FOLKLIFE Volume 4

$18.99 US/CAN - £12 UK FOLKLIFEMAG.CA

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

If we are to once again experience the cosmos as our womb, to participate meaningfully in the awesome event called the universe, then we must simply work outside, pause, and look at the shining stars, or see a child being born, or listen to a tree’s leaves rustling in the wind, and be amazed. Until we regain this capacity, no set of ideas can save us from ourselves.

—Theodore Richards

PHOTO BY SWEET SEA PHOTOGRAPHY

VOLUME 04 – MOTHER info@folklifemag.ca FOLKLIFEMAG.CA Alina Cerminara Creator + Publisher Patrick Belanger Co-Creator + Art Director Charles Hart Editor Claire Majors Editor Mary Ann Richards Editor Amanda Lemay Distribution Contributing Editors

Kristen Bounds

Contributing Writers

DL Acken, Georgia Acken, Kristen Bounds, Laura Busheikin, Alina Cerminara, Sue Custance, Laura Desjarlais, Julia DiPaolo, Kelsi Dunne, Dorothy Engst, Margot Fedoruk, Carol Fergusson, Lorraine Gane, Brianna Getz, Greg Green, Brittany Hemmerling, Elizabeth Holland, EJ Hurst, Amanda Lemay, Adrianne Marskell, Lori McCarthy, Lena McKenzie, Sheila Norgate, Nick North, Andrea Palframan, Karen Phillips. All unnamed features prepared by FOLKLIFE.

Contributing Photographers

Financials Special thanks to:

Publishing Postmaster

DL Acken, Kyo Azuma, Agnieszka Boeske, Deb Dallyn, Julia DiPaolo, Kelsi Dunne, Stasia Garraway, Diane Green, Alex Harris, Lina Jokubaityte, Kev Kindred, Jenn Knight, Rachel Lenkowski, Michael Levy, Abigail Lynn, Zuzana Marchandise, Gary McNutt, Dong Nhat Huy, Victoria Polsoni, Sweet Sea Photography, Lisa Rey, Rubicon Photography, Saman Rezapour, Lucina Sliwowska, Goskova Tatiana, Syd Woodward, Terrill Welch, Billie Woods.

Office Pro - Joan Harrison Charles Hart, Lena McKenzie, Mary Ann Richards, Amanda Lemay, Claire Majors, Patrick Belanger, Joan Harrison, Stasia Garraway, Matt Ens, Shannon Kay, Syd Woodward, The North Family, Lori McCarthy, Dirk Huysman, Chelsea Newcombe, Joan Harrison, Gillian Sellman, Kristen Bounds, Government of Canada, Tony Grove, Thirza Voysey, Michelle Benjamin, Chris Straw-we miss you.

FOLKLIFE (ISSN # 2563-0808 Print, 2563-0814 Digital) is published semi-annually.

Subscriptions are $34/year.

Please send address changes to: FOLKLIFE PO Box 294 Ganges Salt Spring Island, BC Canada V8K 2V9 Published by FOLKLIFE Magazine on Gabriola Island, British Columbia, Canada.

Printed in Canada from forests that are responsibly managed, socially beneficial, environmentally conscious, and economically viable. Distributed by Disticor Magazines, MMS, and Small Changes.

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

This volume dedicated in loving memory of Dorothy Engst

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folklifemag.ca FOLKLIFE is a semi-annual print publication inspired by those who live close to the earth, with intention, and creativity.

Evoking fine craftership with its minimalist design, matte aesthetic, poetic editorial, and vibrant photography, FOLKLIFE honours the art and agriculture, business and creativity, food and farming, and the dwellings and nature of those who live on the Gulf Islands throughout the Salish Sea. Each issue offers engaging interviews, stories, photographs, recipes, and artwork. Celebrating life crafted as an art form, FOLKLIFE seeks to introduce and connect those who live simply and sustainably.

The Salish Sea and the islands it encompasses are the traditional, unceded territory of the Coast Salish Peoples of Cowichan, Penelakut, Hwlitsum, BOKEĆEN, Halalt, Homalco, K’ómoks, Klahoose, Lyackson, MÁLEXEt, Qualicum, Snuneymuxw, Stz’uminus, Tsawout, CUAN of the WSANEC People, TEKTEKSEN, STA,UTW, SKEUWEWC, and Tla’amin since time immemorial.

Trees 40.5 fully grown

Water 12,150 litres

Energy 16.5 million BTU

Solid Waste 60 kilograms

PHOTO BY SWEET SEA PHOTOGRAPHY

Greenhouse Gases 7,924 kilograms

COVER PHOTO BY STASIA GARRAWAY FEATURING NICK NORTH FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

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SALTSPRING KITCHEN CO.

Uniquely curated. Exceptionally preserved.

Since 2012 SaltSpring Kitchen has proudly made preserves and sauces by hand on the artisan-rich Gulf Island of Salt Spring. Melanie and her small crew of passionate jam lovers bring their innovative best to ensure every jar is pure perfection, elevating classic recipes with spicy, savoury twists.

The result? Unique flavours that continue to surprise and delight.

“That's our jam, and we wouldn't have it any other way.”

saltspringkitchen.com

Handmade. Sustainable. Slow fashion.

Deep in the Vancouver Island forest sits a tiny house where Nadbrad clothing company takes slow fashion to the next level. Nadie and her small team offer unique and versatile styles to empower you with the confidence to reinvent yourself every day. Glimpse the crafting process, from the design table and the fabric selection to the detailed creation of each piece at @nadbrad.designs on social media.

You ARE worth it.

nadbrad.ca

PHOTO BY SHANTINA RAE PHOTOGRAPHY

NADBRAD DESIGNS

NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

THE INCOMPREHENSIBLE

MOTHER The theme of each new issue of FOLKLIFE

head to the slopes or embark on some other trip.

reveals itself gradually. A tinge in the air,

Summers—to the island. My ability to present as

whispers on the waves, mist in the mountains.

a competent, independent woman, able to realize

These hints foreshadow possibilities, offering

dreams while juggling a million things—and my

direction.

inclination to love these islands—was and continues to be fostered through that mothering.

Mother. The word presented itself on an early October night. A first date conversation sharing

I watch my close friends be mothers to babies and

recollections of his first five years with his birth

toddlers and can’t comprehend how they do it.

mother before he was adopted. Experiences

Some juggle babies and husbands and houses and

hidden in pages and pages of redacted words

meals. Some balance their babies and jobs on their

from court documents—stories his mother will

own. Everyone is reconstructing identity, making

never share. Those first five years mean a lot for

mistakes, and forming their own little humans in

a wee one. Our mothers, often the foundation

their own terrifying ways. And all I can think is that

of our comfort, sustenance, value.

mothers are . . . wow, incomprehensible. How is being a mother, with all its hardships, just a given?

Those first five years and an ensuing lifetime, a

And now, perhaps manifested by this insistent

lot for a mother.

theme, I prepare to find out what mother will mean to me. As I contemplate experiences of birth and

Mother. To create. Creation not just of human

motherhood, I realize how little I’ve imagined of the

beings but also of the sacred earth we live on.

many pathways mothers can walk, and I anticipate

Mothers, land and body, who give and give and

my future with excitement and fear.

give, to be loved and challenged, enjoyed and ignored, worshipped and used up.

My own mother happens to be very powerful.

Starting at age 17, four boys and little old me, who couldn’t say my R’s. Two dogs, two cats, a bird, and a tank of fish. A full-time job teaching Grades 8 and 9. Spend all day at school, come home, make dinner, then mark. Drop us off at a host of activities, then on the weekend

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

PHOTO BY JULIA DIPAOLO

NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER /

We are now being called upon to recognize our deeper dependence on this world which birthed and sustains all life. And when this earth, our mother, cries from our misuse and abuse of her, expressing her suffering through ravaging winds, fiery tears, and a shaking body, we are reminded that we should tread lightly with our fair mothers.

Offer some peace and sustenance ourselves, instead of demanding more.

In this fourth volume, we hear stories from those who are mothers, who have mothers, who changed as mothers, who wove traditions as mothers, and who used not much more than matchsticks, as mothers. We journey to the later years of life with memory of mothers and their passing, and we find our mother in the world around us.

Mother, here, now, always. As we recognize how we have been sustained and nurtured, perhaps we can be inspired to practise a reverence for our essential mother, the earth, in this pandemic world . . . for she is what will bring us back to life.

We are forever grateful that you continue to take our hand and follow FOLKLIFE and the stories within. We hope you enjoy.

Sincerely,

ALINA CERMINARA, FOLKLIFE CREATOR & PUBLISHER

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

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FOLKLIFE CONNECT Readers respond

Thank you. Sitting here reading the latest magazine, I burst into tears. Happy tears. It reminded me why we moved to Gabriola. So much sadness and loneliness right now. But this is not like any other magazine. It’s a warm fuzzy feeling, a soft smile, an inspiration all at our fingertips. Big virtual hug, as I really needed this.

JO-ANNE RETALLICK, GABRIOLA ISLAND

When I look through the collection of people in the third volume of FOLKLIFE, I'm reminded that some of us have pushed past the naysayers, the ridicule, and the sheer wall of obstacles to live a life in artful making— Hornby is filled shore-to-shore with such like-minded folk. I was reminded today why I came here. All too often, it's easy to forget. RACHELLE CHINNERY, HORNBY ISLAND The third volume was the best one yet. Great articles and graphics. I've set a goal of reading one article every morning. STEVE ELDER, GABRIOLA ISLAND The magazine just took my heart. I had no idea, but I sure do now. Your heart and soul, as they say, is right there. It's gorgeous beyond belief. Page after beautiful page reveals the people, values, arts, visions, and way found here in our little watery part of the world. The magazine is so intimately, professionally, and gorgeously produced that I can hardly hold it in my hands, it's just so alive. PETER LEVITT, SALT SPRING ISLAND I am beyond thrilled! My husband came home with the coveted package I’ve been waiting for. Thank you so much for the enclosed personal note. I kept saying to my husband, "Wow, who does this anymore?!!!" I can’t wait to sit down after my Zoom book club meeting to dig into this gorgeous magazine. Very happy lady today. DEBRA REID, LONDON, ON I just bought Volume 3 here in the UK and love everything about your magazine—especially hearing about all the vibrant, creative, and thoughtful people on the islands. KAREN FENTON, EPSOM, UK Even the teenager stopped staring at his screen for a read about farm stands, and how to deal with your crap! SONJA ZUPANEC, GABRIOLA ISLAND

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PHOTO BY SYD WOODWARD

NEW SOCIETY PUBLISHERS

Bringing you books for a world of change so you can create the life you’ve always dreamed of.

We care deeply about both what we publish and how we do business.

Carbon Neutral - B Corp(™) - Employee Shareholders 100% Recycled Paper - Guide to Responsible Digital Reading We put people and the planet first.

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In this issue Folk Traditions

Back to the Land

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WINTER WREATH SPICED APPLE BUNDT CAKE SOLSTICE ORANGE SLICE GARLAND

A YEAR OF 'LOVIN' OFF THE LAND': AN ADVENTURE IN SELF-SUFFICIENCY

BY BRIANNA GETZ

WITH CHRIS HALL AND STEFFANY LOWEY

100 THE BIRTH OF A NATURAL CEMETERY

BY AMANDA LEMAY

124 FOLK FROM FARTHER AFIELD

BY LORI MCCARTHY

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Mother

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THE INCOMPREHENSIBLE MOTHER

THE MUSIC OF MOM'S MEMORY

Note From the Publisher

BY SUE CUSTANCE

BY ALINA CERMINARA

12 SHIFTING FROM MOM TO DAD

BY NICK NORTH

16 AN ISLAND MOTHER'S ARSENAL

BY MARGOT FEDORUK

50 36

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A WEAVING OF TRADITIONS

114 GRIEF DIARIES

BY LORRAINE GANE

118 REFUSING OWNERSHIP

BY LAURA BUSHEIKIN

128 A LETTER

BY KAREN PHILLIPS

BY LENA MCKENZIE

FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

PHOTOS BY SWEET SEA PHOTOGRAPHY (ABOVE), JULIA DIPAOLO (BELOW)

Insight

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Enterprise

SAYING THANKS NEVER GETS OLD

68 WHAT I WISH I LEARNED IN SCHOOL

86 MIXING BUSINESS WITH PLEASURE

BY KRISTEN BOUNDS

WITH SHARON AND CHRIS HOOTON, DON AND SHANTI MCDOUGALL, AND MIRANDA CATERER AND DEB PEÑA

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WE ARE BEAUTIFUL, WE ARE POWERFUL, WE ARE HERE

PRODUCTS WE LOVE

BY DOROTHY ENGST

106 SINKING INTO THE DARK

BY BRIANNA GETZ

126 THE ROOMMATE

BY ALINA CERMINARA

Out to the Ocean

36 HOME ON THE WATER WORDS AND PHOTOS BY JULIA DIPAOLO

56 A FESTIVAL AFLOAT

BY ANDREA PALFRAMAN

62 THE COLD WATER CURE

BY DL ACKEN

80 WINTER KAYAKING

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BY LAURA DESJARLAIS

PHOTO BY ZUZANA MARCHANDISE

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

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SHIFTING FROM MOM TO DAD

BY NICK NORTH PHOTOS BY STASIA GARRAWAY

I sat there bleary-eyed, soaking in the moonlight, basking in the love of a new life wrapped in white cotton, as she drifted in and out of slumber on her first night earth side. She came into the world at exactly midnight, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

Even now, 13 years later, I close my eyes and

the discomfort of living a truth that wasn’t

can feel the warmth of her breath. I can smell

mine worth it. Like when you keep sledding

the sweet scent of her freshly birthed skin

because the thrill of the hill is worth the wet

and the softness of her peach-fuzz hair on my

feet and cold hands and bunchy snowsuit.

lips.

Motherhood made all the parts of my life that I spent the first 24 hours of my daughter’s

didn’t fit worth it. And then it set me free of

life just staring at her, committing her every

them, as I shifted from Mom to Dad.

detail to memory. Her giant forehead, her eyes so obviously mine. I couldn’t believe I’d

As parents, we spend so much time marvelling

created a creature so perfect. That a creature

at the bits of ourselves we pass down to our

so perfect would choose me to bring them

babies. My big lips, knobby knees, and sense

into this world.

of humour are just a few of the things I get to pass down to mine.

I didn’t know how to raise a daughter. I had never quite figured out how to be one or how to be a woman, for that matter. It always felt impossibly bunchy. Like when you were a kid and your pants got squished up inside your snowsuit and your socks managed to work their way off of your feet to create a very uncomfortable ball at the toe of your boot.

Motherhood was as close as I ever got to making being assigned female at birth work.

My babies were the only thing that made

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

Motherhood was as close as I ever got to making being assigned female at birth work.

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

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SHIFTING FROM MOM TO DAD /

But we don’t talk enough about our own childhoods. The experiences we have wrestled with—the parts of ourselves that we work so

What missing pieces would make the puzzle of my childhood make sense.

hard to keep to ourselves, terrified that if we breathe life and words into them, we might pass those on to our sweet babies right alongside our hair colour and the ability to roll

And I wonder what my own children will hold

our tongue.

onto from these years. Which of our rituals and memories will live on in their hearts and

For me, there is much from my childhood and

in their own family’s traditions? And which

teen years I prefer to keep tucked away from

moments will be tucked away and kept at a

my babies, some of whom are now full-blown

safe distance from their own babies?

teenagers themselves. There is more darkness in me than I am ready to share with them

As a child, I loved holding my father’s hands.

right now. It wouldn’t be helpful.

I was in awe of their strength, the sheer size of them, the coarse sandpaper skin, and the

I have begun to wonder if the same is true of

grease stains that never seemed to wane. I

my own parents. I wonder what parts of their

would place my hands palm-to-palm against

own lives they attempted to shield from me.

his and would love how his long thick fingers

What missing pieces would make the puzzle

eclipsed mine with inches to spare. I wondered

of my childhood make sense.

and hoped and prayed that one day my own hands would morph into the giant paws stretched out in front of me.

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My hands didn’t ever grow as big as the ones I scrutinized as a child. Instead, they stayed

They call me Dad. It fits.

slender and small. But as time carried on, they became stronger and my skin also turned to sandpaper, stained with dirt from the garden.

Thirty years later, I look on as my son traces the veins on the back of my hand. We are snuggled together on the couch, candlelight flickering, his big sister holding the room’s attention, legends and lore from the middle school pumping out like a fire hydrant, with laughter and slang I just barely understand.

They call me Dad. It fits. No tight, bunchy uncomfortable bits.

It fits just right. Like their hands in mine. It turns out my hands were perfect all along.

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

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AN ISLAND MOTHER’S

ARSENAL

BY MARGOT FEDORUK PHOTOS BY SWEET SEA PHOTOGRAPHY

The wind raged outside. There was a loud crack and the power went out. My four-year-old shook with fear and the baby was crying. I swept up my infant and carefully led us all downstairs through the inky blackness. I made a bed on the couch in the living room where I thought we would be safe. I kept my eyes open all night, heart pounding, waiting for the storm to end.

I had always wanted to live in the country. I thought

In the morning, after breastfeeding the baby,

I was prepared with a mountain of hand-sewn

I would weave my way through the mass of

diapers and strong arms for chopping wood. As

unpacked boxes, strap her into an electric swing,

it turned out, I needed more. We had just moved

and instruct her sister to keep an eye on her while

to the small island to find a sense of community,

she ate her cereal from the single bowl I had

something we felt was missing in the city. I hoped

unpacked. This gave me time to chop kindling and

to find like-minded people, mainly mothers who

haul in wood for the day. In mismatched pajamas,

liked to garden, wild-craft, and let their kids crawl

with my feet stuffed into old rubber boots, I took

around in the dirt.

a deep breath of crisp air to clear my foggy brain before I began my daily round of chores.

My husband, Rick, left the morning after we moved in to his job diving for green urchins in Campbell River. We hadn’t had time to unpack. I was left alone with an inquisitive four-year-old and a two-week-old baby. I didn’t know a soul. But I was young and none of that mattered. I was filled with joy to simply walk outside and be surrounded

I thought I was prepared with a mountain of hand-sewn diapers and strong arms for chopping wood.

by trees. Tall trees. Not the ones I grew up with in Winnipeg—those scrubby mean-looking trees with wizened branches devoid of colour all winter. The trees here meant business.

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

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Being new to island living, I didn’t understand wells, or water lines freezing, or pipes bursting in a cold spell, or chimneys billowing smoke if not cleaned regularly.

I changed up the stories as they got older. I described summer romances and canoe trips where my girlfriends and I swam naked under the stars then wrapped ourselves in our sleeping bags, lying When I needed groceries or was out of children’s

on the cool, mossy ground, staring up into the sky

Tylenol—someone was always hungry or running a

and talking about what we wanted to be when we

fever—I soon discovered the difficulty of life without

grew up until we couldn’t keep our eyes open. I said

public transit since Rick usually had our only vehicle.

I wanted to live in the country and make my own

That first year, when a vomiting flu lasted more

soap.

than three days, I was constantly laundering my children’s soiled blankets and filling the bathtub

Now that my daughters are grown up and have

with cool water to plunge their feverish bodies into.

moved off the island, I long for those nights when

Soon, black water spouted from the faucet—I had

the moon disappeared behind storm clouds and

taxed the well. Being new to island living, I didn’t

they needed me, not just to keep them safe but to

understand wells, or water lines freezing, or pipes

comfort them with familiar stories. I can only hope,

bursting in a cold spell, or chimneys billowing smoke

when they have families of their own, that when the

if not cleaned regularly.

power blinks out, they will gather, knees to chin, to tell their own children stories of how their mother

It seemed the power went out on the island

sat with them by candlelight and recounted island

whenever someone sneezed. I had to prepare

tales to the sound of the branches grazing the

for these many power-free days, stocking up

rooftop. And on it will go.

with candles and matches and batteries for the flashlights and buying a small butane stove. I had to be ready for a tree trunk across the driveway or a branch hanging precariously on the electrical lines from one of those tall, tall trees.

I also depended on the arsenal of stories up my sleeve, which were just as important as our emergency supplies. I had to ration my summer tales from Camp Stephens on Copeland Island, one of over 14,000 islands on Lake of the Woods, Ontario. My camp adventures—told as we sat near the flickering light of the fireplace—were the only tales that kept my daughters’ rapt attention. Like the time someone dyed the milk and hundreds of kids had to spoon up green cereal the next morning.

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

AN ISLAND MOTHER’S ARSENAL /

I long for those nights when the moon disappeared behind storm clouds and they needed me.

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

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MARCHLIGHT STUDIO

Transforming salvaged wood into hand-turned vessels with wood-burned drawings.

Watercolour prints. Small sculptures. Greeting cards.

Creating beauty and magic out of the unexpected, artists Mark Huisman and Claire Frances Muir are the dynamic team behind Marchlight Studio on Gabriola Island, BC. Mark cuts, shapes, and turns the plates, bowls, and boards. Claire finishes the works of art with freehand wood-burned drawings.

Discover the creative magic inspired by Canada’s West Coast.

marchlight.com

RANDEE BRINKS REALTOR®

Finding and selling your own piece of paradise has never been easier!

“From listing to staging to showing to purchasing your real estate dreams . . . whatever the objective, you're in good hands. Contact me today!”

saltspringhouse.com

250 221 3530

Macdonald Realty Ltd. Licensed Real Estate Agent

PHOTO BY NORM EDWARDS

With deep gratitude for this magical island, combined with my energy, style, and years of experience, I support you from start to finish in this important and exciting endeavour.

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

SAYING THANKS NEVER GETS OLD I’m thankful that just this morning, as Mike and I walked out of the orchard after our morning round of chores, I thought: If anyone had told me in my 20s that this is how my life would turn out, I would have been over the moon.

EJ HURST

PHOTO BY @EYE_PICTURE_YOU

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021

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Is gratitude old news? Has it transcended trendiness into the realm of meaningless cliché? Thankfully, no. But it may be due for a metamorphosis.

The concept is as ancient as the islands, a deep-rooted custom of interconnectedness that many religious and Indigenous cultures have been practicing since the beginning. Western psychologists began dissecting gratitude at the turn of the 21st century, which led to a boom with bloggers and mental-health care advocates recommending it as a therapeutic practice. Keeping a daily list, expressing it out loud with loved ones, or taking a moment to reflect silently on your abundance is a way of healing trauma, defusing stress, deepening bonds, and consuming less.

So, we’ve stopped taking life for granted. We’ve taken action in caring for our mental health and have even banked some mental wealth. Where do we grow from here? Robin Wall Kimmerer, writer of Braiding Sweetgrass, suggests “restorative reciprocity,” acknowledging the responsibility that comes with robust gratitude. When we know how much we have, we know how much we can give.

May the following folk inspire the continuation of a culture worth making: saying thanks and acting like we mean it.

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

SAYING THANKS NEVER GETS OLD /

Through this practice, we have started to see beauty where we would least expect to.

“My partner's and my gratitude practice helped us move away from the rat race and toward one another, treating one another not as leftovers from 50-60-hour work weeks but as the main course. The daily practice began with: ‘What are three things we are both grateful for?’ Clean drinking water, a roof over our heads, and our love for each other became our staples. Then we started to think outside of the box, like: Having a meaningful relationship built on communication and trust, parents who taught us how to get our hands dirty and never give up on our goals, and a community that uplifts and encourages us to be our best selves. As our gratitude became more meaningful, so did our lives.

We now have three meals together every day.

At the first meal, we state three things we are hopeful for on that day. At our second meal, we state three things we are grateful for that day, and at our last meal, we answer these questions: "What are you proud of your spouse for?" and "What are you proud of you and your spouse for in your relationship?"

Through this practice, we have started to see beauty where we would least expect to, which has truly helped us to slow the FOLK down.”

KELSI DUNNE

PHOTO BY KELSI DUNNE

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

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SAYING THANKS NEVER GETS OLD /

“I’m thankful for my morning coffee. In a season where everything feels uncertain, it is a simple reminder that some things are not. No matter what else is going on, my morning coffee is consistent and good. I’m thankful for the excitement and anticipation of the first sip, which never wavers though I perform the same ritual day after day. It is a simple joy that comes before the morning light cracks through the trees, a time where the world feels both asleep and teeming with possibility.

I am calmed by the familiarity that comes with grinding the beans, boiling the water, and the smell filling the air as I choose my mug. I wonder how many others are in their homes doing the same thing. I hope they are filled with the same contentment

PHOTO BY SWEET SEA PHOTOGRAPHY

as I am in taking my first sip. In such an uncertain time, I’m grateful that my morning coffee is a ritual that remains.”

BRITTANY HEMMERLING

“Of all the things I am thankful for, what

quietly gettin’ stuff done and handling

stands out at the moment is women,

more in a day than most of us can even

and how absolutely awesome they are.

imagine.”

While we men are busy posturing, chestthumping, and making everything into a pissing contest, women are out there just

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

GREG GREEN

BOHEMIA CONSIGNMENT

Reuse, Reduce, Recycle, Relove Longtime friends Katie Burke and Katy Parsons founded Bohemia as an alternative to fast fashion.

On a mission to keep textiles out of the landfills and also provide a community service, the venture blossomed into a love of all things ‘re’. Bohemia Consignment has been proudly recycling fashion on Salt Spring Island since 2013. Thoughtfully curated modern and vintage treasures offer eclectic sensibility and affordable quality. Slow fashion on unceded Coast Salish Territory, where new-to-you items are hitting the shop floor on the daily.

@bohemiaconsignment

@bohemiaconsignmentssi

A YEAR OF 'LOVIN' OFF THE LAND'

AN ADVENTURE IN SELF-SUFFICIENCY WITH CHRIS HALL AND STEFANNY LOWEY

In the middle of an aisle, you stand surrounded by

With COVID rampaging, killing off jobs, and sending

zombie-eyed people and rows of packaged food,

people escaping to rural landscapes, Chris and his

with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Walls of

partner, Stefanny Lowey, turned their attention to

cans and glass jars, cereal upon sugar rich cereal,

their land. They imagined food where there hadn’t

bagged pasta. In another aisle, an array of fruits

yet been any and decided to make it happen.

and vegetables shipped in from around the world.

The grocery store—your dependable oyster. Or it was, until the shelves grew barren across the world.

This is not a drill.

“When the pandemic hit and grocery stores were running out of food, it only got more apparent how reliant we are on giant corporations to provide us with our basic needs,” says Chris Hall. “And if the shit really hit the fan, would we be able to fend and provide for ourselves? A lot of people wouldn’t be able to.”

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

And if the shit really hit the fan, would we be able to fend and provide for ourselves?

PHOTO BY RACHEL LENKOWSKI

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

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The goal: to live entirely off the land for one year, eating only what they catch, grow, raise, kill, harvest, and process on a half-acre of land on a small island in the Salish Sea. No masked, scared people. No dollar bills. No bags and no packaging. No international deliveries. No low-paid workers. No feedlots or factory farms or chemicals. Just a yard, a sea, and resourceful hands in a new relationship willing to give it a try—the land as their grocery store. What could go wrong?

“It’s always been something I’ve wanted to do,” Chris says of Stefanny and their shared intention. “I’ve had gardens here and there. I even remember as a kid in Vancouver my grandparents planting cans of beans under my half-dead beanstalks.”

“We decided that now was a good time to do this, and it really sped up our relationship,” says Stef.

They laugh, and reminisce of pre-pandemic travels, alcohol, pizza, and their former ways of living.

Even with very little experience, they speak as if it is a no-brainer—of course they’d be able to make it happen. It’s a pandemic, so it’s great timing. And they’d told their friends, so they couldn’t go back on it. Eight months into this year-long adventure, they’re still going strong, talking about what they’ve learned, what’s been hard, and what they miss most . . .

“In the beginning we had hopes of making sourdough starter,” Chris continues, getting

“Coffee,” says Chris. “Pizza,” Steph replies.

wistful. “But it uses so much flour and we grow such small trays of wheat that we get to batter something maybe once a month.”

“Anything with sugar in it.” Stef smiles as their list unfurls.

“We have seafood, so I feel bad saying this, but I want sushi,” Chris says. “I thought booze was going to be a lot harder.”

A YEAR OF 'LOVIN' OFF THE LAND' /

The first hurdle was cutting out the big dependencies in one day—coffee, alcohol, sugar, and gluten. “It was a shock,” says Chris, after Stef describes the weeks it took to shake the lethargy and cravings. “But once your body adjusts to it, you have more balanced energy levels,” he says.

The challenges seem overwhelming. From building a farm to giving away all their store-bought food.

From boats breaking down to acquiring, raising, and slaughtering animals. From trying to figure out how to stockpile enough sustenance for the winter (spoiler alert: they did it!) to trying out the weird and wonderful tastes of the world around them—“We slowly chipped away,” Stef says. “In the beginning it was a lot of work, and now things roll along naturally.

We pick up eggs in the morning, and breakfast is done. We pre-make soups, so a lot of our lunches are soups that just go into the pot. In the beginning, it was all a lot, but not now, with everything in place,” she says.

To prepare for winter, they filled their freezer with the chickens they raised. “There’s lots of weird things you learn along the way,” Chris says. “For example, there are certain birds that are basically just bred as meat birds. If they’re not heritage breeds, they grow so fast and so big that eventually they will not be able to walk or will have a heart attack. That’s what happened with this one turkey that we felt a bond with and tried not to kill. I think that turkey got to 38 pounds before we took him. We put it off but he got to finally having trouble moving around, so it was time.”

In the beginning it was a lot of work, and now things roll along naturally.

PHOTOS BY RACHEL LENKOWSKI (LEFT), SYD WOODWARD (TOP, RIGHT)

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

33

“After doing this you feel like, if you’re going to eat

Though they have not yet achieved all of their

meat, you should have to experience what it’s like,

goals, the couple seems relatively content: full,

and if you can’t do it, should you be eating meat?

healthy, and mostly satisfied. “The main issue is the

Because a lot of people pass off the dirty work to

monotony of things,” Chris says. “It’s hard enough

someone else—just pick it up from the grocery

to put together three meals from scratch every day,

store and don’t have to think about where it came

let alone to consider snack foods. Those are even

from,” Chris says.

harder,” he says, explaining the lengths they go through to make eight potato chips.

With abundant challenges, the adventure hasn’t all been smooth sailing. They haven’t been able

Producing only two small grocery bags of garbage

to amass enough sunflower seeds to make oil, or

after three months, the couple discovered just

separate honey from beeswax, and when they

how much waste comes from food packaging.

heard that ferns have tubers at their ends, their

“Everything comes with plastic wrapped around

hunt yielded no results.

it, or Styrofoam, or something. You really can’t get anything that doesn’t have plastic. Food probably accounts for 90% of garbage, we figure,” Chris says.

Food probably accounts for 90% of garbage, we figure.

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

A YEAR OF 'LOVIN' OFF THE LAND' /

These steps get us back to our roots.

The couple has created a YouTube sensation on their channel ‘Lovin off the Land’ by documenting their adventure online from Day One—filming, editing, and garnering hundreds of thousands of views and front-page coverage from newspapers around the world, which has motivated them to stay on course.

“Apparently we’re big in Russia,” Stef says. “It’s all been learning curve on top of learning curve. I’d never edited a video in my life.”

Cravings aside, the couple say they won’t give up on their new lifestyle when the 12 months are over, but they also won’t be quite as strict. First, they’ll get their one-year health check-up, then it will be the highly anticipated day of binging. “We’re definitely going to eat at our favourite breakfast place, have a coffee, eat some junk food, and drink all day,” Stef says with a guilty smile.

"What we've found is that it is attainable," Chris says.

"Maybe not to this extent for everyone but connecting more with our food, even just by foraging, is doable, and these steps help us get back to our roots."

“We’re so detached from our food,” Stef agrees.

“We don’t really see where it comes from, what happens to it, or even what we’re consuming, so things have gotten unhealthy.” Chris elaborates: “More processed. More and more additives and preservatives . . . We’re not super hippies. We’re not off-gridder, anti-government 'prepper' people. We’re just on a half-acre with neighbours all around us. And we’re making it work. It’s just a little more possible than people think.”

PHOTOS BY SYD WOODWARD

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

35

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Water HOME ON THE

WORDS AND PHOTOS BY JULIA DIPAOLO

The first place I lived when I moved here was a cute little blue cabin that overlooked Ganges Harbour.

I remember thinking to myself, "I will never be able to top this view.” The clear mornings were golden and the rainy days were just as beautiful, with mist rising from the trees down by the shore. But the little floating houses are what fascinated me, resembling something out of a magical storybook. In the morning before work, I would watch people row to town and wonder what their lives must be like. On particularly calm evenings, if I listened closely, I could hear the faint sounds of music being played in the distance. Growing up in Northern Ontario, the idea of living on the water had never crossed my mind, but I was entranced.

A year on, I would know the people who built and lived in these homes. I would have the opportunity to listen to the music up close, surrounded by happy people in a dwelling lit by lanterns and warmed by the glow of a woodstove. I would get to leave those gatherings on summer nights trailed by the glimmer of bioluminescence lighting up the water in my wake. I would come to respect the beauty, freedom, and major sacrifice it took to live like this.

A clever opportunity Alex became a liveaboard (that is, someone who lives on a boat) when he moved to Salt Spring after completing a cycling trip across Latin America. “Living on a boat was a dream.

I was 22 and adventurous,” he said.

He met his soon-to-be wife, Fiona, and she moved onto the 24ft sailboat with him. They purchased a houseboat a year later, and the dynamic shifted again when she became pregnant with their first child. “It was a matter of jumping on the circumstances that were available at the time . . . this place was for sale so we jumped on it. It was already hard to find a place to rent, and we were already out there.”

Their houseboat, built in 1997, was originally used as the marina office. Since purchasing it, Alex has made many improvements, including building an extension, setting up heated water and WiFi, and painting it red, green, blue, and yellow to resemble a child’s dream home. Today they live on the float house with their two small children, and they are expecting again.

“There’s been a lot that’s kept me here . . . so many people didn't expect us to live here this long . . . ‘Why didn't we decide to rent?’

But I’ve never rented; this is what I know. I don't care about the luxury. I want the

I don't care about luxury, I want the freedom.

freedom. Seeing our friends with families getting kicked out of their homes, I just didn't want that for us.”

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

HOME ON THE WATER /

With a third child on the way, though, Alex and Fiona’s time on the water may be nearing its end. “We aren't done living out here, but we are looking at buying a home in Ontario . . . the point was always to level up, from boat to houseboat to house . . . the side benefit of living on the water is that we’ve been able to save up for a home.”

What does living on water mean to you?

"It represents a clever opportunity. I also like the freedom to do what I want to a space."

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

41

HOME ON THE WATER /

To live a life I have built for myself Jay has lived on the water since he purchased a sailboat in Nanaimo five years ago and sailed it down to Salt Spring when he was 19. Soon after arriving, he met Mary, and the two began to liveaboard together.

“It all came pretty naturally,” he said. However, it quickly became clear that a 25ft sailboat was too small for two people to live on full-time, so they set out to construct a float house.

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

With skills in carpentry and some helpful

Today the 600sqft float house is still being

friends experienced from building their own

improved, and Jay says he plans to live in it

float houses, Alex and Mary began to build

forever. “You sacrifice so many comforts you

their new home using recycled materials. It

take for granted on land. Even just going out

was a year before they had a structure they

to walk around . . . Your life is so dependent

were able to move into. “It taught me a lot

on the weather and the wind. It’s loud and

about myself, what I can handle, and what

you’re scared all winter . . . but when it’s

my limits are . . . it’s the best thing in my life

calm and you get to see the sunrise every

and was the worst, worst thing.”

morning, it’s all worth it.”

He plans to live in it forever.

What does living on water mean to you?

"I love living in something I have created and put so much time into and that is sustainable for the environment."

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

43

The freedom to build When Nick moved to Salt Spring six years ago, he and his friend Will jumped on an opportunity to purchase a dock.

The structure had been home to a houseboat which had recently burned down. Plans were conceived for what many would come to know as the “Dumpshine.”

HOME ON THE WATER /

There’s a lifespan out here: I would live here longer if it wasn't for the constant threat of having to leave.

While they lived out of a sailboat moored to the dock and a camper parked on top, Nick and Will set out to build something akin to a hunting shack, but their original plans soon progressed to dreams of a floating ballroom.

Using primarily recycled materials, they would source wood from the dump, lay it on the beach, bundle it with rope, and tow it over with a dinghy.

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

HOME ON THE WATER /

A look inside the Dumpshine generally raises

After six years living on the water, Nick says

a few questions—for example, “How did they

he would be ready to transition from a life on

get an upright piano all the way out here?”—

water to a life on land if the right opportunity

which can be answered with a quick YouTube

were to come along. “There’s a lifespan out

search of, “Piano on a raft Ganges Harbour.”

here: I would live here longer if it wasn't for the constant threat of having to leave. It makes it

The structure has served many functions

so I don't want to put all the love I could into

during its evolution. It has been a home, a

it . . . We were thinking of what we would do

dance floor, a workshop, and more. Today Nick

if they kicked us out, so that we didn't have

lives in the float house with his partner and

bad feelings toward it. And thought we would

cat. “It’s really beautiful. The sun reflects off the

take the roof off and cut down the walls and

water and makes waves on the ceiling . . . and

make it into a big floating garden.”

the garden has no weeds and gets full sun.”

What does living on water mean to you?

"The freedom to build. I wanted to create a living house that could change to what I needed it for. On the water you don’t have ask anyone when you want to change something."

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

47

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

“Our mothers are our first homes, and that’s why we’re always trying to return to them.”

—Michele Filgate

PHOTO BY STASIA GARRAWAY FEATURING DEENA DIBACCO

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51

A WEAVING OF

TRADITIONS

BY LENA MCKENZIE

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

My mother raised me on superstitions. We did not clip our fingernails at night. We pushed our beds around to face east. She forbade me from wearing clothing with butterflies. We talked about the kapres (a mythical creature in Philippine folklore) and the centaurs that lived in our gardens. On our way home from wakes, we stopped at fast food joints to “dust off” the bad spirits that may have come with us. We made a wish whenever we entered a church for the first time. On New Year’s Eve, we ate 12 different fruits for 12 months of prosperity. We asked permission when passing by mounds or cutting down trees. We talked to the earth or to God or to whoever it was that permeated the reality beyond ours.

It took years to accept the whole fabric of my being.

PHOTO BY BILLIE WOODS

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53

The mystical and the magical weaved in and out of our world, as intricate as the fabrics woven by our ancestral tribes. When I was seven years old, my mother had the entire

My parents became acquainted with each

staircase of our ancestral house torn down

other late in life. Teresa was 36; Robert, 39.

and re-aligned so that it would no longer face

They came from opposite sides of the world,

our front door directly (a feng shui principle).

with personalities as distinct as night and

We did not believe everything we saw; we did

day, and I spent much of my life wondering

not dismiss everything we could not see.

what it was that connected them. They got engaged within months of their first date,

I caution that you do not reduce my mother,

but their romantic aspirations were met

Teresa, to a primitive Asian cliché. She has

with bureaucratic barriers. My parents were

a master’s degree in economics and has

told that my mother needed a minimum

travelled the world. But she inherited a deep

residency before they could wed in Canada.

belief system that had been passed down

Unable to meet this, they went for a winter

for

vacation instead.

generations,

with

my

grandmothers

and great-grandmothers adding their own firsthand tales to this intricate web of beliefs.

Teresa met her future in-laws for the first time in -30°C weather. My grandparents could not understand how she spoke English so well or why she was constantly

The mystical and the magical weaved in and out of our world, as intricate as the fabrics woven by our ancestral tribes.

adding vinegar to her food. But it was more than enough that their only son was finally settling down. It was a month of getting to know her, of

gradually filling their cultural divide with a bridge of understanding.

Four days before my parents were scheduled to return to the Philippines, my Swedish grandmother

Beverly

dreamed

of

her

deceased father. The government made a mistake, her dead father convinced her, call them. She wasted no time. She called the office and told them of my father’s conversation months prior. “Who did your son talk to?” the voice on the other end of the line demanded. “That man was wrong,” he said. “Your son and his fiancée can get married here tomorrow.”

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

A WEAVING OF TRADITIONS /

And so my parents wed the next day.

Grandma Beverly grew up in a working-class white neighborhood in Minneapolis. She had never heard of kapres or feng shui. She had never cooked with spices beyond salt and pepper. She had never travelled outside of North America. She had never done a lot of things. But she liked to dream.

Where these dreams came from or what they meant, one cannot know for certain. But her dreams came true. When my mother became pregnant, Grandma Beverly knew before anyone else that the baby would be a girl, born the same day as Grandpa, with complications at birth. And in the pivotal moments of her life, when she went to bed with a troubled heart,

She talked about her meditations, being

she would dream her dreams and would wake

vegetarian, and many, many superstitions.

anew.

In return, Grandma spoke of her youth, the Much of our early family life was spent living

recurring dreams about her father, and

around the world, but we would always visit

the traditions she was raised on during the

Grandma in the Canadian prairies, where

Depression in Minneapolis. She taught my

she and Grandpa had settled. Her bungalow

mother how to make salmon loaf, and the

house, with its floral wallpaper and its pink knit

tradition of throwing salt over one's left

blankets, was a stark contrast to our wooden

shoulder. (Neither ever saw a superstition

home in the tropics, our Indigenous table

they didn't like.) Grandma talked about her

runner, our Afghan carpets. My mother with

teenage years, sneaking out of her Lutheran

her long black hair and coffee-coloured skin,

church services so that she could listen to the

and my ivory-skinned Bible school teacher

Black gospel services instead. She asked my

grandma, would spend the hours after

mother to remind her what fruits to eat at

dinner sharing all kinds of stories. Whatever

New Year’s . . . how many, what kind.

the topic—our travels, my dad’s work, my childhood. Mom gave her recommendations

Grandma did not grow up with much, but she

from

embraced everything she did not understand.

abolarios

manghuhulas

(herbal (traditional

doctors)

and

soothsayers).

And she embraced my mother.

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

55

A WEAVING OF TRADITIONS /

It had not occurred to me that we were anything out of the ordinary. I had always assumed our differences to be normal; diversity a mere part of life. But at age ten, on the brink of my adolescence, things started to change. We moved to a conservative community where, for the first time in my eyes, Mom began to look out of place. She remained

unapologetic

and

unwavering

in her sense of self, but now that self was beginning to stand out. While the children around me said "Yes, Ma'am" to their superiors, our household was a perpetual battleground of opinions. While everyone around us attended Sunday service, Mom held weekly meditations. While the magical and mystical weaved in and out of our world, it became a subject of ridicule for others. For the first time, I began to feel the weight of prejudice.

came to me and told me I wasn’t welcome. It confused me and cut me so deeply, I awoke in tears. So I proceeded to fit myself to the mould of a place that did not understand me, to a community that spurned change. I attended mass with families that were not mine. I attempted to dress like them, speak like them, and be interested in their needs.

How I wished, instead, that I had asked my grandma. Perhaps she would have consoled me; perhaps she would have explained to me what that dream had really meant. Perhaps she would have clarified clear: that I did not need to make a huge change or

mother practiced the exact opposite. Sitting across that tiny kitchen table, clearly from different worlds, they embraced everything.

I inherited this fabric of beliefs, woven by generations of women. The fabric is at once floral and tribal, muted and blazing, temperate of not just one family line, but a constellation of them. It spreads out as a huge web would, coloured by an abundance of cultures, ethnic groups, and belief systems. I cannot tell you which of the threads are fact and which are fable, but perhaps, that isn’t the point.

This fabric is mine.

I am grown now, and my grandma is long gone, but the bridge once built by my mother and her still remains. It was in households like ours, with women willing to embrace what they did not understand, that the gaps between people were filled.

I inherited this fabric of beliefs, woven by generations of women.

cross a wide gap; that gaps were capable of being bridged. Very slowly, threads in my new community were woven, connecting the pieces of us that we could reach.

56

before accepting, my mother and grand

and tropical, wild and withheld. It tells stories

One night in a dream, a community member

what has finally become

In a world that had taught me to question

FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

I make a loaf the way my grandmother once

It took years to accept the whole fabric of my

would, and I throw salt over my left shoulder.

being, and I still don't understand a lot. But

I take herbs with my medicines and eat my

when I think of my mother, and of my father’s

12 fruits on the first day of the year. I live on

mother, when I think of this island and the

an island in the west with fairy doors and

islands from which I came, I remember the

farm stands, where I’ll always be at home and

way they make me feel . . . that somewhere

sometimes, also, I am out of place.

within everything is the same ineffable energy that binds us—across oceans, across races, across upbringings.

PHOTO BY BILLIE WOODS

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

57

A FESTIVAL

AFLOAT

BY ANDREA PALFRAMAN

It’s a golden evening on the Salish Sea. In the late-summer light, a smattering of boaters heads down the road to the beach.

As evening descends, little kayaks slip off the shore, trailed by canoes laden with families and picnics.

People glide along on stand-up paddle boards and navigate rowboats through the throng. A seal pops up from the turquoise water, curious, its head shining like a jewel. Someone’s grandma is settled into a nest of cushions, remarking that it’s her first time in a canoe since she can’t-remember-when. People call out greetings to one another, take snapshots, swig lemonade. Here is a community, awakening after a long slumber—here is a moment of delight in a long, dark pandemic year.

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59

PHOTO BY GARY MCNUTT

I’ve always been an organizer and an activist. So, in the midst of isolation, starved for community, I started to wonder: Given that the current COVID regulations allowed 50 people to gather outdoors, what if we held a get-together on the water? Oar to oar, six feet is the distance that small watercraft naturally keep from one another.

They say boredom begets beauty. A week later, under the thatched roof of a pontoon stage, folksinger Luke Wallace was regaling the crowd with a set of songs that built from gentle melodies to cracking anthems. All around this sleepy Salt Spring harbour, folks sang and clapped along to his tune, “Come Back.”

Come back to love, come back to the land Come back together and come lend a hand Come back to yourself ‘Cause we can make a comeback Hooting and hollering, people pounded their canoe gunnels with paddles, calling for encores. A butterfly net passed through the crowd was returned to the stage stuffed with bills. At the end of the evening, our boats formed an impromptu parade. From the deck of the “Pontiki,” I tossed flower petals out over the snaking flotilla. For a moment, the magic was palpable—then everyone dispersed, drifted slowly out of this liquid dream, and headed back to shore.

I work with RAVEN (Respecting Aboriginal Values and Environmental Needs), an organization named in homage to the world-transforming trickster bird of Indigenous Northwest Coast lore. Devoted to raising legal defence funds

For a moment, the magic was palpable—then everyone dispersed, drifted slowly out of this liquid dream, and headed back to shore.

for Indigenous Nations who take to the courts to defend land, air, and water for future generations, RAVEN offers an opportunity for

settlers like me to put solidarity into action, to redress injustices that are woven into the laws—and fabric—of the land we call home.

“We have law because we’re beautiful, and we also have law because we’re messed up,” says Dr. John Borrows, a member of RAVEN’s legal advisory panel.

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

PHOTO BY SYD WOODWARD

A FESTIVAL AFLOAT /

Who knew solidarity could be so much fun?

“Law can be a site of healing because it attempts to

I’ve been on the frontlines of environmental defence

address our relationships. Not just our relationships

since I was a teenager. But the work of RAVEN is

where

woven with respect and joy that feels more like repair

things

have

gone

wrong,

but

also

aspirationally: where we hope to be as Peoples.”

than resistance. When I close my eyes, this is the vision I hold for Festival Afloat: Elders make speeches

Paddling traditions go way back on the BC coast.

that call us to live in harmony with the spirits of the

Since the time when salmon began turning

living world. Their words are accompanied by a

the streams deep red, Indigenous Peoples have

thrum of dragonflies, followed by an exquisite flute

journeyed by dugout canoe.

and guitar duet. People pass slices of watermelon from boat to boat. At the height of the gathering,

So, what happens when you bring together a crew

a dancing paddleboarder tips over into the August-

of Indigenous leaders, salty sailors, ragtag activists,

warm sea, and a kingfisher flies past, laughing.

and first-class musicians? Expect paddle-to-paddle, float-by high fives. Expect kids to say they have to

Who knew solidarity could be so much fun? I dream

pee about two songs in. Expect sing-alongs. Expect

of a kind of grassroots uprising that nourishes the

a significant fundraising success. Expect to be

deeper roots of Indigenous land protection—a

humbled by the power of the crowd. Expect cross-

humble stepping-off point for settlers on the long

cultural healing.

walk to making relationships right, activating communities to turn their awareness of racial and colonial oppression into purposeful deeds.

“Indigenous communities have been the leaders in this fight from the beginning,” climate activist Bill McKibben once told me. “There’s a long, powerful, deep tradition of Indigenous people protecting the lands they live on . . . joined now by the strong and compelling scientific testimony about what’s going on with the planet’s climate. When these two streams join together, they become extraordinarily powerful. The oldest wisdom on our planet and the newest are saying the same thing now.”

I feel a profound connectedness when I’m sitting in a boat, cradled by curving slates of cedar, with the great blue sea stretching out beneath me. When I think of communities in a cordillera from coast to coast hosting their own floating concerts, I think of legions of soggy-bottomed boaters, coming together and keeping justice afloat. raventrust.com/paddle

PHOTO BY LUCINA SLIWOWSKA

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

61

THE MUSIC OF

MOM’S MEMORY

BY SUE CUSTANCE

I am a memory keeper keeping journals collecting photos writing songs recording our lives making memories is priority I am sentimental, romantic, nostalgic I am a memory keeper

We are crowded around the kitchen table at our home. It’s one of those idyllic summer evenings with a warm breeze coming through the window, and the whole gang is here for the long weekend. It’s the last time we will be all together before my mom goes into long-term care. And, before COVID shuts us down. Three sisters, our husbands, our adult children, our parents. The acoustic guitars are out. We are singing, drinking, and laughing merrily.

My mom holds a shaker and is keeping time to Leonard Cohen’s "Hallelujah" with a sparkle in her eye that I haven’t seen for a while. I cherish the significance of this fleeting moment.

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

Some visits are harder than others, and I try to hold the good ones close.

I am in her room at Dufferin long-term care home. She is only allowed one visitor and I have been designated. We are watching an old Elvis Presley clip on YouTube. Ironically, to me at least, he is singing “Heartbreak Hotel.” Suddenly Mom says, “I think I know him!” I tell her it’s Elvis and he was her favourite when she was a teenager. She raises an eyebrow and declares, “He is very handsome.” We hear the shrill of teenage girls in the background. I tell her that all the girls loved him. In answer to which, much to my surprise, my mom declares, “Not my mother!” We laugh and laugh and she sings along to the chorus.

And I can’t help adding, “You didn’t always approve of my music taste either.”

Some visits are harder than others, and I try to hold the good ones close. Like the days when I arrive and she lights up and starts singing “Oh My Darling Clementine.” Or, when we close with a cheery rendition of “You Are My Sunshine,” I’ll head out with a smile hidden behind my mask. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mom, I love you.” And I’ll hold back the tear in my eye until I’ve turned the corner.

I marvel at how, when other memories are gone, musical memory can live on. My mom was officially diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease when she was 77 years old. Today, music continues to lift her spirit and transport her to a place where we can share joy together.

PHOTO BY LISA REY

THE

COLD WATER CURE

Standing at the water’s edge, I brace for the cold I know is coming. As I stride in, I feel the bite and sting as the capillaries in my legs begin to close against the frigid assault. “It’s not cold,” my husband tells me, “it’s just the ocean.” And so I surrender, embracing this primal connection, this return to the sea. There is no pain now, only joy and release. Those of us that have taken to cold water swimming understand this pleasure in pain and have developed our own rituals for taking the plunge.

BY DL ACKEN PHOTOS BY ZUZANA MARCHANDISE

PHOTO BY SHAYLA BRAUN (LEFT), BRETTE LITTLE (RIGHT)

And so I surrender, embracing this primal connection, this return to the sea.

Some charge in and dive headfirst, others go slowly but deliberately until they’re deep enough to submerge; I walk forward with purpose until the water hits my hip bones, and then I pause, allowing my senses to acclimatize and take in the world around me. I listen to the waves whispering or crashing on the sand, the sea birds crying overhead, the wind moaning through the trees, or sometimes just the stillness that surrounds me. When I’m ready, I take two long breaths and then stroke forward, stand up again, take a breath, submerge, pop up for another long breath—and then I’m in, pushing forward through the water.

I’ll admit that it took me quite a while to get up the nerve to try it. When my husband and our eldest daughter Caitlin decided to start swimming daily in November, I would accompany them as far as the bank of logs at the top of the beach. I’d sit, huddled in layers, and marvel as they stripped down and took to the water for longer and longer stints. They would return to shore and try to convey how they felt about their exertions that day. I didn’t understand. How could they feel something different today when to me it looked the same as the day before? It seemed bitterly cold and impossibly uncomfortable.

Now, as a seasoned swimmer, I get it. The ocean,

Healing: that was the tipping point for me. I read

much like our inner selves, is always changing, and

all the research on the health benefits of coldwater

no two mornings here on the beach are ever the

immersion, from personal anecdotes to renowned

same. There are days when the ocean seems angry,

medical journals, all touting increased circulation,

raging with the wind, judging humanity for our

improved mood, lowered anxiety, boosted immunity,

crimes against the environment, and others when

and activation of the vagus nerve. After enduring a

the quiet turquoise waters at the shore whisper,

year of health issues that culminated in a double

“Come play, come play!” Today the sea lies still like

mastectomy, I was looking to alternative wellness for

molten silver, a colloidal mask hiding the world of

some respite. I was emotionally bruised, physically

life below, beckoning me to join in and receive the

scarred, and in search of a deep healing. It was time

gift of healing that it offers.

to brave the water.

It wasn’t immediate, but after the first few weeks of walking in, and very rapidly walking back out, I found I was able to tread water for a few minutes.

That’s when the healing began. I started to notice

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THE COLD WATER CURE /

that feeling was returning to the areas around my

I went into the ocean for my physical health, and

scars and that I had the “swimmer’s high” for hours

in doing so discovered a healing that reached out

after returning home. This is what I had hoped for,

past the water’s edge. I found healing in my own

given all I knew about the effects of cold water on

well-being and a new appreciation for my body as

the body, but I was surprised to discover several

a whole, healing in the spirit of this island, and most

additional gifts that came from swimming in the

importantly, healing within the greater society of

Salish Sea.

humankind. So, to all those still sitting on the shore: Come on in, the water’s fine! And it has gifts to offer

I began to experience a deep connection with my own physicality that I hadn’t anticipated, an awareness of self that, after years of routinely separating my mental and physical landscapes and hating my “baby body,” was beginning to heal. I now liked having a body that has stood the test of 51 years of living, of bringing life to my four brilliant children—a body strong enough to pull me through the frigid waters on a cold December morning. After years of fragmentation, I felt whole for the first time.

That wholeness began to bubble over into all aspects of my life. I love our house, one of the oldest landmarks on this island, but had, after five years here, never felt truly at home. Now, after returning to the shore from my morning swim, I see this place with fresh eyes. I can feel the earth around me and have found a place of peace for myself within its yearly cycles of growth and decay. I only needed to let go of the past and the future and be present here. The water taught me how.

We began to swim daily, and with every dip, my confidence and health improved. I became so enamoured with the water that I tried to convince every friend I came across to join me, and much to my surprise, they began to show up. In a year of deep isolation caused by the pandemic, I had not realized how much I missed and needed community. Now, here on this familiar stretch of beach, I’ve once again found the joy of laughing with friends, old and new, of quiet moments spent in the company of others, and of the camaraderie of shared experience.

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that may just shock you.

After years of fragmentation, I felt whole for the first time.

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THE COLD WATER CURE /

SURFACING A poem from daughter to mother

BY GEORGIA ACKEN, 13

She walks to the water’s surface shivering and trembling sinking her feet into the sand, trying to ground herself.

The salty wind pierces her skin blowing her mousy hair behind her.

She takes a breath, a cold ocean breath that travels through her body and down to her toes awakening a thirst for adventure.

Once that craving is apparent and greedy she steps in.

Pain creeps through her legs burning and clawing but she moves with grace.

Farther and farther in till the penetrating cold is at her waist.

And then she lets go.

She feels no pain.

Her body is merely an outer shell of flesh and bone shielding her soul.

She is aware of every cell entwining with each other as she tells her limbs to kick and move, befriending the waves.

An overwhelming strength takes over her wrapping her into the universe that she is a part of.

When she breaks the surface of the ocean gasping for air she’s awake for the first time.

LOVE AND COURAGE IN TROUBLED TIMES

Love and Courage in Troubled Times What if the past suddenly invaded your present?

Fifteen-year-old Lesley Graham starts having troubling visions and nightmares when she accompanies her family to a remote village in the South of France. Her first job, her first crush, and a series of unsettling events challenge Lesley in ways she never expected—and force her to reconsider the role that history plays in our lives.

Don’t miss this coming-of-age novel for readers 10 and up, from historical author Charlotte Cameron.

“A tale that will not only thrill young readers but also reveals the strength of the human spirit.” — Lawrence Feuchtwanger, poet, author

Order: fictivePress.com

FOLKLIFE FORUM What and how we learn in our school days shapes our personalities and, ultimately, our culture. An encouraging teacher can give confidence that lasts a lifetime, but a bad grade can be just as powerful, potentially making people give up too soon. Fortunately, the FOLKLIFE community is made up not only of lifelong dreamers, but of lifelong learners, too. We asked, and you answered. What do you wish you learned in school?

WHAT I WISH

I LEARNED IN SCHOOL

BY KRISTEN BOUNDS

I distinctly remember being 17 years old, palms sweaty and voice cracking as I read from the stack of paper that made up my graduation transitions plan. It’s a requirement to graduate high school, at least where I grew up. Grads must compile a collection of documents that demonstrate our interests, experience, skills, and goals and then present them to a staff/community member while explaining how we’ll fit into “the real world.” It’s funny though, looking back. Most of the graduation transitions—and everything we learn throughout our school years—ask us to consider what we want to do as an adult, not what kind of person we want to be, or what kind of world we want to live in.

Not too long ago, I was walking on one of my

I

favourite beaches. As usual, I hopped from log

presentation would have looked like if we had been

to log, bending down to pick up the odd piece of

taught that a clean planet isn’t guaranteed. That

microplastic or fishing line—an activity I find oddly

we have a say in whether plant and animal species

calming. I looked up and spotted a juvenile eagle

go extinct, or whether ancient, sacred trees are

through twirly branches of arbutus and Douglas

cut down. I wonder what our future plans would

fir and wondered how bothered they were about

have looked like if we had been taught how to

these tiny reflections of human ignorance. I’ve often

properly budget and do taxes and organize files like

wondered why I find beach cleaning meditative.

insurance papers and medical receipts and benefit

Perhaps it’s because I’ve come to accept that it’s a

slips. Or about the systemic wealth disparities in

part of life—human recklessness toward the planet.

society. Or that taking the time to look after our

Perhaps it’s the only immediate, tangible way I feel

mental health is okay and not selfish. What white

I can make a difference.

privilege means, or just privilege in general. How

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wonder

what

our

graduation

transitions

PHOTO BY SYD WOODWARD

badly the government and colonialism betrayed

one where I can walk down to my favourite beach

Indigenous people. Consent in sex education! That

and marvel at juvenile eagles without worrying

it’s okay to change our minds once presented with

about them eating fish with microplastics in their

new facts.

bellies.

The kind of person I want to be now is an active

Truthfully, had I been asked at 17 what kind of

community member. An advocate for the planet

person I wanted to be or world I want to live in, I’m

and

not sure what I would have said. I think I’ll make it a

its

people.

A

kind

and

compassionate

communicator. The kind of world I want to live in is

goal to keep asking myself.

What Do You Wish You Had Learned in School?

I wish there had been a class that taught self-awareness and self-introspection. Instead of spending all of our time wanting to be like everybody else. A class on cultivating one’s character, finding one’s strengths, and navigating one’s weaknesses . . . and even learning how to turn them into strengths. I wish there had been a class at the very beginning to find out how you best learned things . . . and tailored your continued education on that. And lastly, I wish they had taught us all in sex ed what the clitoris is and less about birth prevention (although that’s important) but more about critical thinking of one’s own thoughts and feelings about why and when a person should have a child . . . which would include the deciding not to, and that that is just as valid a choice as having them.

ALISSA SUSAN, VICTORIA

I wish I had learned about residential schools and traditional Indigenous culture.

I wish there had been courses in financial matters so I would have managed my salary better.

AARON BOUCHARD, SALT SPRING ISLAND

MARIAN LUXTON, PROTECTION ISLAND

The art of self-compassion. How to co-operate and collaborate instead of competing. That trying and failing is more important than succeeding.

Critical thinking and media literacy, so it would be easier to learn throughout life. (And honestly, most of the stuff I did learn? Long gone.)

BETH STEDDON, BRIGHTON/LONDON, ENGLAND

NOLA JOHNSTON, GABRIOLA ISLAND

Industrial Arts or “Shop,” i.e., woodworking and metalworking—classes that were “boys only” way back then!

“The rich stay rich and the poor stay poor” because we learn only what our parents know in a lot of these important subjects. I love that things are being questioned and changed and information is starting to be spread in new ways . . . e.g., in fabulous magazines like FOLKLIFE.

LOUISE HAMILTON, PROTECTION ISLAND

Emotional intelligence. Mental health. Self-care, advocacy, anti-racism.

NADIE GELATA, BLACK CREEK

JESSICA SPROAT, VANCOUVER

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PHOTO BY KYO AZUMA

FOLKLIFE FORUM /

I wish I had learned financial management, social skills, emotional intelligence, self-care, and basic repair/building skills. I was a baby-faced 18-year-old when I got myself deeply into debt via student loans and was never able to get out of it.

REBECCA STEVENSON, VICTORIA

I wish I had learned how to do my taxes and balance a cheque book and how to be a loving parent and have open, honest, and nonconfrontational dialogue with my partner; how to communicate in non-violence, how to change a diaper, and how to change my own path when my present path is beating me to the ground.

I wish I had learned that used cars and thrift store clothes make life so much better than the new stuff, how to fight a cold with food, and what all the wild medicinal plants growing here really do. I wish I had learned the true value of nutrition and that birth control and antibiotics and microplastics are cause for so much more concern than the colour of other people’s skin or the way they choose to dress. I wish I had been taught how to recognize when I need to spend time filling my own cup and I wish I had been told that it’s okay—no, necessary—to show myself the same respect, compassion, and consideration that I am taught to give everyone else. I wish we had more publications like FOLKLIFE when I was growing up to remind me that all the things I knew to be true really were.

KRISTIN LAMBOURNE, VICTORIA

I think the most important thing I missed was learning how to learn. Rote learning. Memorizing and regurgitating for exams was the standard.

THORA HOWELL, PROTECTION ISLAND

Making the choice to homeschool my four boys has been so fantastic for our family. Yes, the public system is very dated and at times very, very bleak, but major props to the wonderful teachers navigating the “curriculum” in public schools doing an amazing job!

CORAL HARDING, ROBERTS CREEK

PHOTO BY SYD WOODWARD

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More things about money. Like doing your taxes, saving long term, or what it actually means to get a credit card. Basically, how to adult.

MEGAN SIMPSON, VICTORIA

I wish I learned that without healthy relationships we can’t reach where we want to be. I wish I learned the impact of trauma and how to navigate triggers and make choices that would create healthy outcomes not because it was “what good people do” but because it was the way.

ROBIN PENNOCK, CALGARY

I wish I was taught how to identify plant communities and do ethical wild harvesting and how to listen and read nature. Like the winds turning, what buttercups tell us, and how we aren’t actually put on the planet to be consumers.

CARLY TRE, TEXADA ISLAND

The short answer: I wish I had been homeschooled.

ELISA RATHJE, SALT SPRING ISLAND

Genuinely, I think I am having this moment now. At nearly 40. I’m regarding 2020–2021 as the year I woke up. A year that showed me what’s important: growing food, dismantling capitalism and patriarchy, rest, politics (while mostly abhorrent), basic property maintenance, composting. I learned none of this in school and instead spent my time chasing marks to get into university.

ELLIE TUDHOPE, PENICUIK, SCOTLAND

At nearly 40, I'm regarding 2020-2021 as the year I woke up.

There are SO many things I wish I’d learned in school, or in my younger days, period! How about how to grow a veggie garden. We all have to eat, right? Give a girl vegetables from the grocery store and she’ll eat for a day, teach her to garden and she’ll not only be fed for life and receive soul nourishment by getting dirt on her hands. She’ll also learn the valuable skills and knowledge of when to plant seeds, how to feed and nourish those same seeds, what plants grow well together, and when to harvest your crop. Add in some recipes and cooking instructions and voila, fed for life!

KAREN PHILLIPS, GABRIOLA ISLAND

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PHOTOS BY SWEET SEA PHOTOGRAPHY

WHAT DO YOU WISH YOU HAD LEARNED IN SCHOOL? /

We homeschooled our kids every other year just to fill in the gaps. I would have liked to learn survival skills, the importance of meditation, yoga, and nature. How connected we are to the earth and how to stay connected to each other even when we don’t agree. Schools are changing and children are being taught differently, improving a little every year.

JOSEE VELSEN, GABRIOLA ISLAND

It’s almost as if it was planned. Being successful in the short term does not help being a cog in society. Doing the meaningless jobs keeps worker bees moving. School for the most part is not designed to advance us . . . Many great thinkers and leaders are dropouts, and I completely get it. This version we have today was designed very specifically to not address important issues. If we are to uplift our society/species we need to implement critical thinking, ask questions, challenge the status quo, and not just “learn this content, shut up, and copy it back down on the test.” Look at what our goals as humans are for the advancement of humanity as a whole. Macrolevel thinking not bogged down by politicians, lobbyist, special interest groups, and large NGOs to keep us suppressed. Community, environment, agriculture, finance, education, and resources need serious attention.

SANDRO FERRARI, SALT SPRING ISLAND

PHOTO BY AGNIESZKA BOESKE

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WE ARE BEAUTIFUL, WE ARE POWERFUL, WE ARE HERE

A CALENDAR IN THE MAKING

BY DOROTHY ENGST

PHOTO BY DEB DALLYN

To find real beauty in a woman, I look to her strength, her genuine strength: the kind that is forged and tempered as part of a fully lived life. I’m not talking about the vigour needed to chop wood and start the fire every morning, although for many of us that is the case.

But rather, I mean the strength that comes when we’ve loved and lost too many times. The strength that comes when we swallow our fears and release our children to learn from their own mistakes. The strength that comes as we struggle through bouts of hopelessness— mental, financial, spiritual, physical—and still manage to find the light on the other side.

It’s December and there’s a bite in the air. I’m

Once everyone has arrived, we embark on

feeling it in my bones and my hands don’t

the 20-minute trek into the woods. The air

want to work. I wrap my scarf around my

is muggy with a sweet, musky smell, and as

neck, insert a couple of hand warmers into

soon as we head out, I begin to warm up.

my mittens, and breathe a sigh. I’ve been looking forward to this photo shoot, and I came armed with my Alice in Wonderland teapot and

Liberation, empowerment, a rite of passage, and simply self-acceptance.

a large thermos of sweetened chai tea. I chuckle as I look up at the sign

Not just from exertion. By now the forest has

marking the entrance to the woods: "Elder

wrapped us in its cocoon, and the December

Cedar Forest." Today the name has extra

weather is almost forgotten.

significance.

Leading the way, I’m conscious of those As the women start to arrive, I mentally go

following behind. I slow my pace and make

through the list of names. Women of age

sure we remain equally distanced from one

coming

battle-

another. Drape us in a bright red cloth and

worn bodies to say we are beautiful—we are

we could be a Chinese dragon weaving its

powerful—we are here. We embrace aging

way along the path. Apart from the odd

and face ageism together, lifting each other

murmur, we make our way to the temple in

up along the way.

silence. Nature’s temple. Where we can both

together

with

beautiful

honour the trees—who have been with us for These women have been here for more than

so long—and at the same time give thanks

half a century. They carry a strength and

for the years we ourselves have been here.

wisdom forged and tempered by lives fully

Actually, we do better than that. We celebrate

lived. Today they brave the elements, stepping

our years.

out of their comfort zone and exposing their soft underbelly for many reasons—liberation, empowerment, a rite of passage, and simply self-acceptance. But they all come together to remind us that aging is beautiful and joyful. I have lovingly named them the Faerie Goddess Mothers.

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WE ARE BEAUTIFUL, WE ARE POWERFUL, WE ARE HERE /

The only thing more beautiful than a woman who bears the marks of time, is the woman who lifts up others who are going through the same.

The Faerie Goddess Mothers hand over their

Six amazing women, in their natural state,

robes. There is a comfort in numbers, and any

sipping tea at Elder Cedar Forest in early

tension or nervousness has disappeared. The

December. It’s perfect. So much so, it makes

air is alive with exhilaration and liberation.

me cry. After all, these women embrace every

A reclamation of who we are perhaps. In a

scar, both inside and out, and they’ve gone

matter of moments, each Faerie has found

through enough to say, “Bring it on . . . go

a perfect spot on a mossy log or enclosed

ahead . . . I can do this!”

within ferns. The teacups are filled and the steam rises.

faeriegoddessmothers.com

It’s through life’s hardships that we gain our strength. The only thing more beautiful than a woman who bears the marks of time, is the woman who lifts up others who are going through the same.

PHOTO BY DIANE GREEN

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“I come from a long line of impossibly well-bred women, and it would never have occurred to any of them, to lounge about on an island naked let alone allow oneself to be photographed while doing it. Even though I possess a strong feminist orientation, I still have to challenge my own internalized notion of what constitutes corporeal acceptability for women who—according to our culture—are past our best before dates.

Lucky for me, I live in a community that is home to a wonderful cohort of magnificently aging women.”

SHEILA NORGATE

“When Dorothy asked me to be a Faerie Goddess Mother I almost asked her if she had the right person.

I was so honoured to be considered and delighted at the prospect of celebrating my 50th birthday outside with a group of naked women: my rite of passage. I’m ready to welcome this next stage of my life, make some new friends, and maybe even let some things go . . . ” CAROL FERGUSSON

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WE ARE BEAUTIFUL, WE ARE POWERFUL, WE ARE HERE /

“Wild old women naked in the woods revealing their soulful strength Wisdom and beauty of their years such power and love magical energetic connection with others and mother nature a magical wonder-filled experience filled with joy and women’s strength.”

ELIZABETH HOLLAND

“I am not invisible. I am not slowly disappearing from life as I age, and I am not irrelevant. Nor are my sisters.”

ADRIANNE MARSKELL

PHOTOS BY DEB DALLYN GRAPHICS BY DANIELLE NOEL

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WINTER

KAYAKING

BY LAURA DESJARLAIS

That deep throb of freezing flesh. A cold that moves from your fingers and shocks you as it rises up your spine. Another level of pain.

Floating beside me, my friend gives me an amused, helpless look. Her hands are too numb to manoeuvre her kayak skirt in place around her. After scraping ice off my boat with bare hands, I had just shoved my fingers back into my mittens. “Dang it!” I smile, paddling over to her, baring my hands again to help. “The things we do for friendship.”

The day before, two friends and I had embarked on a sea kayaking trip from Salt Spring Island, north around Gabriola Island—unceded Coast Salish

and

Snuneymuxw

territory.

Being

experienced outdoorswomen and kayakers, we had planned this four-day expedition with tide and current tables and ample popcorn while sitting around our kitchen table. When we set out in mid-February, it was dry and sunny and we smiled for photos in long-sleeve T-shirts. We did not know what was coming.

PHOTO BY REBECCA GRIM

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WINTER KAYAKING /

Our first day was an easy paddle. Along the shore

cold hands, and decided to continue on as planned.

we watched herons, eagles, and shore birds as we

We had enough warm gear, and trust in each other’s

meandered north. But in open water, there is less

skill and optimism.

to look at and anything can become a game. We spent that afternoon shouting out creative uses for a floating

We were shocked to find that there was half a foot of snow covering everything.

bucket we found. We discovered its best use, and true friendship, on Day 3 in the game of “hold your

Snowflakes touched down on the black water around

friend’s boat steady while she pees into a bucket a

us. We paddled past small islands of snow-stacked

foot away from your face.” That evening we pulled

houses, smoke billowing out of their chimneys.

into a shell beach and assumed our roles for making

Everything looked slow and sleepy. It was incredibly

camp, tucking into our tents early under coastal fir

cold—but the first rule of winter adventuring is to

trees.

keep moving and have fun. So we took dance breaks and recorded fake video interviews during our rest

In the morning, we were shocked to find that there

stops in sheltered coves.

was half a foot of snow covering everything. We pulled on all of our layers, packed up, and loaded our boats. We giggled our way through the ache of our

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PHOTO BY SIOBHAN FRANCIS

We took turns leading and, in this extreme weather, cared for each other in a way I had never experienced before.

To our collective amusement one of us even tried peeing on her hands to warm them up (it doesn’t really work but desperate times call for creative measures). We took turns leading and, in this extreme weather, cared for each other in a way I had never experienced before.

That afternoon, paddling past epic sandstone cliffs and aggressive sea lion colonies, we landed on a beach on Gabriola Island. Stomping through kneedeep snow, we found a house under construction with a covered patio on which to pitch our tents. We knew we’d attract the attention of the neighbours, so we figured we’d go to them first.

As it happened, the uncharacteristic dump of snow had shut down most of the Gulf Islands, so it was a surprise to see anyone out and about, let alone three sopping-wet kayakers.

As the self-nominated spokeswoman, I clomped up to the nearest house, knocked on the door, and casually inquired, “Hi, how are you?” to the elderly couple who answered. They were a bit perplexed, but apparently okay with us camping out.

PHOTO BY LAURA DESJARLAIS

WINTER KAYAKING /

The wind picked up overnight and in the morning we were stuck ashore. The couple watched us trying to launch into the icy waves, all to no avail, and graciously offered to dry our sleeping bags and give us a warm place for dinner. We suggested a potluck but could only contribute a pitiful bag of pasta and a chocolate bar. We exchanged stories of our various travels around the world, and we all laughed at how ridiculous and lucky we were to be enjoying such hospitality.

The following morning, with the storm still blowing, our generous hosts made three 45-minute roundtrips in their little car to relocate our boats to the sheltered end of the island, and sent us off. By that afternoon, we were back on the calm water like nothing had happened.

On our last stop before home the next day, we finished a dense brick of leftover chocolate birthday cake that we’d snacked on for most of the trip. We were exhausted, almost falling asleep in our boats, unaware our car was snowed in at the beach where we’d launched, and that Salt Spring Island was also shut down.

We would eventually get home, and since that trip, we’ve all continued to explore the West Coast wilderness with a bit more heed to weather warnings. Though we aren’t much of a paddling trio anymore, these two women are still my adventure inspiration, and this expedition will always be my Left to right: Rebecca Grim, keen for anything adventure.

Siobhan Francis, fire starter extraordinaire.

Laura Desjarlais, the only one with snow pants.

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favourite. That cold ache in my hands, a lasting memory of the bonds of friendship and laughter with strangers when all of your plans fall apart.

SUBSCRIBE TO WINTER THERAPY Embrace cozy days, chilly nights, and tucking in with some good reading.

Now is the perfect time to indulge you or a friend for only $34/year.

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at folklifemag.ca $34 a year

PHOTO BY DYLAN PHILLIPS

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

PHOTOS BY SWEET SEA PHOTOGRAPHY, TERRILL WELCH, AND RUBICON PHOTOGRAPHY

Pleasure MIXING BUSINESS WITH

Like committing to a long-term relationship, building a business involves risk, imagination, and compromise. Solopreneurs must wear many hats—Artist, Marketer, Accountant, Web Designer, Social Media Schmoozer, to name a few. The time it takes to keep every aspect of a business in motion chalks up to the amount of time required to keep up a healthy romantic relationship, adding loneliness to the list of risk factors when starting your own venture.

The solution? Team up with your muse! The complementary skills that a couple can bring to managing a business make for a sure-fire shot at success. Doing what you love all day with the person you love fast-tracks intimacy, builds trust, and is a source of perpetual inspiration. Just ask these three big shot sweethearts—joining forces has made it possible for them to spearhead not just one but multiple businesses at the same time.

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

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A RECIPE

FOR SUCCESS

WITH SHARON AND CHRIS HOOTON

BY KRISTEN BOUNDS

“I always think life’s a bit like a Monopoly

Though they’ve pulled their share of “Chance

board,” says Sharon Hooton. “What square

cards” that set them back, Chris and Sharon

are you going to land on? What’s it going

are quick to express gratitude for the

to deal you?” Each roll of the dice has led

journey. “We actually met in a restaurant,

Sharon and her husband, Chris, to where

35 million years ago,” says Chris with a self-

they are now: owners of an award-winning

deprecating grin, an homage to his British

restaurant and catering company, a spice

heritage. The two met upon returning home

company, and most recently, a food truck.

to England from travels, connecting over their shared post-trip blues. “From the very beginning we’ve shared the same mindset of where we wanted to be in life—where we wanted to go. We always knew we wanted to emigrate,” says Chris. After 10 years of back and forth between England and Canada, the couple managed to settle, swapping rolling green countryside dotted with quaint 17thcentury pubs for the craggy inlets and briny air of the West Coast of Canada. Now, they sit beside each other in their island home, each cradling a cup of tea, their kinship palpable.

Culinary artistry has been a passion of Chris’s since he was a lad. Under the careful eye of his father, and after many years in fine dining, Chris developed his signature style, combining creativity and comfort.

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PHOTO BY SWEET SEA PHOTOGRAPHY

MIXING BUSINESS WITH PLEASURE /

PHOTO BY JENN KNIGHT

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A RECIPE FOR SUCCESS /

their toll. “We just kept reinventing and

Everything was on the line—our home, our livelihoods, everything.

thinking of new ways to make this business work,” Sharon says. From this mindset, the couple began catering custom-made weddings and events, started selling their spice mixes at markets and retail businesses all over the coast, and opened Fire Truck

“I saw that creativity and passion in Chris

Grill, a food truck that serves flame-grilled

right

meat and seafood.

from

the

get-go,”

says

Sharon,

who began her professional career as a video editor, camera operator, and sound

“We’re both workaholics!” says Chris. “We’re

technician, giving her the expertise needed

always thinking about work. How can we

to promote the restaurant.

improve it? How can we make it better for our staff? How can we refine the systems

Together with two other business partners,

we’re developing? It’s constantly moving

Sharon

forward—none of this ‘treading water.’”

and

Chris

opened

Woodfire

Restaurant in 2010. They watched it evolve from a set of meticulous blueprints to its

The final—and perhaps most important—

final completion: an open-concept industrial

ingredient in their endurance has been

design, with buffed concrete floors and

the communication between them, their

polished wood tabletops, pairing perfectly

favourite aspect being a lack of censorship.

like a full-bodied Chianti and pepperoni

“It’s that we can be super honest,” says

pizza with the cozy and classy atmosphere.

Sharon. “Of course, there’s sarcasm and humour—maybe because of our British

Their first Chance card turned up when,

heritage.

Sometimes

there

will

be

a

18 months in, their partners departed and

difference in opinion, but we put it all out

the Hootons were left with full ownership

on the table and work through it. We hash

of the restaurant. “Everything was on the

it out knowing we can be 100% truthful and

line—our home, our livelihoods, everything,”

that we trust each other.”

Chris says. “Not knowing if our wages were going to get paid, if our staff were going to

Chris

get paid, if the bank was going to knock on

business partners there is tiptoeing around

notes

that

oftentimes

between

our door and ask what was happening with

when making suggestions or disagreeing.

our mortgage. To survive that and come

“But with Sharon,” he laughs, “I can

out on the other side has been an immense

suggest something and she’ll go, ‘That’s the

achievement.” Persistence, hard work, and

stupidest thing you’ve ever said.’”

passion are the main ingredients that have Echoing the saying about raising a child,

kept them afloat.

Sharon and Chris emphasizes that it takes

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The years following the restaurant’s grand

a village to run multiple businesses. That

opening served up a recession, subsequent

when the patio needs to get up-and-

faltering economy, and later, pandemic

running again, community members have

lockdowns and restrictions that have taken

been there, willing to put in the elbow

FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

MIXING BUSINESS WITH PLEASURE /

grease. When one of their children was

than having tried to tell them, what a good

doing math homework in the corner of the

work ethic looks like. To demonstrate the

restaurant, customers would sit down and

power of kindness and good customer

guide them through algebra. And of course,

service. “For the customers who have been

having exceptional staff helps everything.

coming to the restaurant to see our kids grow up, it’s nice that they’ve all been a part

“There have been a few blips along the

of that—a lovely community experience for

way, but we’ve been so lucky to have

all involved.”

the staff we’ve had. The dedication, the professionalism, the loyalty they’ve shown.

Any parting thoughts? “It’s been a journey!”

We couldn’t have done this on our own,”

says Sharon. “We’ve had our blessings and

says Sharon. “And a lot of past staff have

setbacks, and I’m grateful for where we’re at

stayed friends and in contact,” Chris adds.

and what we’ve achieved. But every day is a

“It feels like an extended family that you’ve

new challenge.” Chris says: “We created this

created within the business.”

job so we can be here. This is our community, this is where we work. We created this for

Sharon says one of her key takeaways from

ourselves.”

the whole experience has been the chance to be present with their three kids, Emma, Sam, and Ben. To have shown them, rather

We created this job so we can be here.

This is our community; this is where we work.

PHOTO BY SWEET SEA PHOTOGRAPHY

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OWNING THE

KEYS TO HAPPINESS WITH DON MCDOUGALL

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PHOTOS BY TERRILL WELCH

MIXING BUSINESS WITH PLEASURE /

From award-winning restaurant owner to

Selling the restaurant was difficult, but

Starbucks muffin maker and from farmer

when they realized they’d had enough of the

to farmers’ market organizer to farm store

business they managed to make it happen.

owner—business has always been in his blood. “I’m at a happy point in my life,”

“Restaurant life is a hard life. Late nights,

says Don McDougall. “A happy place. It has

long hours. Kitchens with lots of yelling

taken awhile for that because the stress

and emotion and stress. I love cooking,

of business is high. But now everything is

but I realized I wouldn’t love it if I stayed in

kind of in sync.”

it.” The couple wanted to escape the city and decided to buy an island farm. “It was

From a young age, Don was able to see the

all brand new,” he says, “and the farming

whole picture in business—see what was

learning curve was steep, but we’re hard

needed and make it happen.

workers, so we figured it out.”

Barely earning enough to support his family

The farm alone was insufficient to sustain

as chef of a large urban restaurant, with no

them at first. Needing a place to sell their

raise in sight, he decided to take the risk

vegetables, Don started a farmers’ market

and open his own restaurant, Mocha Café,

with other island farmers, keeping it going

in 1990. His diverse talents immediately

for 10 years. All the while, he and Shanti ran

shone—for food and cooking, for initiatives

another business on the side, producing

in wine pairing and non-smoking dining, for

muffins for over 200 Starbucks locations.

working hard and for managing money.

Don recognized what it would take to work for himself and he dove in, from one opportunity to the next. “I’m an entrepreneur because I don’t want to work for someone else. I like to control my own destiny, and I have the skills.”

Even so, he says he couldn’t have done it all without his wife, Shanti, whom he met 45 years ago and who partnered with him from the outset.

“She

works

so

hard,

and

her

talents

complement mine,” he says proudly. “Shanti can focus on one thing at a time and do it well, whereas I like the challenge of having lots of things on the go. She’s a terrific gardener and weaver, she handles the produce and gifts at the farm store, and she runs the farm and our preserves company.

Not to mention she is a great mother to our two girls, and now a beloved grandmother of four.”

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OWNING THE KEYS TO HAPPINESS /

The less distance that food has to travel is better for everything.

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MIXING BUSINESS WITH PLEASURE /

Eventually they couldn’t sell all they were

and oranges and other produce not grown

growing on the farm, so they looked around

locally. “So now it is as local as we can get,”

for other options. “We’d always wanted to

he says.

have a store, so we bought a vacant old garage, and after a brief battle with the

Now, in their 60s, they run a farm, a line of

Islands Trust and community to get the

preserves, and a store, with a strong and

proper zoning, we’ve now been running

loyal following.

the Farm Gate Store for 10 years. It was difficult opening the store from scratch

“I feel pretty lucky,” Don says. “I enjoy

because it was new to us,” Don explains.

coming to work, and I enjoy working on the

“Merchandising products, putting in cash

farm at times. I have the best team I’ve ever

systems,

had working for me right now—good vibes,

getting

customers,

etc.

Now

everything we produce is sold there.”

and people are happy.”

Initially, the store sold only local produce and goods. “The less distance that food has to travel is better for everything,” Don says.

“It’s fresher. It supports local community and the people around us. It just makes sense. We had local salad shoots, another farmer doing salad greens, excess from gardens that we’d buy.” But as the store grew, customers began to ask for bananas

PHOTO BY TERRILL WELCH

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TOGETHERNESS, HERITAGE, AND COMMUNITY BONDS WITH MIRANDA CATERER AND DEB PEÑA

BY KRISTEN BOUNDS

Two years of marriage and three businesses later, Miranda Caterer and Deb Peña have found their footing as entrepreneurs. Their love for each other grounds them, while their local and global values drive them forward.

Staying true to Deb’s Mexican heritage, their goals are to build businesses that improve their communities, promote ethical practices such as low-waste packaging, and offer enjoyable work environments, fair wages, and food sourced as locally as possible.

As a young, single queer person with big dreams,

Miranda

remembers

it

being

difficult when she first moved to the island.

“I knew I wanted to have a business,” she says. “But first I had to find out where the gaps were and how I could fill a need.”

She was working at a farm-to-table dinner

When

COVID

as the kitchen manager when Deb’s striking

event

planning

brown eyes and flashy shoes captured

to a community stuck at home. It was

her attention. Deb had just come from

an

Vancouver to work in the kitchen. “The

soon realized their dream of running a

immediate

hit,

they

to

taco

success,

pivoted

from

kits—catering and

the

two

stars aligned,” Miranda says. “This chef from

commercial kitchen. They opened Dos

Mexico City somehow found herself on the

Amores Tortillería after also launching Salt

same island farm I was on at the exact same

Spring Goods, a one-stop online shop for

time. We looked at each other with hearts in

Gulf Island-made goods. “But it all started

our eyes.” A year later, the two were married

with Salty Hospitality going down during

and starting Salty Hospitality, an events

the pandemic,” Miranda says, making the

management business with Miranda as the

gesture of a plane crashing, a fading whistle

planner and Deb as the culinary artist.

emitting from her lips.

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Their love for each other grounds them, while their local and global values drive them forward.

PHOTO BY RUBICON PHOTOGRAPHY

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TOGETHERNESS, HERITAGE, AND COMMUNITY BONDS /

Deb works the window at Dos Amores—

Learning how to run a business and work

offering a taste of her Mexican heritage with

together every day offers new experiences

every torta sold—and taps into her video and

and challenges. “I don’t think you really know

film production background to promote

your partner until you work with them,” Deb

the business. Meanwhile, Miranda has run

says with a cheeky smile to Miranda, who

operations for all three companies.

adds, “Why I want to have a business with Deb is that I genuinely want to work with her—to spend time with her.”

Celebrating

small

wins,

respecting

boundaries, and knowing when to switch off are the key factors in balancing three businesses and their personal lives. “I’m the type of person who feels like I should be constantly working,” Miranda says, “but Deb is amazing at self-care, and she pulls me into her mindset.”

“But at the end of the day, we both just love hospitality. I love seeing people eating, enjoying, and experiencing my food,” say Deb. “We’ve popped a lot of bubbly,” says Miranda. “And mezcal!” adds Deb. On top of it all, they say their success has been

fueled

by

the

community,

both

locally and across borders, as Latinx food producers makes up 5% of their business.

“It’s come full circle,” Miranda says. “We had so many customers who supported us back when we had the taco kits. So for them to be introduced to Deb’s food through the taco kits, to now being able to come to our window at Dos Amores is really sweet. The “We’re

so

lucky

to

have

each

other,”

community is amazing.”

Miranda says, “because together we can do almost everything we need to start and run a business. I design the websites; Deb takes and edits the photos. It’s such a gift to have a chef who

understands

I don’t think you really know your partner until you work with them.

the

importance of making the food look good, and who presents it in a way that evokes the perfect feeling.”

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PHOTO BY SYD WOODWARD

MIXING BUSINESS WITH PLEASURE /

ON BEING AN ENTREPRENEUR Woodfire "Have passion for what you’re doing and give it 110%. Do your research—know your clientele. It’s not about how much you’re profiting, what size car you drive, or how big your house is. It’s about doing what makes you happy. Loving what you do feeds into the longevity of waiting for the rewards to come."

CHRIS AND SHARON HOOTON

Farm Gate Store "I guess the number one thing is treating people with respect, leading by example, and being flexible. My wife and I work really hard and begin wherever we have to. It doesn’t matter if I’m washing dishes, doing cash, or anything else. Also, you have to be able to spend money. Get a line of credit that will allow you to build the business. Don’t give up. Look at things carefully, have hope, be a bit of a gambler, and risk things. And above all, be passionate about your work."

DON MCDOUGALL

Dos Amores Tortillería "No matter what your idea is, just follow your dreams. Otherwise you’re always going to wonder, ‘What if?’ And share what you want to do with your community so people can help you."

DEB PEÑA

"Start small and ask for help. The answers are out there as you’re not the first person to do it and you’re not the first person to have this problem. And never ignore the numbers. Financial literacy is so important."

MIRANDA CATERER

PHOTOS BY SWEET SEA PHOTOGRAPHY, TERRILL WELCH, AND RUBICON PHOTOGRAPHY

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

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THE BIRTH OF

A NATURAL CEMETERY

BY AMANDA LEMAY

Living in alignment with the earth. Doing meaningful work every day.

Contributing according to one’s values. These are tenets that guide decisions for many of us. But Catherine Valentine never imagined they would guide her into the role of cemetery manager.

PHOTO BY MICHAEL LEVY

THE BIRTH FOLKLIFE OF A NATURAL COCKTAILS CEMETERY / /

In the hills on the far side of their barns and fields, Catherine and her partner, Gavin, preside over Salt Spring Island Natural Cemetery, a lush expanse of maples and firs blanketed with ferns and Oregon grape.

Headstones of varying sizes, untouched except for the artfully sandblasted names and dates, mark a series of gentle mounds. Nearby, a stream trickles over a bed of stones, providing a steady rhythm under the symphony of birdsong. In the distance, clucking chickens chime in from the couple’s adjacent farm.

Vibrant, wild, and welcoming, the landscape bears little resemblance to a conventional cemetery. No manicured lawn, no slabs of cement, no sateen bouquets. Only natural materials are welcome in this green public burial site, the first of its kind in Canada.

Here, there is no embalming and no silk-lined casket to preserve and protect the deceased from nature’s reclamation. The intent is the opposite: to provide a simple, natural return to the earth.

The combination of a farm and a cemetery might seem odd at first. But the cycles of life and death are already experienced acutely on farms. For every beginning, every sowing of a seed, every harvest of fruit, there comes an end. “A lot of life doesn’t make sense to me,” says Catherine. “But growing food makes sense to me and putting people directly into the earth makes sense to me.”

another remarkable benefit—the potential to create an old-growth forest of towering coastal firs.

The cemetery site was logged about a century ago, and, without some sort of covenant, the forested area of their property was unprotected from future development. Their century-old Douglas firs would be at risk of eventually being harvested. “Bodies in the ground is the best kind of covenant there is!”

Catherine says excitedly. “Protecting and nourishing these trees is what makes this burial ground unique and beautiful. We don’t go right up close to the trees, so we don’t disturb the roots. But their roots will come and find the bodies. They will feed the trees.”

It was Gavin’s desire to be buried on his own land that ignited the idea. At first, just a fanciful thought, brought up in jest. But brilliant ideas conveyed as absurdities can be persistent, and this one resurfaced until Catherine and Gavin could see it clearly for what it was: the missing piece of their puzzle.

“I think people should be able to make a living farming,” Catherine says, “yet at the same time, I think that food should be affordable. It’s a real contradiction and it’s tricky.”

Diversifying into the cemetery business was a way to ease the financial pressures that come with ethical farming. It offered an avenue for Catherine to pursue sacred work, something she’d felt a longing for since stepping away from teaching yoga. But it also came with

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PHOTO BY MICHAEL LEVY

Bodies in the ground is the best kind of covenant there is!

Diversifying into the cemetery business was a way to ease the financial pressures that come with ethical farming.

PHOTOS BY ALEX HARRIS

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THE BIRTH OF A NATURAL CEMETERY /

“It’s a lot different than growing food. It’s a lot different than plants that you grow and harvest. The trees were here before I was, and they’ll be here after me. I’m not at all the grower or the master, I am much more of a servant.”

Her role as servant to these trees began not in the forest, but in navigating layers of bureaucracy.

“Twenty years ago there was legislation that everyone had to be in a grave liner, vaults, and all of this,” says Catherine. She credits the work of advocacy groups like The Green Burial Society of Canada and Natural Burial Association for making it possible to offer ecologically sustainable burials. But it took nearly two years and countless phone calls, forms, and emails to be licensed as a provincial Place of Interment, and to secure a provincial Certificate of Public Interest to protect the land.

The first to be welcomed into the soil "was an elder and a real character," says Catherine. “His friends dug the grave and we kept saying ’It’s gotta be deeper!’ They dug and sweat and kept taking turns.

It was really a chore and a process.” Following the interment, the crew of four raised a glass for their friend around a fire and they each exclaimed gratitude for the experience. “It meant so much to them: the digging. It was so cathartic.”

Catherine’s search for truth in her 20s led her to earn a degree in philosophy at Simon Fraser University.

“Philosophy is what holds everything else. It is the crux of everything, the deepest of everything,” she says. Asking the essential questions led her to yoga practice and then to Salt Spring Island to live a quiet, contemplative life close to the earth.

Her glowing presence, her education, and her decades of yoga teaching make her well suited to leading memorial ceremonies, but Catherine found herself being drawn to a more enduring calling of service. “It became very clear to me about my role really being for the land and for the forest. Knowing each of the trees more and more over the years has all been very beautiful. And really feeling that I am

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the servant to this part of the land quite directly.

When there’s a funeral service, I am there, but I stand back, and I feel a little bit like a rock or a big tree, like I hold the space for it.”

The journey has unearthed many surprises. “I didn’t know how much I loved rocks. I mean I’ve always kind of liked rocks, you know, you’re at the beach and you pick up rocks. But I suddenly had so many rocks in my life. I’ve always been a spiritual person and a grounded person, and I like that. I kind of cultivate both. But I have become very into the rocks,” she says, erupting into gleeful laughter. “Just making the fire pit and choosing the rocks that would be the headstones, and then finding so many rocks back there and the beauty.”

With a look of contented exhaustion, Catherine describes her life as “pretty full right now.” She is navigating the challenges of midlife with grace, including aging parents, teenagers at home, farming, and a burgeoning business. “I appreciate that this is where I am, here now.” A convergence of all the things she’s been in her life: yoga teacher, farmer, caregiver, mother, seeker. She is secure in the knowledge that everything she does is purposeful, that it all has meaning and depth.

“It feels like something I can do for the rest of my life.”

PHOTO BY MICHAEL LEVY

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SINKING INTO

THE DARK

BY BRIANNA GETZ PHOTOS BY SWEET SEA PHOTOGRAPHY

To live close to the land in the winter on a

You can see the old ways in the yearly

remote island is to be connected to the old

traditions of dispensing treats to costumed

ways.

children, in decorations hung with care to mark the longest night of the year. These

Even in the height of spring, winter is on our

so-called modern holidays are rooted in the

mind—finding next year’s cords of wood,

mythos of earth-based societies.

clearing gutters, making improvements and repairs from last winter’s storms. Our lives

In the first true autumn rains, I feel the land

reflect the rhythms of the environment we

sighing. I feel a deep collective release in my

exist in, whether we recognize it or not.

spine after the busyness of summer. There’s an inner pull to fire up my oven and make

For people across the world who are still

sweet and spicy cakes for rainy afternoons.

connected to the land, the cold time of the

I put on my woollens and walk the stormy

year is a time to sink into the dark—to eat the

deserted beaches, marvelling at the swell

rich food on feast days, to connect with our

and crash of the sea.

handwork, and to remember when winters were to be respected.

It’s not hard to scratch the surface of modern winter traditions and see remnants of an older time. When the old beings lurked in the forest, looking to catch the people who lived in the houses unaware.

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In the first true autumn rains, I feel the land sighing.

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SINKING INTO THE DARK /

Suddenly the dusty spinning wheel looks

As in the spring, in the darkening months

enticing again. All the works in progress—

there’s a tidal pull to do a deep clean

long neglected in the heady rush of spring

and energetic rearrangement. Sweeping,

and summer—are taken up in anticipation of

dusting—I add a bit of rosemary to my mop

the longest night of the year.

water to sain my home. A pot of cinnamon, dried oranges, cloves, and rosemary in water

Cozy blankets make their way from the linen

go on the stove to perfume and cleanse the

closets to their seasonal spots on the couch

air. Simple witch things to help me sink into

and overstuffed chairs for winter dozing.

winter’s depths.

Sweaters and socks and slippers make their way back to their respective winter homes to

I keep these traditions because I am the

keep people snug.

mother, the ritual maker, and the hearthcraft carrier of my family. I pull away from the debased versions of my ancestors’ holidays that capitalism and the patriarchy has attempted to seize. With every year that goes by, I claw back pieces that were forgotten and lost to industrialization. Building these traditions has kept me and mine rooted in the seasons, keeping a weather eye on the changes of the biome which I call home, and honouring the cycles of the earth. In my experience, the work of honouring and mirroring the seasons builds empathy and gratitude for the ways the earth provides.

My community can attest to my riotous and spirited yearly winter gatherings where we share seasonal foods and build wreaths and garlands. Hours of silly games, children, and dogs running amuck, sharing tasty treats, commiserating with pricked fingers from the holly on our wreathes—all of these shared experiences have laid the foundations for a community that supports each other through it all.

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I keep these traditions because I am the mother, the ritual maker, and the hearthcraft carrier of my family.

Brianna Getz is a folk witch living on the traditional territory of the Pentlatch. Her spiritual background is rooted in her ancestry of Northern European animism. When she isn’t walking the stormy beaches of Taystayic she can be found at her loom or sewing machine continuing the textile traditions of her foremothers. mothandmoon.ca

WINTER FOLK TRADITIONS

CRAFTS & RECIPES

BY BRIANNA GETZ

Folk craft by nature is meant to be uncomplicated and accessible.

Here are some of my favourite traditions I share with my family and community to mark the shift into the dark time of year. May they serve you well in connecting to the season and your community.

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PHOTO BY SWEET SEA PHOTOGRAPHY

Evergreens are considered across the globe to be protective in nature.

Winter wreath A wreath is a simple ritual to honour the dark season, to protect the hearth, and to add a wee bit of comfort and cheer to a dreary time of year. I like to be intentional about the greenery, collecting cedar and fir deadfall after a winter storm. Evergreens are considered across the globe to be protective in nature; most evergreens are antiseptic and antimicrobial and are powerful cleansers. I also like to include holly and its berries for similar reasons, rosehips for their vitality and protective qualities, and rosemary because it’s powerfully aromatic and is another cleanser that my ancestors used.

Supplies •

• •

• •

A wreath base—Use whatever you happen to have on hand (a bent wire hanger, an elaborate twined grapevine, etc.)

An assortment of greenery (evergreens, aromatic herbs, etc.) trimmed to approximately the same size Twine or florist’s wire—It must be flexible enough to easily bend and wrap around greenery bundles and the wreath base Scissors or wire cutters Decorations (berries, ribbon, bones, etc.)

Directions 1.

2.

3.

Trim greenery to approximately the same size, including decorative berries or sticks.

Create a bundle using the greenery and decorative pieces.

Attach the first bundle to the wreath base using twine or wire—make sure to anchor the base of the bundle by tying it or wrapping it several times. Don’t worry about hiding the twine or wire—it will be covered by the next bundle. Be sure to leave the tips of the bundle somewhat loose, as this is where you will tuck and hide the next bundle. Do not cut the twine or wire. Keep it attached, wrapping the bundles to the wreath base.

4. Make another bundle similar to the first and attach it to the wreath base by lifting the loose ends of the previous bundle. Secure it by wrapping the base of the bundle to the wreath base, leaving the tips loose. Repeat this step until your entire wreath base is covered.

5. Add decorations as desired.

PHOTO BY ABIGAIL LYNN (INSET)

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Spiced Apple Bundt Cake A favourite afternoon treat, best enjoyed with a good book.

To Make 1.

Ingredients For the apples: 1 tbsp allspice 5 tbsp sugar, preferably brown [but any on hand will work] 6 apples peeled, cored, and cut into 1-inch chunks For the cake:

Grease Bundt pan (I grease with butter and tap flour in all the nooks and crannies like my gran taught me) and preheat oven to 350ºF. 2. Toss apples with allspice and sugar. Set aside.

3. In a large bowl, mix flour, baking powder, and salt.

In another large bowl, whisk oil, orange juice, sugar, vanilla, and eggs or egg substitute. Add the wet mixture to the dry and make sure all is well mixed.

4. Put half the batter in the prepared Bundt pan, drop in half of the apples over top, then pour the rest of the batter over top and finish with the rest of the apples.

5. Bake for an hour and a half or until the toothpick comes out clean.

2 ¾ cups flour 1 tbsp baking powder 1 tsp salt 1 cup veggie oil 2 cups sugar, preferably brown but any on hand will work ¼ cup orange juice 2 ½ tsp vanilla extract 4 eggs (or your favourite egg substitute, such as ¼ cup apple sauce per egg) ½—1 cup walnuts (optional)

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PHOTO BY GOSKOVA TATIANA

WINTER FOLK TRADITIONS CRAFTS & RECIPES /

Solstice Orange Slice Garland This is a very simple craft I like to do with my daughter over the course of a week. It involves foraging (whether out in the forest, the urban hedgerows and alleyways, or the grocery store).

If you are foraging in the forest or hedgerows, it’s important to remember the rule of threes: a third for the seed, a third for the bees (or critters), and a third for me! Part of being a good witch is stewardship to the land.

Materials Large oranges – I generally use one orange per garland, so think about how many garlands you would like to make; alternatively, use one slice per garland as a focal point alongside other items A dehydrator or a parchment-paper-lined cookie tray in an oven on low temperature An assortment of foraged items (cranberries, rosehips, Hawthorn berries, cinnamon sticks, etc.)

Cotton string or thread Embroidery needle

To Make Slice your oranges to no more than ⅛-inch thick—place them in a dehydrator or a preheated to 175ºF oven on a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper. With the dehydrator, I usually run it overnight and with an oven it can take 4–6 hours. If you are using your oven, make sure to check on the orange slices for burning and flip them to get an even dry. The oranges are the only item I dry before making the garlands—the rest of the fruit dries on the garland quite nicely.

Once your orange slices are dehydrated and you have all your items foraged, thread your embroidery needle with the thread or cotton twine. If you are a planner, arrange your fruit into a pattern at this point before threading—otherwise have at it!

Sometimes I space my orange slices out with a special number of berries. Three, nine, ten, and thirteen are sacred numbers to my family—so I might use nine rosehips in a row to amplify protection and good luck. To thread the orange for it to lay flat, sew it with a stitch—meaning, poke your needle up through one side and down through the same side a little over the centre of the slice.

Once you have your garland as you like, you can string them in the windows to act as natural sun catchers. The cheery oranges and crimsons act as a reminder of the returning light. Over the years, I have made several garlands and, because the fruit dries over the course of the season, they have all kept to be used for years to come.

PHOTO BY DONG NHAT HUY

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

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GRIEF DIARIES POEMS OF REFLECTION FROM DAUGHTER TO MOTHER

BY LORRAINE GANE

Death Dream They say I don’t have long to live, maybe a couple weeks, my mother tells me in a raspy voice as she sits on the living room couch in a plum-coloured housecoat.

Who are they? I ask, after her words land like a heavy stone in the pit of my stomach.

The ones preparing me to go, she replies as though I should know. She tells me shadowy figures appeared in her dream last night and she believes them.

I don’t want a fancy funeral, a simple casket like Dad’s will do.

What can you say to the voice of death, I wonder, my question answered with I love you and a hug before she sits down to cereal, milk, and her seven morning pills.

Early Morning Omen Black folded wings gleam as I turn the bird over on the forest path, stare at the yellow curled claws, open mouth and thin tongue dangling.

I carry the bird up a small slope, cover it with brown cedar boughs and offer a blessing as a familiar ache in my heart opens.

Later, in my room, my mother’s face floats between blackness and shimmering light.

Don’t grieve for me, she says smiling, then disappears.

For two days I wait for her return.

On the third day, back on the path, the trill of a bird rings through the forest, the song clear and boundless through the November air.

PHOTO BY KEV KINDRED (BIRD), GR STOCK PHOTOGRAPHY

What’s Left of You I A gold-and-crystal pineapple made in Sweden, two carved bone knives you brought back from Alaska, grey pearls in a navy velvet box, a black-and-white sequined sweater folded in my dresser, a photo of you smiling among red-and-pink roses, your cookbook open to your mother’s cabbage roll recipe,

II

a white china cherub

Quiver of air against my cheek,

praying on my desk

your face floats between light

beside dried rose petals

and darkness before it dissolves,

from your garden’s last bloom.

a voice that says, I am always here.

Arc of Light Only later did I see it in the photo, a white luminous arc floating over my mother’s body as she lay in bed the day before she died.

The more I looked at the image, the more I realized she was already lifting from the body that could no longer hold her here.

Yesterday I looked at the photo again five years after her death.

The arc was still floating above her— all softness and light.

Excerpted from Arc of Light (Raven Chapbooks, 2020)

PHOTO BY SWEET SEA PHOTOGRAPHY (INSET)

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

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REFUSING

OWNERSHIP Stories from CoHo Landing, a 15-household land co-operative on Denman Island

BY LAURA BUSHEIKIN PHOTOS BY SWEET SEA PHOTOGRAPHY

The earth is our mother. Most of us feel . . . something . . . when we hear this phrase—a resonance, a yearning, an evocative rumble of distant voices in a half-forgotten dream.

We nod: Yes, the earth is our mother.

But how then do we honour her as mothers should be honoured? Sure, there’s poetry and ceremony and recycling and organic farming and electric cars and wetland restoration and banning plastics, but what about our financial relationship with the earth? What about ownership?

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LITTLE HOUSE ON THE ISLAND CO-OPERATIVE /

We’re going to remove this piece of land from market forces. We will know its worth not in dollars, but in how it sustains life.

Our economic system is based on carving the earth up into pieces, buying and selling her, and fighting over her on battlefields and in courts. Can’t we find a more respectful way?

This question was a big part of what motivated me and some friends to start an intentional rural community. We all agreed: We’re going to remove this piece of land from market forces. We will know its worth not in dollars, but in how it sustains life, and by the richness of its stories and its gifts.

It took some figuring out, but we did it.

At CoHo Landing, our land co-operative, members do not own land. Instead, we each own a share in the co-op and an interest in a house. If we want to leave, we sell these according to a legally entrenched formula that is unaffected by fluctuating real estate values. As the housing market heats up around us, this property remains cool.

A lot of people find this idea frightening.

“Wait a minute—your home is the biggest investment of your life. If you don’t keep up with the market, you’ll be in big trouble!” they say.

I hear Mark Ting, CBC Radio’s financial expert,

talking

about

the

“ladder

of

homeownership.” He gives advice on how to climb it, rung by rung, by strategically buying and selling property.

That’s not our way. We aren’t going up.

We’re settling down.

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

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LITTLE HOUSE ON THE ISLAND CO-OPERATIVE /

Exactly why, in our challenging world, would someone willingly give up the ability to profit from life’s biggest investment? I asked some of my CoHo cohorts about this. Here are their answers:

Mette Mette is a visual artist, youth worker, and counsellor.

She built her own home using natural building methods, hauling rocks for a foundation, mixing mud and sand and manure to make cob walls, scavenging materials from beaches and building sites, and managing it all on a tiny budget.

“Going way back—ever since I was about 20—I wanted to share land with other people,” says Mette. “But I couldn’t find a way to make sense of ownership. All this land is stolen Indigenous land. How can we own it? How can we reconcile this? And going deeper than that—imagining the way humans would have lived in the past in life-affirming ways—it seems the notion of land ownership was not part of those ways. I think there was a deeper understanding that we belong to the land, that we are animals, and that there should be a reciprocity—a give and take.”

Mette doesn’t worry about the financial impacts of her situation. “To be honest, I don’t think I’d ever have had enough money to buy land. So I actually feel a little bit rich. And I’m actually living the dream that I dreamt back in my 20s. How cool is that?”

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Philippa Philippa is a clinical herbalist and paramedic and runs an outdoor school for children. She co-built her house with a professional builder, learning design and home-building skills in the process.

“This is not our land anyway,” says Philippa.

Refusing or reshaping ownership doesn’t redress past colonial injustices, but it does set up a more respectful relationship, she says. “We’re honouring the land by not looking at it as a commodity. It’s like not looking at a woman’s body as a commodity.”

The cost of living at CoHo is relatively low, and all residents have housing security, even without ownership. There’s no chance of eviction or foreclosure. Also, residents have access to shared resources like a Kubota backhoe, a common house, laundry room, big shared garden, 75 acres of regrowing forest and, coming soon, a sauna, pond, and tool library.

“We are all very fortunate to be here. Our basic needs are met, and I can operate from a sense of security and trust.”

Philippa uses the term “trust economy” to describe how this sense of security plays out. In a trust economy, housing stability comes not from money, but from close relations between neighbours, from collective resilience, and from commitment to place.

We’re honouring the land by not looking at it as a commodity.

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LITTLE HOUSE ON THE ISLAND CO-OPERATIVE /

“I built my house so I could be an old lady here.

Listening to my neighbours, I am struck

The ground-floor room that is now my apothecary

by the resonances with Indigenous world

can be my bedroom if I can’t make it up the

views, as I understand them: seeing the

stairs anymore. And if at some point my house is

land as a network of relationships, rather

no longer right for me, I’ll change it, or make do.

than a resource. Shifting the focus away

There’s a freedom that comes with stepping away

from individual rights toward the well-

from the idea that bigger is better, or newer is

being of the community. Honouring

better, or something else is better, as opposed to

the ancestors and the descendants.

living within our means.”

Celebrating

interdependence.

Taking

our place as part of, not above or separate The trust economy means not worrying too much

from, the land.

about the future. “If I had to leave for some reason, I’d figure it out. I’d be leaving with experience, skills,

Of course, these are aspirational ideas.

and community connections. Also, if I leave this

In reality, we’re only part way there. But

place, I love knowing that future generations here

imperfect or not, our approach to land

will be operating in the trust economy. They will

tenure feels like a profound shift away

have access to a home without it being mediated

from business as usual. A shift that, for

by the real estate market.”

us, imbues the iconic phrase, the earth is our mother, with an immediacy that hums with possibility, as we bring our dreams into being.

Taking our place as part of, not above or separate from, the land.

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FOLKLIFE LETTERS /

FOLK FROM FARTHER AFIELD A LETTER FROM THE EAST COAST

BY LORI MCCARTHY

I believe the beauty of life as a small child is

them. She remembers the winter’s supply of salt

being unaware of just how good we have it. Of

fish stacked neatly out in the old shed, alongside

course this awareness sometimes only comes

wild rabbits hanging from the rafters, and game

along later in life when you realize it was a gift.

birds for the week's suppers. The cellars were full of vegetables, and barrels of cranberries, frozen

I grew up on an island on the East Coast of Canada,

in ice for jam-making, could be found atop the

in a place where nothing grows for almost eight

kitchen woodstove. It was a time that many of her

months of the year, a place where barren lands

generation still remember with great fondness.

stretch for what seems like forever, where the only swimming we knew was in rivers and ponds,

It's these stories that swell my heart with nostalgia

and where fish from the sea was a staple several

for a simpler life—a time when, out of necessity,

times a week. It was true

such

freedom

to food and food ways.

and

beauty,

and I do believe that is a gift, a very special way of a childhood well lived.

"I am only one generation away from a way of life almost forgotten, almost fully self-sustaining."

How that upbringing has

care

was

given

Today, I anxiously await the end of “the hungry month of March” for the first shoots of dandelion and stinging nettle and

shaped me and us as a culture was something I

for the peppery leaves of watercress to emerge

was even less aware of until later in life. Now,

from my hidden patches. I then long for the

that upbringing is something I more than

summer, for sea orache and beach pea to make an

fully embrace—it is a purposefully intentional

appearance along the seashore. They’re really only

awareness that I live with daily, and it propels me

best for the first two weeks of growth. And when

through the days, weeks, and years.

the slight chill shows up in late September, I am excitedly awaiting boil-ups on the berry grounds,

I am only one generation away from a way of life

a cuppa tea over the fire, and for the first taste of

almost forgotten, almost fully self-sustaining. My

this year’s moose.

mom tells me stories of picking wild caraway for old Nanny Knight to dry and add to her bread.

My unwavering commitment to pass on this rich

Stories of how precious the wild strawberries

history of food to the next generation drives me

were, since the only fresh berries they ever saw

daily. Pride in our food and our food culture is

were those that grew from the ground in front of

where my heart is—to share stories of our food, how they’ve shaped who we are today, and how they will shape who we are in the future. My purpose is to build a pride that lives on for generations to come.

PHOTO BY VICTORIA POLSONI

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

127

THE

ROOMMATE

BY ALINA CERMINARA

One week in to living in this house and I’ve discovered

I can’t laugh about silly things that friends

that I am living with Superwoman. She doesn’t think

or younger people seem to laugh at.

so because women try not to think too highly of themselves—it’s unbecoming. She shows me around

On Sunday, she went into the woods on

this big house, pointing out all the things on her list that

the property and bucked up dead trees

she just can’t find the time to get to. I follow her around,

for the winter. She spends all day there,

trying to say the right things and not be awkward.

and then dumps it all in the driveway for

She hasn’t gotten to the door. The wires. The fruit

stacking. I heard she has a thing for wood.

trees to harvest. The table she wants to build and the

It has been a long day for her and I come

woodworking workshop she wants to tidy and the deck

to help stack some when I get home, but

she wants to finish. I wouldn’t have noticed any of it.

there’s not much left to do. She’s surprised by the offer. “You’re the first person who

She wakes early, takes apart the half-built outhouse in

has ever offered to help.”

the carport and loads it onto her SUV. She’s off to her construction job. When she returns, she will chop and

On Thanksgiving, she loves how I plan to

stack wood—winter is coming. The previous roommate left

prepare lots of food for the feast. I spend

with their coffee table, so she made one. I can barely get

the day in the kitchen making the normal

onto my high bed so she builds me a stool. Thanksgiving

favourites—veganized, because if I don’t

is next week and she’s turning a huge piece of wood into

want to include animals I should be the

a long table for big dinner parties. She says it’s something

one to make the food. She’s impressed

she wants to thrash with chains to make it look used, and

and she compliments too much. Saying

I can join her. And come along to her book club that will

we’re like husband and wife, when really

be starting again. But what if I’m awkward?

she spent the previous night gathering woodland things to make a wreath and

As a meat eater, she asks me about the field mice that

an autumn harvest setting above the

soy destroys, and I forgive her for what the question

fireplace, decorating the living room,

insinuates. The fear fades. I know that this happens, too.

then popping in and out of the kitchen

That in getting to know someone, the fear always fades,

to prepare the salmon she caught, put

because walls inevitably come down and it gets better

together Yorkshire puddings, and prep all

and better and better. Even when I feel awkward because

the potatoes, yams, Brussel sprouts, and

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

things she didn’t get to. The mistakes she made. And I tell her that she isn’t looking at herself objectively. That she is Superwoman. She thinks about this and likes the idea.

‘Maybe I am looking at myself wrong,’ she says.

She leaves me a note of gratitude the morning after the big Thanksgiving dinner on her big Thanksgiving table, and I anything else that I have fallen behind on,

post it next to my bed. There had been no opportunity

all the while spouting kind words about

to give thanks the night before with the swath of weird

the few things I’ve made, as though she’s

islanders, too hungry for words. If I were into girls, I would

not doing a million amazing things at

want to marry her. Maybe I still will.

once. She is a husband and wife all in one.

We've only been roommates for a month. We’re both a We head to the patch down the valley to

tad guarded, connection fleeting, coming up and down

gather pumpkins for decoration and for

the stairs. Some mornings I give her a hug, and most she

pie. It is our first outing together and I am

leaves without saying goodbye.

trying to let go of my remaining traces of awkwardness. The afternoon wine

She shows me the lures she made by hand even though I

helps. We wander the paths, snapping

don’t like fishing. I think they’re beautiful. And as she goes

Polaroid photos as we hold up impressive

off to try to fix her alternator after washing the household’s

pumpkins, then head back to the big

dishes, making our roommate a birthday breakfast, and

house on the hill. I feel slightly at ease now.

trying to get the massive front door back on the hinges of

Something new is opening. A friendship,

this old house, she says maybe I should write an article on

perhaps. In your 30s, what with jobs and

women in the trades.

partners and judgments, this can be hard—nearly impossible even.

I tell her that I have.

As we return home, she speaks of all the ways she has disappointed herself—the

PHOTO BY STOCKSNAP

FOLKLIFEMAG.CA / VOLUME 04. 2021/22

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FOLKLIFE MAGAZINE

GULF ISLAND SEAPLANES

Oh, the places you can go . . .

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