TOO MUCH COVID TIME ON MY HANDS

 It is said that there are two universal languages in this world: music and mathematics. I can do neither. I can’t read a note of music – all those lines and dots and artistic symbols. I know they tell a story but I can’t read it. I am confined to just listen; that’s why I play the radio, not the piano or guitar.

 It’s even worse with math. There was no one slower at speed math quizzes in Grade one. There was no one more devastated in Grade three when we were told we were about to up our game and meet multiplication and division. And I can scarcely find words to describe my dismay the first day of Mr. Johnson’s algebra class – as if working with numbers wasn’t bad enough! Now they wanted to throw random letters into the mix. 

 The moment I heard tell of a thing called calculus where what I had learned in Grade one – that 2 plus 2 equals 4 – wasn’t necessarily true, I quit school, got married and raised children. You know; took the easy way out.

 It’s strange how things come back at you though. All this Covid alone time has got me contemplating things like the meaning of life, the insanity of U.S. politics, and the space/time continuum, to name a few unknowables. This mind journey seems to have jostled some long unused brain cells into activity.

 

It was probably 1970 when Mr. Johnson began his quest to teach me algebra, something I was certain I would never use again in my life. Karma, of course, has a very long memory and these past few days I’ve been trying to come up with the terms he tried to plant in my memory banks. According to him the language of algebra provided a way to express mathematical ideas in the same way we used English to tell stories. Obviously I prefer writing stories to anything to do with numbers so I ask you, why am I trying to recall algebra terms in 2020? And what on earth am I going to do with them if they do come back to me? 

 I think it started one day when I was trying to describe how this prolonged Covid tourniquet on our lives felt. Something like: “It’s just one long constant. What we need is more variables.” (Well, actually, I would have used the word ‘variety’, but it means the same thing). No doubt it was the use of the words ‘constant’ and ‘variable’ in such close proximity that stirred the algebra class memories. From that point on it became a challenge to see what else I could unearth from those dusty memory files. What else had Mr. Johnson managed to get through my math fog? Turns out not much: I had to ask Google to shine some light on the rest.

 Apparently ‘variable’ is an algebraic term but it doesn’t mean variety, it means an unknown – those nasty little ‘x’s and ‘y’s that really represent a question mark. A ‘constant’ on the other hand, are numbers that we do know, unless of course they are right beside a variable in which case they become known as ‘coefficients’. My former distrust of algebra instantly re-gelled.

 There were other terms too: monomial, binominal, trinomial, and polynomial – all sounding like some kind of sketchy living arrangements if you ask me.

 The one word that felt like I had hit pay dirt with though, was ‘exponent’. Now here was a term that did indeed seem useful in expressing life with Covid. An exponent is when they put that tiny little number at the top right hand of either a constant or a variable. It expresses how many times you have to multiply the number or letter by itself to get the value it represents. And although I do grasp this concept and could even articulate it on paper, don’t go getting the crazy idea I will ever use this knowledge in my daily life. I do concede that rocket scientists may feel differently. 

 On the other hand, the language of algebra has given me a way of expressing the Covid Effect – a term I have just coined. It is a way of describing how our world has been altered since Covid came along. Remember the regular level of frustration back in the old days at not having anywhere to go? That was just plain old-fashioned frustration. In 2020 we are faced with this same frustration, but now we can’t go anywhere. No shopping, no leisurely, luxurious restaurant dinners, no tropical holidays or even weekend getaways – this is frustration to the power of, oh I don’t know, maybe 10? 

 Likewise, it can describe stupidity ... you know, toilet paper panic with the exponent of at least 7. 

 Or planting your first, or the biggest, garden you’ve ever planted because of food insecurity – something you’ve never experienced before but reached an exponent of 5 by May.

 I sure hope Mr. Johnson is proud of me, unearthing all these terms after so many years; and I was so sure I’d never have a use for it! I wonder if I can come up with a few chemistry or physics principles too? You know: and put Mrs Mitten in shock.

FANCY SCHMANCY If you could see me now! I sit in a pretty, tidy, organized office the likes of which this place has never known before. What started out with the solitary job of changing the flooring in this room but ramped up to it-could-use-a-coat-of-paint-too-while-we’re-at-it kind of adventure, finally morphing into an all out makeover with beautiful new office furniture and organizers, compliments of my two daughters who did their Christmas giving early this year. I surmise that the cramped space and towering clutter that I normally work in got to them, and my desire to get rid of filthy carpeting was their chance to redo the whole room. I appreciate the gesture, truly I do, but I have serious trepidation that my personal Muse might actually be powered by clutter. What then girls? What if I can’t write with a clear desk? What then? I enjoy sitting here, though. The walls are a muted yellow that amplifies the light from the north-facing window and sets off the dark wood of the furniture. The floor looks and feels clean – I’m sure it’s been a decade since that could be said. The few papers that are out at the moment have a place to go back to, the pens are in a pen holder, the scissors and stapler in another, note pads in a third. The most valuable book on the farm, the one I call my ‘Sh*t I’ll Never Remember Book’ stands at the ready to tell me what my Wayfair password is. It used to take me a five minute search to locate that sucker. Mind you, it is so scribbled up that it still takes me so long to find the right page that the webpage shuts itself down before I get back to the buying business. Sometimes I think I should copy all that info out nice and clear, and then I think that would be too easy for anyone who wanted my secret information. The way it is now, it’s pretty much written in code. Better to leave it that way. In a way this is an example of clutter working for me, not against me. It remains to be seen if this clutterless environment will inspire me to get more done. So far I have managed a couple emails – but they had a deadline. I usually do okay if I have a deadline. And while I’m waiting for replies to those communications I’ve spent a few minutes scrolling through Facebook and played a game or two of Mah-jong ... that’s totally standard office activity for me, too. That’s a good sign. And, I am catching up this poor neglected blog. I tell you, this past month with my computer in another room and unconnected to the Mother Interweb, life has been very detached. Typing on an iPad screen is not optimum, I’m so glad to be back. I guess that’s a good sign, as well. I have my Christmas letter nearly written – that’s on course with other years. I’m working on the local Tourism update for the Provincial Tourism guide for 2021; another annual project on track. Although there was near record turnout for the RM election for Reeve last week I was not the winner. Part of me is still dealing with disappointment, but another part has already moved on. I have this book I’m going to write. This will be the real test. I seem to be able to manage short term tasks in a non-clutter environment, but what about a whole book? Maybe I need scraps of paper scribbled with ideas for plot lines or character flaws? I defiantly require my name and age index to keep my minor characters straight. And how many times have I worked out the timeline to make people fit their history? You have no idea how tricky fiction is until you start writing it! Thus are my worries. My hope is that my Muse and I can cope in this pretty, tidy office until either we get used to it, or just like the Charlie Brown character Pigpen, the clutter follows me around and settles where ever I am. Give me a month and we’ll see if I just end up in a classier case of clutter.

 PROGRESS ... I THINK

It’s exactly one month since I explained how good I am at procrastination.  I’m here to tell you that I may take it to an art form.  Such is my talent.

As of yesterday I finally finished painting my office.  Except for the very heavy desk and two cabinets full of stuff which I cannot move on my own, the room is now ready for its new flooring.  Technically speaking this is only two coats of paint further along than a month ago, so nothing to brag about.  On the other hand I do have other irons in the fire at the moment.

I spent a few days cleaning up the yard and putting away all my planters once Jack Frost finished off the summer’s glory.  This year I decided to bring in a few of the prettiest plants in so I could start my own planter fillers in the spring.  All that green in my living room window is a real picker-upper on these dark, cold and snowy days.  The cat considers them his personal forest.

Another renovation project has come to fruition as well.  We are not sure if light fixtures are just designed to give off less light these days, or the older we get the more our personal dimmer switches take over, but it had got to the point where the lighting in our kitchen/dining room couldn’t be considered ‘romantic’ any longer.  Thanks to my brother-in-law’s ingenuity the glow from our kitchen window can now be detected from the Space Station.  I love it.  It’s so much easier to hunt down the gross and zombie-like flies that insist on moving in for the winter.  I get the ones above the two foot mark and the cat is on a ‘catch and kill’ mission for the rest.

I also tackled the IT job of moving the computer and desk out of the office.  There was a time when would have had to call in a kid to do this job ... all those wires and plugs and ports used to intimidate the heck out of me.  This time (because all my kids have grown up and moved away) I armed myself with an extra mug of brain stimulator juice, a roll of painter’s tape and a marker and spent the morning methodically untangling and labeling EVERYTHING.  Piece by piece all the components made the trip to another room where I reassembled them.  Correctly.  The first time.  I was feeling extremely accomplished until the very end when I realized I could move the machine but not the modem.  It’s attached to an actual cable in the office.  We have WiFi throughout the house but I sure will be glad to get hooked back up!

The other thing I’m working on these days is running for Reeve in our municipality ... think ‘mayor’ of the rural side of our community.  The election is on November 9, we shall see how this turns out.  My motivation is to give back to my community and I think I have lots to offer in that regard but it’s all up to the voters.  Like I said ... we shall see.

 

THE ART OF PROCRASTINATION

This is what procrastination looks like.

If you could see me now – sitting at my computer desk, typing merrily away – you would probably think I was ‘getting stuff done’.  This is not exactly wrong.  I am writing this blog, and that is legally ‘stuff’, but it’s not on my Things To Do list.  ‘Purge the office’ is on my Things To Do list, but that’s not what I’m doing, is it?  I am procrastinating.

I am not an aggressive hoarder.  I don’t go and purposely buy or collect objects that will need storage or dusting.  Actually, I am loath to buy anything because I will then be responsible for its storage and cleaning.  Stuff seems to follow me home anyway.  

My problem is that no matter how things come into my possession I am unable to discard them.  The reasons for this are many: I don’t want to be responsible for overflowing landfills, I don’t like to waste anything, and if I throw it away I will almost for sure need it within the next two week period.  I blame my parents really. This “waste not, want not” dilemma is a product of being raised by people who lived through the great depression and who never threw anything out.  I stand by this theory even though my own children don’t seem to have picked up the tendency from me.  Maybe it’s one of those things that skips a generation every once in a while.

At any rate ... the thing that is on my Things To Do list is to clear out this office and wash and paint the walls before the new flooring goes down.  There is a deadline.  I have a little over a month, and it’s going to take all of that because I keep finding more pleasant things to do.  When it comes to the tedious work of going through shelves of stuff I can’t even remember seeing before almost anything is more pleasant.  Oh yeah, that reminds me – I need to make a dentist appointment.

I have made some headway.  The filing cabinets now only hold stuff that pertain to our lives in the 21^st Century.  That required more than two days of my life and to celebrate that milestone I immediately took up garden cleanup because it was outside and the decisions of keep or discard are so much easier when the options are ‘weeds’ or ‘vegetables’.

Then, with the flimsy excuse of not having a ladder so obviously I couldn’t wash the walls, I ignored the office for another two weeks.  Two days ago the ladder came back; so much for that dodge.  I’ve spent this morning sorting through more papers, filling a box of ancient (at least 3 years old) electronics to be recycled, and pondering what to do with a whole stash of hockey/curling/karate/chess trophies.  I know their owners will tell me to throw them out, which lands me back in the landfill/waste guilt quandary.  Even I know that no one will ever actually need them.

I need a furniture trolley.  I need a drill to take down some shelving.  I need drywall tape and tools to fix cracks and nail holes.  These ‘needs’ are another clever device of the master procrastinator, meant to give the false impression that no work can progress without these items.  It’s pretty temping to let this job run on for even longer, but do I really want to be painting when I can’t open the windows?  And there is that deadline of early November ...

So, I will finish up this blog.  Then go make supper.  Then tidy up the rest of the house.  Then call it a day. 

But, I swear, on a stack of bibles, that I will be back in this hoarding center tomorrow morning to tackle the shelves in another cabinet.  If I do a couple hours per day for the next week I will eventually get to the painting part.  

If all goes according to plan you won’t be hearing from me in a while.  The computer will have to be unplugged and moved out of the way, thus removing the temptation to use it as a ‘reason’ to not complete the purge. 

In my next life I’m coming back as a millionaire so I can hire this done.

 

AND THE BEAT GOES ON

“Look at mommy’s sad, sad flowers.”

My three year old granddaughter and I were on a tour around their yard yesterday and she was pointing out items of note. 

She and her brothers had already taken me to see the chickens and we had watched as the birds revelled in the fresh green grass we had thrown over the fence for them.

From there we had wandered over to where their mom had plunked her newest planter – an ancient truck (well, it’s older than me).  To date, all she has planted there is a small maple tree but next year there will be all kinds of flowers spilling out of its box.  It’s the kind of thing you can do when you have a huge rural yard and an imagination.

Onward we had explored, through some trees to the edge of a pond where everyone had a turn at throwing rocks in to the slimy green water. The nine year old was the only one getting his rocks in far enough away not to get any stinky backsplash.  The six year old kept wondering why his rocks weren’t going as far and why he kept getting wet.  It generally took the three year old three throws per rock to even get it wet.  Grandma decided it was time to move on again before we all got too messy.

The next stop was down by their signpost and garden.  The little ones rearranged some of the rocks as the eldest and I reminisced about the day we all erected the sign and which pieces of machinery were needed for the job.  I trusted him on his list; he is definitely the expert in that field.

Then it was back to their dad’s shop to show all the improvements that have been made to it and how neat all the tools were arranged in the tool boxes.  I was also given an in depth report on what they were fixing on his dad’s quad.  It was way over my head but I have no doubt he knew what he was talking about.

That took us back to the house and as we walked by what had been a pretty garden full of flowers until Jack Frost had shown up, the little girl pointed out the sadness of what he had left in his wake.  I agreed with her.  I too have gardens full of this particular sadness.

Although there are some species that can handle a few degrees of frost, most of the beauties are done for the year.  The dantura leaves and flowers droop to the ground displaying the spikey seed pods they’ve been hiding all summer.  Marigold flowers retain their brilliant yellows and oranges but the leaves and stems go black.  Cosmos go from ferny and fresh to ugly skeletons, and dahlias transition from lush, blossom covered shrubs to ruined, blackish, rotting messes overnight.  On the other hand, petunias and asters would seem to have antifreeze in the veins – they are doing just fine.

 But, as my very wise granddaughter observed, summer is over.

All is not lost though, the beauty and fun of autumn has just begun!

We spent the rest of the afternoon raking up poplar leaves so that they could run and jump and slide through them with me videoing every single award-winning athletic feat.  The sun was warm on our shoulders, the leaves crunchy beneath our feet.  There was tree climbing and posed pictures amongst the bright red crab apples and a grand finale of the tree of them sitting in the pile of leaves and tossing them into the air, again to satisfy Grandma’s wish for photographs.  They turned out perfect – each of their faces showing the fun they were having – even once or twice in the same picture!

We transitioned back to summer once more to end off the afternoon and laid a picnic blanket out on the lawn to enjoy freezie pops and fruit before the evening chill moved in on us, something that September can do in the blink of an eye, and began the conversation on whose pumpkin was the biggest to carve for Halloween.

And the year moves on ...

 

 

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.