OFF THE WAGON
Even the strongest among us fail. Merely being able to recognize a weakness gives one very little power to overcome it. Even those who have walked this path before can succumb to sweet temptation over and over again.
All those promises I've made to myself to bolster self control, all those private pep talks to curb an unhealthy, unreasonable fixation, all those post-frenzy moments of clarity when it becomes crystal clear what I have done - yet again. All undone (as usual) when I was at my most vulnerable; snow still piled high on my gardens, spring fever raging in my blood.
Hello. My name is Jocelyn, and I am a garden-aholic.
This weakness - this dangerous tendency of mine - is hereditary. It affects all the females in my family to some degree. And, because we women tend to spend a lot of time in each others' company, not only does the actual genetic weakness exert its influence on us, but hanging out with other addicts reinforces a bad behavior. They warn you about that sort of thing. It's what's called a double whammy.
To make matters worse we have all managed to marry enablers - guys who are easily talked into cultivating another stretch of ground for a perennial bed here, and a strawberry patch there, here some asparagus, there some raspberries, here a bush, there an apple tree ... e-i-e-i-o. They can even been sold on the idea of hauling massive rocks into the yard and inserting them into a hillside for esthetic appeal - even if they're not sure what that is. Trust me, I know.
On the surface there doesn't seem to be a big problem. I mean, what's another flower bed? It can easily be rationalized as 'curb appeal' or 'doing our bit for the bees'. An addiction dressed in environmentally friendly clothing can fool a lot of people, but while these don't seem to be so bad to the casual outside observer, living on the inside with the day-to-day consequences of weeding and watering every waking moment is another story.
It can tear families apart ... or indoctrinate the next generation into the family failing; it can go either way. Just ask my own children about their childhoods of conscripted slave labour spent out in the potato patch.
I confess all this to show you how my life has been a rocky path of self-inflicted gardens. But I also want you to understand that I have gained at least a small modicum of insight into my struggle. I do comprehend the magnitude of my weakness, and I know I am helpless to battle it alone. There are twelve step recovery programs out there for everything and if I ever find one for gardening I hope I have the strength of character to join. Until then I am on my own.
Over the years I've had my ups and downs. Sometimes I've been able to hold the line on reasonable expectations - you know, making sure that the tilled square footage/available manpower ratio is in balance. And, other times, a friend will be giving away loads of perennials and I say 'yes!' to everything only to come to my senses when I get back home and remember that every square inch of my flower beds is already full.
My willpower ebbs and flows on me; I'm never stronger that at the end of a hot summer day, having weeded all morning, picked beans all afternoon, and made pickles after supper. And I'm at my weakest in front of gardening bulb display in early March ... as the VISA bill will attest to when it comes next month.
It was the old case of one plant is one too many, a thousand is not enough. If I could have just walked on by I might have been okay, but I had made a premeditated decision to buy a few begonias ... which derailed my self control and led to a question of 'which ones?' which grew to 'how many?' which in turn spiralled downward to 'how many of each?'. In no time at all, with ringing in my ears, my eyes glazed over, and my pulse elevated and erratic I piled a large bag of gladioli into the cart to keep the begonia company and topped them all off with seed packets of sunflowers, cosmos, marigolds and zinnias. As I furtively stowed this contraband in my car for the trip home I knew I had fallen off the wagon yet again. I have my stash hidden down in the basement for the time being while I try to figure where on earth I'm going to put them.
I know this is just me rationalizing my failings here, but it could be worse, right? I am helping out the bees, after all! And it does make the yard look pretty. Now that the kids are gone I'm only hurting myself, right?
I'll move on to promising myself it will never happen again the day I plant 45 gladioli in a flower garden that doesn't even exist yet.
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
Sunday, March 12, 2017
ONE FOR THE RECORD BOOKS
I don't know where this image in my head originated but I do know that it's been filed in there for a long time. It's a picture of two old people sitting in rocking chairs reminiscing about some of the stand-out memories they have in their lives. You know, it would go something like this:
"I recall, back in ought 7 - that was the year old Bessie had a set of triplets and they all lived! Prize cow, that Bessie was!"
And the other person would reply "Yep, and I remember my one and only bumper crop back in '86. Had to pile it on the ground. There was mountains of grain everywhere. Pity it wasn't worth nothing ..." But that's another story.
At any rate, you get my drift. People toward the end of long lives examining the outside-the-box moments during their time under this sun. I already have a few to keep the conversation lively when I get to my rocking chair, and as of last week, I have one more to add - the blizzard of '17. It was a doozy.
This winter has already had some significant weather, especially compared to last winter when the only significant fact was that it was such an easy-peasy walk in the park. Just enough snow to make it look like Mother Nature tried and no major cold snaps of note. Maybe Mother Nature was saving up, I don't know, but this winter has certainly been a different story.
The Christmas Day blizzard hit the news bigtime. It was a big deal, true enough; lots of snow and wind and the forecasters really making a big deal of it. More than the actual weather hazards, I think it was the timing that had everyone going overboard with the warnings. Is there a time more associated with people on the road than when everyone is headed to Grandma's for Christmas dinner? The authorities wanted people to STAY HOME. The storm certainly warranted those warnings, and with any other winter that would have been the highlight. And the extreme bitter cold the week after New Years, too. And that night Saskatchewan pretty much shut down because of wind (we were in Mexico at the time but social media couldn't stop talking about it) - these too, would have made the 2017 headlines on their own.
But, fast forward to March 6th ... after a period of warm melting weather that kind of softened us up for spring, and at a time when one would normally accept as safely past that March Lion we always look out for ... and we were back to blizzard warnings again.
It's not that we didn't believe the warnings. A March storm is fairly commonplace. The first eyebrow-raiser was that they were calling it a blizzard when it wasn't even here yet. There are certain criteria to meet in order to use the big "B" word and Environment Canada don't use it lightly. We're usually well into the storm before they admit that's what we have on our hands. Not this time - 36 hours out and our phones were constantly dinging with Blizzard warning text messages.
It blew in right on time and they tell us we got the amount of snow they predicted (although how they measure when it comes in sideways at 80 kph and piles up in rock-hard banks wherever the trees hold it, I have no idea). The thing of note is that it went on, and on, and on, and on. I cannot remember another storm with that kind of constant power, that lasted so long. There was a graphic on the weather news that listed the 5 longest blizzards going back to 1959; last week's storm was 31 hours long, the next longest was 19.
Another measurement compared our barometric pressure to a typhoon in the Indian Ocean - ours was lower. We had the worst weather on the planet; the winds were equal to a EF2 tornado. I ventured out to try for a few pictures and believe me, I've never been out in worse conditions and I wasn't there for long.
And the aftermath is amazing. Our yard has a tree shelterbelt to the north and west. Snow blowing across miles of open fields built up into amazing banks around our house and right back through the trees to the road. Every one of them is concrete hard from the force of the wind. Our grown son who lives in Australia laments he can't be here to build a snow fort, our grandsons are too young to appreciate to opportunity. This is likely a once in a lifetime event.
I've gone out and tied markers to where the branches come out of the snow banks so that we can measure their depth when the snow melts; we are guessing 12 to 14 feet but there is no way to tell at the moment. I am also going to do a time lapse project when the melt starts to see how long it will take for it all to go away because that's the kind of nerd I am. I am laying odds on there still being banks out there in May, and possibly even June. This was one for the record books ... and something to talk about in my rocking chair in the old folks home some day.
I don't know where this image in my head originated but I do know that it's been filed in there for a long time. It's a picture of two old people sitting in rocking chairs reminiscing about some of the stand-out memories they have in their lives. You know, it would go something like this:
"I recall, back in ought 7 - that was the year old Bessie had a set of triplets and they all lived! Prize cow, that Bessie was!"
And the other person would reply "Yep, and I remember my one and only bumper crop back in '86. Had to pile it on the ground. There was mountains of grain everywhere. Pity it wasn't worth nothing ..." But that's another story.
At any rate, you get my drift. People toward the end of long lives examining the outside-the-box moments during their time under this sun. I already have a few to keep the conversation lively when I get to my rocking chair, and as of last week, I have one more to add - the blizzard of '17. It was a doozy.
This winter has already had some significant weather, especially compared to last winter when the only significant fact was that it was such an easy-peasy walk in the park. Just enough snow to make it look like Mother Nature tried and no major cold snaps of note. Maybe Mother Nature was saving up, I don't know, but this winter has certainly been a different story.
The Christmas Day blizzard hit the news bigtime. It was a big deal, true enough; lots of snow and wind and the forecasters really making a big deal of it. More than the actual weather hazards, I think it was the timing that had everyone going overboard with the warnings. Is there a time more associated with people on the road than when everyone is headed to Grandma's for Christmas dinner? The authorities wanted people to STAY HOME. The storm certainly warranted those warnings, and with any other winter that would have been the highlight. And the extreme bitter cold the week after New Years, too. And that night Saskatchewan pretty much shut down because of wind (we were in Mexico at the time but social media couldn't stop talking about it) - these too, would have made the 2017 headlines on their own.
But, fast forward to March 6th ... after a period of warm melting weather that kind of softened us up for spring, and at a time when one would normally accept as safely past that March Lion we always look out for ... and we were back to blizzard warnings again.
It's not that we didn't believe the warnings. A March storm is fairly commonplace. The first eyebrow-raiser was that they were calling it a blizzard when it wasn't even here yet. There are certain criteria to meet in order to use the big "B" word and Environment Canada don't use it lightly. We're usually well into the storm before they admit that's what we have on our hands. Not this time - 36 hours out and our phones were constantly dinging with Blizzard warning text messages.
It blew in right on time and they tell us we got the amount of snow they predicted (although how they measure when it comes in sideways at 80 kph and piles up in rock-hard banks wherever the trees hold it, I have no idea). The thing of note is that it went on, and on, and on, and on. I cannot remember another storm with that kind of constant power, that lasted so long. There was a graphic on the weather news that listed the 5 longest blizzards going back to 1959; last week's storm was 31 hours long, the next longest was 19.
Another measurement compared our barometric pressure to a typhoon in the Indian Ocean - ours was lower. We had the worst weather on the planet; the winds were equal to a EF2 tornado. I ventured out to try for a few pictures and believe me, I've never been out in worse conditions and I wasn't there for long.
And the aftermath is amazing. Our yard has a tree shelterbelt to the north and west. Snow blowing across miles of open fields built up into amazing banks around our house and right back through the trees to the road. Every one of them is concrete hard from the force of the wind. Our grown son who lives in Australia laments he can't be here to build a snow fort, our grandsons are too young to appreciate to opportunity. This is likely a once in a lifetime event.
I've gone out and tied markers to where the branches come out of the snow banks so that we can measure their depth when the snow melts; we are guessing 12 to 14 feet but there is no way to tell at the moment. I am also going to do a time lapse project when the melt starts to see how long it will take for it all to go away because that's the kind of nerd I am. I am laying odds on there still being banks out there in May, and possibly even June. This was one for the record books ... and something to talk about in my rocking chair in the old folks home some day.
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
THE PERKS OF WORK
I've been asked many times over the past four years whether I miss work. That would be the paying kind of work where a person shows up for predetermined hours, performs designated tasks and gets a paycheck for the effort. As far as I know there is no way to retire from the non-paying-and-it-never-seems-to-end kind of work I'm still doing.
The short answer to their question is "no". I drove to town to work for 31 years - that's half my lifetime - and I'm not sad to be set free from that. But that's not the complete story; the last thing I would want people to believe is that I wasn't grateful for such a good job or that I didn't enjoy my time with customers and coworkers over the years, because I am and I did. It's just that life is short and I had other things I wanted to do.
A more in depth answer is that although there were bad days (everyone has them) my years of working for a paycheck were, by far, a happy experience. Conversations with both customers and staff kept things lively; some were happy and some were serious and sad but they built a connection with my community that I still feel today. The opportunity to bond with my fellow Redversites on such a regular basis is something that I do miss.
The silly and sometimes borderline crazy moments we staff members had behind the scenes are some of the happiest work memories I have: taking a time out from the boredom of sorting fliers to dance to some music (eh Terry?), the private challenge I would set myself to get the Coop statements sorted even faster than last month (summer afternoons were pretty long and boring), and then there was that gift thermos of Christmas coffee that will go down in history (eh Rhonda?). Good times.
And, this might sound strange to anyone who hasn't been a wife and a mother in a busy household, but that quiet drive to and from work, even though it was only seven miles, was a precious pocket of solitude I looked forward to every day. You have to have walked a mile in those shoes to appreciate it but trust me, it's a real thing. And if I hadn't had my job I wouldn't have had that; I guess you could call it a perk.
The advantage of a paycheck is obvious. Having a job with a pension plan; likewise.
But yesterday when this prairie storm came howling in I was reminded of one of the best 'extras' my job in town ever offered - the impromptu holiday of a grownup sleepover at a girlfriend's place.
Actually it wasn't me who thought of this first. The girlfriend I used to stay with called to say how much she missed having friends who lived in the country and worked in town, thus stirring up all kinds of memories of those happy times.
There are so many levels of being storm-stayed that make the experience special. There's something about sharing a meal with friends - breaking bread together - that we humans value no matter whether the menu is a simple bowl of soup or a three course meal. An entire evening of conversation can be so much richer than a simple chat over a cup of coffee. The mini adventure of finding an extra toothbrush and something to suffice for pyjamas is its own kind of fun too.
When you wrap all of these things together, though, in a cozy house with warm-hearted people, when a storm is raging outside while you and everyone you love are safe inside, when to try to get home would have been dangerous or even deadly but instead you find yourself invited on a mini holiday: well, there's just not a better perk to working outside the home. I hadn't thought about it until she called, but missing a storm sleepover is a definite downside to being retired.
So, to the question "Do I miss work?" the long answer is "kind of", especially at a time like this.
I've been asked many times over the past four years whether I miss work. That would be the paying kind of work where a person shows up for predetermined hours, performs designated tasks and gets a paycheck for the effort. As far as I know there is no way to retire from the non-paying-and-it-never-seems-to-end kind of work I'm still doing.
The short answer to their question is "no". I drove to town to work for 31 years - that's half my lifetime - and I'm not sad to be set free from that. But that's not the complete story; the last thing I would want people to believe is that I wasn't grateful for such a good job or that I didn't enjoy my time with customers and coworkers over the years, because I am and I did. It's just that life is short and I had other things I wanted to do.
A more in depth answer is that although there were bad days (everyone has them) my years of working for a paycheck were, by far, a happy experience. Conversations with both customers and staff kept things lively; some were happy and some were serious and sad but they built a connection with my community that I still feel today. The opportunity to bond with my fellow Redversites on such a regular basis is something that I do miss.
The silly and sometimes borderline crazy moments we staff members had behind the scenes are some of the happiest work memories I have: taking a time out from the boredom of sorting fliers to dance to some music (eh Terry?), the private challenge I would set myself to get the Coop statements sorted even faster than last month (summer afternoons were pretty long and boring), and then there was that gift thermos of Christmas coffee that will go down in history (eh Rhonda?). Good times.
And, this might sound strange to anyone who hasn't been a wife and a mother in a busy household, but that quiet drive to and from work, even though it was only seven miles, was a precious pocket of solitude I looked forward to every day. You have to have walked a mile in those shoes to appreciate it but trust me, it's a real thing. And if I hadn't had my job I wouldn't have had that; I guess you could call it a perk.
The advantage of a paycheck is obvious. Having a job with a pension plan; likewise.
But yesterday when this prairie storm came howling in I was reminded of one of the best 'extras' my job in town ever offered - the impromptu holiday of a grownup sleepover at a girlfriend's place.
Actually it wasn't me who thought of this first. The girlfriend I used to stay with called to say how much she missed having friends who lived in the country and worked in town, thus stirring up all kinds of memories of those happy times.
There are so many levels of being storm-stayed that make the experience special. There's something about sharing a meal with friends - breaking bread together - that we humans value no matter whether the menu is a simple bowl of soup or a three course meal. An entire evening of conversation can be so much richer than a simple chat over a cup of coffee. The mini adventure of finding an extra toothbrush and something to suffice for pyjamas is its own kind of fun too.
When you wrap all of these things together, though, in a cozy house with warm-hearted people, when a storm is raging outside while you and everyone you love are safe inside, when to try to get home would have been dangerous or even deadly but instead you find yourself invited on a mini holiday: well, there's just not a better perk to working outside the home. I hadn't thought about it until she called, but missing a storm sleepover is a definite downside to being retired.
So, to the question "Do I miss work?" the long answer is "kind of", especially at a time like this.
Monday, February 27, 2017
EXCUSE ME, WHAT'S A WEEKEND?
"So! Whatcha got planned for the weekend?"
The question, posed in a chipper young voice and set between bits of soft, happy humming came from the other side of a computer monitor. The voice's owner was waiting for her machine to do its thing and had some time for small talk. My mind had been on all the other things I had to do while I was in town so it kind of surprised me to be asked about plans for further down the road.
Besides, I'm retired. I wasn't even sure of what day it was or that there was going to be a weekend anytime soon.
I did manage to come up with an answer for her. I had a bunch of things planned over the next few days although only one of them was going to happen on the weekend. My answer seemed to satisfy her though. She went back to work - still humming - and I sat back and thought about how two people could use the same word but have such different perspectives on what it meant. While we were both speaking English and we had both said "weekend" we weren't on the same page at all.
She was in her early to mid twenties. She was thinking about fun stuff: maybe a hot date? A sporting event? A dance? A concert in the city? Or, being as she was a working girl, did she just want to sleep in and take it easy for a couple days? I reached way way way back into my memory banks and recalled what that felt like. Back then the word "weekend" had the ring of magic to it. No wonder she was humming to herself.
Weekends are something that kind of fade in and out of significance as one goes through life.
When we are very young life is just a steady stream of days. My dad was a farmer so every day was a work day; it wasn't like he went to town for a nine to five kind of job. Besides, we had dairy cows - they had to be milked twice a day, every day. They didn't take days off, and neither did we. Sundays were the only day that stood out because we went to church and sometimes spent the afternoon at the lake. But a weekend? What was that?
School life answered that question. We still had the cows that needed milking twice a day every day, but the understanding of five days of work and two days off took hold. Along with all the other things you learn in those early years is the concept of days, weeks, months, and years, the rhythm of the classes, the power of the bell either calling you in or letting you go. Five days of work, two days of play; the message is clear - play days are less frequent and therefore more precious.
Our teen years are spent trying to cram the most (usually the dumbest or most dangerous) stuff into those two days off. Miraculously most of us survive.
The word 'weekend' takes on a whole new meaning when we reach adulthood. The years of careers and kids means another adjustment. There are so many bases to cover that free time becomes a most coveted resource. Party time fades out and family time takes over. The closely monitored calendar counts off the days to camping trips and sports tournaments, family reunions and weekend getaways.
Life continues to unfold. Those busy years pass and you find your social calendar shrinking as the kids leave home. I have even gone one step further and retired so that I could stay home and play in my gardens. I work when the sun shines and stay in when it rains - Mother Nature cares not the least what day it is. And, since she doesn't acknowledge weekends, and my husband's job has a similar attitude, I don't tend to pay much attention to them either.
There are weeks like this past one when I haven't been on the right day once. The Monday holiday messed me up and threw off my planned trip to the city. We had company on Wednesday so it felt like a Sunday. I went to town on Friday but my brain kept thinking it was Monday. Today is Saturday, but you couldn't tell by me.
I'm going to church tomorrow hoping that it will start me off on the right foot for this week - and it occurs to me that this is how it all started out.
"So! Whatcha got planned for the weekend?"
The question, posed in a chipper young voice and set between bits of soft, happy humming came from the other side of a computer monitor. The voice's owner was waiting for her machine to do its thing and had some time for small talk. My mind had been on all the other things I had to do while I was in town so it kind of surprised me to be asked about plans for further down the road.
Besides, I'm retired. I wasn't even sure of what day it was or that there was going to be a weekend anytime soon.
I did manage to come up with an answer for her. I had a bunch of things planned over the next few days although only one of them was going to happen on the weekend. My answer seemed to satisfy her though. She went back to work - still humming - and I sat back and thought about how two people could use the same word but have such different perspectives on what it meant. While we were both speaking English and we had both said "weekend" we weren't on the same page at all.
She was in her early to mid twenties. She was thinking about fun stuff: maybe a hot date? A sporting event? A dance? A concert in the city? Or, being as she was a working girl, did she just want to sleep in and take it easy for a couple days? I reached way way way back into my memory banks and recalled what that felt like. Back then the word "weekend" had the ring of magic to it. No wonder she was humming to herself.
Weekends are something that kind of fade in and out of significance as one goes through life.
When we are very young life is just a steady stream of days. My dad was a farmer so every day was a work day; it wasn't like he went to town for a nine to five kind of job. Besides, we had dairy cows - they had to be milked twice a day, every day. They didn't take days off, and neither did we. Sundays were the only day that stood out because we went to church and sometimes spent the afternoon at the lake. But a weekend? What was that?
School life answered that question. We still had the cows that needed milking twice a day every day, but the understanding of five days of work and two days off took hold. Along with all the other things you learn in those early years is the concept of days, weeks, months, and years, the rhythm of the classes, the power of the bell either calling you in or letting you go. Five days of work, two days of play; the message is clear - play days are less frequent and therefore more precious.
Our teen years are spent trying to cram the most (usually the dumbest or most dangerous) stuff into those two days off. Miraculously most of us survive.
The word 'weekend' takes on a whole new meaning when we reach adulthood. The years of careers and kids means another adjustment. There are so many bases to cover that free time becomes a most coveted resource. Party time fades out and family time takes over. The closely monitored calendar counts off the days to camping trips and sports tournaments, family reunions and weekend getaways.
Life continues to unfold. Those busy years pass and you find your social calendar shrinking as the kids leave home. I have even gone one step further and retired so that I could stay home and play in my gardens. I work when the sun shines and stay in when it rains - Mother Nature cares not the least what day it is. And, since she doesn't acknowledge weekends, and my husband's job has a similar attitude, I don't tend to pay much attention to them either.
There are weeks like this past one when I haven't been on the right day once. The Monday holiday messed me up and threw off my planned trip to the city. We had company on Wednesday so it felt like a Sunday. I went to town on Friday but my brain kept thinking it was Monday. Today is Saturday, but you couldn't tell by me.
I'm going to church tomorrow hoping that it will start me off on the right foot for this week - and it occurs to me that this is how it all started out.
Tuesday, February 21, 2017
THE MARCH OF MUD
It almost looks like it's true - the squeaky wheel does get the grease! Complain, and someone will do something about it! My last post was about snow, snow, snow and here I am a week later talking about mud.
We have been enjoying a week's worth of above zero temperatures. The days have been so warm that the snow that Glen couldn't get to on the roof has been avalanching down onto the deck in sections as the metal roofing warms up enough to let it slide. The first couple times it happened it freaked the dog right out, but he seems to have it figured out now. It's not all that unusual to have a brief February thaw, but this one is exceptional - it's been more than a week long and it doesn't even freeze over night. I tell you, it's weird to lay in bed in the middle of a winter night and listen to the eaves trough running water.
Although there has been a lot of melting going on the snow pack doesn't really look to have shrunk much. True, the roads are visible, but the ditches are still full. The ridges left by the snow plows aren't as high as they were last week, but they are still plenty high enough to catch drifting snow should we get some more. The one good thing about the snow that's left - it is more like solid ice, the wind won't be moving it again. The long range weather says that we may get some more the first week of March, but that's a long way off and let's hope they are wrong.
Meanwhile I get to deal with pre-spring spring. March's calling card - mud - has taken over the porch.
I tell myself, as I stand at the doorway and observe the mess, that it's not as bad as it used to be. I now only have a husband and a dog to deal with. There was a time when there were four kids plus the man and at least one dog ... sometimes even a cat ... with all their footprints everywhere and mud splatter up the walls because every one knows it's easier to kick boots off than it is to calmly remove them and place them on a rubber mat like you've been asked to a million times. It was like they were artists and mud was the medium they liked to work with - splashes, splatters, and globs across the floors and halfway up the walls, all framed beautifully by their wet coats and other clothing carefully arranged on their invisible floor hooks. Ah! The memories!
But, I digress.
Now I have a larger porch with a lighter coloured floor. I don't know what I was thinking there, but I'll bet you I didn't make that decision in March. There are only two humans living here and yet there are six pairs of boots; two neatly on the mat and four others strewn across the floor. The two on the mat are relatively clean, the others are twice their normal weight with mud, and surrounded by the residue tramped in from outside the last five times they've been worn. I'm going to wait until this mid-winter thaw is over and then I'm going to gather up all this freshly harvested soil, mix in a little peat moss, and start an early indoor garden. It's the same threat I've made for the past 34 years.
That's the kind of thinking a girl gets into with spring edging ever closer - I just want to plant some seeds and watch things grow.
Monday, February 13, 2017
MAROONED
It's got to the point where we no longer take it for granted that we can go to town any old time we please. Just owning a truck and SUV, both in good repair and sporting suitable tires, or having a worthy grid road system going right past our place means very little when the snow is this deep and a restless prairie wind continually sifts it sideways into drifts. I told you about our New Year's Eve walk? Conditions haven't changed for the better.
I'm not going to compare our situation to what Atlantic Canada is getting at the moment. They measure their snow fall in feet, not inches, and the winds that accompany their storms range in the 80 to 100 kph; it's a very rare prairie storm that will pack that kind of a wallop. Their storms are massive, alright, but snow they get in December doesn't tend to be still sticking around in March. On the prairies we keep ours around. Our temperatures don't melt it. Our only option is to pile it up - pushing it as far back from our driveway as possible because we know that there will be many more storms and we will need the space to push those snowfalls back too.
Meanwhile the winds play with the white stuff. With every shift in direction the snow banks form different designs across the landscape. It's really quite beautiful to watch and with the right play of sun and shadow, photographers can capture exquisite scenes. If you are a nature watcher you would love it. If you want to go to town, you might not be so impressed.
For example: yesterday morning I had decided to go to church. No one had been out of the yard for 24 hours and the wind had been blowing the whole time from the west so I was pretty suspicious of our main gate out. I backed out of the garage and played eeny meeny miney mo and decided to try the escape route instead. Our yard has what my husband calls the 'bunny hole' referring to a back door escape hatch that rabbit holes have. It leaves going south whereas the main gate faces west; depending on which way the wind is blowing from, if one is blocked the other one is probably passible.
It was tricky, but I made it out of the yard ... and was feeling quite accomplished until I got to the corner a mile from home and found the intersection almost completely filled in with drifted snow. I debated my chances and decided to go for it - if I got stuck there it was only a mile walk home and I had brought my walking boots just in case. I made it through but more than once during the church service I found myself wondering if I was going to be lucky enough to get home again. I did, but when Glen came home six hours later in his big 4 wheel drive truck he said it was all he could do to get through. When I mentioned this morning that I had a meeting in town tonight he just said he didn't know how I was going to get there. I had forgotten we were marooned.
I have letters written by my grandmother before I was born talking about being totally snow locked by March one year because the route they used to get to main roads from their farm had blown in so solidly they had to wait for spring melt to be set free. My father-in-law also tells the story of how when their first child was born Jan 30, 1945, the trip to the hospital was the last trip down highway 8 until spring. In this day and age it seems unbelievable that a major highway would be shut down for months but I have no doubt his story is true.
It's mid February and quite often March is our snowiest month. Anywhere (and there are lots of places) that the snow has blocked the roads the plows leave ridges when they pass. Anywhere there are ridges the snow fills in even faster and harder the next time it blows. These next six weeks could be interesting.
It's got to the point where we no longer take it for granted that we can go to town any old time we please. Just owning a truck and SUV, both in good repair and sporting suitable tires, or having a worthy grid road system going right past our place means very little when the snow is this deep and a restless prairie wind continually sifts it sideways into drifts. I told you about our New Year's Eve walk? Conditions haven't changed for the better.
I'm not going to compare our situation to what Atlantic Canada is getting at the moment. They measure their snow fall in feet, not inches, and the winds that accompany their storms range in the 80 to 100 kph; it's a very rare prairie storm that will pack that kind of a wallop. Their storms are massive, alright, but snow they get in December doesn't tend to be still sticking around in March. On the prairies we keep ours around. Our temperatures don't melt it. Our only option is to pile it up - pushing it as far back from our driveway as possible because we know that there will be many more storms and we will need the space to push those snowfalls back too.
Meanwhile the winds play with the white stuff. With every shift in direction the snow banks form different designs across the landscape. It's really quite beautiful to watch and with the right play of sun and shadow, photographers can capture exquisite scenes. If you are a nature watcher you would love it. If you want to go to town, you might not be so impressed.
For example: yesterday morning I had decided to go to church. No one had been out of the yard for 24 hours and the wind had been blowing the whole time from the west so I was pretty suspicious of our main gate out. I backed out of the garage and played eeny meeny miney mo and decided to try the escape route instead. Our yard has what my husband calls the 'bunny hole' referring to a back door escape hatch that rabbit holes have. It leaves going south whereas the main gate faces west; depending on which way the wind is blowing from, if one is blocked the other one is probably passible.
It was tricky, but I made it out of the yard ... and was feeling quite accomplished until I got to the corner a mile from home and found the intersection almost completely filled in with drifted snow. I debated my chances and decided to go for it - if I got stuck there it was only a mile walk home and I had brought my walking boots just in case. I made it through but more than once during the church service I found myself wondering if I was going to be lucky enough to get home again. I did, but when Glen came home six hours later in his big 4 wheel drive truck he said it was all he could do to get through. When I mentioned this morning that I had a meeting in town tonight he just said he didn't know how I was going to get there. I had forgotten we were marooned.
I have letters written by my grandmother before I was born talking about being totally snow locked by March one year because the route they used to get to main roads from their farm had blown in so solidly they had to wait for spring melt to be set free. My father-in-law also tells the story of how when their first child was born Jan 30, 1945, the trip to the hospital was the last trip down highway 8 until spring. In this day and age it seems unbelievable that a major highway would be shut down for months but I have no doubt his story is true.
It's mid February and quite often March is our snowiest month. Anywhere (and there are lots of places) that the snow has blocked the roads the plows leave ridges when they pass. Anywhere there are ridges the snow fills in even faster and harder the next time it blows. These next six weeks could be interesting.
Wednesday, February 8, 2017
ANTICIPATION
"I've never lost a crop in February yet!"
For those in the non farming field this statement probably causes some head scratching. And, for those who are, you would recognise this as a statement of pure optimism.
The non farmers would say "Of course the crop isn't lost yet. It's not even planted yet!"
The farmers among us would smile knowing smiles, nod their heads, and hope for the best.
The non farmers think 'farming season' only lasts from May to September.
Farmers are well aware that a true farming season never takes a break. It's a year round application of work and weather, money and machinery. In order to make a living at it, all of these things have to come together at the right time. It's not like a 9 to 5 job, and it's really no wonder why the 9 to 5ers of the world don't understand.
A couple weeks ago a neighbour was over for coffee and at some point in the conversation said "I've never lost a crop in February yet!" To put it in context, he and my husband had been talking about the huge amount of snow we've had so far this winter, and what that was going to mean in the spring, depending on how fast the melt would happen. Both men are concerned at how seeding is going to be affected come spring. The ground was saturated by rains throughout October and November last year and with all the snow piled on top of that they know that even if it doesn't snow another flake or rain another drop the land is going to be so muddy that a) the machinery will be stuck a lot, and b) many acres will either be under water or unreachable. When time and landbase are so closely connected to their bottom line, these are serious circumstances.
And yet, his statement wasn't a "woe is me!". On the contrary, it was stated with hope and optimism for the future. He wasn't throwing in the towel and saying "There's no use even trying." It was much more like "It ain't over till the fat lady sings." Both men knew that the challenges were likely to be high and the work hard, but worrying about it in February was a waste of their time and energy. A lot of things could happen before the ground was warm enough to plant, and maybe, just maybe, some of them would be in their favour.
Winter is wearing on us all, though. It gets like that in mid February. We all long for warmer weather, more daylight hours, and the colour green. In another couple weeks we'll be starting to look out for returning birds - crows are usually the first - and we'll breathe a sigh of relief; spring will be just around the corner.
We are an optimistic people: we wouldn't live here, or do this, if we weren't.
"I've never lost a crop in February yet!"
For those in the non farming field this statement probably causes some head scratching. And, for those who are, you would recognise this as a statement of pure optimism.
The non farmers would say "Of course the crop isn't lost yet. It's not even planted yet!"
The farmers among us would smile knowing smiles, nod their heads, and hope for the best.
The non farmers think 'farming season' only lasts from May to September.
Farmers are well aware that a true farming season never takes a break. It's a year round application of work and weather, money and machinery. In order to make a living at it, all of these things have to come together at the right time. It's not like a 9 to 5 job, and it's really no wonder why the 9 to 5ers of the world don't understand.
A couple weeks ago a neighbour was over for coffee and at some point in the conversation said "I've never lost a crop in February yet!" To put it in context, he and my husband had been talking about the huge amount of snow we've had so far this winter, and what that was going to mean in the spring, depending on how fast the melt would happen. Both men are concerned at how seeding is going to be affected come spring. The ground was saturated by rains throughout October and November last year and with all the snow piled on top of that they know that even if it doesn't snow another flake or rain another drop the land is going to be so muddy that a) the machinery will be stuck a lot, and b) many acres will either be under water or unreachable. When time and landbase are so closely connected to their bottom line, these are serious circumstances.
And yet, his statement wasn't a "woe is me!". On the contrary, it was stated with hope and optimism for the future. He wasn't throwing in the towel and saying "There's no use even trying." It was much more like "It ain't over till the fat lady sings." Both men knew that the challenges were likely to be high and the work hard, but worrying about it in February was a waste of their time and energy. A lot of things could happen before the ground was warm enough to plant, and maybe, just maybe, some of them would be in their favour.
Winter is wearing on us all, though. It gets like that in mid February. We all long for warmer weather, more daylight hours, and the colour green. In another couple weeks we'll be starting to look out for returning birds - crows are usually the first - and we'll breathe a sigh of relief; spring will be just around the corner.
We are an optimistic people: we wouldn't live here, or do this, if we weren't.
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