Shannon Mckinnon

There’s always next year

Many famous gardens are referred to by name, starting with the Garden of Eden.

Stone Soup

Memories of Thanksgiving are flying away like the last dried leaves of fall and soon we will be knee deep in jingle bells, tree baubles ...

Encounters of the dangerous kind

Columnist explores moose encounters at her home in northern B.C.

A sticky situation

I once read only a crazy person would consider extracting honey inside their house.

Pickle making turns dangerous

Columnist Shannon McKinnon finds herself in a bit of a pickle.

Juiced

Columnist Shannon McKinnon details her late-summer experiences with apples.

Still bee crazy

Shannon McKinnon, in her column, says while she has mentioned them lately, her bees are still a big part of her life.

You is important

Columnist Shannon McKinnon relays a few words of inspiration from the Kathryn Stockett novel The Help.

A growing obsession

This summer I took three days away from gardening and used them to go on three garden tours.

Hatched to be free

Columnist Shannon McKinnon discusses Crooked Tail, her hen who likes to live an independent lifestyle.

Flights of the imagination and otherwise

Columnist Shannon McKinnon talks about how she could be thinking about you if your plane should fly overhead.

Bad location, bad location, bad location

Columnist Shannon McKinnon discusses how picturesque dreams don't always become reality.

Words of wisdom watered down

Shannon McKinnon, in her column, talks about a wise phrase that blows up in her face.

The princess of poop

In her column, Shannon McKinnon talks about horse poop and other beneficial waste.

A hairy invasion

Columnist Shannon McKinnon on words of wisdom to simplify.

Spring is in the air and a starling is in the stove

Ah, the familiar sounds of springtime down on the farm; the frogs croaking, bees buzzing and a starling fluttering inside the stove.

Battle of the squirrels

I am presently embroiled in the battle of the squirrel. Don’t get me wrong, I like squirrels.

Orange alert

Long-time readers of this column have read ad nauseam about my inability to grow a pumpkin to maturity.

A smelly old bag

On the very worst nights the bag’s odour permeates even my dreams.

What do your dreams mean?

I have dreamed of plane crashes ever since I was a kid. No doubt, in part, because we lived in an area so void of civilization that pilots used the air space over our farm as a practice field.

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