DEFLATED

Well, it’s all over … and it never even really got started.

We sit here in our sad pool of disappointment, our expectations unmet, our excitement dissolving into a bland mush of just another winter day.  They promised us a storm and all we got was 17 snowflakes.

That’s right - 17.  I counted.

For Prairie People it’s hard to explain how we feel about our weather to those whose climates are more mundane.  Our very genetics make us vulnerable to wild weather intoxication.  This is a land of climate extremes populated by fanatical people.  We do 40 degrees above zero in the summer and 40 below in the winter.  We have the best thunderstorms on the planet.  We can go from drought to deluge in under 24 hours.  Everything we build eventually leans to the east due to almost constant prevailing winds out of the northwest.  We absolutely view adverse weather as a challenge, not a curse.  There’s nothing like seeing tornado hunters in our area to quicken our blood in the summer, and the word ‘blizzard’ perks us all up out of our winter doldrums. 

We are weather watchers, all of us.  Not in the TV sense though.  To tune into The Weather Channel is an exercise in frustration for Prairie People.  The place on their big map featuring the prairie provinces is where the weather guy or gal stands to point to the east and west ends of the country, like we don’t even exist.  It’s rude, really, and damaging to our egos.

And anyway, we prefer to watch our weather in person, with the wind sand blasting our faces, the wind chill solidifying our body parts, the sun baking any unprotected skin it can find.  Since the advent of cell phones has put a permanent camera in everyone’s pocket, I dare you to find a prairie phone without weather/sky pictures in their albums.  They don’t have “Land of the Living Skies” on our license plates for nothing.

Cell phones also serve another role in our weather fascination – through weather warning apps we are apprised of all the details we can’t be bothered watching TV for.  I think I’m as tuned into the particular sound a weather warning makes on my phone as any personal text … three little notes that go up in scale kind of like when a question is posed.  It makes it sound like “What is coming next?”  So very fitting.

And, for the past few days those notes began coming fast and furious.  After months of languishing with nothing exciting weather-wise, we were finally in for a blow.  Although the experts were refusing to use the word ‘blizzard’ because there are certain criteria to be met (wind, snow, temperatures, and duration) they still promised enough pizzazz to make us sit up and take notice.

It’s our self reliance that makes us happy to see trouble on the horizon.  After all, how can we prove we can take care of ourselves in hostile conditions if we are not confronted with hostile conditions? 

Folks with wood burning stoves made sure their wood supply was topped up.  Generators were made ready.  Groceries were bought.  Snow blowers were tuned up.  Books and puzzles were on hand.  The supply of popcorn and hot chocolate were double checked.

The excitement built for the better part of the week, almost like a balloon was filling with the air of anticipation we were all feeling.  By Friday night the balloon was stretched tight, almost bursting with our bring-it-on energy, and flying high; its surface taut and shiny like the gleam in our eyes. 

But while we were all so busy preparing we hadn’t noticed that the warnings had become fewer and farther between.  By bedtime Saturday night our weather balloon had begun to droop.

Sunday morning saw all 17 snowflakes fall between 7:30 and 9:15 with enough wind that they didn’t fall straight to the ground.

Later, as I was vacuuming I found a balloon the grandkids had left here a few weeks ago.  It was tucked away under a chair; that dusky, wrinkly color balloons fade to when they die a slow death

And I thought to myself:“I know how you feel, buddy.  I know how you feel.”

THE ABSENT-MINDED PROFESSOR

It can’t be called Altzhiemer’s or even standard dementia because both of those things are associated with advancing years.  While it is true my age is creeping up there, I have been scatter brained my whole life – age has nothing to do with this. 

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

A couple stories to demonstrate my point:

Last week the man of the house asked me where the cattle auction sale sheet had gone to.  He had stuck it to the fridge door with a magnet a few weeks ago and now it was gone. 

(You must understand here that we don’t have cattle.  What was a cattle sale flyer doing on my fridge?)  When I had discovered this paper – all rumpled and scribbled on and fastened low on the door – I had thought to myself “Oh those darling little grandsons!  Hanging stuff on Grandma’s fridge like that!” and had taken it down and thrown it away … part of my de-cluttering resolution for 2019.  That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

His story is that he put it on the fridge door, and that while he was doing this task he had told me that he wanted to keep it because he’s thinking of buying a couple feeders this year.  I swear he did no such thing.

Either he dreamt he told me.  Or he thought he would tell me but didn’t get around to it.  Or he’s losing HIS mind.  Or I’m going deaf.  I am pretty darned sure I would remember him telling me to keep a cattle auction flyer because I have been after him to get a couple beef for years.

Then again, there’s that scatter-brained thing I’ve lived with all my life …

One of my sons came home with a report card at around Grade 4 or so, with the teacher’s remarks saying that some days trying to get him to pay attention in class was like saying “Earth calling spaceship, come in please!”  Although I sympathized with her, I really wasn’t the one to talk to; my teachers had said the same kinds of things about me.  One of them even told me that I was destined to grow up to be an absent-minded professor.  At the time I didn’t know what that was, but spot on Mrs Slusar!  Spot on.

My Grandpa Nixon was a day dreamer, I’ve passed it on to my kids, and at least two of my grandchildren show definite signs of inhabiting other dimensions.  Our kind make the world an interesting place to live, don’t you think?  That also is my story, and I will stick to it.

Co-existing with more grounded folks can present problems though.  Take this past weekend, for instance. 

The winter doldrums have set in – people are looking to break up the monotony of January.  Saturday my solution was to go off to the city; me, my daughter and her toddler took the day off for some girl time.  At the end of the day we were treating ourselves to a nice supper out – and trying to wrangle the two year old into sitting down and leaving her boots and socks on – when a text conversation with my sister started up.  They were looking for something to do too.  I immediately invited them for supper and a card game the next night, but since things were so lively at the table I told her I would call her about the details.  She said sure.  The absent-minded professor took it from there.

I got home and told my husband we had company coming.  I got up and cleaned up the whole house.  I put a pot roast in the slow cooker and made a dessert.  I did everything I needed to prepare for guests.  They finally had to call and confirm the invitation.  I don’t know what I would have done with all that food if they hadn’t showed up.  Sheesh!

It’s all the absent-minded professor’s fault.  That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it!

MASTER PROCRASTER

I don’t mean to brag, but this is my field of expertise and I’m at the top of my game. 

There is a list of ‘things to do’ as long as my arm, and here I am, ignoring it to the best of my ability.  And believe me, given the practice I’ve had at this game of procrastination, I have some formidable ability on my resume.

For instance, there’s that stack of 2018 papers, bills and receipts poking my consciousness from the other desk in this room.  The un-fun desk.  The working-with-numbers desk.  I am sitting at the one with the computer on it.  This is where I get to use my imagination, not a calculator.  I know there will come a time when I can’t ignore the job any longer, but so far the accountant hasn’t sent me the annual summons letter.  I wonder: how much time do I have left?

At least I have managed to get this far.  Meaning, all the way to the office.  And, I am writing, after all.  Not the project that I came to do.  Not the one with an actual deadline.  

On the other hand, Microsoft Word is open and I am typing; today isn’t going to be a dead loss.  Yesterday all I did was read other things I have written over the years, looking for inspiration, which is still better than scrolling through Facebook, and perhaps visiting with friends who are likewise avoiding doing anything productive.  Such were yesterday’s accomplishments.

There is also a job I even volunteered for on my procrastination agenda.  The minute I said I would do it I started coming up with ways to put it off.  I’m on a board planning a social event and we need meal ideas and quotes … which involves making business phone calls … which is one of my least favorite things to do.   My first excuse was that it was the weekend, and now I’m dithering about when is the best time of day to do it.  Dithering could take a few days.  My only deadline for this is our next meeting … the date of which is my call because I am the chairperson.  This puts me in a self-contained loop of procrastination – a best case scenario if there ever was one.  All except for, obviously, come July 1^st, people are going to want something to eat.

A friend and I recently discussed our natural procrastination proclivities.  We both had the same task on our list of things to do … a trip to SARCAN.  One would think that being paid for your work would sweeten the deal but, no, we were both soon going to drown in an avalanche of cans and plastic bottles and neither of us seemed able to organize the effort to fix it.  My first excuse is that I don’t like doing it in the winter.  And, come spring the load will be so big I won’t be able to fit them all in my vehicle so I will need to arrange getting the half ton which will be at work by then.  (See?  A procrastinator worth her salt can project excuses well into the next year without even breaking a sweat).

And yet these are only examples of the short term, day-to-day stuff that anyone can put off for months at a time.  To truly excel in the Discipline of Procrastination one has to pick something monumental and putter at it so inconsistently that no one (including yourself) is convinced it will ever get done.  Hence, I have ‘write a novel’ on my long term bucket list.

The inspiration for it is nearly 14 years old.  I have most of it worked out in my mind and have a fair number of chapters actually written.  The work is sporadic which actually works in my favor – if you don’t read something for months the mistakes you made jump out at you, screaming to be fixed.  The story hasn’t moved forward in a year or two but what I have is pretty solid.  Given my age and the average life span in my family I am anticipating another couple decades to finish it.  My children may have to publish it.

But, enough about me and my ability to (not) get things done.

I have some phone calls to make.

                                                   AH THE MEMORIES!

Good old Facebook pops up every morning with my memories.  On the one hand, this is nice.  At my age I’m not so good at keeping track of memories on my own.  On the other hand, the memories I’ve been having to deal with this past week are a form of torture.  Here I am, sitting in the dark (because the sun won’t be up for an hour yet), clutching my mug of coffee for comfort, listening to the wind howl past the house, the weather app on my phone giving me a blowing snow advisory … and to brighten my day Facebook reminds me that two years ago I was deep sea fishing off the west coast of Mexico. 

*SIGH*

And, as if that’s not enough, I scroll further to see pictures of the most beautiful beach I’ve ever walked along … one year ago … a place called Bermagui in NSW, Australia.  Even though yesterday’s year old memories were all about the heat wave we were experiencing over there at the time (43 degrees in some places), with the ocean to cool off in so close, this never seemed to be a problem.

Again: *SIGH*

I really must take some photos of my world today and post them so that next year I will have them for reference too.  Gotta keep things real.

Real, on January 8, 2019, is seasonal temperatures, bright sunshine and dazzling white snow … travelling past my front window at about 40 kph, gusting to 70 at times.  This is beautiful in its own way, but more so as a picture on a postcard or calendar, not something you actually want to participate in.  The guys who just traversed the South Pole might consider it a pleasant day, but I will be observing it from inside my centrally heated house, thank you very much. 

I’ve always said that I like experiencing all the seasons Canada has to offer, and I do.  It’s just that now that I’m older and have done some travelling, I realize I’m totally okay with experiencing seasons at other places on the planet, as well.  I’ve wandered through the Kensington Palace gardens in June when the roses were in bloom – it was divine.  I’ve gone hiking in Sedona, Arizona on a warm, sunny day in April.  I’ve waded out into the Indian Ocean at Broome, Australia and marveled at how far away from home I was.  There are still so many continents to see. 

Although those guys in Antarctica – they can have that adventure on their own.  I’m good.

Meanwhile this is appears to be a January I get to amend my Facebook memory.

This morning’s memory page wasn’t wrong, but it sure as heck was misleading.  I was in Mexico two years ago and Australia last year; that part is true.  But, there have been many many more Januarys when I have been here, on a farm in southern Saskatchewan.  I can see a real need for some balance here.  I need to post some pictures to establish a ‘real world’ baseline in my Facebook memories page.  Hopefully I can get some suitable shots without having to leave the house.

That way, next year, I can start my morning out grounded in reality.

And, if life is kind, I can show those winter wonders to the guy sitting next to me on a tropical beach somewhere.

METAPHORICALLY SPEAKING

I’m just a little concerned with the future.  I’m afraid 2019 is going to be a bit messy; it’s written on my front lawn.

You see, we have this huge front yard.  Massive, really.  Our house sits on a slight rise facing south and there’s nothing but a driveway and endless lawn between the deck door and Township Road 82.  In the summer it’s either grass to mow or what a savvy real estate agent would call a ‘water feature’.  In the winter it’s a huge expanse of pristine snow.  This scene from my front door is one of my most favorite in the world – all the space … the privacy … the freedom to inspect my morning garden in my pajamas.  The dog and I sit on the deck and survey our kingdom for hours in the summertime.

In the winter time this view is less mesmerizing.  In fact, it only really draws my attention for about the first week of the New Year.  At this time of the year my front yard becomes a gigantic metaphor, helping me to describe the coming year.

The comparisons are just too perfect.  The pristine snow showing how we all are afforded a fresh new start.  The wide expanse telling us that we have no boundaries.  The slate so clean that we are invited to make our own path wherever we see fit.  It’s pure metaphor heaven.

How can anyone take in such a wide field of possibilities and not be excited to step forth into the New Year?  How could you not believe you could climb any mountain, swim any sea, tackle any monster?  The potential for attainable achievements lies at our feet.  All we have to do is stamp our personal design onto that clean, white surface and the rest will take care of itself.

Except for this coming year.  2019 is looking a little worrisome.

It’s hard to describe the front yard this time around, but here goes … we had company for Christmas.  For a week there were four little boys and three dogs here.  A regular pastime was being pulled around the yard on a toboggan behind a quad while being chased by a trio of canine clowns.  There is hardly a square meter of snow that hasn’t been trampled within an inch of its life.  There are so many paths out there now a person is either going to get dizzy or lost if he tried to follow them.  My “no limits” metaphor has fallen apart.

But, if I’ve stood by the ‘clean slate’ prediction on other years, I guess I should explore what the front yard tea leaves are trying to tell me this time around.  Taking in the trampled snow, the great circles of tire tracks, the deer bones and hide hauled up to the house … not to mention all the yellow snow and other dog residue.  What do these things say about the future?

Will I spend 2019 as a dazed schizophrenic with a crappy attitude wandering in ever widening circles, continually confronted by carnage?  Or, should I choose the safe route and be a hermit, refusing to go outside for the whole year?

The thing is, I’m a ‘cup is half full’ kind of person.  I think I will choose not to focus on what the yard looks like, but on how it got that way. 

Those boys had great fun making those tracks.  No matter how many times they were spilled out of the toboggan, they just laughed and got back on.  The dogs had the best time ever running and playing; that deer carcass was a culinary delight in their eyes.  Two legged or four legged, they all played hard during the day and slept well at night – you can’t ask Life for a better arrangement than that.  As far as the yellow snow and the other ‘lawn ornaments’ go, we all know they’re a part of life.  We just need to watch out for them.

So, here’s to a messy year.  May we all come out of it, wise and happy and loved!  Happy 2019 everyone!

THE SEASON OF LIGHTS

There are a lot of things that I love about the Christmas season.  I love the visiting.  I love the music.  I love the decorations.  I love the concerts and caroling.  And there’s no denying I love the food; that fact is there for all the world to see. 

That’s the public side of my Christmas, though.  I also have a private one. 

Sometime after the tree is up, I get up extra early, pour myself a big old mug of coffee, and sit and bask in the peace and tranquility of the Christmas lights twinkling before me.  I don’t know when this private little tradition on mine began but I do know that my Christmas season isn’t complete without it.

I suppose this quiet time can best be described as a review of my year, or in the grander scheme of things, my life.  Memories of the trees of my childhood – the excitement, the temptations to sneak a peak, the worries of Santa knowing what I’d been up to all year – spill through my mind.  As an adult I shake my head at how these self-focused qualms let me miss the cleaning and baking and sewing and wrapping my mother did to give us all these memories we hold dear now.

Because, of course, being a mom who had to step into those shoes is my next memory.  The presents, the parties, the concert and pageant practices.  The never-enough-hours-in-the-day days.  The I-can’t-wait-till-the-kids-go-back-to-school feelings that hit when the first one said “I’m bored!”  Ah!  Those were the days!

It was all worth it though, because those very children went out into the world and now return with the most wonderful small people on the planet.  In just a few days this house will be full of noise and laughter  (and let’s be honest here, also tears, and stand-offs, and lectures about sharing).  The table will smell of playdough, there will be an ever-present danger of being crippled by Lego, and bedtime will be everyone’s favourite time of day.  Well all the adult’s anyway, but we wouldn’t trade the cousin together time for anything.

It’s this impending invasion that got me up for my Christmas quiet time this morning – it’s not likely to happen after they all get here.  Although there is always the possibility of some small wiggly person to snuggle with when they do arrive … but that’s a different kind of gift.

This year’s tree is exceptionally pretty; the multi coloured lights glowing in its branches, my assortment of angels scattered so I can see at least one from wherever I choose to sit, the breakable heirloom balls at the top where they’re safe, the plastic touchables down where little ones can examine them without nasty consequences, and the newest addition – a flock of silver birds perched down where the kids can all choose one to call their own.  There are even a few strands of tinsel to tie this tree to my childhood.

And as much as I love the light that the tree gives off, four years ago I added a couple of laser lights that are designed to decorate outside.  While they do spray red and green dots of light across the front of the house, it’s the dots that shine through the windows and twinkle on the walls and ceilings inside that make me happy, reminders of the first Christmas we had them when the Australian grandchildren were here to celebrate with us too.  That is the Christmas that every other Christmas will be forever measured against.

Over the years my sacred Christmas tree time has been shared with tiny a newborn niece while her mother tried to sleep.  It has been spent texting with a dear friend suffering a terrible tragedy.  And it’s been a place I have spent numb, dark and desolate with my own despair.  And yet, with the constant presence of a Christmas tree; its lights shining in the darkness, there’s always been comfort and reassurance to be had, and faith that the future has better things in store.

Which brings me inevitably to other promises of light – the Christian promise of the Christ child.  And the pagan promise that the days would soon begin to lengthen out again.  It’s no accident that they all happen at the same time of the year.

 

 

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

As anyone who lives in Saskatchewan knows, we have some of the most spectacular weather phenomena known to man.  Even our license plates proclaim it – “Land of the Living Skies”.  There’s a never ending variety of wind, rain, sun, clouds, thunder and lightning, heat waves and cold snaps.  If Saskatchewanites had a family motto it might well be “Bring It On!”

We can handle anything Mother Nature can throw at us. 

In fact, we revel in it.

This sense of bravado is rooted in all the mighty and majestic storms we have weathered over the years.  We can handle blizzards – there’s something about being shut in while the wind howls and the storm rages that makes a house seem extra safe and warm. 

A few years ago we were awe struck at how even the ‘flat’ prairies can have massive overland flooding if it pours for 24 hours straight.

A couple weeks at 40 below zero?  Been there, done that.

A couple weeks at nearly 40 above?  Same.

Tornados to topple buildings and toss trampolines around?  Yep.

Hail storms where the ice strips paint and siding off houses, breaks windows, and wrecks vehicles.  You bet.

My Facebook memories this morning showed me that 2 years ago my grandsons, dressed in full winter gear, sat atop a four foot snow bank, but 3 years ago the dog and I took a walk on a warm afternoon – no snow, light jacket, barbeque for supper, but both on December 8.  Such is the land we live in.

For sure Mother Nature can play hard ball, but this past week she upped her game.  She soft-gloved it.  You might say she gave us a Trojan Horse, and while we were ooohing and ahhing about her magnificence she laughed and punched out our lights.  Literally, in December, there we were, sitting cold, in the dark.

The treat she began with was several days of fog and no wind.  If you live somewhere that has never seen hoar frost I can’t describe its beauty.  I’ve tried, but words just don’t do it justice.  The fog crystallizes on every surface it touches – grasses, trees, buildings, fences – dazzling white diamond-like crystals making the whole world look like an exquisitely decorated wedding cake.  The longer the foggy conditions last, the thicker the frost grows.  By last weekend it was probably two inches thick; everyone went out and took pictures before the sun melted it off.  That’s what usually happens; the sun melts it off.

Instead, Mother Nature left it – seeing as so many people were enjoying her handiwork.  And the power lines sagged.  And the power poles leaned and began to bend.  And the Sask Power workers prayed for sunshine.

At 8:30 on Tuesday morning the power stuttered a couple times and then shut off.  Breakfast was over, lunch was sandwiches, supper was barbeque.  Afternoon project was setting up the generator to run a couple heaters, a lamp, and to charge our cell phones.  We spent the evening wrapped in blankets, planning Wednesday’s trip for more fuel if need be, but 13 hours after it went off our power was restored.

Wednesday’s outage wasn’t as long and we were lucky – we had just finished a nice warm supper.

Thursday’s happened in the morning while I was at work on my computer.  By that time I was pretty much over the thrill of ‘roughing it’, and I had stuff to do!  We are so crippled with no electricity!

It’s Saturday now, the sun has been shining, and the weight on the lines has been lessened, thank goodness.  We are beginning to trust that this fun experience is behind us, and that maybe we won’t have to reset every clock in the house yet again (isn’t it crazy how it’s the little things that get to you?).  We also appreciate that for those 13 hours while we huddled in our cozy blankets constantly checking our phones for updates, the work force of Sask Power was out in the cold and dark getting us back online – can’t say thank you enough!

And to Mother Nature – that was a good one!  Very clever of you.  Giving us the breathtakingly beautiful scenery of hoar frost, and while we were blown away with the splendor, you pulled the plug on us just to remind us who’s the boss. 

You gave us Beauty, who turned out to be the Beast.