IN THE TURNING LANE

It’s that time of year again.  It’s not spring by a long shot, but somewhere in the middle of one of these mild, just-barely-freezing nights we have turned a corner.

Well, maybe not turned a complete 90 degree corner, but we are wandering off in a slightly different direction.

This thought struck me as I emptied my washing machine this morning and had a sudden longing to go hang it all out on the line.  I glanced out across the backyard and managed to squelch the urge.  It would mean trudging through snowbanks higher than my boots and only having two feet of hanging space between the line and the snow, so not worth the effort.  I carried on with putting everything in the dryer, but now that the longing for the scent of clothes dried outside has been established it will only a matter of time until I’m out there tramping down snow to make it possible.

And, while I’m out there I will haul my shelving unit in and set it up in front of my big south-facing window in the living room and plant seeds and clippings.  I’m not ready for that round of mess and clutter yet, but we’re close.  We’re very close.

I’m not the only one feeling that the seasons are shifting.  The cat has decided that he would rather be out than in overnight.  I have no idea where he goes but it isn’t doing him any harm – he’s always back on the deck in the morning, looking for his breakfast.

It’s also the time of year when the resident farmer starts to critique Mother Nature’s distribution of snow for the winter.  Apparently for 2023 he thinks she should top it up a bit more before seeding. 

“But not too much.”

“And it should be a slow, steady melt so the moisture all seeps in.”

“And a warm, dry May.”

“And then timely rains in June to establish a good crop.”

Ending with “They should just put me in charge.”

I hear this every year, as predictable as dandelions.

There are other voices talking to me too.  My deep freeze keeps showing me how the garden’s crop failure last summer is affecting meal planning, and my bank account cries out in pain when I go to buy fresh vegetables.  I, too, hope Mother Nature is a bit more cooperative this summer.

The real clincher this afternoon, though, is that sunshine warming up my deck.  If I close my eyes and breathe in deeply I can smell the sweet peas or the fresh-mowed grass.  I can hear the bumble bees and hummingbirds. 

Best of all, I remember all those summer afternoons of friendly conversations over whatever beverage suits the day.  It’s a gorgeous Sunday afternoon and all the men will be watching football on TV.  What a shame to waste this moment just because it’s technically still February!

Okay.  Okay.  Maybe I have made a 90 degree turn after all.

 

 

 

LEANING TOWARDS SPRING

And so, just like that, January is behind us. 

I know that we’re not supposed to wish our lives away but my seed catalogue and I have been waiting for this day.  February has finally arrived and I’ve only allowed myself one quick flip through all those pictures of growing things since The Book of Hope arrived.  It is a very important rule - too much looking leads to premature ordering. If a person gets started too early the house looks like a jungle by March.  Except for how the colour green soothes my soul in the dead of winter, starting plants right after Christmas is counter-productive.  This is Saskatchewan; seedlings can’t survive outside until May.  By then babies planted in January are so spindly they have keeled over and died. 

I have learned this the hard way.

Multiple times.

Eventually I learned it’s important to pace myself. I have a set, strict timeline for garden-related activities.  I am not allowed to even consider buying seeds until February.  And choosing what I want to order needs to take a full week.  And the order form should not be sent electronically, snail mail is more dignified.  And don’t ask for express delivery.  And there’s no need to bring the starter soil in from the garden shed to thaw out until after the seeds arrive.

If all goes according to plan this brings me to the beginning of March, and that’s just about right for actually planting seeds here in the frozen north.

Meanwhile, I cope with the cold and dark of winter above the 49^th parallel by using other tools at my disposal.  I have 4,802 pictures on my phone.  Unsurprisingly, 3/4s of them are of my grandchildren.  And 3/4s of those pictures are taken in my gardens, showing off my two favourite things in the same frame.  Weird, I know, but that’s just how it works out. 

I also have photos of my favourite combinations of plants for my deck pots.  And pictures of the pristine beauty of a freshly weeded vegetable garden.  And servings of fresh asparagus smothered in butter.  These are the things that keep me going at this time of the year.

But, today is the big day!  At last I can sit down with a cup of coffee and spend some quality time with my 2023 seed catalogue.  I can ponder if I am going for a particular colour scheme for the year, and if so, which one?  I can decide just how vegetable crazy I want to go for the year.  Do I want to try something new, or go with the tried and true?  We are re-starting our strawberry patch this year – which variety should I try?  Oh, looky there! There is a variety pack!  Well that’s settled, then!

And do I want sunflowers for their height, or their colour?  Oh, why does it have to be one or the other … I’ll get both!

And should I do sweet peas or morning glories on the trellis this year? Or am I brave enough to invest in a climbing rose for that corner?  I wonder how the honeysuckle is weathering the winter?  The hummingbirds sure loved it last year.

And on page 45 there is something called Ptilotus that would look great as the thriller in my larger planters … at $8.25 for 10 seeds do I dare see if I can grow them? And something called Penstemon on page 52 that apparently hummingbirds love.  They are only $5.70 for 20 seeds.  What I don’t do for my hummingbirds.

I may have circled a few things on my quick flip through in January, but I see that the crazy farmer wants to grow giant pumpkins again this year and seems very interested in a mushroom farm as well.  Such is the power of Spring Fever that none of this seems like a bad idea at the moment.  Weeding in the hot July sun is the perfect cure for it but I’ve noticed that immunity doesn’t last long enough to be of any help.  Here I am in February going overboard yet again.

So I will make up my order and I will plant my seeds, and then transplant the seedlings as they grow.  It will keep me busy while the days lengthen out and the sun gets stronger.  And then, whether everything grows for me or not, I will be off to all the greenhouses within driving distance to bask in their warmth and scent, and spending an undisclosed amount of money on all the things that make my heart happy.

I know we’re not supposed to wish our time away, but I can’t wait.

 

IT’S JUST SAD

It’s that time of the year again.  The holiday rush is over, the company has all gone home, the tree is down and the decorations have been put away.  I think I’ve even found 87% of the nerf bullets that seem to be everywhere after the grandchildren have been visiting.  Thanks to a very generous uncle they have enough ammunition to keep the nerf war raging until they all graduate college.

But, as everyone seems to make the switch back into regular life at the beginning of January I have trouble shifting gears.  I’ve always had trouble with back shifting – just ask our old Ford grain truck.

That’s a whole other story, though.

I call this time of the year the Doldrums.  To sailors ‘the Doldrums’ is when there are no winds to power a sailboat leaving it to drift listlessly, going nowhere.  To me it’s the low sunlight days of January and February where I drift listlessly from room to room wondering what to make for supper.  Same thing, really.

Science calls it something else; Seasonal Affective Disorder. 

SAD for short, which is very fitting because that’s how it feels – just sad. 

Lacking joy.  Or energy.  Or inspiration. 

Day, after day, after day. 

And still having to come up with a supper menu,

 every. single. night. 

So tedious.

The doctors at the Mayo Clinic agree that it’s most likely caused by the lack of sunlight.  This lack of light messes with our Circadian rhythm disrupting our sleep patterns and drops our Serotonin and Melatonin levels which triggers moodiness and depression …  and stagnation in the food preparation department.  (Okay, I added that part myself, but it fits the model they present.) 

They also say that people who live close to the equator don’t get SAD – I’m thinking that’s self explanatory.

Although they warn that SAD can develop into serious depression, most sufferers can wait it out until we can plant seeds and watch things grow.  This coming-back-to-life phenomenon has pulled me back from the brink year after year.  My husband built me a greenhouse to give tribute to the Sun god in gratitude.

After all these winters I have learned a list of things I can do to try to shake off the funk.  Get outside and soak up what sun there is.  Take on a project and finish it – the sense of accomplishment is like a magic elixir.  Spend time with friends in laughter and conversation.  Focus on a long-term goal and spend time making plans to bring it to fruition.  (Anyone want to head out to a tropical destination?  You know, to test out that theory about being close to the equator?)

Or you could ask your phone what to make for supper … and then tell Siri to make it herself.

Today is a sunnier day than we’ve been having lately so I took this self advice and the dog and I went for a short walk.  He was insanely happy to see me outside, so that’s a start.  I also completed a project – if you can call changing the kitty litter something so grand.  Fore sure I feel better now that it’s done!  I imagine the cat does too.

I came back inside filled with new purpose and put a roast beef in the oven for supper. 

One more day down, approximately 60 more to go.

 

 

WHERE WERE YOU IN ’72?

It’s post Christmas.  There are only a few more days of 2022 left to go, all of the eating, drinking, and being merry days have been observed.  The tightness of my waistband now has me thinking about a New Years resolution.  In no time at all I will be leafing through garden catalogues and dreaming of spring; that is the rhythm of my life.

There is one more day – a personal one – that is mine alone to reflect on, though.  I normally keep my thoughts to myself about it, but this year marks a significant anniversary and I feel that letting it slip by unacknowledged cheats history (well, my history at least) of remembrance and honor.

This week - Friday, to be exact – marks my 50^th wedding anniversary. 

I know.  I know.  Besides being totally preposterous, it’s also nigh on to impossible.  No one as young as I am (26, as a matter of fact) can have been married that long.  But in a world where most people do chronological math 50 years have elapsed since a ridiculously young girl and her Prince Charming spoke their vows and happily departed a small country church believing in ‘happily ever after’.

It was a pretty wedding.  My bridesmaids carried bouquets consisting of a lit candle surrounded by holly, and wore dresses of red.  My mother designed and sewed my wedding gown.  My cousin drove all the way from Calgary to be an usher and then drove back the next day because he had a date with his own sweetheart for New Year’s Eve.  Because it was winter and right after Christmas there were several people who couldn’t come; I remember phone calls of well wishes interrupting all the preparations, and the feeling of being swept along in more tradition and ritual than I had known existed.  

And, possibly feeling like I was in a little over my head? 

From my position of age (still 26) and wisdom, here in 2022, I’m going to speculate that this is all pretty normal wedding day reaction to the momentous step a girl is about to take when she puts on her wedding dress.  It’s overwhelming – just sayin’.

Of course, what no one knew that day, or what no one knows on any given day, is that ‘happily ever after’ has different expiration dates for different people.  Ours was two weeks short of six years.

It is all so long ago now.  So much water in the river of my life has flowed under that bridge that if there weren’t two children born during those years it would be easy to think it didn’t happen at all.  I refer to that period as ‘in my former lifetime’ because that is how distant and dreamlike it seems to me now.

You can say everything happens for a reason, or you can just say that shit happens – both are true.  I’ve refined it to “there’s something to be learned from everything that happens”. 

I had little choice but to learn and grow.  I had kids to raise and life to figure out.  Some friends dropped away and others appeared out of nowhere.  Eventually I got to the point where I could believe in happily ever after again so when Prince Charming 2.0 came along I was willing to take that chance.  In February he and I will mark 40 years – apparently our expiration date was meant to be much longer.

I didn’t write this to trigger sympathy.  It’s not a time for long ago condolences or focussing on the sadness of events we can’t control.  I just wanted to share my reminiscing of a day that probably only I observe. 

If you were there too, dig into your memories and enjoy a slice of that time and place.  If you weren’t, go back and visit your own wedding day - have some fun with it.  You never know when your time is up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MAKING A LIST …..

Here I am, ten days out from Christmas, and duly procrastinating my precious time away.  That’s what I do, and I’m darned good at it. 

I’m not sure if this is a natural, inherited ability or the years of practise I’ve put in.  I suppose it could be both.

At any rate, let’s set the stage: Like I said ten days till Christmas Eve – in our family that is the day of the big gathering and the most food.  Kids and grandkids begin arriving on the 23^rd – the decibel level will go from Grandpa’s-TV-is-too-loud to five-over-excited-kids-the-day-before-Christmas-loud and stay there until mid Boxing Day when they all head home again.  It also means three large dogs hopefully tiring each other out and sleeping a lot.

I am hosting the family feast this year – only 23 people on the guest list so we may only need two tables … note to self – need to pick up the extra table.  I have the menu mostly nailed down … note to self – need to request pickles, Carols’s barley salad, and desserts for the folks who don’t like Christmas pudding.  My first batches of cookies have already disappeared so that needs done again.  I froze and hid the tarts so they make it till the big day.  We also require a third batch of poppycock.

It's also been requested that we test the airbed to make sure it holds air this time.  Some people are so fussy!

Of course, in order to stay on top of all this I rely on my secret weapon … I make a list.  Well, actually, I make several lists because I can’t always find the one I started with.  In searching for something else in my desk clutter this afternoon I found my original and got to cross a couple things off.  The rush of accomplishment was so great I decided I could take time off to write an entry in my blog so I added that to the list and shelved my hunt for the letter from Revenue Canada.  What could possibly go wrong with putting that off?  On second thought, better add that letter to my list.

Lists are tricky things, but they are necessary; take my current situation – my goal is to be ready to host Christmas but my list keeps me on track on how I’m going to accomplish that readiness.  I started it in November because I knew there was a lot to do and I’m aware of how easily I can be side-tracked when the next thing on the list is ‘clean out the fridge’. 

I also succumb to the illusion that merely writing a task down means the job is half done … or that ‘cleaning the porch’ means that ‘decorating the porch’ will magically happen by elves in the middle of the night.  I washed the floor two days ago, the banister still has no holly or tinsel, and the floor is dirty again.

And then there are the jobs that weren’t even on my Christmas radar.  I know that we were waiting for the butcher to call and say the beef is ready but when the call came this morning suddenly that meant we had to clean out and rearrange our storage capacity to fit it all in.  I’ve let the over-zealous food provider I’m married to deal with it for the time being.  Hopefully the weather stays really cold till the kids can take their share home after the holidays.

My scribbled up and scratched out list still says I have beds to make up, air bed to test, totes to store downstairs, a whole forest of house plants to put into suspended animation so there is room for humans in this house, one more gift to wrap when it arrives, and more baking to do.  Oh yeah, and a fridge to cleanse.

And meanwhile, here I am, writing a blog that wasn’t even on my list.  Procrastination is an art form.

 

WHOLE CLOTH

A church is a good place for meditation, even a former church.  In fact, I don’t know that you can actually take the ‘church’ out of a building.  I was at the decommissioning of Knox United, I know that the formalities of ‘unchurching’ were done, but between the architecture and my memories it will always be a place of sunny meditation, favourite hymns, and the warmth of sharing that space with others in an aura of fellowship.

And so, I found myself meditating on Saturday afternoon in the sunshine of those south-facing windows, under that vaulted roof, and singing songs that I love.  We were there to honour and bid farewell to a well-loved lady, and the diverse crowd assembled showed just how far-ranging Dosy’s inspiration had been over her 90 years.  In her homily Michelle spoke of how we are to use our talents throughout our lives and then went on to list the many ways everyone present had benefited from Dosy’s life.  I know I did; she was my co-worker, then my boss, but most of all she was my friend.

My meditation didn’t stop with Dosy though, it opened the door to thinking about the many others in our little hometown who have also shared their time and talents to expand and enhance the community we enjoy.  There are many.

I’m a hometown girl.  I’ve lived all but six years of my life here.  In a world where most young people leave to seek their fortunes elsewhere my choice was to stay.  I don’t know if it’s just the way my brain works, or because I am here to witness it, but sometimes, when I’m talking to classmates or other friends who did move away, I feel like a local historian.  Not the specific, detailed historian who would remember dates, but the type who wants credit to go to the unsung heroes who have earned it.

The terms ‘warp’ and ‘woof’ come to mind.  For those unfamiliar, these words pertain to weaving cloth.  In order to form a piece of cloth you have to set up a loom with threads going up and down (warp) so that the horizontal threads (woof) can be woven in.  They are the foundation, they hold it together, they give strength and endurance – take them away and all you have is a tangled pile of fluff.  Our community is a stretch of whole cloth, we are the warp and woof.

If you look at a piece of cloth you see the whole thing, not the individual threads that hold it together, even though they are the most important part.  What about the people, almost invisible, in the background giving their time and talents?  Things that are unlikely to ever be documented?   

I was going to try to name them – or at least the ones I could think of – but the list is too long, and I would feel terrible if I missed someone.  Besides, my list would be from my life perspective.  We are all unique so your list would be different than mine, but every bit as valid.

So I’m challenging you, no matter where you’re from, to form your own list.  Every community has their own heroes: the guy who refills little kid’s sandboxes every spring for free, the lady who spearheaded publishing your local history book, the folks tending flower gardens and watering trees in your public green spaces, teachers who made a difference in your life, 4-H and scout leaders, ‘Santa’s Helpers’ (even though they can’t be named due to the nature of their work).  The list goes on and on. 

Think of them, and thank them.  Let them know their threads are appreciated. 

I’m back to meditating, or at least thinking about, the metaphor of us all being a part of the whole cloth of our communities.  It’s easy to associate different textures and colours of thread to the individuals – past/present/future – whose time and talents have gone/are going/will go into making our fabric unique, and I catch myself wondering if Dosy’s thread would be silver like her hair?

 

IT’S ALL COMING BACK TO ME

It’s all coming back to me now.  I’ve been here before. 

The no energy days, the scratchy throat, the runny nose: yep – this is what an every day, everybody gets them, run of the mill head cold feels like.  Funny how those two years of masks and isolation kept them out of our house too.  I didn’t miss them one bit.

This is not me comparing a head cold to the other options out there - there are much, much worse things to have – it’s just how soon we forget what a head filled with mucus feels like.  Two days ago my sinuses were so full and enflamed that my teeth actually hurt.  That’s something I forgot could happen.   I didn’t miss it one bit.

I had also forgotten how colds can sneak up on you.  Tuesday you’re feeling fine but seem to be sneezing a lot.  Wednesday morning you have a tickle in your throat but it goes away after breakfast.  Thursday is a lazy day because that big job you had planned seems like way too much work now, and you don’t have the energy … besides, you’re retired and it can wait.

And then, voila! Friday your head hurts and the Kleenex box becomes your best friend.

Maybe, if I had been paying attention and not so out of practise at recognizing the symptoms I could have thrown a bunch of vitamin C at it.  I could have gotten more sleep.  I could have made a big pot of chicken soup.  But no, I paid no attention to the warning signs and now, here I am in full-blown head cold mode. 

I can only breathe through one nostril at a time.  If I’m lucky.

I know where the throat lozenges are but I’m not so desperate that I’ve had to use them.  Yet.  (I hate them almost as much as Buckley’s)

I discovered that during the Covid years they have made print much smaller on medication packages.  I literally cannot read them in the middle of the night without my glasses on.  Imagine my surprise the next morning when I realized that the package should have been thrown out BEFORE Covid because it was that far past its expiration date.  The print size could not be blamed on newer packaging, but possibly on older eyes.

A couple of questions here:  Is it possible for the entire package to shrink due to old age?  You know, like a block of cheese if you let it dry out?  I’m sure I was able to read those words when I bought it.

Also, does past due sinus medication get stronger as it ages?  Or lose its potency?  I did live to see another day so it’s not deadly.  And I found a newer package for the next time – with my glasses on and in broad daylight.

I am now at my husband’s favourite part of any cold I’ve ever had.  I have lost my voice.  He likely has two days of peace and quiet to look forward to

So, I am preparing for the next step on this well-travelled path: we live in the same house, we share the same space … almost certainly he will take my regular cold germs and morph them into a raging case of Man Cold.

I’ve got the vitamin C out, a pot of soup on the go, and have restocked the Kleenex boxes in every room. 

Like I said, it’s all coming back to me now.