COMMITMENT ISSUES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HAPPY/SAD

It’s that time of year again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ACHIEVING SUPERWOMAN STATUS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

TIPPING POINT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE TREE OF LIFE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BEING BUZZED

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                              ANOTHER LAND LINE LOSS

The debate has raged on for years: lose the land line, or keep it.  Having been totally won over to all the goodies a cell phone and the Internet gave him the man refused to even use the phone stuck to the wall in the hallway.  I hated to give it up.

I liked the comfort of how the old fashioned receiver fit in my hand and against my ear on those long chatty calls with my sisters and friends, and how I could grip it between my jaw and shoulder if I had to peel potatoes and talk at the same time, and I liked being able to actually hang up on telemarketers; merely touching a screen just doesn’t give a person the same sense of power and defiance.  The trouble was, for the past year or so, those were the only calls that ever came in on that phone - sister calls and telemarketers.  It’s really hard to justify the bill that kept coming every month for something that we barely used.

Still, I argued.  Firstly there is the land line emergency factor.  Do you realize how useless a cell phone is if the power grid goes down?  I’m not talking about an hour here or there.  People have vehicles and generators to get them through short spans of time.  How about in a real emergency?  Something so catastrophic as to knock the power grid down for days or weeks?  Once you’re out of fuel to run your car or generator you are done – in the middle of a REAL emergency when you will need real help and communication.  Government guidelines won’t even let you set up an emergency command post unless you are equipped with a land line.

My second point of contention is also my pet peeve in life ... people who cancel their land line simply disappear.  You can’t phone them, they are not in the book.  Back in my days as a postmaster the words “this number is no longer in service” became my most frustrating issue.  How do you let someone know their parcel has timed out and is about to be sent back if they are unreachable?  People can have multiple phones on them 24/7 but unless you are one of their inner circle you have no hope of getting in touch with them.

Quietly, back on the home front, I continued to pay the bill, but eventually I decided to look into what the options were for going ‘full cell’.  Not that Sasktel wants to encourage customers to cancel any of their services but they do offer ways to help you out.  They will keep your old number for a set period of time in case you change your mind, and they will install a recording on the old number to inform callers what your new number is.  While this info was comforting I still held back.  The straw that broke the camel’s back though, was when our old phone decided to die.  How was I going to justify buying a new phone for a line we never used?

I gave him the job though.  The account was in his name and he was the one who wanted it gone so it seemed fitting.  And, I will admit I congratulated myself on avoiding the hour plus that he spent on hold to get that job done, but that little bit of self satisfaction has come back to haunt me.

I thought I had provided him with all the info he would need and how to avoid any pitfalls that may arise, but it seems there was one glitch no one saw coming.  Apparently I was a very early subscriber to email.  So long ago that my email account and the phone number it was associated with were married.  When one died, so did the other.  It might have taken me a day or two to become conscious of my lack of email, but with every passing moment since then it’s become more and more painful.

My first call to Sasktel confirmed my fears – that my problem was linked to cancelling the land line, but the gal I was talking to said “no worries” and promised it would be all fixed in five minutes.  She was too young to know what she was talking about.  The fellow I was referred to on day two of my plight was also too young to know about the old ways but knew enough to ask a senior admin.  It seems, back in the day, Sasktel would give their own admin email address to an account and then let you make up your own which they referred to as an ‘alias’.  When gal #1 ‘fixed’ my problem on my first call in everything disappeared.  My buddy from day #2 went looking for it but he couldn’t restore it in the same way.  He left me with my new account and a back door way to be able to go fetch any old emails I might want. At the time we both thought this arrangement had everything covered.

We were wrong.  I have just discovered that the complete list of email addresses in my address book have been obliterated. 

Deep sigh.

And so, should you want to get hold of me by phone the technology is in place for you to do so – NO PROBLEM.  If you ever want me to be able to email you ever again you might want to send me one so I can capture you address ....