C.A. Logan Author

This April, I sat down for a serious self-directed sermon. I wagged a finger at myself. “There will be no more flying, no more canal boats, no more bonfires, no more driving out of province, until you finish the next book.” Pause. “Fine,” I grumbled.

Grounded. Calli, my muse, mocked, “and we’ll have fun fun fun now that daddy took the T bird away.” She is such a greedy little attention grabber, frivolous, and full of ideas. For example, I was reorganizing my piles of notes when Calli burst into my library dressed in a scarlet cloak and hat, threatening two, no, three killer … wait, four, four killer stories. “Grab the keyboard,” she ordered.

But a girl has to get out of the library sometimes, and my escapes have revealed this summer’s element: Earth. My hands, when freed from the keyboard, veer towards the dirt. I’m not sure where that just took your brain, but I refer to soil, mud, and clay. First came the seeds, the bags of soil and the temporary pots. There’s great satisfaction in potting and repotting. My hands and the kitchen table got filthy.

I fuss over my plants. Jasmine flourishes in the strong afternoon sun of the living room. Ivy and Spider sit at the library window in the next room. Spider is still adjusting to his new surroundings with the enthusiasm of an adolescent. I heard spider plants are tremendous survivors — so far, he’s alive, but sullen. What sort of music do spiders like? Heavy metal? However, that would disturb his roommate, Ivy.

Don’t tell the other plants, but Ivy is my favourite. I rescued her from a Canadian Tire winter clearance table. She was only four inches tall in her tiny little plastic pot, but I saw potential. I transferred her to a bigger ceramic pot. Now she climbs ever higher on her trellis. I am so proud.

Ensconced high atop a cabinet, almost out of view in a bathroom corner, Fern soaks up the humidity and the generous morning light. She loves it! I forget to talk to Fern, but every twelve minutes she hears the OC Transpo bus announce its route in both official languages, and occasionally, a lively late-night exchange at the bus stop, in any language.

Along the kitchen window, the Cilantro Brigade lines up for the attack of direct light at whatever ungodly hour the sun peeks up from the Vanier Parkway. I feel guilty because I talk nice while I water them each morning and each evening, I rip apart their leaves for my pleasure. If they live through this torture, I may add other herbs to satisfy my plant-enhanced tastebuds.

We lost Lavender and Strawberry too soon after their arrival. I grew successful strawberry plants in 2016, so I will not accept blame. A kind friend consoled me with, “I’ve had no luck with lavender.” Perhaps they needed better pots.

And that brings me to the second activity that gets me away from my desk. If I’m not dipping my hands in dirt, I go for the clay — pottery. I’ve been getting mucky with the wet clay at Hintonburg Pottery, learning how to throw pots on the wheel. For those unfamiliar with the term, that’s building pots, not breaking them.

With great optimism, I slam a pound of clay onto the wheel, and recreate that scene from Ghost (without Swayze). Then I try to craft a six-inch pot. It splats out three times out of four. I persevere. Sloppy slip sprays onto my apron, my jeans, my face and climbs up my arms to my vaccination scar. It’s glorious! I have managed four little pots (pictured), and more awaiting a kiln firing.

Yesterday, I found clay behind my ear. That’s when I realized this is the Summer of Dirt. The Chinese Zodiac says I’m an Earth Dog. An Earth Dog with a jealous, chatty muse keeping me close to my desk and leading my mind to dig along the Antrim coast, or the Jarrah Forest, or in a postcapitalistic vegetable garden. So this Baskerville Hound is hanging around her doghouse. When not on the keyboard, her paws are in dirt and clay.

All creation starts with earth, whether plants, pots, or people. I’m excited about what’s coming up in the writing. In the meantime, I can admire Ivy, Fern and Jasmine, and my teeny-weeny pots.

So, to close with the words of the great Jann Arden, if you want to find me, “… buy a ticket for a plane, and come and see me, baby. Or drive your car all night, by just starlight, to Canada. That’s where I’ll be waiting.”

Carole