Garage Easter, Marble Memories

Well, here we are-- another holiday spent in the workshop. I must be the worst judge of 'how long it will take us to move into the house' ever. Except maybe Paul, he's worse. After Christmas, I estimated we'd be in by Valentine's Day, which came and went in a blur of roses, chocolate, and drywall dust. Then I said 'Hey, we can have our house rewarming party for Paul's birthday on March 30th. We'll be in by then for sure.' A very nice dinner out that evening, but then it was back to the garage with you two! Now Easter. I asked Paul yesterday how much longer in his estimation, and he said 'April 21st.' I pointed out that was only two weeks away, and there was still the kitchen to finish, some gas and plumbing work, flooring in the upstairs hallway, all the doors, all the baseboards, plus installing the bathroom fixtures. He amended to April 27th. At this point, I'm aiming for my birthday, May 19th. But hey, there's always Canada Day!

On the upside (and a very, very good upside it is), spring is here and what a treat! I've loved watching the snow recede and the brave little buds pushing up through the cold cold ground. There are also buds on the lilac shoots I transplanted last fall, as well as on various fruit trees (many of which I've lost track of in terms of varieties... I missed them in blossom and fruit last year, so haven't memorized who is who).

We had about a week and a half of serious mud, but that's gone now and I'm spending more time outside. I've given two pear trees and three grapevines a serious pruning-- and am learning that pruning is very therapeutic. I could take out a lot of renovation angst on our flora if I'm not careful.

A few days ago, I was standing outside soaking up the sun and breathing in the smell of warming earth when I had a sudden, strong flashback to springtime of my childhood in Quesnel-- and marble season at Carson Elementary School, circa 1968. I haven't thought about that for years. As sure as the tilt of the planet toward the sun and the resurrection of all things green, was the clamour of children rooting through closets to find last years' marble hoard, and the rush to the local five-and-dime to increase the stake. Cat's Eyes, Steelies, Galaxies, Cobs, King Cobs, secured in velvet, drawstring Seagram's whiskey bags obtained from our dads. I remember plunging my hand into the bag and rolling the orbs around and around, just for the feel of it. Or holding a Galaxy up to my eye and losing myself in it's starry universe.

Then off to school early, where we'd plunk our bottoms on the school sidewalk, still barely clear of snow, and play. We girls sat in our pleated, plaid skirts and knee socks-- in our family, girls wouldn't be allowed to wear pants to school until junior high. Sitting spread-legged on the concrete, I suspect now that was why boys were willing to break the strict segregation-of-genders-on-the-playground rule (girl cooties and all that) and hunker down for a game. The rules were simple: kids would sit with backs against the school, lined all the way down the walkway, a shiny cob sitting enticingly between open legs, calling for shooters. The shooters would position a marble between thumb and forefinger, and, staying behind the shooting line, flick a marble at the cob. Anything that missed, the cob-owner got to keep. If you hit the cob, it was your prize. If your hand strayed over the shooting line in the attempt to launch your shooter, you were called on bullfudging.

I don't think my description, above, really does credit to the wild, almost hysterical energy of marble season. For example, I don't recall the consequence for bullfudging-- but I suspect we reverted to the over-arching Rule of Marbles, which was that in the case of a dispute, whoever grabbed the marble in question fastest got to keep it. Or if you could wrest it from the other person's fist, it was yours.There was pushing, shoving, cheating, fights, mud on skirts and knee socks, and things generally ending up in tears. The boys amassed the most cobs and marbles, but in my memory, I recall many a sore loser who wouldn't relenquish his cob to a girl shooter. There was also a fair amount of thievery of marble collections from the coatroom, and I think in general marble season tried the patience of teachers, who breathed a sigh of relief when the ball field was finally dry enough that they could direct our post-winter energies to that more refined game.

Do they still play marbles at school?
Back here on the farm, 2012 progresses. I've transpotted all my tomatoes into 4-inch pots, and given some of the original 90 (!!) away to Becca and Dean and the carpenters. I'll still have lots. The peppers will need to be potted up soon and I won't have room for them in the bedroom/slash seedling nursery. Dean's brother, Gord, has been here helping around the property, and I'm hoping the greenhouse will be up and funtional in a few days' time so I can put things out there. Gord built my three compost bins out of pallets strung together with wire, just the other day. And yes, that is a slight skiff of snow this morning already melting fast. The last, I swear.

Paul has been back over the border to Colville, WA recently to pick up our second load of beekeeping equipment. Here's a pic of a wee customer doing the bee dance with two bee brushes. That's our livingroom, kitchen, and beekeeping stock off to the right.

Billy has been enjoying regular playdates with her brother, Cooper (with head in cat door), and neighbour Spike. Cassius is back in hunting mode, and is sometimes seen doing the pride walk with a newly slain pocket gopher in his maw. Paul and I gave the bees their spring feeding of essential oils and amino-booster in sugar syrup a few days ago, and both hives looked good.

So the seasons turn here at Flying Leap Farm, and I get more of a sense of how the seasons in years ahead will unfold. Bliss! Happy Easter everyone.