THE AFTERMATH
Days before Christmas the storm warnings started. Well, they were more like storm suggestions to begin with, but with every eight hour update the message got clearer - there was trouble headed our way. The reports all compared it to the Christmas storm of 2009, but I honestly can't recall a Christmas storm that stood out ... they sure made it sound like it was something for the record books.
Predictions for 2016 had snowfall amounts anywhere from one to three feet starting noon-ish on Christmas Day. Luckily, for our family, we have our biggest gathering and meal on Christmas Eve so our plans didn't have to be modified at all. We had the big family meal here at the farm and all the supper guests were off home by 9:00 that night. Our daughter, son-in-law and their two little boys were here for over night and to open gifts in the morning with our son coming out from town to join in that fun as well. Santa had no trouble getting through and there were lots of goodies as we opened stockings and we had our traditional brunch feast late in the morning ... then came the time to decide what was going to happen next. If they were going it had to be right away - or stay for the duration.
The men went home. Mitchell to town and Andrew to their small farm 60 miles away. They have animals to care for and when the snow blows their lane has to be cleared before they can get into the yard. He encouraged Jesse and the boys to stay until after the storm was over so she did.
Right on schedule the storm rolled in at dusk on Christmas Day. It snowed through the night and it must have been quite the dump of snow because we had about 8 new inches of the white stuff by morning - not nearly as bad as they got it further to the south or east of us, but significant all the same. Glen went out and cleared the yard in the afternoon; not too hard of a job because we are protected from the wind to the north and west. Everything in the yard was soft and fluffy and easy to move, but go outside the trees and the banks are like cement. There was no telling how blocked the roads were so Jesse knew she couldn't leave yet.
It was another whole 24 hours before the municipal grader cleared our way to the highway. If Jesse had been driving a truck she probably could have gotten out without the plow, but she had a car and two little kids to think about so she waited it out. I think they were pretty glad to get home. A sleepover at Grandma and Grandpa's house is fun: loads of treats, silly games, wild running around and giggling as they tried to shoot Grandpa's big toe with nerf guns, bouncing on the mattress on the floor until they bonked heads, applying constant "motivational pressure" to get grandpa to go out and clear snow, and other such adventures ... but there is no place like home.
They left late yesterday afternoon and we spent the evening in the shell-shock quiet of the aftermath of the aftermath of the storm. Sometimes it's good to be the "old folks". I'm pretty sure we couldn't handle 24/7 at that energy level.
Wednesday, December 28, 2016
Sunday, December 18, 2016
DOGGY INDECISION
Turbo is a beautiful dog. Best guess is that he's a German Shepherd/Husky mix. The shape of his head and the length of his legs and ears show the shepherd part while the two tone greys and that big smile he has prove there's husky in there too, somewhere. He's big and he's friendly and he's also pretty darned smart when he wants to be. We are pretty sure he could have been a detector dog for law enforcement - the amount of time he spends examining a scent is something I've never seen in a dog before. And there is no fooling him: if we go see the grandkids without him, he knows as soon as we get out of the vehicle. That's another thing about Turbo - he loves his kids.
Along with the other things his Husky ancestors handed down to him, he has quite the winter coat. He spent the summer looking for a shady spot when I was out working in the garden or mowing grass; summer heat is not his idea of a good time, but now that there is snow on the ground he can't get enough of the outdoors. He's gleefully leaps and bounds through fresh snow like it's icing on his personal birthday cake.
This past week has been beyond cold here on the prairies. You can make all the jokes about 40 below that you want - the truth is the air DOES hurt your face at that temperature. Your fingers also hurt - until they go numb. And sticking your tongue to something metal is the dumbest thing you'll ever do. The snow squeaks when you walk on it - the colder it is the higher the pitch of the squeak. These are just some of the things a person knows about winter when you live out here. Also, the smart people stay inside until it warms back up to 15 below. Unfortunately the people with cattle to feed and bed down, no matter how smart they are, have to go outside anyway: thank goodness we don't have cattle any longer.
But we do have a dog. One with Eskimo heritage. And he just wants to go out side.
My days are spent acting as Turbo's doorman. The Husky in him wants outside so he stands at the garden door whimpering to be let out. I let him out. He isn't out there two minutes and he remembers that he's lonely without at least one human to keep him company. He comes to the deck door and scratches to be let in. I let him in. Five minutes later his insticts tell him he's an outside dog. I let him out. Three minutes later he's worried I might be making something to eat without his supervision. I let him back in. Ten minutes later he spots an imaginary coyote to chase. I let him out. Seven minutes after that he comes back trying to look the part of the mighty hunter and wants back in. Four minutes later he wants back out because it's just too hot in the house. Another three minutes and he wants back in because he misses his human.
What he really wants is to go for a walk; something that he is capable of doing on his own. We own 640 acres and he can explore them all any time he wants. Trouble is, dogs are social animals and he wants to be a part of a pack. I am his pack, and he just wants company. I have explained to him that my ancestors are not Huskies, I do not sport a think fur coat, and I'm waiting for the temperature to go up.
Just a minute, I have to go let him out again.
Turbo is a beautiful dog. Best guess is that he's a German Shepherd/Husky mix. The shape of his head and the length of his legs and ears show the shepherd part while the two tone greys and that big smile he has prove there's husky in there too, somewhere. He's big and he's friendly and he's also pretty darned smart when he wants to be. We are pretty sure he could have been a detector dog for law enforcement - the amount of time he spends examining a scent is something I've never seen in a dog before. And there is no fooling him: if we go see the grandkids without him, he knows as soon as we get out of the vehicle. That's another thing about Turbo - he loves his kids.
Along with the other things his Husky ancestors handed down to him, he has quite the winter coat. He spent the summer looking for a shady spot when I was out working in the garden or mowing grass; summer heat is not his idea of a good time, but now that there is snow on the ground he can't get enough of the outdoors. He's gleefully leaps and bounds through fresh snow like it's icing on his personal birthday cake.
This past week has been beyond cold here on the prairies. You can make all the jokes about 40 below that you want - the truth is the air DOES hurt your face at that temperature. Your fingers also hurt - until they go numb. And sticking your tongue to something metal is the dumbest thing you'll ever do. The snow squeaks when you walk on it - the colder it is the higher the pitch of the squeak. These are just some of the things a person knows about winter when you live out here. Also, the smart people stay inside until it warms back up to 15 below. Unfortunately the people with cattle to feed and bed down, no matter how smart they are, have to go outside anyway: thank goodness we don't have cattle any longer.
But we do have a dog. One with Eskimo heritage. And he just wants to go out side.
My days are spent acting as Turbo's doorman. The Husky in him wants outside so he stands at the garden door whimpering to be let out. I let him out. He isn't out there two minutes and he remembers that he's lonely without at least one human to keep him company. He comes to the deck door and scratches to be let in. I let him in. Five minutes later his insticts tell him he's an outside dog. I let him out. Three minutes later he's worried I might be making something to eat without his supervision. I let him back in. Ten minutes later he spots an imaginary coyote to chase. I let him out. Seven minutes after that he comes back trying to look the part of the mighty hunter and wants back in. Four minutes later he wants back out because it's just too hot in the house. Another three minutes and he wants back in because he misses his human.
What he really wants is to go for a walk; something that he is capable of doing on his own. We own 640 acres and he can explore them all any time he wants. Trouble is, dogs are social animals and he wants to be a part of a pack. I am his pack, and he just wants company. I have explained to him that my ancestors are not Huskies, I do not sport a think fur coat, and I'm waiting for the temperature to go up.
Just a minute, I have to go let him out again.
Monday, December 12, 2016
Brutally Cold
The storm lived up to its billing. First we got almost a foot of snow and then the wind picked up and the temperature dropped like a stone. It's really winter now.
Our farm yard is like so many others here on the prairies: it's surrounded by a tree shelterbelt. When the land was first settled in the late 1800s and early 1900s there were no trees here at all. Mother Nature had kept them from establishing themselves out on the open prairie with a pretty regular occurrence of prairie fires. My grandparents used to talk of having to go to what is now Moose Mountain Provincial Park to cut the winter's supply of wood in the summer time and then head back up there with teams of horses to haul it home once the snow made the haul easier. That is almost an hour's drive now in today's vehicles; think of the work it was for them!
It didn't take the pioneers long to get planting trees and plowing fire guards, and recognizing the insulation factor of having trees to stop a blizzard wind, they planted rows of trees around their homesteads, especially to the north and west. Ours is such a shelterbelt, we are protected to the north and west and open to the south and east which helps us get out of the yard after a storm. If the wind blows from one way and plugs the west lane we can get out to the south, and vice versa. Of course, getting out of the yard is only step one; then there are three miles of gravel road to the highway, and four miles of highway to get to town. We know what "stormed in" means.
Tuesday night last week the wind picked up, as advertised, but we could barely hear it, meaning it was coming straight out of the north. When we woke on Wednesday morning we couldn't see past where the trees end in front of the house but the snow in the yard still lay as soft and fluffy as it fell. The wind hadn't touched it. When the wind changed direction later on and blew more from the west, long, rock-hard drifts blew in through the maples but the driveway is still clear to drive. It all depends on the direction and speed of the wind but sometimes the snow sculptures that Mother Nature comes up with are breathtakingly beautiful.
What came next was the bitter cold. Out came the cords to plug in vehicles and the car got packed with extra winter wear and heavy boots; being caught out in windchills of 40 below is a life and death situation. It has "warmed up' (and I use the term loosely) to minus 25 now; our dog who is part Husky can't figure out why there have been no long walks this past week. He can keep on wondering until the temperature creeps up a bit more!
The storm lived up to its billing. First we got almost a foot of snow and then the wind picked up and the temperature dropped like a stone. It's really winter now.
Our farm yard is like so many others here on the prairies: it's surrounded by a tree shelterbelt. When the land was first settled in the late 1800s and early 1900s there were no trees here at all. Mother Nature had kept them from establishing themselves out on the open prairie with a pretty regular occurrence of prairie fires. My grandparents used to talk of having to go to what is now Moose Mountain Provincial Park to cut the winter's supply of wood in the summer time and then head back up there with teams of horses to haul it home once the snow made the haul easier. That is almost an hour's drive now in today's vehicles; think of the work it was for them!
It didn't take the pioneers long to get planting trees and plowing fire guards, and recognizing the insulation factor of having trees to stop a blizzard wind, they planted rows of trees around their homesteads, especially to the north and west. Ours is such a shelterbelt, we are protected to the north and west and open to the south and east which helps us get out of the yard after a storm. If the wind blows from one way and plugs the west lane we can get out to the south, and vice versa. Of course, getting out of the yard is only step one; then there are three miles of gravel road to the highway, and four miles of highway to get to town. We know what "stormed in" means.
Tuesday night last week the wind picked up, as advertised, but we could barely hear it, meaning it was coming straight out of the north. When we woke on Wednesday morning we couldn't see past where the trees end in front of the house but the snow in the yard still lay as soft and fluffy as it fell. The wind hadn't touched it. When the wind changed direction later on and blew more from the west, long, rock-hard drifts blew in through the maples but the driveway is still clear to drive. It all depends on the direction and speed of the wind but sometimes the snow sculptures that Mother Nature comes up with are breathtakingly beautiful.
What came next was the bitter cold. Out came the cords to plug in vehicles and the car got packed with extra winter wear and heavy boots; being caught out in windchills of 40 below is a life and death situation. It has "warmed up' (and I use the term loosely) to minus 25 now; our dog who is part Husky can't figure out why there have been no long walks this past week. He can keep on wondering until the temperature creeps up a bit more!
Tuesday, December 6, 2016
PRAIRIE POWER
We are a strange bunch, we prairie people. A strange bunch indeed.
As the weather advisories started to appear on TV and Facebook on Sunday night a trickle of excitement sparked to life in our hearts. There are plenty of folks who would deny this, but it's true all the same. We all kind of held our breath and waited to see if the early models of the predicted storm would be upgraded or downgraded as time went by. In the back of our minds we began to do the math ... did we have what it takes to weather this weather? It's a kind of adrenaline rush; Mother Nature throwing down the gauntlet. We want to know, are we worthy of picking it up?
Even though there are plenty who say "I hate winter!", unless they are being held here against their will, a little voice deep inside us whispers the words "Bring it on!" I've never been sure if the people who choose to live here do so because they revel in challenges like this, or is it something in the water - once we have felt the prairie wind in our faces and braved the scorching sun of summer and bitter cold of winter we become infected with this passion to prove ourselves. We want to show the stuff we are made of. We want to step up to the plate. We want to take on the test and come out the winner.
By Sunday nightfall the predictions were turning toward something significant. There would be snow, and lots of it. There would be wind and zero visibility. And with that wind, the temperatures would drop to very nasty territory. Although they still weren't calling it a bona fide blizzard on Monday morning the snow was dumping down - lots of raw material for what was to come. In the local jargon, we appeared to be "in for it". We are aware that it's absurd to be happy about this, but on the inside there was a significant amount of fist pumping going on.
As we waited through the morning, before the storm actually settled in, there was a little stock-taking happening. How long was this supposed to last? Did we have everything we needed to sit this thing out? Was there time for a run to town for basic things like milk and eggs and bread? Personally I could see myself getting a lot of Christmas baking done during these next house-bound days so these ingredients would be good to have on hand, but this is a well-stocked farm home; we could survive quite well on what we already have. We are strong and independent; we can take care of ourselves.
And that's the crux of our mindset. It's because we come from pioneer stock. It's because we grew up hearing the stories of blizzards of the past - the ones where our ancestors learned what they needed to survive in this climate so they could pass their knowledge on down to us. For sure we don't have to worry about getting enough wood split and carried in to keep the fires burning through a three day storm like they did, and we have shelter belts that slow down the wind and yard lights to guide us around our yards if there are chores to do, but because we heard their stories we understand and respect the power of Mother Nature.
We know the danger of being caught out in such conditions and that it truly is a matter of life and death. We may have central heating in our homes but in the back of our minds we have a back up plan if the power ever went out. We know to ration the important things because there is no guarantee of when we will be able to refresh our supplies. We will make sure that the tractor is plugged in so we can clear the yard when the storm is over, and we will stay in touch with our neighbours to make sure that are doing okay through it all.
Instead of being afraid of what was to come we revelled in the challenge ahead of us. We grinned, and we dug in. We are a strange bunch, alright. For us a prairie blizzard is just an adult version of a SNOW DAY.
We are a strange bunch, we prairie people. A strange bunch indeed.
As the weather advisories started to appear on TV and Facebook on Sunday night a trickle of excitement sparked to life in our hearts. There are plenty of folks who would deny this, but it's true all the same. We all kind of held our breath and waited to see if the early models of the predicted storm would be upgraded or downgraded as time went by. In the back of our minds we began to do the math ... did we have what it takes to weather this weather? It's a kind of adrenaline rush; Mother Nature throwing down the gauntlet. We want to know, are we worthy of picking it up?
Even though there are plenty who say "I hate winter!", unless they are being held here against their will, a little voice deep inside us whispers the words "Bring it on!" I've never been sure if the people who choose to live here do so because they revel in challenges like this, or is it something in the water - once we have felt the prairie wind in our faces and braved the scorching sun of summer and bitter cold of winter we become infected with this passion to prove ourselves. We want to show the stuff we are made of. We want to step up to the plate. We want to take on the test and come out the winner.
By Sunday nightfall the predictions were turning toward something significant. There would be snow, and lots of it. There would be wind and zero visibility. And with that wind, the temperatures would drop to very nasty territory. Although they still weren't calling it a bona fide blizzard on Monday morning the snow was dumping down - lots of raw material for what was to come. In the local jargon, we appeared to be "in for it". We are aware that it's absurd to be happy about this, but on the inside there was a significant amount of fist pumping going on.
As we waited through the morning, before the storm actually settled in, there was a little stock-taking happening. How long was this supposed to last? Did we have everything we needed to sit this thing out? Was there time for a run to town for basic things like milk and eggs and bread? Personally I could see myself getting a lot of Christmas baking done during these next house-bound days so these ingredients would be good to have on hand, but this is a well-stocked farm home; we could survive quite well on what we already have. We are strong and independent; we can take care of ourselves.
And that's the crux of our mindset. It's because we come from pioneer stock. It's because we grew up hearing the stories of blizzards of the past - the ones where our ancestors learned what they needed to survive in this climate so they could pass their knowledge on down to us. For sure we don't have to worry about getting enough wood split and carried in to keep the fires burning through a three day storm like they did, and we have shelter belts that slow down the wind and yard lights to guide us around our yards if there are chores to do, but because we heard their stories we understand and respect the power of Mother Nature.
We know the danger of being caught out in such conditions and that it truly is a matter of life and death. We may have central heating in our homes but in the back of our minds we have a back up plan if the power ever went out. We know to ration the important things because there is no guarantee of when we will be able to refresh our supplies. We will make sure that the tractor is plugged in so we can clear the yard when the storm is over, and we will stay in touch with our neighbours to make sure that are doing okay through it all.
Instead of being afraid of what was to come we revelled in the challenge ahead of us. We grinned, and we dug in. We are a strange bunch, alright. For us a prairie blizzard is just an adult version of a SNOW DAY.
Saturday, December 3, 2016
Getting this Show on the Road
While I was making the sandwiches for his work lunch this morning my husband was scrounging around the cupboards looking for other goodies to tide him over through the day. He picked up the lid to the cookie jar and peered into its depths, removing the last few lace cookies for himself and treating Turbo to his favourite - an oatmeal raisin. The dog was thrilled; the man looked a little sad. I knew that whatever was left in there was not fresh but I've been putting off baking more - it's December and the recipes that I will be pulling out next are way too tempting for my level of self denial. If I bake butter tarts too early I will just have to do it all over again in another two weeks in order to have some for Christmas. Timing is everything!
After he left for the day I decided to pull out my file box of family favourites and see if shopping was going to be necessary before I could begin - it will be, and I will probably head into town before noon. Going through the battered (in more ways that one) recipe cards I have slipped into the nostalgic frame of mind that makes holiday baking so much more than just combining ingredients - all of the well-loved recipes have titles that remind me who shared them with me. Baking all these goodies is always like spending the day with people whom I hold dear.
There is one from a friend who used to babysit my kids. She lives in Toronto now and we never see each other, but every Christmas I pull out the card for her mincemeat bars and think of the long conversations we used to have over coffee in her kitchen. I still remember the first time I tried one of these cookies - just to be polite because I am not a fan of mincemeat, but I was totally surprised at how good they were. Mincemeat is such a rich taste that it over powers tarts and pie, but in these cookies, that are basically a mincemeat fig newton, the cookie part balances out the fruit filling. I asked for the recipe that afternoon and have made them every year since. And I think of Shirley when I do.
The one for poppycock I had to research on my own. Back in my Postmaster days a few of our customers would bring us treats to keep our energy levels up during the crazy days of December. One lady always brought a dish of poppycock. I never thought to get her recipe at the time, but the first Christmas after she passed away I sure missed her treat. I had to try a few different versions before I found one close to hers and it's a family favourite now. It doesn't have Ethel's name on the card but it's her I think of, and I try to make enough to hand out to the girls at the post office - you know, just to carry on the tradition.
The pastry recipe for the pies and tarts is the standard one printed on the Tenderflake Lard package, but the goodies that go into the shells are family treasures. My sister Sheila was the master baker of our family, taking over mom's title when she was gone. Now these two loved ones spend their Christmases together in heaven and the best the rest of us can do is use their recipes and hope for the best. Sheila's butter tarts were the best - or was it just the joy of sitting in her kitchen and sipping coffee and eating all her goodies that made them so special? We all use her recipe and think of her when we do.
And, as it turns out that I don't have everything I need to make Granny's lemon cheese for Mom's puff pastry tarts I will go to town. I cheat of course; mom used to make her own puff pastry - it was quite the fitness program rolling those layers of butter and pastry together over and over again. I can buy it ready made, which while very convenient is not all that healthy. It means I can churn out my very favourite Christmas treat by the hundreds without the workout to burn off the calories. Every mouthful tastes of my childhood.
And while I'm in town I guess I'll pick out the tree and a turkey ... may as well get this show on the road!
While I was making the sandwiches for his work lunch this morning my husband was scrounging around the cupboards looking for other goodies to tide him over through the day. He picked up the lid to the cookie jar and peered into its depths, removing the last few lace cookies for himself and treating Turbo to his favourite - an oatmeal raisin. The dog was thrilled; the man looked a little sad. I knew that whatever was left in there was not fresh but I've been putting off baking more - it's December and the recipes that I will be pulling out next are way too tempting for my level of self denial. If I bake butter tarts too early I will just have to do it all over again in another two weeks in order to have some for Christmas. Timing is everything!
After he left for the day I decided to pull out my file box of family favourites and see if shopping was going to be necessary before I could begin - it will be, and I will probably head into town before noon. Going through the battered (in more ways that one) recipe cards I have slipped into the nostalgic frame of mind that makes holiday baking so much more than just combining ingredients - all of the well-loved recipes have titles that remind me who shared them with me. Baking all these goodies is always like spending the day with people whom I hold dear.
There is one from a friend who used to babysit my kids. She lives in Toronto now and we never see each other, but every Christmas I pull out the card for her mincemeat bars and think of the long conversations we used to have over coffee in her kitchen. I still remember the first time I tried one of these cookies - just to be polite because I am not a fan of mincemeat, but I was totally surprised at how good they were. Mincemeat is such a rich taste that it over powers tarts and pie, but in these cookies, that are basically a mincemeat fig newton, the cookie part balances out the fruit filling. I asked for the recipe that afternoon and have made them every year since. And I think of Shirley when I do.
The one for poppycock I had to research on my own. Back in my Postmaster days a few of our customers would bring us treats to keep our energy levels up during the crazy days of December. One lady always brought a dish of poppycock. I never thought to get her recipe at the time, but the first Christmas after she passed away I sure missed her treat. I had to try a few different versions before I found one close to hers and it's a family favourite now. It doesn't have Ethel's name on the card but it's her I think of, and I try to make enough to hand out to the girls at the post office - you know, just to carry on the tradition.
The pastry recipe for the pies and tarts is the standard one printed on the Tenderflake Lard package, but the goodies that go into the shells are family treasures. My sister Sheila was the master baker of our family, taking over mom's title when she was gone. Now these two loved ones spend their Christmases together in heaven and the best the rest of us can do is use their recipes and hope for the best. Sheila's butter tarts were the best - or was it just the joy of sitting in her kitchen and sipping coffee and eating all her goodies that made them so special? We all use her recipe and think of her when we do.
And, as it turns out that I don't have everything I need to make Granny's lemon cheese for Mom's puff pastry tarts I will go to town. I cheat of course; mom used to make her own puff pastry - it was quite the fitness program rolling those layers of butter and pastry together over and over again. I can buy it ready made, which while very convenient is not all that healthy. It means I can churn out my very favourite Christmas treat by the hundreds without the workout to burn off the calories. Every mouthful tastes of my childhood.
And while I'm in town I guess I'll pick out the tree and a turkey ... may as well get this show on the road!
Friday, November 25, 2016
HERDING KITTENS
For those of you with any herding experience, or any kitten experience, the phrase 'herding kittens' conjures up quite the mental picture, doesn't it? 'Herding' is gathering a bunch of animals together and getting them moving all in the same direction to a pre-planned destination. Kittens do qualify in the animal department, but trust me, they do not 'herd' very well. However many kittens you have is the number of different directions they are going to go in, or refuse to go in, depending on their mood at the time. Your only hope of getting them to head in the same direction at one time is to entice them with food or toys and hope for the best, but as they are nothing but cats-in-training, it will still depend on their mood.
They're independent little things, those kittens. They don't necessarily want to be carried, except when it's inconvenient for you, and they tend to want to stop when you want to go, and go when you want to stop. And, if you are in the middle of litter training the little darlings, there is never a litter box close by when you need one.
So, now that I have set the scene, replace the word 'kittens' with 'two little boys' and plunk the scenario in the middle of Agribition. That's where this grandma spent Wednesday this week; it's been two days and I'm still tired.
Agribition has many faces: it's a meeting place known world-wide for exhibiting cattle - the very top animals in each breed are shown, bought and sold for crazy amounts of money as cattlemen and women seek to improve their herds, but from that single seed of cattle exhibition conceived 46 years ago has grown a huge affair that offers everything from rodeo events to tradefair shopping, milking demonstrations to food pavilions, farm equipment showrooms to petting zoos; there's something for everyone. This week was my first time ever and I can see it would be a whole other kind of day if I could do it at my own pace - but like I said - I was helping to herd kittens.
There were lots of other adults trying to do the same thing; judging from the traffic of groups of children it looked like there were many teachers using a day at Agribition as a teaching opportunity. While I admired their courage and fortitude to wander into the crowds with that many kittens, I couldn't help feeling that if the lesson was to be about farming, origin of food, and the art of agriculture, it was probably missing its mark - bright sparkling tractors, pre-packaged samples of grain, small animals in a petting zoo environment, and watching show cattle being given showers and then blown dry is about as far from the truth as Hollywood is from how normal people live. The closest it gets to the real thing is the smell of cow poop as you walk through the barns.
The two little boys we were with, at 5 and 2 years old, already know more than this. They spend time at Grandma's and Grandpa's farm and live on an acreage as well. They have their own chores to do helping their mom to feed chickens and are looking forward to having more animals once their land is fenced. They know that vegetables come from their mom's garden and they've picked apples off their own trees. While the city kids with their one day view of farming come away with a sort of 'tunnel vision' these two have a panoramic view and will grow up feeling like participants in their food production, not spectators.
It's a subject near and dear to my heart - connecting urban populations, especially the kids, to a rural experience. The freedom and space and independence that farm kids enjoy are things that city kids don't even know exist. A while ago I wrote a bit of a memoire of the growing up years of our kids that provides a wide angle lens view of prairie farm life called True Story! It's just a bunch of mostly funny short (true) stories of the real thing. I should have had a few copies along with me to hand out to the teachers so they could back up their farming lesson with a little more reality.
For those of you with any herding experience, or any kitten experience, the phrase 'herding kittens' conjures up quite the mental picture, doesn't it? 'Herding' is gathering a bunch of animals together and getting them moving all in the same direction to a pre-planned destination. Kittens do qualify in the animal department, but trust me, they do not 'herd' very well. However many kittens you have is the number of different directions they are going to go in, or refuse to go in, depending on their mood at the time. Your only hope of getting them to head in the same direction at one time is to entice them with food or toys and hope for the best, but as they are nothing but cats-in-training, it will still depend on their mood.
They're independent little things, those kittens. They don't necessarily want to be carried, except when it's inconvenient for you, and they tend to want to stop when you want to go, and go when you want to stop. And, if you are in the middle of litter training the little darlings, there is never a litter box close by when you need one.
So, now that I have set the scene, replace the word 'kittens' with 'two little boys' and plunk the scenario in the middle of Agribition. That's where this grandma spent Wednesday this week; it's been two days and I'm still tired.
Agribition has many faces: it's a meeting place known world-wide for exhibiting cattle - the very top animals in each breed are shown, bought and sold for crazy amounts of money as cattlemen and women seek to improve their herds, but from that single seed of cattle exhibition conceived 46 years ago has grown a huge affair that offers everything from rodeo events to tradefair shopping, milking demonstrations to food pavilions, farm equipment showrooms to petting zoos; there's something for everyone. This week was my first time ever and I can see it would be a whole other kind of day if I could do it at my own pace - but like I said - I was helping to herd kittens.
There were lots of other adults trying to do the same thing; judging from the traffic of groups of children it looked like there were many teachers using a day at Agribition as a teaching opportunity. While I admired their courage and fortitude to wander into the crowds with that many kittens, I couldn't help feeling that if the lesson was to be about farming, origin of food, and the art of agriculture, it was probably missing its mark - bright sparkling tractors, pre-packaged samples of grain, small animals in a petting zoo environment, and watching show cattle being given showers and then blown dry is about as far from the truth as Hollywood is from how normal people live. The closest it gets to the real thing is the smell of cow poop as you walk through the barns.
The two little boys we were with, at 5 and 2 years old, already know more than this. They spend time at Grandma's and Grandpa's farm and live on an acreage as well. They have their own chores to do helping their mom to feed chickens and are looking forward to having more animals once their land is fenced. They know that vegetables come from their mom's garden and they've picked apples off their own trees. While the city kids with their one day view of farming come away with a sort of 'tunnel vision' these two have a panoramic view and will grow up feeling like participants in their food production, not spectators.
It's a subject near and dear to my heart - connecting urban populations, especially the kids, to a rural experience. The freedom and space and independence that farm kids enjoy are things that city kids don't even know exist. A while ago I wrote a bit of a memoire of the growing up years of our kids that provides a wide angle lens view of prairie farm life called True Story! It's just a bunch of mostly funny short (true) stories of the real thing. I should have had a few copies along with me to hand out to the teachers so they could back up their farming lesson with a little more reality.
Tuesday, November 15, 2016
Well, here we go!
I haven't done this for a very long time. I had a blog back before the word 'blog' was even invented. Actually, being as a blog is nothing more than an online journal of sorts, I've probably had a blog for decades. You could say I love writing things down.
It has taken me all morning to find my way back into this blog account, what with long forgotten passwords and confusing instructions on what to do next - there is a difference between reviving an old account and starting fresh, but I think I'm up and running now. This will be my test!
My motivation to write a blog, way back in the day, was to provide a continuation of the online column I wrote for CBC from 1999 to 2004 (or thereabouts). They had hired me to describe prairie farm life, a subject close to my heart, and when they decided that everyone knew everything there was to know about farming and informed me that my services would no longer be required I set up a blog so that I could continue - you know, just in case a few people still wanted to know more.
As time went by though, and my life got busier, I let my dedication to the blog slide until it petered right out. I apologise to the people who looked forward to it - I will try to do better this time.
The reason I'm firing this site back up again is the very same as when I first created it - a writing job that I've had for 25 years (although I find this time line very hard to believe) is coming to an end. Our small town newspaper is closing it's doors, the competition from electronic media being more than it can bear. For the past quarter century (and again, I can scarcely wrap my head around this) I have been providing a point-of-view column every week. Sometimes it was laughter, sometimes it was tears, and hopefully it always made my readers think; I loved it when they would tell me how what I said had struck a chord with them. There is nothing better than feedback to encourage a writer to keep motivated!
But, here I am facing a dead end to something that is such a natural part of my life I don't know what I will do with myself. I've got to the point that inspiration about something to write about happens almost daily - where will all these ideas go if I don't write them down? I also have a few fans who say they are distraught (haha) over not hearing from me any more ... so my answer to this is that I am reviving this blog. We'll see how this goes.
I'll be in touch.
It has taken me all morning to find my way back into this blog account, what with long forgotten passwords and confusing instructions on what to do next - there is a difference between reviving an old account and starting fresh, but I think I'm up and running now. This will be my test!
My motivation to write a blog, way back in the day, was to provide a continuation of the online column I wrote for CBC from 1999 to 2004 (or thereabouts). They had hired me to describe prairie farm life, a subject close to my heart, and when they decided that everyone knew everything there was to know about farming and informed me that my services would no longer be required I set up a blog so that I could continue - you know, just in case a few people still wanted to know more.
As time went by though, and my life got busier, I let my dedication to the blog slide until it petered right out. I apologise to the people who looked forward to it - I will try to do better this time.
The reason I'm firing this site back up again is the very same as when I first created it - a writing job that I've had for 25 years (although I find this time line very hard to believe) is coming to an end. Our small town newspaper is closing it's doors, the competition from electronic media being more than it can bear. For the past quarter century (and again, I can scarcely wrap my head around this) I have been providing a point-of-view column every week. Sometimes it was laughter, sometimes it was tears, and hopefully it always made my readers think; I loved it when they would tell me how what I said had struck a chord with them. There is nothing better than feedback to encourage a writer to keep motivated!
But, here I am facing a dead end to something that is such a natural part of my life I don't know what I will do with myself. I've got to the point that inspiration about something to write about happens almost daily - where will all these ideas go if I don't write them down? I also have a few fans who say they are distraught (haha) over not hearing from me any more ... so my answer to this is that I am reviving this blog. We'll see how this goes.
I'll be in touch.
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