I gave up on having a baby and on abandoning Queenstown, so the little ones and I journeyed south again to join Lee and Horus; to dig in the garden and to get things done which is my normal and comfortable modus operandi…Driving through the absurdly verdant fields and farms, dotted with apple trees in extravagant bloom, it is clear that no one should be anywhere other than in Queens County New Brunswick in June, (but wait until I show and tell you about our accidental-sojourn into Bellisle bay and Kars…)

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Flowers, everywhere.  This will be my first June-baby, but as soon as the sun came out a few days ago, for the first time in what seemed like aeons, I have wondered why anyone would have a child at any other time of the year…We are all blossoming in concert.
I feel beautiful, and monstrous and anomalous and alien, and totally of-the-earth, to the degree that I have an almost irresistible urge (which I often don’t resist) to press my body against trees, and to lie down on the grass or loam, here there and everywhere.  Hugely waiting for a baby’s arrival is the wildest test of, not patience, but of one’s tolerance for the inevitability of what is.  I am, (continuously, always, eternally) grateful for the support that I had during my first pregnancy, now almost 14 years ago.  Thank you, stars, for giving me this time, and place, right now, in which there isn’t even the merest hint or whiff of any possible course of action but to sink into the unknowing of how this child will decide to come.

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When we arrived in Queenstown, I went into overdrive, and weed-whacked the entire property.  I love a tangled-garden sense of lushness, but I have a really hard time with lawns gone entirely to seed, or yards that seem abandoned, unless, of course, they are, and that has its own irresistible charm…  After an entire year of oil-spill-neglect, my once-beautfiul and structured garden was inundated with saw-grass and clover and dandelion (which I don’t really mind, but its time had come at this point).  It was loud and manly and satisfying for me to power-tool the almost-knee-high fields, and everything ached afterwards, and I then went about re-establishing the vegetable garden which had become almost totally indistinguishable from the rest of the weed-infested surroundings, but I can’t even be remotely irritated because a) this is nature working as it should and b) nothing in the yard or garden has been in any way touched or damaged by the horror of the oil-spill, except for that one poor, sad maple tree down by the very far corner of the kiln which is, inarguably, dead.

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During all of this, the kids puttered in the hot sun, climbing things and digging in the sandbox, and yes, sword-fighting, and Lee continued to paint the interior of our house, finishing with what will be my office/birth room and the new family room below, dining room, kitchen, and pantry/laundry room.  For financial reasons, the floors in the newer section are plywood, stained with a watered-down white paint which I figured might work as a sort of stain (and it does! I like it) and then a sealer.  I rented a sander and did a not-so-great job during an evening of discontent between Lee and me, and he has made a few passive-aggressive comments about the floor really not being all that great, and I have ignored him which almost never happens (although it also almost never happens that he is critical of my incompetencies, so la la, we’re fine).

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When the sword-play became unbearable, I took the kids and the dogs for a walk through the field and into the forest behind our house.  Everyone refused to wear proper clothes (Felix in only a t-shirt, Treva in her bathing-suit, Horus in a too-hot long-sleeved shirt and jeans, but obviously no shoes, etc.) which was fine, because I refuse to insist upon proper clothes, preferring instead to gently give my opinion, and then to let them figure out for themselves the nature of reality.  The blackflies were thick and persistent, along with a smattering of horseflies and moose flies as well.  When I first moved to New Brunswick, I had never encountered a black-fly before, and that first summer I went around looking so awfully battered and swollen that people genuinely asked me whether or not things were “all right” at home, which was actually quite horrifying…Horus grew up at the Little River Anagama and seemed to have popped out immune to the onslaught.  Treva was born in Knowlesville, and our time there was instrumental in my own ability to withstand any amount of insect barrage, because I’m not sure there is anyplace no earth worse than Knowlesville for the bugs, and Treva too, looked quite severely abused during her infancy, but her unbelievably consistently cheerful disposition throughout that summer was impressive, and I think it only underscored her already-stoic and resilient personality.  Felix on the other hand, will be two years in August, and has essentially grown up in Florenceville all this time, which is  a weirdly prim and proper place and not exactly country living, and he has found the sudden immersion back into the fray to be disturbing.  Poor little one.  He really is so good-natured and sweet, and he just seemed confused that any one, or thing, might cause him discomfort or “hurt” as he kept saying, pointing to the bites.  I had to explain to him many times that the bugs are simply part of being in the world, and that yes, they bite, but that he is not in danger, and that yes, they will itch, but the feeling will go away eventually, and, yes, he will get used to it.  (I do make a delectable organic baby-bug spray with whole organic madagascar-vanilla-beans through my little company Flora & Fauna (that product isn’t on my website yet, but if you would like a bottle, feel free to paypal me $17 which includes shipping in Canada to sasamat.clark@gmail.com– but I didn’t have any on-hand when we were out).  My favourite bug spray is mental fortitude and physical resistance, because here we are, living in Rural New Brunswick, and this is the nature of life.  Well our walk didn’t get too far, because Felix had a complete breakdown, and Treva became pretty irritable, but Horus went charging up ahead, unbothered by the blackflies, but worrying his mother because while I do have a laissez-faire approach to bugs, I don’t at all feel the same way about bears, and when I called Horus back down he said scornfully to his younger siblings, “I don’t know why you’re so worked up about the bugs, it’s just the way things are in the woods” although to be fair, he was the one who was wearing the most clothing.

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When we got back to the house we realized that everyone was starving and sweltering, so we decided to drive down the road to Evandale, which is a restored Victorian mansion-turned resort at one of the picturesque ferry crossings that dot the Saint John river in Queens and King’s counties, connecting a network of tiny and tenuous communities with their ancient little white churches and crumbling barns.  Evandale itself has a formal-ish dining room as well as a pub that serves fries and fried-things which is not my first choice by any stretch, but which is something that happens now and again because we live in New Brunswick. Evandale also has a really lovely outdoor mineral swimming pool where we spend a lot of time during the summer.  Everyone was excited to go for a swim, but unfortunately they were closed, so we took the ferry across, heading towards the Hampton area, and ended up in Belleisle bay and Kars which are so beautiful, and so quiet, and I forced Lee to stop the truck every few minutes so I could hop out and pee, and take pictures of the apple trees in their lusty show of fertility, and the farm buildings that are, by the force of nature and entropy, turning back into the soil.  That one little cottage was so poignant to me: I poked my head inside the door that hung ajar, and the one room dwelling still had crumbling wallpaper, and an old stove, and the most stunning field that rolled down to the water.  I could see a little old lady like me, sitting in her rocking chair, now gone, and soon her little house too…So much of New Brunswick is precious buildings like these, and increasingly they disappear each year.  I thought again about a project I have been sort-of working on for a few years now, photographing the disappearing architectural history of rural New Brunswick, and it occurred to me that I might have had more success getting a government grant with a project like that than with a weird political performance piece based on giving birth, ha.  Oh well, next time.

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Anyway.  We are all back in Florenceville now (that last photo is of a stunning house located in Florenceville, which has stood vacant for years now, a phenomenon that I feel is bordering on criminal and which probably wouldn’t occur anywhere else? so sad), doing some more packing and dealing with some pottery orders and the studio itself, but just for a day or two…back and forth, until the arrival of this child and it’s nice to know that wherever we are, she or he will be born, and it will be fine.