You Know You're Isolated When...

Over the course of the year, I have found myself laughing at life and the circumstances that make it so bloody funny. As some of you know, our family leads a quiet and unassuming existence down the back roads of the Peace Country. While nothing that has happened has been earth shattering or cataclysmic in the slightest way, it has made me wonder how often people get lost in translation. (Rosehill doesn't seem that isolated.) What follows is a list of things that have happened to me over time and make me wonder just how isolated we really are.

1. You know you're isolated when the hunters that are staying with your ultra-friendly neighbors see you on the road you share with the rest of the world while taking a break from your daily jog and go, "Who are you?"

2. You know you're isolated when you find yourself talking to the local wildlife as though they were people and actually answer yourself. (Yes, Castaway totally had it right.)

3. You know you're isolated when you learn weeks later that the road grader operator quit.

4. You know you're isolated when the directions to get to your home are too complex for Google Earth and requires a freestyle hand drawn map on a sheet of 8.5x11 printer paper if anyone is going to understand you.

5. You know you're isolated when people say many years after the fact, "Oh, you're the people that bought [insert some name you've never heard of] place? Good to meet you."

6. You know you're isolated when the County has to have a bus turnaround made at the base of your driveway because even a mini-bus can't get up to your house.

7. You know you're isolated when you find yourself calling the County to ask them if they stock beaver ponds with fish because the water, which is on both sides of the road, is maybe a foot below road level.

8. You know you're isolated when the Canadian census worker comes up and looks utterly as bewildered as you are when you open the door, and you find yourself in a Mexican standoff with a stranger. He's thinking, someone lives here? You're thinking, I swear someone just knocked on the door...

9. You know you're isolated when you're out jogging and you jump into the bush to watch that strange car come over the hill only to discover that it's your mom. In the family car.

10. You know you're isolated when your neighbor's tell you that to communicate with them you should set up a community-wide smoke signal language.

11. You know you're isolated when your neighbors spread the word that, "If you know Jenny's going to be home alone -- announce yourself!" (True story.)

And my personal favorite that just happened in the last few months:

12. You know you're isolated when the County workers who are putting up the country address signs for each residence (think garish blue sign with numbers on it for the ambulance at the base of your drive) either forget you exist or can't figure out if that rope gate, that blocks the Twilight Zone road that apparently leads nowhere, which reads: NO HUNTING. PRIVATE. has a home somewhere...up there... To be direct, they completely lose you.

Well, maybe I'm more isolated than it seems.

Love,
Jenny
MUL

To Use a Shovel

For the most part, Rosehill is an amazing place to live. As I slipped into my brown cowboy boots and grabbed a pair of thick work gloves, I was beginning to wonder if Rosehill was as full of vitality and life as I had once thought. Grabbing the shovel that stands taller than I am, I walked down the sawdust path that leads to the outhouse, walked around the lilac bushes and picked out a spot directly in front of the one from a week ago.

As I jumped on the shovel to get maximum leverage and bite through the semi-frozen dirt, my mind wandered over the week our family had just spent in southern Alberta. The packed, dry clay began to yield and I stopped for a breather. Watching the last of the leaves rustling dryly on the trees, I couldn't help but think of the devastation wreaked on my hometown. After driving around looking at watermarked houses, the haunting emptiness of my favorite coffee houses and walks, it seemed like all the destruction was so -- senseless. As I finished the hole, I went back to the doghouse for Minnie. My heart broke. One of our largest kittens was curled up on top of the body I had set out to bury before the emotions kicked in. Pulling them both out, I listened to the heartfelt cries of the living kitten whose eyes reflected a sadness I've not seen in the eyes of a cat for a long time.

I knew exactly how he felt.

One week ago, prior to our trip to the High River area, Momma handed me Death. His putrid screams rent the air as I cupped an emaciated kitten in my trembling hands. With one wise look at me, I whisked him into the cabin (under which he had been hiding, without the energy to move) and we set about caring for him. Three days passed, three days of timed feedings that dwindled from little to nothing, three days of grabbing Frankie (my cat) and trying to get her to nurse him, three days of buttoning him up inside my shirt where he could sleep while I worked "hands free" so to speak, three days of shaky hope.

Death is simply part of the equation, another factor to the formula, and I've always understood it as a fact of life. In watching a creature forfeit life because I failed to observe the warning signs, I couldn't help but wonder if euthanasia wouldn't have been better for the kitten that I'll always know as Death. His family had given up on him, which was clear, but he seemed to want to be among his own. It was late Sunday night that I brought him back inside, half frozen, and I noticed the gulping breaths. As Daddy and I dug a hole beside my dog Billie's grave, I realized how attached we all were to the dying kitten Frankie and Liza wouldn't even acknowledge now.

Though we were to get up at 3AM, I didn't sleep. Around midnight I heard eight cries, eight strokes of a clock far older than any we've created. Silence. Peace.

As Momma and I kicked the dirt over Minnie, and I scraped the pebbly clay into the hole, I couldn't help thinking about how death was so different for the two siblings that had died exactly one week apart; nor, in fact, could I stop thinking about how differently I reacted to the two deaths and how the slow limping of my hometown trying to recover from disaster juxtaposed so perfectly against the deaths of Death and Minnie.

As I leaned the shovel back in its place inside the woodshed, I felt the bitter taste death of one so young always leaves in me, but, all the same, I was thankful to have escaped the human caricature of civilization for home and My Uncivilized Life.

Love,
Jenny

Summer of the Bear

Before I really begin, let me apologize for my unrelenting absence from MUL. Between exams, organizing the new school year, finding myself rained in, and feeling generally unimaginative...well, you get the picture. While each of those clauses sound like excuses they have enabled me to take the break I've been needing from the writing that I found myself forced to do without much reason to find enjoyment in what I was doing. Perhaps now I will have the inspiration and focus to concentrate on MUL ~ Jenny

A Lesson From the Bees

Our family grows an amazing garden, of which about half is my flowers that keep inching their way every year across the spacious lot. When I go through the gate and walk down the well tended rows, I find myself walking through a moving hum of bees and hornets and wasps. Despite the fact each of those species would sting or bite me if I frightened them, in all our years on Rosehill, I can count, on one hand, the number of times they have attacked me even when I am cutting flowers for arrangements or just running my hands over the hedge-like tops as I walk along. 

It was on one of these walks, there were more insects than usual boiling up, I felt my hands buoyed along across the flower tops only to realize that I was completely calm. Knowing for years that a bee stings only when provoked, I contemplated if I hadn't been applying that same principle to larger animals like, say, bears. Experience has since taught me that a bear is no different from a bee. This summer, I have found myself tested in many ways as I found myself surrounded by an unusual number of bears who would have done me great harm had I made a mis-calculation regarding their cubs.

Why I Love the Bear

When I see a bear, a secret thrill runs through me. Though not fear, I've long understood the power of being calm, I would say that every pore fills with respect the moment a bear becomes part of my atmosphere. While my family has many amusing bear stories, and while we know just how dangerous a bear can be, we have long been watching the bears that live in our area. For that reason, there is no doubt that as my blog progresses you shall hear of my three bachelors: Brutus, Boris, and Chip. 

To me, the bear seems to be that lasting emblem of the wild that surrounds and keeps me from becoming puffed up with human ingenuity. The last regal, muscular force that people seem to spend a lifetime fearing (which isn't entirely irrational) and minimal time admiring, and I get to live in the very same woods and experience their beauty every year. Could anything be better? I rather doubt it.

Touched by Bears

"To a Black Bear"

It was a boring day
you wanted some fun

so chased the boss's wife

into her log kitchen

clawed some paint off the door

to hear her howl

Petulant

you wandered about our yard

hidden in willows

I baited the culvert trap

with rotten sardines

you feigned indifference

I had plans for you

A change of scene,

new country

without women to entertain

Sulking

you sniffed around

a squirrel's cache

I went to my trailer

to get some old wieners

With the same idea

unmindful of each other

we arrived, me at my front door

you ambling in the open rear

into my bedroom

We met in the kitchen

"Woof" you said

startled while trying the fridge

I forget what I said

Your black fur made quite a contrast

against that white porcelain

Being both timid

we turned simultaneously

and attempted to exit

in embarrassed haste

The shiny linoleum

froze the action

I slipped and fell,

your claws lost traction

I made it at length

You shouldered through back there

wiped out two metal doors

with a fine backhand

carried them off

like streamers of tinfoil

Forgive me

in consternation,

I spoke rashly, obscene

loaded the shotgun

Boring days will never come again

to this sleepy warden station

Sid Marty

from Going For Coffee

While I cannot claim to have ever met a black bear at the fridge, I love referring back to Sid Marty's poetry and prose. It's like sitting out on a porch swing with a mug of coffee and an old friend. I have had my own "shotgun moment," and found myself at odds with resident bears many times. However, I learned a valuable lesson this summer.

It had been almost a year since I had been home to Rosehill. We had been living on a Hutterite colony (that's another story) where my parents worked as educators for ten months. While the experience was a valuable one, my senses weren't as sharp as they should have been for we had been away when the bears came out in the spring.

It had been a beautiful day and I was feeling free from the burden of exam anxiety when I chose to go for a walk down the road. As the weariness fell away, I found myself beginning to jog down the start of the drive, which makes an abrupt right turn before the stream of gravel flows downhill and joins with the County road system. Leaping around the corner with a laugh, I broke out singing the first lines of a 70s rock anthem and did a little dance (I can be such a girl, sometimes). A rushing, crashing sound came from the right. My head snapped up. There was a tell-tale path of still rustling bushes that I began watching earnestly. 

Standing there, I watched as a very young, beautiful cub climbed up a small tree just barely big enough to hold him up. Three things happened simultaneously: 1) a second cub went up another small tree2) the girly side kicked in as I felt like an overgrown softie thinking, "Awe, look how cuddly.."3) the other side of me, the common sense side, hit the alarm button as I began to talk to the cubs, and cocked the gun I carry in the woods as a noise maker, "Where's your mom? Where's your mom, where's your mom? mom-mom-mom-mom--"

It was the closest to a panic I had ever come when surprised by a bear. A ripple under the twin cubs' trees showed black through the foliage and I saw one of the largest sows I've ever seen place a paw high on a tree and pull herself up so she could see me over the foliage before coming toward me. As I backed up to my corner, wishing for once the wind was not in my favor, I had every intention of running as soon as I was out of her sight. 

Talking to her, I found myself thinking that the Rainbow School's bear program they put kids through when I went there was a valuable program, how important it was to squash any sound of fear from my voice, how dangerous sows with cubs could be, how glad I was I hadn't been between her and her cubs, how relieved I was that she didn't pursue me any further after I got back to my corner and booked it to the cabin, how thankful I was that she didn't charge but meandered toward me instead, how glad I was to have dusted the rust off my bear training and that I still had my wits about me.

That was supposed to be the end of the story, but it's not.

Women and Common Sense

I said that wasn't the end of the story and I truly meant it. After telling my parents that we had a resident sow with twins who was practically on our doorstep, Daddy insisted on going to see for himself. In fact, he was going to walk with me thinking two people would be better than one. Sounds good so far, right? 

Wrong.

We reached the area that I had encountered her at and discovered that she was down, with the cubs up a couple of sturdy thirty foot trees, in the bowl shaped declivity that dents slowly downward to the left. She had had the advantage of being on higher ground than me the first time, this time it was she who was disadvantaged. 

Daddy asked me for the gun I was still carrying and I gave it to him a midst my urging pleas that we go back to the cabin. Now.

I shrieked.

My father the crack-shot had forgotten to warn me that he was going to shoot and I was totally oblivious to the fact he might shoot. (I'm just glad he's an excellent shot, for I would hate to ever see a stray bullet hit what it wasn't meant for originally.) Well, I saw her under the trees and, frankly, I felt bad for her. Not liking that I couldn't get behind him, not liking that he was trying to scare a bear off that I was pretty sure would move on of her own volition after I got so close to her cubs, not liking the booming sound, and knowing that supper was pretty well ready, my temper got the better of me and I prodded him all the way home with things like, "What's the matter with you -- that poor -- defenseless -- bear. All she wants to do is protect her cubs and you come along with a gun and try to scare her off. Did you really think she would move? No? Surprise, surprise!" 

We had arrived on the walk outside the cabin. I reached for the door and asked him one last question, "If I had kids and thought my kids were being threatened by some guy do you think, even for a second, that I would ever back down?" 

"No."

"That's right, I wouldn't. She's a Momma and if I were a Momma I'd be the same way -- it's just a matter of common sense."

I whipped the door open, looked at Momma with a puzzled look on my face as my anger left me, and said, "Men."

She nodded sagely after hearing everything that she had missed out on and said, "Men."

Conclusion

Since that day, my family has seen 9 cubs, 3 sows, and my 3 bachelors. While Brutus, Boris, and Chip offer more comic relief than not, I'm glad to have had my run in with the sow. If nothing else, she honed my senses to their previously sharp state and prepared me for the frequent run-ins I have had since that day. Though I know my bears will frequently feature in MUL, I have no clue as to when I will speak of them again. I realize I have provided no advice for handling bears in the wild. The truth is, it's mostly just a matter of common sense.

Love,

Jenny

P.S. If any game wardens and/or fish and wildlife officers read this blog, thank you for the educational programs you provide at schools. I know now just how valuable those programs really are.

Morning Contemplations

To see a word in a grain of sand

And a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand

And eternity in an hour. 

 ~William Blake, Auguries of Innocence

August 5th, 2013

As I walked outside at 8:15 this morning a magical sight made me smile in the cool morning air. Looking down the hill toward our garden, I saw the area was enveloped in a silvery haze.

I quickly went inside for my camera before the sun burst forth and the haze dissipated, lifted the liquid veil from my enchanted eyes.

As I snapped pictures rather quickly, for my battery was quickly dying, I felt grateful for the opportunity to begin my day in so lovely a way and grateful for the tranquil peace I felt upon sniffing the air which held no trace of wood smoke -- thankfully -- for we (northern Albertans) have had too many summers of forest fires in recent years.

My battery died, I lowered my camera, and stood with Liza (our cat) and watched the morning mists vanish as the sun rose and burned it off.

Though it was a small wonder, I discovered long ago that the best moments seem to be caused by the "little things in life," and, it is the little things that leave the greatest impression on my memory, enhancing my ability to appreciate living in the moment.

Looking at Liza and my blue pajamas, I felt the warmth of the golden light that enveloped us in the still, calm morning and thought, "What could be better than this?"

Well, I have exams to study for so I best get going.

The above is from my Writer's Journal and I don't believe more words from me are necessary. The pictures say it all.

Though I do have exams right now, I hope to be done in time for the next blog post. For, in my free time, I have been compiling bear stories.

Love,

Jenny

A Fight for Life

Loving Winter

People often ask me why I love winter when spring and summer are so warm and sunshiny. While I find every season beautiful and inspiring, winter dominates my year from the first snowfall in October to the hallowed May Long Weekend that is unofficially considered winter’s end and the beginning of the gardening season. With around seven to eight months of winter, it is a matter of survival that I love it for its beauty and treachery.

However, the main reason I love winter above all others is quite simple. A mantra of survival, it is often chanted by the romantic Northerners that love their lives in the wilderness and have come to know the earthy, drumming, pulse of the Boreal forest, No mud. No bugs. Four simple words, the butler who ushers in the elegance of winter, that dear prelude called frost, is my relief from the dangers of my life.

The banes of my existence are those that make me an unwilling blood donor. Yes, I mean the kamikaze terrorists that reign for four very long months: bugs. They come in overlapping waves: mosquitoes, black flies, horseflies and deer flies, sand flies, and then death by frost. (By now, you can probably guess what my favorite part of the cycle is.)

Open Season

As you have probably guessed by now, this blog post is about bugs. In order to convey exactly what my life is like, it is crucial that I discuss the good, the bad, and the nightmarish. By far, today’s post deals with the nightmares of life.

For any of you, particularly my American friends and family, who have seen me at the end of bug season, you know just how focused (okay, obsessive) I am the moment I see a mosquito go pirouetting by like a Japanese Zero and you probably know just how hard a slap I have. If I have ever bruised any of you, I apologize for past emphatic rampages and any that will occur in the future.

To my way of thinking, the mosquitoes figure there’s an open season on humans and, likewise, I believe that if I’m to be hunted I’ll do some hunting of my own.

A Twilight Anthem

If you can, imagine a droning hum building upon itself with volume and intensity as the sunlight pierces through the trees with the deep gold of evening that ushers in twilight. Try to imagine the thousands of mosquitoes necessary to form a roar of angry protest as they fill the forest with their troops, their legions of liquid grey clouds. Like the trees, the mosquitoes seem to stem from a single source that spreads through the night as one large fluctuating mass, unseen.

While I know it to be impossible, mosquitoes seem to know exactly where even the smallest holes of entry are, they feel like they are everywhere as a single entity, and definitely feel invincible. I have often been perplexed to find mosquitoes biting me from inside my work boots (really, how do they get in there?) and other impossible places, heard their droning pierce my ears from the inside of my brain out, and felt crazed because I was unable to escape their force.

The Worst Night of My Life

The worst night of my life occurred in June 2006. At 16 years old, I felt like a princess as I breathed a sigh of relief as the stress of my very hectic school year began to fade away as the natural beauty surrounding me melted into my school-wearied soul. As my family exchanged our usual clothes for the smoked up shirts we normally took camping and our Carhaart work clothes, I happily grew to view my work gloves and work boots for the duration of our summer vacation as an extension of myself. Summer didn’t start that way.

None of us had really felt the psychological impact insects, particularly mosquitoes and black flies, can have on a person since our years in Rainbow Lake and Chateh (previously known as Assumption). I’ve always loved psychology, but that June psychology couldn’t have been further from my mind. At least, that’s what I thought. As it was, I became my own psychology experiment.

Over Easter break, we had put up the structure that was to become our home in 3.75 days. (By “we” I mean my parents did while I sat in a tarp teepee I constructed and read the Narnia series by C.S. Lewis because, at that time in my life, I was more help if I stayed out of the way.) However, it was not yet finished and the upper edge of the structure where the roof joined to the wall was not sealed; the birds and insects could freely come and go.

We had no intentions of setting up a tent and we desired to spend the night in our new cabin. After travelling for approximately 13 hours the three of us were exhausted and ready to sleep in comfort without having to straddle our bodies across the heaving washboard, stick covered, baked clay ground. There was still that open-air strip that I could stick my arm out and wave at my parents through to consider. It was Momma who came up with the genius idea to hang sheets from the roof joists like mosquito netting round a bed. After supper, we went to bed quite at ease thinking about nothing but sleep. Sweet, wonderful, sleep.

Yeah, right. First, I discovered a mosquito had decided to join me for the night under my sheet. Anyone who has ever had a mosquito invasion in their bedroom knows just how antsy, how jumpy, and above all, how close the atmosphere can get until you kill the little bloodsucker. Well, that’s what I set out to do (I wanted to sleep) but before long I discovered a second problem in my sleeping arrangement. The sheet hanging over my camp mat was touching me. I remember going “uh-oh…” as I felt dozens of little pinpricks coming through every inch of sheet that was touching my skin.

The hum grew as what had to be thousands of mosquitoes found their way into the loft, surrounding us (and biting me). As the hum grew louder, I felt my grip on sanity weakening in that helpless way that sends any human straight into a fear driven panic. Without warning, my one tent guest turned into many as the sheet that draped over me fell down. It was unintentional but, as I balled up, I may or may not have ripped it from the ceiling. Between the three of us, how it happened remains a point of contention though I think it safe to say we all blame the night’s insanity on the mosquitoes.

I was now fully exposed to the swarming mass of flecked silvery bodies that whirled around my body as though they were on the giant zero gravity ride in Calgary’s Callaway Park. Some critics might say I’m crazy for what I did next but most of those critics have never found themselves in a virtually unlived in area of the woods, at night, and fully exposed. I felt my last hold on sanity crack and the fear I normally contain with ease flashed brightly as hundreds of mosquitoes vied for position on my flesh. If you’re wondering what that feels like, imagine a needle prick and multiply that pricking sensation over each square inch of skin you possess. Along with that pricking sensation, add the erratic jumpiness from a tickle fest that went too far and caused you to cry out in anger because of the excruciating, unstoppable low-grade pain. If you can imagine all that, then you are well on your way to imagining what I must have felt that night.

There had been an intense claustrophobia with me under the sheet, but now it felt amplified as I saw my tormentors densely swarming everywhere and round my body, landing to sink the length of a proboscis into my flesh, and flying off with a drunken droning that told me they were full of my blood. With mosquitoes on every inch of my body that was exposed to the grey night air, with them crawling and probing through my thick blonde hair, everything but self-preservation evaporated and my mind entered a panic dominated state like no other. I had to get away. I had to get them off.

Grabbing my traitorous sheet I ran down the ladder (I’m amazed I didn’t break my neck that night given my crazed state and lack of experience on ladders at that time) and it flapped out behind me as I ran through the cool air of the thinly stretched sunshine that night. The only thing I remember from this point of the night is wrapping the sheet round my shoulders, standing under the palely lit moon, and bawling like there was no tomorrow as I began running around in my underwear and a pink spaghetti-strap tank top while my sheet streamed out like a cape. (Actually, if someone had told me there wasn’t going to be a tomorrow I would have fully believed them in those hours of pure, helpless agony.) My actions can only be likened to a large game animal that, being plagued by insects, gets a wild look in his eye and goes bucking and springing through fields and scraping alongside trees in his desperation to get away, to be left alone.

In the waning hours of the morning when the vast numbers of mosquitoes miraculously dissolve and vanish at daybreak, I passed out and slept. When I awoke, my body was one large welt of bites. It doesn’t help that I react badly to mosquito bites even if I don’t scratch, but there’s nothing to do but treat them quickly and leave them alone. Since we weren’t able to seal out the mosquitoes yet (we didn’t yet have the necessary supplies), Daddy took plywood and popped it up over the approximately three foot hole that separates the two lofts from each other when the next evening came. We fell asleep to the muffled droning that had pervaded my senses and been my apocalyptic nightmare the previous night as a mosquito coil smoked slowly up through the windows and into the night sky.

To this day, if one of us says, “do you remember that night when, Jenny…” each of us knows exactly what the speaker is talking about and finds it satisfying to go kill a mosquito with masochistic delight.

Jenny’s Survival Kit

1. Learn what times of the day the insects typically swarm so you can avoid them as much as possible. You’ll discover that this generally occurs during the warmest parts of the day. Mosquitoes and black flies seem to dislike temperatures that are either hot or cold, but thrive in warm and just verging on cool weather.

2. Give up using any product that has any perfume in it. If you’re like me and use perfumed deodorant, then learn to compensate by putting more bug repellent around the arm socket to deter the insects.

3. Buy insect repellent that is as high in DEET as possible. We use Repel 100, which is 99% DEET. The higher the DEET content, the more bug resistant you will be.

4. Know that really smoky fires are your best friends because the insects I’ve already described hate it. Yes, I’m encouraging you to sit in the smoke and wear clothing that is permeated by that extremely smoky smell when you go camping.

5. STOP buying After Bite, you’re only wasting money. After Bite consists of ammonia and mink oil, but it doesn’t last nearly as long as you need for extreme bug bites. I’m thinking of horseflies and deer flies in particular because of the sheer size of their bites. Instead, grab your household ammonia and pour it into a plastic bottle (or stick a finger in the jug, that’s what we do). Let that dry and then apply a nice, thick layer of calamine lotion or, if you can’t find calamine, I suggest using Aveeno’s anti-itch cream (it’s relatively cheap and very gentle on the skin).

6. Don’t be afraid to slap just because you feel something tickling on your skin. You never know exactly what might be there getting ready to bite.

7. If you’re out for a walk and the bugs are really bad, cut a willow switch. They’re bendy, don’t really hurt, and extend your reach big time to slap those unreachable places.

8. STOP scratching. A mosquito bite will go away within 24 hours, on average, if you don’t scratch. If you do, well, then just expect to deal with the itching for an indefinable time.

9. If you live in bug country, try taking a spoonful of garlic oil once a day. I got this tip from a young Hutterite woman about my age and, though I’ve not yet tried it myself, she was able to sit outside with a bunch of us one day without being bit once so maybe there really is something to it.

10. If you are bit by a black fly (none of us have tried this technique on horseflies or deer flies), gently squeeze the wound before it coagulates. The bleeding causes the caustic residue to leave you. Then, spit on it. (It's gross, but effective.) I don't know if it's an enzyme reaction or what, but I do know that the spit causes the blood to run freely and, provided you leave it alone, your bite will clear up within an easy 36 hours.

11. Above all, build your immunity. The more immune you are to bites, the better off you are.

So, now that I am feeling totally buggy I think I'll get ready to head back from this little patch of civilization in the Peace Country for My Uncivilized Life. 

Enjoy the woods, and enjoy getting back to nature. Ultimately, I hope you enjoy your life.

Love,

Jenny

A Rose by Any Other Name...

…would not smell just as sweet. Sorry, Shakespeare, but I disagree with you there. Actually, there’s a lot about the play Romeo and Juliet that I object to, but seeing as this is not one of my formal essays, allow me to change my mask and start again…

***

As stated in the Introduction to My Uncivilized Life, my family makes their home in Carcajou, Alberta. What I failed to discuss, however, was how Rosehill got its name.

If you were to visit the County of Northern Lights head office, you would see a land ownership map with our family name on little green squares. That map contains no mention of Rosehill because Rosehill is the personal name we have given our land and, to us, that’s the only name that matters.

We bought our land virtually sight unseen in 2005 and came up with lists of names to fit the rugged beauty we hoped to one day call “home.” In a way, naming the land became a road game favorite that we would play to stay awake during Daddy’s insane driving marathons. None of the names we invented fit, none of them felt right and, ultimately, we gave up trying to find that perfect name.

It was not until 2007, close to two years later, when Daddy and I were moving the family effects to our land in Carcajou that the land provided its own name.

In the North, there is a magical time of change that creeps over the forest. When winter has passed, the hovering expectation of new life is gone, and spring is close to its end, she draws one last breath and the landscape becomes overwhelmed with fragrant wild roses (actually called prickly roses) in showy shades of delicate pinks that pop forth from the greenery. To me, they are the showiest of the early wildflowers and signal the transition from spring to summer.

I won’t deny that I find our provincial flower beautiful, but more than anything, I find it comforting. Though the fine thorns are a nuisance and quite painful, the beauty of the aromatic roses make the pain worthwhile. There is something comforting in knowing that the seedpods will form and remain visible during the winter, something comforting about knowing that, if ever I were stuck in the wild, at least there would be food to eat, and, that meager meal though the fruit would be, the rosehips are abundant throughout the region. I hope that I would be able to get to safety before the elements or starvation took my life.

Such are my thoughts today and, as I walked up the winding path that is now our driveway, so they were back in 2007 as I was filled with awe at the beauty surrounding me on all sides as I walked into another world. It had been a long drive from High River and we were both exhausted. Soon we would be moving Momma to Carcajou after her contract with the school division terminated. As we walked along in our silent reverie, I remember trying to count all the shades of pink that were on every side. Everywhere I looked, I saw roses.

“Rosehill,” I whispered it more to myself than to Daddy. As I looked around wide-eyed, that feeling of being involved with something bigger than I am was effervescent in the gold tinged air. The land demanded respect from this lowly human.

“What?” He looked surprised at the sound of my voice.

“I said -- we should call this place Rosehill.”

“I was thinking the same thing.” We smiled at each other as a soft golden nimbus covered every contour of our new world.

Though part of why Rosehill entered my mind was because of all the wild roses, I would be lying if I tried to convince you that Alberta’s emblem was behind my streaming, albeit romantic, logic. The overgrown atmosphere reminded me of a special graveyard in Missouri that, now overgrown, is home to the bones of my ancestors. We found the chance to give new life, new meaning, to an old yet special name close to our family’s heart, and, in the words of Robert Frost, “that has made all the difference” (Mountain Interval 1916).

Had we come up with a name other than Rosehill, I think our deep connection to the land would have developed slowly. Because we gave it a name deep with meaning for my paternal family, I firmly believe our love of the romantic past, our love of the Boreal Forest, and our persevering attitude to make the land habitable is what gave the Canadian Rosehill a home in our hearts. I can only hope that our family’s “new” Rosehill may be a living testament to the strength and resolve my ancestors possessed as settlers and that, as my parents and I live our lives, we may pass on what the land has taught us to those who wish to know and to those who dare to dream.

Many years have passed since that tired walk on the snaking path that led through the brambly, fragrant blossoms. To this day, in the last days of spring, the wild roses inspire me and fill me with soft thoughts and deep joy. Due to all our family and the land have gone through together -- the laughter, the sweat, and the tears -- each bloom is speaks out in nature’s universal language a love letter of few words, “Here is Rosehill, you are home.”

Love,

Jenny

P.S. ~ If those of you who read My Uncivilized Life has questions that I have not answered, or something I have written has brought a question to mind, please feel free to ask by leaving a comment and I will answer it if I can.

Introduction

My Uncivilized Life

Q and A with Jenny

 Q: ‘What’s your place like?’

A: ‘We live totally off-grid: no running water, no gas heat as we burn wood, no light except from kerosene lamps when it gets too dark to read or see. Nor do we have electricity except what a generator can produce to charge the marine battery that runs the radio, the battery in my laptop, when I need to print a document, or when we need to use power tools for a construction project. I think that’s about it.’

Q: ‘Then what do you do for showers and drinking water if you don’t have running water?’

A: ‘We have a rubber tub, made for feeding or watering stock, which we haul inside if we want a bath. Otherwise, we go a week without one. As to our drinking water, we haul all of our water from the Carcajou well, which is about a 20-minute drive from the cabin. In the summer we use a big water tank on the back of an old flatbed trailer, but in the winter several 5 gallon jugs serve to hold our water supply.’

Q: ‘How do you cook?’

A: ‘We have a small, two-burner stove with an oven that will hold a 13x9 pan and runs on bottled propane like a BBQ.’

Q: ‘Where do you go to the bathroom if you don’t have plumbing?’

A: ‘There’s a good old fashioned outhouse over 50 feet from the house.’

Q: ‘That’s so primitive. How close is your nearest neighbor?’

A: ‘Oh, our nearest permanent neighbor… we have one neighbor who only comes about twice a year for the hunting seasons but I won’t count them… so to answer your question, I’d say about 7 miles as the crow flies? I’m guessing, here. There are only 4 households, besides ours, down Homestead but we are not really close to them, geographically or socially.’

Q: ‘You’re neighbors live that far away?’

A: ‘Oh yeah, but that’s okay by us. We really enjoy the solitude.’

‘That’s amazing -- so simple -- you guys have it made -- I couldn’t do it.’  

 

The Truth about Adaptation and Survival

Welcome to my blog, My Uncivilized Life.

The Q and A is a typecast of the conversations about my lifestyle that I have had with many friends, family members, and acquaintances. The last line varies person to person, but always ends with not being able to handle it or convince the spouse (not just the wife, either) into living such a primitive lifestyle.

What a lie.

Humans are one of the most adaptable organisms that live. We have managed to adapt to almost every environ, in spite of our physical weakness, because we have a very strong primal instinct for survival. The truth is that the life I lead requires a change of mental outlook, a change in how you view what is essential to living a happy, satisfied life.

What continues to fascinate me is how absurdly simple and easy it is to let go of the material for the natural, the worrisome for a relatively stress-free environment, an environment where your greatest worry is what to do in case of an emergency. Of course, you do your best to make sure there will not be an emergency. In the wilderness, your currency is your life.

 

The Dream Becomes Reality

My family once lived the fairytale success story of townies. We had the large house, I was a good student, actively involved in the fine arts and athletic department, frequented the two local coffee shops, and had great friends.

My dad resigned and I left school before the second term of the 2006/2007 school year. With our deadline being the arrival of summer vacation, the two of us began the long journey of building two storage sheds and moving the family possessions to what we still view as a 300-acre Eden of mostly virgin forest.

The road, I mean that bumpy all-natural game-highway we travelled by foot and quad the first year or two before we made expansions, has not been convenient, but it has been far easier to travel than what people realize.

Imagine a world with no bills except your monthly gasoline/diesel, cell, and grocery bills. A word where annual property tax is thrown in there to remind you that, in some places, bills like rent, landline, cable, internet, light, heat, and power still exist.

As an added plus, when you put in the type of garden we do each year you become about 75% self-sufficient. Gardening for self-sufficiency not only brings feelings of self-value and success into your life, but considerably reduces the amount you shell out yearly for groceries.

Such is my family’s life summed up in dollars.

What I have not told you yet is that my family and I live in a one-room 12x16 foot cabin (okay, it’s really a shed) we built, complete with double loft and oversized wood stove. We have lived this way since I was seventeen. Originally, it was to be our temporary residence. Now twenty-three, the cabin is still what comes to mind when I envision home.

Though we share 12x16 square feet of living space and sleeping quarters -- believe me, I can envision worse -- share school space with a library, an office, a foyer, a den, and a living room…everything but the kitchen, which is located on the other end of the cabin from my workspace. In spite of our unusual quarters, we are living a romantic dream every day.

Though I may not have my own room, sleep in a sleeping bag, have no closet, no refrigerator, except for the 300-acre one that forms with wintery convenience, keep cats for company and reserve local wildlife for friends, I find new adventures complete with new experiences waiting for me each time I step out my door. Well, provided I am not snuggled into a patio chair doing schoolwork, journaling, knitting, or taking imaginative adventures as I read NURRM* by the stove in our kitchen-parlor-den-library-foyer-office-all-in-one home.

*NURRM = Non-University Related Reading Material (also known as any book of any genre of my own choosing)

Phantasia in the Boreal Forest

I am starting this blog to chronicle my experiences at Rosehill so those who have wondered (in many cases the accurate word is marveled) at our miraculous change may gain deeper appreciation and insight into a way of life that is extinct except in the most romantic minds of the age.

My second reason is just as simple. I love my lifestyle. It fills me with wonder and inspiration all the time. I would love to inspire people who want to do what my family has done but doubt the possibility of taking their families into the wild. My parents did so, and I am more than grateful for the experiences and knowledge about life I have gained from the sacrifices we have made in order to take the adventure of a lifetime.

My posts will reflect both current events at Rosehill and memories of days and events. Without a doubt many will seem incredible; what I would call products of phantasia had I not lived through the events and know them to be true.

I admit I am always amazed at my experiences. Often, I feel like someone just told me a story and tried to make me believe it was my life: you know, those unbelievable stories where the fish starts out this big, gets THIS BIG!, and eventually leaves the listener wondering if there had been a fish at all.

 

Philosophy on Civilization

Before I begin telling stories to describe life at Rosehill, the like of which I ought to relegate to books, something I am not sure I feel qualified to do, allow me to explain why I say my life is uncivilized.

The commonly accepted definition of civilized means to, “bring a person or people to an advanced stage of social development.”

From my experience with civilization as “an advanced stage or system of human social development,” I have observed that until you consciously decide to live outside the conventional system of affairs in near or absolute isolation you will never understand civilization or, for that matter, what it means to be civilized.¹

Like looking in the mirror and believing you are average, you live with yourself and are incapable of seeing yourself as any different even when everyone else believes you are beautiful. Just as it takes a change of perspective for you to see yourself as others see you, it takes a removal from the norm, the status quo, your comfort zone, to embrace and understand that being civilized and living in civilization are not quite what you once imagined them to be.

It took long years of living in isolation -- the sacrifice of social community, something people need to feel they belong to the whole -- and of going against the conventions of North American society, before I observed how hollow the common idea is of what it means to be civilized, a member of civilization.

Play a game with me.

To put our different lifestyles in perspective, I want you to contemplate the various mediums by which you receive information daily. Next, compare your answer with mine. Because due to my isolation, I know little of the outside world anymore:

‘The scope of my news of the outside world is usually months behind. I am rarely online, get only the local paper, and have only regional radio stations to choose from on any given day. The exception is when CBC broadcasts actually come through clearly, or something is newsworthy enough for our remote Peace Country radio stations to take notice of and air. Did I mention that I have no TV?’

To use logic: I live outside the sphere of civilization, thus I am uncivilized. By the common definition, I am outside the realm of civilization, however, that goes against my entire perspective on civilization.

To my way of thinking, I live in the truest civilization with the civilized, not you, dear reader, with your personal agenda, and your life in your unnatural, paved, concrete forest.

To my way of thinking, I live in the original civilization, a civilization of primacy and primal instinct so old that the trees lull me to sleep each night with their whispered, ancient stories and melodies from long, long ago. This is no dream, but reality from the cusp of civilization.

Conclusions

Here is to what began as a brief introduction to my blog about life on Rosehill. I do not doubt that as my posts grow, you will grow to understand why my family chose to build our home in the wilderness away from the alleged comforts of society.

Come, explore.

Our journey is far from being over.

Slap some mosquitoes and get muddy trekking over those original game tracks of time that lead into the romance of another century.

Though I broke trail for you years ago, the romance of the wild is still waiting, waiting for you to follow my dusty footsteps, waiting for you to break your own path anew, into My Uncivilized Life.

Love,
Jenny

P.S. No littering allowed.

 ¹ All definitions taken from the Pocket Oxford Dictionary. “civilize” and “civilization.” 10^th ed. OUP: 2005. 156.