FOR THE GIRLS

‘A woman’s biological clock’ is a term we’ve cooked up in this day and age when women are trying to cram two lifetimes (career and having a family) into one lifespan.  Whether they are sitting in their fancy CEO corner office or at home rocking a newborn to sleep they can hear that darned clock ticking away time whizzing by on the other end of their dreams.  There are only some many ‘hours’ on any given clock.

Let’s go all retro here and imagine one of those old-fashioned wall clocks with the numbers from 1 to 12 arranged around the outside edge.  Let’s say that we come into existence at 12:01- our first ‘time stamp’.  That’s the moment when our biological clock actually begins ticking.  We are brand-spanking new and our time has just begun. 

We while away our childhoods doing kid stuff until about 4:15 when puberty kicks in whether we like it or not.  Suddenly the ‘storks bring babies’ story gets updated to a much more preposterous account of where babies come from, and life gets real.  Talk about the truth being stranger than fiction.

So, from 4:15 to about 7:30 we can produce babies.  That’s nice.  Most of us choose to do that.  Some of us don’t.  For some there is no choice.  But the clock goes on ticking regardless.

On about 7:15 the government takes a sudden interest in us.  Since we’ve wrapped up that baby making business we aren’t checking in with our health care providers on a regular basis anymore and studies have shown that it’s more successful (and therefore cheaper) to correct what can go wrong with our ‘clock parts’ if you catch the malfunction at the very start.  We get letters inviting us to various checkups. 

We look at our clocks and think to ourselves “Well, I kinda want to be around to hold grandbabies and great grandbabies.  If I want to make it all the way to 11:59 I better keep up on my maintenance.”  And obediently we make that call.

Now, as much as the stories of childbirth filled us with apprehension before we actually participated in the sport, the stories about mammograms run a close second.  Unless you enjoy having a total stranger (probably with cold hands) occupy your personal space, manipulate certain sensitive body parts into weird positions and then flatten them like pancakes, don’t expect this to be a pleasant experience.  On the other hand, if you and the technician both have a healthy sense of humour, it’s not so bad.

Whether you like it or hate it though, expect another invitation in two years.  That’s the way this thing rolls.

For the first few times I did exactly what the letter said to do … I called for the appointment and diligently showed up for it.  All by myself out a sense of duty.  Then a bunch of us got smart.  We now make it a girl’s day for ‘the girls’, if you get what I mean.

Life is too short not to have fun.  Our clocks are ticking, after all! 

We call ourselves Breast Friends (or Boob Buddies) and we book the whole day off to do some shopping, treat ourselves to a meal out, and with laughter and conversation turn a necessary but uncomfortable clinical procedure into a much anticipated fun day.  In fact, we double the fun by getting together to make our appointments as they all have to be made on the same phone call so that we are scheduled back-to-back.

On our way home from 2024’s adventure it was decided that two years was too long, that we could plan a Girl Day without including the gal on the mammogram bus.  By the time we got home we had adjusted our plans to twice a year instead of every second year.

No one knows how close we are to midnight.  For all I know my hour hand might be almost perpendicular.  My Breast Friends and I have decided to pay more attention to the minute hand seeping past all those shorter intervals between the numbers. 

 

LIFE ON THE ROCKS

It’s finally happened.  The winter has gotten to me, I’m bored out of my tree, and I don’t want to start my usual seed-starting mess in the living room until after Easter.  Hosting a bunch of company with lively grandkids makes shelves of moist dirt and baby seedlings in the big front window just seem unwise.

So, I’ve been looking to amuse myself with something else. 

I stare out the window a lot; at first the snow was going down, and then there was more of it than we’ve had all winter.  I’ll provide updates as is necessary.

I’ve taken note that some of my walls could use washing but I’m not that desperate yet. 

I did some baking, but that’s a bad idea unless I can think of something to make that I don’t like.  (On an unrelated note, did you know that a puffed wheat cake can disappear in under two days?)

And I spend way too much time on my iPad … doing puzzles or crosswords or other shape-matching games.  I dream of working outside, planting my garden, enjoying neighborly conversations on my deck, and hanging clothes out on the line, but meanwhile all I do is sit inside and scroll through Facebook.

So it was, with my boredom at its peak, that Facebook introduced the idea of a new way to monopolize my time – both official advertisements for the Brier and constant comments by my friends who are already curling junkies started to wear me down.  I decided “What the heck?  What could a game or two hurt?”

And now here I am, so far down the curling rabbit hole I can’t see the light anymore.

I can’t say it was an unpleasant experience though, perched on the edge of my chair, holding my breath as yet another shot from Magic Mike rumbled down the ice to amaze us all.  On the one hand that kind of trepidation makes a person feel fully alive, on the other hand I think the doctor and I may have chosen the wrong week to keep track of my blood pressure.  I had a lot of sympathy for Mike’s wife though, her anxiety level was through the roof.

It wasn’t just the fantastic shots or the missed-by-a-hair mistakes, or the hard-fought wins or the disheartening losses that kept me watching though, it was the long and winding road down my personal Memory Lane that I enjoyed the most.

As the games went on the commentators added behind-the-scenes tid-bits and colour commentary.  There was a lot of background of who has won or lost before, who used to play on other rinks, and who is married to a star in women’s curling.  Being as I am such a novice in this sphere of high-fallutin’ curling fandom I didn’t pay much attention to these comments, but when they talked about the idiosyncrasies of ice perfection it caused me much amusement.  My first curling experience was a 4-H bonspiel in Wauchope circa 1966 on a sheet of ice that had more humps and hollows in it than you could count. Now playing on that kind of obstacle course required a certain kind of genius.  The commentators chuckled about how it was the lesser known teams who didn’t get to practice on perfect ice all the time who just ‘figured out’ each new sheet of ice.  That’s real curling if you ask me: what the top tier teams do on their perfect ice has the feel of automation to it.  Precision is fascinating, but the ‘figuring it out’ has an element of adventure.

 

The other little nugget of nostalgia that surfaced for me was during Quebec’s televised game.  Naturally, they did all their team talk in French.  Man, did that ever take me back.  It had never occurred to me that French was my first language of curling, if there is such a thing, but besides a few school or 4-H bonspiels while I was growing up I didn’t actually curl much until I was married – to someone whose first language was French, and we lived in predominantly French-speaking towns.  The strategy discussions on ice, or draw vs. take-out, or speed were always in French.  It’s funny how the weirdest things can trigger the happiest memories.  I think that was my favourite game of all even though I couldn’t tell you now who they were playing or which team won.

I will have to watch the brier next year to see if it happens again. 

Meanwhile, I’m told that it’s the World Women’s Championship next weekend.  If I keep following this rabbit hole I will eventually find my way out, right?  If I keep staring at my TV I won’t see how dirty my walls are, right? 

It’s worth a try.

 

WE ARE HISTORY

It all started with a request from a grandson in Grade 4 asking if his ancestors were homesteaders.  My automatic answer was “Yes they were.” I even went farther and told him that he was a fifth generation Canadian, but after the phone call ended I did some more calculating and realized that his generation was in fact the sixth.  This prompted me to go get the local history books and do a little more research where I discovered that, strictly speaking, I was incorrect about the homesteader thing too.

On a quick run through of the names on homesteader titles in two of the local history books I found no mention of either of my grandparents.  The claims for the land that they farmed were made a few years before either the Purvis or Nixon families arrived in the neighbourhood.  They were pioneers for sure, but actual homesteaders they were not.  My Great Grandfather Purvis bought his home quarter from a Mr. Heasman and it was someone named Mr. Randall who shows up on the claim for Great-grandpa Nixon’s farm.  In both cases my ancestors arrived looking for land about five to seven years after the homesteading rush.

In researching these names though, it struck me that except for a very few the names that I’ve always considered the foundation stones of our district, they aren’t there at the very beginning.  The names of the brave men and women who got here before the railroad, lived in sod houses, and broke ground – both figuratively and literally – are not the dominant names of the busy and booming years of my parents’ generation.

Since I had those history books out anyway, and wanted to be prepared for any other Grade 4 questions, I did some more reading.  A person should really travel back in time more often, partly because the stories are awe-inspiring, and partly in homage of the work that went into assembling all that information and organizing it into book form.  I played a very small part in the process and remember the feeling of urgency to record those stories before the people who knew them were no longer able to tell them.

From my perspective as a child of the 1950s, I had been enthralled with this ‘ancient history’ but the reality was that even my grandparents were second generation.  I had to reset my perception of where my family fit in my community timeline.

Those history book pages are full of the stories I grew up hearing: the prairie fires, the blizzards, the closest supply of firewood being the Moose Mountains, the walking to school (uphill, both ways) and the importance of the railway for everything from building materials to mail.  Some of the settler’s names remain but many more you are only going to find recorded in the history book or written in stone in local cemeteries.  The families who persevered automatically get recognition for their hard work and tenacity but after thinking about it, I decided whether they managed five years or five generations, they were all a part of our collective history.  And, whether their contribution was of the dreamer/big picture/builder variety, or the backbone/physical labour/builder variety, both are necessary and equally valuable.

The most constant thing about history is that it is constant motion.  It is past, present, and future.  We are our own history every bit as much as our ancestors were before us and our descendants will be after us.  And it’s important to remember that what we consider ‘our’ history is merely a miniscule blink in time in an expanse so wide we can neither see the beginning or the end.  Others came before us and we will not be the last.

On the other hand, this is our blink in time, and it is something to celebrate.  It just so happens that our Grade 4 grandson and his siblings will be spending July1st weekend with us.  His name will not be found in the pages of our local history book, but his lineage is there.  No matter how many generations there are in between, he has homesteader blood running through his veins.

 

 

STUCK IN THE MIDDLE

Well, here we are again stuck in the middle of winter.  This is my least favourite time of the year.  Ever since I learned the meaning of the Doldrums I have used the term to describe the month of February.  Originally ‘the doldrums’ was what sailors called ocean spaces near the equator where there’s little to no wind for sailing vessels thereby leaving ships and their crews stuck motionless for long periods of time, but it also describes perfectly the vast, listless, light-deprived months of winter in the Northern Hemisphere.  The only sign of forward motion I can find these days is that sunrise is definitely later now than it was right after Christmas.  It’s a little thing, but very important for my seasonally susceptible sanity.

Now, before you all jump on me for complaining about my 2024 so far, I admit this particular year has been better than most.  There’s no way that spending time on a beach in Mexico wasn’t the best use of a week in January.  Add to that we took the grandkids (and their parents) with us and met even more extended family down there to celebrate a wedding. I am willing to admit this was one of my best Januarys ever. 

There was also that crazy frigid week before we left, but I was busy washing and packing beach clothes so I mostly ignored it, and the weather since we returned home has been something for the record books at the other end of the temperature scale.  Open water on the pond in front of our house and road bans because of mud in February are not signs of ‘boring’ or ‘usual’.

But these things are:

·         Thinking of an inspiring menu choice for the 18,797.5 suppers expected of me since signing on for this job.  It’s not fun anytime but winter is the worst.

·         Staring out the windows at a blah landscape of snow and bare trees and imagining how good it would be to smell fresh-mowed lawn and feel the sunshine on my shoulders.

·         Being so bored that I actually wish I could go out and clean said windows because the gal who did this job last fall was terrible at it.  She was probably trying to think of something to make for supper at the time.

·         Trying to squelch the urge to plant some seeds just to see green … BECAUSE IT’S WAY TOO EARLY! Anything planted now will get spindly and weak and die.  I don’t need to set myself up for that kind of depression and loss in February.

So to keep busy and encourage a sense of accomplishment, I pulled out that big stack of receipts and started income tax preparation.  After all, everyone needs a hobby, right?

I am told (by a daughter who does this kind of stuff as paid work) that my paper-and-pencil approach is from the dark ages.  I need Excell.  It will do all the math for me.  It’s neat and clean and files can be emailed with ease.  I’m not going to argue with her (it’s never worked anyway) but will carry on with a method I am comfortable with.  The job, now that we are in a kind of twilight zone of active farming, is barely a shadow of what it used to be.  The manual work reminds me of my early days at Canada Post where we used a daily ledger and balanced to the penny every night; a kind of trip down Memory Lane for me.  Also, I like that I can just flip open a book to look something up because I know where I wrote it down.  Learning Excell at this stage of the game might put my dwindling supply of brain cells at risk; a risk I’m not willing to take.

Besides, without this job, how am I going to keep myself from planting seeds way too early?

March is still 18 days away.  I know because I’ve been counting.  Not even three weeks and the spring winds will fill out my summer sails and push me out of the 2024 Doldrums.  I estimate it will be approximately 136 days before I’m complaining about heat and mousquitoes.

 

HOME AGAIN!

Six years ago as we took one more stroll down the beach on our last trip to Mexico Glen said “You know, what I would really like to do is bring the grandkids down here for a holiday.  That would be so much fun.”  I agreed wholeheartedly and a plan was born. 

A lot of things had to fall into place for this to happen, the main one being an invitation to a destination wedding (Thanks so much Brandi and Santino!) but it did all come together for the last week of January 2024. The icing on the cake would have been if ALL the grandchildren could have been there but Australia is a bit of a commute, and really, they already live on a tropical beach.

What made it really lovely was that quite a few other family members were there to celebrate the marriage and spend time together.  The week was full of ocean surf mornings and pool afternoons, rousing card games in the evenings with Grandpa, iguana hunting, moments of exotic butterfly appreciation, and episodes of recognition where vegetation we struggle to keep as pampered house plants here amazingly grow to be tree-sized weeds in the wild there.  There was something for everyone.

Expectations varied wildly.  No way were our prairie kids going to swim in the ocean because the sharks would get them!  We explained that the invisible rip tides were much more prevalent than sharks but that didn’t seem to sink in at all.  One kid was going to search for and pet lizards of all kinds all week long.  Maybe even name them and bring them home.  There was also trash talk about the food being ‘free’ so they could eat all day long.  Come to think of it, maybe that one did come true.  Who knew they could consume that many desserts and ice cream?

And real food – well, pizza anyway - when their parents stepped in and policed menu choices.

One of Grandpa’s goals was to go on morning runs with his daughter who is training for a marathon.  She’s been at this for over a year, he has decided to jump in this winter and ‘catch up’ to her level.  On morning #1 we all went for a stroll but most of us were too slow and whiny so the ‘runners’ struck out on their own on morning #2.  They both returned but one of them was worse for the wear.  There have been many stories to explain the mashed face, double black eyes, and blood-soaked shirt but the one about how Mexican butterflies are really mean is his favorite.  He finally bought some Macho Man sunglasses to cover the worst of it.  Strangely he wasn’t the only local guy down in Mexico who lost a fight.  The other guy tried to take on the Pacific Ocean with only a boogie board for a weapon.  Ocean 1, Sask farmer 0.

The were some hic ups to deal with over the week.  The family flying out of Winnipeg had their flight backed up all day long and only arrived at the hotel at 5:00 in the morning.  They were troopers though and managed to catch up to the rest of us relatively smoothly. 

I got way too much heat and sun on Monday and had to time out by 8:00 pm on day 2.  Apparently I will never learn.  The transition from -40 to +28 must be managed with hydration, sun screen, and a lot of shade.

As the week went on several other people suffered the same symptoms, some taking it as far as nausea.  Just ask one of the grandsons whose shopping trip with us ended badly.  Another grandson was invited along on a deep-sea fishing adventure.  He fared every bit as good as I did six years ago.  Two things: 1) Thank God for Gravol, and 2) that’s one item completely off our bucket lists.

We also booked an excursion that was promised as a bus ride up into the mountains for a hike, tour through a botanical garden and a stop at a riverside to cool off.  We were told to be there at 7:00 but the excursion didn’t leave till closer to 10:00.  Then, much to our surprise, the boat turned into one of those large inflatable pontoon speed boats.  Yes, it was faster to get us where we were going, but life jackets that actually fit kids would have been nice.  Let’s just say that Mexican safety rules and Canadian safety rules are not equal.  The bonus of that day was that when we spotted whales breaching the captain slowed down and moved us closer to see better.  It was a very neat experience..

The wedding was lovely.  The family visiting was great.  Watching while the kids played in the pool for hours was relaxing.  The not having to cook a single meal for a week was fantastic.  And, even though it was sad to say goodbye yesterday it is always good to come home.

The reality adjustment began with a full day’s worth of laundry, grocery shopping, and now it’s time to tackle the income tax books.  I’m not even minding the cooking and cleaning.  Yet.

 

BABY, IT’S COLD OUTSIDE

Nope.  Nope.  Nope.

I am not going outside into that craziness.

Oh, I admit that the pictures on Facebook are breath-takingly beautiful – the ice crystal haze, the fabulous sun dogs, the dazzling white snow contrast with the brilliant blue skies – incredible.  But, you know what?  I can see them on Facebook.  I don’t have to go out and freeze my nostrils shut for the pleasure of this gobsmacking scenery.  We have central heating, it would be a shame to waste it.

We always get a few days of crazy cold every winter, but this week is a bit over the top.  Not the temperatures so much – the 40-below-is-40-below Fahrenheit/Celsius conversation comes up on a regular basis, although the folks on the west coast don’t usually comprehend what we’re talking about.  And the comparing of our windchills in Southern Saskatchewan with those in Siberia, while not unheard of, is definitely not the norm. 

The image that tells the story best is the map of Canada shown on the Weather Channel; from sea to sea to sea, with very few exceptions, the entire country is painted in that ‘red for danger’ color.  This is an honour usually reserved for the middle of the country from the 49^th parallel right on up to Santa’s front doorstep.  Any provinces closer to oceans or further south normally get to dodge that bullet, but in January of 2024 we all get to bond in our universal Canadian identity.  We could all use a group hug for the warmth, but don’t stay in one place too long, we might freeze that way.

One would think that it’s a silent world out there.  There are no birds, not even tough old ravens squawking their dominance, and I haven’t heard a single coyote song in days.  If you go out, though, there will be noise.  Every step that you take in that super frozen snow will squeak.  I don’t know what the scientific explanation for it is, but the lower the temperature, the higher the pitch of the squeak.  It sounds very much like nails scratching across a blackboard, and is every bit as pleasant.

Not that I’ve ventured out (see my opening remarks), but I have occasionally opened the door for a dog who thinks he might want to go out.  Sometimes he actually does, and sometimes he reconsiders – “is this just boredom, or do I really have to pee?” 

It takes minus 40 degree weather to remind me that our deck door doesn’t quite seal at the top of the frame.  I know this because I get a light dusting of frost down my neck when I open the door – frozen condensation from escaping warm, moist air.  Another day or so of this and I imagine the door will just self heal and freeze shut.  The porch door cries out in a painful squeak of its own when opened.  I don’t understand the cause of this and am not about to diagnose it at 40 below.

Not everyone can hide out in the house though.  It came as no surprise this morning that the cattle waterer was frozen and that this job would have to be taken care of.  There’s been a lot of “Thank the oilfield workers/farmers/power company repairmen” posts these past few days, and okay, that’s nice, but it is their jobs.  I don’t make light of how important it is to feed the energy grid and keep it running or to care for livestock no matter the hardship, but all jobs have downsides.  There’s no need to be melodramatic.  All my farmer said when he reported the frozen waterer was “Guess that’s what I’m going to be doing today.”  It’s simple – it’s his job.  His only grumble was that of course it was Sunday so if he needed parts he was going to have to wait. 

The other interesting circumstance was Alberta’s request for their population to please cut back on their power consumption to avoid grid failure and the implied political inference that this was all Ottawa’s fault. 

This is just me, but the people were asked to cut power consumption AND they did.  AND it fixed the problem.  This philosophy could be taken so much further.  We, the consumers of power, need to seriously question our needs vs. our appetites for latest gadget coming down the pike.  A kitchen 50 years ago had one plugin per wall, today the code is one every three feet.  Yes, we need good heating in a well insulated house.  No, we don’t need every device under the sun.  The answer to so many of our problems come from the bottom up, not the top down.  But, I digress.

The weather app on my phone promises things are looking up.  It says that from here on in the temperatures will moderate. 

I appreciate that. 

I also have tickets to Mexico.  I will go outside there.

Yep.  Yep.  Yep.

 

GROWTH AND RENEWAL

Here we are at the very end of another year.  Time is a confusing thing – how can it be that some days take forever but when you put them all together into larger units like a year time seems to disappear in the blink of an eye?  The advice of “don’t blink” comes to mind.

It has been a different Christmas season for us with all of the festivities taking place in someone else’s house.  I have not cooked a single turkey or batch of buns, or made up a single extra bed for overnight guests.  The days have been routine and quiet.  The weather has been mild.  The days are already getting longer, something we observe with joy and relief in this household.

I am in no rush to take down the Christmas tree.  Last year we finally bought an artificial one so there are no needles falling off to make a mess or spear bare feet.  I especially like how not remembering to water it has no consequences at all, and the damage to the floor by my overwatering in the past has not gotten any worse either.  I should have gone ‘fake tree’ years ago.

The only push to get the fake tree put away is that my real house plants don’t like where they have to spend the holidays and are showing their displeasure by stopping flowering and dropping leaves.  They need their southern exposure back before they are nothing but sticks.  It won’t happen today, but soon.

It’s funny, decorating the tree is a time to look back – to open windows to past Christmases with each ornament I hang on the tree or garland I string across the deck – but putting these very same things away is a different story.  This job causes me to look forward to the coming year.

It is unusual for us to have actual plans this early on but this year we have a family wedding in Mexico right off the hop.  It’s fun to anticipate the beaches, the many family members also attending, and especially the fact that we get to share this adventure with our grandchildren.  The happy anticipation is building for us all.

Also on our 2024 agenda is a camping/music festival later on in the summer.  This is something that I’ve always wanted to check out but my significant other feels very differently.  How his daughter talked him into this for my Christmas gift boggles my mind.  She definitely has more pull than I do.

But that is only what we are doing, and it seems pretty tame compared to what is on the horizon for some of our kids and grandkids.  There is going to be significant continent hopping going on for them.

Due to work opportunities one of our families is off to South Africa for a couple years.  The grandsons are already super excited about going on safari and seeing lions and tigers and elephants.  I can’t say that I have ever dreamed of this kind of adventure but I am almost certain we will visit them there.  Thanks to our wandering kids I will only have one continent left to see.  I cannot imagine ever setting foot on Antarctica though, not even for the “we did them all!” claim to fame.

They will no sooner be gone than a grandson who left for Australia at two years old plans to return to Canada for University and we will be off to Edmonton to spend time with him and his dad as they get him settled in.  It would have been even better if his volleyball scholarship could have been offered by a closer school but Alberta is better than Sydney; we will make it work. 

I also have another plant that needs attention.  Unlike the sulking, struggling Mandevilla, my umbrella tree has only thrived in the west bedroom, taking over the space.  It started out as a tiny sprout purchased at Liboiron’s store 45 years ago and due to numerous miracles and its obvious will to live it is still with us.  It has done so well that it can no longer be squeezed through a door and the last few fronds it has put out are up against the ceiling.  The situation calls for drastic surgery.  Ironically, to save it I have to chop off and re-root the top so that it can continue to grow. 

In a way this perfectly symbolizes the faith I will put in the coming year.  I’m not sure if it’s my personality or an age factor, but I can’t imagine ‘re-rooting’ myself for life on another continent, but I recognize that these new environments encourage growth that won’t happen if the moves aren’t made.  It’s scary to cut up a thriving plant and put it in a new pot to begin again, but I’ve done it before. Actually, this is the only reason the umbrella plant still going strong.  My hope is that my metaphor fits the humans in my life. 

So, here’s to 2024!  Here’s to growth, and renewal, and since it’s a Leap year, a full 366 days of good things!