but look at how cute it is!
This is also the farthest I’ve ever gotten when growing squash and it is very exciting. I’ve had lots of big, beautiful, orangeish-yellow flowers, and then nothing. On the advice of several gardening books I have even used a paintbrush to help with pollination but it still did not work. I meant to try that again this year, but I didn’t get around to it yet, and look at what happened! Sometimes all you have to do is nothing.
My little baby butternut squashes will be delicious eventually. I like them roasted in the oven with some butter, salt, pepper, and cinnamon. I also like them roasted in the oven and then made into a comforting and creamy soup. Fall is going to be tasty this year, all because of my butternut squash, which is why it is the garden star 🌟 of the week. Congrats, cuties!
The door is open and my mother has one foot inside and one foot outside in the cold, October rain. The raindrops make tip-tapping noises on the fire escape.
“Please,” I beg, sobbing. “Please don’t leave.” I’m kneeling on the linoleum floor and clinging to her pant leg. My eyes are red from crying and I’m still in my pyjamas.
“I have to,” she insists. “I have to go back to work.”
“But I don’t know how to take care of a baby!” I cry some more. My week-old son sighs in his sleep in the other room. My mother gently pries my fingers open and drives back to Ontario.
This Sunday school is weird and I’m not even supposed to be here. I suppose it’s not really their fault that their van driver accidentally kidnapped me this morning. I don’t know very much about this organization, but when I grow up I’ll learn that they use discrimination to choose which individuals they will help and which ones they won’t. Their name sort of rhymes with “Dalmatian Barmy.”
For now, I can’t put my finger on why I think this Sunday school is weird. I’m so anxious about being in the wrong place, about Carol being sad that I didn’t go to Sunday school with her, and about how I’m going to get home that years later all I can remember are the buttons that they handed out. The buttons are covered with pictures of a smiling cartoon dog with a backwards baseball cap and shiny sunglasses. The dog is telling us to “SAY NO TO DRUGS.”
Meanwhile, Carol and Amelia’s parents are discussing who will pick up which daughter from their respective Sunday schools. My mom says, “Don’t they go to the same Sunday school?”
The pieces start falling into place. My dad and Carol and Amelia’s dad drive to the Dalmatian Barmy to pick Amelia and I up and I never have to go to Sunday school again. THE END.
My parents are friends with a couple who have two daughters. Amelia* is a year older than me and Carol is a year younger than me.
I am walking to their house to go to Sunday school with Carol. It’s a sunny day and I’m happy that I get to go see my friends. I am almost at their house when I run into Amelia, who is standing on the sidewalk with some other kids.
“Oh, hi,” she says, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m going to your house,” I tell her.
“Oh. I’m going to Sunday school.”
“I’m going to Sunday school. That’s why I’m going to your house.”
“I guess you should just come with me then,” she says.
“Okay.”
A large, white van driven by a man that I’ve never seen before pulls up and we all climb in. Amelia explains to the man that she’s bringing me to Sunday school with her. He turns to look at the back of the van to smile at me. He has short, thin, dark grey hair and a gold tooth. He is wearing an old leather jacket. He turns back around and the van pulls away from the curb.
As the van rattles through town, I lean over and say, “Hey Amelia, where’s Carol?”
“Oh, she goes to a different Sunday school,” Amelia says.
In the late 1980s and early 1990s, kids are still enjoying a certain level of freedom. We can walk to the store by ourselves. We can knock on the door of a stranger who everyone calls “the candy man” to get free treats. We can toboggan down a hill that has a fence on the bottom of it, even though we’ve been told not to. Nobody will even know until one of us comes home with a black eye.
If there’s an article in the newspaper about an attempted kidnapping a block away, our mothers and fathers won’t lock us inside. They’ll just say, “If you see a tan van with a maroon stripe, make sure you stay away from it.”
When friends of my parents call to ask if I can go to Sunday school with their younger daughter, my mother asks if they can give me a ride. The adults come to an agreement, and that Sunday, I walk over to their house. It’s only a block away. My mother watches me leave.
Half an hour later, the telephone rings. My mother answers. It is the mother of the friend who I am supposed to be going to Sunday school with. She asks my mother if I’m on my way and informs her that I never showed up at their house.
Panicking, my parents retrace my route, looking for me. I’m not there. They run back home and I’m still not there.
When the police arrive, my parents give them a picture of me. In the picture, I’m wearing a mint green dress with a wide lace collar that has a pink ribbon threaded through it. My hair softly branches away from my face like the needles of an undecorated Christmas tree. My two front teeth are shorter than all of my other teeth, but they have ambitions of becoming bigger than them all.
The police go door to door with my picture asking if anyone has seen me. My friends in the neighborhood stare at the cops and the picture with wide-eyed astonishment. I’m famous now. They know a famous person!
One by one, every single neighbour shakes their head. None of them have seen me.
Raccoon Brontosaurus 