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The Double Eagle

My parents enjoyed the outdoors and taking us kids on adventures no matter how loudly reluctant we were. We strolled, hiked, rode bikes and took out a canoe from time to time. Imagine our parents’ delight when our grandfather sold our family his boat, a 14-foot, 1980 Double Eagle, in pristine condition. It boasted orange decking, brown leather chairs and an off white hull — an adventurer’s dream. A six-pack of chunky, bright orange life jackets later and we were on our way.

All four of us were helpless casualties of their meanderings and self-guided boat instruction. The Double Eagle made them feel limitless with the wind in their hair (at way too many knots an hour) and their newfound capacity for exploration, they had the whole natural world at their fingertips. The Double Eagle was a patient teacher, rather built well. That’s the thing with boats — you learn as you go, and learn they did, thank goodness she was sturdy, built for unyielding adventure.

We hit a sand bar in one lake, sputtering us all right back into reality, our fate resting in the goodness of passersby to free our boat. We also ran out of gas, more than once if I recall correctly. Thankfully, we had oats and boaters, in general, are kind people and they came to our rescue. Our parents eventually learned the exact limitations of that boat and all of our sanity by putting them both to the test. Perhaps there was no other way — in the words of T.S. Eliot, “Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far they can go.”

We would pull up and jump ashore beside other boats more sleek and more modern coloured, it’s riders sported neoprene life vests in fashionable colours, I’d have given anything in those moments for a trendier neoprene life vest.

The trips started out small, just a few hours searching for everything we had been missing out on while boat-less. We found elusive beaches, hidden waterfalls and spent countless hours beach-combing for “jewels” — strangely shaped wood that had the potential to be made into a table leg or a lamp by my dad, who had very little extra time for projects. We would cheer him on, often adding our own finds to his growing pile. The wood secured the best seats on the boat and it became our responsibility to fit into the boat as best we could. He would lovingly place each piece of carefully curated treasure in a heap beside his shop. He’d eventually move the pile from house to house, very few pieces of wood ever reaching their full potential. Perhaps the pieces of wood were ok with that though, having enjoyed an extra moment of admiration, far after they had provided shade or danced in the breeze.

During one of our expeditions we landed on the shore of a boat-in only campsite. There were three groomed sites for tents hidden in the forest behind, a large beachfront and an outhouse. It was free, off-grid and involved the boat — our parents were thrilled.

Camping sites, back then, were first come, first served and we would drive around with a vehicle packed to the hilt with camping gear, tarping supplies, a large assortment of treats and four very hopeful children. No vacancy signs, confirmed by speaking with site attendants filled us with dismay as we drove with growing urgency, further and further from home and later and later into the day. How much trickier it would be to ensure the boat-in site would be ours, it was imperative we beat the weekend rush.

We never pared down our camping supply list, on account of needing to boat in all of our supplies, in fact we brought more. My dad packed enough two by fours and a sheet of plywood to set up a very elaborate beachfront tarp system, complete with level picnic table and of course an ample supply of firewood. We would need to do two trips. Weighed down, the trip took 45 minutes to an hour depending on the moodiness of the water. When we picked up speed, the rear of the heavily-packed boat often threatened to sink below the surface; it was my brothers job to hop up onto the bow. Those of us who could, clambered forward and the rest of us just leaned and held our breath, hoping we could displace enough weight to not go under. Somehow, our ambitious packing never caused our capsize, though in one terrifying moment, my brother and his friend were both washed into the water, but just once.

We had enough supplies to fill the beach, due to my dads over-sized tarps and furniture made on site. To onlookers, I’m sure it seemed as though we had always been there and were leaving no time soon and so we never had to share the camping area. I’m quite sure the small number of unruly, bedraggled children had nothing to do with it.

Upon arriving at our explorers paradise, the skies broke open and the rain poured down. We set to work unloading and setting up our tents. The outstretched arms of the cedar trees offered very little protection from the rain. We longingly joked about abandoning the whole trip for a warm hotel, but we grew up on a budget, dad had already left for the second load of supplies and it was already growing dark. We were just barely able to see beyond the branches of the trees, the rain making the lake’s surface come to life. We fumbled through set up and took shelter inside the kids’ tent. We climbed into our sleeping bags, clicked off the flashlight and settled in to wait for morning.

After what felt like forever, we heard the trusty hum of the Double Eagle’s motor. Our dad —an experienced camper—startled us all as he walked around the tent pushing on the walls, “stay away from the walls to stay dry,” he warned. We huddled together, with our backpacks, in the middle of the tent. Sleep overtook us all as we imagined what tomorrow’s light might bring, listening to the falling rain on the tent.

We excitedly unzipped the tent and stumbled out to find a much more favourable day for camping. We played amongst the trees, on the sandy beach and cooled off in the frigid water. We enjoyed tubing, holding on for dear life until we plunged into the cold water that smacked like concrete and took our breath away. “Faster!” We screamed.

As the day warmed, an old man kayaked over to our campsite, two smaller kayaks in tow. A tiny bathing suit showed off his sun weathered skin, his eyes appeared so large behind the thick glasses he wore on a strap fastened behind his head. He may or may not have been a little “off,” said my mom who prided herself on her stellar intuition and never took her eyes off of us as he hoisted us in and out of his kayaks, summer after summer. I’m not sure if it was politeness or curiosity that led her to allow us to follow him to his campsite a short hike down the beach. She followed closely. He was set up to stay the majority of the summer in an incredible fortress made of the wood he had collected from the beaches. These sticks were surely enjoying their second life; I’m sure he was a good guy.

I admire my parents resolve for adventure. Taking four whining, heavily-resistant children into the elements is not for the faint of heart. I don’t recall any of us kids ever loving the boating part of these escapades, though when our feet hit the ground again, as we reached our destination, we were happy explorers.

My brother-in-law recently rewired the motor at my mom’s request, and we all cinched up our orange life jackets extra tight (pretty sure those were original), sat our kids on the brown cracked leather seats and took a ride on the Double Eagle, for old time’s sake, fondly thinking back on all the trips we survived.

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Don’t Tell Mom

As kids, we were routinely locked out of the house when our mother needed some well-deserved down time — which usually consisted of her reading her water-logged Bible in the claw foot tub, in our one bathroom house. We never knew how long it would be before outside time ended, she had a habit of stirring in more hot water and Revelation had fallen into the water a long time ago. It was our job to entertain ourselves on an eight acre acreage, complete with an abandoned barn, a forest, a creek and a pond, flanking the aptly named Bear Mountain. 

Our knocks and urgent hollering fell on deaf ears, in event of emergency we were without a doubt, on our own. After we wrapped our minds around things, we embraced the predicament we found ourselves in and lost ourselves in the voracious landscape and our imaginations. We could conquer this infinite passage of time — together. It was us against the elements, for perhaps eternity — there was no way to be sure.

Funnily enough, we never saw a bear, perhaps our heads were too caught up in our games to notice any curious onlookers. Perhaps we were too loud. Or perhaps our free-spirited, free-roaming dog, my dad found in the “unwanted” section of the newspaper —free to good home— kept them at bay. Shamoo, came with only the name, a half-bag of kibble and his thick white coat, full of the mysteries and adventures his happy grin only began to allude to. He traversed the perimeter of our property (and well beyond) alerting predators of his and our presence.

While there were places and activities forbidden to us, the rules were stretched or forgotten altogether when we ventured outdoors unsupervised. Our imaginations grew as we created portals into another world, one where only we existed, outside of the rules, outside of reality. We climbed tall ladders into high hay lofts, we rode dirt bikes at break neck speed we spent whole afternoons capturing and releasing creatures. While it was expected we had common sense, common sense was best learned by making a myriad of mistakes. Left to our own devices, it was up to us to learn and appreciate our own limits.

Given a brief introduction to knife carrying safety, my brother was set free with his first Swiss Army knife— never whittle towards yourself or run with an open blade. The instructions seemed straightforward and the knife made sense for reaching the next level of outdoor enjoyment. Sharp weapon-like sticks and rudimentary carvings were already in the works. It wouldn’t be long before we were blazing trails with machetes. When my brother fell, doing something he shouldn’t have, he lodged the knife deep into his hand between his finger and thumb. “Don’t tell mom,” he said. Those words were a pact we all deeply understood. 

While we enjoyed tattling on one another at many points in life, the wilderness built within us a camaraderie like no other. The fresh air that filled our lungs, ran through our veins and fuelled our hearts, coursing through us all — we were different outdoors. It was us against everything and we most definitely would respect the pact, by not telling mom. We learned wound care that day, and a deeper respect for sharp objects. 

Due to our apocalypse-fearing Christian upbringing, we often played an enchanting little game called, “End of the World,” where we imagined we would soon be the only people left on Earth, or need to go off-grid for any variety of reasons. Whatever the situation, it was pressing that we sharpen our survival skills. Imagine our dismay, when we learned a compass comprised of a magnetized needle and a leaf in a bucket of water could not save our mortal souls. It didn’t much matter we could survive the rugged terrain, bellies full of the sourest huckleberries. We could catch fish in buckets and we discussed the nutritional value of grubs and insects, only one of us brave enough to try. We had nothing but time, the wilderness and each other and so we practiced well. 

A friend from work mentioned she had removed a book from the school library shelves, titled Schoolyard Games, a how-to type of book, circa 1980. One of the chapters boasted a fun little game where children throw pocket knives at the other participants to avoid boredom and of course, increase knife skills. Thinking fondly of my own childhood, and us throwing sharpened sticks at eachother, I suggested she re-shelve the book (to no avail — though probably for the best). 

I couldn’t help but smile to myself, as my brother presented his own children with their very first pocket knife, during a family camping trip. I even got to listen in as he explained the simple rules for the miniature blades. I watched as they carefully realized what potential lay in their palms. “Enjoy.”

Now we have the most incredible opportunity watching our own children from our windows — giving them the illusion of aloneness — as they scale tall hills, use sticks as swords, catch frogs, gather insects and test their own limits, right at the foot of the same Bear Mountain. I watch as they increase their familiarity with the wild, one tiny step at a time. I listen intently though for worrisome sounds, not quite ready to draw myself a bath and lose track of them altogether, one foot in the 90’s, one foot right here. If ever I am lucky enough to overhear the phrase, “don’t tell mom” used by my own young children, I will try my absolute best to smile. 

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I give thanks to the sun

for turning my skin 

into the deep 

warm hues 

of my aunties,

whose hands 

I admired 

as they prepared 

our food,

their wrists 

adorned 

with silver 

delicately engraved

and freckled with turquoise.

-Metis

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Tragedy at the Puddle’s Edge

Only days into summer holiday, we discovered freshly laid frog eggs in the very shallow, warm water of the ditch near our home. Some lay completely exposed to the afternoon’s heat, the soft jelly already hardening, surrendering its existence to the relentless heat. The sun has since made dusty patchwork quilts of the ditch’s bottom. 

We carefully collected all of the eggs, scraping the mud with our fingers, we placed them delicately into a large bowl of murky water. We knew a completely successful hatching was unlikely given their delicate condition and still we watched, hopeful. Nearly forty tadpoles emerged and found life in the tank that would entertain us for weeks. 

Unbeknownst to us, we simultaneously hatched mosquitos and midge flies, too. The mud we collected alongside the eggs, gave birth to squirming larva. The walls of our home were soon sprinkled with the tiny winged creatures, who would regrettably live out their short lives indoors — their forlorn figures eternally resting on our window sills. 

We watched as the tadpoles slowly developed back legs, then front. To our delight we noticed one afternoon, the first tiny frog with barely a tail, sitting on the rock we had planted in their makeshift home. It had happened. We hurried to fix the lid in place as the frog quickly scaled the walls of the container. Revealing its delicate underside, through the glass, we witnessed each breath as the air from the room filled its lungs. 

After a month of dry weather, the only nearby refuge that the summer had yet to get rid of, was a small puddle on the edge of the ditch. Collecting a constant, almost imperceptible amount of ground water it defies the tall, thirsty trees looming overhead with their starved, autumn-coloured leaves, curling sorrowfully. So nearby where the eggs were laid, the destination seemed to me both poetic and opportune.

We collected the frog for a second time and brought it to the puddle. We watched as it flicked its tail and tested its legs in the water. We celebrated its first jumps as it stretched its legs in this newfound capacity. It ambitiously explored the rocky edge of the puddle, collecting fallen pine needles on its back. I watched it for some time, crouched nearby.

I watched a fascinating, particularly long-legged, wonderfully dexterous spider race past me, past the pair of fading deer prints, left sometime ago. It left the dry edge of the puddle, stretched its black and yellow limbs and took hold of a thin green plant that bent under the weight of the excited spider. It skillfully climbed from branch to branch before resting on its perch, contemplating where to build its voracious web.

I watched the frog as it continued exploring, a world materializing around it, now free from the confines of the water of its previous life. 

As we prepared to head back inside, one excited daughter pushed another to get a final glance of the frog we had raised. A foot came falling down and crushed the tiny frog, on the puddle’s edge. 

One daughter cried. Another reminded me, “it would’ve died anyway.” The youngest remained oblivious. We went back inside as there was nothing left to do. 

The spider, having observed many thirsty insects, could rest assured in its decision to build there. It began to prepare a web in hungry anticipation. 

The still body of the frog sank below the insatiable mud. 

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The Highway

Every day we would hit the bump in the highway with increasing velocity and increasing hopes that today would be the day when we momentarily took flight. 

A year, felt a long time to travel the same stretch of highway, every day — an introduction to the drudgery of regular routine and we celebrated the break in monotony by attempting to launch ourselves into the air, with no regard for consequence.

I met my dear friend in a Math for Elementary Teachers course. I didn’t know she would become my friend just yet. I did know, she needed help, and while I was adept in math I didn’t realize I was in need of a lot of loud laughter and support for many years to come. Five years and a few courses later, we were thrilled to have been accepted into the same teacher program and we made immediate plans to carpool.

Excitement grew when winter came and the bump grew under the freezing conditions like only a newly settling freshly twinned highway over a wetlands could bend a highway. We wondered how much more the road could endure before crumbling completely under the intensifying conditions — but her integrity remained intact. Everyday we hit the bump speeding, and for just a moment before we returned home each afternoon, we were weightless. 

A professor we deeply admired, encouraged us when feeling uncertain, to plant our feet firmly on the ground connecting ourselves with the earth. Unsurprisingly, when you envision the entire earth beneath your feet, supporting you, you begin to feel calm. (Whether this worked because of a true connection or a distraction method, the results were the same.) This technique became invaluable as we interviewed for teaching positions and beginning our career. We planted ourselves in the interview seats and became fixed in positions that required even more routine and regularity than student life allowed.

As we became fixed in our new phase of life, my dear friend moved away and the highway folks “fixed” the blacktop on our beloved stretch of pavement — taking her defiant beauty. 

Every now and then I come hurtling down nostalgia highway and more often, the regular highway. While her playful, unruly ascent no longer remains, she still bends a little, fondly reminiscing of the time she sent us soaring — an enthusiastic accomplice in our escape from the usual.

Thank you, dear highway, for always taking us to where we needed to be. 

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It’s Just Another Covid Monday

Their nails bore the markings of many paintings, worn off in long baths and having endured the infinite scratchings of unending boredom, still a myriad of colour remained, peaking through their flour crusted nail beds as they helped knead the dough.

“Can we make cinnamon buns?” They had asked. I sighed, with three helpers, an already somewhat arduous task would become exponentially messier and time consuming. But we had put up our Christmas tree only two days ago and the aroma of last years cinnamon dough decorations had filled the house, made our bellies yearn and our mouths water. The three times glued together, Christmas T-Rex, stared out with its single googly eye, from its low lying branch in the tree — baking was inevitable.

“Ok. Let’s do this. Remember this is a long project,” I said it to them, but it was meant for me. I took three deep breaths and reached for the already dusty bins of flour and sugar and placed them in front of the younger two, both armed with a mixing spoon.

We had the time. This year, caution dictates sick days be used for the most minor symptoms. “Just being cautious,” I said to myself as I logged in, last night, to submit my absence, reevaluating my daughters cough and runny nose in my mind. Never before has the bar been set so low for heroism: stay home. It feels good but so strange to stay home, guilt-free, on a day like today when our health is only barely compromised.

Just as I was thanking these dark and foreboding skies for their silver linings, my heart feeling warmer than our kitchen attempting to raise our ball of dough, our youngest walked into the kitchen sans diaper and smelling like a very full one. I was quick on the search, fearful of what mess might befall my eyes, but our very old yorkie had beaten me to it, her nose is years younger than the rest of her. Muzzle deep in the diaper and in desperate need of a hair cut, she looked like a Wookie, if Chewbacca had ever fallen head first into a fully loaded diaper.

Never has the bar been set so low for my personal accomplishments either, and I’m ok with it. I gave a dog a bath today. I repaired several Christmas decorations as I watched our tree turn into the most popular play space, only a few feet away from the bins overflowing with actual toys. I taught three kids very bad air guitar, and we rocked really hard to Green Day, blasting way too loud. And I added another layer of nail polish to their fingers, Christmas colours, because ‘tis the season.

Yes, our tree features an Easter basket with Ty Beanie unicorn, and it’s perfect.
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Big Baby

I heard the small footsteps and the wiggling doorknob before the light from the hallway filled my room. It can’t be time to get up yet, I thought to myself, but I think that every morning, so I rolled towards the clock. 4:00 am. No. Nope. 4 freaking am. No.

The light from the hall illuminated her nearly naked body. She must’ve peeled off her pyjamas in the night.

“I had a bad dream,” she said as she hurled “big baby” onto my bed, before returning to her own. I followed her small frame as she plodded back to her room. I pulled the blankets up to her chin, relit her nightlight and wished her sweet dreams.

I had nearly forgotten about big baby on the edge of my bed, until she hit the floor as I pulled up the the blanket.

She had been a gift from my grandmother. I know when she looked at the doll she didn’t see the frightening face looking that looked back at the rest of us, the wild hair or the devastatingly thinning fabric on the body, barely holding in her contents. She saw her own three daughters delighting over their brand new beauties on Christmas morning — or maybe it was their birthdays? The sweet blinding power of nostalgia.

It’s evident from the wear — and the pin prick in her earlobes — the doll was well loved and continued to be loved, long after she had stopped being played with. My grandmother carefully preserved her and another doll, my aunt’s, in a bag with several outfits and her original shoes until I too had a daughter.

My oldest was delighted to meet such a frightful creature; my nephew cried as I held her up. Her head flopped forward and her eyes opened wide and she stared directly at him. My husband and I shuddered as our daughter lovingly carried her to bed with her each night, tucking her in neatly beside her. Perhaps her young age allowed her to see past its appearance, or perhaps she enjoyed frightful items.

My grandmother sought out fresh clothing and hats for Big Baby and gifted them to our girls regularly, some complete with cutesie tiny doll hangers. Most of the time though, Big Baby sleeps amongst the other toys, completely naked, her torn body held together by several layers of packing tape. As even more time has passed she is at risk of disintegrating all together.

At 4 am, my disturbed mind imagined her dismembered, just a pair of arms and legs and a head with all of that scraggly hair. I would wrap up her remaining pieces and gift them to my unsuspecting siblings. 4 am does that to a person.

Even as she falls apart before my eyes and haunts our sleep, I haven’t had the heart to throw her away quite yet, although a couple more 4 am wake ups and I may change my mind.

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the old house

Devoid of any flesh or rot, as if it had always been a skeleton, never a horse — as though muscles, tendons and ligaments had never moved its spectacular form — the remains bleached white under the prairie sun, became a destination we returned to year after year, a monument of our annual summer pilgrimage. It lay unchanged, as did the rest of the property. Though it was apparent time had at some point transformed this creature, this entire place, from its original state — a bustling general store, post office and homestead — it seemed as though it had somehow happened all at once and time had forgotten to return, continuing its steady progression forward. 

It always began with too long a journey. Road trip games were punctuated by car fighting, we loudly boasted completing the alphabet, signalling both the end of the game and our winning — a lie, it was always a lie — and as if in the confines of the car volume determined truthfulness, we shouted our false victory. “A zed!” If we were lucky the shouting ended the game, although most often we did not favour concession, and shouting led to fist fights, which led to time outs. Whether we were involved in the backseat mischief or not (we were, we always were, in one way or another), we were instructed from the front seat, to sit on our hands. Angry with our new predicament we had to work harder to irritate our back seat companions further. With a dirty look, words or elbows we always succeeded, and it never failed, we would be sitting on our hands with our heads in our laps for what seemed like a significant portion of our trip.

Excitement rose as we neared the farm, it always did. As we travelled the long straight roads, we watched for familiar signs. As the road turned to gravel we knew we were close and we strained to look for something the dark and monotonous prairie fields kept hidden from our longing eyes. Some how none of it was familiar and yet all of it was. 

We parked our car on the hard packed dirt between the old house and the new one. The old weathered house looked out at the new one. Forlorn and leaning, it timidly called to us, offering endless opportunity for exploration if we should give it a chance. The new house wore fresh paint, robins egg blue, it stood square flaunting electricity as the mosquito trap buzzed and sparked as it caught its prey. The new house would be home for the next week. Bags in hand, we followed our great grandfather inside the new house, but it was the old house that held our curious hearts captive. 

It required no imagination to see my young grandmother dutifully throwing seed for the chickens that freely roamed the hardened soil in front of her childhood home. Swept up in times past, we found ourselves being drawn into the old house, past the creaky door, into the house that preserved artifacts of another lifetime under its dilapidated roof. 

Candy remained in tall glass jars on a long counter where the general store and post office once bustled. Even now I wonder about the tremendous amount of restraint required for those jars to remain full for decades with two young children living so nearby. How was it decided what goods would be moved into the cellar of the new house, and what would be forever preserved in the forgotten home?

We crept past the banjo that still hung on the wall, turning up the dark, narrow stairway, clutching the railing. Each tread, leaning slightly, squeaked under the weight they only bore once each year. 

We inspected the bedrooms, still furnished, items abandoned as though the house would have immediately collapsed should they had been removed. Maybe we should have paid more attention to my great grandfathers cautioning, “be careful” and took notice that he never followed us into the old house. We explored each inch of the old house before temporarily closing the door, promising to visit again the following year, in turn the old house too promised to continue to carefully protect its contents.

We rode a horse in a large figure eight, mowed into the long prairie grass that only rustled slightly in the prairie breeze, so tall, it seemed it had never bent under the cruel weight of snow. We rode past the silo, over and over — still full of corn, for the cattle that used to roam the fields it so proudly looked out on. It threatened to swallow us whole if we did not pay it the respect it was owed and so we kept our distance as it towered over us.

We were trusted with the motor trike and spent a great deal of time darting through the adjoining fields. We toured out to the old horse skeleton pondering the grandeur of the creature and the expanse. What was its story? We found ourselves creating a narrative for the incredible beast in its final moments, each one grander than the last as we gazed into its empty eyes. Perhaps it had died of old age, on a warm summer evening, such as this. Perhaps it had finished its day, a dutiful companion and work horse, it simply laid down its head and fallen asleep surrounded by several of its knowing friends and passed from this life into the next one. The gentle grass blew and the starlings performed their evening dance in the darkening sky. Or perhaps it had become lost and found by a pack of wolves on a blustery snowy night, it had put up a valiant fight, but at the end it succumbed to its predators and nourished their bodies for the coming days. Perhaps with freshly filled bellies, the wolves taught their young the spirit of gratitude as they leaned back and howled beneath the moon, giving thanks to the earth for providing. The young wolves echoed their sentiments.  

At night we sifted through old coins, and rummaged through war time memorabilia. We listened closely to stories from my great grandfathers time as a mechanic in the war. He waved his bent finger in the air, recounting a story for each piece we held up. 

We delved into the relics in the new house, the eight tracks in the closet of the upstairs bedroom, replaced by the large record player in the living room downstairs — a photo of our late great grandmother adorned its side. I think I remember her or at least I imagine remembering her one stormy night, though she never exists, in my mind anyway, outside of that room. 

We busied ourselves for days on the homestead, a place where both the past and the present somehow existed simultaneously. Just when it seemed we had explored every area, it was over. We found comfort upon packing for home, knowing the farm would be waiting for our next visit, we would find it exactly the same, and we did year after year after year.