METAPHORICALLY SPEAKING

I’m just a little concerned with the future.  I’m afraid 2019 is going to be a bit messy; it’s written on my front lawn.

You see, we have this huge front yard.  Massive, really.  Our house sits on a slight rise facing south and there’s nothing but a driveway and endless lawn between the deck door and Township Road 82.  In the summer it’s either grass to mow or what a savvy real estate agent would call a ‘water feature’.  In the winter it’s a huge expanse of pristine snow.  This scene from my front door is one of my most favorite in the world – all the space … the privacy … the freedom to inspect my morning garden in my pajamas.  The dog and I sit on the deck and survey our kingdom for hours in the summertime.

In the winter time this view is less mesmerizing.  In fact, it only really draws my attention for about the first week of the New Year.  At this time of the year my front yard becomes a gigantic metaphor, helping me to describe the coming year.

The comparisons are just too perfect.  The pristine snow showing how we all are afforded a fresh new start.  The wide expanse telling us that we have no boundaries.  The slate so clean that we are invited to make our own path wherever we see fit.  It’s pure metaphor heaven.

How can anyone take in such a wide field of possibilities and not be excited to step forth into the New Year?  How could you not believe you could climb any mountain, swim any sea, tackle any monster?  The potential for attainable achievements lies at our feet.  All we have to do is stamp our personal design onto that clean, white surface and the rest will take care of itself.

Except for this coming year.  2019 is looking a little worrisome.

It’s hard to describe the front yard this time around, but here goes … we had company for Christmas.  For a week there were four little boys and three dogs here.  A regular pastime was being pulled around the yard on a toboggan behind a quad while being chased by a trio of canine clowns.  There is hardly a square meter of snow that hasn’t been trampled within an inch of its life.  There are so many paths out there now a person is either going to get dizzy or lost if he tried to follow them.  My “no limits” metaphor has fallen apart.

But, if I’ve stood by the ‘clean slate’ prediction on other years, I guess I should explore what the front yard tea leaves are trying to tell me this time around.  Taking in the trampled snow, the great circles of tire tracks, the deer bones and hide hauled up to the house … not to mention all the yellow snow and other dog residue.  What do these things say about the future?

Will I spend 2019 as a dazed schizophrenic with a crappy attitude wandering in ever widening circles, continually confronted by carnage?  Or, should I choose the safe route and be a hermit, refusing to go outside for the whole year?

The thing is, I’m a ‘cup is half full’ kind of person.  I think I will choose not to focus on what the yard looks like, but on how it got that way. 

Those boys had great fun making those tracks.  No matter how many times they were spilled out of the toboggan, they just laughed and got back on.  The dogs had the best time ever running and playing; that deer carcass was a culinary delight in their eyes.  Two legged or four legged, they all played hard during the day and slept well at night – you can’t ask Life for a better arrangement than that.  As far as the yellow snow and the other ‘lawn ornaments’ go, we all know they’re a part of life.  We just need to watch out for them.

So, here’s to a messy year.  May we all come out of it, wise and happy and loved!  Happy 2019 everyone!

THE SEASON OF LIGHTS

There are a lot of things that I love about the Christmas season.  I love the visiting.  I love the music.  I love the decorations.  I love the concerts and caroling.  And there’s no denying I love the food; that fact is there for all the world to see. 

That’s the public side of my Christmas, though.  I also have a private one. 

Sometime after the tree is up, I get up extra early, pour myself a big old mug of coffee, and sit and bask in the peace and tranquility of the Christmas lights twinkling before me.  I don’t know when this private little tradition on mine began but I do know that my Christmas season isn’t complete without it.

I suppose this quiet time can best be described as a review of my year, or in the grander scheme of things, my life.  Memories of the trees of my childhood – the excitement, the temptations to sneak a peak, the worries of Santa knowing what I’d been up to all year – spill through my mind.  As an adult I shake my head at how these self-focused qualms let me miss the cleaning and baking and sewing and wrapping my mother did to give us all these memories we hold dear now.

Because, of course, being a mom who had to step into those shoes is my next memory.  The presents, the parties, the concert and pageant practices.  The never-enough-hours-in-the-day days.  The I-can’t-wait-till-the-kids-go-back-to-school feelings that hit when the first one said “I’m bored!”  Ah!  Those were the days!

It was all worth it though, because those very children went out into the world and now return with the most wonderful small people on the planet.  In just a few days this house will be full of noise and laughter  (and let’s be honest here, also tears, and stand-offs, and lectures about sharing).  The table will smell of playdough, there will be an ever-present danger of being crippled by Lego, and bedtime will be everyone’s favourite time of day.  Well all the adult’s anyway, but we wouldn’t trade the cousin together time for anything.

It’s this impending invasion that got me up for my Christmas quiet time this morning – it’s not likely to happen after they all get here.  Although there is always the possibility of some small wiggly person to snuggle with when they do arrive … but that’s a different kind of gift.

This year’s tree is exceptionally pretty; the multi coloured lights glowing in its branches, my assortment of angels scattered so I can see at least one from wherever I choose to sit, the breakable heirloom balls at the top where they’re safe, the plastic touchables down where little ones can examine them without nasty consequences, and the newest addition – a flock of silver birds perched down where the kids can all choose one to call their own.  There are even a few strands of tinsel to tie this tree to my childhood.

And as much as I love the light that the tree gives off, four years ago I added a couple of laser lights that are designed to decorate outside.  While they do spray red and green dots of light across the front of the house, it’s the dots that shine through the windows and twinkle on the walls and ceilings inside that make me happy, reminders of the first Christmas we had them when the Australian grandchildren were here to celebrate with us too.  That is the Christmas that every other Christmas will be forever measured against.

Over the years my sacred Christmas tree time has been shared with tiny a newborn niece while her mother tried to sleep.  It has been spent texting with a dear friend suffering a terrible tragedy.  And it’s been a place I have spent numb, dark and desolate with my own despair.  And yet, with the constant presence of a Christmas tree; its lights shining in the darkness, there’s always been comfort and reassurance to be had, and faith that the future has better things in store.

Which brings me inevitably to other promises of light – the Christian promise of the Christ child.  And the pagan promise that the days would soon begin to lengthen out again.  It’s no accident that they all happen at the same time of the year.

 

 

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

As anyone who lives in Saskatchewan knows, we have some of the most spectacular weather phenomena known to man.  Even our license plates proclaim it – “Land of the Living Skies”.  There’s a never ending variety of wind, rain, sun, clouds, thunder and lightning, heat waves and cold snaps.  If Saskatchewanites had a family motto it might well be “Bring It On!”

We can handle anything Mother Nature can throw at us. 

In fact, we revel in it.

This sense of bravado is rooted in all the mighty and majestic storms we have weathered over the years.  We can handle blizzards – there’s something about being shut in while the wind howls and the storm rages that makes a house seem extra safe and warm. 

A few years ago we were awe struck at how even the ‘flat’ prairies can have massive overland flooding if it pours for 24 hours straight.

A couple weeks at 40 below zero?  Been there, done that.

A couple weeks at nearly 40 above?  Same.

Tornados to topple buildings and toss trampolines around?  Yep.

Hail storms where the ice strips paint and siding off houses, breaks windows, and wrecks vehicles.  You bet.

My Facebook memories this morning showed me that 2 years ago my grandsons, dressed in full winter gear, sat atop a four foot snow bank, but 3 years ago the dog and I took a walk on a warm afternoon – no snow, light jacket, barbeque for supper, but both on December 8.  Such is the land we live in.

For sure Mother Nature can play hard ball, but this past week she upped her game.  She soft-gloved it.  You might say she gave us a Trojan Horse, and while we were ooohing and ahhing about her magnificence she laughed and punched out our lights.  Literally, in December, there we were, sitting cold, in the dark.

The treat she began with was several days of fog and no wind.  If you live somewhere that has never seen hoar frost I can’t describe its beauty.  I’ve tried, but words just don’t do it justice.  The fog crystallizes on every surface it touches – grasses, trees, buildings, fences – dazzling white diamond-like crystals making the whole world look like an exquisitely decorated wedding cake.  The longer the foggy conditions last, the thicker the frost grows.  By last weekend it was probably two inches thick; everyone went out and took pictures before the sun melted it off.  That’s what usually happens; the sun melts it off.

Instead, Mother Nature left it – seeing as so many people were enjoying her handiwork.  And the power lines sagged.  And the power poles leaned and began to bend.  And the Sask Power workers prayed for sunshine.

At 8:30 on Tuesday morning the power stuttered a couple times and then shut off.  Breakfast was over, lunch was sandwiches, supper was barbeque.  Afternoon project was setting up the generator to run a couple heaters, a lamp, and to charge our cell phones.  We spent the evening wrapped in blankets, planning Wednesday’s trip for more fuel if need be, but 13 hours after it went off our power was restored.

Wednesday’s outage wasn’t as long and we were lucky – we had just finished a nice warm supper.

Thursday’s happened in the morning while I was at work on my computer.  By that time I was pretty much over the thrill of ‘roughing it’, and I had stuff to do!  We are so crippled with no electricity!

It’s Saturday now, the sun has been shining, and the weight on the lines has been lessened, thank goodness.  We are beginning to trust that this fun experience is behind us, and that maybe we won’t have to reset every clock in the house yet again (isn’t it crazy how it’s the little things that get to you?).  We also appreciate that for those 13 hours while we huddled in our cozy blankets constantly checking our phones for updates, the work force of Sask Power was out in the cold and dark getting us back online – can’t say thank you enough!

And to Mother Nature – that was a good one!  Very clever of you.  Giving us the breathtakingly beautiful scenery of hoar frost, and while we were blown away with the splendor, you pulled the plug on us just to remind us who’s the boss. 

You gave us Beauty, who turned out to be the Beast.

 IN FITS AND STARTS

There are those who systematically carry out their house work on a regular schedule, you know; spring cleaning in the spring, washing windows multiple times a year, regular cupboard and closet purges according to the seasons.  I’m even related to some of them.  I watch them from the sidelines amazed at their resolve and work ethic.  Whatever the genetic material required for this is, I do not possess it.  Luckily my genetic coding does seem to cover thriving in a dusty environment.

It’s not that I don’t clean at all; it’s just that the urge do so only hits me sporadically.  I will be drifting through life, oblivious to the dirt and grime accumulating in my house, and then one night I will sit down to watch TV and see the smudges around the light switch, or the spider’s webs in the corners, and know something has to be done.  What ensues is usually a week of chaos.

You would think a dirty light switch is a small problem, easily remedied.  Wrong.  If I wash where I can see the dirt, then there’s a comparison patch of clean and not clean … which means I have to wash the whole wall … which means I wash the whole room … which means I may as well paint the darned thing since it’s all clean.

Which, of course, means I have to clean out cupboards if I’m doing this right … and now I have stuff to sort to other cupboards and closets.  Soon there are piles of ‘garbage’, ‘give away’ and ‘God only knows!’ spread all over the house.  I think that’s why I hate cleaning so much; the way I do it the job always spirals out of control.

Lately it has been the state of my kitchen cupboards that has been getting to me.  A few people I know have recently upgraded and renewed their kitchens with the help of IKEA, everything looks so modern and well planned, storage is a dream come true.  But, as envious as this makes me, I am cheap too.  Do I want to spend that kind of money?  No.  How about I just shine up the ones I’ve got?  A little soap and elbow grease is all that’s called for!

So began my Monday morning.  All I was going to tackle was the outside of the cupboards.  But first the fridge had to be moved out … which meant removing some of the heavier stuff in it … which led to cleaning it – inside and out – while I was at it.  Which led to washing some dishes … and putting them away … which led to rearranging one shelf … which led to sorting to another one … which led to taking all the ornaments and souvenirs off the shelving unit in the living room and washing them … which led to cleaning out my china cabinet and washing everything in it … which took me back to the top kitchen cupboards to sort out more of the fancy stuff and washing all of it, as well. 

I stepped down off the step ladder for the last time that day at 4:30 in the afternoon, clutter all around me, supper still to make, and realized the only panel of kitchen cabinets I had actually cleaned was the one no one could see because the fridge was back in its place.  I had worked all day and not done the one thing I had set out to do.  I’ve made a deal with myself that I will not do any Christmas baking until those cupboards are shiny. 

It gives me a deadline. 

And the reward of butter tarts will keep me going.

I got a post from my niece last night telling me that she also suffered from ADCD (attention deficit cleaning disorder).  I don’t think it’s fair to even compare us.  She is so clean conscious that she runs her own cleaning business; that would never happen to me.  Granted, we may clean the same way – from room to room to room – but she does it on a regular basis.  At best all I manage is fits and starts.

FLASH FROM THE PAST

My husband has always maintained that if you stay in one place long enough, the whole world will eventually come to you.  I’m not saying that this is impossible, but the timeline required is probably longer than more than one life span.

Never the less, several years ago as we watched a beaver wander through our yard he stated this phenomenon as proof.  If we waited long enough there wasn’t a single animal we wouldn’t see from our front porch.  As I recall, he set his sights on the next one being an elephant.  We’re still waiting.

On the other hand, he’s not entirely wrong.  Just because we live a very rural existence and very far from the maddening crowds, there are unexpected little treasures that come our way from time to time.

Take last Saturday night, for instance.  Our town is small – around a thousand people, give or take, but nearby is an even smaller town, Maryfield, at about a third the size.  Never pre-judge the size of a town’s heart by its population’s numbers though; one has absolutely nothing to do with the other.  I’ve always said, the smaller the town, the bigger the heart.

At any rate, to get back to my husband’s theory of “it comes to you”, there we were seated in a curling rink (where, by the way, a few top echelon Canadian curlers threw their first stones) and were transported back in time to the big band years of our parents’ youth.  Who knew that this music existed anywhere but on old, dusty 78 rpm records?  Who knew that people still liked the genre enough to learn to play it?  Who knew there were enough of them in the vicinity to get together and form a band? 

I mean, really, who knew?

In a day and age where getting four or five musicians together to practice and play in a band is too hard, how did they manage to get seventeen?  Think of the love of music, the determination, the driving force needed to make something like that come together!  But it was so worth it.

There were dancers too.  The crowd was not young, but almost everyone responded to this music actually created to dance to.  Folks who probably don’t even go to dances any more (if such social events even exist) were there and happily made their way to the dance floor every time the band struck up a tune.  

Even a sweet old couple with the gentleman wheeling his sweetheart around the dance floor in her wheelchair, revisiting memories from long ago.  

Even my husband – backing up his point that if you wait long enough the improbable eventually does happen. 

And then there was the couple who came dressed for the occasion.  I don’t know if they were locals making the best of the treat, or if they love big band ‘40s music so much that they are this band’s groupies, and followed them to Maryfield to dance the night away.  They looked like they’d just stepped out of a photograph from WWII.  While the rest of the dancers covered the whole range of talent, these people could DANCE.  If the music wasn’t enough to send you back in time, watching them gave the evening an extra bit of magic.

Who would have thought that on an otherwise unremarkable cold Saskatchewan night you could enter a curling rink and be transported back in time?  The household we grew up in appreciated music and our parents loved to dance, so my sister and I recognized and welcomed the music they played.  Mom would have loved being in that time warp bubble with us, I know.  Oh heck, maybe she was.

All I’m saying is that you never know what is out there.  There are talented people everywhere, all they need is a spark to bring them together and the imagination to want to share it with others.  The time bubble last Saturday night in Maryfield was a hidden gem that we lucked into.  Apparently my husband is right – just give it time and the whole world will come to your doorstep.

He’s still waiting for his elephant.

GENERATIONAL KARMA

The text read “Well you will find this humorous.  Rosie shoved a LEGO up her nose and we are on our way to emergency to get it out”

Well, actually it was spelled ‘humerus’, but you get the picture.

And yes, yes we did find it very humorous.  It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving mama.

Not that we were happy poor little Rosie had to experience a LEGO extraction at the hands of a medical team, but one hopes that she’s taken the lesson to heart … LEGOs have their place, but that place is not up a toddler’s nose.

After a few more texts about the apple not falling far from the tree, grandma and grandpa signed off.  The young family had arrived at the hospital and some real fun was about to begin.

It took us back though - approximately 30 years ago to a time when Rosie’s mommy was toddling around this house … inquisitive … curious … experimental.  There are so many questions that need to be answered at that age.

And so it came to pass one evening that she took it upon herself to see what would happen if she stuck something other than her finger up her nostril.  She didn’t share her intentions with anyone, just wandered off into a quiet place, sorted through a variety of smallish, roundish trinkets that might fit and having evaded any and all persons who might have stopped her fiendish little game decided to carry through on her plan.  One Hot Wheels tire up her left nostril, just like that.

Not that it’s unusual to see a little kid with her finger up her nose, but when she reappeared in the living room a few minutes later it was obvious that something was amiss.  A mother can always spot that guilty look no matter how much nonchalance a kid tries to portray.  With clues like a bright red beezer and the snorting/snuffling sounds coming from that worried little face it was obvious to know where to look.  Can’t say as we expected to spot a shiny black object sporting tire treads up there, though.  But hey, she was the third kid; it takes a lot to surprise once you’re that far into the game.

Of course Mom and Dad tried to retrieve it themselves.  Why traumatize a child in a medical situation if you can accomplish the same level of distress at home?

Did you know that once a Hot Wheels tire has been lubricated (ewe!) and pinched together, it slides neatly up a nostril?  But, once it reaches a certain place – a place where the channel widens back out to form a roundish chamber, the tire can expand back to its natural shape.  The resulting tension holds it in place, the winter tire treads provide added traction.  Who knew?  Certainly not us until we tried to get it to slide back out again.

Another pertinent observation from that night: two adults, not matter how calm they make their voices sound, no matter how many arms they have, no matter what they can think of to offer as a bribe, there is no way to get a pair of tweezers close enough to a flailing, manic, berserk three year old’s face to do anything more that probably take out one of her eyes in the process. 

Plan B was the inevitable trip to emergency.

It went quite smoothly once we got there.  This time both Mom and Dad could hold her down and soothe her- and just maybe the child given her all in the first fight.    Also, Dr. Pesenti’s tweezers were much more suited to nostril extractions, and the speed with which she operated made one think that this wasn’t her first rodeo. 

As we stood around afterwards examining the well-travelled tire someone asked our little princess why she had put it up her nose in the first place, wasn’t she scared it would get stuck up there?  To which she famously replied in a bit of a disgusted voice “Well, it came out fine the first time!”

And now it’s her daughter choosing to store LEGO in that little nasal chamber at the bridge of her cute little nose … not a pointy piece, mind you, just one of the LEGO people’s heads.  Apparently they fit in there perfectly. 

I wonder what the next generation will think of?

 

SUCK IT UP, SUZIE

These days my life is nothing more than a series of hunting expeditions around the house.  From window to window I go, armed with my trusty vacuum cleaner hose, seeking the vile little insects that invade my territory each autumn, and sending them off to what I hope is “bug Hell”, the vacuum canister in the basement.

Bug hunting season begins about the middle of August.  Who knows what goes through their microscopic brains, but around about pickle-making time we go from two people and a dog to two people, a dog, and 1,462 insects at least 6 of which are mosquitoes.  You know … one illusive, menacing, stealth-stinger per room? They probably enjoy the meal they are after but their real mission is drive folks crazy.  Sadly, that first killing frost finishes off the gardens, but the silver lining is that mosquito season ends then too.

I know that the purists will balk at me lumping spiders in with insects; I am fully aware that they are arachnids.  If this were a scientific article I would keep them separate, but this is written as a home owner’s defense plan … hence all the creepy crawly things in my house are classified simply as bugs.

Spiders are a year round kind of bug.  Some years are worse than others.  Sometimes they are big and spindly like a daddy-long legs, and sometimes they are pitch black, compact, and move like race cars.  As long as they stay out of my immediate space I have no malice toward them.  Besides, their main mission in life is to capture and eat other bugs – what’s not to love about that? 

Our puny Canadian spiders are capable of biting but they’re nothing to be afraid of.  Interestingly though, when an Australian grandchild shows you a red, itchy spot on her arm, the absolutely wrong thing to do is say “Oh, it’s probably just a spider bite.”  Funny story, that.  It’s been four years; she might even laugh about it now, herself.

And all bugs are not treated equally.  Every once in a while a bumble bee finds his way inside.  I confess, this is one bug I do fear.  Their pointy parts hurt.  But, I also hold them in reverence.  They are vital to the planet.  I like to eat; they are integral to the making of food.  They do not die at my hand.  They alone benefit from my catch and release program.

Fruit flies are easy.  Build a bottle trap, bait it with anything from red wine vinegar to rotting tomatoes and they honestly can’t help themselves from dying.

From there on though, we are into vacuum territory. 

First, there are the vile little striped winged flies that only showed up about fifteen years ago.  Our daughter’s professor of entomology identified it as some sort of fruit fly although I have never seen one near fruit of any kind.  On the other hand, if you hit them hard with a fly swatter you get what looks like a smear of grape jelly squished all over your counter/window/table/floor so maybe that’s where the fruit connection comes in.  All I know is that it is because of them that the vacuum cleaner is my weapon of choice.  The warmer the day the more alert they are, the faster their reflexes, but my hunting skills have improved vastly over the years.  Entering my house is their self expression of a death wish, which I am more than glad to assist them with.

A much easier critter to catch is the maple bug.  Slow, plodding, predictable, mechanical, monotonous maple bugs.  If you’re too lazy to go get the vacuum and just shoo them away they will plod right back, creepily reclimbing your pant leg or crawling across the same shoe.  It’s not that they are sneaky, or hard to kill, it’s just that there are so damned many of them.  1,073,928 at last count. 

And last, but not least – the common house fly.  Clearly outnumbered by the thronging masses, but as unwelcome as ever.  I have to say that coming across one of these heritage stock insects does incite a short wave of nostalgia and I briefly find myself longing for the good old days when they alone grossed me out. 

It’s been a few hours since I patrolled the combat zone.  It’s time to fire up the artillery and wipe out the enemy’s newest recruits.

One of these days I’m going to have to empty that canister …

FOR THE DOG

I have no choice but to take up walking again.  I will commit to no less than two miles per day, and not at any old leisurely stroll either – it needs to be a fairly decent pace if it’s going to do any good.  You see, I’ve noticed that the dog is packing on weight.  I’d sure hate to see him get old and fat and lazy.  What I don’t do for that dog.

This weight problem of his has been coming on all year.  That’s how the weight sneaks up on a dog.  You start out all active and bouncy and lithe.  You’re confident in your looks.  You feel healthy and strong.  You may plan for a two milejaunt but somehow the day is so nice you end chasing a few rabbits, dig for a couple gophers, and take a run at a flock of ducks to see how far they will scatter.  Pretty soon you’ve done four miles.  When life is this good, keeping your figure is a piece of cake.  

But then, of course, along comes winter.  Even for a guy who is part husky, forty below is nasty.  Oh sure, he still has to go out every morning, check the boundaries, mark his territory, make sure the local coyotes don’t get to feeling too comfortable, but then it’s back inside, curl up on his matt and watch for anyone who might make a move toward the kitchen.  If there’s a human in the kitchen the chances of treats go up.  If it’s the male human the treats are exponentially better and more plentiful.  The male human seems oblivious of where calories go after they are consumed.  The dog doesn’t care.  I am well aware for all three of us.

Winter lasts a long time in these parts.  The walks become very few and far between.  The trend toward napping in the sunbeams becomes very entrenched.  It’s not that he wouldn’t welcome a walk (he and his arctic fur coat) but motivating me to join him gets harder every year.  I’ve explained to him countless times that he can go explore on his own but it’s like he feels obliged to make sure I get my exercise too.  He won’t leave the yard without me.

Spring – when it finally happens – is also not conducive to walking.  The roads are muddy.  Or icy.  Or both muddy and icy.  And Turbo refuses to wear boots.  Given a warm, melty afternoon outside in March that dog can soak up, conceal, and transport into the house his body weight in sand and silt.  All I have to do is sweep it up, add a little peat moss, and I have enough soil to fill my starter trays for my garden.  During the muddy month of March and all through April’s showers I would just as soon the dog stayed inside.

 One would think that the next half year is perfect walking weather.  It is, of course, but I have other stuff I have to do.  All my walking time and energy is spent out in the garden … weeding, planting, picking, watering, mowing, tilling.  I work in the sun, he lays in the shade.  I dig holes that he gets quite excited about; he digs holes and gets yelled at.  I tell him how good the strawberries taste; he sniffs them, gives me his famous groan of disgust, and looks at me like I’m crazy.  It’s sort of the same reaction I have to finding one of his rotting bones buried in my flower bed. 

Every once in a while I take the quad out for a spin to give him a quick run.  He used to revel in the challenge but lately he’s all about wanting to hop up on the back to ride home.  With a routine like that, it’s no wonder his clothes - ahem, his collar - is getting tight.

So, it’s time to hit the road again.  I am a responsible pet owner and am putting his need for physical activity first.

He just looked over at me and gave me his “You’re pretty hefty yourself these days, lady!” look. 

This just gives me something new to worry about.  He really is getting on in dog years … obviously his eyesight is going on him too!

WAITING FOR THE DRUGS TO KICK IN

Here I sit, facing my computer screen, waiting for the drugs to kick in.  My goal for today is to breathe through both nostrils.  At the same time, if I’m really lucky.

It was with great reluctance I got dressed this morning – pajamas are so comfy and cozy – but I told myself wearing daytime clothes would help me focus and move forward.  So far this has not been the case, and I have since regressed to the point where I put my housecoat back on over my clothes.  I am almost warmed back up.  I have one more trick up my sleeve – if you come by and find me sitting in my car don’t worry, it’s just me soaking up some butt warmer love.

I have my dear spouse to thank for this.  He has spent the past week complaining about hanging around with the wrong crowd.  By this he means short people … his grandchildren.  School is back on and the rounds of disease development and sharing is in full swing.  They are lucky they are so cute.

I managed to avoid the first wave of this head cold but obviously not putting grandpa in some kind of exile while he was contagious was a mistake.  I think my head might explode this morning.

So I went through the drug options in our medicine cabinet.  We are not pill takers in this household so there’s not much to choose from, and what is there could be up to five years old.  I wanted a magic pill that would promise me air flow through my sinuses and also would loosen the belt that seems to be cinched up tight around my temples while easing the pressure against my top teeth.  My whole face hurts.  My options were plain head ache pills, nausea medication, antacids, children’s cough syrup (because, you know, grandkids) and one bottle with a couple night time cold remedy pills.  Although this is what I had been looking for it was the oldest bottle in the cupboard.  Through bleary eyes I think I made out a promise to help with sinus pain and congestion.  I wonder: does medication gain or lose strength over time?  Will the placebo effect help me at all?  Do I have the strength to drive to town?

Also, there was a jar of Vicks Vapor Rub.  I am not yet that sick.

Not having great confidence in the prescription I have provided myself, I took the pill but feel it is just as important to think about something else – you know; diversion, distraction, mind over matter.  I have the radio playing on my favorite channel, a warm mug of tea sits by my keyboard, the pockets of my housecoat are stuffed with tissues at the ready, and Microsoft Word tells me that I have managed to think of 475 words so far.  At some point before posting this I plan to read them and see if they make any sense.

I could really use some chicken soup although anything would probably do.  I just reheated what normally would be a tasty meal.  It was warm.  It looked yummy. The texture was right.  My stomach has quit growling for food, but I feel cheated.  My senses of taste and smell are AWOL.  I hate it when that happens.

It has now been 90 minutes since I took an obviously worthless pill.  My eyes are still bleary.  My head still hurts.  And neither nostril is functioning at full capacity.  Besides that, I feel the need for a second housecoat or a big fluffy blanket.  I guess I will try for a nap, and if that doesn’t make anything better I will turn my butt warmer up to high and go to town for fresh drugs.  If you see me coming, don’t breathe my air.

NOT A GOOD THING

The scene outside our windows is very fresh and white.  It’s October 5^th.  This is not a good thing.

There are thousands of acres of unharvested crops out there on the ground.  The wet wet ground.  Farmers are understandably worried about time ticking by and no progress being made.  A snow storm in early September is easier on the nerves; you know it’s going to go away for sure.  But early October is scarier.  When it happens at this time on the calendar it may or may not go away.  More than likely it will go away, but there’s an element of doubt a person just can’t shake off.  Especially when the weather forecast for the next week looks like there is plenty more coming.  Is the harvest of 2018 going to be one of those stand-out catastrophes they talk about for years?  Making it into the history books in a story like that is not a good thing, either.

On the one hand we are one step removed from the biggest of the worries.  It’s not our investment on the line.  There isn’t a day goes by that we aren’t relieved to be in this situation: we get to live in our rambling farm house, enjoy our wide open yard and gardens, and participate in the agricultural life around us by being employed in it for the growing season, but we are an arm’s length away from the debt and the worries. 

Once a farmer, always a farmer, though: it seems that it’s a pretty short arm these days.

And so the men try to keep busy.  The first day or so it was easy to find things that needed doing.  During the busy days of harvest there are small breakdowns that are by-passed or jury-rigged so they can keep going while the going is good.  When the weather makes them take a break these small jobs get fixed. 

As the weather refused to smarten up they turned their attention to making sure that the grain dryer would be ready for action.  Obviously they were going to need it this year.

Then they did some maintenance on the cattle waterer and tended to a few other cattle chores.  The fence lines were inspected for breaks or downed trees.  Cattails were cleared so the current wasn’t grounded out of the electric fence.  Still the skies were grey, the swaths too wet to go through the combine.  They switched it up to drinking coffee working out their formulas of cost versus loss.  Everyone comes to a different number but the bottom line is the same … every wet day is draining dollars from the operation.

This past week the make-work project has been to inspect an older combine that had a major breakdown last year.  It turned out that the quote to fix it from the dealership was crazy high and something they could do themselves.  This solved two problems – fixing it gave them something to do, and no doubt a third combine would definitely be beneficial in the race to finish should Mother Nature ever give them the chance.  Finally, this was a good thing. 

But, with that job behind them and even more snow coming down, things have gone a little off course this morning.  Grandpa has had too much time on his hands.  He’s tried to steer his energy toward good instead of evil – he even made a stab at cleaning up his shop … which led to finding a fun project he had started a while ago … which led to him deciding to finish it … which led to target practice … which led to me being conscripted to videoing it so he could show off the new toy to various people (mostly grandsons) who would be suitably impressed.  In my humble opinion a pellet gun uzi, in no way, can be considered a good thing.

But at least it has changed the mood.  Instead of wandering morosely around the house with nothing to do, he and the grandson happiest about this invention are spending time on Facetime plotting the gophers and pigeons who are about to die(of laughter) at a weapon that only shoots six feet with any impact and has to be attached to an air compressor for its energy source.

I’m left wondering how I can get some of my ‘honey do’ things on his list, or if I should re-double my prayers for better weather.

GARDEN GUILT

I’m having a hard time with my conscience these days.

It’s not that I’ve robbed a bank, or murdered anyone, or even so much as shop-lifted a package of gum.  No, it’s much more pervasive than that; I have garden guilt.  I get it every year.

I don’t know why I put myself through this; I do recognize that I am responsible for my own suffering.  If I didn’t plant a garden I wouldn’t have to deal with its over production.  It wouldn’t be my problem to deal with beets the size of footballs, or 2396 carrots, or cucumbers that have a harvest window of three days between too-small-to-see and ginormous-overripe-seed-pods.  I wait all summer for my first cucumber and then four days into their ‘season’ I find myself asking why I thought I needed more than one plant.  Every.  Single.  Year.

It all seems so innocent and Mother Earth-ish in May when I plant my garden.  The sun is shining.  The grass is green.  The freshly tilled earth is warm and welcoming.  I envision garden lettuce salads and crisp, crunchy radishes, and snitching fresh peas and carrots with the grandchildren.  In my mind there is never too much of anything.  It’s always just the right amount.  They say that ‘experience is the best teacher’; obviously this is only true when you pay attention in her class.

We have gone from a family of six down to just the two of us.  Correspondingly I have made an honest effort to shrink the garden area, with only limited success.  Yes, my veggie garden is much smaller, but now we have a huge space that we call our orchard which has morphed into extra space to put the bigger things … like corn and potatoes and pumpkins and cucumbers and onions and watermelon.  This year it even got an extra row of peas because I had extra seed.  The pretense of downsizing my actual garden space has been completely canceled out by having orchard overflow.  I am my own worst enemy.

Maybe it would help if I sat down and documented my struggle.  Would I actually pay attention to warnings like “Yes, Jocelyn, one row of carrots will be plenty!”  or “No, Jocelyn, throw that two year old package of string beans away!  Do NOT put them in the ground just to ‘see what happens’!”?  I’ve learned my lesson on zucchini, but I keep repeating the carrot and beet mistakes.   Don’t even get me started on the countless bean fiascos I have faced.

This summer, due to dry conditions, a less than perfect germination and a hungry family of gophers, the over production problem hasn’t been as bad as normal years.  I managed to use almost all of my beets before they got tough and stringy, I ended up only having to wash and store one bag of carrots and they fit nicely into my fridge.  There were only enough peas to eat fresh.  This year my guilt was all about beans (I pulled them up and hauled them away – also known as hiding the evidence), and cucumbers (I continually chucked the oversized, overripe ones into the trees.  The dog eventually tired of bringing them back). 

My third antagonist is an epic tomato harvest.  It’s going to be the undoing of me.

I know tomatoes are a versatile fruit and can be used in many ways but there is still only so much pasta sauce and salsa a two person household can use.  The next batch will be stewed tomatoes but there’s a limit to how much of that we can use too.  Right now the boxes of ‘pending’ are out in the unheated garage so they ripen more slowly, which only means that I am prolonging my agony.  Every time I go out there the guilt about doing something useful with them hits me: they shame me with their pungent scent.

We have been known to go to exceptional lengths to use up unneeded garden produce (a crazy excess of pumpkins for target practice one sunny Thanksgiving afternoon comes to mind), but the smart thing to do, as I am reminded of often, would be to have a pig or two to feed the extra too.  I have many problems with this … building a pen that will hold pigs in, having to deal with the fly problem they create, being tied down to having animals to care for when we want to go away, and (and this is a big ‘and’) my guilt burden over under-utilized garden vegetables is already too high … do you know what eventually happens to big, healthy pigs?

I prefer my protein to be anonymous, thank you very much.  The last thing my conscience needs is pork chop guilt.

                                         A PEACEFUL, EASY FEELING

Harvest is stalled out at the moment.  The rain that we so needed six weeks ago has settled in for an extended stay now that the crops have ripened and can no longer use it.  There are a few farmers done harvest but most have a good portion still out in the field; every rainy, wet, or foggy morning is met with a groan of impatience.  They just want t 2018’s crop in the bin.

I understand their frustration, this is a whole year’s livelihood we’re talking about, and so I keep my thoughts to myself.  Things like “This will do my perennials the world of good for next year” and “I love the scent of damp leaves composting – it’s such a rich, tangy aroma.  I think of it as Mother Nature’s autumn perfume.” are best left unsaid around people who have huge money on the line and nothing to keep themselves busy while they wait for the weather to clear up.

It’s getting close to twenty years since we downsized our farm and planted hay and pasture, but that harvest feeling never leaves you.  The days shorten.  The bright greens of summer fade to yellows and golds.  I don’t know if a stranger to this land would detect it, but by mid August there is a sense of ripeness - maybe better described as completeness - in the air.  The anticipation builds.  Swathers begin to appear, pulling into vast stands of canola and leaving miles of windrows to finish ripening when they leave.  Each crop has its own color of perfection – wheat is a reddish gold, barley is more a dusty yellow, oats a creamy yellow, and flax is a dark reddish brown.  Fields of corn look all dried up and scraggly – kind of Hallowe’en-ish.  The field peas are the first to come off, the corn and faba beans, the last.

As is often the case with semi retired farmers, we lease our land to a neighbor who then hires Glen to help during the growing season.  It’s best all worlds – Glen’s years of experience are put to use, and it keeps him active letting him do what he has always loved, working the land.  Even better than that, he gets to do all of this while simply collecting a pay check.  Gone are the days of gambling with huge sums of money – the machinery costs, fertilizer, chemical weed killers – now it is simply doing the work he loves on the land he loves.  Probably only the people who walk in the same shoes would appreciate how putting in 12 hour, dusty, itchy, back-aching days could feel like a blessing, but this is a true thing; it does.

My role these days is only a peripheral one.  I pack his lunch in the morning and then carry on with my own day.  Once in a while I get a call to drive him back to his truck or pick up a part in town while I’m there, but mostly I don’t see him again until well after dark. 

The other day, though, something special happened.  The canola they were combining needed aeration so he was hauling it back to the bins in our yard.  Late in the afternoon, just as the autumn chill was claiming the day, Glen called me over to help him top up the bin.  It’s kind of a team job with him at the top of the bin watching that we didn’t overflow it and me standing ready to shut off the grain flow when he called it was full.  It went without a hitch and we moved on to the next step – moving the auger over to the next bin.  He went about his tasks and I did what I could to streamline the process.

 Again, everything went smooth.  All the good parts of our farming history, even though it was at least 20 years ago, wrapped around us.  The whole scene had the feeling of enchantment.

The real life, day-to-day farming memories of that long ago time are not all so sweet.  They were times of high stress and exhaustion and short tempers.  The financial burden of farming is huge and making enough money to support your farm, let alone your family, takes its toll during harvest when every day, good or bad, counts.  We haven’t had a lot of monumental fights in our marriage, but the ones we did have all took place during harvest. 

And yet, there we were, the clattering noise of the auger, the rumble of the tractor’s engine, the rich, earthy aroma of the canola pouring from the grain tank, the last of the day’s sunshine on our shoulders,  all seemed to cast a spell around us.

With all of the negative stresses of farming wiped from our slate the blessings shone through … satisfaction … accomplishment … completion.  A peaceful, easy feeling: we both felt it as we went about our work, acting as a team.

As he got ready to pull out of the yard he grinned at me and said out loud what I had been thinking to myself.

 “Isn’t this nice?”

I wish there was a better word than magical.

                         THE BUTTER MOON

Life is full of struggles – the big ones like the one between good and evil, and the smaller, day-to-day things like avoiding laundry or what to do with the yoghurt that’s past its best before date – but the one that reared its ugly head on me this morning was zipping up my favorite blue jeans.  It’s not that I couldn’t get them done up - we’re not that far gone yet – but sitting in them is getting to be uncomfortable.  Obviously Karma is trying to tell me that the opposite of sitting is what I should be doing.

But I wasn’t thinking about Karma at the time; she always wants me to take responsibility for my own actions.  The thought that went through my head this morning was “Darned Butter Moon!”

Let me explain.

Back in the days of pre history when humans were all hunter-gatherers their way of keeping the passage of time was different than what we do today.  Increments as small as minutes and hours were of no importance, but in order to feed themselves throughout a whole year they had to know the seasons.  It was of utmost importance to know when the hunting was best, when certain plants would be ready to harvest, when the migrations would take place.  They watched the moon and named each full moon as it pertained to their livelihood.

For instance March was the Sap Moon because that’s when the sap would begin to rise.  April the Egg Moon, May the Milk Moon and June was the Strawberry Moon.  The moons of the waning year claimed the names of Harvest Moon, Hunter’s Moon, and Frost Moon.  Maybe it’s the farmer in me but I’ve always liked the idea of observing the season’s passage in this natural way.  Since I ‘live out on the land’ this natural calendar makes so much more sense than using the names of the Roman Emperors or Greek goddesses.

My year goes more like this: January is the Dark Moon because even though daylight hours are beginning to stretch out, it’s really hard to tell yet.  February is the Mexico Moon – or anywhere south and warm.  If we get away to find sunshine it will be then.  March is my Mud Moon.  I don’t dislike it as much as I did when the house was full of kids, but it’s still pretty muddy.  April is the Impatient Moon – the snow doesn’t go fast enough, the grass isn’t green yet, and I just want to plant things!  May is the Planting Moon, June is the Dandelion Moon, and my name for July is one borrowed from my hunter-gatherer ancestors - the Thunder Moon.  They were also right about September being the Harvest Moon, and October being the Hunter’s Moon, as well as November being the Snow Moon and December the Cold Moon.

But August?  My August?  This is the one I call the Butter moon.  Not because of the moon’s pale yellow appearance, nor is it because cows produce more cream at this time of year.  No, it’s completely, entirely, and inarguably because with all the fresh vegetables coming in from the garden the butter consumption doubles in this house in August.  Butter on new potatoes.  Butter on corn on the cob.  Butter on peas and carrots and beets, on beans and steamed Swiss Chard.  Not to mention all the extra butter that goes into cucumber sandwiches.  All of these things would taste good on their own, but it’s like they say … everything’s better with butter!

I’ve been sitting for the better part of a morning as I wrote this.  Karma wasn’t kidding about the “this is going to be uncomfortable” warning she gave me this morning.  It’s a darned good thing that the Butter Moon is almost over, and maybe I should spend the up-coming Harvest Moon commemorating my hunter-gatherer ancestors by walking everywhere I go and consuming only what I harvest on my own.