In 1992, Cornell University published a book about high-bush blueberry production. The 200-page award-winning* tome gathers advice from nearly 30 experts, and has effectively become my bible. One night while reading scripture, my eyes stumbled across a sentence that went something like this: ‘Weed control the preceding planting year is essential.’ Essential, it said. I read it ten times; the word didn’t change. During my past nine months of research I have repeatedly read about the importance of soil amendment the preceding planting year (which I have done), but nothing about weed management (which I have not done). Maybe most people would assume that pre-planting weed control is a given but it didn’t occur to me. My planting is mere weeks away so it was a bit of an emotional bombshell.

I called Charles for a second opinion (he and his wife Judi own and operate a huge, successful blueberry farm near Toronto) hoping he would tell me that “essential” was too strong a word. But no – turns out it is exactly the right word! To my horror, he said the weeds take the nutrients and water from the soil, provide a habitat for pests, disease and fungus, and will overpower the shallow, tender root system.

Ok, breathe. Time for plan B. Laying adjacent to the field I’d prepared for berries, was another field that a neighbouring farmer had planted with soybeans last year (with my permission of course) and he’d already purged it of perennial weeds. This, I decided, was to be the new home of my soon-to-be-picked-up blueberry plants. I will need to increase the 6000 cubic feet (560 bales on 27 pallets) of peat moss that I already have on order to compensate for the higher soil ph. and change the size and layout of the rows but I can do that with no problem as I haven’t finalized my irrigation system or netting yet. An inconvenience, but a workable one.

When I set out on this hair-brained adventure, I fully expected a learning curve. But to find out about the weed problem too much later would have been a sharp and unfortunate turn south. With deep gratitude I thank the angel on my shoulder for opening my eyes to the bible. Praise be unto thee, oh Highbush Blueberry Production Guide, publication number NRAES-55.

*The publication was awarded a blue ribbon in the 1993 ASAE Educational Aids Competition, whatever that is.

All winter I have been debating the pros and cons of buying a tractor. The most obvious con is the significant cost of course, but running a close second is my total lack of mechanical inclination. However my forthcoming blueberry farm (specifically the maintenance of it) begs for machinery of some sort.

I didn’t realize I had made the decision until I was at the Kubota dealership, surprising the salesman as much as myself. After I signed the dotted line and was walking to my car, it hit me. I had bought my own tractor. I started to feel queasy. Let’s be real: I buy most of my food off the reduced rack, my clothes are almost universally thrifted, and when gallivanting away from home my sleeping arrangements involve a tent or – if I’m feeling fancy – some seriously sketchy motels. The freedom of self-employment comes with a fluctuating income, hence my inherent frugality. I sat in the car looking at my new, pink Kubota ball cap and tried to wrap my head around the fact that I had just spent a lot of money. I would soon own a serious piece of mechanical equipment.

By that night, the nausea was almost gone and I was excited. My regular I can do this mantra was extended to include the following addendum: Tractor is love, Tractor is blueberries. I began thinking about all the things I could do with it. I have a backhoe attachment to dig with, a spreader to spread stuff, a tiller, a loader and a mower. I asked the salesman if the tractor could move stuff. He sputtered a little and assured me it could move rocks the size of Texas (not really but you get the idea). I think that this is the right move.

My friend said “you have to name it!” Hmm, what to name it? My tractor will be strong, tireless, no-nonsense and scary. Helga it is.

For Christmas, Sabrina gave me two nights in a tree house in the Laurentians with her. Our winter getaway was booked for January 7th, 8th and 9th (which, coincidentally, were the exact days that winter decided to sink its sharp fangs into your bones). I had no idea what to expect but I was excited – three full days with my daughter and an adventure to boot.

There was no electricity so we brought propane for a Coleman stove. There were bunks but no bedding so we brought our sleeping bags. And part of her gift idea was to kick-start my 2015 quest to claw my way back to fitness, so of course we brought winter hiking gear

For food I packed steak, smoked salmon, smoked oysters, bags of lettuce, peppers, carrots, celery, all manner of other vegies, fruit of every color (including a full watermelon), bacon, eggs, bread, peanut butter, yogurt and enough chilli ingredients to feed a small country for a month. I could go on but I fear your eyes will tire and your mind will wander.

I also wanted to teach Sabrina to crochet so naturally I needed to bring wool. A quick stop at Walmart en route to buy even more wool brought the final count to 14 balls.

When we checked in at the pavilion we were issued a little fire starter, 2 water containers and 2 enormous toboggans with long metal handles to go around the waist for ease of pulling. They gave us directions to the last treehouse and wished us well. After loading our purchased wood, our water, and all our gear into the toboggans, we set off down the trail into the darkening forest pulling our alarmingly heavy loads behind us.

It was peel-the-skin-off-your-face cold. We trudged up hills that often required both of us pulling and pushing each sled, we wound through the trees, occasionally having to backtrack to retrieve fallen items, until 45 minutes later, we arrived at our destination as night claimed the day. We wasted no time getting candles lit, loading our stuff up the stairs, and getting the fire started. The bunk was directly in front of the little woodstove. A counter, a sink (with a pail under it), and a little table and chairs filled the adorable little cabin. When everything was finally in, the sheer quantity of wool and food started us giggling and we couldn’t stop. Truth be told – I think I was a little delirious. It took me two hours to catch my breath.

We never did warm up that night but by the next morning, after loading the stove almost hourly, it was comfortable. By afternoon it was a perfect sauna. We enjoyed our time thoroughly with lots of laughing, hiking miles of trails among snow-covered evergreens, and reading and crocheting by candlelight. And of course, we ate like royalty.

The hike back out wasn’t as brutal. The temperature was more merciful, the water and wood were gone along with a surprising amount of the food. And I wasn’t pushing myself to near collapse to beat the dark. They told us at the pavilion that it was a record -32 plus wind chill our first night there.

Sometimes I bemoan how creaky my knees are or how bad my eyes are getting, or some other such age-related grievance. But I feel pretty darn grateful that I am still up for the makings of such marvelous memories with my daughter.

Life is taking an exciting new turn. I am opening a u-pick blueberry farm. I know it sounds zany seeing as before last year, I had never successfully managed to grow anything in my life. Well, (she says confidently) things change! The past two months I have been doing extensive online research; I have visited blueberry farms around here, Oshawa, New Brunswick, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire and spent hours speaking to the growers. My life has revolved around blueberries and I think I can do this. It’s only occasionally that I grab my head with both hands and start to rock – I can get kind of overwhelmed – but I am deeply enthused and mostly confident.

I am starting small while I learn. This season I am amending my first acre of field. The space has been bush-hogged, my rows have been laid out, plowed and tilled. By hand I have spread 700 lbs of elemental sulphur to organically decrease my ph and 400 lbs of a potash/nitrogen mix to fertilize. I have gotten my import licence and ordered 1000 guaranteed, disease-free plants from a licenced blueberry propagator in Michigan. I will pick them up early next April and plant each one in saturated peat moss before installing a drip irrigation system and overhead bird netting.

A cultivated, high-bush blueberry plant takes 7 years to mature but I am buying three-year old plants so I should have a limited harvest the year after planting. “The Merry Blueberry” will have a pilot season open only to family, friends and of course, faithful blog readers in the summer of 2016. I will keep you updated and posted.

I will continue to maintain my massage practice combined with my acupuncture and hypnosis. But after almost 34 years of massaging, if at some point my hands pack it in, I will be ready. My plan is to eventually have 5-10 acres of blueberries, a cut-your-own flowers section, my shop converted into a seasonal country store where I sell pies, muffins, syrup; basically all things blueberry (and naturally, cool crocheted stuff). I want to have my own label of blueberry and fruit wines and get my manufactures and onsite retail licence so I can sell them in my store (Jim and I are having some fun adventures making wine that I will tell you about next post). But who know what will be; in the meantime, my little one acre u-pick patch will be fulfilling a long-time dream and if thats how it stays, that’s just fine – I don’t know anyone that loves blueberries more than me.

Shortly before Easter my good friends, Kathy and Noreen taught me to crochet. My mother tried to teach me when I was little but all I could manage was knitting. In my mind, crocheting was classy and clever and had far more appeal to me – all that winding and weaving with one little hook turning yarn into cool things before my very eyes.

And now that I’ve started it has taken on a life of its own. I have some extra time right now as I am not working on account of my busted rib (I heard the pop before the pain during an enthusiastic bear hug from my beloved son, Colin). And speaking of Colin – funny side story – he is living in Newmarket doing an internship for his heavy equipment mechanics program and to stay fit he has been running a lot. Feeling staunch and hard-core, he takes his camelback (a hydration system with a tube so you can drink while you run) with him. He is single, twenty and hetero, so upon seeing a couple of “very attractive girls”, I am sure that he stood up straighter and maybe ran a little faster. As he passed them, he overheard one of the girls say “I didn’t think you could go out in public with a catheter”. Needless to say, no more camelback, but I digress…

With no capability at the moment to push, pull, twist or lift I am free to indulge in my crocheting mania. I have made 3 baby quilts, 2 full sized afghans, and hats, mitts, slippers, and baby mukluks far into the double digits. I scour yard sales looking for wool. I am, finally, at long last, a crocheter. The novelty is still thrilling.

Rushing forth with blind ignorance I started an intricate crocheted heirloom quilt that is well beyond my abilities. I am consumed and think I may be developing a facial tick. I have wondered about the psychology (or should I say pathology) of becoming so immersive into my projects, this extremist tendency I seem to have. I caution myself to take it slow and easy this time but when I try to do that it’s like swimming against the tide – possible but hard work to get nowhere. It feels more natural to let the current take me hell-bent down the river. But I also love writing and wanted to stop and write this blog. At the very worst, it gets me off the hook…at least for a few hours.

I am the coincidental star of a finalist in the TVO 5-minute documentary contest.

My nephew, Cainan made the submission, “My Father’s Daughter” about my journey to Peru climbing in the Andean mountains and retracing my father’s final days. It needs to be said that Cainan carried his filmmaking equipment with him everywhere through Peru including up the mountains. His talent and commitment to quality and authenticity is impressive. The winner of the five finalists is determined by who gets the most public votes. Here’s the press release for the contest: http://www.newswire.ca/en/story/1334597/tvo-announces-five-finalists-in-the-2014-tvo-doc-studio-contest

You can vote for your favorite doc at http://docstudio.tvo.org/contest. The winner gets a full day of mentoring by a very grand and successful poobah filmmaker. Whoever gets to walk away with the coveted day I want to send big kudos to Cainan for a job very well done.

Feel free to share the video with your network, social media, etc. That would be great! He has just started his own business so if you have any videography jobs you want doing, you know where to go.

For myself, I returned home from the Himalayas not wanting to go outside at all. I wanted comfort and warmth and so I have been nesting and spending an obscene amount of time sewing. Now, my good friends Kathy and Noreen, have taught me to crochet. SO exciting! And if you think I am being sarcastic you are mistaken. I have wanted to crochet for years but of course before leaving for Belize I gave away boxes of my mother’s yarn believing that I would never get to it. That’s ok, it got used and its all good.

Hope everyone is well. If we can hang on a touch longer, spring is in the air!

We flew back to Istanbul from Selcuk in 1 hour rather than the 12 hour bus ride and it only cost $17.00 more (combined). Imagine!

We left our small, friendly hostel with its postage-stamp sized room (not even kidding-you had to step into the shower-where the sink was-to close the bathroom door-to sit on the toilet) this morning and took the metro and tramway to the airport.

Within hours we will be winging our way home. AND we are wearing almost clean clothes that we’ve saved. Very excited!

Soon we will empty our pockets of the supplies that we have learned to hoard at every opportunity – the crumpled up piece of toilet paper, a hand wipe, things like that. The habit will die hard; maybe only after having toilet paper complete with a sink and running water whenever we need it repeatedly.

I am nearly delirious with anticipation at seeing the kids. Colin says everything is fine but slowly falling apart. I don’t know what that means but I do know it makes me want to be home.

Jim is salivating over the thought of roast venison with mashed potatoes and gravy. It’s hard to believe Christmas is right around the corner to look forward to! There is no sign of Christmas merriment here.

We have been incredibly lucky in all ways on this trip and it has been a great adventure but if I know one irrefutable truth about travel – the best thing about going away is getting back home. See you soon.

The most bizarre thing happened this afternoon. It was late in the day and we were alone at the ruins of St. Johns Basilica, the place where John the Baptist wrote his gospel and is buried.

We were surreptitiously approached by someone who digs at the excavation sites. He had three coins from approximately 1500 years ago. Truly, if you had seen them, you would know that they were authentic. They were silver, one had the engraved face of Constantine on it, and the other two had very, very old markings. I held them in my hand and felt a tingle down my spine. I was spellbound and entranced. It was like I was swept into another world. Jim immediately said no thanks but I wasn’t quick to dismiss it. I desperately wanted one. For a history lover like myself, to actually hold the coins from another age and be faced with the real option of owning one – well, the temptation was almost irresistible. I decided against it because 1: I knew that Jim was very against it and 2: I thought that it would be bad mojo and bad karma. Jim was against it because it was illegal and he said that if we were caught leaving Turkey with illegal coins we would likely be thrown into a Turkish prison. I took out my camera to take a picture and the man snapped his hand away and said “very clever lady”. As we were leaving, he told Jim to be very careful in a sort of veiled threat and disappeared.

Back in our room, Jim looked up in our lonely planet book and read that if someone approaches you in a place like Ephesus and offers to sell you coins DON’T DO IT – it is punishable by a long prison term. The seller gets the money from you and then often tips off the police and also gets reward money from them. Jim is adamant that he has saved me from being thrown in a Turkish prison as I write. He looked up Turkish prisons and that is one adventure I can do without. Note to self: never buy illegal antiquities no matter how tempting.

When I was a small girl my family moved to the North West Territories where my Dad was hired as a school teacher. There were no roads into the small community of Aklavik where we would be living. We arrived by water plane or helicopter (I don’t remember which); my mother had proudly dressed my sister, Lori, and me in little matching short suits. I’m sure we looked adorable but it was snowing when we stepped off the plane. All this to say that I was reminded of that experience when Jim and I stepped off the plane in Istanbul. My little runners and short sleeves didn’t cut it. It had been snowing for two days.

In my mind’s eye, the week in Turkey following our trek was filled with olives, feta, and warm Mediterranean sand. The visions dancing in my head were of a well-earned breather in the sun. Silly me!

Last night, after our first day, I was struck with some stomach thing that had me violently throwing up for hours. The idea of eating anything, let alone my much-loved olives and feta, was unthinkable. Regardless, we wandered around seeing the sights but it’s hard to feel fond of any city while puking in the cold, wet and gray. At the moment we are waiting in a bus terminal for an overnight bus to Selcuk to see the ruins of Ephesus. It’s a leap of faith. Apparently, the bus stops every three hours but there are no bathrooms on board for the 12 hour journey. I hope I feel better tomorrow.

The next day

Yay!!! The sun is shining, my stomach is feeling much better and with substantial pharmaceutical help I made it through the night. Selcuk is a fine provincial Turkish town, we found a little pensione first thing, got settled in, went straight to the Saturday market where we bought fresh oranges, peanuts, figs, feta, olives, halva, fish, bread, and a variety of other vegetables. We will dine like ancient ottoman kings tonight. But I will be moderate – it was only yesterday I never wanted to eat again. This afternoon we are hiking up to the ruins of a castle we see on the hill. Tomorrow – Ephesus!