The mysterious case of the missing keys

It was a busy day yesterday.  The groomsmen had all been staying in a campground and their plan was to get ready in the campground washroom.  Very Harrison, I must admit.  But we offered our room and adjoining suite as a place to get ready in.  Which ended up being a wise decision since ALL the boys needed their shirts and pants ironed.  Jordan (AKA Team "dad") was on suit inspection duty. 

So, after a surprisingly delicious lunch at what, by all appearances, was dive of a diner in Westbrook, the clan of seven groomsmen, the groom, two parents, Samantha (AKA Iron maiden), Gabriel and I gathered into our room to get ready.  There were suits strewn about, hanging from the water pipes in the bedroom, all over the bed, people were coming and going, shaving in the bathroom sink and Sam was tenaciously ironing the creases and wrinkles out of shirts and pants.  I was snapping pictures of the groomsmen getting ready like I was paparazzi.

Suddenly, 2:15 struck and the boys filed out the door heading to the wedding.  Marion and Earl got ready too, asking if I needed any help.  I was still spinning, but I was sure I was all set.  The room was oddly silent.  Bags were packed and ready.  Game plan was set to be put into action.  Gabriel was asleep.  I was planning to get him ready as the last thing.  I proceeded to get dressed and pin my hair.  I still needed to get to the store before the wedding to pick up so more food for Gabriel.  We would have time.  It would work out perfectly.

The room was still hot with the mugginess of summer heat in Maine and the lingering heat of thirteen bodies scurrying around getting ready.  I was covered in sweat already.  I grabbed the bags to head to the car to pack it.  Everything was there.  I reached for my keys on top of the bookshelf.

No. keys.


My heart started to race.  I quickly scanned our neat and organized room.  I quickly unpacked all of my nicely organized bags.  I repacked them.  I unpacked our suitcase.  I stuffed it back together.  I pulled the blankets off the bed, I dumped all the bags on the the bed.  I then repacked again.  I moved all the furniture.  I checked the heat registers.  I was dripping sweat.  Gabriel was still asleep.  It was 2:45.  I needed to be there by no later than 3:30.  I had 45 minutes and it was a 30 minute drive.  I called Jordan.  No keys.  I asked him to ask the groomsmen.  No keys.  I called a cab.  The would take 20 minutes to get here.  I unpacked and repacked all the bags a third time. The room was now a disaster.  I checked the ground and the car through the windows.  Finally, I got as much as I could together, woke Gabriel, changed him and sat waiting.  And waiting.  And waiting.

At 3:25, the cab driver showed up.  I was ready to cry.  We had 30 minutes of driving ahead of us.  And he didn't know how to get there.  The church has no real address and he had no idea where Temple Street was.  He had a GPS but I wasn't confident.  Fortunately, I had my GPS (that I will likely have to pay $50 in roaming fees).  We made it, sweating and with a sob stuck in my throat, just in time to hear Amy and Harrison say "I do" and fill the church hall with the sound of Gabriel's raspberry kisses all over my cheeks and Elfrienda, Marion's mother's cheeks too.  (Much needed comic relief).  But the church was fabulous--big, open octagonal temple filled with wild flower bouquets was located minutes from the beach at Ocean Park.  Harrison and Amy were glowing and beautiful.  Amy had reconstructed part of my wedding dress, making it her own and it looked stunning on her. 

After the wedding, everyone headed to get ice cream and more pictures at the beach. 

 We still had other problems to solve--Gabriel needed supper (and I had no way of getting food, being car-less).  Everyone I knew needed to be in pictures and then get to the reception on time, but we finally were able to send a dear family friend Audrey to pick up some food. 

 
Gabriel was reaching his breaking point, actually, I am sure we passed it, and I was pretty much out of milk.  Waiting in the parking lot of the reception with no food, empty breasts, a screaming baby, in a ruined saggy silk dress, was a sad sight to see.

But eventually the night picked up for us.  Food arrived for Gabriel, he ate and went to sleep like clockwork in the sling at 8:00.  We listened to some beautiful live music, were entertained by Amy and Harrison's antics, heard some sweet speeches and ate some very good food.   Jordan did an excellent job on his speech, which included some imagery from Northern New Brunswick and reflections and quotes from Pierre Elliot Trudeau's memoirs.  The reception venue was beautiful, the people were fun-loving and the music was great for dancing. We all hit the dance floor at one point or another and stayed until 11 pm.

And eventually, after a good night's rest, naps, food, reflection and going through the 500 pictures we still managed to snap, the day didn't seem that stressful after all.  And we found the keys at 10:00 tonight.  Well, we didn't find them.  One of the groomsmen did.  They must have fallen off the stand and was gathered up with his items.  I knew I hadn't lost my mind!

What we got out of the deal?  We stayed another night, relaxed and napped all day, dipped our feet in the ocean and hung out with Rachael and Marion.  Not so bad after all.

Harrison & Amy - Getting Hitched!

A beautiful day--warm, sun-filled and full of joy.  We are so very proud of Harrison and excited to have Amy be a part of the Davey family.

Dipping our toes in the ocean

Enjoyed an afternoon in Ocean Park after wedding fun.  We dipped our feet in the warm Atlantic Ocean.  Then said good-bye to the rest of the family. 

Maine: The Rehearsal Dinner

The Rehearsal Evening for Amy and Harrison was filled with the laughter and tears of fond memories, the thoughtfulness of meaningful letters, and the joy at the embarkment of a journey for a couple much in love.

Maine: Spa Day with the girls

Had an afternoon with the girls, meeting Harrison's bride's mother, sister and friends while they got a chance to be pampered.  Her friends are funny and beautiful. 

Home (Part 1)

It's been two weeks of lovely visits with family and friends--the twins, great-grandparents, great aunts, childhood friends, family friends....  Lots of cuddles and lots of laughter at Gabriel's pure joie de vivre. 

My two front teeth

Thoughts on being.... A Eco-Pseudo-Hippie-Jainist

Jainism: is an Indian religion that prescribes a path of non-violence towards all living beings.

I think I might have become a Jainist.  Ok, I am NOT being serious.  But I remember learning about Jainism in University and thinking, "Ok, that is a bit insane.  Who lives without killing anything?" But it stuck with me.  I was already a vegetarian at the time, but killed any insect in sight with raid.  It was purely a health choice, not an animal rights issue that I took on.

But recently I read an interesting book on environmentalism called "Raising Elijah: Protecting Children in an Age of Environmental Crisis" which talks about the use of pesticides etc and how the elimination of a particular pest can lead to exponential growth of the natural prey, thus creating a new pest problem, and thus layers of a multitude of pesticides to eliminate subsequent pests.  As a matter of fact, did you know that apples are sprayed three times--leaves, blossom and small apple?  Or that pesticides are essentially neurotoxins (aka brain poisons) that can lead to improper brain development of vulnerable fetus and breastfeeding babies?  The book also talks about how pollution and higher temperatures of our oceans has led to a serious decrease of phytoplankton on the surface of the ocean, phytoplankton that produce 50% of our oxygen.

And I think, ok, maybe there is something too this.  Suddenly I start gravitating toward the organic section, gulp at the prices and place the items gingerly in my shopping cart.  I ask each vendor at the markets if they are organic or not, then try not to make it too obvious when I walk away empty handed.  Sorry....  Because once you know about neurotoxins, you can't NOT know.  I heard about this gardening group that uses your garden to grow veggies to sell at the market and you can eat as much of the produce as you'd like. No charge.  I contact them.

This might be a bit over the top, but I have a hard time killing spiders because I know that they control the mosquito/fly pollution, and probably more likely, I cannot stand to hear the crunch of their little bodies.  The bigger they are, the harder for me to kill.  The other day I found a ginormous spider the size of my palm and trapped it in a container and released it outside.  Then caught a fretful dragonfly of equal size that was lost flying around the living room ceiling in a tupperware container.  No small feat, I might add. The other night the chirpy little cricket in my room was in danger of being "raided."  But I just couldn't.  Rather, we spent the better part of two hours, around 11 pm, locating and attempting to trap and release this evasive cricket.  In the end, I think we scared it enough that it eventually made it's way outside.  Either that or he is hiding, undisturbed in Gabriel's room.   

Admittedly, I may have gone too far.  However, I eat meat and love it.  Obviously I'm not a Jainist.  But maybe I'm some form of a hippie--a cloth-diaper-using, anti-pesticide-organic-local-food-loving, natural-birth-embracing, Birkenstock-wearing, Volvo-driving, spider-saving, tree-hugging, granola-eating, natural-remedy-using hippie.  Minus the pervasive drug use (and likely a whole lot of other things).  Now all we need is a camper van and some petuli oil or at least a bike attachment for Gabriel (and Abe). Jordan is also guilty.  He now dons his own pair of Birkenstocks, personifies the little fishies in our river, as well as other various wildlife and doesn't eat fish because of the cruelty of their capture.  The hooks, the yanking out of the natural habitat, the reverse suffocation.  It's barbaric really.  I jest.  He just doesn't like the taste. I'm ok with our hippie-ness.  So long as I can wash my hair (with a natural soap) and wear make-up. What has the West Coast done to us?

I wonder how we'll fit into DC? 

Abby

Besties through high school, Megs and I experienced the adult milestones in our lives within months of each other.  Born less than a month apart, we got married a month apart, got dogs at the same time, houses too and now first baby two months apart from each other.  While we are a continent apart, it has been bonding for us to experience these milestones together.  While Gabriel was terrified by Abby's squeals of delight (admittedly he was likely a bit overtired), Abby is a sweet, spunky little Megan replica. 

Two Mamas: Our baby boys

Spent yesterday in Saint John, visiting family and friends.  Had such a great visit with my dear childhood friend, Danielle and her son, Wesley.  We grew up together but when she turned seven, her family moved to Saint John.  We've chatted on and off over the past few years, but when we both found out we were pregnant, we reconnected.  Through facebook, emails, texting and phoning, we have created a "cross-continent" mama connection for each other.  So neat to meet her son, finally after seeing pictures.  They are roughly the same size and playing in similar ways.  Wesley is so happy, smiley and content.  And then, amazingly, both boys went to sleep at the same time, allowing us some time to ourselves to chat.  Wish we were closer!  Then Wesley could teach Gabriel all about crawling.  How lovely it would be to have playtime (and mama time) with babes the same age.

Just noticed that I completely neglected to get a picture of Danielle, who looks lovely by the way!  I guess it's that stage of life where we become just the toes in the picture (see picture above -- cute toes) or the hands holding the baby.

How I see it now: Home

Many people move from house to house throughout childhood, but not in our house.  Instead we moved room to room.  And when rooms did not accommodate our needs, we shifted walls to expand or redesign the layout of the house.  The result is an oddity of doors and windows in unconventional places that make our house, while likely a bit unusual to future buyers, unique and familiar.  Each room tells a story of the years spent in this childhood home in a way no other home could.

Take for instance the room I am sleeping in now while at home—originally a big open room my parents slept in that became my bedroom eventually, partitioned off to create an office space and bedroom with a doorway put through the new hallway to the adjoining wood-room room.  Later the office was dismantled and now there is a doorway from this bedroom which was my brother’s room to the next that was originally the wood-room, later my sister’s room and is now the room Gabriel is sleeping in.  There is also the playroom that became my parents’ room with walk-in closets, and that eventually turned into the downstairs sitting room. 

Or take the window from the kitchen to the living room.  For years, my mother had envisioned a wide “open-concept” kitchen, dining and living room area.  But when my father crushed her dream with the architectural logic of the inability to take out a supporting wall, the open-concept idea was re-engineered.  Perhaps the wall could partially come down?  No, indeed it could not.  Then perhaps small windows?  My father shook his head in disbelief that became mistaken for consent.  Months passed until my mother took fate into her own hands, and armed with a sledgehammer, knocked out the jip rock between two beams, through which she could create a small window to poke her head to speak to guests or pass through supplies.  If I recall correctly, the hole remained there for months despite questions from guests and it was only framed after some good-humored jabs at my mother. 

It is not only the mishmash of rooms that welcomes me. The house is also filled with all sorts of gadgets that make it unique.  You see, we came for a long lineage of creators.  My great-grandfather, Lester, lived in a small house in Millville, NB.  When he died shortly after his wife, Sadie, he left behind a hodgepodge of inventions for family members to decipher.  It is legend in our house that my great-grandfather invented the original multi-bit screwdriver, but when he presented his invention to investors, they appeared uninterested.  Since he did not get his idea patented, when the first “Picquic” multi-bit screwdriver came out, millions of dollars went into the pockets of some other ingenious person. When he passed many years later, we assumed a number of “inventions,” most notably a gas-powered wood-splitter that still cuts our wood every winter.

But the wood-splitter was my great-grandfather’s.  Inspired by this genius, comes a whole slew of other inventions.  There is a motion-sensored string of tube lights that lights up momentarily when walking up the porch steps, there was a hot water heater attached to the old woodstove that my father installed, which both have since been removed, there are solar panels hooked to an accutator that tracks the movement of the sun throughout the day to maximize efficiency and thus heat the hot water in the house. The house was primarily heated with wood heat and my father is always looking for new small-scale power sources to take our house of the grid. 

The yard has also been the colony of invention.  When we were young, my father built a playhouse that has since been extended to become his tool shed. And the tower erected in the backyard that became a grapevine trellis.  But, interestingly enough, we children, were spurred on to create our own spaces and inventions.  A slow saunter through the woods brings back the memory of a plethora of inventions and creations of years passed.

While there are no traces left of camps we created, stumps serve as reminders of the places they used to be.  Many areas of our natural playground are gone: the bridge across the stream, the mound behind the playhouse that marked off the pond. With it, are the myriad of frogs that used to live and call those waters home.  Gone is the stream fed by springs bubbling from the earth where we would muck around for hours each summer in attempts to create water gardens.  They have dried up.  Gone is the cement well on which we used to bake mud pies.  The tree we used to climb into and build forts against fell over in the winds and what remains is a stump covered in moss.

However, the tamarack trees we used to climb and under which I built my fire campfire, are still there.  And the playhouse, the mother of invention still stands, although slightly remodeled and with a new addition.  With it comes its own set of memories. At first, a drive thru, serving rubber play food and mud pies, later a frog sanctuary we tried to fill with water and frog eggs that later dried to the floor (hence the disappearance of the frog community and thus, the pond), as teenagers it became a spot to tan on the black asphalt roof. 

What memories we created here, and while each spring my parents yearn to sell this house and move to the city, we all secretly hope it will never happen.  Besides the irregular layout of the house from years of creative renovating, this house holds too many memories, too many stashes of secret treasures hidden by our younger selves yet to be discovered by the next generation.  And with the constant shifting of houses and homes amongst us children, having a place like this to come back to is comforting.  It holds a history.

Kye & Mia

Spent the afternoon with the twins, Kye and Mia as well as Matt & Laura.  The twins are sweet and such joyful beautiful children--helpful and chatty.  At supper they declared that their favorite part of the day was "meeting Gabriel and swimming in the pool."  Miss you and wish we were closer.  Hey, soon we will be!