Laura-Jane and her feet

For the past week I have been on a crazy, sad trip back to British Columbia, Canada, where I was born and raised. I’m still away from the farm, and I am writing to you from my parents’ house in a tiny bed, 6000 kilometres away from Whimfield Farm, the place I now call my home.

Since we started living a rural lifestyle, I’ve turned into a country woman.

Cameron and Laura-Jane in their driveway

But there were periods during my old life–before we moved to the frozen country–where I fancied myself a rather glamorous gal. I had regular appointments at a chic hair salon and I shaved my legs on a fixed schedule.

The old Laura-Jane

Over the past week, now that I’m back where my glamorous days began, I’ve taken to lounging in bathrobes, soaking in hot tubs, drinking fancy teas, and getting pedicures.

Where’s Cameron? He’s back on the farm, keeping the fire burning and the driveway clear.

This juxtaposition of me gallivanting across the country in high-heels and he keeping our house warm in jarring to us both. Our phone conversations are jilted:

I’m all, “I can only talk for seven minutes because I have an appointment and then I’m meeting a friend for a walk in the sunshine and then I have to take a train somewhere. But I miss you!”

And he’s all, “I just spent two hours clearing the driveway and I did 38 hours of renovating work during the last 24 hours and I wanted to leave the house to get groceries but the car wouldn’t start ’cause it’s minus twenty celsius. But I miss you!”

My nylons and I aren’t quite sure what to think. They’re telling me to proclaim that there’s room for red toes on the farm, too. Do you think it’s possible?