Dirty Paul and Frosty Mornings

It's frosty in the mornings now. Instead of finding damp, limp carcasses left by Cassius on the doorstep, we find little mouse- or molecicles. Easier to scoop up for their ceremonial fling over the river bank, muttering as we go the Common Prayer Book's version of mouse last rites: "Love to eat them mousies. Mousies what we love to eat. Bite they little heads off. Nibble on they little feet." Amen, fling.

Amazing what one gets used to. Cassius is such a ferocious hunter, the property is fairly strewn with rodent body parts. I now find myself casually sidestepping miniature still lifes of carnage and horror-- one would think there was a pint-sized Freddie or whoever the chainsaw massacrer is, running around commiting unspeakable acts all night, taking his underdeveloped rage and frustration out on the only thing smaller than him.

But don't be silly, Jo-Anne. It's just Cassius, having the once-in-nine-lifetimes opportunity to roam free and hunt and do what cats do, then to come inside for a warm meal and some cuddles before heading out to slay more rodents. We are eternally grateful he's keeping them out of the workshop.

A few weeks back I found myself sereptitiously kicking a mouse head out of the way while greeting one of the young folk who have responded to our ads for help with the yard work. She was a fresh-faced young teacher-on-call, and I hoped she wouldn't be put off by the red-tinged sight at our feet. She turned out to be a fantastic worker, digging a garden bed out of tough sod all around the bee yard. Well, almost all the way around, until she was called in to work, and we picked another name out of the many responders we had to the ad. This next young woman finished off the bee yard bed, then tackled tarping the south garden with me. It is now all tucked in under it's cold black plastic quilt, where the morning glory will perish over the next year. A shame to have to leave it undeveloped that long, but it will be worth it.

Another wonderful young person we've met recently is the chef, George, who works at our neighbourhood pub, Mulligan's. Turns out George grew up here in Castlegar, and has recently graduated from cooking school in the Okanagan. We had a terrific chat with him a few weeks back about local food, bees, and the possibility of supplying him with produce from our garden in the coming seasons. He was especially excited about the idea of using lavender in his cooking. The idea of growing lavender in the acre along the driveway still excites me-- I can see the purple swathes in long, gentle curves so clearly. As with the bee supply business, people just keep responding positively to our vision for the place. What a great feeling to know we'll be here, year after year after year, slowly shaping it into our own vision of abundance and beauty.

Some updates: we attended a jolly halloween party at Rebecca and Robin's, in the Dom (Doukhobour house) up the hill. These two gifted individuals invited anyone who wanted, to perform a song or reading of something spook-related, and it was wonderful that many people did just that. We heard an old celtic folksong; an even older dirge for singing at wakes; a heartbreaking aria; and some poetry and prose. And Paul brought along his guitar and did Werewolf of London, and then Lawyers, Guns, and Money (very scary).

Last weekend, we rented a wood chipper and spent a day reducing the piles of branches and tree trimmings, with the help of Becca.

Unfortunately, the chipper broke down before we finished, but there's only one pile left for next spring's cleanup.

The lasagna garden is finished: each bed is about 15" high in the centre, and consists of ten layers-- cardboard right on top of the turf, then grass clippings, leaves, manure, straw, leaves, manure, leaves, grass clippings and straw. I'm really excited to see if it chews up the turf like it's supposed to. I've also ordered two books on gardening: one on greenhouses and the other on gardening in the north, both by renowned gardener Eliot Coleman.

Paul has been working away in the attic, still tearing up old flooring so the electrician can have access to the rooms below. At least, that's what he says he's been doing, but it rather looks to me as though he's just been rolling in dirt. He knows I don't like the ladder going up to the attic, so how would I know the difference??

One last shot, this of the river through golden birch leaves. I don't know if it shows up well, but the bright leaves against the steel blue grey of the river is just stunning.

Well patient readers, dinner beckons. I'll show you photos of how the house is progressing next time. You will be shocked and disturbed, I know, at how far away we are from moving in, nevermind having guests for Christmas. The tension, if not the house, is building. There may be wailing and gnashing of teeth. Stay tuned!