Pick Your Favourite Mum

In some families it seems, canning is in the genes!

Are you doing any canning this year?” my sister writes in an email. “No time,” I write back. I turn o the computer. “Are you kidding me?” I say to myself. “I’m exhausted, busier than I’ve ever been! Canning?”

My sister loves canning. She is a “canner extraordinaire!” If there is a vegetable to preserve, my sister will find a way to can it. I remind myself the question was conversational. There’s no hidden agenda. The discovery of canning was a pleasant one. Last year was the first time I tried my hand at the process. I’d told my sister on a visit how much I’d enjoyed it. “That was last year!” I say to the cat. “I have articles to edit, manuscripts to finish, technology to learn and photography to market. Seriously, canning?”

I try to focus on a never-ending to-do list. “Canning?” I say stuing popcorn into my mouth. I look down at the floor. Add vacuuming to the list! I say to myself. “Maybe I can ‘can’ popcorn.”

She was just asking a question, a calm voice inside my head says. It’s sabotage!, another voice yells back.

“What does J.K. Rowling always say?” I ask the cat. “Writers must protect their time!” The cat looks up at me and leaves the room. “I’m no J.K. Rowling,” I call after my pet. “But still, canning?”

By bedtime I’ve pulled myself together. By morning, thoughts of canning are forgotten. Time passes. It’s a warm fall day. A perfect September afternoon; the kind that remind you winter is not far away. Seizing the moment, I decide to do errands in nearby Elmira. Getting out of the city will be good for me, I tell myself. I take the back way through St. Jacobs, stopping to capture a shot overlooking the Conestoga River. I head further out into the country. I let go, letting the road take me where it will. I stop at The Wallenstein General Store. Baskets of fresh pears and peaches line the cement porch. I’m reminded of my mom. “Is there an orchard nearby?” I ask a local man. “I remember taking my mother there in the fall.”

“Yes,” he answers me. “Turn right. After the bend in the road, make another right. It’s the first farm. You can’t miss it.” I turn into the driveway and go inside. Fresh apples line the shelves. I ring the buzzer. A young Mennonite woman appears, wearing a flowered dress and apron.

“Hello,” she smiles.

“Do you have Paula Red apples?” I ask. “I drove my mom here to get seconds once.”

“Are you doing some canning?” she asks.

“I guess I am,” I smile.

“We only have thirds,” she tells me. “Would you like a bag?” “That will be fine,” I tell her. She rings in the purchase at five dollars. “Would you like anything else?” she asks.

I pause taking the moment in, remembering Mom and how she loved canning. Her cold cellar was full until the day we said goodbye. Those last tastes of chili sauce and frozen peach jam are treasured memories.

“The sign outside?” I ask, that reads, “Pick your favourite mum.” The young woman interrupts, “Yes, pick whichever one you’d like,” she smiles. “They’re $5.99 a plant.”

“I’ll take the yellow one,” I say. “They’re so big! In the city, they’re charging three times that price.” She smiles.

I drive home with my yellow mum and my Paula Red apples. I pull into my parking space.

I only have one favourite mom, I smile to myself. She loved canning—i guess I do, too. ■