The other day, I went shopping for a clock. I had an hour or so to kill and Henry was at daycare, so it seemed like a good time to pop into a store and pick up a clock for our spare room. For those who don’t already know, I have always wanted to have a B and B. We thought we’d take the concept for a test drive by putting our spare room on Air BnB to see if we really do like hosting strangers in our home. So far it’s been lovely to meet new people who are in town for various reasons and who appreciate staying in our heritage home. I’ve enjoyed getting the guest room all ready for our guests, and part of that has involved shopping for a clock. My first stop was a big box décor store because I figured they’d have lots of options. What I hadn’t figured on was the overall crappiness of the clocks they offered. My eyes appreciated their antiqued finish and old-fashioned styling, but the second I held one of those made-in-China clocks in my hand, the jig was up. They were fake. Fakety-fake-fake-fake. They were like all the other plastic items that try to pass as the real thing. We see so much of that in our society today - painted plastic disguised as wrought iron, terra cotta, stained glass and even wooden furniture. I could not justify buying just another piece of painted plastic that didn’t tick or ring or even have its face glued on straight. I left the store feeling frustrated, but determined to hold out for the real thing. Next, I stopped at Value Village, having been inspired by a recent blog written by my friends Mark and Cassie at janeandjury.com. Like them, I’d much rather buy something used than new any day. I often imagine a past, a story, for items I pick up at antique shops or thrift stores. And I love to rescue things and give them a new life. So, I wandered the cluttered aisles of Value Village and there it was – the perfect clock, sitting stoically amidst the knick-knacks. When I picked it up, I knew for sure. It has weight and substance. In a world of painted plastic, it is the genuine article. There are moving parts within. It requires that one diligently wind it up daily. And, given that I am a bit obsessive about absolute darkness for quality sleep, I am thrilled to report that it does not emit any sort of unearthly glow. There is nothing plastic, digital or fake about this clock. It was made in Peterborough, Ontario, Canada by the Western Clock Company Ltd and is named Baby Ben. It is the perfect clock for our guest room. It has been reclaimed and redeemed. It has a place and a purpose in our home. Now, if I can only get it to work.... You can find the link to our Airbnb advert here, in case you ever want to come and stay with us in the prettiest little town in Canada! https://www.airbnb.ca/rooms/10221295
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I am married to a pretty good guy. He’s a patient man who is willing to come along for the ride on any crazy train I happen to hop aboard. He was so supportive when I said I wanted to quit my job to come home and be with Henry. But he knows me better than to assume that being at home with our little boy was the only thing I planned to do. After all, I started beekeeping when on maternity leave, because having a preemie who never slept more than one hour at a time for that whole first year just wasn’t enough to challenge me! So late one night, as I twisted to turn off the bedside lamp, I heard him quietly ask “So, can you give me any idea as to what this mid-life crisis of yours might entail, just so I can prepare myself?” I sighed, rolled over, looked him squarely in the eye and said, “It might involve chickens. And definitely more bees. And maybe foster babies. And probably a bed-and-breakfast. And for sure, a few alpacas.” And then I waited. Silence. And finally, he smiled and said, “Well, I guess we’d better start looking for a bigger house on a few acres in the country.” That is a pretty good guy. That is MY pretty good guy. So imagine my indignant surprise when yesterday I noticed that he had posted, to my facebook timeline, a video about the hazards of raising chickens. I should have known that he would start throwing pseudo-scientific stuff my way to try and kill my dreams!!! And all he had to say for himself was that it was ‘too close to home not to post’. For any of you who also might harbour dreams of one day raising your own chickens, I give you this public service announcement (see link below). We can discuss it later, when we get together to talk about our chickens! http://offgridquest.com/survival/the-hazards-of-raising-hens I am a teacher. But I am leaving teaching. It might just be for now, or it might just be for good. All I know is that it hasn’t been working for me and for my family. I spend two hours of each day in the car, instead of with my family. My little boy, for whom I worked so very hard to have and to keep in the first place, goes to daycare at 6:45 am and it breaks my heart to leave him there every single morning. Don’t get me wrong – he loves it there. But the kid germs have given his little damaged lungs a run for their money this semester, and so I am coming home to be with him. The rest of the family needs me too. Both my father-in-law and my toddler need more attention than they’ve been getting from me. They need me to slow down and join their pace of life. I am so looking forward to just slowing down and being with the ones I love. I’ve been teaching forever, and it’s a little hard to say good-bye. My school has always been MY school. I remember running the halls as a pre-teen when my dad was first hired on at the local high school. Then I joined him there, in the glorious eighties, to live out my angst-ridden teenage years in those same halls. After the required number of years in post-secondary institutions, I returned to my beloved school – now as a teacher, and as a colleague of my dad. And so the years passed, my life always dictated by bells and timetables. After an extended maternity leave, I thought I was ready to go back last fall. I had been going to school every September since I was four years old, so it seemed like the logical thing to do. And it was a safe, soft place to land. But it turned out to be just too, too much for all of us here at home. So, I am leaving the school that has been home to me for so long, and heading out on new adventures with my family. People ask me if it’s hard to go. I don’t think so. I’m excited and eager to try new things. And I never wanted to be a teacher who stayed just because they were afraid to leave. Life is too short to let fear make your decisions for you. But, as I told my students, I wasn’t really ready to go until I won the cookie of the day. Eighteen years and I had never won the cookie that is randomly awarded to a teacher each Friday morning over the PA. Eighteen years. There has to be a problem with their system if I can’t win that cookie in that many years. We just don’t have that many teachers there! And yes, I know I could buy my own cookie. I do it all the time. But it’s the principle of the matter! As luck would have it, I won the cookie on the very last day of classes. (This is how your story plays out when the vice-principal is also your bestie and he is tired of your whining.) You should have heard the uproar in my class when my name was announced! Thirty-one Grade 9 students leapt to their feet, threw their hands up in the air and shouted as if we had just beat the Russians in overtime! It was a glorious moment and so fun to share it with such a lovely group of little niners. I just love people who celebrate others’ successes with such complete enthusiasm and abandon. So I won my cookie. And now I am ready to go. This blog will be my attempt to chronicle the adventures that lie ahead. I have so many ideas that dance around in my head. I’d love for you to join me and my family on the journey as we make some decisions and changes and plans and moves. These are our sweet endeavours. |
Kari Raymer BishopLover of Jesus, cheeses and tropical breezes... seeking balance in life, even as I embrace new challenges and chase new dreams. I am wife, mother, daughter and friend, as well as teacher, entrepreneur, activist, writer, beekeeper and hostess. Come along on the journey through my long-awaited midlife crisis! Archives
March 2018
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