Sheds Happen

It’s Monday. The last Monday of the year, I do believe because the computer tells me so. 2025 has been a year that hasn’t been easy. From a distance looking on with eyes that are not my own, maybe. And not apocalyptical by any means. But the inner workings of 2025 had grandeous endings and beginnings that were arrows through the heart and kicks in the pants as much as they were celebratory. Life kept squeezing me like an orange until there was nothing but rind and pulp. But with trust in myself, I knew I could make things with that. I’m not a fan of uncertainty. I like to challenge the “un”. But uncertainty exists and must be dealt with or lived with.

The biggest ending was the decision to retire. It was a hard one, and one that I made at the beginning of the year. Despite the turmoil that followed, I stuck with it. I was lucky to have a career I absolutely loved and I wanted to leave it while I still liked it. I was fortunate to be able to do that.

I held some writing retreats, virtually and in person in our home in St. Bride’s. I wanted to do that in my retirement so 2025 provided a practice period. I liked it. I had good results. Not only did it help others write, but it inspired me to continue my writing.

Then I started Seaweed Publishing as a way to be more creative, in charge of my own writing destiny, and true to myself as a writer. Another beginning to counterbalance the retirement ending. I have rules imprinted on my being for myself and anything that goes through the workings of Seaweed so I can stay the course. Maybe I’ll soften over time as I learn. Maybe I’ll be stricter, I don’t know. But the daring in the intention is what I hope will guide me well. So far, so good. With all but writing. I know that will come because I want it to.

I also have to tell you a story about a shed by way of lesson learning and letting go and an ending of sorts that I wasn’t expecting. In 2025 my husband became disabled. I won’t go into details, but he went from a healthy working man to somebody who can’t easily get around, can’t drive for the time it takes to get to St. Bride’s, spent time using a walker, spent time in massive pain, etc. His life is being lived differently, and by way of being married, so is mine.

Leading up to his complete crash, as his health was going downhill but his hope that it would be rectified was strong, he had designs on building a shed in St. Bride’s. When I say he, I mean we. So, this past spring, he mentioned if he had the holes dug for the foundation, that would be all he’d wish for in 2025. The holes got dug. Then, if he only had the blocks in the holes, that would be all he’d wish for in 2025, and so on and so on. I warned him that the year before, every time we went to St. Bride’s we were killed from working at the house and property and I didn’t want 2025 to be a dread. He assured me it wouldn’t.

But he continued to wish. His wishes had to be granted by me and others for two reasons. One deals with his lack of prowess in the carpentry department, and one was his growing impairment.

On my days in St. Bride’s, I’d end up putting the floor down, building walls and trusses, putting on the plywood, siding, etc. This also had to do with at least two reasons. I didn’t want to see him struggle and I didn’t want to see him struggle, the answer to both his reasons. However, I refused to do the roof because I wasn’t getting up on no scaffold and perhaps stumble or fall and then I’d have to deal with things differently. But I did go for stuff, hand stuff up, etc. In other words, I didn’t get a “free from the shed day.” By September, through hard work and the grace of others, we had a lovely new shed. I had to admit it was worth it. Even my writing retreaters got involved and helped us put in windows.

I was grateful it was built. (Though he says he wants a bike shed next year and that he’ll build it himself – I don’t think so 😊 but I digress.)

But shed story is not finished. I must swoop down into September first. September came in like a smack with the back of its hand. Our daughter go married in Botwood. That was one of the amazing things of September. I retired three days before the wedding - another amazing September thing. However, same day, we had a water leak. All the kitchen flooring had to come up and be thrown out. We cut a hole beneath the sink to find it, shut off the water while we went to Botwood and left with a big mess waiting for our return. Came back to hauling out more flooring, some of it down for fifty years. Layers upon layers, even tiles stuck down with something that was still sticky. By evening the day after the wedding, my husband was unable to walk.

The drive to and from the wedding, the activities with the water, flooring etc. became his undoing. Ambulance to the hospital, unable to sit, stand, or walk, his life existed in a lawn chair on one side of the exterior door to a lawn chair just on the other side. A three-step land of complete pain. I stayed with him and left the St. Bride’s stuff, which was now little stuff, until things got better.

Slowly, they did. But his driving was much more limited, and he couldn’t accompany me anywhere, and he couldn’t lift anything. Friends came with me to help restore the floor in St. Bride’s but because of the time span, before we could get the hole under the sink fixed, the mice got in. Another battle on our hands.

So shed was kind of forgotten. It had been the focal point of our trips to St. Bride’s and now it was the house – the floor, the mice, the clean-up. But the shed wasn’t finished with us. It said, “don’t forget about me.” During the windstorms of the last few weeks, the shed decided it didn’t like where it was built, and it moved off the foundation and settled four or five feet from where it was constructed.

There is a lesson in there somewhere.

Sheds happen.

Focusing on one thing so hard that you lose sight of things much closer or things more imminent or more important, or something like that, I suppose, could lead to things shifting and needing further work.

That led me to this blog which is about letting go of what I can’t control. That’s hard, no doubt. I have to learn to live differently. More fulsome and big picture-y and around sheds and injuries that are not mine but impact me.

I have to ignore distractions and get out of that crazy whirlwind that could consume my time and me. I have to trust my instincts, I have to plan around the uncontrollable and shift where and what I can, and wait out what I can’t. Years ago, when I had brutally difficult sore throats, I counted between the swallows to get through. I find myself counting through other things now. And I’ve started another novel using that philosophy.

So maybe in 2026, there will be times when I have to count between the swallows or maybe trust the lessons I learned in my 61 years to veer me around obstacles and through challenges. Or at least, let me deal with them appropriately as they come however differently it impacts me.  

If sheds happen, they happen. It is not about the shed, it’s about what I do around it. I am blessed that my shed is actually a physical shed, and not even my own, when others are dealing with sheds of greater proportions. I can veer when others can’t. I hope I always look to the lesson, learn from it and grow. No matter how old I get, or how retired I get, or as an afterthought, how many books I write.  

I hope I haven’t confused you. If I have, veer around me. I can take it.

If 2026 comes with sheds – big, tiny, enormous - attend to them however you must. Find your lesson and move on. Bear in mind the wind. If it shifts you, go with it. Find your lesson, be grateful for it, and move on. Life is truly about moving on and evolving into it or around it or co-exist in both – a different, stronger, more resilient you.

Remain kind, remain ready for the wind, trust you can do it, no matter what that it entails. 2026. We got this. Sheds and all.

 

The Mummers Are Coming

Wind whistled and moaned through the windows mocking Charley’s guarantee to Mary that the putty applied that fall had been sufficient to do the trick. The flame on the candle on the windowsill flickered and danced in synchronicity with snow drifts that passed close enough to the dim light to be seen through the frost rimmed circle in the single pane of glass. 

“Are you sure they’re coming, Mommy?” Clara asked as she glanced at the window once more. Even with the excitement and anticipation, the little girl’s eyes continued to focus on her toy she named Marly. Her daughter was still in awe of the present Santa Claus had brought her. Clara smoothed her hand over the knitted doll with the pretty dress that Mary had fashioned from a long outgrown garment. 

“They’ll be here, darling,” Mary replied as she loosened the apron string behind her neck and in one swift movement, grabbed it and slung it on the nail behind the woodstove. She took the leftovers of the lamb roast from the warmer to the pantry and stopped near Clara when she returned. “Now, get out of the draft before you catch your death.”

Mary hoisted her daughter from the daybed and laid her on the chair beside the stove. She checked the wicks on the oil lamps on the wall and adjusted them so that the room was brighter. Mary poked the fire and threw a junk of dried spruce in the firebox, enough to keep the heat in the house and the kettles hot for a cup of tea or a toddy later. 

The Mummers would be here, she was sure of it. And not just because Charley had said so when he left. It just wasn’t Christmas without them. 

The house trembled and the window moaned once more as the fire crescendoed and ebbed to the tune of the fierce Northeasterly gust. Charley would be back, she reassured herself as her body shivered in the draught that found her. “He’ll be back,” she whispered and brushed her fingertips across the blessed medal hanging from her neck.

As if conjured, bells jingled and were followed by a sharp knock. The door burst open as several masked characters surged in. One grabbed the birch broom near the door and swept snow out over the stoop only for it to be carried back in by the stampede of the rubber booted crowd. 

Mary took the broom, chuckled, and nodded dismissively as she tossed it behind the door. The gathering spilled into the kitchen in a flurry of snow, shouts, and cold air. Clara squealed and clapped her hands, strewing Marly aside then following her to the woodbox seat. Her vacated spot went to the leading visitor who held an accordion.

The instrument was playing before the person’s rear end hit the chair. The others began shouting, swirling, and stamping to the beat in the now crowded kitchen. One of them took Mary and swung her around before hugging her and lifting her off her feet. She swiped at the lace covered face and grinned.

“Put me down, you fool,” she said as she giggled and pushed on the person’s shoulders. The figure prattled loudly and swung her again. 

“That’s Daddy,” Clara shouted as she bounced on her perch. “I know it is.” She clapped once more and smiled widely at the shrouded figure which laid her mother down then reached for her. Mary was grabbed by somebody else and swung to the music from the disguised accordion player. 

“That has to be David,” Mary said as she lowered her face to peer through the eye-holes of the disguise at the musician. The music stopped for just a second as the man pulled off his cap and pillowcase mask.

“Thank God,” he said as he gave a heavy sigh and wiped the beads of perspiration from his glistening red forehead. “I’d die in this heat.” He started up a feisty jig which sent the other costumed crowd stamping, swinging, and hollering once again. 

Clara shrieked as she helped pull the mask from the one that carried her. “I knew it was you, Daddy,” she shouted as she threw the lace doily and hat on top of Marly. Her father twirled her around the floor in his arms.

By now the kettles and even the dampers on the stove began to rattle as the herd of revelers renewed their steps to a faster tune on the accordion. One of them pushed at David and he laughed before ending the dance with a long and piercing note. 

“Mary, get the lads some spruce beer from the pantry,” Charly yelled to be heard above the racket. She nodded at him from across the room, untangled herself from her dancing partner and headed through the door on the far side of the kitchen. David began playing a slower tune to settle the crowd and Mary made three trips to the pantry bringing brown bottles back to the table.

Charley opened one snub-nosed bottle and gave it to David while he took another for himself. The masked crowd spread out and sat down on the daybed and on the chairs, while more backed up against the wall and waited for Mary to guess their identity.

“Are you from down the Lane?” Mary asked the closest fellow. He or she had a raglan on which was wrong-side-out and hung to the edge of the knee-high rubber boots.  The disguise was too long and big to determine the shape of the person. The mummer shook its head and spoke gibberish. She recognized the voice, “Wilfred Barnes, I know that’s you.” 

Wilfred tore off his head gear and grabbed the beer she offered. “Indeed, it is, Mary my dear. You were the first one to guess me so quickly.”

“I recognized the cut of your mother’s coat,” Mary said with a grin before she moved to the next person. This one had long johns on over their clothes and wool socks covered their hands. Mary pushed on the belly. “Stuffed,” she said. “You’re trying to throw me off.” Mary held her hand to her brow and then tapped the figure’s head. “My height.” She looked at Wilfred and then back again. “Marie, Marie Barnes.” But the figure shook its head vigorously. Mary squinted her eyes. “Do you have anything to do with this fellow here?” she said as she pointed to Wilfred. The figure nodded. “Got anything to say?” she asked but the figure shook its head. Mary inspected the socks. “You can’t be Mrs. Barnes, can you?” Mary asked. 

The woman shed her head garb. “Well, what’s got into your mother, Wilfred,” Mary said, “to be out on a night like this.” Mary chuckled as the older woman ran her fingers through her hair. She laughed and shook her dissent as Mary offered the beer. “I got a drop of sherry there we can have after I’m through with this crowd,” Mary said, and Mrs. Barnes nodded.

“I’m a fool, Mary girl. But it was one of those nights I didn’t feel like being home by myself.”

“Good for you,” Mary said as she patted the woman’s shoulder then moved to the next person. She questioned the patrons one by one. She guessed several names until she had the group figured out and unmasked.  Wilfred’s wife and his mother were the only two women among the bunch. 

When the spruce beer was all passed around, Mary took Mrs. Barnes and her daughter-in-law into the front room. She motioned for Clara to join them, but Clara wanted to stay with her father. 

Mary lit the candles on the Christmas tree and poured a glass of sherry for the Barnes women as well as one for herself. 

They sipped the thick red liquid and listened to one of the men as he spoke a recitation he’d learned from his father. The only sound was the deep and languid tones of the man’s voice and the crackle of the log in the fire. A cheer erupted when the man finished, bottles clinked, and the music started again. 

“Drink up,” one man shouted, and the two Barnes women followed Mary to the kitchen. 

“Mind the candles, now,” the older Mrs. Barnes said as she nodded toward the tree. 

“I will, Ma’am,” Mary said making a mental note to blow them out as soon as the crowd was gone.

“Merry Christmas,” David shouted over his shoulder as he pulled the door open and began playing Jingle Bells which was carried away on the drifting snow by a furious gust. Hearty shouts and yips followed as the others danced along behind him out into the night.

“Only two more houses to go,” Charly said as he kissed Mary and Clara then pulled the disguise on over his face. “I’ll put the horse away in the stable when I get back and then I’ll be home.”

Mary and Clara shouted goodbye as the group jumped on the sled behind the mare and waved. Jingling bells mixed with the music from the accordion and came in whisps on the frigid air as the group pulled into the inky blackness of the night.

Mary guided Clara onto the bench on the woodbox while she grabbed the mop and wiped up the water puddles. She smiled. Mummers. It wouldn’t be Christmas without them. 

The North Shore Rebuilds

On November 30^th I drove along the North Shore heading to Old Perlican Library. This was my first drive through since the last devastating wildfires. There was a distinctive smell that might have been my imagination or remembering but stayed with me long after I left the area. It was quite humbling.

Blackened earth with white rocks beneath stark limbless sticks and washed by recent rains show the once bogs and marshes along the sides of the road. The rocks probably never saw daylight in hundreds of years. The swath of destruction that scarred to the right of one house and the opposite side of another across the road and left them standing and unharmed was remarkable. While numerous and unseen holes exist and are hidden in the wake that held homes and lives and stories.

The appliance cemeteries stood out. Full of mostly hot water heaters and fridges and are showing signs of rust. I hope they don’t winter and decay on the side of the road. Not because of the eye-soreness it will become, but because it will always be a stark and unbidden reminder of loss until it is gone.

We were silent in awe at the randomness, the bigness of it all. We are not familiar enough with the area to know how many were gone, how many remain. But gone was evident by the tidy piles of burnt debris, which I’m sure was messy and so much worse on the residents’ return.

The scraped earth where somebody plans to start over, the shells of those who’ve already begun to rebuild offer hope to the North Shore. This hope will take time.

I remember my own first look at destruction at fifteen. My own return to a blackened earth. My own hope that things would return to normal. My own having nothing, no clothes on my back. Our family’s loss was different, of course. Luckily nobody was killed on the North Shore. But that suffering is real and is not diminished just because it could have been worse. No, being grateful that it wasn’t worse may soften the edges, but the suffering is still great.

It was nice to see lights on in businesses. Open signs. On the return drive it was nearing dark and we saw a few Christmas lights in some of the communities. The ones who had a place to come back to seemed to be offering hope of normalcy to those not so lucky. It was beautiful, really. Like spring when green returns. Like time when it takes its time to pass.

We’ll move on as we did in the drive, but the residents will stay, rebuild, return, and revitalize. The North Shore is beautiful, resilient, and will rise again. Its spirit isn’t broken; it just needs a bit of polishing to make it shine once more. That polishing has started. Renewal comes with tears and sadness and fear, but it comes, and is coming.

I wouldn’t take pictures, not my place to do so. I am, however, glad I drove that route. I won’t pretend I know anything about what they are all going through except to know I went through something similar. Sometimes a bit of empathy and humbleness at it all is well warranted. I’m grateful for the grounding. I wish nothing but continued hope in rebuilding on the North Shore and what comes in time, brings smiles and fond memories from before. With the in-between time being something you got through with the help of others and with your own determination and a stronger you on this side of the disaster.