UNPACKING

Sooooo, it’s been a month.  We’re back in Canada, have recovered from time zone hopping, survived the 2026 version of Covid, and are trying to get on with our lives.  In my absence no one volunteered to take over cooking meals for the rest of eternity so I’ve had to step back into that role, and as I am the only one who knows how to online bank around here I’m back to paying the bills too.  Give it another week or two and the whole experience of no cooking or cleaning or other duties will have swirled into a fantasy – a dream that I thought I had once upon a time.

Before that happens though, I’m going to record a few more memories.

Firstly, a little advice to my future self in case I ever take another trip: you know the line “dress for the job you want, not for the one you have?  Well, when choosing clothes for a trip, pack for the weather you’re going to have, not the weather you want to have.  And since, weather being weather, you don’t know what that will be, then pack for everything. 

I packed for spring in Europe, although I had never been to Europe in the spring, so what did I know?  I wore one warmer outfit there because I started out in Canada, and took another similar one because I would be returning to Canada, but everything else in my suitcase was a very poor choice.  The quandary every morning was how to dress warm enough while still managing not to look recycled.  T-shirts I had intended to wear on their own became the base of a typical three layer combo just to keep me from shivering all day.  On the dry days I wore my fluffy coat on top, on the wet days I wore my water repellent coat on top, but I wore them both at the same time several times.  The only thing that made this a little more bearable was that a lot of the other passengers seemed to be in the same fix.  We had all packed for the weather we wanted.  We were all in the same boat … get it?  Same boat? 

Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.

Secondly, remember it’s a small, small world. 

So you’re sitting there, in the ship’s lounge in the evening and you strike up a conversation with a couple with British accents.  The ship has a wide range of nationalities: Canadian, Australian, South African, English, Irish, and a few Americans.  You ask where they are from and find that they have had quite the interesting life – originally from England, worked in South Africa, lived in Montreal, retired to Florida and were headed to visit family in Britain after this cruise before they went home.  Then they asked where I was from.  My story seems pretty tiny after their travels so I just say Canada.  They say where in Canada?  I say Saskatchewan, thinking they might know where that is if they lived in Montreal.  They smile and say where in Saskatchewan?  I say the far southeast corner.  There say where?  I give them ‘close to the landmark place of the Moose Mountain Provincial Park’.  One more time they say where?  What’s the name of your town?  I say Redvers.  They laugh and say Virden!  They had re-retired to Virden to be close to their daughter and grandchildren.  What are the chances? 

Well, pretty high because less than 24 hours later I had almost the same conversation with someone from Vancouver who knew where Redvers was because her grandmother lived in Carievale.  Note to self- always behave yourself; your stories will follow you home.

I have to say though, the best part was sharing this trip with my sisters.  I mean this on lots of levels – the shared experiences, the time to be together and just visit, but the most fun this time was that in the casual atmosphere of fellow travellers on a ship for a week, people kept mixing us up. 

I will admit that even though there are 17 years difference in our ages we do look very similar.  Of course, Wendy and I are much happier about being mistake for baby sister Amy than she is being mistaken for one of us, but them’s the breaks, eh Amy?  One morning I walked up to the breakfast chef’s station to order my omelet and he tried to give me one already made.  I said I hadn’t ordered yet.  He insisted I had.  Then I saw Amy approaching and I asked the chef if I had been wearing a green shirt before?  He laughed and paid closer attention after that.

We do have matching sweaters, the potential to escalate was very real.

But, it’s back to reality now, and there really is no place like home – although this meal prep life sentence until the end of time seems a bit extreme.  I’m sure glad I’ve recorded all this so I can refer back to happier times while peeling potatoes or stirring chili or washing dishes or folding laundry or vacuuming floors ….

 

HEAVE HO, AND AWAY WE GO!

This is it.  The actual river cruise.  We are finally on our ship, the Emerald Luna, a long, narrow, floating hotel complete with a luxurious dining room, a bar and lounge, a small pool, and an observation deck with a putting green on the top deck, staffed with friendly, helpful people whose mission is to make sure we enjoy ourselves so much that we will want to come back again.  It was a pretty sweet ride.

Having done two cruises now I will testify that this is the best way to travel.  You can literally unpack once but still holiday in a new city every day.  Your hotel goes with you.  It’s the best.

But because the hotel keeps moving you need to heed the rules about checking in and out if you leave the ship.  Your room card is also your electronic identity.  The very first night they made repeated calls for room 324 to prove they were aboard before we left.  I’m still wondering if they ever found him.

We spent the first morning on an excursion to Keukenhof Gardens where the tulips grow in wide swathes in fields.  It was early in the season so they were mostly yellow (did you know the varieties bloom by color sequence? Learn something new every day!)  We went totally tourist mode … explored a windmill, walked through the gardens, took a whole bunch of pictures, bought the tiny pancakes dusted with powdered sugar, looked around the souvenir shop and then it was back to the bus that took us back to our boat.  Day 1 was done.

There were some tense moments the next day when our promised wifi had disappeared.  Imagine a whole boatload of people with NO WIFI!  The Emerald cruise line had changed their provider and everything had not gone smoothly.  Owners of Apple products were the last to be saved.  It was touch and go towards the end.

I have to confess, from there on things get a little fuzzy.  No, this memory haze has nothing to do with wine consumption, although there was plenty of that.  I just quit taking notes.  I thought I would remember, and I do recall the things we did, just not the order we did them in.

There was the day in Dusseldorf where we did a tour of the old part of town (think: Middle Ages) and the guide bragged up the fine German mustard made there.  I live with a guy who loves different mustards so I wanted some of that for a gift for him.  Spent our free time making sure I had some.  I think that was Day 2, cannot be sure. 

In checking with my fellow travellers who did continue to write things down, that wasn’t the end of Day 2.  I had Cologne and its fantastic cathedral on Day 5 but apparently Cologne was the afternoon of Day 2.  All the other stuff I have written about Day 5 is true, or corrected.  The trouble was I needed help getting my cathedrals sorted out.  Cologne is where there is a magnificent cathedral.  Spectacular.  Awe-inspiring.  Hundreds of years in the making.  Survived the war because the allied pilots used it for navigation purposes – it’s that impressive.  I thought we were there on Good Friday but were at another church on Good Friday (see how easily it is to get these things mixed up?)  I do remember that it rained on Day 2.  I have a picture of us all standing in a circle so that I could capture everyone’s soggy shoes and raincoats in front of the Cologne Cathedral on (not) Day 5.

If Day 3 was also on the Wednesday, that was the day we paid extra to go tour a castle.  The scenery was breath-taking.  The walk downhill to the castle and back up to the parking lot was great exercise and provided vista views at every turn.  The forest trees were just leafing out and the edelweiss was in bloom.  I could almost hear Julie Andrews singing the song from The Sound of Music.  AND I found the perfect rock to take home from my trip.  It’s a thing that I do, and this rock was perfect. 

Now … just let me check my photos … oh yes!  We spent most of the afternoon going through the Rhein Gorge and spotted nearly 40 castles in 4 hours.  It truly is a fairytale land and to soak it all in a person should rent a house for a month and stay with the locals to learn it all.  Speaking French and German would be a real asset if I were to do this.

The next day (Day 4, I’m fairly certain) we took another bus trip to see another palace and gardens.  More history showcasing the furniture and décor of centuries past.  The dishes, the diet, the clothing, the customs.  The loveless arranged marriages to keep property in the family’s control.  The resulting love affaires, the secret doors, the illegitimate children, the humans being humans.

That afternoon we had free time to do our own thing.  There was a big, modern mall a few blocks away so we stepped up into the 21^st Century and went shopping.  The smart one of us bought a new sweater to broaden out her choices of something to wear for the last few days.  To put it mildly the weather had not been kind, and every day had been a quandary on how to look fresh in the only warm clothes we had brought with us.  By this time we were beginning to look pretty recycled.

On the REAL Day 5 we visited another awesome church in Strasberg.  This time we were allowed in even though it was Good Friday.  I have read books about the engineering and artistry that went into these masterpieces of architecture.  It’s mind-blowing, and their beauty is exquisite.  The sun shining through those stained glass windows (packed up and hidden in a mine to save them during the war and then lovingly restored to their glory when peace made it safe) is something everyone needs to experience – it makes you believe that good can triumph over evil.  We rounded out the day with lunch in a sidewalk café and later on eclairs from a shop on “Temptation Street”.

Day 6 (and by this point I confess I’m leaning heavily on stuff I don’t necessarily remember myself).  We took another bus trip to another place that had another medieval town center to showcase.  I don’t mean to sound disrespectful or bored.  By this time we were on overload.  This day I remember thinking about how we were on the edge of the fabled Black Forest and close to where The Sound of Music’s story originated.  We toured the town, we shopped in the huge street market, we bought souvenirs, we were treated to Black Forest cake and samples of the local sausages and cheeses.  It was all wonderful.

And that evening there was a farewell party and disco on the ship.  I don’t remember when the last time was that I got up to dance to Y.M.C.A. but my sisters and daughter were there and the time seemed right … there are pictures … no worries … it was on the other side of the world …

All that was left to do was get up the next morning and pack for the trip home.  We had been told to always check the safe before we left our room so that we had everything, but as far as I can figure it was my drawer I should have checked one more time.  The mustard I went to extra lengths to buy for Glen did not come home with me.  Neither did my perfect rock from my castle climb.  I can picture them so clearly in that drawer, nestled right up beside my favourite bra!  I am so disgusted with myself that I left these things so close to my heart so far away but there is nothing to be done about it.

Instead I brought home what is probably the 2026 version of Covid.  Glen says he would rather have gotten something more touristy like a fridge magnet.

 

 

THE TIME/SPACE CONTINUUM

I’ve seen travel guides that tell you it’s possible to do a trip on X amount of dollars per day.  Is there equivalent advice on how to do – let’s say a city like Amsterdam – on X amount of sleep hours per day?  This is not about a lack of things to see or do.  Like any world renown city Amsterdam offers beauty and history and culture in endless supply.  You could literally sightsee 24 hours a day, seven days a week.  The trick is to be conscious and aware while you’re doing it.  For that to happen a person requires sleep.  That’s the tricky part.

Day one of our adventure began at 5:00 because we live three hours from the airport and we are catching an international flight which requires travellers be there three hours before takeoff.  That’s six hours of up-and-at’em before liftoff.  The extra hours are to give you time to trouble shoot the fallout of snow storms in other provinces (see previous post).  I don’t begrudge them as much as I used to.

If you’re lucky (and we were very lucky) there’s another plane that will take you east instead of west and still get you where you want to go so that ten or so hours later it’s 8:30 in the morning the next day when you get there.  At best you managed two hours of fitful sleep on the plane, it is midnight in the time zone you woke up in, and you have all of Holiday Day # 1 ahead of you on an empty tank.  Welcome to jet lag.

As I mentioned before, travel agents are invaluable and we were lucky enough to have one in our group.  Our baby sister always bemoans how she missed out on the green thumb gene but she makes up for it with her detailed planner DNA.  From the moment we booked this trip she stepped up with research on where, when, and how to get the most out of our dime.  The core of our adventure was a week long cruise down the Rhein River but we had two days in Amsterdam first and with her organizational skills we made every minute count.  She even put together a book so that she could stay on top of every element. 

She was the reason our airport to hotel shuttle wasn’t allowed to leave without us when our plane took extra long to park.  She had done the research into what was close to our hotel so we could explore on our own without fear of getting lost.  She was the one who booked the canal boat tour on our second night.  The only one of us she didn’t worry about was Sandy, come to join us from South Africa, saying that “She is a strong independent woman!”  That way she had more time to keep tabs on her older sisters whom she didn’t seem to have the same confidence in.

Day one we checked into our hotel, explored the immediate area, found a tulip market, watched furniture being delivered through a third story window, marvelled at the pretty buildings and trees leafing out, picturesquely mirrored in the canals, and found a restaurant that served Argentinian beef for our evening meal.  By 7:30 we called it a day, only to wake up a few hours later because it was wake up time at home.  The South African girl had it the easiest – she flew farther than we did but never left her time zone.

Day two was breakfast and then a walking tour; lots of history, cobble stones, photo ops, tipsy houses, trees in bloom, and our guide reminding us constantly to watch for bikes.  There are thousands of them and they have the right of way.  Also, they are every bit as deadly silent as the electric cars.  We all survived.  

After a quick street lunch of fish and chips we took a taxi to an open street market confident in the promise that our scheduled canal ride was only 12 minutes walk away.  That’s what Amy’s book said.  But, whether Google Maps let us down or minutes go faster in The Netherlands, we did not make that date on time.  We are pretty sure we saw our boat chugging away as we approached but it didn’t matter – we had missed it.

There’s no keeping that girl down though.  She worked her way through feelings of frustration and disappointment (in herself – she felt that she had let us down) but then came up swinging!  She would get our money back!  This led to being offered an after dark tour (After all, who needs sleep anyway?).  It was a cold, wet wait but our tour guide made it worth it so all was good in the end.

All that was left to do was to get to the river cruise ship the next morning.  There were a few hiccoughs … the transfer shuttle thought we would have the address of where were going.  We thought he would have it.  Amy’s book only had a very unhelpful phone number but GPS saved the day and finally we were aboard the Emerald Luna – Home Sweet Home for the next seven days. 

And shortly after that two of us were in a taxi headed back to the hotel for a wallet left in a safe.  If things happen in threes we sure hoped that the kerfuffles were all behind us.

This was night number three and I slept almost the whole night.

 

 

GETTING THERE IS HALF THE FUN

Remember the last line of my previous post?  It was a rhetorical question actually … “I can sleep on the plane, right?”

Wrong.  The answer is ‘wrong’.  Hard no.  I am not able to sleep on a plane.  Glad I’ve got that cleared up.

And also, you might recall on my airport adventure I misplaced a passport and nearly had to abandon my husband to the grumpy guy at Customs?  Well, that didn’t happen this time but I seem to enjoy extra adventure so we did something different, you know, just for fun.

Our departure date was for the end of March – definite ‘lamb or lion’ territory so as the day crept closer we watched carefully what Mother Nature was doing in southern Saskatchewan. We were quite pleased that she seemed to be keeping busy further west.  Seasoned travellers would not have been so reassured, but we were pure innocents in how a part day shutdown of an airport 1000 km away the day before your departure can turn the whole system upside down.  We are much wiser now.

West Jet warned us our flight to Calgary was delayed before we left home.  Halfway to Regina we were told it would be even later.  As we entered the city we were told there was no way to make our connecting flight and we should talk to a West Jet representative about other options.  The text sounded so matter-of-fact that all still seemed well with the world until we went up to the gal just opening up her work station for the day.  We told her our problem and she smiled and told us she would take a look at what she could do for us.  It might have been the only smile she managed all day.  She logged on and her eyes flew open wide, she made a valiant effort not to bite her lip, and she began to scroll.  When her co-worker arrived a few minutes later and told her “good morning!” she merely said “Is it? Take a look.”  He literally jumped back from his computer and cried “Oh my god!” like he was faced with a backed-up, overflowing toilet bowl.  Come to think of it, that’s probably a pretty good comparison.

The bottom line was that air travel in western Canada was at least six hours behind because Calgary had a snowstorm yesterday.  Our WJ gal couldn’t help us.  We left her to deal with growing lines of people desperate to get where they were supposed to be going.

I always feel a little inadequate when other people do all their own booking flights.  I have managed it for single domestic flights but I just feel so much more secure if I get a professional to take care of anything more technical … and this is the perfect example of why.  We called our friend and savior, Jaime, at McPhail Travel in Moosomin, told her our dilemma and she was on it instantly.  Within a half hour we were booked to fly east instead of west and get to Amsterdam almost the exact same time as our first flight was to arrive.  It was a little scary because we had to make another connection in Minneapolis but we survived and made it to The Netherlands before the tulips were done blooming!  One of the first things we did when we got home was buy Jaime flowers.

The way time zones and travel work is we were up at 5:00 to drive to Regina to catch a flight to Europe.  We left the prairies shortly after noon March 26 and landed in Amsterdam at breakfast time on March 27 but it’s only a ten hour flight.   The airlines provide meals(?) and attempt to control the lighting in the cabin so that humans can better manage the adjustment to the new time zone they will be landing in but really, there’s no saving humans from their folly.  We evolved as walkers and it’s pretty hard to hop time zones at a walking pace.  We are not built for this.

Long story short, we had a few days of sightseeing before our cruise started and if I hadn’t made notes of what happened those days they would be lost forever.  A sleep-deprived brain can barely function on a minute-to-minute basis, let alone recall events in any kind of order. 

I’ll check my notes and tell you all about it next time.

 

 

 

JOURNEY BEFORE THE JOURNEY

This trip has been in the works for a year.  That’s right, if one of your bucket list items is to float down a river in Europe while watching castles and cathedrals and vineyards go by in 2026 you need to start looking into the different options of which cruise company/river/and time of the year might suit you best in 2025.  Believe me, there is a lot of deciding to do.

If I got into all the details I’d have to write a book.  This trip was originally supposed to be the tail end of a trip to South Africa and only the two of us.  As the year ticked by the adventure has evolved into putting South Africa on the back burner, two other couples joining us, stretching the timeline later into the spring, and swapping out my husband for my daughter.  It’s a long story but I think it will still have a happy ending.  European river cruises are way more my kind of thing than his.

The past four months have been focussed on fine tuning the details and wrapping up loose ends.  The cruise is one week long but we arrive in Amsterdam a couple days early and get to do some touring of that fair city – first with a walking tour and then an evening canal cruise so there are airport to hotel shuttles and check in times and meeting places to nail down … and added fees for all of these goodies.

And once we got all that settled we asked the travel agent to tweak it all and switch who would be traveling with me.

On the third morning we move on to our cruise ship and begin our trip which takes us from Amsterdam to Basel, Switzerland over the next week.  Being as it is spring the itinerary covers a lot of tulips, hyacinths, and daffodils.  Thankfully there are other attractions for the less ‘flower friendly’ folks in our group.  The brochures speak of how wonderful it all smells when everything is in bloom so this is a trip for one’s sense of smell too.  I’m not normally allergic to pollen but it might be a good idea to throw in some Reactin.  Too much of a good thing might be bad.

There will also be a palace, some churches, many vineyards, a market or two and lots of amazing architecture.  If my Croatian yacht cruise is any predictor of this trip it will be a lovely experience meeting our fellow travellers.  The real bonus is that this time I will also have two of my sisters and one daughter along.  Win, win, win.

It’s down to the nitty gritty now … the packing part.  For three weeks there has been a suitcase open on the guest bed and a few pieces of clothing laying across it.  Two weeks ago it was decided amongst the sisters that for our last night we get separated from our checked luggage so if we want pyjamas and a tooth brush we need to pack such things in a carry on.  I’ve decided that a small back pack is the way to go because I might want one on our walking tours anyway so one of those took its place on the bed too.  It already holds my pyjamas – the one and only thing I have formally packed so far.

With the back pack able to hole a fair amount I’m not so sure I need the bigger suitcase so now the little one has joined the jumble on the bed.  Sometime very soon I will need to sort through all the ‘maybes’ and decide what is actually going to Europe with me.

In the meanwhile somehow this last week’s calendar has filled with a bunch of appointments and commitments that can’t be ignored and I kind of promised to cook a few things to keep people alive while I’m gone.  It makes me tired just to think about it.

Oh well … I can sleep on the plane!  Right? 

 

 

 

EARLY MORNING THOUGHTS

Many many years ago, back in the days of the Redvers Optimist, one of the contributors wrote a column called Early Morning Thoughts.  I remember that she blamed her being awake way too early in the day on menopause and what that does to sleep patterns.  Being as I am just a few years younger than she is this gave me something to look forward to.  Thank you Joanne; anticipation always adds to the experience!  

I liked reading what she had to say.  I can’t remember what she talked about now, but it was interesting at the time.  Maybe I acknowledged the situation as “okay, I will get less sleep but potentially I will think interesting thoughts”.  That time in my life came.  And went.  I survived.  All is good.

These days I have moved on to full blown Old Lady Mode.  I don’t know if menopause ruined my sleep patterns forever? Or does this happen to everyone?  Or is my brain so powerful it just can’t shut off?

Yeah, that’s probably it.  How would you power down a super computer?

Anyway, long story short, most of my early mornings feature at least an hour of solitude, coffee, and thinking about stuff.  It’s probably my favourite time of the day.

My mother used to tell me a similar story.  I was a teenager at the time and totally thought she was nuts.  In a perfect (teenaged) world we should be able to stay up till whenever suits us and then sleep in until noon.  She said “no”.  That her walk before 6:00 in the morning to fetch the cows in for milking was her best time of the day.  I dismissed this as the lunatic ramblings of a demented old lady (she would have been in her mid forties at the time).  This is yet another example of how my mother was right.  At this point in my life I could fill a book with the times my mother was right. 

I don’t have cows to bring in for milking (thank goodness, milking is a lot of work).  I have no doubt, though, that I would enjoy an early morning walk.  My version, in the summer time, is to wander around my yard in dew-wet grass to check out my gardens.  The warm sun, the scents of the flowers, the promise of veggies, even the cat following me around complaining about its empty food dish – it’s the perfect way to start the day.

I also have a daily adventure in the winter.  We heat our shop with a wood-burning stove that needs to be stoked on a regular basis.  We call this job ‘feeding the dragon’ and right after pushing the button on the coffee maker and feeding the dog his breakfast I suit up for the frigid walk to the shop to go feed our pet dragon.  No doubt my teenaged self would have considered this cruelty and possibly worth a report to Social Services, but for me (and I suspect my mother) it’s just a refreshing introduction to the day, and beautiful in its own right.

Sometimes the stars are brilliant in the predawn sky.  Sometimes it’s so foggy I can barely see out of the yard.  Sometimes the rime frost gives a breath-taking display of white crystals on dark trees.  Sometimes the wind is blowing at 60 mph and the snow is two feet deep.  I tend to walk faster on those days.

The satisfaction of keeping the dragon fed is just a bonus.  I like that I am doing a necessary job, I like that the fresh air is head-clearing, and I love the smell of wood smoke that follows me back to the house. 

The best part though, is that I will still have about an hour with just me, my mug of coffee, and my dog laying at my feet. 

And on a shelf across the room sits a photo of my mother, a smile on her face and an expression that I can’t help but feel says “See?  Didn’t I tell you so?”

 

WHAT DAY IS IT?

I seem to be lost in the What-the-heck-day-is-it? land of midwinter.  Life is just a series of identical days marching in some kind of a circular pattern passing an endless array of familiar landmarks like we’re trapped inside Fred and Wilma Flintstone’s house with no end in sight. 

Why am I here?  What am I supposed to be doing?  Was I doing something important?  If so, where was I doing it? 

I’ve often joked about being solar powered, but even with the lengthening of sunlit hours to our days my brain remains foggy and unfocussed.  Facebook has studied my algorithms and has suggested everything from vitamin supplements to possible parasite purges.  I used to like 80% of what Facebook had to offer and be annoyed with the other 20%.  Now it’s more like 5% to 95%, and ‘annoyed’ isn’t a strong enough word.

This syndrome happens every winter, I think.  I’m not sure – it’s that fuzzy thinking thing again.  I prefer outside work to inside housework so my aimlessly wandering from window to window looking out at the frozen white landscape in February is a form of slow-motion torture.  I long for grass to mow and weeds to pull and flowers to enjoy, but all there is out there is ice and snow and 40 below temperatures. 

I want to do laundry and hang it out on the line.

At this point I would even take an afternoon of cleaning up dog ‘residue’ over this endless imprisonment.

One would think that since we have a teenager living with us and going to school and hockey there would be a bit more structure to our retirement time.  It is true that we have more social commitments because of this but I still seem to have trouble keeping my days straight.  Tuesdays and Thursdays are hockey practice … except when changes are made.  School days should be pretty predictable … except for days the buses don’t run because it’s 40 below, or there are admin days (I think that’s what they are called).  We’ve also had a fair few sick days. And dentist days.  And storm days.  

Actually, any little thing can throw a person off: this year – 2026 – our church’s Shrove Tuesday pancake supper landed on a Thursday.  It’s kinks like that in the time/space continuum that can really mess things up.

If I didn’t have everything written on my old-fashioned wall calendar we would be totally lost.

I sincerely hope I have everything written up on my old-fashioned wall calendar.

Probably the worst component of this mind-numbing mundane-ness is having to come up with a menu for supper.  Every.  Single.  Night.

I’m 70 years old, for Pete’s sake.  When does this ever end? 

But, enough crying already.  As long as winter is, I’m not the only one who has to endure it.  I can’t do anything about it being February 21^st today but I can turn my eyes toward the future.  Spring will surely arrive in all its muddy glory just like it has all the other years.  The sun will shine and wrap me in a big, warm hug of welcome as I work in the yard, and hang out the laundry, and clean up dog ‘residue’.

In the shorter term I have a trip to Europe to look forward to … the tulips in Holland, castles and vineyards along the Rhine.  This is a bucket list item for me in the plans have been in the works for over a year.  I just have to make it through one more month …

 

SO FAR SO GOOD?

Well so far, exactly two weeks into this new year, I’m not so sure I like 2026.

We started out just fine.  Off to Mexico for a week on a beach, in the warn sunshine.  And the best part about an all-inclusive resort – plenty of food, all varieties, all the time – and I didn’t have to menu plan or cook once.

The wedding was pretty.  The party was fun.  The people we were with were a happy bunch; it was all good.

Until our teenager came down with a fever.  We have no idea where it came from but eventually I convinced him to take some Tylenol and the fever broke.  We had insurance, but who really wants to play that game in a foreign country?

Then he broke out in a rash.  Was it an after effect of the fever?  Was it something else?  He said don’t worry about it, but it kept getting worse.  The next morning, as we got ready to head back to the airport, I again offered him some antihistamines just in case it was an allergic reaction (at this point it sure looked like hives).  It took less than ten minutes for the Reactin to kick in and the rash disappeared before our very eyes.  Don’t know what set it off, but an allergy it definitely was.

The trip home went as per usual: wait in a line for the bus to the airport to wait in line to check our luggage to wait in line for airport food to wait in line to board the plane … and then finally that five hour flight we all enjoy so much.  Mission accomplished.

There was even a bit of a bonus – we arrived back in Regina 15 minutes early.  We might get home before midnight after all. 

Except … when you are trying to get three people back through Customs you require three passports.  I kept coming up one short, no matter how many times I checked my purse.  This is not a good thing, believe me.

I don’t know if there is such a thing as a pleasant, patient, or understanding Customs Officer, but if there is he’s not the one we got.  Someone had definitely peed in his cornflakes that morning.  I dug through my purse three times, obvious panic setting in and all he said is “go over there”.  We did, and I dumped the contents out on a bench – passport #3 was not there.  Pockets? No.  Other carry on?  Also no.  It had to have fallen out on the plane!  Which was about to leave for Saskatoon! 

Let me tell you an old lady can sprint up stairs pretty fast when she needs to … only to be stopped by an airport security lady who dashed forward, pointed to the floor, and excitedly insisted I couldn’t cross THE RED LINE.  I hadn’t even seen THE RED LINE ten minutes earlier when I had entered *Canada* and now she was pulling a plastic curtain across to make sure I couldn’t go back.  I told her what my problem was; she wasn’t nearly concerned enough to suit me. 

I said I just wanted to go find it … row 18, middle seat … She said “don’t worry, the plane is here for the night.”  I said “No it’s not!  It’s leaving right away for Saskatoon!”

Realistically the whole double search (they didn’t find it the first time) couldn’t have taken very long, we were picking up our luggage at the same time as our friends, but it sure seemed to take forever.  And, what are the chances? I was joined at the top of the stairs and this side of THE RED LINE by a father/son duo with the same missing passport problem.  The son looking miserable, and the father’s cornflakes had obviously met the same fate as the Customs Officer’s by the looks of things.  I felt sad for the kid – I knew how he felt, and I didn’t have any heavy judgement coming down on my head.  It was Glen’s passport that was missing and he was good-naturedly trying to recall everything that had happened to the guy in the movie Terminal.  He thought maybe he would marry the gal at THE RED LINE if he was stuck there for life.

It all ended well for us.  The passport was found.  We did round two with the Customs agent, his mood had not improved but we all checked out fine so he had to let us go.  Truth to tell, it must have been when I got my pen out to fill out the customs form that the passport fell out of my purse, so it was Customs’ fault in the first place!

(I do want to apologise to Bev, seated across the aisle from me, trying to keep her toddler asleep while the Regina passengers were deplaning.  I’m betting that two searches of the seat next to you wasn’t the best thing that could happen.  I’m so sorry if he woke up!)

And, that was only week #1.  Since we’ve been home we’ve all been sharing some kind of nasty and persistent stomach bug.  I don’t know if Montezuma is to blame, but I’m not enjoying it.

Sure hope 2026 gets better from here.

 

BLIZZARD BLISS

I went to bed last night listening to the roaring prairie wind blasting its way through our shelterbelt trees and throwing loose snow against the side of the house with all its might.  It made me snuggle further under the covers and smile.  I love nights like this.

Now, before you call up the nice people with straight jackets and have me hauled away, hear me out.  Don’t question my sanity just for a silly little thing like enjoying a good, old-fashioned blizzard every once in a while.  I’m prairie, born and raised.  We’re kind of an extreme life form.

First of all, please note that my embracing of the storm was done from the inside of my house.  A house with central heating and excellent insulation.  Furthermore, I was tucked into my toasty warm bed and under a down-filled duvet.  And, most important of all, I knew that everyone I loved was home, safe, and warm, as well.  I didn’t need to worry about a single person or thing.  I could relax and listen to the wind howl its one, long song, feeling its power pushing against the walls but trusting that my shelter was up to the task of protecting me and those I care about.  The louder the wind, the cozier I feel.

 This morning dawned with bright blue skies, dazzling fresh white snow and the wind still blowing, it kind of looks like a Christmas card picture out there – very pretty, but nasty cold.  We were at the southern edge of the storm so we got a major part of our precipitation in freezing rain throughout the day yesterday.  Although the videos of kids skating on city streets and other people throwing curling rocks down stretches of pebbled highway are fun for the novelty of it all, the potential for concussions and broken hips are important factors to consider before a person ventures outside.  So far today I’ve made it across the yard once, sticking to where the snow is deep so that if I do slip on the ice underneath there will be that fresh powder to cushion my fall.  You gotta think ahead, you know.

At the moment we haven’t tried to leave the yard yet.  The man says he figures the 4X4 with the studded tires could probably make it but he also is planning on spending the next few hours clearing the driveway out.  There’s lots of light, fluffy snow to push around but the lack of traction underneath might make the job a little more challenging than usual.  This is not my problem; it’s a man thing.  I stay in the house and make soup; that’s my job.

As much as I enjoy the fierceness of prairie weather; the wondering of ‘how bad will it get?’, the photographing the aftermath, a blizzard also likes to rearrange schedules.  School buses don’t run, hockey practises and games are juggled to new times, Christmas concerts are cancelled.  Hair appointments are rescheduled (thank the Lord, and halleluiah!  No one wants to go through the holidays looking like a haystack).  It looks like the two Australians’ flight will be landing in Regina this afternoon as has been planned for weeks.  Sure glad their reservations weren’t for yesterday.  I’m pretty sure they would rather witness the Northern Lights than participate in a blizzard although both have a bragging rights quality to them, don’t they?

The next week is going to be full of company and food and visiting and family gatherings and a hockey game or two.  I have several lists of jobs to do and groceries to buy on the go.  Most of my baking is done, all of my cards and letters are sent, by tonight the guest beds will all be made up.  Once I’m completely ready Mother Nature can send another storm our way.  As long as everyone is safe and inside I really do love a good blizzard.

 

ONLY ONE DOWN, BUT IT’S A START

It’s the end of November people.  There is less that a month until the big day when Santa does his thing and we all eat turkey and chocolates until we nearly explode.  There is SO MUCH TO DO before then!  And I haven’t even started.

Well, actually, that’s a lie.  I have started.  Recently I woke up to my usual let’s-worry-about-things-I-can’t-control time of just after 3:00 in the morning and selected as my ‘worry de jour’ the fact that I hadn’t even begun my Christmas letter yet.  I know that this is an antiquated custom, but it’s a really nice one where folks keep in touch and share their family’s news with a Christmas card and letter every year.  I know I’m an oddity in 2025 to keep this up but I have a small fan club who look forward to my annual news and season’s greetings.  I don’t want to disappoint.  Realizing that I wasn’t even started this letter in the last week of November sparked a tiny flame of momentum.  I would get right on that in the morning.

I confess, it wasn’t the very next morning, but I did get it done.  All I need to do is proof read it and hit SEND and I can cross that job off the list.  Except for a few elderly folks who get hard copy letters they all go by email.  I know I am eating into my Canada Post pension by not buying stamps but my ‘fan club’ membership is over 100.  I have to be frugal.

That’s one job down, about a thousand to go.

The next one better be getting gifts in order.  I was inspired back in August and found something that I think the youngest grandkids will enjoy.  I bought them.  They are only a partial gift so I can’t even wrap them, let alone send them, but they sit in a box of my inertia awaiting lord only knows what … divine inspiration, I suppose?  It better happen pretty soon.  A lot of my family lives on other continents and I’m already late. (See? Canada Post still gets a sizable chunk of my pension back!)

My outdoor decorating has been sizing itself down over the past decade.  As strings of lights die I haven’t been replacing them.  I’m down to two deer and a pole Christmas tree.  I have them out in place on the front lawn and will march across the yard to plug them in on December 1^st.  That will be job #2.

Baking.  Ah!  That baking thing I do every year.  Gingersnaps and puff pastry/lemon cheese tarts, mincemeat cookies and butter tarts – some with raisins and some with pecans. Other cookies with macadamia nuts and cranberries and some with white chocolate chips.  How we can go through that many crazy calories in such a short time makes my head spin, but I’ll make them again this year and they will all disappear like they do every other time.  Best not to start that too early though – a person wants some of them to still be around to serve guests on the big day.  Meanwhile I will probably make at least three batches of poppycock.

This lots-of-baking thing is especially important this year because I believe it’s my turn to host the feast.  I haven’t done a potential head count yet but except for the Covid years a gathering of our clan tends to number at least 20 and quite often almost double that.  We have a decent sized house but the term ‘bursting at the seams’ applies.  It’s noisy and happy and fun to be together and I’m always glad when it’s not my turn for another few years.

The one thing I am looking forward to is decorating the tree.  I love to do this all by myself, with Christmas music playing softly in the background.  Sorting through the ornaments and memories of all the other trees I’ve decorated in my life.  In 70 years that’s a lot of memories … of my mom and dad, my siblings and our intense excitement over what gifts we might be getting. And later of having my own young family and seeing the ancient magic through their eyes, and now being the grandmother carrying these moments forward to share with the next generation.  The most magical moments in December are sipping my early morning coffee, bathed in the twinkle and glow of Christmas lights – just me and the tree.

The glass of wine to celebrate finishing decorating it is a close second.

There are the other periphery treats too: twinkle tours around town  to enjoy the pretty lights, phone calls from people who don’t write letters but like to stay in touch anyway, and ridiculously saccharine Christmas movies with their happily-ever-after story lines to name a few.  It’s all part and parcel of this festival time of year.

May we all find the peace and promise we are seeking.  For me it begins on December 21^st when our wobble back towards longer daylight hours begin.

 

 

DEJA-VU, ALL OVER AGAIN

You know that feeling that you’ve been here before?  That, somehow, when you walk into a building that you already have your bearings?  You know where you’re going to go sit?  And who you are liable to meet there?  And where the kitchen is?  The memories are a little fuzzy around the edges but you just know that you’ve been there before.

It looks like we will be hanging out at the Redvers Rec Center a lot this winter.  Except for social functions on the curling side and the swimming pool on super hot days in the summer we haven’t been there much since the end of our previous minor hockey days at the end of the last century (that’s about how long ago it seems).  But, as of the beginning of October 2025 we are once again lining up equipment, scheduling in practice days, paying ice fees, and doing fundraising.  This morning I’m washing a game jersey because team pictures are tomorrow night.  I never imagined this to come up on my bingo card but here we are, and it’s a good thing.

The Rec Center isn’t exactly the same as it used to be.  The main lobby has had a facelift, the inside seating has had an upgrade, the menu has evolved and the washrooms have migrated across to where the little mini-ice surface used to be – remember that?  That’s how old I am; I remember that. 

Lord help me but the first hockey player I drove to practices was my little brother in 1971.  I can’t even recall if there was a kitchen then, probably because I didn’t have any money to spend there.  The addition to the lobby decor I like the best are pictures and posters honouring the people - the athletes who put Redvers on the map, and the local hometown heroes being recognized for their contribution to recreation in our community.  This is an excellent idea and I like it a lot.

It's kind of weird/strange/funny, but it appears we have been away from the Redvers hockey scene for exactly one generation.  I know this a small town and we are going to know the people we meet at the games, but in a super focused delivery of Deja-vu some of the people at these 2025 practices and games are exactly the same folks who attended the games in 2000.  Only now, the players that were are the parents today, and the parents of before are the grandparents.  This should not be so confusing.  After all, we are the grandparents this time too, but I keep forgetting which generation I’m in.  It’s like the intervening 25 years never happened because we weren’t there for them.  The coach today was Mitchell’s team mate back then.  Everything is a little out of whack in the time/space continuum.

People tease us that ‘this will keep us young’.  For sure I will have to renew my ever-sketchy knowledge of hockey rules and learn a whole roster of players by how they skate and their style of play.  I must say that jumping in at the U15 level with a roster of kids you’ve never met is challenging.

It will also keep us on the road.

And probably broke buying rink burgers (that part will be just like the good old days).

In the meanwhile, if you happen to run into me at the rink and we strike up a conversation be prewarned I may wander in my time line orientation, and almost inevitably I will refer to my player by his uncle’s name (a sad/happy occurrence that happens regardless of hockey). 

At our ages these slip-ups could be blamed on senility but I’m going to lean towards it being a simple case of Deja-vu overdose.  Be patient with us; we’ll get it all worked out by spring.

 

BE THE REASON

I have been reading a book.  Well, actually, I have several books on the go.  There is a whole stack of them on my bedside table, all with bookmarks carefully placed so that I can pick up where I left off weeks, months, and possibly even more than a year ago.  Maybe my life needs to be a little less busy or maybe I just need a better light to read by, but I just seem to stall out in a book these days.  Luckily, I own them all so I don’t have to deal with library return dates.

But, back to the one that inspired me to write this.

Written by Rhonda Byrne, the same author who wrote The Secret, and The Power, her new book The Magic expands on her life themes of ‘sunny side up’ and ‘cup half full’ philosophies.  It gets a bit sugary at times but I’m not going to say she is wrong – optimism beats pessimism any day of the week.

I have to say that this kind of inspirational book is not my normal pick.  I like stories.  Well written stories with believable characters and a strong story line.  The Magic is not that kind of book so who knows why I picked it up and spent my money on it, but I did.

When The Secret came out (and spent 190 weeks on the New York Times best seller’s list) a friend of mine sang its praises and told of how much it had impacted her life.  So much so that my curiosity got the best of me and I read it and was introduced to the idea of the law of attraction.  That we can and do attract what comes into our lives; if you believe that good things will come, they do.  And likewise, by expecting bad you will attract bad.  Of course, that is an over simplification of the book but it’s an uplifting read and opens a person up to a new way of looking at things.

I’ve never read any of her other books but something must have caught my interest on The Magic.  Everyone needs a little magic in their lives, maybe I was looking for some in mine.

The premise of this book is even simpler that the first.  Basically gratitude – being grateful – has immense magical power.  Somehow, she stretches this theme out to fill 254 pages but the bottom line is “if you are thankful your life will be blessed”.

She looks at ancient scripts and finds references to happiness and gratitude.  She quotes famous philosophers.  Teachings of several different religions are used to show this universal truth as well, her point being that humanity’s most potent survival tactic was just to be thankful for what we have, and that showing gratitude to others is a powerful form of magic.

The book is set out like a exercise book with a chapter to read and then an assignment of sorts to help the reader apply what they have read to their own lives.  I admit that I didn’t stick with the homework assignments I fell off the wagon but that’s not to say I didn’t get anything out of the book, because I did.

Did you know that you can’t feel anxiety or sadness or disillusionment if you are feeling grateful?  Gratefulness takes up all the emotional space you have if you let it in.  And there is always something to be grateful for.  That was one of the assignments – to spend the last few minutes of your day before you went to sleep naming ten things you were grateful for.  Even writing them down and then saying them aloud because repetition gave them more power.  Or you could simply go over your day and pick the best thing that had happened all day – another way to identify what you were grateful for.

The lesson that stuck with me the strongest though was the advice to show gratitude to others.  I think I’ve always been pretty good at saying “thank you” but after reading this book I make a point of making my words more meaningful.  Whether someone has held a door open for me or taken the time to help me in a store, or given me advice, I try to let them know how much I appreciate their time, effort, or kindness.  It makes us both feel like something wonderful has happened.  You should try it.

There are days when it seems like the world has gone sour and we are left feeling that there is nothing we can do to fight the darkness.  But we can. 

Be grateful.  Express gratitude.  Treat friends and strangers alike with the feeling that they are appreciated.  Be the source of warmth and kind-heartedness.

Set out to be the reason someone has a good day, and in doing so your day will be better as well.

Simple magic.

 

DOING BIRTHDAYS IN STYLE

Many years ago, my farmer husband explained to me in his typical stressed-out-about-harvest voice that if I had wanted parties to celebrate my birthday I should have known better than to be born in September.  I mean, this was a life-long handicap what with being both a farmer’s daughter and then choosing to be a farmer’s wife.  I really shouldn’t be surprised to have my birthday barely acknowledged between filling bins and fixing combines. 

I’m not, really.  This girl isn’t one of the high maintenance variety.  Besides, I have scored a few significant birthday memories over the years.  In 1982 he actually took a whole day off and we went to Brandon to pick out an engagement ring.  Looking back, having only known the man less than a year I can only say that this astonishingly atypical behavior was lost on me at the time.  The term ‘false advertising’ certainly applies.  

It’s too late to do anything about it now, though, I think the statute of limitations on that crime has run out.

I think it was the very next year, as a newly wed, that he gave me a blank I.O.U. to be redeemed after harvest.  He was probably thinking that meant taking me out for supper or some such easy thing.  Imagine his surprise when I called that debt in and insisted on a clothesline.  It was a whole day’s work and I never got another I.O.U. but it was so worth it.  I love my clothesline.

The years have rolled on by and luckily I have continued to have birthdays.  The kids got old enough to bake the cakes and make or buy the presents.  Like I said, I’m not high maintenance so it’s worked out okay.  He remembered to wish me a happy birthday without being prompted this year, so that’s something.  It’s a low bar but he aced it.  By that time he was on his 5^th or 6^th swather knife repair and more than a little on edge.  It’s all good.

This year other plans had been made.  2025 brings me to one of those significant ending-in-zero birthdays and the womenfolk of the family decided that this called for a spa weekend in Moose Jaw.  Who needs husband input when you can gather all the sisters and an assortment of nieces/daughters together for a two day spa visit?  As a bonus there was also one tiny grand daughter for us to all fuss over; she and her mom are kind of a package deal at the moment.  When the family is spread out from Calgary to Redvers there aren’t all that many opportunities to get together.  It was a great time.

We didn’t do anything fancy.  We talked about doing one of the Tunnels of Moose Jaw tours but never got around to it.  A few of us bought souvenirs as we wandered through the downtown shops, but nothing too much.  We treated ourselves to two lovely evening meals, enjoying the food and the atmosphere … and teased the sister who had “forgotten” her wallet mercilessly.  We spent time in the mineral waters pool – especially in the outdoor pool under the stars on a very warm prairie night, but no one took time for an actual spa treatment, we had too much visiting to do.

The best times by far, though, were sitting around our suite sharing a carafe of Tim Horton’s coffee with muffins and fruit and cheese, telling stories of our kids and grandkids, our gardens and animals, the holidays we had taken and the places we still dream of going. 

You know, the kind of things that womenfolk talk about.

We gifted stories from one generation to the next, honoring the mothers and sisters who are no longer with us. Hopefully the two month old baby was soaking it all in as she slept; there was a lot of familial ambience in that room.  She and her generation will be the ones who carry this magic forward.  

We told stories from long ago while making fresh memories for the next time we meet - which we should probably do sooner rather than later.  Those ending-in-zero birthdays get a little more serious as time goes by.  It’s not the zero that scares me anymore, it’s the number in front of the zero that is concerning.

 

 

TAPPING OUT

Here we are in the waning days of August.  The swathers and combines are chewing through the acres and municipal roads that don’t see traffic for months on end are major trucking routes.  My grass needs cut again but 30 degrees is just too brutal for this girl – it will have to wait.  Sometimes a person has to know when to tap out.

Some crazy lady (who looks a lot like me) planted her usual too-big-for-two-people garden in May and I have been dealing with the consequences of that rash act all summer.  Germination was pretty fair except the yellow beans which were a complete failure.  My cucumbers also struggled to give me a measly four plants.  It’s funny, in June this concerned me greatly because that didn’t seem to be enough.  Then one of them died and I was down to three.  We like our cucumbers so this was very concerning.  It is now the end of August and I have been giving them away by the bag full only to have another twenty ready to eat the next time I walk past the pickle patch.  Obviously poor germination has no bearing on productivity if the rain and heat come at the right time.  It’s getting to the point where they need to tap out.

The strawberries started out the year producing very well and have moved on to spectacular.  They seem to be taking the name ‘ever bearing’ very seriously.  I was still picking asparagus until the end of June, and the raspberry crop was phenomenal.  I had to discourage my peas from further productivity by yanking them out of the ground.  I’ve never had better success with corn, and I even got most of it into my freezer before a few very rude and greedy raccoons wreaked havoc one night.  Let’s just say they won’t be back next year.

Zucchini are playing their usual trick of being eight inches long at 10:00 in the morning and two feet long and weighing 20 pounds by suppertime.  Any beets I have left out there are the size of soccer balls.  The dill has all gone to seed.  Luckily the pigs love Swiss Chard … and any portulaca, redroot pigweed, and sow thistle that happens to be growing where it’s not supposed to be.

The onions don’t have root rot.  The potatoes are prolific and not rotting from the inside like on some years.  We have been eating, pickling, and giving away carrots for a month now and I still have two twelve-foot rows to harvest.  What was that lady who looks a lot like me thinking in May?  Oh yeah, I know what she was thinking … She was thinking “There’s only half a package of seed left, I’ll make another row.”  That’s what she was thinking.  Somebody needs to tap her out.

It's the pumpkins that are the winners this year though.  Remember that hail storm with the hardball -sized ice bombs from the sky on July 4?  Not sure that I’ll ever forget what that sounds like under meatal roofing or the way the yard looked like the inside of a popcorn machine or the ground being covered in deep pock marks for weeks afterward.  It was a doozy.  Luckily our yard was at the edge of the worst action; no windows were broken and most of the garden dodged the damage. 

The pumpkins took the brunt of it with their huge leaves out there like catcher’s mitts, and yet they came back swinging!  Those plants must cover one quarter of my garden space and are spreading another ten feet daily.  There is fruit of all sizes under those huge leaves and the canopy is so tall you could lose small children in there.  If we have a late frost there should be enough jack-o-lanterns to supply southeast Saskatchewan.  No need for them to tap out – I’m curious to see how big we can go!

And, the pinnacle of garden satisfaction?  What we’ve been waiting for since I picked those baby tomato plants up at the greenhouse?  The reason bacon exists?  Today, finally, there were tomatoes ripe enough for toasted bacon and tomato sandwiches for lunch. 

I wish I could say “My work here is now done” but of course we are only about to start the everything-to-do-with-tomatoes soup/salsa/sauce season.  They’ve been so slow to get going it will likely be mid October before I see the end of them.  Before I can really tap out for 2025.

Meanwhile, I’m going to have a very stern talk with that lady who looks a lot like me about next spring.

 

                                                         THE BEGINNING AND THE END

       Way back in the early days of my farm wife life I would be asked out on ‘dates’ to go crop checking.  Please note that the quotation marks are around the word ‘dates’ and not around the phrase ‘crop checking’.  We were farmers genuinely going out to check our crops and truly it was as close we ever got to a date.

       Depending on what we were checking for, these dates took place at different times of the day; Wheat Midge was an early evening thing, Bertha Army Worm have an all-day-long window, Canola’s readiness check for swathing could happen any time, but a hot dry afternoon was best to grind heads of wheat out in our hands to see how far off harvest would be.

       My favourite times, though, were the crop emergence checks.  These were always done at either sunrise or sunset – my farmer explaining to me that this was when the light was just right to see the bright new green shoots against the rich, dark earth.  He was so right.  What was crystal clear in that first hour after dawn was nearly invisible at high noon but would show right back up just before night fall.  A trick in the intensity of the light and the angle of the shadow made the colours stand out, the landscape unforgettable and quite beautiful.

       It was this image of exquisite clarity that sprang to my mind while listening to the homily at a funeral I once attended.  The speaker compared a human life span to the duration of a day.  “Sunrise, sunset.” he offered, “Birth and death.”  His point wasn’t about the amount of time measured with clocks or calendars that either a single day or a lifetime took, but rather the intensity of focus we devote to the beginning and end of them.  How it was these singular moments at each end of a lifetime that humans seemed to devote the most attention to.

       “Just as when a baby is born, something comes to be that was never here before, and at death something is gone that will never be again” he pointed out, “just so no one dawn or dusk is exactly the same as another.”  He felt that it seemed irrelevant how long a person lived or what they accomplished in that life; it was at their birth we rejoiced most loudly and at their death that we mourned so deeply. 

       He went on speaking but by this time the memory of those early morning crop checks had filled my mind and I found myself wondering if this is why we examine life in much the same way.  At our dawn is the light just right to envision how much this tiny human might do in their lifetime?  And at our sunset do we not naturally take a look back along their row to see how well it grew?  I remembered how those brilliant green rows would fade with the high sun light and yet in the evening how they would be visible again.  Is that what happens to us in the middle of our lives?  Does what we do - how we live – disappear in our daily busy-ness?  A photographer once told me that there was no bad time to take a picture with our amazing prairie light, that the trick was just about taking the time to capture it properly.

       I love how serendipity works.  Within a day or two of this funeral I happened to read an essay written by a mother whose sons had grown and gone away.  She wrote her thoughts of their growing up years.  She had been diligent throughout their childhood building photo albums of all their milestones – birthday parties and sports events, Christmas mornings and Hallowe’en costumes – but now that they were gone she realized the things that she missed most, the memories that stood out, were the moments no one would ever think to take a camera out for.  Her list was very long and included things like lost teddy bear hunts, failed tooth fairy mornings, skinned knees and grass stains, having to share the last ice cream sandwich, homework woes, rained out holidays, a first brush with heartache, the didn’t-make-the-team milkshakes, the fine line of giving them space and still watching over them.  She now lived in a house where the fridge was full, the rooms were empty, and her photo albums didn’t begin to tell the story.

       My brain has sifted through this new perspective; I feel there’s a piece of wisdom in all of this to be learned and lived.  Maybe it’s this:  that no matter how beautiful or poignant the extreme ends of our days and lives are, the stretch in between – whether it be minutes, days, or years – needs to be captured and treasured in its own light.  Don’t think that each moment we have isn’t significant just because it’s hard to focus when the sun is high in the sky.

 

 

50 YEARS

50 years is way shorter than it used to be.

And, they are making old people way younger these days too.  It’s weird, I know.

Case in point:  this past weekend we were invited to a 50^th Wedding anniversary.  It was a lovely laid-back affair in a big back yard.  A tent-type gazebo for shade, ample lawn chairs to go around, little children playing games, snacks and beverages of all kinds – a summer lawn party for all ages.  Technically speaking a few of the people there had to be over 50 but in that kind of a setting, with all the conversation and reminiscing and laughter, the passage of time loses its grip.  We were just the same group of people who had been there to celebrate their wedding.  The fact that our grandchildren were also present just gave us more to talk about.

Compare that to how a 50^th wedding Anniversary went down in my grandparents’ day.  A church hall was rented and the womenfolk baked up dainties for several days in advance.  I recall all the cousins being in attendance and family pictures being taken.  We all had brand new dresses; everyone from Grandma, mom, me, and all my sisters.  Not store-bought dresses either!  Mom would have tailor made each and every one, probably between batches of daities, in the week leading up to the big day.  I can’t believe how I undervalued such luxury when I had it, and how I longed for store-bought clothing like my friends had – but that’s another story for another time.  A 12 year old’s sense of values is pretty tacky.

The tables were set with actual tea cups and saucers, the family meal served after the ‘come and go’ part of the day was surely served on China, the head table graced with a table cloth and a centerpiece, fine China and napkins.  There would have been fancy cards and speeches.  The word ‘formal’ comes to mind.

The thing that really sets these two occasions apart, though, is how OLD my Grandmother and Grandfather were at the time.  Like, they were ancient!  Grandma’s hair was snow white, her dress old-fashioned.  Grandpa wore a suit, white shirt and tie.  They look like museum pieces in their photo.

Intrigued, I have done the math wondering how much older they were than us at the time.  Zero years.  Strangely, humans who get married in their 20s and manage to stay married for 50 years all end up in their 70s at that milestone. 

Saturday’s bride in her sundress and the groom in shorts and a casual summer shirt were basically the same age as grandma in her mid-calf length, high collared, long sleeved dress standing formally beside her man in his suit.  Both couples the same age but from different centuries.

Obviously the only thing that has changed is the perspective of the observer – me.

Really, what has changed in the half century between these two celebrations?  The venues were different but the activities were the same.  There was food and visiting, laughter and reminiscing, grandchildren and games at both affairs.  Pretty sure that the beverage choices were limited to coffee, tea, and kool-aid in 1967 and a buffet of pulled pork and baked beans set out in a garage would have been shocking to the ‘church ladies’, but the whole idea of hosting and serving a meal for a special occasion is identical.  Sharing food and gathering in celebration is part of the human experience, and will be until the end of time.

Just to add depth to our summer anniversary afternoon party my sister sent me a few photos of their grandson’s wedding happening in Regina the same day – two generations further into the future.  A newly minted couple who look like they shouldn’t even be old enough to graduate high school yet wearing fashions that their children will groan and roll their eyes at in 10 to 15 years (this is inevitable, every new wave of teenagers does it).  Young love and happy smiles … food, music, friends and family.

50 years down the road they too will celebrate as we did on Saturday, and grandma and grandpa did in 1967.  The dress code will have altered.  The menu will be something new and trendy for 2075.  Who knows where the party will be held?  And the guests (depending on which generation they are from) will either think the couple looks ancient or contemporary. 

Age is all in the eye of the beholder, I guess, and it helps if you colour your hair.