“Do you think it’s too hot to transplant some plants today?”
“Yes”
“Well I’m going to move that one that’s turned into a cricket hotel. Don’t worry I’ll give them time to get away.”
How long do you think it would take two people with way too much education to put together a bed frame? How many ways do you think a bed frame could go together? How many extra bits should be left over?
I’m glad that’s over with. And I’m doubly glad that no one was watching the sorry turn of events. All is well now though the nosebleed height of the bed does concern me. I should start a pool on how long it is before one of us falls out of the bed.
Hardware stores. Large Hardware stores. Turns out I think they’re, ah, very interesting. Lots of things that need looking at. Some that need buying. I should have been forewarned after the evening I spent reading every single page of this: 
Setting aside the pleasure of ogling the hardware, I think I like the hardware/building supply/home reno store because it gives me the illusion that I could fix anything I set my mind to as long as I had the right hardware. Somehow I missed the power tool section this time. Good thing cause I feel the urge to acquire a belt sander.
I’ll have to make do with the 16 annoyingly flimsy aluminium turnbuttons (cast iron, I want cast iron) I bought to fix our rickety but serviceable wooden storm windows. Now all I need is some more glazing compound and a coolish weekend in which we can rassle a lot of windows. With some luck and some steel wool maybe I can reuse the original hardware.
And just think, there are more to do once I find someplace to buy turnbuttons (the metal washer-like fastener used to attach old wood storms–yes that is the name of the thingamajig on the upper right next to the brick).
Yesterday evening I took advantage of a brief recess in the rain to do some yard work. I have a laissez-faire attitude to leaf litter and the garden beds tend to stay covered from October to April. I don’t try to shift the leaves until small green things starting are poking up through the crumpled brown.
After raking up some of the leaves, I decided it was a good time to transplant the rhubarb from one end of the vegetable garden to the other. The new location will give it more room and less sunlight. I dug the holes. Douglas came outside to putter around and looked at my holes and declared them inadequate to the size of the rhubarb. Fine. Dig your heart out dude.
I went back to raking and picking up the branches pitched overboard by the deranged squirrels that live in the maple tree. Lots of muttering followed, ending with a pointed remark about trees. I turned around see him yanking with all his weight on a severed root. And then–whump–he landed on his arse. Then he decided to tackle the rhubarb plants. And discovered that they have taproots. Big ones. And that they’re heavy. He made Julian, Ricky, and Bubbles proud.
Our neighbours are confused though: they’re used to the dicussions of sheepshit versus cowshit but they’re not so sure about the horticultural function of motherfucker.
Three weeks ago, a four-foot deep snow bank was rotting on my front yard. Today, the snow is gone, the leaves left to overwinter are picked up, and a clutch of blue flowers has emerged.
This weekend people are dashing about in near-summer clothing–no coats, shorts, sandals. The kids on the street at careening around on scooters and bikes–the two and a half year old across the street has done a header off her new tricycle and gotten up sans crying, no doubt distracted by the sunshine. The clothing bins of the Sally Ann and St. Vincent’s are filling up with spring-cleaning discards. The house finches are nesting again on the porch.
A kind of Canadian delirium.
House bound. Minus 40. Poor old house creaks in the cold. Furnace soldiers on.
A dangerous day. Rain, rain, rain on top of ice. I am not heartened by knowing that the region I live in historically gets 50 hours of freezing rain a year.
Since this is the winter I have decided to get over being pertified of walking during and after winter rain, I headed out into the downpour to get another batch of groceries. 
I fortified myself with the jet fuel that comes out of our coffeemaker and my mad-genuis invention: a Swiffer walking stick. The jaunty teal handle looks ridiculous but the thing is light and can lie harmlessly in the bottom of a knapsack waiting for nasty weather.
I made it down the hill, across the treacherous parking lot full of cranky people who are generally unaware of the pedestrian phenomenon–at least today no young brainless buck yelled at me for having the gall to be annoyed that he nearly decked me with his grocery cart–and back up the skating rink/swimming pool without crashing down and busting myself or the eggs.
The house now smells of wet wool.
Googling for new sites with information about Kathleen Bruce Scott Kennet I learned that her granddaughter Emily Young is also a sculptor.
I’m not an angel fan and am always amazed at people’s interest in the notion of guardian angels, but I now covet her angel sculptures.
The photos don’t give much sense of the scale of these–for her Kew Garden exhibit they were mounted on sizeable plinths.
