Waking up on Thursday on the Big Sand Beach, anticipation for the day radiated off people like the sun on the water. Okay, not really. It wasn’t even sunny. But I couldn’t think of a good way to open this section. It was destined to be a fun day though because it was Calvin and Tamara’s anniversary, Canada Day and last but certainly not least . . . Pirate Day!
Throughout the trip my mom had been keeping the younger cousins entertained on the boat with preparations for pirate day. They colored in pirate scarves with fabric markers one day and spent a rainy afternoon bedazzling swords and hats. Since we were staying put on the Big Sand Beach for the day, today was the day of the much anticipated treasure hunt. Somehow it was determined that the big cousins without offspring would be in charge of the hunt. We spent the morning picking out the perfect hiding places and then retired back to the KJ to be creative with our clues. The clues were amazing, for which Greg gets all the credit. Our family is gifted with natural writing ability anyway, but this was a work of art.
Not only did the kids have to run up and down the beach to find clues, they had to take a ride in the skiff to another secret beach to get a clue. There was a plank to walk, which I made Rob and Greg haul onto the beach from a cliff, and treasure marked with an X. Actually there were three X’s. One had treasure . . . the others had two day old herring we found in the skiff that were supposed to be used for bait. Not my idea, but since I’d gotten my plank, I let the guys have their dead fish. Even the adults got into it, donning hooks, hats and swords, following the kids and grandkids up and down the beach watching them find the clues. Definitely one of the highlights of the trip for the kids. Where else do you have your own private beach to have a treasure hunt?
After the hunt, some of us went back to the KJ to make lunch. While we were waiting for the beans to warm up for our Haystacks, mom decided to go fishing. Apparently she forgot about the lack of a male presence on the boat when she actually caught one and realized she’d have to get it off the hook on her own. I was laughing at her while she shrieked at the idea of unhooking her fish and she suggested that I do it for her. I don’t do fish . . . so I got her a paper towel. She wrapped the fish in a paper towel and managed to get the hook out. I didn’t see her fishing solo again on the trip.
For dinner we cooked up the prawns and the remaining fish. I was delighted to find some rice to eat instead of another hot dog. I did try a bit of the prawn . . . and decided I’d rather keep eating hot dogs. Once again, my dad did his magic and cooked dinner for 22 over a camp fire. Even more incredible, in honor of the anniversary and Canada Day, he, with Joeleigh acting as sous chef, made two pineapple upside down cakes in a dutch oven heated by coals. The cakes turned out perfect. Pretty impressive when you consider that there are many people who can’t bake a cake in an oven. Dinner time was the only time that day I actually saw Uncle Don awake. Covered in ash from the fire, he slept in his chair all day long. At one point he poked a hole in his arm, after falling asleep with a knife in the other hand. He was up and at ‘em for those prawns though.
The weather decided to cooperate with our celebrations and we had a beautiful pink sunset that gave us a great natural light show. And of course all of us automatically repeated, “Red sky at night, sailors delight.” We had glow bracelets and mini Canadian flags to celebrate Canada Day and sang the national anthem. Well, the Canadians did anyway. Mom, Rob and I got through “Oh Canada, our home and native land,” before switching to humming. Then on to wine and toasts to celebrate the anniversary and the amazingness that is our family. Because how many families do you know that could do a trip like this and still like each other at the end?
Since it wasn’t raining, I had planned on sleeping in my tent that night on the beach. But by this time I couldn’t even find my tent. It was somewhere on the top deck with all the gear I was pretty sure, but after searching for it a few times, I gave up and decided sleeping on the boat was meant to be. Greg eventually drove us back to the KJ in the skiff . . . after having to row back to shore to get help getting the motor back in the water.
July 8, 2010
Smith Inlet - Part IV (Day 3)
My dad kept telling me how stunning (my adjective, not his) Smith Inlet was when the sun shined and how you can’t imagine wanting to be any place else when it was like that. On Wednesday I finally understood what he’d been talking about. I awoke due to this bright light shining in my eye through the wheelhouse windows. It took me a few minutes to realize it was sunshine! I rapidly packed up my gear and headed outside to enjoy it.
With blue sky and the sun shining down into the bay where camp used to be, I could picture what it must have been like to live there back in the day. It was easy to image the kids hoping in their rowboats to go explore the little island or playing with their pet seal or learning to swim by having a rope tied around them and being tossed without ceremony into the chuck.
While the boy cousins were making breakfast, I sat on the upper deck basking in the sun and alternately watching the fishermen below and reading my book. This was when Uncle Jeff decided jumping in sounded like a good idea. With his glasses. Half-way down he realized he’d forgotten to take his glasses off and had to dive in after them. He found them, but they were all bent out of shape. Luckily we’ve acquired an eye guy in the family and Calvin was able to make them mostly useable again.
Once one person had jumped in, a trend was started. Dad and Jason both went in and before I knew it all the little cousins were lined up on the back of the boat waiting their turns to hop in. They were bribed with a warm shower afterwards, and all but one ended up going in. Little kid blood is thicker I think, since I was still wearing 4 shirts at the time and was the perfect temperature. No way was I going in there.
About the time swimming was over and breakfast was being cleaned up, Greg and I discovered part of a lemon pie left over from the evening before. Obviously we took care of that. Nothing like pie for breakfast to know you’re on vacation.
So far on this trip, the only people we’d run into were people we expected to see. Other GMGers or old fishing buddies that were out and stopped to say hi and show us where to catch the big halibut. So you can imagine our surprise when a motor boat pulled around the corner and stopped to say hi. Two crusty, backwoods Canucks who were working as shake blockers a few inlets away (ironically in another previous GMG camp location) stopped to talk on their way to pick up their prawn traps. On their way back by, they gave us all the prawns from their traps! Huge score if you eat things that come from the sea. These things were huge and ugly and tentaclely. The shake blockers left with some lemon pie in exchange, despite their request for beer.
Eventually it started to sprinkle and we motored away from camp. On our way to see where the men used to go to work every day, a short boat ride away, we saw a baby whale. Then we headed for Olive Point, which is used primarily as a graveyard. Olive Point is a midden and one of the few places where it is easy to dig, hence it being turned into a graveyard. There are likely lots of unmarked graves, but there were also some old Goertzen’s who have been buried there. Chief George and his wife Lucy, of the Tukush, were also buried here. As far as graveyards go, this one was pretty spectacular. There was an amazing view from all angles and it was interesting to see the different generations of markers. This is also where the McGills (the M in GMG) had chosen to rest.
After Olive Point we headed to the Big Beach in Smith Inlet. When my dad and aunties were kids, their mom would bring them here to camp for a week at a time. Grandpa would drop them off one Sabbath and come back on the next to get them. What a brave women! Going camping alone with four kids on a deserted beach? Deserted with the exception of bears and wolves of course, both of which prints were noticeable in the sand. After hearing stories of Grandma Hazel on this trip, I’m fairly certain that a good amount of my fearlessness or courage came from her.
Speaking of bears . . . Whenever we were traveling throughout the inlet, a close eye was kept on the water to see what animals and marine life we could see. I noticed something bobbing in the water and at first thought it was a seal, only he never went under. By this point someone else had noticed this oddity in the water and the skipper informed us it was just a log. Turns out he was wrong. It was a grizzly bear swimming across the inlet! I actually jumped out of a window to get on the bow to watch him better. I’ve never seen a grizzly in person or a bear swimming. The combination was pretty amazing. We followed him to shore, from a respectable distance of course, and man could that bear swim. He’d already made it about half way across when we found him and then he practically sprinted once we began tailing him. To be fair, I get freaked out too when someone/thing is following me, even from a long way back. It was pretty amazing to watch him run out of the water, up the bank and into the woods. Talk about an incredible wildlife viewing opportunity. I’m betting there aren’t a lot of people who get to see that in their lifetime.
The big beach had beautiful sand, crazy amounts of driftwood and creeks for the kids to play in and keep them entertained for hours. Dinner that night was the giant ling cod that Uncle Don had caught on a hand line, cooked over the coals from the fire. I had another Loma Linda Stinky (vegetarian hot dog). The little girl cousins also decided that this would be a good time to build their own fire. Some adults were concerned at first, until my parents told them that we had always had a kid fire growing up. I had completely forgotten about that until they mentioned it. Big cousin Rob somehow got roped into helping the girls with their fire. He’s a sucker for their giant blue eyes and can’t say no to them, regardless of if they’re asking for help with a fire or if he’ll please bake them some cookies.
Since it had started to sprinkle a bit, I was quite happy with my decision to forego the leaky tent and sleep on the boat once again. There is so much daylight up there, we ended up going to bed late all the time, not realizing that it didn’t get dark until about 11. I snuggled into my sleeping bag with the boat rocking me to sleep like I was in a baby cradle.
With blue sky and the sun shining down into the bay where camp used to be, I could picture what it must have been like to live there back in the day. It was easy to image the kids hoping in their rowboats to go explore the little island or playing with their pet seal or learning to swim by having a rope tied around them and being tossed without ceremony into the chuck.
While the boy cousins were making breakfast, I sat on the upper deck basking in the sun and alternately watching the fishermen below and reading my book. This was when Uncle Jeff decided jumping in sounded like a good idea. With his glasses. Half-way down he realized he’d forgotten to take his glasses off and had to dive in after them. He found them, but they were all bent out of shape. Luckily we’ve acquired an eye guy in the family and Calvin was able to make them mostly useable again.
Once one person had jumped in, a trend was started. Dad and Jason both went in and before I knew it all the little cousins were lined up on the back of the boat waiting their turns to hop in. They were bribed with a warm shower afterwards, and all but one ended up going in. Little kid blood is thicker I think, since I was still wearing 4 shirts at the time and was the perfect temperature. No way was I going in there.
About the time swimming was over and breakfast was being cleaned up, Greg and I discovered part of a lemon pie left over from the evening before. Obviously we took care of that. Nothing like pie for breakfast to know you’re on vacation.
So far on this trip, the only people we’d run into were people we expected to see. Other GMGers or old fishing buddies that were out and stopped to say hi and show us where to catch the big halibut. So you can imagine our surprise when a motor boat pulled around the corner and stopped to say hi. Two crusty, backwoods Canucks who were working as shake blockers a few inlets away (ironically in another previous GMG camp location) stopped to talk on their way to pick up their prawn traps. On their way back by, they gave us all the prawns from their traps! Huge score if you eat things that come from the sea. These things were huge and ugly and tentaclely. The shake blockers left with some lemon pie in exchange, despite their request for beer.
Eventually it started to sprinkle and we motored away from camp. On our way to see where the men used to go to work every day, a short boat ride away, we saw a baby whale. Then we headed for Olive Point, which is used primarily as a graveyard. Olive Point is a midden and one of the few places where it is easy to dig, hence it being turned into a graveyard. There are likely lots of unmarked graves, but there were also some old Goertzen’s who have been buried there. Chief George and his wife Lucy, of the Tukush, were also buried here. As far as graveyards go, this one was pretty spectacular. There was an amazing view from all angles and it was interesting to see the different generations of markers. This is also where the McGills (the M in GMG) had chosen to rest.
After Olive Point we headed to the Big Beach in Smith Inlet. When my dad and aunties were kids, their mom would bring them here to camp for a week at a time. Grandpa would drop them off one Sabbath and come back on the next to get them. What a brave women! Going camping alone with four kids on a deserted beach? Deserted with the exception of bears and wolves of course, both of which prints were noticeable in the sand. After hearing stories of Grandma Hazel on this trip, I’m fairly certain that a good amount of my fearlessness or courage came from her.
Speaking of bears . . . Whenever we were traveling throughout the inlet, a close eye was kept on the water to see what animals and marine life we could see. I noticed something bobbing in the water and at first thought it was a seal, only he never went under. By this point someone else had noticed this oddity in the water and the skipper informed us it was just a log. Turns out he was wrong. It was a grizzly bear swimming across the inlet! I actually jumped out of a window to get on the bow to watch him better. I’ve never seen a grizzly in person or a bear swimming. The combination was pretty amazing. We followed him to shore, from a respectable distance of course, and man could that bear swim. He’d already made it about half way across when we found him and then he practically sprinted once we began tailing him. To be fair, I get freaked out too when someone/thing is following me, even from a long way back. It was pretty amazing to watch him run out of the water, up the bank and into the woods. Talk about an incredible wildlife viewing opportunity. I’m betting there aren’t a lot of people who get to see that in their lifetime.
The big beach had beautiful sand, crazy amounts of driftwood and creeks for the kids to play in and keep them entertained for hours. Dinner that night was the giant ling cod that Uncle Don had caught on a hand line, cooked over the coals from the fire. I had another Loma Linda Stinky (vegetarian hot dog). The little girl cousins also decided that this would be a good time to build their own fire. Some adults were concerned at first, until my parents told them that we had always had a kid fire growing up. I had completely forgotten about that until they mentioned it. Big cousin Rob somehow got roped into helping the girls with their fire. He’s a sucker for their giant blue eyes and can’t say no to them, regardless of if they’re asking for help with a fire or if he’ll please bake them some cookies.
Since it had started to sprinkle a bit, I was quite happy with my decision to forego the leaky tent and sleep on the boat once again. There is so much daylight up there, we ended up going to bed late all the time, not realizing that it didn’t get dark until about 11. I snuggled into my sleeping bag with the boat rocking me to sleep like I was in a baby cradle.
July 7, 2010
Smith Inlet - Part III (Day 2)
After sleeping in a swimming pool for the night, I’ve never seen such a welcome sight as my uncle and cousin driving the skiff to shore with a pot of coffee in hand. Add a splash of Bailey’s and life was good again.
Tuesday was supposed to be spent exploring the areas that the siblings remembered best. It was going to be a long day on the boat to see everything on the list, so we all packed up and headed to the boat for breakfast. Only to find out that while the tide had gone out, the boat had become stuck on the bottom. Sigh. So after breakfast I crawled into the fo’c’sle for a mid-morning nap. A couple hours later I found myself peering over the back of the boat with my aunt, trying to estimate how many more inches of water we needed to get unstuck. Meanwhile people went fishing or kayaking, napped or found a spot to bask in the sun when it came out intermittently.
Finally, around noon, we were able to get on our way. I was a little worried about getting seasick again, although the water in the inlet was considerably smoother, the memory of hanging off the side of the boat was fresh in my memory. As it turns out, nature took pity on me and provided a distraction. Whales! And lots of them. We had so much fun chugging down the inlet watching the whales. Not only did we see the mist from the blowholes, we saw their noses and backs and their tales. No breeching, but this was still pretty amazing. Since it was raining again at this point, the majority of us were crowded inside. One cousin woke up her sleeping baby when she hopped up out of her seat to yell “Whale!” At one point I shouted, “Whale, one o’clock!” And my youngest cousin, who is 8, says in response, “but I don’t know what that means,” with dramatic despair. This turned out to be one of the best quotes of the trip.
After the whales, we motored to the old Tukush settlement. After having been on the boat for hours, while stuck to the bottom and traveling, we were anxious to get off and look for artifacts. In my mind I was picturing us finding ancient pottery and arrowheads. What we found was crap. Old soles of shoes, metal and glass was everywhere. It was so overgrown it was hard to explore too far. It’s amazing how the government can decide that a tribe will be better off somewhere else and just move an entire settlement of people. And leave behind nothing but junk.
Since the old Tukush settlement didn’t hold much excitement, and it had started pouring again, we motored further up the inlet towards Boswell, which was the last place the logging camp was stationed and where it was for the longest period of time. Boswell is completely abandoned now, but you can still see the pilings from and old cannery and fuel station. As we turned a corner, almost in unison, the siblings said “there’s the island!” Clearly we were almost there. Camp had been settled in a naturally protected inlet. There was a long peninsula jutting out from the land that acted as a natural breakwater. With log booms on the back side of the camp to keep it from bashing into the shore, this looked like a pretty good place to homestead.
Since we were back at camp we had retro dinner night, which was something familiar to the siblings from their childhood and has since turned into many of the kids’ and grandkids’ favorite meals. We had gluten with mashed potatoes and gravy with home made lemon meringue pie for dessert. Best meal ever. Serious props to my cousin the baker who made not one, but six, lemon pies from scratch in the boat oven.
That night we all had to sleep on the boat since there was no beach to camp on. I’m not sure how big the KJ is, but it gets considerably smaller when you have people laying down on every available inch of floor space. And I mean every inch – one little cousin slept under a table. We ended up being two spaces short, so being the tough guys that they are, my dad and brother slept outside on the boat. Where it was cold. And raining, again. Serious kudos to them. Ironically, not one person was fighting over getting to sleep in the fo’c’sle. It had five bunks in there . . . . but the catch was it was housing the snorers. I opted for floor space and had the best sleep in my cozy little corner.
Tuesday was supposed to be spent exploring the areas that the siblings remembered best. It was going to be a long day on the boat to see everything on the list, so we all packed up and headed to the boat for breakfast. Only to find out that while the tide had gone out, the boat had become stuck on the bottom. Sigh. So after breakfast I crawled into the fo’c’sle for a mid-morning nap. A couple hours later I found myself peering over the back of the boat with my aunt, trying to estimate how many more inches of water we needed to get unstuck. Meanwhile people went fishing or kayaking, napped or found a spot to bask in the sun when it came out intermittently.
Finally, around noon, we were able to get on our way. I was a little worried about getting seasick again, although the water in the inlet was considerably smoother, the memory of hanging off the side of the boat was fresh in my memory. As it turns out, nature took pity on me and provided a distraction. Whales! And lots of them. We had so much fun chugging down the inlet watching the whales. Not only did we see the mist from the blowholes, we saw their noses and backs and their tales. No breeching, but this was still pretty amazing. Since it was raining again at this point, the majority of us were crowded inside. One cousin woke up her sleeping baby when she hopped up out of her seat to yell “Whale!” At one point I shouted, “Whale, one o’clock!” And my youngest cousin, who is 8, says in response, “but I don’t know what that means,” with dramatic despair. This turned out to be one of the best quotes of the trip.
After the whales, we motored to the old Tukush settlement. After having been on the boat for hours, while stuck to the bottom and traveling, we were anxious to get off and look for artifacts. In my mind I was picturing us finding ancient pottery and arrowheads. What we found was crap. Old soles of shoes, metal and glass was everywhere. It was so overgrown it was hard to explore too far. It’s amazing how the government can decide that a tribe will be better off somewhere else and just move an entire settlement of people. And leave behind nothing but junk.
Since the old Tukush settlement didn’t hold much excitement, and it had started pouring again, we motored further up the inlet towards Boswell, which was the last place the logging camp was stationed and where it was for the longest period of time. Boswell is completely abandoned now, but you can still see the pilings from and old cannery and fuel station. As we turned a corner, almost in unison, the siblings said “there’s the island!” Clearly we were almost there. Camp had been settled in a naturally protected inlet. There was a long peninsula jutting out from the land that acted as a natural breakwater. With log booms on the back side of the camp to keep it from bashing into the shore, this looked like a pretty good place to homestead.
Since we were back at camp we had retro dinner night, which was something familiar to the siblings from their childhood and has since turned into many of the kids’ and grandkids’ favorite meals. We had gluten with mashed potatoes and gravy with home made lemon meringue pie for dessert. Best meal ever. Serious props to my cousin the baker who made not one, but six, lemon pies from scratch in the boat oven.
That night we all had to sleep on the boat since there was no beach to camp on. I’m not sure how big the KJ is, but it gets considerably smaller when you have people laying down on every available inch of floor space. And I mean every inch – one little cousin slept under a table. We ended up being two spaces short, so being the tough guys that they are, my dad and brother slept outside on the boat. Where it was cold. And raining, again. Serious kudos to them. Ironically, not one person was fighting over getting to sleep in the fo’c’sle. It had five bunks in there . . . . but the catch was it was housing the snorers. I opted for floor space and had the best sleep in my cozy little corner.
Smith Inlet - Part II (Day 1)
Monday dawned sunny and clear. I may have done a happy dance when I opened the blinds. Between the sun and the many eagles soaring overhead, I figured this had to be a good omen for the trip.
We arrived at the boat dock to load our remaining gear. Some of the other families were also loading gear. Based on the amount of crap on the dock, I was starting to wonder how much weight the boat could hold and where on earth were we going to put it all. Instead of having to help load the boat, I lucked out and pulled baby holding duty. It seemed like it took forever to load the boat, get the last minute things like gas for the skiff and fishing licenses, and get going. Instead of pulling out of the harbor at eight like we were supposed to, it ended up being closer to ten. On the way across the bay to get water, we realized that we were missing three people. After some confusion, they met us at the water dock, and had to climb down a giant ladder to meet us on the boat. Ironically my mother, who is terribly afraid of heights, was part of the missing party. And as her luck would have it, it was low tide so the ladder was extra long. After climbing down a barnacle and muscle infested ladder, we finally had everyone on board and set out for the Queen Charlotte Sound.
The big question at this point is who gets seasick. Some were known were already known for their dislike of rough water and some having been on the sea a large portion of their life knew they would be fine. Did I get seasick? We were about to find out. I decided not to take any medicine because I wanted to know for future reference. Besides, I’m tough as nails, how bad could some waves be? This turned out to be a poor idea as about half way across the sound I found myself headed outside for fresh air. Before I knew it, I was breaking out in a cold sweat and heading for the side of the boat as quickly as I could maneuver the various steps and ladders in the rain. I spent the remainder of the trip across the sound totally in a zen like state, staring intently at the horizon and repeating the fifty states in alphabetical order while willing the boat to go faster. Finally we turned the corner and I dragged my exhausted self into the fo’c’sle (short for forecastle) for a nap. It was pouring rain and I had no desire to be the first person to the beach.
We spent Monday afternoon and night at Indian Cove, on Cape Caution. We quickly found our rain gear and set up our tents in the rain. I’ve never been so happy to own a pair of rain pants. With my Chaco’s on instead of close toed shoes and rain pants rolled up so they didn’t drag in the mud, I made quite the fashion statement. I discovered what makes camping in the rain more tolerable . . . alcohol. A swig or two of Maker’s Mark went a long way in improving my attitude about the weather. And some Bailey’s. And some Goldschlagger.
The beach here was awesome. Enclosed in a little bay the water was nice and gentle. A short walk through the forest led you to the other side of the cape and another awesome, bigger beach. People have found glass floats on this beach before, so I kept my eyes open but all I got was wet. Eventually it was time for some hot dogs over the fire and then low and behold it stopped raining!
Since it had stopped raining, I decided that this would be a good time to air out my tent. What I discovered wasn’t a stale tent, but a wet one. The sideways blowing rain and the slope of the beach had created a small puddle in the tent and gotten my sleeping bag wet. Annoying, but not a biggie since the sun was out now and I could set it outside to dry.
While my sleeping bag was drying, we took another trip over to the big beach to see it in the sun. The little cousins didn’t think twice about running into the waves and getting even wetter than they already were. One of them would go in far enough that the waves would splash into her rain boots. At which point she tricked one of the guys into emptying her boots out for her every time the ocean got in them. Easy to do when you’re a beautiful and precocious nine-year old.
As I was wiggling around in my tent that night, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep, I heard the rain start up again. My dad had informed me not 15 minutes before that he was pretty sure it wouldn’t rain again that night. He should be a weatherman. After silently cursing the rain, I finally made it to sleep. Only to wake up in the middle of the night needing to use the facilities. And since the facility was on the boat, anchored offshore, I mean a bush. Somehow my shoes had gotten wet. I didn’t think much about it until I looked back into the tent and saw that it had turned into a swimming pool during the past hours of rain. I don’t think I’ve ever dropped quite so many swear words as I did when I discovered how badly my tent was leaking. Nor have I ever prayed for daylight to come so fast. Despite having a rain fly on, I now had water dripping through the rain fly and the tent. Seriously? Talk about bad camping karma. As soon as the sun was up, I was out of my tent packing up the wet gear. After using my beach towel to sop up the water, and wringing it out no less than three times, I finally had the floor of the tent mostly dry.
I awoke soggy in a flooded tent, but when I stepped outside, the sun was trying to break through the clouds and a perfect rainbow was hanging over the Kristin Joye. I think the universe was trying to apologize for my soggy night. I needed some coffee before all would be forgiven and this turned into a funny story.
We arrived at the boat dock to load our remaining gear. Some of the other families were also loading gear. Based on the amount of crap on the dock, I was starting to wonder how much weight the boat could hold and where on earth were we going to put it all. Instead of having to help load the boat, I lucked out and pulled baby holding duty. It seemed like it took forever to load the boat, get the last minute things like gas for the skiff and fishing licenses, and get going. Instead of pulling out of the harbor at eight like we were supposed to, it ended up being closer to ten. On the way across the bay to get water, we realized that we were missing three people. After some confusion, they met us at the water dock, and had to climb down a giant ladder to meet us on the boat. Ironically my mother, who is terribly afraid of heights, was part of the missing party. And as her luck would have it, it was low tide so the ladder was extra long. After climbing down a barnacle and muscle infested ladder, we finally had everyone on board and set out for the Queen Charlotte Sound.
The big question at this point is who gets seasick. Some were known were already known for their dislike of rough water and some having been on the sea a large portion of their life knew they would be fine. Did I get seasick? We were about to find out. I decided not to take any medicine because I wanted to know for future reference. Besides, I’m tough as nails, how bad could some waves be? This turned out to be a poor idea as about half way across the sound I found myself headed outside for fresh air. Before I knew it, I was breaking out in a cold sweat and heading for the side of the boat as quickly as I could maneuver the various steps and ladders in the rain. I spent the remainder of the trip across the sound totally in a zen like state, staring intently at the horizon and repeating the fifty states in alphabetical order while willing the boat to go faster. Finally we turned the corner and I dragged my exhausted self into the fo’c’sle (short for forecastle) for a nap. It was pouring rain and I had no desire to be the first person to the beach.
We spent Monday afternoon and night at Indian Cove, on Cape Caution. We quickly found our rain gear and set up our tents in the rain. I’ve never been so happy to own a pair of rain pants. With my Chaco’s on instead of close toed shoes and rain pants rolled up so they didn’t drag in the mud, I made quite the fashion statement. I discovered what makes camping in the rain more tolerable . . . alcohol. A swig or two of Maker’s Mark went a long way in improving my attitude about the weather. And some Bailey’s. And some Goldschlagger.
The beach here was awesome. Enclosed in a little bay the water was nice and gentle. A short walk through the forest led you to the other side of the cape and another awesome, bigger beach. People have found glass floats on this beach before, so I kept my eyes open but all I got was wet. Eventually it was time for some hot dogs over the fire and then low and behold it stopped raining!
Since it had stopped raining, I decided that this would be a good time to air out my tent. What I discovered wasn’t a stale tent, but a wet one. The sideways blowing rain and the slope of the beach had created a small puddle in the tent and gotten my sleeping bag wet. Annoying, but not a biggie since the sun was out now and I could set it outside to dry.
While my sleeping bag was drying, we took another trip over to the big beach to see it in the sun. The little cousins didn’t think twice about running into the waves and getting even wetter than they already were. One of them would go in far enough that the waves would splash into her rain boots. At which point she tricked one of the guys into emptying her boots out for her every time the ocean got in them. Easy to do when you’re a beautiful and precocious nine-year old.
As I was wiggling around in my tent that night, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep, I heard the rain start up again. My dad had informed me not 15 minutes before that he was pretty sure it wouldn’t rain again that night. He should be a weatherman. After silently cursing the rain, I finally made it to sleep. Only to wake up in the middle of the night needing to use the facilities. And since the facility was on the boat, anchored offshore, I mean a bush. Somehow my shoes had gotten wet. I didn’t think much about it until I looked back into the tent and saw that it had turned into a swimming pool during the past hours of rain. I don’t think I’ve ever dropped quite so many swear words as I did when I discovered how badly my tent was leaking. Nor have I ever prayed for daylight to come so fast. Despite having a rain fly on, I now had water dripping through the rain fly and the tent. Seriously? Talk about bad camping karma. As soon as the sun was up, I was out of my tent packing up the wet gear. After using my beach towel to sop up the water, and wringing it out no less than three times, I finally had the floor of the tent mostly dry.
I awoke soggy in a flooded tent, but when I stepped outside, the sun was trying to break through the clouds and a perfect rainbow was hanging over the Kristin Joye. I think the universe was trying to apologize for my soggy night. I needed some coffee before all would be forgiven and this turned into a funny story.
July 6, 2010
Smith Inlet - Part I
Throughout my life, I heard tales of this mysterious place called Smith Inlet. It is an inlet about halfway up the coast of British Columbia where my grandfather ran his logging operation and my dad and aunts were born and raised. This wasn’t just any logging operation; it was a floating logging camp. GMG (Goertzen, McGill, Gildersleve) Logging would move their camp throughout Smith Inlet to where they happened to be logging. The camp had houses, a church and even a school. Instead of bikes, kids had boats. They had pet deer and seals in addition to the more traditional dog. They learned to swim by having a rope tied around them and being tossed into the chuck (aka the ocean). Smith Inlet is only accessible by boat or float plane. So after hearing about this place all our lives, when the opportunity arose to see it first hand, the entire family jumped at the chance to visit.
For the past few years, the family has talked about how amazing it would be for the siblings to go back and visit where they grew up and how they would like to show it to their kids and grandkids. The first task was to find a boat. The bulk of my relatives were commercial fisherman at some point in their lives and had all worked on seine boats at some point. My uncle was a skipper, others ran drum and cooked, and others did whatever one does on a fishing boat (commercial fishing died about the time I was old enough to work so I never had the opportunity). We had a crew, we just needed a boat. My uncle talked to his old boss, James, who owned a whole fleet of boats in the fishing heyday. He asked if it would be possible for our family to rent one of his boats for him to take this adventure. James’ response was “for Louis Goertzen’s kids, you can take the boat for free, just pay for the fuel.” My grandfather was an amazing person.
James met my grandfather when GMG was logging in Smith Inlet. James was part of the Tukush Indian Tribe that was at that time located in the Inlet as well (they were later relocated to Port Hardy by the government). Unlike anyone else in his tribe at the time, he had a burning desire to get an education. So much in fact, that he rowed at least two miles each direction to attend school at the GMG logging camp. Through sun or storms, James rowed to school. Today he is likely the most successful of his tribe. Going to school at GMG was how he met my grandfather. While I’m unsure what kind of impact my grandfather had on James, it must have been significant, since he was willing to lend our family his million dollar boat without thinking twice.
After working around twenty-some odd vacation schedules, we were finally able to set a time to take a trip to Smith Inlet. Many of the siblings hadn’t been there in years, with many of their offspring having never been at all. Amazingly, only one cousin (and a couple of spouses) was unable to make it.
The first leg of the trip was getting to Port Hardy, BC, which as far north as you can drive on Vancouver Island. I met up with the family in Seattle, my parents having already driven over from Montana. The ‘rents told my brother and I that they would pick us up at 530 am. True to Goertzen form, Rob and I had our gear lined up on the sidewalk by 520. We are very much our father’s children.
The next trick was going to be getting across the border, while hopefully not getting searched. We were driving in the big Dodge, with a boatload of gear and miscellaneous crap in the back of the truck, tarped down to avoid getting wet. Amazingly, after asking us if we had any weapons or pepper spray (in a fun French accent), the border person’s main objective was to let us know that my brother and I were Canadian and we could have used a Canadian passport, instead of our American ones. Typically my Canadian passport stays at home when I go to Canada since it’s usually more hassle than its worth to explain you’re a duely.
With the border crossing behind us, the next stop was the Tsawassen ferry terminal. We and a van full of other relatives traveling up from Seattle made the ferry with no problems. It’s always more fun to take the ferry with your cousins. And in my typical ferry tradition, I headed straight to the cafeteria to get my fix of Canadian delicacies that you can’t get in the states. Namely fries with vinegar and gravy, yummmmm, and a Nanaimo Bar for dessert.
We made it to the Nanaimo Costco in time to watch the last half of the US soccer game. The moms went shopping and the rest of us slackers hung out in the TV section of Costco. Then it was time to repack the truck because where in the hell was this food all going to fit with all the crap already in the truck? Finally, after 5 more hours of driving up the Island, we made it to Port Hardy. Even I got to take a turn driving my dad’s new truck! First time in the 15 years I’ve been driving that he’s let me drive his rig. It has adjustable pedals so I can reach important things, like the brake.
After making it to Port Hardy, we unloaded everything in the truck on to the boat. The boat had gotten a really ugly paint job since the last time I was on it around the age or 11 or 12. But she was sea worthy and free, which trumps ugly every time. With eagles soaring overhead and a mixture of diesel and seaweed in the air, you could tell the folks who grew up on the water were happy to be back.
Sunday was spent cleaning and organizing the boat and cooking for the next day, since you can’t cook going over the sound. We ran around picking up relatives, last minute trips to the grocery store, and borrowing wetsuits and surfboards from Port Hardy folks. That night, we had a bonfire and bbq on Storey Beach and invited those Port Hardy people who knew the Goertzen family, some of whom had also grown up on the floating logging camp. This was the start of my many, many hot dogs to be consumed over the week.
Before I knew it, Monday morning had dawned bright and beautiful and it was time to head to the boat. Where experiences unlike any other awaited . . . . starting with how the hell do you fit 22 people, an infant, and all their crap onto a fishing boat.
For the past few years, the family has talked about how amazing it would be for the siblings to go back and visit where they grew up and how they would like to show it to their kids and grandkids. The first task was to find a boat. The bulk of my relatives were commercial fisherman at some point in their lives and had all worked on seine boats at some point. My uncle was a skipper, others ran drum and cooked, and others did whatever one does on a fishing boat (commercial fishing died about the time I was old enough to work so I never had the opportunity). We had a crew, we just needed a boat. My uncle talked to his old boss, James, who owned a whole fleet of boats in the fishing heyday. He asked if it would be possible for our family to rent one of his boats for him to take this adventure. James’ response was “for Louis Goertzen’s kids, you can take the boat for free, just pay for the fuel.” My grandfather was an amazing person.
James met my grandfather when GMG was logging in Smith Inlet. James was part of the Tukush Indian Tribe that was at that time located in the Inlet as well (they were later relocated to Port Hardy by the government). Unlike anyone else in his tribe at the time, he had a burning desire to get an education. So much in fact, that he rowed at least two miles each direction to attend school at the GMG logging camp. Through sun or storms, James rowed to school. Today he is likely the most successful of his tribe. Going to school at GMG was how he met my grandfather. While I’m unsure what kind of impact my grandfather had on James, it must have been significant, since he was willing to lend our family his million dollar boat without thinking twice.
After working around twenty-some odd vacation schedules, we were finally able to set a time to take a trip to Smith Inlet. Many of the siblings hadn’t been there in years, with many of their offspring having never been at all. Amazingly, only one cousin (and a couple of spouses) was unable to make it.
The first leg of the trip was getting to Port Hardy, BC, which as far north as you can drive on Vancouver Island. I met up with the family in Seattle, my parents having already driven over from Montana. The ‘rents told my brother and I that they would pick us up at 530 am. True to Goertzen form, Rob and I had our gear lined up on the sidewalk by 520. We are very much our father’s children.
The next trick was going to be getting across the border, while hopefully not getting searched. We were driving in the big Dodge, with a boatload of gear and miscellaneous crap in the back of the truck, tarped down to avoid getting wet. Amazingly, after asking us if we had any weapons or pepper spray (in a fun French accent), the border person’s main objective was to let us know that my brother and I were Canadian and we could have used a Canadian passport, instead of our American ones. Typically my Canadian passport stays at home when I go to Canada since it’s usually more hassle than its worth to explain you’re a duely.
With the border crossing behind us, the next stop was the Tsawassen ferry terminal. We and a van full of other relatives traveling up from Seattle made the ferry with no problems. It’s always more fun to take the ferry with your cousins. And in my typical ferry tradition, I headed straight to the cafeteria to get my fix of Canadian delicacies that you can’t get in the states. Namely fries with vinegar and gravy, yummmmm, and a Nanaimo Bar for dessert.
We made it to the Nanaimo Costco in time to watch the last half of the US soccer game. The moms went shopping and the rest of us slackers hung out in the TV section of Costco. Then it was time to repack the truck because where in the hell was this food all going to fit with all the crap already in the truck? Finally, after 5 more hours of driving up the Island, we made it to Port Hardy. Even I got to take a turn driving my dad’s new truck! First time in the 15 years I’ve been driving that he’s let me drive his rig. It has adjustable pedals so I can reach important things, like the brake.
After making it to Port Hardy, we unloaded everything in the truck on to the boat. The boat had gotten a really ugly paint job since the last time I was on it around the age or 11 or 12. But she was sea worthy and free, which trumps ugly every time. With eagles soaring overhead and a mixture of diesel and seaweed in the air, you could tell the folks who grew up on the water were happy to be back.
Sunday was spent cleaning and organizing the boat and cooking for the next day, since you can’t cook going over the sound. We ran around picking up relatives, last minute trips to the grocery store, and borrowing wetsuits and surfboards from Port Hardy folks. That night, we had a bonfire and bbq on Storey Beach and invited those Port Hardy people who knew the Goertzen family, some of whom had also grown up on the floating logging camp. This was the start of my many, many hot dogs to be consumed over the week.
Before I knew it, Monday morning had dawned bright and beautiful and it was time to head to the boat. Where experiences unlike any other awaited . . . . starting with how the hell do you fit 22 people, an infant, and all their crap onto a fishing boat.
June 14, 2010
Soccer Mania
I am not a soccer fan. Never have been. I appreciate the athleticism required to play, but I’ve had limited exposure to the sport and like most sports where scoring in minimal, I find it a tad boring.
I think my dislike of the sport started in 6th grade. In small town, MT, we didn’t have rec soccer for kids, so any soccer experience I had came from PE or the playground. In 6th grade, I was the goal. Didn’t matter where I was on the playground, the ball was kicked at me. 12 year olds are lovely people, aren’t they? Needless to say, my first experience with soccer was not a positive one. A few years later we had to play soccer for 10th grade PE. This girl and I went to kick the ball, missed the ball, kicked each others foot, and had to have our ankles taped up for the rest of basketball season. Again, not an awesome experience.
All of this led to my surprise that I was actually interested in the World Cup this year. Perhaps it was because it’s in South Africa and I’ve been there, or perhaps it’s just because I appreciate athleticism and dedication to sport in almost any form. Somehow, I’ve gotten sucked in to being a soccer fan during the next month.
I blame the guy who sits next to me. He invited me to participate in a pool, similar to how we do March Madness. Being the only girl that was invited to participate, I felt obligated to accept. Plus it’s always more fun to have a horse in the race. I found myself filling out a bracket (is it even called a bracket?!), picking my winners based on nothing that had to do with soccer. Currently I’m only 4 points out of the lead. I’m sure that will drop considerably, but I’m enjoying this moment.
Not only did I fill out a bracket, I started reading articles about soccer. I’ll admit, I started with the “5 Hottest Guys of the World Cup,” and “Extravagant ‘WAGS’ of Soccer,” but just now I clicked on an article reporting on the status of the US’ goalie, or “keeper.” See how I’m already picking up the lingo!? I even watched the game against England, surprising myself considerably when I jumped off the couch to celebrate the US goal, pitiful as it was.
I’m unlikely to become a full-time soccer fan anytime soon, but with the World Cup only every four years, it’s something I feel I could enjoy without having to become too die hard. Or even understand the game. Who knows, with PTown getting and MLS team next year, maybe I’ll be turned into a real fan yet.
I think my dislike of the sport started in 6th grade. In small town, MT, we didn’t have rec soccer for kids, so any soccer experience I had came from PE or the playground. In 6th grade, I was the goal. Didn’t matter where I was on the playground, the ball was kicked at me. 12 year olds are lovely people, aren’t they? Needless to say, my first experience with soccer was not a positive one. A few years later we had to play soccer for 10th grade PE. This girl and I went to kick the ball, missed the ball, kicked each others foot, and had to have our ankles taped up for the rest of basketball season. Again, not an awesome experience.
All of this led to my surprise that I was actually interested in the World Cup this year. Perhaps it was because it’s in South Africa and I’ve been there, or perhaps it’s just because I appreciate athleticism and dedication to sport in almost any form. Somehow, I’ve gotten sucked in to being a soccer fan during the next month.
I blame the guy who sits next to me. He invited me to participate in a pool, similar to how we do March Madness. Being the only girl that was invited to participate, I felt obligated to accept. Plus it’s always more fun to have a horse in the race. I found myself filling out a bracket (is it even called a bracket?!), picking my winners based on nothing that had to do with soccer. Currently I’m only 4 points out of the lead. I’m sure that will drop considerably, but I’m enjoying this moment.
Not only did I fill out a bracket, I started reading articles about soccer. I’ll admit, I started with the “5 Hottest Guys of the World Cup,” and “Extravagant ‘WAGS’ of Soccer,” but just now I clicked on an article reporting on the status of the US’ goalie, or “keeper.” See how I’m already picking up the lingo!? I even watched the game against England, surprising myself considerably when I jumped off the couch to celebrate the US goal, pitiful as it was.
I’m unlikely to become a full-time soccer fan anytime soon, but with the World Cup only every four years, it’s something I feel I could enjoy without having to become too die hard. Or even understand the game. Who knows, with PTown getting and MLS team next year, maybe I’ll be turned into a real fan yet.
June 8, 2010
The Intimacy of Running
I get a running quote emailed to me every morning. I signed up for this distribution list mostly because I love quotes. The secondary factor is the reality that more often than not, I could use a little motivation to get my running shoes on and out the door on a regular basis. One of my favorite quotes to come across my inbox thus far is one by Kristin Armstrong, “Do not underestimate the intimacy of running, and the people with whom you share your miles.”
I love to run, but over time it has become a very solitary thing for me. I have friends who run in pairs or groups and use that as their socializing time, but for me, I prefer to be on the road or treadmill alone. I set my own pace and am responsible for pushing myself. Running for miles on end with only an iPod for company not only gives you time to, but forces you to think and evaluate life. Running is my time, even if I’m on a treadmill surrounded by people at the gym. No phone, nobody to talk to, just me and the steady thump of my feet hitting the ground. The occasional person to pick off and pass is a welcome event as well.
This quote got me thinking though, about how intimate sharing that running time can be for someone who prefers to run alone. I never go out of my way to run with people, friends, coworkers or strangers in running groups. I actually prefer relay races because I’m part of a team, but still running alone.
Oddly enough, there is one person I actually enjoy running with. Maybe it’s because we have a route that we always run, or the fact that I typically get to set the pace. Or maybe it’s the fact that there is no pressure to chat or be social, just to run. As surprised as I was to discover I liked my brother as a person (and not just because I had to since we were related), I find myself even more surprised that I enjoy running with him. We are two very different personalities who despite our differences enjoy many of the same activities. So it’s not necessarily shocking that we both run, but that it’s something we can do together. Without being competitive (which is rare in our family).
For me, running is a private thing. Some people meditate, I run. It’s my time and I enjoy using it to get into my own head. However I found myself smiling when reading a recent email from my brother. I’m using his couch as a free place to sleep in a couple weeks and we were coordinating schedules when he told me that if I get there early enough, we can go for a run. Sometimes it’s nice to have someone to share the miles with.
I love to run, but over time it has become a very solitary thing for me. I have friends who run in pairs or groups and use that as their socializing time, but for me, I prefer to be on the road or treadmill alone. I set my own pace and am responsible for pushing myself. Running for miles on end with only an iPod for company not only gives you time to, but forces you to think and evaluate life. Running is my time, even if I’m on a treadmill surrounded by people at the gym. No phone, nobody to talk to, just me and the steady thump of my feet hitting the ground. The occasional person to pick off and pass is a welcome event as well.
This quote got me thinking though, about how intimate sharing that running time can be for someone who prefers to run alone. I never go out of my way to run with people, friends, coworkers or strangers in running groups. I actually prefer relay races because I’m part of a team, but still running alone.
Oddly enough, there is one person I actually enjoy running with. Maybe it’s because we have a route that we always run, or the fact that I typically get to set the pace. Or maybe it’s the fact that there is no pressure to chat or be social, just to run. As surprised as I was to discover I liked my brother as a person (and not just because I had to since we were related), I find myself even more surprised that I enjoy running with him. We are two very different personalities who despite our differences enjoy many of the same activities. So it’s not necessarily shocking that we both run, but that it’s something we can do together. Without being competitive (which is rare in our family).
For me, running is a private thing. Some people meditate, I run. It’s my time and I enjoy using it to get into my own head. However I found myself smiling when reading a recent email from my brother. I’m using his couch as a free place to sleep in a couple weeks and we were coordinating schedules when he told me that if I get there early enough, we can go for a run. Sometimes it’s nice to have someone to share the miles with.
June 4, 2010
Is Choosing Not to Have Children Selfish?
In the new Sex and the City movie, there is a scene where a couple questions Carrie and Big in regards to their plans to procreate. Upon hearing that it’s going to be “just us two,” the other couple is quite appalled at the lack of potential children and visibly shirks away. SATC 2 was far from the first place this issue has cropped up, but it raises an interesting question . . . is the decision not to have children selfish?
I borrowed the question from an article I read recently, partly because I was so appalled at the thought. When a couple decides not to have children, for any multitude of reasons, who exactly are they supposedly acting selfish towards? If I’m eating a big fat piece of delicious cake, I am unlikely to willingly offer to share it with even the best of friends. That is selfish. Or when I wouldn’t share my toys with my little brother, that is selfish. I’m very confused as to how people making life decisions that impact only themselves can be possibly construed as a selfish act?
For example, if I opt not to have children, how does that impact you? By my calculations, I’m actually doing you a favor. There is one less baby shower you have to go to. One less gift you have to purchase. So far I’m just helping you keep money in your wallet. Now let’s think about how difficult it is to get together with people who have children. The childless person or couple is one less participant that has to find/schedule/afford a babysitter. Now not only am I saving you money, I’m easing the stress of trying to coordinate schedules. And as my Jetta was not built for a carseat, I’m saving the world from a bigger, less fuel efficient rig on the road. I say all this only partially jokingly. In an already overpopulated world, it’s difficult to make the argument that it is your duty to procreate to continue the human race.
I know a couple who has no plans to ever have children. And their lifestyle is one of the few I actually envy and aspire to. They are completely unapologetic about the fact that they have no desire to have kids, as they should be. This doesn’t make them bad people or child haters. It simply makes them honest.
One of the things that my childless male friend mentioned above always says is that other people want you to do the same things they did, have a huge wedding, have children, etc., because it justifies the decisions they made in their own life. It’s something I repeat as a mantra to myself on occasions when people start asking me why I’m not married and have I thought about freezing my eggs, because I’m not getting any younger. Having kids isn’t something you have to do. It’s not something you should feel pressured about, unless it is something that you deeply and truly want to do.
There is a scene in the movie Elizabethtown, where two people are talking on the phone, trying to figure out who “they” are. You know, the “they” that comes up with all the rules of society that we’re supposed to follow. This elusive “they” that dictates what we’re supposed to do and how we should conform, but no one actually know who “they” are. I’m pretty sure that “they” are the ones telling society that we’re all supposed to procreate and that we’re selfish if we choose not to. Most people I know barely listen to their friends and family, why on earth would we listen to some elusive “they” when it comes to a decision as big as having a family? I’ve had friends or family tell me I have to have kids. My response is typically, “says who?” I have to pay taxes. I don’t have to eat things from the sea, watch reality television or have kids.
In a country where we’re all about having the freedom to choose to live our lives how we see fit, why do we judge others so harshly for not making the same decisions that we did? We have fast food menus with hundreds of available times because everyone wants something different. Doesn’t it make sense that if we want something as simple as to eat the food we want, that we also want to make the best choice for ourselves regarding much bigger decisions? But for some reason when people actively choose not to have children of their own, it makes many people uncomfortable. Not having kids doesn’t mean you don’t like them or think they should be banished from the earth. It simply means that you don’t care to or cannot have any of your own.
I think we need to give those childless people a break. They’re required to support other couples decisions to procreate – there is no check box on our taxes saying we don’t want our tax money to go to public schools, city playgrounds, or anything else tax related that supports kids. Childless people and couples don’t even want your tax money, just a little respect on the decisions they’ve made for their personal life. And for crying out loud, stop calling them selfish!
I borrowed the question from an article I read recently, partly because I was so appalled at the thought. When a couple decides not to have children, for any multitude of reasons, who exactly are they supposedly acting selfish towards? If I’m eating a big fat piece of delicious cake, I am unlikely to willingly offer to share it with even the best of friends. That is selfish. Or when I wouldn’t share my toys with my little brother, that is selfish. I’m very confused as to how people making life decisions that impact only themselves can be possibly construed as a selfish act?
For example, if I opt not to have children, how does that impact you? By my calculations, I’m actually doing you a favor. There is one less baby shower you have to go to. One less gift you have to purchase. So far I’m just helping you keep money in your wallet. Now let’s think about how difficult it is to get together with people who have children. The childless person or couple is one less participant that has to find/schedule/afford a babysitter. Now not only am I saving you money, I’m easing the stress of trying to coordinate schedules. And as my Jetta was not built for a carseat, I’m saving the world from a bigger, less fuel efficient rig on the road. I say all this only partially jokingly. In an already overpopulated world, it’s difficult to make the argument that it is your duty to procreate to continue the human race.
I know a couple who has no plans to ever have children. And their lifestyle is one of the few I actually envy and aspire to. They are completely unapologetic about the fact that they have no desire to have kids, as they should be. This doesn’t make them bad people or child haters. It simply makes them honest.
One of the things that my childless male friend mentioned above always says is that other people want you to do the same things they did, have a huge wedding, have children, etc., because it justifies the decisions they made in their own life. It’s something I repeat as a mantra to myself on occasions when people start asking me why I’m not married and have I thought about freezing my eggs, because I’m not getting any younger. Having kids isn’t something you have to do. It’s not something you should feel pressured about, unless it is something that you deeply and truly want to do.
There is a scene in the movie Elizabethtown, where two people are talking on the phone, trying to figure out who “they” are. You know, the “they” that comes up with all the rules of society that we’re supposed to follow. This elusive “they” that dictates what we’re supposed to do and how we should conform, but no one actually know who “they” are. I’m pretty sure that “they” are the ones telling society that we’re all supposed to procreate and that we’re selfish if we choose not to. Most people I know barely listen to their friends and family, why on earth would we listen to some elusive “they” when it comes to a decision as big as having a family? I’ve had friends or family tell me I have to have kids. My response is typically, “says who?” I have to pay taxes. I don’t have to eat things from the sea, watch reality television or have kids.
In a country where we’re all about having the freedom to choose to live our lives how we see fit, why do we judge others so harshly for not making the same decisions that we did? We have fast food menus with hundreds of available times because everyone wants something different. Doesn’t it make sense that if we want something as simple as to eat the food we want, that we also want to make the best choice for ourselves regarding much bigger decisions? But for some reason when people actively choose not to have children of their own, it makes many people uncomfortable. Not having kids doesn’t mean you don’t like them or think they should be banished from the earth. It simply means that you don’t care to or cannot have any of your own.
I think we need to give those childless people a break. They’re required to support other couples decisions to procreate – there is no check box on our taxes saying we don’t want our tax money to go to public schools, city playgrounds, or anything else tax related that supports kids. Childless people and couples don’t even want your tax money, just a little respect on the decisions they’ve made for their personal life. And for crying out loud, stop calling them selfish!
June 1, 2010
Baking Blogs
Lately I’ve gotten into following a few blogs about baking. They all tend to take a recipe and adjust it based on healthiness, ability or what ingredients they have on hand. To be completely honest, I look at the healthy one, but I never actually make anything from her blog since she uses a lot of ingredients I’ve never heard of. There is one that I enjoy looking at simply because the things she does are so complex. For at least half her recipes, I start to lose interest as soon as I see that the list of ingredients is as tall as I am. The third one does a lot of baking, nothing too complicated, and takes it into work. That’s my kind of baking/cooking.
What I originally thought was so interesting about these blogs is that these girls weren’t afraid to experiment with their baking or cooking. I kept thinking that I wished I was gusty enough to try that. And then I realized I already did to some extent.
In general, I am a rule follower. But there are a number of things in life that I don’t necessarily care for and so I change them to suit me. Piano music for example. I used to drive one piano teacher nuts because I’d always deviate from the music and change it so that I liked the ending better than the way it was written. Another one I discovered is recipes.
I enjoy cooking and baking, but I am also a picky eater so I frequently find myself substituting things I will eat for whatever the recipe actually calls for. I made a chicken casserole that was supposed to have mushrooms in it. I used peppers and onions instead. Or sometimes I’m supposed to use one kind of seasoning, only I don’t have any in the cupboard. So then I just throw something similar in. And in my eyes, all kinds of chips be them chocolate, butterscotch, peanut butter, etc. are all interchangeable in almost every recipe there is.
It didn’t hit me that I did this until this weekend when I was cooking and baking for some friends who have a brand new baby. I really wanted to go visit Ruby Rae, but didn’t want to show up empty handed. Especially since these friends feed me fairly often. I already knew I was terrible about properly measuring things, but then I started adding or changing the ingredients based on what I had on hand. And it all ended up tasting delicious. (Eating the cookies, aka quality control, is a necessity when baking.) Ruby’s parents were quite pleased, which is what really mattered.
I’ve given some thought to blogging about the recipes I try, but then I remembered I’m not good about keeping up with the blog I already have. Instead I’ve opted for making notes on the recipes so I know whether or not it’s worth making again. The cookies I made this weekend were good but not great. The casserole called for twice as much butter as was actually needed.
The great thing about baking blogs is not only do they have the recipes, they tend to include step by step pictures and discuss what worked and what didn’t. So much more useful than a plain old cookbook. Thank you baking bloggers for sharing your experiences. Your recipes and notes make my own kitchen much more approachable!
What I originally thought was so interesting about these blogs is that these girls weren’t afraid to experiment with their baking or cooking. I kept thinking that I wished I was gusty enough to try that. And then I realized I already did to some extent.
In general, I am a rule follower. But there are a number of things in life that I don’t necessarily care for and so I change them to suit me. Piano music for example. I used to drive one piano teacher nuts because I’d always deviate from the music and change it so that I liked the ending better than the way it was written. Another one I discovered is recipes.
I enjoy cooking and baking, but I am also a picky eater so I frequently find myself substituting things I will eat for whatever the recipe actually calls for. I made a chicken casserole that was supposed to have mushrooms in it. I used peppers and onions instead. Or sometimes I’m supposed to use one kind of seasoning, only I don’t have any in the cupboard. So then I just throw something similar in. And in my eyes, all kinds of chips be them chocolate, butterscotch, peanut butter, etc. are all interchangeable in almost every recipe there is.
It didn’t hit me that I did this until this weekend when I was cooking and baking for some friends who have a brand new baby. I really wanted to go visit Ruby Rae, but didn’t want to show up empty handed. Especially since these friends feed me fairly often. I already knew I was terrible about properly measuring things, but then I started adding or changing the ingredients based on what I had on hand. And it all ended up tasting delicious. (Eating the cookies, aka quality control, is a necessity when baking.) Ruby’s parents were quite pleased, which is what really mattered.
I’ve given some thought to blogging about the recipes I try, but then I remembered I’m not good about keeping up with the blog I already have. Instead I’ve opted for making notes on the recipes so I know whether or not it’s worth making again. The cookies I made this weekend were good but not great. The casserole called for twice as much butter as was actually needed.
The great thing about baking blogs is not only do they have the recipes, they tend to include step by step pictures and discuss what worked and what didn’t. So much more useful than a plain old cookbook. Thank you baking bloggers for sharing your experiences. Your recipes and notes make my own kitchen much more approachable!
Cutest Boy Ever
I got a phone call from the cutest boy ever yesterday. We have so many things in common . . . similar taste in music, we both like to play on the beach, we like to run, on and on the commonalities go. Did I mention he’s five?
He called with a special request . . . could I please make him a Rihanna CD? The kid knows his music. Last time I visited I brought Lady Gaga with me which was a huge hit. While driving around in Hawaii we had a great time listening to the hip hop stations (when we weren’t listening to Lady Gaga). Like I mentioned before, we have very similar tastes in music, although mine is slightly more eclectic, which likely comes with age. I haven’t quite figured out if enjoying the same taste in music makes him a really cool five-year old or me a really lame late twenties something year old. Or both.
Here’s the thing though, he doesn’t just like the music – he actually knows quite a lot of the lyrics. A kid after my own heart. I had a college roommate that once told me her goal in life was to know all the lyrics to songs like I do. I think I have a protégé in the making with my favorite five-year old. The best part of the whole conversation was not only did he know which CD he wanted, he had it all planned out how I could get it to him. He’s going to pick it up when his family drives through Portland in a couple weeks.
I love people that enjoy music as much as I do, and its amazing to me that he likes music as such a young age. Although if I’m going to be sharing my iPod playlist with someone so young, I should probably start thinking about buying the non-explicit albums. So far the worst thing I’ve taught he and his sister to say is “pardon me?” and I’d kind of like to keep it that way. None the less, the Rihanna CD will be made and ready to go for him when he gets to Portland.
He called with a special request . . . could I please make him a Rihanna CD? The kid knows his music. Last time I visited I brought Lady Gaga with me which was a huge hit. While driving around in Hawaii we had a great time listening to the hip hop stations (when we weren’t listening to Lady Gaga). Like I mentioned before, we have very similar tastes in music, although mine is slightly more eclectic, which likely comes with age. I haven’t quite figured out if enjoying the same taste in music makes him a really cool five-year old or me a really lame late twenties something year old. Or both.
Here’s the thing though, he doesn’t just like the music – he actually knows quite a lot of the lyrics. A kid after my own heart. I had a college roommate that once told me her goal in life was to know all the lyrics to songs like I do. I think I have a protégé in the making with my favorite five-year old. The best part of the whole conversation was not only did he know which CD he wanted, he had it all planned out how I could get it to him. He’s going to pick it up when his family drives through Portland in a couple weeks.
I love people that enjoy music as much as I do, and its amazing to me that he likes music as such a young age. Although if I’m going to be sharing my iPod playlist with someone so young, I should probably start thinking about buying the non-explicit albums. So far the worst thing I’ve taught he and his sister to say is “pardon me?” and I’d kind of like to keep it that way. None the less, the Rihanna CD will be made and ready to go for him when he gets to Portland.
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