Winter has not been consistent this year – or the past two for that matter – in little Saint John, so when the conditions are just right, we jump on it.

So this past Sunday we bundled up and drove to Elmhurst Outdoors on the Kingston Peninsula, one of our favourite winter destinations. The last two winters we travelled to Elmhurst to cross-country ski, so this time, we decided to try out snowshoeing. I rented a pair for $5.30 plus tax, and the day pass was another $5.30. Very economical day out!

We ventured out to take a long winter hike up a hill that would lead us to a scenic lookout of the St. John River. The path twisted and turned, and the hill warmed the body – which was essential because it was well below -10 C. I don’t own snowpants and thought I could get away with wearing running tights, but was freezing my buns off.

Snowshoeing is a great way to enjoy the subtle beauty of the forest in winter. The trees were heavy with snow, and we could hear the sweet chirps of winter birds. Surprisingly, we didn’t see another soul on the roughly two-hour hike. It was peaceful and the cold, fresh air felt good for the lungs. The snowshoes were light and easy to wear. The grips help you climb up and scramble down hills with ease.

When we finished, we took a few minutes to warm up in the cabin and have a bowl of homemade soup.

We always say we’ll go back to Elmhurst again (I just love their groomed ski trails), but a steady, snowy stretch never seems to last long enough. Spring is already just a month away.

Elmhurst’s activities don’t end when the snow melts. When the sap stars to run through the maple trees, they have educational tours for families, and, best of all, fresh maple syrup is on the menu at the cabin. I think we might manage another trip yet.

When we bought the house, most of the rooms on the main floor were painted a minty green colour. It obviously had been there a long time. The colour went behind the baseboards and cupboards that have been there for about 10 years.

So, armed with a $10-off coupon per gallon, we went to Home Hardware and bought a few cans of the Beautitone Designer Series paint. We picked Hurricane for the main colour – a greyish-blue, and Cool Custard for one wall in the kitchen. For our bedroom, we went wild and picked Outback, a dark and sexy reddish-brown.

The dining area: before

After

We’re both amateurs, but for anyone who has never painted: it’s totally doable. I started out by washing all the walls with a bucket of warm water and a tiny bit of mild detergent. Then I went over the areas again with just water to make sure the soap was all off. This was a lot of work but it’s a good way to make sure the paint bonds to the wall.

The next big job was taping off all the trim. It takes a long time. Then we started by cutting in the corners and areas along the trim with a brush. The rest was covered with the rollers, moving in three-foot sections, following a W pattern, then filling it in. We painted two coats just about everywhere.

One mistake I think we made was waiting too long before we took the tape off. In some areas, the tape pulled off scraggly lines of paint. We still have to fix these areas.

All in all, a successful first project. Our house no longer feels like an old lady’s place. It feels fresh and modern. Not bad for a 40-year-old home!

The bedroom: before

After

It’s really happening, and our little blue house on Saint John’s west side is ours as of January 20.

I will truly miss living in the historic uptown, our beautiful, tree-lined Germain. But after almost 10 years of paying rent, I am ready for home ownership. An investment for the next few years, at least.

The journey of house-hunting was filled with ups and downs, adrenaline highs and frightful lows. For all those property virgins out there, I want to share some of the things I learned:

• It was easy for me, an optimist, to fall for a home right away while my boyfriend, and our agent, were quicker to point out the faults. This was important.
• While we weren’t sure we needed an agent right away, we are so glad we went with Don LeBlanc of Century 21. His easy-going, patient, almost fatherly advice was so appreciated. He helped us weigh the pros and cons and bring up points we wouldn’t have known ourselves.
• Mortgages are complex and bizarre things. So are lawyers. Both want your money, and lots of it. Shopping around is important.
• One thing to consider if buying a house is the term of your mortgage. Five years is common. This means your interest rate is guaranteed (historic lows right now, people!), but you will pay a penalty if you break the term, equal to the interest you would have paid for the remainder of the term. Kind of a scary concept, so we had to make sure home ownership was something we wanted to commit to.
• Property taxes will make up a significant portion of our monthly living expenses. Around $225 – yikes! And yes, the taxes are higher in Saint John than in surrounding towns, but the real estate is more affordable, and the transportation costs are less. The latter two won us over.
• Because of our investment, I find myself considering the city issues I often write about from an entirely different perspective. Transit cuts mean I can’t take the bus to make it in time for my 7 a.m. shift. Saint John’s water and sewer projects mean I will have to pay more every year for however long into the future. And the Harbour Bridge’s ongoing repairs will mean traffic delays for us in the summer months. Ack!
• The what-ifs are the scariest part. What if we lose our jobs? What if we break up? What if our house burns down and insurance doesn’t cover it? I’m not gonna lie. These still scare me. I guess at some point you just have to take a leap of faith.

The issues around home ownership are very grown-up. What’s the difference between aluminum and copper wiring? Why do we need attic vents? How much will our electricity bills really be?

It’s a little scary, but also very satisfying. Apartments have always felt transient to me. A house is a home.

Can’t wait to have you over for tea.

On Friday, Oct. 21, Uncle Mike Rumleski died suddenly, while on a moose hunting trip in the same woods he has wandered for years. He had a heart attack, at the age of 72. He leaves behind my 49-year-old Aunt Marylou, who I’m convinced is the sweetest soul on this earth.

He was gone too quickly, so shockingly, that it’s still hard to imagine the world without him. Uncle Mike always had a word of advice, whether you needed it or not, as his daughter Kathy, my step-cousin, and also a journalist, said at his funeral. I always listened to his advice, which mostly centered around working hard, getting a good education, and making money. Those were all things he was good at, and they were things he valued and never took for granted.

Uncle Mike was born into a poor family near Timmins, Ont. He was the oldest of eight, and to his last day his family relied on him for fatherly guidance. When they were young, his brothers and sisters would all share a bed, lying cross-wise so they’d all fit.

Starting out as an auto-body technician, Uncle Mike switched careers to become a shop teacher after an accident which crushed his legs when his kids were young. He buckled down and studied by correspondence, eventually landing a job. That’s when he met Aunt Marylou, who was also working as a teacher in Petrolia, Ont.

They fell in love and married in 1992. I was a junior bridesmaid, my mom the matron-of-honour. We wore baby blue dresses adorned with Aunt Marylou’s favourite flower, the Lily of the Valley.

Through the years, my aunt and uncle always made time for visiting my siblings and I. They would spoil us and take us shopping. We’d have sing-alongs to Uncle Mike’s by-ear guitar music. Their visits were always highly anticipated and usually ended with tears as they made the three-hour trek back home to Alvinston, Ont.

When I moved to Saint John, Uncle Mike and Aunt Marylou were the first to visit me, bringing along their grandsons, Aidan and Nolan. We rode the Reversing Falls jet boat ride, dined at Grannan’s and had a dance party in my tiny living room.

Every time I saw him, Uncle Mike would always have a shaky hug and smooch. He’d always say ‘I love you.’ And he always wanted to talk about “life.” “This is the thing about life,” he’d say. “Sometimes in life this happens.”

He was wise, and probably wiser than all of us up to his last days, when he took out my Aunt Marylou on her dream date, when she got to meet Dean Brody before a concert in London. He also winterized his many vehicles, watched 20-year-old home movies and left a wedding album from his first marriage open on his work bench.

So “in life,” we grapple with his death. And when I went back home for his funeral this week, all I could do with cry with my aunt and hold her tight. Blink back tears as I watched my beloved grandparents feel her pain, and hug my parents, brothers, sister, niece and nephew with everything I could.

It’s so scary to think the death I pick words to describe almost every day can creep into my life, and like everyone else, it’s so not fair.

On good days, the fog is serene and mystical. It adds to Saint John’s charm.

The last 10 days, the fog seemed to seep into my head and never left. I had vertigo, which made me feel uncomfortably dizzy, all day, every day, as long as I was moving my head.

I missed two days of work on the worst days. All I wanted to do was lie down.

The cause is mysterious, some kind of inner ear issue that is triggered without rhyme or reason. And no, I don’t think it’s something I can truly blame on the fog, though for a while, I was joking that I had fog disease.

Now that I’m finally feeling better, I am so grateful to be a healthy person. How horrible it is to have a strange ailment and not know when it will go away. Health is so easily taken for granted.

One of the worst parts of the vertigo is I felt too sick to exercise, and I love to run and workout.

Now all I can think about is when and where I will run to next, and what music I will listen to.

As a side note, I wanted to share my results for the Hampton 5-miler, which was Sept. 11. I ran it with my bf and his mother, and we all did really well. My guy beat me by a minute exactly. I ran the course in 46:21, which was an average of 9:18 a mile and 11/30 in my age group. I’m not signed up for another race, but  hoping to try something else in the weeks to come to keep up the momentum!

Crunch, crunch, crunch. Fresh green beans, straight from my humble plot in the Rockwood Park community garden. Raw is my favourite way to eat them, and this year, I have a pile to eat.

The taste takes me back to growing up on the farm in Mar, Ontario, which my brother took over a few years ago. (My parents now farm on my grandfather’s homestead).

Picking beans was a chore, because Mom had a massive garden, meant to keep us fed through the winter. There were also rows and rows of potatoes, corn, peas, spinach, onions and other hearty vegetables. In late summer, we’d pick, clean, cut and freeze or can. I remember helping my tireless Mom “nib” the beans, which just means to trim off the ends. The best part for me was sneaking a few beans for myself.

Today I can eat as many as I want. I love the slightly rough texture of the bean on my tongue, and piercing through the juicy legume with my teeth. I wash them and eat them whole, tossing away the stems.

It hasn’t been a great season of gardening for me. Most of the things I planted in mid-June failed because of the wet mess of the summer we’ve had in the Maritimes. Not nearly the same heat as Ontario either. Many times I’ve visited my little plot to find it surrounded by muddy puddles of water. It seems a few furry friends have nibbled the ends of my plants as well. I will have to decide soon if I will put down the $15 deposit to garden again next year.

All told, I’ve only successfully grown some thyme, lettuce, a handful of carrots, radishes, and of course beans this year. The beans have been by far, superior. Bursting with fresh deliciousness and a hint of farm memories.

I know this more than anyone. When I started out as a student journalist, my skin was quite thin. One of my first summer jobs in high school I spent in a pool of shameful tears, because I couldn’t take constructive criticism from my editor. (I was writing for a tourism website – not a newspaper – but I had the fortune of learning from a blunt, if sometimes surly, retired reporter. Now looking back, I realized I learned the most basic writing lessons from him.)

Over time, I’ve learned to toughen up – whether it was dealing with testy varsity coaches upset with their placement in The Cord, the student newspaper at WLU, or hearing from angry professors, upset with our portrayal of their research.

I’ve learned to deal with disgruntled police officers, angry mothers and how to take the heat for my mistakes.

The trick is not to take it personally. And own up when you’re in error.

But when you’re a journalist, with your name on the story and your words on the page, sometimes you can’t help but feel a cringe and a shudder when someone has a problem with what you’ve written.

So there are times when it doesn’t matter how thick that skin has become. The tears come easy. This week, I had one of those days.

But I did something I haven’t done before. I didn’t try to hide it. I didn’t feel very embarrassed about crying, because in this particular case, I did nothing wrong. I also trust my colleagues not to judge me for such an outburst.

And why should it be a shameful thing to cry? Sometimes I think a person’s compassion and emotion can make them a better writer – you’re more likely to convey that in the story.

I thought back to this article I recently read in the Globe:

“Strategically, conventional wisdom goes, it’s not a good move to show vulnerability at work. Crying is emotion, which is the opposite of thinking. And if you’re not thinking, then you’re stupid – and not so promotable. In a cutthroat professional milieu, you are either a shark or a snivelling minnow. Cry and be eaten.”

But Katrina Onstad goes on to say:

“By stigmatizing crying, we pretend that emotion doesn’t inform our choices. The relentless push for control, the fear that expressing feeling will taint the public image, keeps compassion at a distance, too.”

In journalism, writing, storytelling, who are we if can’t be compassionate?

I’m not going to stop trying to be tough. A little toughness never hurt anyone. But I won’t try to hold back my emotion either. So what if a few tears fall down my cheeks and I have to go for a walk. There’s no reason why my co-workers or anyone reading this blog should think I’m less effective at my job.

If anything, it shows my heart is in it.

My heart’s already beating so fast and I haven’t run 100 metres. It’s my first race and I can hardly believe I’m here. But I’ve done my training and I know I can do it, so I let my glutes and quads do their thing. I just come along for the ride. As soon as I pick up the pace, my nerves fade away.

There are kids and mothers and spouses cheering and clapping as we jog through the first few feet, then it’s all downhill. I try not to go too fast at first, though my legs want to fly. I feel the 8 a.m. sun on me as I run in the middle lane. Police have stopped traffic at every busy intersection so runners, like a mob, can take over the road. We glide across an overpass, and continue downhill. We run through a construction zone where the workers stand clapping. I feel like I’ve already won.

I smile as I run up the first challenging hill, and I smile more as I pass others. I continue on this route I know so well. I know when I will tire, and I know if I keep going, I’ll be OK. After two miles, volunteers pass out water and Gatorade. I take a sip of water and keep running, tossing the cup on the ground like I’ve seen on TV. Keep running along the harbour and up the next big, gradual, Main Street hill.

Jog alongside a boy who can’t be any older than 12. I pass my landlord’s shirtless son and nod. I feel like I’m riding on a wave of adrenaline. At the top of this hill is the homestretch. I’m at 30 minutes when the half and full marathon runners take a turn, us 5-milers head for home. More water and a wet sponge feel so great and I cheer like a fool when I pass other pedestrians cheering us on. An old lady with a cane claps as I pass. Continue on, press on, it’s getting tough. Last few kilometres and it feels hot. Past Dairy Queen and the thought of ice cream gives me a stitch (or is it my poor breathing?). Keep pressing on, up another hill, passing walkers. Keep going, until I need a 30 second walking break. But the end is so close!

I think of the finish line. I picture running across it. I practise my smile. And before I know it, I’m almost there. I pick up my pace and run as fast as my body will take me. I throw my hands in the air as I round the last corner. But the finish is farther than I thought. I keep up the pace and I hear someone yell “Nice run! Keep going!” It’s all I need to hear. I wave at my boyfriend waiting at the gates, and I plow through the end. Time is 47:29. I beat my goal of under 50 minutes. But I really don’t care. I did it! I can’t stop smiling and my whole body feels happy.

Sign me up for the next run. I’m hooked.

Sports and I did not agree. I felt embarrassed and pudgy.

Fast-forward 20 years and here I am, about to run my first race. When I think about the upcoming Marathon by the Sea, and my first 5-miler (8 k), I get excited and just a little scared. I’m really going to do it!

Here is why this event means a lot to me:

About three years ago, I went through a very tough time, personally. A lot of change and a lot of upheaval. Inspired by some friends, I started to run. Just a little at first. Run two minutes, walk one minute, and repeat.

It was so hard at first. I would come home and lay on the floor, nauseous. It’s because I was so out of shape. I don’t think I had ever really been in shape my whole life.

But I kept going. I printed out a 5-km training plan from the internet, and within a couple months, I could run 15 minutes without stopping, walk one minute, and run another 13 minutes.

That was 2009, and since then I have kept it up. Nothing crazy, but just a couple runs a week. I shed some pounds, and became much more aware of my health. It lifted my spirit and boosted my confidence.

I decided to get a gym membership and kept going. More classes, more strength, more endurance. Then I hit the pavement more. This summer, I’ve been averaging 20-kilometres a week.

I never considered myself serious enough to enter a race, but this year I thought, what the heck. I think I could do it. So I lengthened my distance a bit, and last Sunday, ran the 8-km route for Sunday’s race without a hitch.

The feeling of knowing I can do this is incredibly uplifting. How does something so physical mean something so much more? Any runner will tell you – there’s more to it than the physical strenuousness, getting in the zone, feeling the burn.

It’s smelling sweet blossoms, or the salty ocean breeze. It’s the feeling of using every ounce of strength to get up a hill, then ride the wind back down.

Now, I’ll get that feeling with hundreds of other people. Crossing a finish line.

It’s like a badge for me: April, you got through this bit. Now, you can do anything.

For locals, whale watching may seem too touristy. But the idea is still novel to me, and I’ve always wanted to try it. When my friend Miranda came to visit on New Brunswick Day weekend, it was the perfect opportunity.

Armed with our SLR cameras, we boarded the Quoddy Link. It’s not a cheap trip at around $60 with tax, but for a three-hour cruise in lovely warm weather, we made the investment.

The finback whales rewarded us with quite the show. These animals are the second-largest whale species in the world, and the largest in the Bay of Fundy. They are up to 25 metres long, and weigh 70,000 kilograms. They live up to 80 years.

The Quoddy catamaran took us out into the chilly ocean waters somewhere between Blacks Harbour and Grand Manan Island. Before long, we saw whales spraying mist into the air. The captain slowed the motor and two or three whales came right up alongside the boat, showing their slick backs before diving back beneath the water. It seemed amazing they would stay nearby, given they can swim at speeds of 50 kilometres an hour.

Seeing these amazing animals up close was such a treat. For me, it was a reminder of the beauty of that lies in the cold salt water not far from my Maritime home.