Lions Dock

It's so HOT!  I've been weeding in the garden for so long, I feel like I was planted there myself.  Mom says we have to each weed a row of the garden before we can go swimming, which doesn't seem right since it's only Paul and John and Francis and me here in the garden.  I just KNOW that the other boys have already gone swimming, gotten away free without having to do any weeding.  It's not fair, but there's no use whining about it now.  We're stuck here among the beans and carrot tops, the peas and radishes.

I've got a row of carrots to weed, and its hard to tell the weeds from the carrots till I pull some out and see if there's a small orange bit of carrot or not.  If I do, with a quick scrub on my shorts to get the dirt off I have a nice little snack.  Paul has a row of beans, and since they're already good sized plants, he's just zooming through his row.  You'd think that would encourage me to go faster, to keep up with him, but somehow it doesn't - probably because of the way he is teasing me.

"Oh, the lake is going to feel so GOOD, so nice and COOL," Paul says loudly, eyes closed and smiling to himself for our benefit as he reaches the last few plants in his row.

John and Frances are sharing a row of radishes, which I have to admit are at least as hard to weed as my row of carrots.  But their little fingers are making short work of it, and they're just ahead of me.  I think I must be paying too much attention as I try to separate carrots from weeds.

Paul finishes first and makes a mad dash away from the garden, calling over to the house,"Mom!  I'm done! Going swimming!"

He snaps a towel from the clothesline, pins popping up like popcorn with no lid into the air after him.  He slings the towel around his neck like a scarf and hops on his bike.  He's doing loops in the yard though, so I suppose that Mom has called to him  to wait for the rest of us so that we can all go together.

Finally, John, Frances and I finish our rows.  Racing to the house, we pause briefly at the garden hose and take a long, cool drink.  Some days we'll play with the cool water for a while, turning it on and off while another is trying to take a drink, to see if we can make the water go up their nose, but not today.  The beach is waiting!

Although Paul is on his bike, the rest of us are walking.  We don't all have working bikes, it depends on what Peter, Pat or Phil have been able to fix up.  We're like a mini parade on the way to the beach:  John is wearing his towel like a swami's hat, Francis has his towel tied around his neck like a cape, and I've chosen to wear mine the same as Paul's - like a hot scarf.

We walk down the road towards town and the beach, following Paul. I can feel the heat of the pavement through my flip flops. We can smell the tar as the heat waves the scent up from the pavement.  The tar is hot enough in some patches that we leave a print.  Watching the melting tar on the road reminds us to walk carefully; usually at least one of us stubs a toe on this walk.  Once I even stubbed my toe right through my running shoe!

"When I get there, I'm going to run right in without stopping!" says Francis.

"I'm going to run right up the Lions Dock and jump in at the first ladder!" says John.

"Yeah," I say, "And I'm going to run up the dock too, and jump in at the second ladder!"

We've been to the Lions Dock so many times, we know how deep it is at each ladder and where it's over our heads.  We have all taken some swimming lessons, but I'm only at "advanced dog paddle" as my brother Pat would say.  I won't jump in from any ladder past the second one, because beyond there the water is way over my head.

We leave the heat of the road for a trail through the bush.  Paul has waited for us there, in the shade with his bike. The bush trail is a great shortcut that will take us the rest of the way - it comes out at the Trailer Park, right across from the beach.  The shade is so much more comfortable than the bright, hot sunshine and we slow down a little, to cool off.  On the path along the way we see big splats of blueberries that Paul tells us is bear poop! After first checking the nearby bushes for bears, we laugh and laugh, joking about the poor bear with his watery blue poop problem.

We finally arrive at the beach, hot, dry and even more dusty, a quick look both ways before we cross the road then throw our towels down on the sand, kick off flip flops and launch into the water.  Each of us enters the water as planned, with plenty of whooping and laughing along the way - the relief of the cool water evident in our increase of activity.

Lions Dock looks like a big, flat lollypop on the water, with a big diving tower at the end. The big boys like to stand at the end of Lions Dock and wrestle, pushing or pulling each other in, or running and sliding off the slippery boards right into the water, or daring each other to do a flip or dive or something from the top of the big tower. One time I even saw a kid ride his bike right from the beach to the end of the dock and into the lake!  I don't know if he ever got it out.

I once asked my mom why it was called Lions Dock and she said it was named after the group of men who built it, the Lions Club.  I don't really understand why a group of men is called a Lions Club, but it's a neat name for our dock.  I think there should be a sculpture of a Lion at the dock, a Fierce Lion, fierce like the boys that climb up the tower at the end of the dock and are the King of the Dock until they get pushed off by a new King.

I'll go to the end of the dock to watch if my older brothers are there, Pete and Pat usually in the crowd of boys.  Philip sometimes, too.  Paul goes too, but like me is always watching to be sure he has an escape route back down the dock.  We don't want to "accidentally" get pushed in!  I like to think that my brothers wouldn't let that happen, but I know that I'd better take care of myself.  We don't acknowledge each other - there at the end of the dock everyone is on their own.

Once the initial cooling-down period is complete, we settle in to beach activities.  Frank and John do some beachcombing.  I like to do that too, especially if they find anything good, like money.  Most of the time though, they are just chasing minnows, or searching for neat rocks. I do the same, but don't last as long before I have to dive into the water again, then back on to the towel to recharge with the heat from the sunshine.  Tom is here too; he's got his towel spread out and he's busy reading a book.  He is prepared for an afternoon.

Across the road from the beach, there's a little concession stand.  At the concession you can watch as the lady behind the counter makes cotton candy!  It's magical.  As we hang over the counter to watch, we can hear a snapping sound as the candy starts to build on the paper spool. We love the sweet smell of the sugar, the bright pink colour of the candy as she waves the paper spool around and around in the big spinning bowl, slowly building a sticky spider web globe of cotton candy.   That wonderful, sweet taste as the spidery threads melt in your mouth.  We don't get it often, but if we are lucky  enough to find some change on the beach or along the roadside that's how we'll spend it.

As the sun drops a little, my dad arrives there at the beach on Rabbit Lake.  We are all as brown as golden marshmallows from being in the sun all day - in the garden, laughing and playing in the water, and running up and down the Lions Dock.  We run over to see him and try to get him to come in for a swim, but he never does.  He watches as we show off for him, calling out for him to watch this, Dad! as we practice some of our better moves from dock into water.

"Your mother has supper ready," he finally tells us, "Go and let your brothers know it's time to come home."

Paul takes the job as it gives him a chance for one last jump in the water.  I take my dad's hand and we cross the road together, back over to the parking lot near the concession stand and to our big green station wagon.  In no time all of us walkers are in the car, windows rolled down in the hot still air of late afternoon, damp towels spread over sticky hot car seats.  Paul, Pat and Peter have picked up their bicycles and started a race back through the trail to see if they can get home before the rest of us in the car.

They do.

Snow Fort (Winter Magic)

There's been lots of snow this winter.  The snow banks in the yard are getting really big, bigger than me, bigger than my dad's car!  There are never enough shovels to go around.  I like to help to shovel too, but the shovel is really heavy and after I push it down the driveway once and it gets full of snow, then I can't even lift it so my brothers take it away from me again.  There's another really great thing about all of that snow and all that shoveling... snow forts!

Phillip and Paul and Tom built the most amazing snow fort in the yard.  They had some friends over and I saw them all working on it from the living room window so I asked my mom if I could go outside to play too.  "Of course," she said.  "Just be sure you dress up warm, it's 20 below today."

I already knew it was cold because I had just pulled myself up on the kitchen sink to peek through the window at the thermometer outside to check.  Yep, it was 20 below, but it was also nice and sunny outside and the snow was sparkling.  I could tell the snow would be crunchy and squeaky.  I ran into my room and put on my tights first, so that when the snow got into my boots my ankles wouldn't be too cold.  Then pants, sweater, another pair of socks.

Into the kitchen to dig through all the snowsuits in the closet to find my snowpants and coat.  Breadbags to put my sock feet into first (to help keep them dry) before I put on my skidoo boots.  Toque next, and scarf, and - "Mom, are there any dry mitts?"

"Oh yes, I'll get you a pair from the living room, I put a pair on the register from when you were out yesterday."

Yay!  Nice warm mitts, fresh from the heat blowing through the hot air register.

"Can you tuck them in for me?"

It's quite a production to get everything on to go outside when it's really cold, to make sure that the warm can't get out and the cold can't get in.  It's a delicate balance between being warm enough and not being able to move because of the layers and layers of clothes.

Finally I'm ready and out I go, ready to have fun in that beautiful snow fort.  I stand on the front step and blink while my eyes, peeking out from between my hat and scarf, get used to the sunlight reflecting off the snow.

"Hey can I come in and see the fort?" I call over to Phillip and Paul as I run over, my pant legs zip-zopping as I go.  Tom is nowhere to be seen, I guess that he's inside the fort, doing some inside work.  Phil looks at me, sort of shakes his head and goes back to work.  It's Paul that stops me in my tracks.  He's next older to me, and he's always bossing me around.

"No, you'll wreck it," he says with a scowl.

"I'll tell on you!" I say, my favourite retort.

"Hmph, don't you touch it, or you'll be sorry."

I go back over to the house, and peek in the door.

"Mom!" I call, she's not in the kitchen anymore, "MOM!"

"Close the door, you're letting all the cold in!"

Back inside I go, making sure I stay on the mat at the door with my wet boots.  I explain the last 5 minutes to my mom who appears to be searching for more mittens.  John and Francis are getting ready to come outside too, and I know what's coming next...

"Take John and Francis with you when you go back outside, okay?  And tell the other boys that you should all play in the fort."

I help find all the bits and pieces and wrap them up so they won't get cold.  Francis' cheeks are getting redder and redder as he works on getting his boots on, all other layers are already on and he's overheating.

"C'mon out, let's see what they're doing in the fort," I say, thinking that maybe they will be the tickets that get me in.

This time, when we go over to the fort the big boys are all inside, and someone is sitting in the door with their back facing out.  They are pretending they don't hear us.

I consider climbing up the outside wall of the fort, but I know that would get me into A Lot of Trouble, and I only just got outside so I don't want that to happen.  I take Francis and John on a little hike around the yard; the game is that they have to step in only my tracks so I take REALLY BIG steps and then really small steps.  Then I make a snow angel.  They're supposed to do a snow angel in my snow angel, but as soon as I hit the snow, they do too.  It's a snow angel festival!  John looses a boot when we all get back up, so I help him find it and get the snow out, and get it all back on and tucked in again.  Then we wander back over to the fort.  This time, the big boys are outside again.

Paul calls over, "Hey John and Francis, want to see the fort?"

I am so mad I can hardly see straight - this is boys against ME, and I can't win.  Francis and John don't need to be asked twice, they are racing over to the fort like two little seals on the ice, diving and disappearing into the fort.  I march straight back to the house and go into the kitchen, while John and Francis are welcomed into the beautiful ice cavern in our yard.

"Mommmm, they won't let me play!  The big boys let John and Francis in, but they won't let me in the fort, too!.... hey, what are you making?"

My mom smiles and passes me a beater full of cookie dough.  YUM!  Hey... I have an idea...

A minute later, I'm back outside the snow fort.  Just outside the door.  And I KNOW that they can hear me.  "Yum, yum, there's nothing like a nice warm chocolate chip cookie on a cold and bright sunny day!"

I was right, Paul pops his head out of the fort, "What are you doing?"

"Nothing, just having a cookie... mmmmm," I say, my fingers starting to get colder as the cookie gets smaller.

"Can we have one, too?" he asks.

"Only if you let me in the fort!"

Inside the fort is beautiful, just like I imagined.  The walls glow a soft light where they are just a bit thinner and the sunshine leaks through.  We are all lined up around the inside of the cavern, our boots meeting in the middle, a little cramped but that's okay.  Tom has put a candle in a spot on one of the walls, but it's not lit.

I tell them how great their fort is, and they agree.  We all enjoy mom's cookies, and there's not a crumb left over.

Eggs for Breakfast

My dad has chickens.  He calls them his "girls".  He got a bunch of them this spring when they were really small yellow bundles of fluff.  They were so cute!  Tom took a picture of them with my baby brother, Greg. Chicken babies and people babies, both are very cute!  Those chickens have gotten big much quicker than Greg has though.

Greg was born last fall, in November.  When it was finally time to bring him home, I went in the car for the ride.  I couldn't wait to see him.  Once we got home I got to hold him, he was so small and helpless and couldn't even hold up his head or keep his eyes open.  He is bigger now though, even though he's still a baby.  He can't even walk yet, although he is starting to crawl around.  It feels so nice when I hold him in my  arms, he is so nice and warm and cuddly.  My heart feels so big it could burst when I hold him.  I had asked my mom for a little sister, but got Greg instead.  That's okay, it will be a long time before I can play with him anyway.

My brothers and I go into the back yard where my dad has built the hen-house and their fenced-in yard.  At first, the chicks stayed in the hen-house where there was a very big light that kept them all warm and toasty.  Then we watched as they started to get bigger, white feathers.  They looked just terrible for a while, kind of like those dinosaur birds, but slowly they have started to look better again.  More white feathers have come in and they look much better - round and puffy white.  These chickens eat every green thing inside their fence.  They eat leaves and even small branches.  They've eaten all the grass.  They scratch in the dirt and even EAT the dirt.  We feed them in the hen-house, and sometimes we throw some feed into their yard, too. It's fun, though, to throw a worm in through the fence and then watch them chase one another to get the worm.  It's kind of like watching chickens play football. One of my brothers threw in a frog once, and that really got them going, but somehow it wasn't the same - it seemed mean, to me.  I don't mind throwing in a grasshopper, though.

The chickens have gotten even bigger and some have started to lay eggs.  It's fun to go and check for eggs in the hen-house; you never know what you will find.  Sometimes the eggs are very small and round, and sometimes we are lucky and get a double yolker!    But you never know how many yolks until you crack it open.  We wash the eggs carefully in the sink and put them in the fridge. It is hard  for me to imagine that one of those eggs, if you let it, will turn into a little yellow chick.

I walk into the kitchen this Saturday morning after watching cartoons all morning.  I don't see Mom or Dad and so I check out the door to the driveway - ah rats - the car is gone.  They've already gone into town to do the shopping, and I've missed out.  Even though I don't need anything, I like to go for the ride and push the cart in the grocery store, or get dropped off at the library so I can check out new books and talk with Michelle, the librarian.  She's so nice.

Tummy grumbling, I realize that I haven't even had my breakfast yet.  Philip is at the stove and he's just finished making some scrambled eggs; they smell really good.  I open the cupboard where the cereal is, and there's some puffed rice cereal there but today it just doesn't seem like it will be enough.  I check in the fridge and there's no leftover porridge, either.  Not that I like leftover porridge, I'm just checking my options.

"Phillip, will you make me an egg?" I ask suddenly, surprising even myself that I've asked him.

"I'm just eating now, why don't you make your own?" he answers back, looking up at me in a pause between mouthfuls.

My brother Phillip is a neat brother.  He always has great snack ideas - like putting peanut butter on toast and then sprinkling white sugar on it - not too much, just enough so that it all sticks.  Or like toast with butter and then brown sugar and cinnamon - yum.  I don't know if he actually invented those or not, but somehow I never remember those things until he does them first.  But then, he will also eat leftover porridge COLD, in the bowl right out of the fridge.  That's just crazy.  But he helps me with homework sometimes, if I ask, and he's patient with all of my questions.  That's pretty neat.

"I've never used the stove," I answer back, wondering if I'm allowed to use the stove, if I'm old enough, and how old is old enough?

"Okay, I can tell you how and you can do it, okay?" he offers.

I jump at the chance, and go to the fridge to get an egg out.  I  see the big double yolker that I just found that morning, and can't believe that no-one else has used it yet.  I pick that one and carry it carefully back over to the stove, and place it gently against the pot lid that is on the counter so that it won't roll away.

"Okay, you need to put some butter into the pan, and then turn the stove on - turn it to the 4.  Make sure the handle is pointing to the side so you don't knock it over," he instructs me from his place at the table, between mouthfuls.

"Then, crack the egg on something hard and try not to get any eggshells in there.  If you get some, you can fish them out after your egg is cooked.  Then just stir up the egg with a fork until it's done."

It seems so easy; even though I'm wondering how much butter to use, and how hard to crack it.  I'm not asking yet, though - I'm just trying to do it.  It is harder than I thought it would be to crack the egg open, but it's pretty neat.  Feels like an experiment.  I pour the egg into the pan and - yay!  Double yolks!  I check for shells - can't see any!  Well, not too many... I use my fork and stir it all up.  Those yellow yolks are just like sunshine, and I use the fork and mash them like potatoes. So much fun!  Some of the egg has already started to cook and it is so neat to watch it go from clear to white, I just have to keep stirring.

Soon, the egg is done and I turn the stove off.

"Good job," Phillip says, "that's the most important part - remembering to turn the stove off when you're done."

Proud of myself, I go and get a plate for my egg.  I'm wishing that I had made some toast, but don't want to take time now to do that.  I carefully scoop the scrambled egg out of the pan and onto my plate, not wanting to leave even a little bit.

"Thanks, Phillip!" I say to him, as I go over to the table with my breakfast plate, feeling all grown up.

"Yeah, okay," he says, "Make sure you put everything away when you're done."

As I sit at the table, eating what might just be the Best Scrambled Eggs Ever, I'm thinking about those chickens and about my little brother, Greg.  These chickens, they have such a quick life.  We are so lucky to have them for their eggs and then later, for roast chicken dinners.  In the amount of time it has taken them to grow from an egg to being dinner, my baby brother is still just a baby and still needs all of us.  Even I still need help from my big brother, and I'm Twelve.  It's pretty neat how that works for people, for my family, for me.  I'm so lucky.  I hardly had any eggshells in my breakfast, and I made it all myself.