2000-03-07
Dear Diary:

The maples are running, the maples are running and I'm just giddy with spring.

And to those of you who just had visions of trees scampering through the woods, I can only say, "Why oh why didn't you listen to Nancy Reagan in the '80's and just say no to drugs?" But I digress. But then I always digress *sigh*. Now where was I? Oh yes, spring.

My fellow Canucks instantly know what I mean about this, the wonderful loopiness that hits us all when the icy fingers of winter leave our throats.

In other countries a baby's first words are something like mama or dada but here in The Great White North our babies start out with "cold-enough- for-ya-eh". Ask anyone.

Is it any wonder, then, that when spring finally comes we all get just a little bit silly with happiness? I think not.

My husband Paul in the sugar house in a time long ago and far away. My husband's people have been in the business of making liquid spring (a.k.a. maple syrup) for over a quarter century now. For me the new year doesn't begin on January 1, it begins the first time I walk into the sugar house and run the rig.

I wish there was a way I could wrap up how it feels to sugar during a spring evening, put it in a box, and hand it to you. It would be a wonderful box, with warm moist air full of the smell of maple tinged with wood smoke, sounds like the crackle of the fire, the soft hum of the blower.

I'd have to go outside and grab you a hunk of a night sky impossibly full of stars, a silence so profound that snow crunching underfoot rings in your ears. Of course you should have a piece of the huge cloud of sugary steam that our sugar house sends towards those stars, glowing orange-yellow, backlit from the light escaping through the sugarhouse roof vents.

In the middle of it all would be the syrup--sweet, sticky, wonderful ... and being Canadian, eh, we need a fresh, home-made doughnut savoury with nutmeg to dip in this ambrosia.

Ah, but I just can't find the right box, so instead all you get are these glowing dots on a screen.

What a gyp, huh?

-- Marn

Old Drivel - New Drivel


Subscribe with Bloglines


Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


.:Cast:. .:Diaryland Notes:. .:Comments (0 so far):. .:E-mail:.
.:Adventures In Oz:.
.:12% Beer:. .:Links:. .:Host:. .:Archives:.

Cavort, cavort, my kingdom for a cavort Globe of Blogs 12 Per Cent Beer my partners in crime


A button for random, senseless, drive-by linkings:
Blogroll Me!


< ? blogs by women # >
Bloggers over forty + ?
<< | BlogCanada | >>
[ << ? Verbosity # >> ]
<< x Blog x Philes x >>


This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

Kids, don't try viewing this at home without Netscape 6 or IE 4.5+, a screen resolution of 800 X 600 and the font Mead Bold firmly ensconced on your hard drive.

2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.