DON’T LOOK ETHEL!

I don’t know that I would win any awards for my driving skills, but I can say that in the only accident I’ve ever been in I was not the one behind the steering wheel at the time.  I’ve never even hit a deer. One did hit me once, but I don’t think that should count.

What I do know is that I feel better when I am the one in control of the speed/steering/brakes.  I don’t know that I can claim I’m an excellent driver but I totally confess to being a horrible passenger. The perfect illustration of this was a trip I took with my very capable, intelligent, in-charge daughter to the British Isles.

At first it was lovely: we visited with my Aunt in Oxford for the first week and then we took the train north to Glasgow where we rented a car and drove the reminder of the trip to Edinburgh.  I just refreshed my memory with a look at a map of Scotland; the distance we drove is negligible.  Paltry.  Puny.  Compared to the ground we cover here on the prairies it is miniscule.  It aged us both several decades.

The obvious hurdle was that we were in a country where they drive on the wrong side of the road.  This should have been no problem because the girl I was with had spent more than a year in New Zealand and Australia – she knew what she was doing in that department.  The trouble was more that this arrangement puts the passenger sitting where a Canadian driver should be but doesn’t give her a steering wheel to hang on to.

I’m not going to say that I didn’t go into it without a little trepidation.  The whole ‘wrong side of the road/wrong side of the vehicle’ thing is a little mind bending.  It’s not even safe to cross a street unless you look the wrong way (but that was a whole other trip, and nobody died, so it’s all good).  Even as we took out the rental car I wondered why on Earth they would let people from other countries even do that, but off we went anyway, heavily insured. 

A couple things about driving in a medieval city: the streets are narrow, the signs give you 1.7 seconds warning of where to turn, and there is no where to pull over and take a breather. Even so we made it out on the open road where it would have been lovely to stop and experience the Scottish Highlands but again, they don’t do the ‘pull over and go sight-seeing’ thing over there.  We drove on.

I had joked ahead of time that she would do the driving and I would do the praying.  By the time we’d been on the road for a while I commented that maybe there were circumstances where valium was a good idea.  Not long after that my sweet daughter muttered through clenched teeth that this was certainly one of them. 

Desperate times call for desperate measures: I glued my mouth shut and my body to my seat, not saying another word or twitching another muscle as my contribution to safe arrival.  It worked.  We saw the sights (well except for the Loch Ness Monster; nobody ever sees her) and lived to tell about it.  It’s been twenty years and the story is funny again.

What I learned from that experience was that I’m better off not looking at the road if it’s only going to make me all anxious and jittery – my antics only make the driver anxious and jittery too.  I am much better off to focus on something else – you know, for the safety of everyone involved?

Fast forward to last Tuesday, #1 Highway between Portage and Winnipeg.  The sun shining brightly, the sky is blue above us, but there is ground drifting with white-out conditions and the pavement is warm enough for the snow to stick and turn to ice.

I wasn’t the one driving (thank goodness!) so in an effort to distract my dread I picked up my phone to text loved ones a fond farewell, thinking my feigned calmness would relieve some of the tension.  Much to my surprise I was asked to “Put that thing down and help me watch for things!”

That’s how bad it was folks, he wanted me to back-seat drive.

I guess four eyes are better than two.  But also, whether it’s two times zero or four times zero, the answer is still zero.

Long story short – both the driver and the navigator, plus the oblivious dog in the back – made it there and home again safely.  Sometimes you get to cross something off your Bucket List that you hadn’t even put on it.

 

 

WOMEN HOLD UP HALF THE SKY

I love this : Women Hold Up Half The Sky.

 From the first time I heard it the truth of this ‘word picture’ resonated through me.  I wonder, has it ever been depicted in art form?  Is there a painting or sculpture where female and male figures together support the sky?  There should be.

I’ve been using this quote for years.  It has an uncomplicated, natural ring to it and perfectly describes how the weight of society is carried on both male and female shoulders.  Because it was so simplistic, I had assumed that the saying came from an unsophisticated indigenous culture but no, the words come from none other than Mao Zedong during the Cultural Revolution in China in the 1960s.  I guess his motivation was observing that half of China’s population wasn’t realizing their full Communist worker potential.  As much as I hate to concede to this grittier version, it is just as true. 

For millennia society has denied half the world’s population participation in many aspects of life, depriving the world of their capabilities.  Imagine running an engine on just half of its pistons, or a row boat being paddled on just one side – so much potential is lost. 

And, it’s not so much that women were blocked from positions of power – that’s one side of it.  But also that what they did contribute, the nurturing and teaching they did within their families and communities were not recognized for the incalculable value it has for all of humankind.

Whether we are working shoulder to shoulder with our male counterparts, or shaping society as the vital foundation of family units, we are indeed, holding up at least half the sky. 

My gift to myself on International Women’s Day was a two-hour lunch with a friend/mentor/advisor/ philosopher/life coach/listener who has a great sense of humour and a wonderful, robust laugh to back it up.  We share ideas and hopes and dreams.  We proudly announce our accomplishments to each other and feel safe enough to confess our failures too. Conversations with her are a mix of stimulating, thoughtful conversation, and laughter as an antidote for the rough patches in our lives.  I always come away feeling refreshed and strengthened.  We refer to these lunches as therapy, and we try to schedule ‘appointments’ every couple months, or so.  

When we were setting up this latest date we had multiple days to choose from but when I noticed that Wednesday was International Women’s Day I knew it was the perfect day.  We weren’t the only ones celebrating the day, either.  The restaurant was full of women and our server said everyone’s theme seemed to be the same, honouring women – mothers, daughters, sisters, friends. 

And this is the secret women’s power. 

It’s the reason we have the strength to hold up our half of the sky. 

We lift each other up first.

 

SO OUT OF PRACTISE

I know I can do this.  I know I’ve done it before.  Multiple times even.  But man, am I ever rusty.

In the extreme distant future … well, it seems like it right now … we are going to Mexico for a week.

We’ve been there/done this a time or two.  It’s not hard, just get out your credit card, pick your resort and time and away you go.  This trip is even super easy because the date and destination have been chosen for us … next January at the Riu Vallarta.  There’s going to be a beach wedding and we are invited to join that party.  It’s going to be a fun family time.

What’s not to love about warmth and sunshine in January?  The luxury of wearing summer clothes and sandals all day?  Of walking along the beach, the waves rolling in and splashing against your ankles?  Searching for sea shells?

And the biggest luxury of all … not having to cook even once for a whole week!  I tell you, that part of travelling is coming back to me as clear as a bell. 

It’s all the painful business details leading up to the good part that are a struggle.  They say a person tends to block out the negative memories.  Maybe that’s what’s going on.

First of all, the travel agency wanted us to buy our travel insurance through them.  Oh yeah, I had forgotten about that.  We need travel insurance.  Once upon a time I decided that we didn’t need that and it was the one and only time (so far) that plans changed and we didn’t get to go.  That’s a couple thousand dollars I will never get back.  That’s NOT going to happen again.

Therefore, one needs cancellation and interruption insurance.  Anyone who participated in the Christmas break disaster this year can testify to that.  I only watched it on TV and want nothing to do with such a debacle, so I kind of gagged a little at the extra cost but knew I had to do it.  Thank goodness someone smarter (or with a better memory) than me said she was checking out what was automatically covered on her credit card.  Oh yeah, that’s a thing!  And now it’s a thing on my “Things To Do” list.

But, that’s only one kind of insurance we need.  It’s all coming back to me now. There’s that health insurance bit too.  That’s another phone call, and it will be a long one.  The last time we travelled was pre-Covid and only one of us was over 65.  They sure get interested in a person’s health after you reach that magic number.  In the intervening years I have passed that milestone as well, and my fellow traveller has made it into his 70s.  Maybe I can do this online?

But once those things are done (and nothing else I’ve forgotten comes up) all there will be left to do is stock up on sunscreen and  a) lose enough weight to fit into my pre-Covid clothes, or b) buy a whole new summer wardrobe.

Oh yeah, and find someone to babysit our dog.  Our usual dog sitter is going to the wedding also.  That’s the best part of this trip … the grandkids are coming too.  The plan is to bury Grandpa on the beach … you know, like pirate’s treasure.  It will keep them all busy and happy for days.  We may even dig him back up and bring him home again if he’s good.

This past week or so, with the temperatures down around the Siberia mark, I’ve had time to nail down these troublesome details and start looking forward to just getting there. 

That’s another part that I had forgotten – anticipation absolutley adds to the fun, but it’s so hard!  It’s cold outside!  Spring seems like a million years away!  I want to go to Mexico NOW.

 

IN THE TURNING LANE

It’s that time of year again.  It’s not spring by a long shot, but somewhere in the middle of one of these mild, just-barely-freezing nights we have turned a corner.

Well, maybe not turned a complete 90 degree corner, but we are wandering off in a slightly different direction.

This thought struck me as I emptied my washing machine this morning and had a sudden longing to go hang it all out on the line.  I glanced out across the backyard and managed to squelch the urge.  It would mean trudging through snowbanks higher than my boots and only having two feet of hanging space between the line and the snow, so not worth the effort.  I carried on with putting everything in the dryer, but now that the longing for the scent of clothes dried outside has been established it will only a matter of time until I’m out there tramping down snow to make it possible.

And, while I’m out there I will haul my shelving unit in and set it up in front of my big south-facing window in the living room and plant seeds and clippings.  I’m not ready for that round of mess and clutter yet, but we’re close.  We’re very close.

I’m not the only one feeling that the seasons are shifting.  The cat has decided that he would rather be out than in overnight.  I have no idea where he goes but it isn’t doing him any harm – he’s always back on the deck in the morning, looking for his breakfast.

It’s also the time of year when the resident farmer starts to critique Mother Nature’s distribution of snow for the winter.  Apparently for 2023 he thinks she should top it up a bit more before seeding. 

“But not too much.”

“And it should be a slow, steady melt so the moisture all seeps in.”

“And a warm, dry May.”

“And then timely rains in June to establish a good crop.”

Ending with “They should just put me in charge.”

I hear this every year, as predictable as dandelions.

There are other voices talking to me too.  My deep freeze keeps showing me how the garden’s crop failure last summer is affecting meal planning, and my bank account cries out in pain when I go to buy fresh vegetables.  I, too, hope Mother Nature is a bit more cooperative this summer.

The real clincher this afternoon, though, is that sunshine warming up my deck.  If I close my eyes and breathe in deeply I can smell the sweet peas or the fresh-mowed grass.  I can hear the bumble bees and hummingbirds. 

Best of all, I remember all those summer afternoons of friendly conversations over whatever beverage suits the day.  It’s a gorgeous Sunday afternoon and all the men will be watching football on TV.  What a shame to waste this moment just because it’s technically still February!

Okay.  Okay.  Maybe I have made a 90 degree turn after all.

 

 

 

LEANING TOWARDS SPRING

And so, just like that, January is behind us. 

I know that we’re not supposed to wish our lives away but my seed catalogue and I have been waiting for this day.  February has finally arrived and I’ve only allowed myself one quick flip through all those pictures of growing things since The Book of Hope arrived.  It is a very important rule - too much looking leads to premature ordering. If a person gets started too early the house looks like a jungle by March.  Except for how the colour green soothes my soul in the dead of winter, starting plants right after Christmas is counter-productive.  This is Saskatchewan; seedlings can’t survive outside until May.  By then babies planted in January are so spindly they have keeled over and died. 

I have learned this the hard way.

Multiple times.

Eventually I learned it’s important to pace myself. I have a set, strict timeline for garden-related activities.  I am not allowed to even consider buying seeds until February.  And choosing what I want to order needs to take a full week.  And the order form should not be sent electronically, snail mail is more dignified.  And don’t ask for express delivery.  And there’s no need to bring the starter soil in from the garden shed to thaw out until after the seeds arrive.

If all goes according to plan this brings me to the beginning of March, and that’s just about right for actually planting seeds here in the frozen north.

Meanwhile, I cope with the cold and dark of winter above the 49^th parallel by using other tools at my disposal.  I have 4,802 pictures on my phone.  Unsurprisingly, 3/4s of them are of my grandchildren.  And 3/4s of those pictures are taken in my gardens, showing off my two favourite things in the same frame.  Weird, I know, but that’s just how it works out. 

I also have photos of my favourite combinations of plants for my deck pots.  And pictures of the pristine beauty of a freshly weeded vegetable garden.  And servings of fresh asparagus smothered in butter.  These are the things that keep me going at this time of the year.

But, today is the big day!  At last I can sit down with a cup of coffee and spend some quality time with my 2023 seed catalogue.  I can ponder if I am going for a particular colour scheme for the year, and if so, which one?  I can decide just how vegetable crazy I want to go for the year.  Do I want to try something new, or go with the tried and true?  We are re-starting our strawberry patch this year – which variety should I try?  Oh, looky there! There is a variety pack!  Well that’s settled, then!

And do I want sunflowers for their height, or their colour?  Oh, why does it have to be one or the other … I’ll get both!

And should I do sweet peas or morning glories on the trellis this year? Or am I brave enough to invest in a climbing rose for that corner?  I wonder how the honeysuckle is weathering the winter?  The hummingbirds sure loved it last year.

And on page 45 there is something called Ptilotus that would look great as the thriller in my larger planters … at $8.25 for 10 seeds do I dare see if I can grow them? And something called Penstemon on page 52 that apparently hummingbirds love.  They are only $5.70 for 20 seeds.  What I don’t do for my hummingbirds.

I may have circled a few things on my quick flip through in January, but I see that the crazy farmer wants to grow giant pumpkins again this year and seems very interested in a mushroom farm as well.  Such is the power of Spring Fever that none of this seems like a bad idea at the moment.  Weeding in the hot July sun is the perfect cure for it but I’ve noticed that immunity doesn’t last long enough to be of any help.  Here I am in February going overboard yet again.

So I will make up my order and I will plant my seeds, and then transplant the seedlings as they grow.  It will keep me busy while the days lengthen out and the sun gets stronger.  And then, whether everything grows for me or not, I will be off to all the greenhouses within driving distance to bask in their warmth and scent, and spending an undisclosed amount of money on all the things that make my heart happy.

I know we’re not supposed to wish our time away, but I can’t wait.

 

IT’S JUST SAD

It’s that time of the year again.  The holiday rush is over, the company has all gone home, the tree is down and the decorations have been put away.  I think I’ve even found 87% of the nerf bullets that seem to be everywhere after the grandchildren have been visiting.  Thanks to a very generous uncle they have enough ammunition to keep the nerf war raging until they all graduate college.

But, as everyone seems to make the switch back into regular life at the beginning of January I have trouble shifting gears.  I’ve always had trouble with back shifting – just ask our old Ford grain truck.

That’s a whole other story, though.

I call this time of the year the Doldrums.  To sailors ‘the Doldrums’ is when there are no winds to power a sailboat leaving it to drift listlessly, going nowhere.  To me it’s the low sunlight days of January and February where I drift listlessly from room to room wondering what to make for supper.  Same thing, really.

Science calls it something else; Seasonal Affective Disorder. 

SAD for short, which is very fitting because that’s how it feels – just sad. 

Lacking joy.  Or energy.  Or inspiration. 

Day, after day, after day. 

And still having to come up with a supper menu,

 every. single. night. 

So tedious.

The doctors at the Mayo Clinic agree that it’s most likely caused by the lack of sunlight.  This lack of light messes with our Circadian rhythm disrupting our sleep patterns and drops our Serotonin and Melatonin levels which triggers moodiness and depression …  and stagnation in the food preparation department.  (Okay, I added that part myself, but it fits the model they present.) 

They also say that people who live close to the equator don’t get SAD – I’m thinking that’s self explanatory.

Although they warn that SAD can develop into serious depression, most sufferers can wait it out until we can plant seeds and watch things grow.  This coming-back-to-life phenomenon has pulled me back from the brink year after year.  My husband built me a greenhouse to give tribute to the Sun god in gratitude.

After all these winters I have learned a list of things I can do to try to shake off the funk.  Get outside and soak up what sun there is.  Take on a project and finish it – the sense of accomplishment is like a magic elixir.  Spend time with friends in laughter and conversation.  Focus on a long-term goal and spend time making plans to bring it to fruition.  (Anyone want to head out to a tropical destination?  You know, to test out that theory about being close to the equator?)

Or you could ask your phone what to make for supper … and then tell Siri to make it herself.

Today is a sunnier day than we’ve been having lately so I took this self advice and the dog and I went for a short walk.  He was insanely happy to see me outside, so that’s a start.  I also completed a project – if you can call changing the kitty litter something so grand.  Fore sure I feel better now that it’s done!  I imagine the cat does too.

I came back inside filled with new purpose and put a roast beef in the oven for supper. 

One more day down, approximately 60 more to go.

 

 

WHERE WERE YOU IN ’72?

It’s post Christmas.  There are only a few more days of 2022 left to go, all of the eating, drinking, and being merry days have been observed.  The tightness of my waistband now has me thinking about a New Years resolution.  In no time at all I will be leafing through garden catalogues and dreaming of spring; that is the rhythm of my life.

There is one more day – a personal one – that is mine alone to reflect on, though.  I normally keep my thoughts to myself about it, but this year marks a significant anniversary and I feel that letting it slip by unacknowledged cheats history (well, my history at least) of remembrance and honor.

This week - Friday, to be exact – marks my 50^th wedding anniversary. 

I know.  I know.  Besides being totally preposterous, it’s also nigh on to impossible.  No one as young as I am (26, as a matter of fact) can have been married that long.  But in a world where most people do chronological math 50 years have elapsed since a ridiculously young girl and her Prince Charming spoke their vows and happily departed a small country church believing in ‘happily ever after’.

It was a pretty wedding.  My bridesmaids carried bouquets consisting of a lit candle surrounded by holly, and wore dresses of red.  My mother designed and sewed my wedding gown.  My cousin drove all the way from Calgary to be an usher and then drove back the next day because he had a date with his own sweetheart for New Year’s Eve.  Because it was winter and right after Christmas there were several people who couldn’t come; I remember phone calls of well wishes interrupting all the preparations, and the feeling of being swept along in more tradition and ritual than I had known existed.  

And, possibly feeling like I was in a little over my head? 

From my position of age (still 26) and wisdom, here in 2022, I’m going to speculate that this is all pretty normal wedding day reaction to the momentous step a girl is about to take when she puts on her wedding dress.  It’s overwhelming – just sayin’.

Of course, what no one knew that day, or what no one knows on any given day, is that ‘happily ever after’ has different expiration dates for different people.  Ours was two weeks short of six years.

It is all so long ago now.  So much water in the river of my life has flowed under that bridge that if there weren’t two children born during those years it would be easy to think it didn’t happen at all.  I refer to that period as ‘in my former lifetime’ because that is how distant and dreamlike it seems to me now.

You can say everything happens for a reason, or you can just say that shit happens – both are true.  I’ve refined it to “there’s something to be learned from everything that happens”. 

I had little choice but to learn and grow.  I had kids to raise and life to figure out.  Some friends dropped away and others appeared out of nowhere.  Eventually I got to the point where I could believe in happily ever after again so when Prince Charming 2.0 came along I was willing to take that chance.  In February he and I will mark 40 years – apparently our expiration date was meant to be much longer.

I didn’t write this to trigger sympathy.  It’s not a time for long ago condolences or focussing on the sadness of events we can’t control.  I just wanted to share my reminiscing of a day that probably only I observe. 

If you were there too, dig into your memories and enjoy a slice of that time and place.  If you weren’t, go back and visit your own wedding day - have some fun with it.  You never know when your time is up.