Saturday, April 22, 2017
OLDER THAN DIRT
With spring fever raging through my veins and Mother Nature cooperating in the weather department I moved beyond just staring out my dirty windows wishing away the last of the snow banks and decided that the time was finally right to hang laundry out on the line. There is nothing that smells better than sheets and pillow cases that smell like fresh air.
That's how it all started. Bright and early one morning I took my basket of washing to hang out on the line and then took to meandering around the yard because the sunshine was warm, and who wanted to vacuum anyway?
My next favourite thing to do in the spring is to go and poke around in my flower beds to see if anything is coming up yet. Besides quack grass, that is; quack grass is always coming up.
I had an hour or so to play in the dirt so I grabbed a digging fork and started turning over soil and weeding out the unwanteds. One such unwanted was the plastic border that was supposed to be keeping the grass out and had proved itself useless at the job for years. Sometime before the snow fell last fall I had begun ripping it out and now it lay across the lawn asking me "So now what are you going to do?" It was either re-install it, or grab it and keep pulling. Full of vim and vigor I chose the latter.
Time flew by. Demolition can be so fulfilling. You go into it knowing that you're going to end up with a big mess, but that it will all lead to something new. You don't let yourself think about the work involved: it's just better that way.
I worked my way around the circumference of the garden and eventually came to a small pile of rocks left there last summer by some (unnamed) crazy lady who thought the answer to this garden border quandary was to dig a trench all the way around, lay geo-teck along it so as to confuse the quack grass with something new, and then fit about 1000 multi shaped rocks into it like a gigantic puzzle she would make up as she went along.
"Easy peasey" you say? Of course you would say that - you're not the crazy lady who did all the work.
The first day, while my sheets dried on the line, the work was mostly digging - done while in a standing position and using the standard muscles a person tends to use on a regular basis. It ended off with placing the few rocks already there - just enough to show the potential for how this was absolutely the right thing to be doing. It was approximately 10 feet out of 140, but I was energized with a taste of success. And I slept well in those fresh aired sheets.
Day two dawned cool and cloudy but I had momentum on my side. Not only that, but there was a whole rock pile behind the trees - suitable material at my favourite price from a time when my Farmer was going through his rock splitting phase. It was a mere 100 meter trek, round trip. Wheel barrow full by wheel barrow full I picked, loaded, transported and dumped rocks at my project site. I got another 14 feet done that day and I slept really well that night too. It was getting out of bed the next morning that was challenging.
The days went on and the stones got scarce so I moved on to another rock pile even further away. Braving ticks and burrs and smashed fingernails I would climb the pile and sort through it. My building blocks had to be flat on one side, about four inches thick, the bigger the better up to the point where I couldn't move them anymore. Also, I was looking for unique colours and textures; if I was going to do this I was going to make it interesting.
By day four my body was getting down right balky about moving. But I was more than halfway - there was no quitting now. My trips to the rock pile did slow up a bit and I found myself sitting down more often, and getting all philosophical about my place in the space/time continuum. At one point I found a particularly superb rock and began to marvel that it had probably been waiting for decades in that rock pile for me to discover it and place it in my garden - because, you know, in the 4.5 billion years of its existence the blink of time it's going to spend in my garden will matter. I think I may have been a little dizzy from pushing the wheel barrow. I can't even remember which one it was now, but they are all 4.5 billion years old and all just tickled to be chosen for my garden. Of this I am certain.
By the last day the work was being done in slow motion - the only speed I had left - but I am done. In every sense of the word, I am done. And I feel that the space/time continuum has caught up with me ... I am now 4.5 billion years old too.
Monday, April 10, 2017
TURNING THE LIGHTS ON
It all started innocently enough. The little guy in kindergarten was telling his grandma and grandpa all about the eggs they were hatching at school. In this new age world his teacher was sending the kids videos of the hatching progress because, of course, Mother Nature wasn't keeping the action limited to the hours of 9:00 to 3:30 Monday to Friday. As of suppertime last night the video showed they had two fluffy babies to their names.
This news led to Grandpa asking what was going to happen to the chicks when they were all hatched. The grandson had thought that everyone in his class should get one to take home and it had to be explained to him that not everyone would want one. Or know what to do with one. He lives on a farm where he feeds the chickens and gathers eggs every day; it hadn't occurred to him that everyone else doesn't do the same thing.
This took us to the discussion of how few people know about these things. If the food production and distributions systems were to suddenly disappear there wouldn't be many folks who would even know where to begin to feed themselves. Of course from there we went straight into hearing Grandpa wax poetic about "the good old days".
Now, this is not a new subject for our supper table conversations. When the kids were growing up there was many a night when we were all regaled with stories of him having to "walk to school, up hill, both ways, in a snow storm, riding his pet dinosaur because horses hadn't been invented yet." And so on. And so forth.
I give you this background to show that her father's age and experience is something that this little boy's mother is well aware of. Or should be, at least. But as we (Grandma and Grandpa) carried on with this topic of conversation she fell silent; amazed at the things we were saying.
I think it started out with how these chicks were being hatched under a light, using electricity. Of course she knew that this was a job mother hens would have done naturally, it just hadn't occurred to her that there was no other way when her dad was young - they didn't have power until he was in his teens. It wasn't that she didn't understand that there hadn't been a time when houses didn't have lights at the flick of a switch; the hard part to believe was that this had happened in her parents' life times.
For myself, I couldn't be sure. I couldn't remember a time that the house I grew up in didn't have power but I knew my grandparents didn't have it when I was very young - I could remember them lighting coal oil lamps. Out came the local history book: only to find that there really wasn't a specific mention of when the rural power grid came into being. I was in on the planning and preparation of that book. Why on earth hadn't we thought to give that very important achievement a notable segment in our history book? Was it just a misstep of planning? Or does it mirror our daughter's reaction - that electricity is such a constant in our lives that we forget it wasn't always there?
With both my parents unavailable for comment I called my sister who was pretty sure that by the time mom and dad were married there was power at the farm we grew up on - so that was 1946. It is highly likely that we were ahead of other households because we lived along the main highway making it on the main route of the power grid as it was installed - the further you lived from the main line, the longer it would have taken to access power. This was something that made sense to us old people but kind of amazed the 30 something gal whose experience of Sask Power as a business entity is to tell them when she moves so they will change the billing.
Later in the evening, after our daughter and her two non-stop energy sources had gone home, I got to thinking about our place in history. My grandfather lived past his 100th birthday and I don't know how many times I've heard people note how he had been born in the days of horse and buggies but lived to see the moon landing, but it is almost as amazing that in a much shorter time span my generation has gone from lighting coal oil lamps to complaining about our Internet speed. I wonder what the little guy in kindergarten will see in his lifetime?
It all started innocently enough. The little guy in kindergarten was telling his grandma and grandpa all about the eggs they were hatching at school. In this new age world his teacher was sending the kids videos of the hatching progress because, of course, Mother Nature wasn't keeping the action limited to the hours of 9:00 to 3:30 Monday to Friday. As of suppertime last night the video showed they had two fluffy babies to their names.
This news led to Grandpa asking what was going to happen to the chicks when they were all hatched. The grandson had thought that everyone in his class should get one to take home and it had to be explained to him that not everyone would want one. Or know what to do with one. He lives on a farm where he feeds the chickens and gathers eggs every day; it hadn't occurred to him that everyone else doesn't do the same thing.
This took us to the discussion of how few people know about these things. If the food production and distributions systems were to suddenly disappear there wouldn't be many folks who would even know where to begin to feed themselves. Of course from there we went straight into hearing Grandpa wax poetic about "the good old days".
Now, this is not a new subject for our supper table conversations. When the kids were growing up there was many a night when we were all regaled with stories of him having to "walk to school, up hill, both ways, in a snow storm, riding his pet dinosaur because horses hadn't been invented yet." And so on. And so forth.
I give you this background to show that her father's age and experience is something that this little boy's mother is well aware of. Or should be, at least. But as we (Grandma and Grandpa) carried on with this topic of conversation she fell silent; amazed at the things we were saying.
I think it started out with how these chicks were being hatched under a light, using electricity. Of course she knew that this was a job mother hens would have done naturally, it just hadn't occurred to her that there was no other way when her dad was young - they didn't have power until he was in his teens. It wasn't that she didn't understand that there hadn't been a time when houses didn't have lights at the flick of a switch; the hard part to believe was that this had happened in her parents' life times.
For myself, I couldn't be sure. I couldn't remember a time that the house I grew up in didn't have power but I knew my grandparents didn't have it when I was very young - I could remember them lighting coal oil lamps. Out came the local history book: only to find that there really wasn't a specific mention of when the rural power grid came into being. I was in on the planning and preparation of that book. Why on earth hadn't we thought to give that very important achievement a notable segment in our history book? Was it just a misstep of planning? Or does it mirror our daughter's reaction - that electricity is such a constant in our lives that we forget it wasn't always there?
With both my parents unavailable for comment I called my sister who was pretty sure that by the time mom and dad were married there was power at the farm we grew up on - so that was 1946. It is highly likely that we were ahead of other households because we lived along the main highway making it on the main route of the power grid as it was installed - the further you lived from the main line, the longer it would have taken to access power. This was something that made sense to us old people but kind of amazed the 30 something gal whose experience of Sask Power as a business entity is to tell them when she moves so they will change the billing.
Later in the evening, after our daughter and her two non-stop energy sources had gone home, I got to thinking about our place in history. My grandfather lived past his 100th birthday and I don't know how many times I've heard people note how he had been born in the days of horse and buggies but lived to see the moon landing, but it is almost as amazing that in a much shorter time span my generation has gone from lighting coal oil lamps to complaining about our Internet speed. I wonder what the little guy in kindergarten will see in his lifetime?
Saturday, April 1, 2017
PUDDLE POTENTIAL
"And you know what Grandma? When we go to town next time I'm going to get some new rubber boots!"
He made it sound like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy all rolled up into one. There is nothing better than a new pair of rubber boots when the snow is melting down and the puddles are filling up. He seems to have the idea that these new boots will keep his feet dry, not realizing that it's not the little cracks and holes at the bottom of his old boots that are letting the water in, but those big holes at the top of each boot that are to blame.
Somehow, some way, no matter which boots you buy, they are always that magical, mystical one half inch too short. Trust me, I've done a lifetime of study in this field; I know it's crazy, but it's true.
Puddles bring out the kid in all of us.
Is it the peaceful feeling of standing in still water, contemplating life's simple pleasures?
Is it the venturing into the unknown ... how deep does this get? How far can I go?
Is it a journey to the other side of the water, just to see if you can make it? And what if it's not a simple pool, but a running stream? Isn't it fun to stand in the turbulence and feel the current push against your legs, the moving water hypnotizing you until you almost fall over?
It's also very cool to toss stones out into the water to watch the ripples expand and subside. For a little more excitement you can encourage the dog to go fetch them. Or, you can use really big rocks that Grandma can discover later on ... with the lawn mower. She likes that.
How about testing spray patterns? If you ride your bike through a puddle very fast, can you get your brother even wetter? And there's nothing better than a bike on training wheels so you can just park it in a mud puddle and pedal as fast as you can, shooting up a rooster tail of icy water. (Thanks Grandpa; it's twice as much fun now that he knows the term 'rooster tail')
And, of course, the most compelling invitation of all ... to see just how high your boots really are. The answer is always the same ... not tall enough ... but it never stops us from trying, and trying again. When it comes to puddles we are all five years old.
I have to admit though, snow melt puddles - plentiful as they may be - are not my favourite. Summer puddles are much more my style. There is no more need for boots. A girl can roll up her pant legs, kick off her shoes, and wade right in wiggling her toes in the soft, squishy, warm mud with the sunshine on her shoulders and probably a muddy little hand holding one of hers to help keep their balance. Although if they fall over and get their clothes all wet, that's just one more memory they'll make that day.
It just so happens that this excited young man and his new rubber boots (plus his younger brother and his correspondingly shorter rubber boots) are coming for a sleepover next weekend. We are at the height of runoff season at the moment with the mud/water/snow ratio at about equal parts in the yard. I know for a fact that the water is over everyone's boots and the river running through the yard could easily wash a three year old away. Constant surveillance is going to be needed.
Knowing the mess one dog can make I'm not too sure how this expansion in the mud lovers society is going to go. Do they have enough clothes to last a weekend? Can my washing machine keep up? Is Grandpa going to be a help, or a hindrance? And I better check out whether I need new rubber boots too.
"And you know what Grandma? When we go to town next time I'm going to get some new rubber boots!"
He made it sound like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy all rolled up into one. There is nothing better than a new pair of rubber boots when the snow is melting down and the puddles are filling up. He seems to have the idea that these new boots will keep his feet dry, not realizing that it's not the little cracks and holes at the bottom of his old boots that are letting the water in, but those big holes at the top of each boot that are to blame.
Somehow, some way, no matter which boots you buy, they are always that magical, mystical one half inch too short. Trust me, I've done a lifetime of study in this field; I know it's crazy, but it's true.
Puddles bring out the kid in all of us.
Is it the peaceful feeling of standing in still water, contemplating life's simple pleasures?
Is it the venturing into the unknown ... how deep does this get? How far can I go?
Is it a journey to the other side of the water, just to see if you can make it? And what if it's not a simple pool, but a running stream? Isn't it fun to stand in the turbulence and feel the current push against your legs, the moving water hypnotizing you until you almost fall over?
It's also very cool to toss stones out into the water to watch the ripples expand and subside. For a little more excitement you can encourage the dog to go fetch them. Or, you can use really big rocks that Grandma can discover later on ... with the lawn mower. She likes that.
How about testing spray patterns? If you ride your bike through a puddle very fast, can you get your brother even wetter? And there's nothing better than a bike on training wheels so you can just park it in a mud puddle and pedal as fast as you can, shooting up a rooster tail of icy water. (Thanks Grandpa; it's twice as much fun now that he knows the term 'rooster tail')
And, of course, the most compelling invitation of all ... to see just how high your boots really are. The answer is always the same ... not tall enough ... but it never stops us from trying, and trying again. When it comes to puddles we are all five years old.
I have to admit though, snow melt puddles - plentiful as they may be - are not my favourite. Summer puddles are much more my style. There is no more need for boots. A girl can roll up her pant legs, kick off her shoes, and wade right in wiggling her toes in the soft, squishy, warm mud with the sunshine on her shoulders and probably a muddy little hand holding one of hers to help keep their balance. Although if they fall over and get their clothes all wet, that's just one more memory they'll make that day.
It just so happens that this excited young man and his new rubber boots (plus his younger brother and his correspondingly shorter rubber boots) are coming for a sleepover next weekend. We are at the height of runoff season at the moment with the mud/water/snow ratio at about equal parts in the yard. I know for a fact that the water is over everyone's boots and the river running through the yard could easily wash a three year old away. Constant surveillance is going to be needed.
Knowing the mess one dog can make I'm not too sure how this expansion in the mud lovers society is going to go. Do they have enough clothes to last a weekend? Can my washing machine keep up? Is Grandpa going to be a help, or a hindrance? And I better check out whether I need new rubber boots too.
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