Entering Civilization

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We finally settled on one, seven miles from my mother's property. Little did the owners know that I chose it because of the several acres of woods just east of it. Civilization had drastically altered my sense of space. Out in the wilderness I felt huge but was constantly reminded of my own insignificance. There were trees that were older, animals wiser. Back in civilization I felt mentally, physically, and spiritually crowded.

The house that we rented was a furnished two-bedroom duplex. Ben and I shared a bedroom while Natalia had her own. The downstairs remained unoccupied. Large windows and a deck overlooked Shushwap Lake, and the glow of the fireplace fed our primal spirits and offered us consolation.

And yet how radically different a typical day in the wilderness had been from a day in civilization. In the woods our alarm clock was the crow of King, our rooster. This signaled it was time to begin the first task: starting a fire in our wood cook stove and simmering the cereal, often homemade from our own wheat. A brisk trip down the hill to the outhouse offered a revitalizing (torturous in winter) tonic of fresh air and view of Natty Creek. The pos sibility of spying a wolf or moose always lingered. On the walk back, I would reenter our log home only after grabbing a hefty armload of birch and spruce for the stove. Then I'd put the morning meal on the table.

Here in our rented house, the propane heat was summoned at a touch of the thermostat. The initial blast of air through the vents sent shivers up my spine. Despite my nagging at breakfast time, the kids rejected the time-consuming homemade cereal from the bush for a quick bowl of sugary cereal doused with milk. In the same sense, I was impressed by the speed of the electric stove. (A couple of sheets of burned cookies smartened me up on just how fast it does heat up.) Here in the modern world there was no steep side hill to negotiate to get to the bathroom, which was warm and cozy. A fan—which went on simultaneously with the light—was a surprising indulgence. The efficient flush of the toilet seemed magical to me—until Ben dropped a pen down it to see what would happen and plugged the whole works.

MISSING COUNTRY SILENCE
My biggest problem at first was the noise. I couldn't sleep with the racket of trains, traffic, and sirens.

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