Making the Possible, Impossible
Part 16
Continued lockdown, more restrictions and here I am, in a house I don’t want to leave anyways, in a community of many like-minded (and if not like-minded then at least accepting) people. I lucked out here. I am fortunate. Many have been fortunate through this last year and a half. I too have benefited, and don’t think I don’t feel the unfairness. I try to see all the sides. I am a Libra after all and an artist. Trained in lateral thinking. Seeing between the lines. Humans are hardwired to dismiss facts that don’t fit their worldview. The same facts will sound different to people depending on what they already believe.
We do not live in a world of absolutes. There are as many shades of grey as there are spaces between notes, years between here and the farthest star in the farthest galaxy, distance to knowing why we are here and what makes us conscious. Science cannot explain everything. Science is theory. Not absolute. And science is always evolving. Always reexamining its theories to come to a better or closer understanding of things and the way they work. Or at least it should. A theory should be able to stand up to dissenting opinion or alternate theories. It cannot exist as a vacuum. This is where it will fail.
I had a show many years ago, of my assemblages at a gallery in Toronto, called “Old Bones”, and another at the Foyer Gallery in Squamish called, “Between the Lines”. I have explored different media throughout my career and one of them is assemblage. Found object art. Mixed media. There is some part of my expression as an artist that communicates through the putting together and or manipulating objects (usually historic or aged objects), into a purpose not intended, or as a message, often through the use of words, letters, numbers or symbols. The words come mostly from old books, as does the backing for some pieces. I have a collection of things that can be used, like silkworm cocoons, lots of old and beautiful papers, decorative wood pieces, and rusty bits of all sorts. I just love the bits and bobs.
When my daughter was here and poking through some old glass beads, and pieces of jade, she came across a seagull. A tiny grey and white seagull on a tiny piece of wire. My grandma gave me that seagull. It was in some sewing things that she had sent me when I was about my daughter’s age. When I think of how many times I have paid to have these things moved (shakes her head), though it is really more of a revolving collection as I use things and then find others.
Oh the sewing things my Grandma sent me! Vintage material (she had a thing for textiles… Lots of sheets and material for sewing), silk thread on wooden bobbins, a carved ivory button, notions from what was obviously the 60’s and 70’s. My Grandma taught me how to sew. I remember one summer, I think I was 7 or 8, and we were visiting my Grandma and other family in Victoria, BC. We went to the fabric store to pick out material for a dress for me to sew myself. I chose one that was yellow and white, with stripes of tiny flowers, in green and orange. So pretty! If only I could see that fabric now, to compare my taste as a child to what I am attracted to presently. My Grandma also taught me to hand sew, embroider, and knit. Indispensable tools, as far as I’m concerned.
Throughout my 5 years of Ontario high school (we had Grade 13 back then), I designed and made many of my clothes. I also took drafting classes. Mechanical and architectural. I was always the only girl in my class. They were my favourite classes. I loved Mr. Pogorzelski, my teacher, and in grade 11, he submitted my name for the Drafting award, given by Caterpillar of Canada. It was a cash award and recognition. So cool. There was a running joke in that class, “Hey Kim, are those your Grandma’s drapes you’re wearing today?” A few times they were not wrong!
I still repurpose things and assemblages are part of that. They are like a puzzle and I love puzzles. The way I see the world is in pattern and colour. I tend to find interesting things on the ground because in my search for patterns, of which there are so many around us, there is always something in the field of vision that stands out as not belonging. As Richard P. Feynman, the American theoretical physicist said, “The thing that doesn’t fit is the thing that’s the most interesting…” Things that don’t fit stand out.
The whole quote is, “The thing that doesn’t fit is the thing that’s the most interesting: the part that doesn’t go according to what you expected.” Not just about seeing the gap in the pattern, more, the openness to accept a different than expected outcome.
This last bit of time has been focused on getting a deer fence up. I am definitely not lacking vision, but often my vision blissfully ignores the scope of a project. I start with planning and taking measurements and thinking about what materials I could use. This particular fence is not a square. It sort of follows the lines of the house and landscape. It feels like it makes sense. One side is longer than the others and that is the side the gate will be on. So I took about 3 trips to lumberyards, and talked to people about their suggestions. I googled deer fencing. I asked the question to the permaculture group I belong to on Facebook. I drew a design and priced out materials. I measured out the post holes, got myself a good long drain spade and started to dig.
It was probably the easiest soil I had ever had the pleasure of digging in. It was almost like digging at the beach with a plastic shovel. I ran into few smaller rocks but only one big enough to force me to move the post hole out a few inches. I shook out the dirt from the roots of the circle of ground cover I dug out. I pushed my fingers into the dirt to work out any clods. Have you ever rolled a worm in your fingers inadvertently? Breaking up clods, expecting rocks and pieces of wood or root, the tips of my fingers encounter a rubbery softness, and after rolling gently to break it up, I realized it was a worm. It’s not the first time I’ve had such an intimate encounter with our earth dwelling neighbours. I can’t even imagine how it would feel as a worm (assuming they have some capacity for the sense of touch, which apparently they do) to be lifted from the ground and massaged between human fingers before being dropped back down once said human has the realization that the worm is a worm and not a dirt clod. It is a very strange feeling and one that takes me by surprise every time. I always end up feeling a little like I’ve committed an assault. Years of therapy may bring the worm back to its feeling of safety, but for me, I have to live with the guilt. Me and Bill Cosby, except that I didn’t drug the worms first officer, I swear.
19 holes later 24” deep and I was still hemming and hawing about materials. I finally bit the bullet and paid the money for pressure treated lumber. The options were, to find a sawmill that would charge me a bit less for rough cut lumber, not pressure treated, that might last a couple of years before rotting and having to be replaced, or setting out into the woods to find 19 straight, equal sized pieces of hardwood deadfall. Not an impossibility, but I did not have the time, or the vehicle for such an endeavour. So I bought the wood from Home Hardware and had it delivered. The wood was delivered on the Tuesday afternoon, and by Thursday night at 8:00 pm there were only 6 posts to go.
Jamie came by then and dropped off a lawnmower for me. I have one in the barn that has been jury-rigged to be in a constant on position, with the only way to shut it off being to pull the spark plug. I’m not sure about you, but I try to avoid electrical shocks anytime I’m able to.
Once, while visiting my Grandma after she and my Grandpa sold their beautiful old house on Washington Ave in Victoria, BC and moved to Surrey on the mainland, I went for a walk with my dad and my brother to see the horses pastured on nearby farmland. I was a young girl in love with horses and wanted so much for them to come over so I could pet them. So I leaned into the wire to beckon them to me… and fell back flat, feeling as though I had blacked out for a moment and someone had thrown something really heavy at my gut. I got up and went back to the fence to call to the horses. Second time I leaned into the fence, same thing, I was stunned and felt like someone had taken the air out of me. I looked around to see what it could have been, and my dad said, “Have you had enough? That’s an electric fence to keep the horses in, and the people out. Don’t touch it again” Always one to teach by experience, my dad.
Anyways, lawnmowers are a bit of a loaded issue for me, and I would not have known how to fix the one in my barn. I’ve been a horrible neighbour and haven’t visited Frank as I had planned, so couldn’t just suddenly show upon his doorstep with a broken lawnmower and plea for help. Jamie is so very generous and kindhearted and far more than once has brought me what I need without me even asking. Weed, wood, lobster, what more could I need? I have the best neighbours and am still wearing the glow of being new here, though I’ve been told that I am a definite part of the community already. That makes me want to cry! Thank you Port Clyde! Thank you Nova Scotia! I can’t even describe to you how grateful I am to have this life, that has finally brought me to a place where I feel secure.
This piece of heaven. This, so far cold piece of heaven. I am waiting for warm weather and sundresses, and as I wait I am reading a book called, “Cold: Adventures in the World’s Frozen Places”, by Bill Streever, and learning a bit about what the human body does when faced with temperatures not even far from freezing. Ground squirrels’ hearts beat so slowly during the winter, they appear dead. Blood and tissue existing in a super-cooled state, only waking itself to shiver back to warmth before falling back into its close to death condition.
Next year, I will remember to not start any seedlings inside until the middle of April. The rule of thumb here is full moon in June is planting time. Whaaat?!! The summer is half over by then! There are two super old maple trees on my property that are only now, almost June, showing signs of budding. I imagine these trees will be my guide for planting, not unlike the mesquite trees in the Verde Valley, in Arizona. When the mesquite trees bud out, it is safe to plant. Mind you, that happens in April in the desert highlands, not June.
Regardless, I have a lawnmower and I spent the last hour of daylight mowing the foot long grass just around the house. Ticks be gone! After a good hot shower I made myself a dinner fit for a heavyweight bodybuilder and was eating by 10 pm.
The next day, knowing I had to be finished the posts and the chicken wire before the rain started on Saturday, I set the last 6 posts, feeling strong, but sore. The long heavy birch sapling I was using as a tamping tool had done its job. My left shoulder came through and carried the majority of the work that day. Just as the evening set in, I as I was wrapping and stapling the second roll of chicken wire, Neil came over from next door to give me a hand stretching out the last bit. Now, except for the gate which needs to be strengthened and hung, the deer will not have a chance to nibble at my tasty seedlings, or ravage my veggie patch. Foiled!
Saturday was spent transplanting seedlings into bigger pots, roots spilling out of overflowing cups, plants begging to be put in the ground, and me consoling them and telling them how proud I am of their growth, and that it would only be a few more days. The cumin however, I told was a lost cause. I sneered at it as I said dismissively, it would never grow here. Two new seeds sprouted a week or so back and I have been bad talking them ever since, as they are supposed to grow better when cursed.
I cannot believe the luxury of a day spent not taking my body to the extreme. A day of waking up late, putzing about, and eating chips and chocolate. The kicker came at 9:30 last night, when a small knock at my front door, opened to Neil, with a box of.. not one, not two, not even three, but four, yup 4 lobster, freshly caught and steamed, still hot. I packed three into the fridge, and with melted garlic butter and a bowl of vinegar on the side, I made a mess tucking into the fourth. Delicious!! How can I ever give back enough to everyone here who has shown me such kindness? My heart is as full as my well after a good rain, and I realize the impossibility of my task.
Notes from the Edge of the World 