Hearst The land is different than you’d expect- bigger and bleaker and more lovely. A clear cut is not the barren scar upon the land you envision when activists rant and rail. Trees straggle through in ragged residuals, lean poplars and larch and spruce. There’s wildlife, too; moose and bear being the most prevalent, but… Continue reading Excerpt
Remember when we said I love you? Yes and we laughed, old friends. And I asked, “So, who are you, anyway?” Nobody.
There’s a lot of time to think when you’re in the cherry trees, and I often found myself thinking of my grandma. My great grandma. My family has children young- I was born with great-great grandparents and had all of my great grandparents well into my childhood. I still have my great grandma Beulah. She… Continue reading Sandcherry jelly.
You could be forgiven for hating Toronto if your first introduction were to be deboarding a train at Union Station and walking up Bay Street. The claustrophobic, self important bustle of three thousand dollar Armani suits and rude men in sunglasses that cost more than my rent drinking extra hot cappuccino, no foam. You sir,… Continue reading Love letters to Toronto (except for Bay Street, fuck that place
Twenty four hours after returning home and finishing Work Marathon 2017, I find myself bored and restless again. The year has been eventful- London and Reykjavik in January, Boston in March, treeplant from May to July, British Columbia and the cherry orchard from July to September. The country beckons with its vast fist and endless… Continue reading Minto end of summer
Earlier this year in my kitchen notebook I wrote the following: “Remember what you hankered for last year in the bush- Good, hot, honest food. Coming off the block wet, tired, aching, regretful, anxiously clamoring at the bus window to read the “What’s on Tonight” blackboard. A misplaced specials board outside a blue school bus in the… Continue reading Trials and Tribulations of a Bush Cook (1)
We find ourselves at the beach in Oyama on a self-assigned day off, having keenly felt the orchard cabin-fever. “Do you want to go to the creek?” No. We climb onto the roof of picker’s shack using an orchard ladder until the harvest manager comes by making the universal hand motion for “What the fuck… Continue reading