Chris Hardie

The calendar may say we are nearly a month into spring, but for me it doesn’t really arrive until I start digging in the dirt.

In the 1970s we had what my late grandmother Cecile Hardie called visiting. It was a very informal process, but involved three specific steps.

There comes a day every year in the midst of the dance of the seasons when winter allows spring a brief interlude. 

I still cut some wood and like to burn it, especially during cold snaps or simply as ambiance.

None of us would be here today if our ancestors hadn’t been resilient. Some faced unimaginable challenges or horrors. Some paths were easier. But all were resilient.

You have to get a grip on reality when the rubber hits the road. That’s just how I roll. 

My love for stories and story-telling carried over into college and my journalism career, where I wrote and later edited thousands of stories. But despite good intentions, much encouragement from readers and a strong desire, I’ve never put together those stories.
Until now.

When we wanted some serious sledding, we’d make the trip to the steeper hills across the creek. Sometimes we’d be joined by cousins and we’d pile as many as we could onto the  six-foot toboggan, a jumbled mass of crossed arms and legs.

As we near the end of another year and the beginning of another, I’m feeling a bit philosophical. Or it could be the result of overindulging on holiday food and spirits.

Dad’s other tool of choice was a hammer. He was fond of saying that if you couldn’t fix it, you simply needed a bigger hammer.