PERPETUAL WINTER

We woke this morning to another breath-taking display of hoar frost.  It made me wonder if this was Mother Nature’s way of apologising; a token of appreciation for hanging in there while she tries to fix her furnace.  While I welcome her gesture, and the frost is spectacular against the bright blue sky, I am none-the-less very done with 35 below zero.

As I sipped my first mug of the piping hot, caffeine-laced nectar of the gods that keeps me on an even keel these days I opened the weather app on my phone, steeling my fragile mental state for the inevitable ... sure enough ... no hope for warmer temperatures for as far as the Weather Network is willing to gamble on predictions.  At least two more weeks, but I already knew that.  Other sources have gone out on a limb and forecast this deep freeze to continue well past the middle of March.  I don’t want to believe such things but I think my cup-is-half-full disposition is broken.

I just want to go outside and not have to worry about body parts freezing and falling off.  I want to take the garbage out without having to dress like I’m making for the South Pole.  I want to wash my car without worrying about the doors freezing shut. 

I dream of wandering around my gardens, searching for the first shoots of green to appear.  I long for the warmth of the sun on my shoulders.  I can’t wait to smell the heavenly scent of fresh-turned soil. 

Lord help me, but I’m actually having a hard time to accept that in 2019 March will not be the ‘month of mud’.  I should be celebrating the possibility of a shortened version of the spring melt, but if that means hideous sub-zero temperatures until after St. Patrick’s day I think that’s a price too high to pay.  The old adage “be careful what you wish for” comes to mind.

I’m not the only one disgusted with this perpetual winter; the dog is not amused either.

Well, I guess I should clarify that – he’s not so much disgruntled with the winter, it’s more me he has an issue with.  The winter me.  The me that won’t go outside with him.

The spring, summer and fall me is much more to his liking.  That me goes for walks, or works out in the garden, or at the very least sits out on the deck and keeps him company while he surveys his kingdom. 

The winter me is useless.  I hear his judgement and disdain every time I step up on to my elliptical for a half hour’s worth of fake walking.  He has this groan/moan/disgust noise that comes through loud and clear.  Heck, even if I were deaf I would know from his body language what he thinks of the silliness of walking without going anywhere.  I’ve explained to him several times the advantages he has that I don’t: the husky made-for-the-Arctic fur coat, the fact that he has four feet to keep him stable on icy surfaces whereas I have only two, and that even if he should fall he has a much shorter elevation to fall from.  At the moment I’m older, but he’s catching up fast - you know how that ‘in dog years’ math goes.   He does not worry about broken hips like I do now but there may come a time ...

But there I go, thinking about the future again.  Like there’s going to be one.

Meanwhile ... back at the ranch ... winter goes on.  And on.  And on. 

In a normal year we would be in the middle of a February thaw; the curling surfaces in natural ice rinks would be down to mush by now.  In a normal year there would have been enough sun to leave the rural gravel roads full of ruts.  In a normal year I would need more than two hands to count how many times I’ve been outside since New Years.

I’m even beginning to get a little nostalgic about mosquitoes.

IN MY FEVERED BRAIN

This all started because my sister’s fridge is an odd size.

Back when they built their house they planned their new kitchen around the appliances they already owned ... including this unique sized fridge.  The resulting kitchen is a pretty and efficient work space and has served them well for 30 years.  The fridge has served them even longer and lately it’s been talking retirement in growly, thumpy language that they understand all too well.  The problem is though, its demise is much more complicated than buying a replacement; it means remodeling the whole kitchen to fit a new one in.

This is not the end of the world because after 30 years other things are a bit outdated as well.  They have been exploring options all winter and are getting kind of excited about the project.  My problem is that that kind of excitement is infectious.  I have been infected with the remodelling bug.  There’s no other excuse - my fridge is regular sized and is working fine, but the kitchen it sits in is even older than 30 years and has definitely seen better days.

You have to understand, this is the dead of winter and there is literally nothing else to do.  It’s too early to start plants – I did that last year and they all got so weak and spindly they fell over and died.  I lobbied for a sunshine holiday but was ignored – he’s been playing out in his shop so he’s busy and happy. 

If I bake we just get fat. 

I could go into some kind of house cleaning frenzy ... but let’s be serious here, why would I start that kind of nonsense in my sixties? 

The dog does his part by shedding enough hair to keep me vacuuming at least once a day, but other than that, I’m bored.  I’m sure you’ve heard it said “an idle mind is the devil’s playground”.

So, as of this week I have entered into stage two of this fever.  Stage one was just listening to my sister’s plans.  I understood their desire to be proactive with their planning and not wait until the fridge forced their hand.  Stage two hit when she showed me the computer generated images of what her new kitchen was going to look like.  I was intrigued ... what could mine look like?

If I hadn’t had a dentist appointment the very next day I might have been saved, but that took me to the town where the kitchen planning place was.  I tried to tune out the voices telling me to “Go and see!” but they won and I went home with  all kinds of pamphlets and the promise to be in touch for a home visit the next week.  I just made that date this morning for next Tuesday, and in the meanwhile I’ve toured the company’s showroom in the city with my sister with the dying fridge.  My fevered mind has examined payment options and speculated about budget restrictions.  It is possible that price shock therapy may cure me, but it better happen soon; I’m fading fast.

There are so many things to consider, though. 

Of course, there are the obvious ... colors, styles, storage options, appliance placements, lighting, extras ... you know, the nuts and bolts of the operation, but my mind doesn’t stop there.

Oh no, I have to get into the existential reasoning that always haunts me.  Should I, or shouldn’t I?  Should I be sinking that much money into a farmhouse that may or may not be used again once we retire?  How many years of our use would make it worth it?  Is this the best use of the money I have?  There are people who need kitchens much worse that I do, do I really deserve to improve mine?  I worked hard for that money – it’s mine to spend ... and it’s good for the economy to keep that money moving. 

“Eat your broccoli, there are kids starving in Africa!” 

AAAARRRRGGGHHH!!!!

All of this because my sister’s fridge is an odd size.  I’ll keep you posted.

                                                  ME AND MATH

It’s tax time again.  The gal from our accountant’s office just called to confirm our date … so romantic – Valentine’s Day.  If I play my cards just right, and everything adds up, we may celebrate by going out for lunch.  I mean, we’ll already be in town and everything.

But that’s the least of my worries at the moment.  First I have to ‘do the books’.  I haven’t touched them since this time last year when I swore a solemn oath to never let the job slide for a whole year ever again.  I suck at solemn oaths.

I’ll tell you what else I suck at.  Anything to do with numbers.  Give me letters and I will write you a story, or a letter, or even a book.  But give me numbers and the result is anxiety and self doubt and rumpled paper made grungy by sweaty palms.

Personally I blame Miss Seagle, my first grade teacher.  Or maybe it was more of a wide spread, institutional thing.  Maybe all Grade one teachers distributed mammoth sheets of addition questions, and held up their evil stop watches, commanding all the tender innocents in their charge to do a week’s work in two minutes, or less. 

In our classroom everyone else would snap to work.  I would freeze in my tracks.  Numbers were hard enough, but numbers under pressure?  I would stare in awe of my friends’ ability to scribble down answers on their papers while I sat there unsure of which hand I was supposed to hold my pencil in.  I remember Judy Dangstorp crying because she didn’t get 100%.  Her bar was obviously much much higher than mine – my goal was to be at least halfway down the page before Miss Seagle told us to put our pencils down.  Getting the right answers was a whole other ordeal.

Given enough time, though, my arithmetic education did progress.  Grades 1 and 2 kept up the repetition and slowly built up my confidence.  “I can do this!” I would tell myself.  If it didn’t get any harder I was going to be fine.  Then came Grade 3.  After one week of addition and subtraction review Mrs. Leiter sat us all down and told us of the magic of multiplication and division.  She seemed quite excited about it, bless her soul.  I felt deceived.  After all my hard work had paid off and I had mastered ‘plusses and minuses’  I was being ‘rewarded’ with something even harder.

They did it to me again in Grade 6 with geometry and in Grade 7 with algebra.  Who knew that was even a word?  “Al – ge – bra” with all its problems and equations and sneaking in letters that masqueraded as part of the solutions we were supposed to find. 

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Grade 10 threw two more classes at me  – chemistry and physics.  Both used the same alien language.  When would it ever end?

Apparently not in Grade 11 when Mr. Johnson introduced us to trigonometry with its sines and cosines and tangents – the results of an unholy marriage between algebra and geometry.

The day I heard the words ‘quantum physics’ blowing in the wind I decided marriage and child rearing was the easy way out.

And look at me go!  Decades later I find myself still doing arithmetic under the gun.  A whole year’s worth, and eight days to do it.  It’s like I can still hear Miss Seagle’s stop watch … tick tock tick tock.

DEFLATED

Well, it’s all over … and it never even really got started.

We sit here in our sad pool of disappointment, our expectations unmet, our excitement dissolving into a bland mush of just another winter day.  They promised us a storm and all we got was 17 snowflakes.

That’s right - 17.  I counted.

For Prairie People it’s hard to explain how we feel about our weather to those whose climates are more mundane.  Our very genetics make us vulnerable to wild weather intoxication.  This is a land of climate extremes populated by fanatical people.  We do 40 degrees above zero in the summer and 40 below in the winter.  We have the best thunderstorms on the planet.  We can go from drought to deluge in under 24 hours.  Everything we build eventually leans to the east due to almost constant prevailing winds out of the northwest.  We absolutely view adverse weather as a challenge, not a curse.  There’s nothing like seeing tornado hunters in our area to quicken our blood in the summer, and the word ‘blizzard’ perks us all up out of our winter doldrums. 

We are weather watchers, all of us.  Not in the TV sense though.  To tune into The Weather Channel is an exercise in frustration for Prairie People.  The place on their big map featuring the prairie provinces is where the weather guy or gal stands to point to the east and west ends of the country, like we don’t even exist.  It’s rude, really, and damaging to our egos.

And anyway, we prefer to watch our weather in person, with the wind sand blasting our faces, the wind chill solidifying our body parts, the sun baking any unprotected skin it can find.  Since the advent of cell phones has put a permanent camera in everyone’s pocket, I dare you to find a prairie phone without weather/sky pictures in their albums.  They don’t have “Land of the Living Skies” on our license plates for nothing.

Cell phones also serve another role in our weather fascination – through weather warning apps we are apprised of all the details we can’t be bothered watching TV for.  I think I’m as tuned into the particular sound a weather warning makes on my phone as any personal text … three little notes that go up in scale kind of like when a question is posed.  It makes it sound like “What is coming next?”  So very fitting.

And, for the past few days those notes began coming fast and furious.  After months of languishing with nothing exciting weather-wise, we were finally in for a blow.  Although the experts were refusing to use the word ‘blizzard’ because there are certain criteria to be met (wind, snow, temperatures, and duration) they still promised enough pizzazz to make us sit up and take notice.

It’s our self reliance that makes us happy to see trouble on the horizon.  After all, how can we prove we can take care of ourselves in hostile conditions if we are not confronted with hostile conditions? 

Folks with wood burning stoves made sure their wood supply was topped up.  Generators were made ready.  Groceries were bought.  Snow blowers were tuned up.  Books and puzzles were on hand.  The supply of popcorn and hot chocolate were double checked.

The excitement built for the better part of the week, almost like a balloon was filling with the air of anticipation we were all feeling.  By Friday night the balloon was stretched tight, almost bursting with our bring-it-on energy, and flying high; its surface taut and shiny like the gleam in our eyes. 

But while we were all so busy preparing we hadn’t noticed that the warnings had become fewer and farther between.  By bedtime Saturday night our weather balloon had begun to droop.

Sunday morning saw all 17 snowflakes fall between 7:30 and 9:15 with enough wind that they didn’t fall straight to the ground.

Later, as I was vacuuming I found a balloon the grandkids had left here a few weeks ago.  It was tucked away under a chair; that dusky, wrinkly color balloons fade to when they die a slow death

And I thought to myself:“I know how you feel, buddy.  I know how you feel.”

THE ABSENT-MINDED PROFESSOR

It can’t be called Altzhiemer’s or even standard dementia because both of those things are associated with advancing years.  While it is true my age is creeping up there, I have been scatter brained my whole life – age has nothing to do with this. 

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

A couple stories to demonstrate my point:

Last week the man of the house asked me where the cattle auction sale sheet had gone to.  He had stuck it to the fridge door with a magnet a few weeks ago and now it was gone. 

(You must understand here that we don’t have cattle.  What was a cattle sale flyer doing on my fridge?)  When I had discovered this paper – all rumpled and scribbled on and fastened low on the door – I had thought to myself “Oh those darling little grandsons!  Hanging stuff on Grandma’s fridge like that!” and had taken it down and thrown it away … part of my de-cluttering resolution for 2019.  That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

His story is that he put it on the fridge door, and that while he was doing this task he had told me that he wanted to keep it because he’s thinking of buying a couple feeders this year.  I swear he did no such thing.

Either he dreamt he told me.  Or he thought he would tell me but didn’t get around to it.  Or he’s losing HIS mind.  Or I’m going deaf.  I am pretty darned sure I would remember him telling me to keep a cattle auction flyer because I have been after him to get a couple beef for years.

Then again, there’s that scatter-brained thing I’ve lived with all my life …

One of my sons came home with a report card at around Grade 4 or so, with the teacher’s remarks saying that some days trying to get him to pay attention in class was like saying “Earth calling spaceship, come in please!”  Although I sympathized with her, I really wasn’t the one to talk to; my teachers had said the same kinds of things about me.  One of them even told me that I was destined to grow up to be an absent-minded professor.  At the time I didn’t know what that was, but spot on Mrs Slusar!  Spot on.

My Grandpa Nixon was a day dreamer, I’ve passed it on to my kids, and at least two of my grandchildren show definite signs of inhabiting other dimensions.  Our kind make the world an interesting place to live, don’t you think?  That also is my story, and I will stick to it.

Co-existing with more grounded folks can present problems though.  Take this past weekend, for instance. 

The winter doldrums have set in – people are looking to break up the monotony of January.  Saturday my solution was to go off to the city; me, my daughter and her toddler took the day off for some girl time.  At the end of the day we were treating ourselves to a nice supper out – and trying to wrangle the two year old into sitting down and leaving her boots and socks on – when a text conversation with my sister started up.  They were looking for something to do too.  I immediately invited them for supper and a card game the next night, but since things were so lively at the table I told her I would call her about the details.  She said sure.  The absent-minded professor took it from there.

I got home and told my husband we had company coming.  I got up and cleaned up the whole house.  I put a pot roast in the slow cooker and made a dessert.  I did everything I needed to prepare for guests.  They finally had to call and confirm the invitation.  I don’t know what I would have done with all that food if they hadn’t showed up.  Sheesh!

It’s all the absent-minded professor’s fault.  That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it!

MASTER PROCRASTER

I don’t mean to brag, but this is my field of expertise and I’m at the top of my game. 

There is a list of ‘things to do’ as long as my arm, and here I am, ignoring it to the best of my ability.  And believe me, given the practice I’ve had at this game of procrastination, I have some formidable ability on my resume.

For instance, there’s that stack of 2018 papers, bills and receipts poking my consciousness from the other desk in this room.  The un-fun desk.  The working-with-numbers desk.  I am sitting at the one with the computer on it.  This is where I get to use my imagination, not a calculator.  I know there will come a time when I can’t ignore the job any longer, but so far the accountant hasn’t sent me the annual summons letter.  I wonder: how much time do I have left?

At least I have managed to get this far.  Meaning, all the way to the office.  And, I am writing, after all.  Not the project that I came to do.  Not the one with an actual deadline.  

On the other hand, Microsoft Word is open and I am typing; today isn’t going to be a dead loss.  Yesterday all I did was read other things I have written over the years, looking for inspiration, which is still better than scrolling through Facebook, and perhaps visiting with friends who are likewise avoiding doing anything productive.  Such were yesterday’s accomplishments.

There is also a job I even volunteered for on my procrastination agenda.  The minute I said I would do it I started coming up with ways to put it off.  I’m on a board planning a social event and we need meal ideas and quotes … which involves making business phone calls … which is one of my least favorite things to do.   My first excuse was that it was the weekend, and now I’m dithering about when is the best time of day to do it.  Dithering could take a few days.  My only deadline for this is our next meeting … the date of which is my call because I am the chairperson.  This puts me in a self-contained loop of procrastination – a best case scenario if there ever was one.  All except for, obviously, come July 1^st, people are going to want something to eat.

A friend and I recently discussed our natural procrastination proclivities.  We both had the same task on our list of things to do … a trip to SARCAN.  One would think that being paid for your work would sweeten the deal but, no, we were both soon going to drown in an avalanche of cans and plastic bottles and neither of us seemed able to organize the effort to fix it.  My first excuse is that I don’t like doing it in the winter.  And, come spring the load will be so big I won’t be able to fit them all in my vehicle so I will need to arrange getting the half ton which will be at work by then.  (See?  A procrastinator worth her salt can project excuses well into the next year without even breaking a sweat).

And yet these are only examples of the short term, day-to-day stuff that anyone can put off for months at a time.  To truly excel in the Discipline of Procrastination one has to pick something monumental and putter at it so inconsistently that no one (including yourself) is convinced it will ever get done.  Hence, I have ‘write a novel’ on my long term bucket list.

The inspiration for it is nearly 14 years old.  I have most of it worked out in my mind and have a fair number of chapters actually written.  The work is sporadic which actually works in my favor – if you don’t read something for months the mistakes you made jump out at you, screaming to be fixed.  The story hasn’t moved forward in a year or two but what I have is pretty solid.  Given my age and the average life span in my family I am anticipating another couple decades to finish it.  My children may have to publish it.

But, enough about me and my ability to (not) get things done.

I have some phone calls to make.

                                                   AH THE MEMORIES!

Good old Facebook pops up every morning with my memories.  On the one hand, this is nice.  At my age I’m not so good at keeping track of memories on my own.  On the other hand, the memories I’ve been having to deal with this past week are a form of torture.  Here I am, sitting in the dark (because the sun won’t be up for an hour yet), clutching my mug of coffee for comfort, listening to the wind howl past the house, the weather app on my phone giving me a blowing snow advisory … and to brighten my day Facebook reminds me that two years ago I was deep sea fishing off the west coast of Mexico. 

*SIGH*

And, as if that’s not enough, I scroll further to see pictures of the most beautiful beach I’ve ever walked along … one year ago … a place called Bermagui in NSW, Australia.  Even though yesterday’s year old memories were all about the heat wave we were experiencing over there at the time (43 degrees in some places), with the ocean to cool off in so close, this never seemed to be a problem.

Again: *SIGH*

I really must take some photos of my world today and post them so that next year I will have them for reference too.  Gotta keep things real.

Real, on January 8, 2019, is seasonal temperatures, bright sunshine and dazzling white snow … travelling past my front window at about 40 kph, gusting to 70 at times.  This is beautiful in its own way, but more so as a picture on a postcard or calendar, not something you actually want to participate in.  The guys who just traversed the South Pole might consider it a pleasant day, but I will be observing it from inside my centrally heated house, thank you very much. 

I’ve always said that I like experiencing all the seasons Canada has to offer, and I do.  It’s just that now that I’m older and have done some travelling, I realize I’m totally okay with experiencing seasons at other places on the planet, as well.  I’ve wandered through the Kensington Palace gardens in June when the roses were in bloom – it was divine.  I’ve gone hiking in Sedona, Arizona on a warm, sunny day in April.  I’ve waded out into the Indian Ocean at Broome, Australia and marveled at how far away from home I was.  There are still so many continents to see. 

Although those guys in Antarctica – they can have that adventure on their own.  I’m good.

Meanwhile this is appears to be a January I get to amend my Facebook memory.

This morning’s memory page wasn’t wrong, but it sure as heck was misleading.  I was in Mexico two years ago and Australia last year; that part is true.  But, there have been many many more Januarys when I have been here, on a farm in southern Saskatchewan.  I can see a real need for some balance here.  I need to post some pictures to establish a ‘real world’ baseline in my Facebook memories page.  Hopefully I can get some suitable shots without having to leave the house.

That way, next year, I can start my morning out grounded in reality.

And, if life is kind, I can show those winter wonders to the guy sitting next to me on a tropical beach somewhere.