A Typical Morning

June 30^th, Sunday

So, today is the last day of June, and tomorrow is Canada Day. Great, that means loud fireworks all night long. Look, I have no idea why I decided to keep a journal, (NOT a diary) but I have, and even though I haven’t finished the fourth sentence yet, I am going to warn you, read any farther, and death shall follow! Anyway, let’s start somewhere sooner then now, because right now is boring.

So, we slept in today, not that sleeping in is unusual to us, we just haven’t been recently due to my new job. The past three days, Willow (my fourteen year old sister) and I have worked 25.5 hours at a new restaurant called the Great Dane. The owner, Evan, is a nut, not saying I have met a cook who is not one. My first job, yeah, sad, I know, sixteen and just got her first job three days ago. Know what? You do better! Anyway, things were okay even thought yesterday was opening night, and there was only two cooks, one being Serge, 68 Russian who barely speaks English. So, anyway, everyone slept in and everyone woke up when somebody knocked on the door.

“Oh no!” Mom whispered from her big bed that she shares with Rose, (all five of us are squished in the tiny cottage with zero privacy so that our big house stays clean). “That must be Christian!” Christian, a German friend, had been coming over to give me violin lessons recently on Sundays (that’s today!) but Mom was going to cancel and she wasn’t expecting him this early (I mean, we were all asleep (and ugly) (no offense)). They knocked again and Mom put a finger to her lips and I grabbed the nose of my big, red Irish Setter Bridget to stop her from barking furiously at whoever was making such a racket down stairs. Then the door opened. I instinctively mouthed the word “Shit”, but Mom just waved at us wildly to keep Willow in the back and Graydon (the only Guy) in the middle from making any noise. (By back and middle I am talking about order of bedding…well? I said the cottage was small with zero privacy!)

“Hello?” It was Jake, the alternative (short) farmer dude who brought us milk, butter and eggs every week.

“Helwow?” That would be Pearin, his three-year-old son, who looks exactly like him. All six of us froze, not moving, not wanting to go downstairs in PJs and tired faces. When I say six, I’m counting Bridget who so desperately wanted to bark and run downstairs to greet them. Jake and Pearin rustled a bit, opened and shut the fridge, commented on our large amounts of Kale, and then left to go to the LaHave Bakery, just four or five houses down the road. Mom breathed a sigh of relief, and everyone relaxed. I let Bridget go, glad she didn’t go bolting off downstairs even though they were gone. That was how I got up…at like ten something…

Rose just came in…she’s the youngest, says she hates it, but she is damn lucky, that kid. The only thing she has to do that is responsible is taking the compost up the hill, and she often gets away with not doing it. For eight, she’s pretty smart, learns a lot, having three older siblings, somethings good (like random facts) and somethings not (like how to swear). Speaking of which, all of is have been swearing an awful lot lately, meaning she had been as well. She a funny kid, that one, want’s to do absolutely every thing by herself. If you try to help her, she freaks. Climbs trees like a monkey, just like I used to. Crazy kid. Yeah. I call her ‘kid’ a lot. That’s like her nickname or something. Her poor duck (yes, she has a duck called Piper) has been limping recently. I wonder why. Mom says it’s because he fell or something and not to put him on gravel ‘cause he doesn’t like walking on it. That duck is a real character. Poppy’s purring behind me, wait, let me set the picture, so, I’m on the couch and Rose is next to me talking about how dumb the movie ‘Borrowed Hearts’ is. Wow. She said the same thing twice. Anyway, Poppy, the biggest and youngest of our five cats, is sitting up behind my head on the top of the couch. Mm, he has a fat, warm belly, silly cat. Needs to go on a diet though, whenever he runs his stomach bugles back and forth wildly. He’s grey and white and is often called ‘Mister Freckle’ due to a tiny brown freckle on his nose. Now Rose is singing in her Duck Talk…this weird “She, she, dutshe, wheeshal, dutshe.” Thing she does. It is very strange. My whole family (not me) is kind of bird weirdoes. Willow called Piper a Chicken, Graydon calls mom a bird, Rose is obsessed with ducks and invented a whole language for them, and me? I keep my nose clean of that entire ‘bawurd’ business. Maybe I’ll work on my book now. This whole journal thing is…new. Gods I wish I could stop coughing…anyway, you’ll learn more about me later…and second thought, on you wont, you shouldn’t be reading this is the first place, so bug off! (On that kind note, I think I’ll stop.) 

Or not...how about a picture or two...you don't know what any of us look like and I did a pretty poor job of describing people...