GENERATIONAL KARMA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Plan B was the inevitable trip to emergency.

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

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

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

I wonder what the next generation will think of?

 

SUCK IT UP, SUZIE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From there on though, we are into vacuum territory. 

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

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

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

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

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

FOR THE DOG

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WAITING FOR THE DRUGS TO KICK IN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NOT A GOOD THING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GARDEN GUILT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                         A PEACEFUL, EASY FEELING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Isn’t this nice?”

I wish there was a better word than magical.