UP TO MY OLD TRICKS

I’m up to my old tricks again. 

Normally I live a lackadaisical kind of existence.  There’s always work to do ... and I get around to most of it in due time.  I admire people who take on spring cleaning and don’t stop till the whole house is clean, top to bottom.  The walls, the ceilings, the closets, the floors and windows, the curtains and all the bedding – I am in awe of such perseverance.  Not only do they get it done in the spring, but in the same spring that they started it in.  Totally out of my league.

I have a sister who does this, proving beyond a doubt that this tendency is not genetic.

Me?  I do get around to cleaning, but it’s only on a piecemeal basis.  It doesn’t happen because it’s spring or has any other arbitrary date or set launch criteria.  My modus operandi is to take a scrub cloth to a dirty light switch plate, realize that makes the wall look dirty so I wash that too, which shows how dirty the ceiling is.  Before you know it I’ve painted the main part of the house and ordered new curtains for the living room. 

Well, that’s an exaggeration.  That all takes a week or two but you get the picture – random start point, hap hazard method, at least three days of “What was I thinking?” and then the finished product ... not to be touched again for another five years.  If that.

Otherwise, my only other house cleaning motivation is being given a deadline.  I perform well under pressure.  I can get stuff done when I know there is an end date to aim for.  Like company.  I have company coming.

This means there is a lot to do in a short time.  It calls for my secret weapon: THE TO DO LIST.

This is where the tricky part comes in.  Out comes the pen and paper and I catalogue all the things that need to be done before I let guests into my version of domestic bliss.  There are all the regulars: wash the floors, make the beds up fresh, dust the furniture, do a little baking.  These are the things that have to be done.

But, because I have a deadline and I know that pressure helps me get things done I also add things like ‘wash the windows’ and ‘sweep the cobwebs off the deck’.  You know, things that need to be done anyway so let’s squeeze them in.

By this time I’m feeling very accomplished and add a flourish of pie-in-the-sky items ... ‘weed the vegetable garden’ and ‘clean the garage’.  I mean, get serious!  That ain’t never going to happen in the next month, let alone ten days.

So I talk myself down and write down more reasonable and useful demands on my time ... ‘clean out the fridge’ and ‘de-lime the shower’.  And start in on the work at hand.

The trouble is that these jobs are slow going, and my sense of integrity won’t allow me to cross them off the list until they are COMPLETELY done.  Meanwhile there are other things that are getting done all along, but they’re not on the list.  By mid day, needing a sense of accomplishment, I add things like ‘hang clothes on the line’ and ‘dig potatoes for supper’ to my list just so I can stroke them off as done.  It’s a form of legitimate cheating, and as old as the hills.  A loophole, if you will.

So far today I have been able to cross off three jobs – two actual worthwhile tasks and one tacky add-on ‘go for groceries and water’ that doesn’t count for anything because I would have to do it anyway.  The bonus is that I’m not done yet.  Writing this blog is a genuine, bona fide item on my list and I am now finished it.  *stroke*

Better yet, when I’m done obliterating that one off my list it will be cool enough to go out and tackle the spider’s webs on the deck. 

Baby, I’m on a role!

 

                                                SEASON OF COMPLETION

                                                      

       Take a deep breath, and hold it.  Push yourself a little.  This isn’t a contest or a test but when your chest starts to feel tight and uncomfortable make yourself go another five seconds, then let it all go in a big easy sigh.  Breathe out, and relax. 

       Maybe you feel a little dizzy but the physiological effect this has on your body is pleasant, you will likely feel a slightly heightened sense of awareness.  Sounds are crisper, colours are brighter, the air in your next breath is more refreshing.  On some obscure scale of measurement your life is somehow richer.

       This is the effect that autumn has on me. 

       Spring gets a lot of attention.  We can’t wait to see the winter gone.  The snow that looked so white and pure when it first fell is dirty and unwelcome by the time of spring equinox.  We want it gone, and replaced with colour.  We want green grass and green trees.  And when that isn’t enough we want flowers of every hue.  We want to see life and growth.  We find ourselves standing at the edge of our gardens waiting for the first radishes and lettuce.  As pleasant as spring is though, it doesn’t last long; summer comes along and pushes us forward.

       The sun worshipers appear in July.  No temperature is too high for them, no day too hot, no sky too dazzling.  It is a season of extremes; Mother Nature has her biggest and best hissy fits now, stirring heat and humidity into ferocious storms and spilling these tantrums of hers across the prairies, leaving us to scramble for shelter and pick up the pieces when she’s done.  She is a talented artist and our summer sky is her palette; night or day she shows us what she is made of, and I admit I am impressed with the work she does during her “summer period”, but it’s not her best work.

       The sheer force of July leaves me worn out.  I find myself hiding out in my house, not wanting to feel the bite of that glaring sun on my skin.  The days roll on, the wild flowers transition from pretty pink roses at the edge of the road to the thistles and goldenrod of late summer, waving from the ditches.  Heat shimmers up in waves from the earth’s surface and dust devils do their dizzy dance during late August afternoons. 

       Then one morning the world feels different and you realize that Mother Nature has slipped into something more comfortable.  The countryside gives a great sigh of relief: and somehow the sounds are a little crisper, the colours more vibrant, the air you breathe, perfumed with the scent of ripe apples, is exquisite.  Welcome to the season of completion. 

       The year is wrapping up its production: fields of grain ripen before our eyes, gardeners are doing their best to stay ahead of ripening tomatoes and cucumbers, and this spring’s baby calves are almost as big as their mothers.  Juvenile hummingbirds have joined rival gangs and are waging noisy battles over ownership of the feeders.  At the moment sugar water is disappearing at an alarming rate but it won’t be long and they will be gone.  The geese will wait a few more weeks and then follow the tiny warriors south.

      School buses will come out of hiding, adding their bright orange to the festive fall display.  Harvest machinery is already venturing out, searching for fields that are ready to go. It won’t be long before harvest fills the air with dust; grain dust from the combines and road dust from the trucks hauling grain.  Sometimes the dust just hangs in mid air creating the magical illusion of monster-sized machinery hovering weightlessly over unseen ground.  Crickets add their background music.

       Brilliantly coloured leaves will scatter across green lawns like so many pieces of gold, and the very air is saturated with ripeness.  The sharp scent of frost-nipped plant life will fill our senses and hold promise of nutrients for next year’s flowers.  The sun goes down earlier every night.

       One by one lids will slam down over grain bins full of the year’s bounty.  Pickles made now will be ready to serve for Thanksgiving dinner.  We will wonder again how so much time could have slipped past on us, another autumn has come and gone. 

       It’s time for a few more sighs:  one of relief because all the hard work of the growing season is done, and another one of regret because it will be three quarters of a year before autumn comes to us once more.  And, although there is no way to prove it, having experienced autumn one more time, our lives are somehow richer than they were before.

FROM THE KETTLE TO THE FIRE

 

Being as I am married to a farmer the concept of holiday long weekends is meaningless to me.  On the May long weekend ‘we’ are seeding.  On the July long weekend ‘we’ are spraying or haying.  On the August long weekend ‘we’ are baling or preparing for harvest – which is something that can wipe out both Labour Day and Thanksgiving depending on the weather Mother Nature hands out.

 

In my next life I hope to find a husband who understands the concept of “holidays”.  Wish me luck.

 

Meanwhile though, in my present life, I am with a farmer.   And we have a large garden.  I planted it on the May long weekend and have been weeding it ever since.  For the past three weeks I have also been picking berries and either freezing them or making jam.  Now I have peas and beans to deal with I have made the executive decision to gift the rest of the berries to the birds.  The corn, zucchini and spaghetti squash are looming on the horizon, thank goodness the carrots, beets, and potatoes are root vegetables and can wait.  Ain’t nobody got time for them this time of the year.

 

As my brain roused itself out of sleep this morning I began the usual circuit of pending jobs on my ‘to do’ list.  I was on my own for the day because the farmer had one more field to swath ... what should I do with it?  It was about this time that it occurred to me that this was one of those holiday Mondays and maybe I should go a little crazy and do something new and exciting.

 

Something outside the box, at least.

 

Speaking of boxes ... there was that one job.  I suppressed a shudder.  Apparently I am capable of spoiling a holiday all on my own. 

 

There’s this one room in my house – the one I’m sitting in right now, as a matter of fact – that needs serious intervention.  The most obvious problem is the filthy, rundown carpet.  It has to go.  It was the wrong thing to put in an office anyway.  What it needs is laminate flooring.  I even have a son-in-law who is just itching to do the job, but as much as I would love new flooring I dread what that means.  This room is also home to filing cabinets and desks and cupboards, all near to exploding with papers that need to be sorted, then saved or destroyed; a painfully slow process that I have been putting off for years.  It seems that I excel at storing things in a filing cabinet (Not well, or organized in any recognizable fashion, you understand ... just in a file, in a drawer, in the cabinet), but I really suck at weeding anything back out of it. 

 

My dream of new flooring hinged on being able to move the furniture, though.  I heaved a huge sigh of resignation and flipped back the blankets.  I sure do know how to par-tay!

 

I have to say that once I got going on my project it became more fun.  At the bottom of one drawer I found our very first passports – printed so that we could take a cruise for our honeymoon.  We look like such kids!  I also have a file in each of the kids’ names – some legal papers, some tax returns, and in the #1 son’s file is the full and complete correspondence I received from him while he was out of the country for 13 months when he was 19: five letters, less than a page long.  They should really be in a safe deposit box; they are that rare and precious.

 

I came across our marriage certificate ... that would have been handy a couple months ago when I was applying for my pension ... and other artifacts from the past:  bills of sale for various machinery we have owned, registration papers for bulls long dead, mineral rights lease agreements from companies that don’t exist anymore.  But the bulk of my mission was to fill a cardboard box with ancient NISA papers, folders of expired legal correspondence, and owner’s manuals for household appliances long relegated to a dump somewhere – like, back when dumps were still a thing.

 

Eight hours later there was a new, small patch of my grungy carpet showing.  I had made some headway on this fun holiday I had been on.  Also, I had a huge box of the kind of papers that can’t be thrown in the garbage; they have too much personal information on them to go anywhere but a burning barrel.

 

So that will be my next job.  I’ve gone from boiling water to blanche vegetables yesterday to feeding a paper fire tomorrow.  And then right back into the next round of pea picking.  I’m not entirely sure, but I don’t think this is how holiday Mondays are supposed to go.

PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

I spend a lot of my time these days out in my garden cheering on my flowers and vegetables.  It seems to be working better than usual this summer but I better not take all the credit – I’m thinking Mother Nature considers her rain and heat units have more of an effect than my positive thoughts.  I say let her take the credit – no one wants her in a bad mood.

Mind you, I do spend some significant time muttering bad things about her under my breath while I’m out there.  It’s not all happy thoughts and pixie dust while I wander up and down the rows of beans.  A good portion of my garden time is spent in hand-to-hand combat with portulaca, redroot pigweed, and lamb’s quarter, to name a few.  (There are many others that I don’t know the name of, but dislike every bit as much.)  While I understand Mother Nature loves all of her plants equally, I wish she would grow her riff-raff somewhere far away from my peas and carrots.

You see, I have this misbegotten and unrealistic vision of a magazine worthy garden.  In my head I picture perfect rows of perfect germination in perfect plant density.  Also, the rows are perfectly straight, but that’s more my husband’s dream than my own.  My seeding equipment doesn’t have GPS like his does.

I also envision that the only plants growing out there should be the ones I planted.  I require that my vegetables enjoy sovereignty over the domain I have given them.  It is only their green growth that I want to see; that, and clean, weed-free black dirt between the rows.  There should not be any thistles or dandelions.  Wayward canola and flax spill-over from the grain bins is not allowed.  Quack grass and foxtail are banned as well. 

I am not winning.

But I do try.  I dedicate a few hours each day to eliminating the enemy.  I start when it’s still coolish, when the horse and deer flies show up I know it’s time to quit.  This morning the flies were running a little late; I make have baked a few brain cells. 

Maybe that’s what gave birth to this episode of self examination I’ve been wrestling with for the rest of the day.  It has occurred to me that I am prejudiced.  I try to segregate the plants that I want from the plants that I don’t want.  I banish (or try to) the unwanted, going to the extreme of maiming or killing them every chance I get.  Not because they are not strong and healthy.  Not because they are not edible or nutritious (they say portulaca and lamb’s quarter are both).  Not because they can’t be pretty in their own way.  No, the only reason they have been placed on a hit list is because I have appointed myself judge and jury over them.  In this time of social equality and awareness this feels a little awkward, I can tell you.

It’s mostly about my pride.  I love the way the rows look when the weeds are all gone.  It gives me great pleasure and satisfaction to claim this implausible and unbalanced microworld I have created at the cost of so many undesirables.

It’s a fleeting thing though.  Gardening season is about to move on to the next stage – harvesting.  There are only so many hours to the day and picking a preserving will now take over.  Any weeds that have dodged death so far will now shift into high seed-forming gear and I will be right back where I started from next spring.  Mother Nature wins again.

A POUND OF GROUND

I’m facing one of my standard dilemmas at the moment; the old ‘what to make for supper’ quandary.  And, as I stare at it thawing in the sink, I find myself brain dead.

Now, now!  Be kind!  I’m not always brain dead.  I do have moments of startling clarity – like two hours after a lovely/ awkward conversation with a person whose name I have just finally remembered – but after more than a half century of continually needing to come up with supper menus, well that part of my brain is wearing a little thin.

It’s not always like this.  Approximately two years ago when my deep freeze had run dry of all packages labeled ‘ground beef’ I could think of 1001 recipes I wanted to make with hamburger.  The possibilities were endless ... and useless, because all I had to work with was pork roasts and moose sausage.  I wish I had written some of those fantastic ideas down at the time.  Sure could use them this afternoon.

I suppose I could barbeque patties ... again ... but I don’t think I have any buns.

There are other choices downstairs in the deepfreeze.  It’s just that if I don’t keep the different cuts of meat going down at the same rate I pay the price with nothing but short ribs and chuck roasts for the last two months before we can order another half beef.  Better to stick to some kind of rotation.  Besides, on these really stinking hot days, one of the nicest places to hang out is in the dark, cool basement staring into the depths of the freezer.  Even when I know I’m going to end up with my pound of ground, it can take me a good five minutes to retrieve the package.

What about a pot of chili?  Nah, that’s a meal for a cold winter’s night.

I would ask Google for help but I’m pretty sure one of these times the response is going to be “Not you again!”  I’ve scrolled through pages of their ideas and it’s never any help.  The choices are either the same as what I already know or they list ingredients not found in the western world, let alone my spice cupboard.

Meat loaf?  Lasagna?  Spaghetti sauce?

Time is running out here.  The deciding time period must soon come to an end to accommodate the actual cooking time.

I guess while I’m burning through the last minutes of pre-prep time I could check out the garden for veggie choices.  Oh hey!  In my vexation over the meat part of the meal I forgot that this is gardening season.  There is Swiss chard out there, and fresh lettuce, radishes, and strawberries for dessert.  This changes everything!  When the veggies start rolling in the protein dish takes a back seat around here.  I can’t skip it out completely but if I do nothing more that brown it up with some salt and pepper it still passes muster.

The pressure is totally off now.  I think it will be hamburgers in mushroom gravy ... maybe there’s new baby potatoes out there too ...

RESTARTING THE ECONOMY

We did our part to try to restart the economy yesterday.  We rebooked optometrist appointments that had evaporated in mid March along with everything else, and headed off to the city for the day.

And by that I mean the whole day.  Our appointments were scheduled for 8:50 Manitoba time.  That’s right.  You do the math.  But, if your eyes are giving you trouble and you need to see what’s up the choice between 7:50 am next Thursday or a more reasonable hour sometime late in July is obvious.  The alarm clock went off at 5:00, we pulled out of the yard at 6:00, and were right on time to don our masks and be properly socially distanced for the next two hours.  Even with losing an hour to Daylight Savings Time, we still had a whole day ahead of us to revive the Canadian economy. 

And believe me, we did our part.

The first order of business was something to eat.  Our first restaurant meal since ... Valentine’s Day.  While we were there for the food it was unmistakable that the atmosphere had shifted since the last time we had been out: staff in masks, every second table unused and the customer traffic sparse.  Thank goodness the scent of food cooking managed to cover the smell of ever-present hand sanitizer and disinfectant.  I sure hope that the people in charge of my investment portfolio thought to diversify into Lysol and Clorox wipes.

Next on the agenda was shopping – everything from building supplies to underwear.  It had been a long long long time since we had set foot in these stores.  And it’s now way harder to do that than it used to be.  They say that they’re ‘open for business’ but the trick is to find which door they have actually opened.  For some you can just walk right in like in the olden days, but most reserve the right to count heads.  In order to regulate their customers they are enforcing an ‘in’ door and an ‘out’ door.  Unknowingly I managed to park as far away from the ‘in’ door as possible at least 89% of the time.  It’s my newest superpower.

Once we made it inside these hallowed doors we were presented with the dreaded bottle of hand sanitizer.  The English language does not have adequate words to express how much I hate this stuff and being told that “This kind is great!  It smells just like watermelon!” does not enhance my experience.  In a way though, it does have a positive effect on my hand hygiene; when forced to apply it I go directly to a washroom and use soap and water to get rid of it. 

Once past the sanitizer barrior it was off to the races.  Well, actually, it’s more like a labyrinth.  Arrows on the floor to show shoppers which way they should be travelling ... signs reminding folks to move single file ... ‘X’s six feet apart to keep us away from each other.  It was as if we all had to relearn how to drive our shopping carts – you know like what it’s like after the first snowfall in the fall?  There were fender-benders and rear-enders going on all over the place.  I’m more of a meandering type shopper.  When I go to Canadian Tire I don’t need to travel the auto parts aisle so I skip whole sections which always seemed to have me going the wrong way on a one way street.  It was more relaxing out in the real traffic as we made our way to the city limits.

Glad to report the day was a success, though.  We both have new glasses on order, I have refreshed my summer clothing choices, we will be able to keep the thieving birds out of our strawberries, and there are a couple of man projects that can be finished off now.  Plus, I have three more plants because the garden centers are closing down for the year.  I’m sure the Canadian economy enjoyed a slight up-tick because of our efforts. 

You’re welcome.

MOTHER NATURE NEEDS A REPAIRMAN

The day started out nice enough.  It was warmer than I expected when the dog and I stepped out onto the deck to survey our kingdom – that’s what we do while I drink my second cup of coffee.  I soak in the sun’s warmth, check to see if my planters need a drink, and maybe deadhead a few of my petunias.  Turbo, on the other hand, checks the horizon for uppity coyotes.  It’s his job and he takes it very seriously.

As I said, the temperature was quite pleasant and there was a nice little breeze which I was glad to note.  I’ve been trying to weed garden and the flies and mosquitoes have been a real nuisance.  I only had a few hours left at that job so I should get out there while the getting was good.

I did not consult the weather app on my phone for what the future might hold.

Time means nothing when I’m weeding.  I went out after my coffee was done and worked until my stomach told me it was time for lunch.  As usual it was on Manitoba time but I decided to eat early and get back out there.  The pleasant breeze had picked up a bit but nothing crazy.

 

The crazy part happened while I was enjoying my taco salad.

Subconsciously it must have registered that a hurricane had blown in.  I don’t remember actually making a decision to not go right back outside, but I kept finding trivial, puttering jobs to do in the house; fold laundry, tidy the kitchen, text the carpenter who installed my new kitchen drawers that they needed some sort of adjustment.  When I got down to emptying the dehumidifier in the basement I knew – the chances of me working outside again today were somewhere between ‘slim’ and ‘none’.

Is it just me, or does it seem that Mother Nature’s prairie fan seems to be on the fritz?  There isn’t a single setting that seems to be working correctly.  The on/off switch is broken – the wind never seems to stop.  The oscillating option swings around wildly, one day from the east and then a day from the west and then the south.  The days that it blows from the north I can at least work outside because our windbreak lives up to its name.  Her wind machine also appears to be stuck on the ‘high’ setting.  If it wasn’t for the fact that we all hope it will blow in some rain I would love to find the power cord and yank the plug out of the wall.

An hour or so ago I mustered the resolve to go out and see if I couldn’t just finish weeding that one last row.

 

I couldn’t.

 

But I did take a walk around the yard to apologise to all of my poor plants tipped sideways in the wind, holding on for dear life.  I promised them a drink if the wind’s velocity ever went down far enough to allow water to fall to the ground from a sprinkler.  Some of my freshly transplanted ferns are actually broken.  The deck is covered in sticky hummingbird juice because the feeder spun its contents out all over the furniture out there.  The birds were looking for something to drink so I gave them some more but tethered the feeder to a deck post to prevent the sugar shower from happening again.

 

The trampoline has come very close to liftoff a couple times.  I told the dog he should go lay on it to hold it down.  His face can be so expressive at times.  Loosely translated his answer was ‘no’.

Not one mosquito was encountered on my walk although, come to think of it, there were a couple of blurs whizzing past my face.  At 60 kpm that might be what a mosquito looks like.

The weather app on my phone just gave me a heads up that there would be rain in the next 24 hours.  That sure would be nice, but I’m not holding my breath.  Mother Nature’s watering system doesn’t seem to be working well either this spring.