LIGHTING THE WAY

We live a fair bit out of the way to be a part of anyone’s twinkle tour.  Houses in rural Saskatchewan are getting further and further apart – there are fewer farmers farming much more land than was the norm a couple of decades ago.  And, it’s not uncommon for them to decide to live in town, as well.  It makes for a feeling of privacy, tranquility, and peace for those of us who choose the country life.

But, when I put up my outdoor Christmas lights, I know very few people are going to see them.

It doesn’t deter me though.  I have grandchildren who think they are pretty and they spend a fair amount of time here over the holidays; I do it for them.

And me.  I also do it for me.

I began, years ago, with a fifteen foot blue spruce just east of the house.  What’s the point of having a Christmas tree and not decorate it, after all?  At first it took two strings of lights, and then three.  I am now up to four strings and that doesn’t take the lights to the top by any means.  But it’s as far as anyone can go without a picker truck.  Sadly, I do not possess a picker truck.

This year I went ahead and bought light string number five before I was forced to accept my lack of picker truck capabilities.  It took me a cup of tea and a half hour of contemplation before I decided that this was an opportunity, not a set back, and went back out to devise an optical illusion Christmas tree down by the well.  Not only did a single string of lights create a tree, this one could be seen without having to leave the house.  I’m pretty pleased with the way it turned out.

But, the yard looked unfinished so off I went to town and bought another string of lights for my little Amur maple tree.  To look at the actual bulbs on this string is misleading.  They are tiny, insignificant things but the light they put out is amazing; the colours dazzling.  And, even better, this tree is almost right out in front of the house.  It lights up the whole front yard.  It also lights up my smile as I do the dishes after supper – out there, twinkling in the dark, the wind giving it movement and extra sparkle.

There is also the indoor Christmas tree.  I still buy a real one every year, refusing to think about the money I throw away every January.  I love the smell of the real ones.  The prelit artificial ones just don’t have the rich, bright colours I like to use.  This time of year has too many hours of darkness; I need all the light and colour I can get!

As much as I love all of my trees, though, it’s the laser lights that have never worked properly since I first brought them home that I love the most.  They were the first generation of the laser option and I paid crazy money for them because my whole family was going to be home that year and I wanted the best of everything.  These things are designed to be installed outside and aimed at the house, projecting a light show of moving lights or shapes across the building’s walls.  Mine refuse to move, or blink, or do anything but shine.

From the outside this is a disappointment.  When the plan was for dancing lights and changing colours and all I got was pin points of red and green in a static grid pattern, I felt gypped.   But, life went on and our house filled to bursting, and over that crazy, dizzy, noisy holiday I grew to love that my interior walls and ceilings were decorated in Christmas coloured dots of light.  They acted as decorations, as night lights, as red and green freckles on anyone standing in their beams.  They have never worked properly but I wouldn’t dream of not putting them up every single year.  They stir the memories of that 2014 Christmas every time I see them.

A few of their beams even make into our bedroom and shimmer across the stippled ceiling.  I don’t know why but the laser beams that are sharp and clear in the air out side but once through the window glass are refracted in a way that make the lights look like lace when they hit the wall.  It’s the last thing I see before I fall asleep and the first thing I see in the morning.

One of my favorite things to do this time of the year is to take a twinkle tour drive to see what people do to decorate, and I welcome everyone to come see mine if they want, but unless you come inside for a cup of cheer you’ll never see the ones I love the best.

UNFINISHED BUSINESS

2019 is rolling downhill like a great big snowball.  There’s no stopping it, or even slowing it down.  The best I can hope for is to stay out of its direct path while I scramble through the remaining days trying to get things done.

This being retired business that I’m in is kind of misleading.  Yes, I can and do call my time my own, but also yes, this precious time is sometimes spent puttering around my gardens and playing with grandchildren.  This is not ‘wasting’ time, it is the perfect way to refresh my soul, but even people with refreshed souls need to get a few things accomplished from day to day.

Oh sure the meals get made, the laundry gets done and it’s a very rare bill that doesn’t get paid on time.  The outside summer work gets done because I love to be out there doing it and writing is usually up to date because, again, it’s the kind of thing I enjoy.  Where I fail usually has to do with numbers, books, accounts, and paperwork of any kind.  Let me play with words all day long ... make the numbers go away.

With less than two weeks before Christmas and three before we swap out our calendars for the bright new shiny unscribbled on ones, I have a fair amount on my plate already.  I am hosting the family feast so there is a menu to plan, phone calls to make, baking to do, and extra house cleaning to tackle.  It’s really embarrassing when you know Santa was here because he left his autograph in the dust on your furniture.  And wouldn’t it be nice if the windows were clean enough to let the sun shine through?

But, before I tackle cleaning I should get the decorating out of the way.  The tree is bought but not yet thawed out or set up.  The tubs of garland and tinsel, baubles and lights are awaiting their annual moment to shine.  It’s time to turn on the Christmas music or the ‘too sweet for my teeth’ Hallmark movie channel, and get in the groove.

As of this morning I have several dozen tarts of many kinds all baked – and due to extreme will power, not all eaten – and the gifts have all been wrapped and hidden because there are grandkids coming for a sleepover tomorrow.  The tree is my weekend project.

That’s what I started doing last night - tidying up so that I could begin decorating.  I cleaned up the pile of papers on the desk in my tv room – and found a stack of paperwork to claim 2019 health benefits before the end of the year.  I sorted through the stack of too-important-to-throw-away papers on top of the china cabinet and found a project I was working on for Tourism that I had forgotten all about.  Thank goodness the deadline is still a month off!  Chastising myself for being so unorganized I carefully stacked these two jobs out to my computer desk in the office and placed them with a couple other coupon redemption jobs that have to be completed online.  To top it off I received an email requiring me to put together an application for grant money, I must double check the deadline on that ...

 Even as I sit here, happily tapping away on my keyboard this stack of nuisance papers mock and intimidate me.  I wonder, if I poured gravy on them, would the dog eat my homework?

Merry Christmas everyone – lets all hope for a quiet, relaxing January!

CALENDAR CRUNCH

It must be almost December.  Things are beginning to pile up around me and I find myself slipping into denial about how much time I have left before I need to cook a turkey.

My Face book memories reminded me the other day that a few years ago I had all the shopping/cards/decorating done and it wasn’t even the end of November yet.  I was a little shocked at this, even to the point of checking to make sure I was on the right page.  I didn’t think I had ever been that far ahead of the game – and if I had, wouldn’t I have remembered it?  But, the page was mine, the post was backed up by comments from trustworthy people I actually know, it looked legit.  I still half think it was fake news.  I didn’t think it was possible I could be early ready for Christmas.

Then again, they do talk of such things as Christmas miracles. 

It’s not looking too much like I’m getting another one in 2019.

It’s not that I have nothing done.  I have a few gifts bought.  Well, more like partly bought.  I have half of what I want to give to a few people, all squirreled away in various closets and cupboards, plus a bag I just remembered in the back of my car.  One gift has already been delivered and is in use, two more are going to be delivered closer to the big day, and the gifts that have to go the farthest (Australia) are not even a solid plan in my head yet.  I’m going to regret that one, I can tell you.

What I really need is to clearly write this information down in list form so I can see where the empty blanks still are.  I might be pleasantly surprised that I’m further ahead than I think.

The one thing that I actually have all done is my Christmas letter.  Well, the writing it part is done.  I still have to buy the Christmassy paper to print it on, get the copies made, and address all the envelopes to the folks who get a paper letter.  Because I send so many I have switched to email for anyone whose address I know – so much quicker to send ... except that this year I lost all my contacts info and have to start from scratch.  On second thought, even the thing I thought I was done, I am not done.  That’s depressing.

Yesterday, since the ladder was up at the house because we were changing light bulbs in the porch, I sent my husband up to the attic to retrieve the Christmas lights and decorations.  This is a good thing, right?  Now I can get busy decorating whenever I feel like it.  I no longer have the excuse that the decorations are out of reach.  I realize now how much I was relying on that excuse.  Now I have four large tubs of tinsel, baubles and lights taking up all kinds of space in my TV room.  A smart person would decorate immediately and store the tubs in the basement.  A smart, energetic person.  I’m not sure I qualify on either count there, but I do recognize what is necessary.  It’s a start.

With all this talk of other holiday activities one must also face the biggy – Christmas baking.  The grocery stores all have baking ingredients on sale – they know it’s time.  My Face book friends are starting to post pictures of all the goodies they are brewing up in their kitchens – they know it’s time.  It’s the time of year for bake sales – they know it’s time.  The thing that I know is that if I start baking now it will all be eaten and I will have to do it all again in a couple weeks.  I’m going to save all kinds of work and reduce my caloric intake by the thousands and only make butter tarts once.  I’m crafty like that.

And then there will only be one more thing before the turkey goes into the oven.  Some quiet Sunday afternoon I will haul all my treasures out, gather paper and scissors and tape together, and wrap up Christmas.  Nothing is ever done until the paperwork is done, right?

And that will remind me it is almost January and that the paperwork of tax time is waiting for me next.

IN DENIAL

There is no ignoring the progression of the days.  Granted, the weather has warmed up this week so we’re dealing with fog and rain instead of snow and ice, but the calendar still says we are past mid November.  This forces me to face the following unalienable truths:

1.       The Christmas shopping cannot be put off any forever

2.       I have already received my first Christmas letter (it was a late 2018 one, but still)

3.       Since I’m staging the family feast this year the baking should commence sooner rather than later

4.       And did I mention the Christmas shopping thing?

I’ve been trying to get my head around it.  With pen and paper I have written down a Christmas gift list.  Well, to be completely honest, only half a list.  I have done the side with the names on it.  The side with gift ideas needs work ... a lot of work.  And sadly, there’s every chance that I will discover that the name side isn’t complete either.

Armed with this flimsy outline of what I need, I have wandered around a few stores and found nothing to inspire me.  I’m not blaming the stores, mind you, they had lots of things to choose from – I just am not a natural born shopper.  It’s a rare day when I am actually in the mood for browsing/shopping/spending money.  I think the last time it happened was in 1999.

Also I am not the kind of mom or grandma that thinks the spirit of Christmas is shown in large, lavish gifts.  I’m into giving pyjamas and books and maybe one little fun thing to do like a puzzle or game.  It seems pathetic that even with the bar set so low I still can’t seem to motivate myself to get the job done.  It’s times like this when I fantasize about being the little kid and my greatest Christmas dilemma was that I would be expected to ‘at least try’ the Christmas pudding, and then wait six more eons before the dishes were done and we could open our presents.  Ah!  Those were the days.

But, meanwhile back in the real world, I have to think of and then find small, light weight, Canadian themed gifts for the Australian family.  As usual they will have to be sent airmail which costs more than the gifts will, but that is totally my fault – the cost of procrastination.

Next I have to figure out what sizes all the Canadian grandchildren are, go to where children’s pyjamas are sold, and choose wisely so that everyone is happy with whatever superhero/dinosaur/animal/robot that they get.  No pressure. 

Likewise with the book store choices, but there is a hidden pitfall with me and book stores ... I go in and may never find my way back out again.  If they served Timmie’s coffee instead of Starbucks I would only re-emerge in spring and from there would migrate straight to a plant nursery and disappear for at least another month.  These are two places where I can spend all kinds of time and money.  Unfortunately this does not help me with Christmas shopping. 

I play with the idea of running away from home.

 

I’ve considered gluing November’s calendar page to December’s.

Conversely, I might put up a 2020 calendar, starting the year at February.

Are there specific vitamins a person can take to get them through a shopping day?

Could a hypnotherapist put me in a ‘you love to shop’ trance?

Or, do I just have to do this the old fashioned way?  

THE GENIUS’S WIFE

For everything there is a season for every activity under the sun ...

I was thinking of this bible verse (or the song Turn, turn, Turn by the Byrds in the 60’s) the other day as I tackled yet another of my seasonal jobs.  The seasons roll along and those of us with yards and gardens roll along with them.  We know all about ‘a time to sow and a time to reap’, ‘a time to kill (potato bugs) and a time to heal (the apple trees the deer ate)’, and depending on the whims of Mother Nature we also are well acquainted with ‘a time to weep and a time to laugh’.

This year I even took my yard beautification a step further and installed a rock border/pathway around a large new flower bed I had started.  It took me one complete season ... gathering the stones together, keeping the ones shaped properly for the job and throwing away the rest.   For sure Ecclesiastes chapter 3 verses 1-8 do a good job of describing a gardener’s life cycle.

But, even after the last of the deck pots have been stored away and the squirrels have been gifted with the rest of the sunflower heads, there is still more to do.  It’s a smart girl who gets out there before it’s too cold and the ground is all slippery with ice and snow and gets her Christmas lights up.  I have found that it’s much less treacherous standing on metal ladder rungs while wearing dry shoes, as opposed to snow covered boots.  I much prefer stringing lights through the branches of a twenty foot blue spruce on a sunny day in October.  They don’t have to be plugged in until December 1, but the hard part is already done.

Well, except if someone actually put the lights up the wrong way (Who even knew there was a wrong way?!!!!) and ended up with the male end of the light string AT THE TOP OF THE TREE.

But that’s a story for another day.

Thankfully, with age comes wisdom.  Every year I take away a little new knowledge of this job.  I know that when I can’t reach any higher I can gain four more feet by using the fork end of a wiener roasting stick.  Then I use a short step ladder plus the forked stick.  Then I affix a two prong attachment to the end of a telescoping pole meant for clearing snow off the roof and use that.  We do own a taller step ladder but that just doesn’t seem like a good idea with sixty year old bones and frozen ground.  This is the age/wisdom thing kicking in.

When it came time to get the lights out from storage this fall I found evidence of more wisdom.  One of the strings had come off the tree damaged last spring.  I had actually had the presence of mind to set it apart from the others, identify the broken wire, and show it to my husband to see if it could be fixed.  I vaguely recall the conversation ....

Me: See how the wire is pulled out of the socket? Could you fix that?

Him: I can fix anything.  I am a genius.

I did not argue this point; he has some pretty impressive fixing skills.  But also he is good at procrastination and I wanted to put the Christmas clutter away.  The wisdom I want to brag about here is that I had the presence of mind to stick a label on the broken end so I would remember it needed attention before it was already installed in the tree.  The label said “The genius said he would fix this in the fall.”

This fall, when I showed him the note he calmly looked at it and said “They are on sale at the Coop.  Go buy a new one.”  That’s not his normal kind of fixing genius.

I did go buy more, but there is too much Scottish blood in my veins to just throw something away.  With nothing to lose I thought to myself “let’s see what a genius’s wife can do.” 

You know ... There is a time to tear apart, and a time to mend together ...

So far, so good.  The fix involved what I had on hand; Gorilla glue and Gorilla tape.  If I can manage to place the weak spot with enough slack so that the wind can’t pull it tight I think it’s good to go.  Meanwhile I have a whole new set of lights, I may need another extension cord.

MAKING IT COUNT

“They” say that to keep your brain in tip top shape you need to keep challenging it with new stuff.  I consider this good advice and am the kind of person who reads thought provoking books, pays attention to world affairs, and loves to go places and do things.  By these ‘keep it active’ standards of healthy brains mine should be in top notch shape, but lately I’m not so sure.

I forget why I walked into a room.  I get lost in the middle of a sentence.  I can’t find my car in a parking lot.  I can’t keep my kids’ names straight.

Okay.  Okay.  I’ve had trouble with all of these things for decades, but now that I’m in my early sixties they are a bit more worrying.  I’ve always said that all I need is a few more gigabytes of memory installed and I’ll be fine, but the joke is not ringing as funny as it used to.

At any rate, when I was asked if I would like to be a Deputy Returning Officer for the election, I said yes.  I would be learning new things, serving my community, and experiencing the electoral process from the other side of the table.  Not only would I receive a pay check for the day, but think of all the exercise my poor, flabby brain cells were going to get out of it!  I signed up with a bunch of other local folks for this new adventure.

 We began with training a few days before the big day.  I use the term ‘training’ loosely here because the instructor who showed up presented us with everything we would need on Election Day but did a very poor job of telling us what we were going to do with it.  Thank goodness the workbooks we were given did detail the duties very well, but if her job was to instill confidence in the trainees she missed the mark.  I’ve attended countless training sessions over my work life; the last thing attendees are asked to do is fill out a feedback sheet on the trainer and material.  This was one time I really had an opinion to state and there was no opportunity to give one.

Regardless, Monday October 21 dawned and we made our way to our polling stations.  Actually, we were there well before the dawn happened.  In order for the polls to open at 7:30 we had to be setting up by 6:30, and in order for that to happen I had to be up at 5:30.  My poor, flabby brain cells were already in a state of shock.

The many many forms and lists and information and materials we needed were stored in the ballot box so that had to be unsealed, emptied, double checked, and resealed.  Our table was arranged as per the guide’s instructions, the signage was set up, the voter’s screen positioned, and finally our CPS was called over to inspect that we had done it right.  At 7:30 the doors opened and we were in business.

Each polling station was staffed with a DRO and a polling clerk.  There were times when two people didn’t seem like enough, but there were also stretches of time when we only had a half dozen voters per hour.  It didn’t take long to get into the rhythym of duties, but just when we thought we had it under control some offbeat circumstance would pop up and we would have to fill out a correction form to change an address or a registration for someone who didn’t appear on the voter’s list. 

It wasn’t hard work.  But it was long work.

On the whole it was a good day.  We had organized a pot luck lunch approach to feeding ourselves – there was soup and buns, taco salad, carrot sticks, and muffins and cookies plus a big pot of coffee to keep us going.  I was surprised by when the busiest times were – 9:00 to 11:00 being the craziest, and then the noon hour being almost empty.  The afternoon lagged long and gave us lots of time to bond with our co-workers before it picked up again with the crowd who had chosen to vote after work.  The last couple hours before the polls closed were the longest – slow traffic and now exhausted, poor, flabby brain cells to work with.

Still, the approaching magic hour of closing and counting was a little intimidating.  We had mastered the voting part – each voter had taken care of their end of it.  Now it was up to us to make sure that those votes were counted and recorded correctly.  I told my poor, flabby brain cells that we were in the home stretch, and promised them I wouldn’t do anything strenuous to them for at least a week.  (I lied, of course, it’s only been two days and here I am at my computer, writing.)

One step at a time we balanced the number of voters with the number of ballots used, and when we were sure there was nothing missing we set up for the count.  That went very well too so we recorded our results and gave them to the CPS who phoned them in to Elections Canada. 

My brain cells were all limping for the EXIT door by this time but the night wasn’t over yet.  The backup paperwork had to be filled in and filed, then sorted and sealed, initialed and consolidated with the other polls to be returned to Elections Canada the next day.  Elvis left the building at 10:00.

I had put in a 15 ½ day for the election and yet had to ask my husband how it had turned out when I got home.  The results weren’t what I would have chosen but I was too tired to care.  I took my poor, flabby brain cells to bed.

They had their revenge though; it took them at least another hour to settle down so I could go to sleep.  And they’ve been whinging and moaning about their sore, aching muscles ever since.

Obviously I need to push them harder.  No wonder I can’t keep my kids’ names straight.

CALL OF HARVEST DUTY

“What are you doing?” 

The question was asked by the tired voice of my husband over the phone at 5:30 on Wednesday.  He needed help.  Well, actually, he needed fuel ... in a grain truck ... so he could empty his combine hopper and carry on combining.  Could I please head up the road till I found the truck driver who had put too much faith in his fuel gauge, pick him up and run him back to the half ton with the fuel tank on it?  Please?  Every minute that they couldn’t get on with the harvest was a crisis; Mother Nature is not being kind this year.

There’s no saying ‘no’ to a request like that.  I had spent all day outside finishing up my own kind of harvest.  After the better part of three weeks spent away I had come home to gardens that needed cleaned up, deck planters to put away, and bulbs to plant.  I ached everywhere and the cold I had been fighting for the past week had evolved into an exhausting cough.  I really hadn’t planned on leaving the house again that day, but oh well, this sounded like an easy enough mission.

I turned off the burner on the stove, threw on a jacket, wrapped the old denim blanket around the passenger seat and off I went.  I found the neighbour’s new hired man right where I was told he would be, dropped him off at the fuel truck and headed home again.

The weather had been glorious all day; sun shining, the breeze strong enough to dry but not so crazy to cause trouble.  The sun was at the perfect angle to show off the brilliant yellows and oranges of the fall leaves.  I only had my phone for a camera so I didn’t stop to take any pictures knowing that I couldn’t do the scenery justice – I would just commit it to memory instead.  I was hungry and supper wasn’t cooking itself.

“What are you doing now?”  The same tired voice over the same phone twenty minutes later.

Well, by this time I had heated the hamburger back up, browned it, and was about to pour the water and milk in to produce the simplest thing I could think of for supper ... Hamburger Helper.  If he had called even 30 seconds later the noodles would have devolved to goo while I was gone on my next big adventure.  I reached over, turned off the stove again, and asked what the new mission would be.

They had finished that field and needed to move up north to the next one.  There were three combines, a tractor and grain tank, a grain truck, and a tractor and auger to move but only 4 men to get the job done ... and time was a wasting.  Could I please follow Paul in the tractor up to the new location and bring him back to pick up his combine? 

This time I actually asked if it was okay if I did this in my pyjamas.  He laughed a little and said he didn’t think anyone was going to care.  I agreed.  Josh hadn’t said anything on mission #1.

That’s the kind of thing you get away with as a farm wife.  I had come in from my very strenuous day, taken a shower, and decided that 5:00 was a perfectly acceptable time to put pyjamas on.  The chances of seeing another soul for the rest of the day are next to nothing when you live seven miles from town ... well except for the days that you do.

Once again I pulled on my jacket, slipped into my Uggs, and hit the road.  If I had listened to that little warning voice in my head I would have made myself a ham sandwich too.  Mission #2 took way longer. 

First there was the very slow trip up behind the tractor.  This time I did stop and take pictures of the fall colours – there was lots of time.  Then back to pick up the combine, where my mission was extended to taking Josh back to the grain truck and leading him up to the new field because he had never been there before.  I really should have seen this coming; of course it was going to involve multiple trips.  While I waited for him I started searching the car for sustenance.  I found an almost empty package of breath mints in the glove box.  It kept me alive.  I offered a few to Josh but he said he just knew that he would eventually work his way back to the vehicle he had left his lunch kit in.

There was another round trip to get him back to pick up the tractor and auger.  My breath mints were long gone, it was way after dark, and I still hadn’t cooked supper.

But at least my day was done.  The men went until 3:30 for the second night in a row.  All I had to do was finish my lazy man’s supper and go to bed ... and I was already dressed for that.

RACKING UP THE POINTS

As anyone I went to school with will tell you, I am not a competitive person.  There is not one bone in my body that cares whether someone can else hit a baseball better than me (they all can), jump over a high jump bar better than I can (everyone can), or run faster than I can (again ... ).   This fact has a two part explanation – firstly that I was born with a most uncoordinated, clumsy body, and secondly that this body is equipped with a mind quite unconcerned that 97.2% of other humans on the planet can do anything athletic better than it can. 

The closest thing to exercise I take on is walking the dog.  He never judges me, all he wants is the company and I can do that at any speed I choose.

Also, I do not possess a killer’s instinct.  There are plenty of hunters in this family but I am not interested in going out and shooting anything ... not gophers, not skunks, not even paper targets.  If this is a defect then just add it to my list.

On the other hand, I do enjoy a challenge.  Not one like a ‘can I get this basketball into the net’ kind of challenge – I mean, who wants to fail miserably with a crowd watching your every move?  I’m more of a solitary game player.  Give me a round or two of Tetris or computer Mah-jong instead.  I can waste all kinds of time matching up shapes for no good reason – it must be the music and sound effects that reward my psyche.  Heaven knows I don’t pay any attention to the points that I’m getting and I certainly never share my score with my friends on Face book.  If they’ve known me for any length of time at all they already pity me my dismal gaming skills.  I do have some pride.

This time of year, though, these traits of mine - the sports ineptitude and the competitive indifference - take a wonky turn and I suddenly have a need to rack up points that I am quite prepared to brag about.

It’s ‘Invasion of the Flies’ season.  Oh yes, I know that there have been flies all summer long; the horse flies that bite me when I’m working in the garden, the nuisance ones that buzz around my face when I’m mowing the grass, and the hordes that like to hang out on the deck when I barbeque, but as annoying as these insects are at least they possess meagre intelligence (well, as much as their two brain cells can muster) and follow patterns of predictable behavior. 

Come mid September flying insects are down to one misfiring brain cell possibly caused by age-related dementia, hypothermia, or spending too much time where the apples are fermenting in the back yard.  What this means is that they have morphed from a commonplace annoyance to a plague of hideous, creepy, brain dead, zombie-like creatures who are too stupid to continue living and too dumb to die.  And there are thousands of them.

Perhaps it’s my passionate hatred for them that brings out the killer in me.

At any rate I play this game each fall. Multiple times per day I fire up my vacuum cleaner and go hunting.  One would think that these bumbling idiots would be easy marks, but they are not.  Just like it’s the chronic drunk driver who never seems to get caught, these guys are crazily adept at wobble-flying out of reach in the nick of time.  Sucking them up to their doom is my favorite sport.

So much so that I have devised a scoring system for “kills”:  it’s 5 points for catching them on a window surface (for some reason they just don’t see you coming while they’re on glass), 15 points for a capture on a wall, 20 on a horizontal surface such a table or counter, and a full 50 if I can catch them in flight (it’s the drunk driver thing – you just can’t guess their next move).

It’s been ten days since the season opened.  My score as of this morning is 5,070.  I guess I like my sports to have an actual purpose.

RUNNING OUT OF SUMMER

I’m pretty sure that the hummingbirds should have all left by now.  I can’t imagine how they do the flight to Mexico on their tiny little wings – do they find a certain airstream and just coast?  I know they fuel up on sugar water for a couple weeks in August at a rate that keeps me busy just trying to stay ahead of the demand, but honestly, how far can that take them?  I know that Mother Nature is full of miracles but her hummingbird life/migration is right up there with the best of them.

My best guess is that we had four or five nesting pairs this year – a person has to guess, there’s no way you count anything that moves that fast and erratically.  Sometime after the first week of May the males show up to claim territory, followed shortly afterward by the womenfolk.  For a few weeks the feeders are busy and then they disappear.  For many years I worried that I had done something to offend them, or that the sugar water had not been up to snuff, but then one day I discovered that they were all in the carraganas – apparently hummingbirds consider carragana nectar quite the treat.

As time goes by these tiny birds come and go at my feeders, it all depends what’s in bloom.  They become scarce when the alfalfa is in bloom and it was pretty quiet on the deck when the pea crop across the road was blooming too.  The experts say to grow trumpet shaped flowers to attract them so I have lots of morning glories, hollyhocks and honeysuckle although I see them visiting flowers of all descriptions.  With the energy levels that they have to maintain to keep humming along they can’t be too fussy about their diet, and they take in protein too – God bless anything that eats bugs!

The peak of hummingbird summer is August when the juveniles join their parents at the feeders.  The term for a group of hummingbirds is a “charm”.  During any other month of the year I would agree that these pretty little birds are charming, but come August when they are fueling up for their trip south they are the opposite of charming.  They are feisty and aggressive.  They are angry and warlike.  They are greedy and obnoxious.  They are noisy and dangerous.

Seriously: you have to watch or you could lose and eye.

We have three feeders on the go and for a while I was filling them daily, which is amazing because they spend all their time and energy chasing each other away from the food.  They chirp at each other, not in the usual friendly way a bird chirps, but in a threatening, angry way.  In their bright colours and battle stance I see miniscule Samurai warriors, ready to battle to the death – pointlessly, I might add – a typical scene would involve five birds fighting over three feeders with four stations per feeder.  It never seems like anyone gets to drink but since I do have to keep making more juice there must be some kind of truce called to allow for nourishment.  Google says that they tend to double their weight from 3 grams to 6 before they head out.  I wish I had that kind of magic – to look the same, even if my weight doubled!

Google also says that the males are the first to leave; I noticed that things slowed down a bit the third week in August: there were 20 or so, then maybe 10, and then for a while 5, then 3.  It’s not like they come to have their passports stamped before they leave – they just come and go at their own pace.

And then one morning the deck was quiet and I thought summer was officially over.  There were still two feeders with a little left in each one.  If I had taken them down right away I might have never realized that there was still one female left.  Slowly she is finishing off the rest of the sugar water while I dither about whether I should take the feeders away, or does she need the last of it to fuel up?  Again I consulted Google and learned that they tend to be solitary migrators, leaving on their own individual instincts and flying solo, making Mother Nature’s hummingbird miracle even more impressive in my books.  As of today the feeder is empty and will not be refilled.  If she stays longer she will have to exist on flower power; I have no control over that.  I have to admit though, I’m worried about her.

I hope her “time to go” alarm goes off and she is soon a thousand miles south of here.  I hope no hurricanes or other catastrophes keep her from getting to Mexico.  I hope she makes it back here next spring and I can help her raise her 2020 family.

Heck, best case scenario, I hope I can visit her in Mexico this winter.  Isn’t this the time of year when humans start feeling their migration instincts kick in?

 

 

 

COMMITMENT ISSUES

I hardly know what to do with myself these days.  The last two weeks are a blur of grandchildren and company and cooking for a crowd.  And now here I am, wandering around in the quiet, eating leftovers, and asking myself just how serious I was when I mentioned I might try my hand at canning tomatoes this year.  I know one thing for sure, I never should have said it out loud in front of witnesses.

At any rate, I needn’t worry about that today.  The tomatoes are only just starting to ripen – a legal reason to procrastinate.

And so ... what else can I find to do?  Yesterday I finished a gardening project that took me all summer.  I now have a whole new space to fill with flowers next spring.  I suppose I could go through nursery catalogues and dream of spending money but that is a pastime better spent in the dead of winter when I really need an antidote for winter depression.

There is always weeding and the cleanup of other gardens.  I’ve started pulling out things I don’t want to deal with any more but the resolve I show for that job peters out by this time of the season.  Instead of a methodical row by row marathon I end up meandering from one place to another wondering what a cantaloupe looks like when it’s ripe and how many friends one has to have to make having two zucchini plants a good idea.  Luckily I have three people who want spaghetti squash – that might be enough.  The bees went crazy out there this year.

With no clear destination in mind I find myself back at the house looking for shade – it’s obviously too hot out there for physical labour so I go in, make myself lunch and ponder life some more.

About this time the dog gives me one of his disgruntled, I-can’t-believe-you’re-just-going-to-sit-there looks, backed up with a groan of exasperation. 

I may, or may not have, been talking about a walk.  I mean out loud.  I have been on my case to get back to doing that two mile walk every day for months now, but knowing that if I say it out loud people hold you to such craziness, I really try to avoid having witnesses to my folly.  Turbo is a pretty smart dog: can he read my mind?  Surely I didn’t say the word w-a-l-k out loud!  Heck I don’t even tie my shoes in front of him!  There’s nothing worse than having a dissatisfied dog following you around threatening to sue you for Breach of Contract for not coming through with a walk after letting him witness the tying of shoes.

I consulted my list of laziness excuses and found nothing that was going to save me – I hate it when that happens.

So we hit the road; one mile north and one mile back.  For the human pretty boring scenery, for the dog a great adventure of scents and sounds and chases that I knew nothing about from my position in the middle of a gravel road.  Instead, as I walked I did some math.  In dog years Turbo is almost as old as I am and I would say we are both the same amount of pudgy for our body build.  Most definitely we need to do this exersize thing on a regular basis.  I did NOT say that out loud.  But I probably should ...

HAPPY/SAD

It’s that time of year again.

The evenings are getting chilly, the combines are out foraging for food, trees are the dark green of late summer except where they have begun to slip into their autumn wardrobe, and kitchens smell like pickles.  The ditches have moved on from pastel pink Prairie Roses to the bold yellow of Goldenrod.  Out here in the country coyotes patrol yards with apple trees to cash in on the fruit that falls to the ground, and the hummingbirds are going crazy at the feeders on the deck to fuel up for their trip south.  I doubt that there will be any left by the end of next week.

Summer is a time of outside projects and I made the best of my time completing a garden improvement.  I now have two gardens with a rock walkway/edging in my front yard.  They look lovely but I’m pretty sure I don’t need to do that again.  Surely I can stay fit doing something a little less labour intensive.  I now have the extreme pleasure of having all that new garden space to fill with whatever plants that strike my fancy next spring.  Yes, I do realize this is an addiction, but it only hurts the bank account.

Two weeks ago I traded my rock mover hat for that of a navigator/entertainer/tactical advisor/resident conflict resolution expert.  That is to say Grandma was invited along on an adventure to see the dinosaurs at Drumheller: a day long drive with three children ages 8, 5 and 2, museums, hikes in the badlands, climbing hoodoos, cooling off in a splash park, looking for fossils, watching out for rattle snakes, and taking a coal train ride, all the while existing on fast food and snacks and sharing a hotel room. 

It was every bit as exhausting as it sounds, and yet it was great fun too.  The only thing I would do differently is go back without the kids and get the full adult experience of the museum.  Kids tend to ping pong themselves around the exhibits never giving enough time for an adult who actually wants to read the information that goes with them.  I’ve never been good at speed reading and having someone calling “Grandma!  Come and see this!” every two minutes does not help.

‘Road music’ usually refers to an upbeat play list from your phone but our trip home will always be etched into my memory  to the tune of ‘Found A Peanut’.

There was almost 24 hours to switch gears to a house full of company – all five Canadian grandchildren and a couple extras for a bit, a family supper (because why not?), four large dogs, and 57% of the fly population of Canada waiting on the deck to be let in by the afore mentioned kids and dogs.  It was five more days of fun.  The last of them left an hour ago; I’ve turned on the radio for some ambient noise and our dog is laid out on the trampoline.  He may not move again until next Tuesday.

But, even as we readjust back to the slower pace we usually keep around here it is a happy/sad time.  Yes, there is no way we could keep that up permanently, and the quiet is pleasant, it’s still a little sad when they go home.  I’m never in a big hurry to wipe the fingerprints off the windows and mirrors or return the Lego masterpieces to the toy closet.  Surprise balloons behind doors and random Hot Wheels cars under chairs are the leftovers of happy times.

With the dust of the last vehicle leaving the yard I turned to tidy up the house, shrink the table back to normal size, roll up the cord to the camper, and make a judgement call on what needed doing first – the lawn or the laundry I knew that the summer of 2019 was a thing of the past.  In only a few short days it will be the school bus heading down the road.

ACHIEVING SUPERWOMAN STATUS

There’s nothing like taking on an extremely physically demanding job to test your endurance level.   On a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being a newborn kitten and 10 being the world title holder of the Ironman competition, my work this week puts me squarely at a 4.2.

I am only moderately strong for a woman of my age but I make up for it in sheer stubborn.  It’s my super power.

Although, there are those who would define it not so much as ‘stubborn’ but more like ‘crazy’.  If that’s the scale they want to work with, with 1 being absolutely, dead pan normal and 10 being totally bat s**t crazy, I may well be a solid 11.  Their judging means nothing to me – I have work to do.

What I decided to do was to install a sunken rock rim around my new flower bed.  The dimensions are approximately 120 feet around, two feet wide, and anywhere from 3 to 10 inches deep; depending on the rock I am trying to ‘plant’ at the time.  This is done on my hands and knees; digging the trench, sorting through the rocks for one that will fit the space I have prepared, and then hauling it over and installing it so it is more or less level with the one next to it, and then repeating the procedure over and over again until I run out of rocks.

Which, of course, means I have to go find more rocks from the pile dumped on the lawn?  I can do this part standing up which is just like taking a holiday after a couple hours of digging and placing.

I knew what I was getting into.  I’ve already done a similarly sized garden a few years ago – when I was much younger and ready to take on the world.  Newly retired and enthralled with all these hours to call my own, I took on this project I had been plotting for years.  I wanted a barrior to keep the grass out of the flower bed, but something low enough to be able to mow over it.  I had no idea that the grandkids would enjoy running along it so much, but that’s the part I love most about it now.

So, why not do it again?  Sure it’s been five years, but this one is on level ground.  It’ll be a piece of cake!

I began in May.  Off I went to the local rock market, right across the road in our pasture, and chose a bucket full of suitable stones.  Full of confidence, spring gardening fever, and sunshine-on-my-shoulders happiness I completed about 30 feet before I ran out of rocks.  I also had run out of steam, but no drugs or hospitalization was necessary so it was all good.

I took time out to recuperate (switched from planting rocks to planting vegetables) and by the time I wanted to get back at the job there was a herd of cattle in the pasture – I’m pretty okay with cows and calves, not so with bulls.  His presence upgraded the job to needing a two man team to get more rocks; I wasn’t going out there by myself.  It took a while to motivate a team but eventually I got a senior citizen and an 8 year old boy to go fetch me more building material.  Don’t judge me harshly – the boy told me this morning that getting the rocks was the easy part.  He knows.

I’m closing in on the end.  I figure I have six more feet to go, but although there are plenty of rocks to work with they are the poorer choices.  I’ve had to go raid the shop for a big hammer so I could bash them down to size; it’s even worked a time or two.  And, I don’t think I’ll have a bruise where that rock chip hit me.  I’m not so sure about the finger that stayed a millisecond longer than it needed to when one rock fell against another.  From his reaction I think the dog understands profanity, but he’s a good guy and has already forgiven me.  So far my toes have stayed out of the way.

And, as mighty as accomplishing this job has been, I had to take my Superwoman status to an even higher level today.  Farm wives have to know a lot of things but if they are smart they steer clear of ever having any knowledge of sewer pumps except to tell their husbands when they are not working right.  That only helps when the husband is there to tell.  Sometimes their husbands are at their daughter’s place when the sewer pump decides to not work properly.

But if that is the case when you have been hauling and placing rocks in the August heat you need to shower.  And that can only happen if the sewer pump is working.  I pulled up my big girl panties, tied on my Superwoman cape, and got the job done.

A completed rock ring around my garden AND fixing my own sewer pump: I guess I have more than one super power.  Nothing can stop me now.

 

TIPPING POINT

I belong to a Face book group called Gardening in Saskatchewan, a place where we addicts get together to discuss how many more plants we could have if money/space/time/energy didn’t hold us back.  We also help each other out identifying mystery plants (friend or foe) and spend time that should probably be spent weeding complaining about the number/variety/persistence of the weeds we have.  All around it’s a great place to hang out comparing gardens in the coolness of our living rooms when it’s 32 degrees outside.

For the most part it’s a safe and friendly Internet environment.  We try to help each other out with the experience we have gained over the years; things like how to pollinate pumpkins when the bees are busy elsewhere and how often a person should fertilize their planters to keep them blooming all summer long.  You never know what you’re going to get Online – there are some nasty people out there who will judge you for not knowing the difference between ragweed and rhubarb, but either we gardeners are just too nice to offer anything but clarification, or the managers of the site patrol the comments and those with malicious intent are scrubbed from the forum.  Even the most novice of gardeners can feel safe to show their naïveté.

The other thing that we do is post photos of our work; there are some gorgeous gardens out there. 

Throughout the winter just like the plants we all love go into dormancy, so do we.  The only posts that come up during that time are the odd houseplant in bloom, or some poor soul going through withdrawal digs out pictures of summer just to be able to hang on until she can start her petunias. 

Around the beginning of March we start to see posts of trays of seedlings in people’s picture windows – all leaning toward the sunlight.  This is never a healthy thing for the plants but is a strikingly good analogy of how we all feel about spring.

About the time I finally get my baby seedlings moved into their next bigger trays the over achievers are displaying they already have tomatoes in bloom – but they have pictures to prove it.

The photo content picks up as soon as the gardeners get outside.  They show the first signs of life in their gardens, the first things to bloom, and the heartbreak a late frost can cause.  The farther into summer we go the more the pictures and posts proliferate.  Scrolling through the site can get to be a full time job (or hobby, depending).  I have posted a few photos of my favorite things and have been amazed how many people respond.  I had over 500 people ‘like’ my peony this spring.  I mean it’s pretty, and I’m proud of it, but who knew there would be so much interest in a single plant?

Just recently I noticed that Gardening in Saskatchewan had listed several categories in their membership by the type of posts they offer – I can’t remember what they all were because I got stuck on the one they put me in ... visual storyteller!  I’ve never been more thrilled with a label. 

But it’s not all fun and games.  I discovered yesterday that there’s a line that can’t be crossed.  Apparently there is zero tolerance for any mention that summer might be on the wane. 

All I had done was post a picture of my morning glories.  This year I must have done something right and they are FABULOUS.  In my storytelling mode I had mentioned that they are September’s flower.  Although I had many folks ooh and awe over how pretty they are, I was sternly asked by three of them to refrain from using any language that referred to summer not lasting forever.  I will be more careful from now on ... on that website.

But just between you and me somewhere between Tuesday’s crazy heat and Wednesday morning’s blessed coolness there was a tipping point.  The sun feels different.  The air smells different.  The crops are ripening.  The crickets are calling.  Cucumbers are coming faster than we can eat them.  The hummingbirds are fueling up for their trip south. 

We are about to step into fall.  I’m going to have to post some pictures of how wonderful a season it is, I just think maybe I will not mention September again until it is September.

THE TREE OF LIFE

Instead of a guest book the bride and groom had requested us to sign our names on a large poster board with the image of a large rambling tree on it.  Here and there, scattered across the paper, were leaves of varying sizes to choose from; I picked a pen and a leaf and added our names, and thought how this fit into what I had been thinking earlier while we waited for the ceremony to begin.

It was an outdoor wedding in the happy couple’s backyard.  Rows of white chairs, a garden gazebo decorated in white fabric and green vines, white petals tossed along the path the wedding party would use, and as a backdrop to the scene tall and mighty trees.  The skies were threatening to let loose on us and I felt protected with them there. 

Or maybe it was a sense of being ‘at ease’.  Or, a little bit blessed?  Perhaps ‘at one with the Universe’?

Wedding crowds are a gathering of many people – some that you’ve known all your life, and some you’ve never laid eyes on until you arrive for the ceremony.  Seated all around us were the aunts and the uncles and the cousins of the bride and groom, and with the groom’s side of the family that’s a lot of people.  That’s the side I hailed from, and it was good to see so many of their familiar faces.

But thinking of how good it was to see them inevitably brought my thoughts to those who were not there.  The groom’s mother, his uncle, a cousin, an aunt, all of his grandparents – if this was the tree of life it had certainly been through a few storms, there were branches missing.

My daughter and her two little boys sat beside me; her father’s branch had been ripped off when she was younger than they are now.  Time has passed, the tree stands strong and vital, but there is still a scar where the damage was done.

My sister, the groom’s aunt – the empty spot on the trunk where her branch was is a much newer vacancy.  It still feels odd to be with all of these people and not to have her there too.

The mother of the groom – such a lovely lady – gone too, but the crowd is dotted with her sisters and nieces.  I hear her laugh, her voice.  Without a doubt she is the most missed person of all on this day.

And yet ... I had this feeling of being surrounded, of being in a bubble of contentment and peace.  Was it my thoughts of those who were missing that stirred these feelings up?  And if so, did the feeling come from me?  Or them? 

For a moment or two their absence felt more like a presence.

There’s this children’s animated movie that came out a few years ago – Coco.  You should see it. 

When it first came out there was some controversy about whether it was appropriate for little kids; it’s about death.  But it’s not about how our North American society sees death, it’s about how the people of Mexico and other Latin American countries see it.  They keep the memories of their ancestors alive and believe that they are always close by.  In our sophisticated, North American, common sense approach, we believe that if we can no longer see our loved ones, or interact with them, then that must mean they are completely gone.  Sometimes being practical isn’t the smartest thing to be.

Of course the story line of the movie is much more involved and entertaining, and the colors they used are amazing, but the part that stays with me is the final scene where the living are having a family celebration.  Everyone there is dressed in their finest clothes, there are tables of food, and happy music, and little children run about playing ... and right in the midst of all this (although unseen) are their family dead, their ancestors, as natural a part of the scene as anyone else.

I’d like to think that’s what was happening at the wedding dance.  There was food and music and small children dancing.   I wonder if there  were a few leaves on that family tree poster that remained unsigned - well, by any ink that we could see, anyway.

BEING BUZZED

I’ve got a bit of a stubborn streak in me. 

Oh maybe ‘stubborn’ is a trifle harsh.  Let’s use the word ‘persistent’.

Anyone who knows me also knows that I can procrastinate with the best of them.  I even amaze myself at how many excuses I can come up with not to do an unpleasant task ... or even a task that is pleasant but I just don’t feel like doing.  Put these two personality traits together and you’ve got someone who can be downright determined to avoid work that they don’t want to ... yet.

My plight this week is that ‘yet’ had finally caught up with me.  My gardens are at the tipping point between ‘a terrible mess’ and ‘too far gone to even try’.  If I wanted to harvest anything – heck, if I want to be able to find anything to harvest – I have to tackle the weeds while I can still pull them out.  Another week and their roots will be wrapped around bedrock and the opportunity will be lost.

This gardening year has been quite the journey.  Right from the get-go things have not gone according to schedule.  It did not rain.  It did not rain before I planted.  It proceeded to not rain after I put seeds in the ground.  Nothing germinated.  Well, except for the stinkweed.  Apparently all stinkweed needs to germinate is the memory of moisture.  For the longest time it was the only green I had and it seemed a shame to pull it, but eventually I did.

And then I replanted the tiny seeds and counted the plants that did grow.  I had 7 peas, 12 beans, 5 beets, and 17 corn plants spread over four rows.  Every single potato I had placed in the earth came up; that’s nothing short of a miracle, even in a good year.  The only up-side to this pathetic scenario was that the weeds weren’t germinating either.  I dithered about what to do.  I could give it all a drink of well water but I was reminded that this might be making the choice of garden veggies this summer or being able to shower next winter – not something to be taken lightly.

The rains finally did come, and then Mother Nature turned up the heat.  Up came the first planting of vegetables ... and the second ... and the third!  But who could tell?  The ground was a solid carpet of pigweed and portulaca, lamb’s quarters and a million baby maple trees.  This work overload situation immediately triggered a procrastination period; why pull four inch weeds when you can put it off till they are ten inches tall?

As of this past week I have moved on.  The strawberries needed picking and since I was out there I kinda got into the groove of pulling out anything that didn’t belong with the berries.  It looked so much better from where I like to sit on my deck and admire the rows from a distance ... except that the rows didn’t really show very well in the sea of green.  I knew the time had come.

It’s always easy to identify prime weeding weather – it is at least 27 degrees with a humidity factor of 106% making it ‘feel like’ you’re going to melt somewhere between the zucchini and the zinnias.

But my ‘persistent’ streak had kicked in.  Heat and humidity be damned!  I was going to have clean rows, or die trying!  It’s been close a time or two, but I’m still among the living and I only have about one third left to go.

I am greatly aided by the aerial crop sprayer who buzzes our house at 5:00 in the morning; no need to set an alarm clock.  Then it’s breakfast and coffee and off to the trenches before the sun is too nasty.  Just so the job isn’t too overwhelming I choose how much I’m going to tackle for the morning and then proceed to ‘get down and dirty’.  The rule is I can go beyond my daily allotment but I can’t quit until at least that much is done. 

I have powered through blisters on my hoe hand.  I have to continually stop to wipe the sweat away from my eyes.  I wear a big sun hat to keep the sun from crispy frying my ears. The dirt sticks to everywhere I have applied sunscreen, but the spot I missed sizzles to a lovely shade of tomato.  The other day I was almost hit by a terrified bunny.  Actually, I never saw Mr. Rabbit but the dog loping through the corn gave me a pretty good idea what had grazed the top of my head.  Don’t ever let anyone tell you that weeding the garden in a July heat wave isn’t without its risks and perils.

Once I have my persistent little brain focussed on something, though, I just don’t want to give in.  I know sunstroke is a serious thing but I just have to finish this one... last ... row.

I couldn’t tell you how many times the horse flies have had to come and save me from my folly but they did it again this morning.  I ignored the blisters and sweat and heat and the dirt and the dog and even the bunny but, just as the crop sprayer flying over the house at dawn got me out to my garden, being buzzed by a horse fly told me I was done for the day.