METAPHORICALLY SPEAKING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE SEASON OF LIGHTS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

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

We can handle anything Mother Nature can throw at us. 

In fact, we revel in it.

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

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

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

A couple weeks at nearly 40 above?  Same.

Tornados to topple buildings and toss trampolines around?  Yep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 IN FITS AND STARTS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It gives me a deadline. 

And the reward of butter tarts will keep me going.

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

FLASH FROM THE PAST

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

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

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

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

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

I mean, really, who knew?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s still waiting for his elephant.

GENERATIONAL KARMA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Plan B was the inevitable trip to emergency.

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

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

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

I wonder what the next generation will think of?

 

SUCK IT UP, SUZIE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From there on though, we are into vacuum territory. 

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

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

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

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

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