50 YEARS

50 years is way shorter than it used to be.

And, they are making old people way younger these days too.  It’s weird, I know.

Case in point:  this past weekend we were invited to a 50^th Wedding anniversary.  It was a lovely laid-back affair in a big back yard.  A tent-type gazebo for shade, ample lawn chairs to go around, little children playing games, snacks and beverages of all kinds – a summer lawn party for all ages.  Technically speaking a few of the people there had to be over 50 but in that kind of a setting, with all the conversation and reminiscing and laughter, the passage of time loses its grip.  We were just the same group of people who had been there to celebrate their wedding.  The fact that our grandchildren were also present just gave us more to talk about.

Compare that to how a 50^th wedding Anniversary went down in my grandparents’ day.  A church hall was rented and the womenfolk baked up dainties for several days in advance.  I recall all the cousins being in attendance and family pictures being taken.  We all had brand new dresses; everyone from Grandma, mom, me, and all my sisters.  Not store-bought dresses either!  Mom would have tailor made each and every one, probably between batches of daities, in the week leading up to the big day.  I can’t believe how I undervalued such luxury when I had it, and how I longed for store-bought clothing like my friends had – but that’s another story for another time.  A 12 year old’s sense of values is pretty tacky.

The tables were set with actual tea cups and saucers, the family meal served after the ‘come and go’ part of the day was surely served on China, the head table graced with a table cloth and a centerpiece, fine China and napkins.  There would have been fancy cards and speeches.  The word ‘formal’ comes to mind.

The thing that really sets these two occasions apart, though, is how OLD my Grandmother and Grandfather were at the time.  Like, they were ancient!  Grandma’s hair was snow white, her dress old-fashioned.  Grandpa wore a suit, white shirt and tie.  They look like museum pieces in their photo.

Intrigued, I have done the math wondering how much older they were than us at the time.  Zero years.  Strangely, humans who get married in their 20s and manage to stay married for 50 years all end up in their 70s at that milestone. 

Saturday’s bride in her sundress and the groom in shorts and a casual summer shirt were basically the same age as grandma in her mid-calf length, high collared, long sleeved dress standing formally beside her man in his suit.  Both couples the same age but from different centuries.

Obviously the only thing that has changed is the perspective of the observer – me.

Really, what has changed in the half century between these two celebrations?  The venues were different but the activities were the same.  There was food and visiting, laughter and reminiscing, grandchildren and games at both affairs.  Pretty sure that the beverage choices were limited to coffee, tea, and kool-aid in 1967 and a buffet of pulled pork and baked beans set out in a garage would have been shocking to the ‘church ladies’, but the whole idea of hosting and serving a meal for a special occasion is identical.  Sharing food and gathering in celebration is part of the human experience, and will be until the end of time.

Just to add depth to our summer anniversary afternoon party my sister sent me a few photos of their grandson’s wedding happening in Regina the same day – two generations further into the future.  A newly minted couple who look like they shouldn’t even be old enough to graduate high school yet wearing fashions that their children will groan and roll their eyes at in 10 to 15 years (this is inevitable, every new wave of teenagers does it).  Young love and happy smiles … food, music, friends and family.

50 years down the road they too will celebrate as we did on Saturday, and grandma and grandpa did in 1967.  The dress code will have altered.  The menu will be something new and trendy for 2075.  Who knows where the party will be held?  And the guests (depending on which generation they are from) will either think the couple looks ancient or contemporary. 

Age is all in the eye of the beholder, I guess, and it helps if you colour your hair.

 

 

 

LIFE OR DEATH

“What should I make for supper tonight?”

It’s an age-old question, asked at least 18 billion times over the eons.  Whether the options were mammoth stew or fish soup over an open fire in front of a cave, or a sophisticated ratatouille or fancy chowder prepared on a state-of-the-art convection surface, the woman seeking menu inspiration will be left hanging.  Of the 18 billion enquiries there have only been 2,681 helpful answers (this is not verifiable given the time lapse, but highly likely given my personal experience.  The last woman in my family line to actually get a definitive answer was a gal in the Middle Ages who had to then go catch a rabbit to roast for him, but at least the decision part was over).

It’s 1:25 on a Saturday afternoon.  I own three deep freezes (Covid consequence) which hold countless meal options.  I own 53 recipe books, a small file box stuffed with my favorites, and I have been known to ask Google for help in a pinch, as well.  My kitchen is well stocked in cookware, utensils, and gadgets for use in my oven, microwave, stovetop, or air fryer as the mood strikes me.  I have a BBQ and a smoker at my disposal.  I am an incredibly lucky person to live in a first world country surrounded by such wealth and privilege … but would someone please tell me what to make for supper?  I’ll make extra if you want to stay for the meal.

I know part of the problem is that I’m not hungry right now.  I reheated a little KD and a leftover hotdog an hour ago and really couldn’t care less about eating at the moment.  Honestly, if there weren’t other people around here expecting an evening meal I would probably have toast and maybe an egg and call it good. 

And there are some radishes ready in the garden.  Are radishes considered a vegetable?

Isn’t it funny how time slips away?  We are now mid afternoon and inspiration has yet to strike. Weirdly this shortening of the timeline is playing in my favour. 

A couple hours ago I had so many more choices, but not so anymore.  By sheer procrastination I have ruled out long term projects like roasts and stews.  Wasn’t that clever of me?  Fewer options can be a good thing!

Excuse me while I go get some hamburger out and stick it in the microwave on defrost.

Just the other day a bunch of us girls were sitting around discussing this very I’m-so-tired-of-cooking dilemma and the alternative of Hamburger Helper came up.  I don’t know who invented this last-minute-dinner-in-a-box but I gotta say, you’re my hero.  It’s not fine cuisine.  It’s probably not all that nutritious unless you serve it with a salad or a couple sides of veggies, but, will the whole family consent to eat it? Yes!  It’s protein and pasta in a sauce and will keep people alive until you come up with another meal tomorrow.  Some days that’s all you need for a win.

I’ve pondered this for a while: where in the marriage vows does it say “you’ll be responsible for meal plan/prep/serving/clean-up, forever and ever, amen”? 

Is this a Life sentence?  Or a death sentence? 

Is there tiny print at the very bottom of the marriage certificate that you can’t see while wearing the rose-coloured glasses of love?  Should all future brides be warned?  And, if they were warned and took heed, would society as we know it collapse?

Okay, now I’m delving into philosophy … this is pure procrastination, Jocelyn style.

It’s time to go hit Google up for some ideas on what to do with a couple pounds of ground beef.  Better not do Hamburger Helper twice in the same week.

 

 

WHEN IT’S SPRINGTIME IN Saskatchewan

Here we are at the first of June, still technically spring but feeling a whole lot more like summer. 

My ancestors came from the misty cool highlands of Scotland, I am genetically unequipped to deal with summer on the Canadian Prairies but here I am anyway – already sporting sunburned arms and a peeling nose.  I have two natural colorings in the summer – either the pasty white of mushroom soup, or the vibrant red of Campbell’s tomato.  I do manage to develop something that looks like ‘tan’ but only when compared to other of my body parts that never see the sun at all.  There was a time in history that women were supposed to have milky white skin.  I hope my forebears made the most of it.

My reluctance to participate in the heat and glaring sun of summer is overridden by my desire to have a garden and enjoy my yard, though.  After spending winter longing for green and warmth I’m as anxious as any farmer to get outside and start things growing.  I don’t even wait in fact, I plant seeds in the house about mid March so I can see them either grow spindly and weak or just keel over and die depending on their individual descretion.  Some actually make it to the garden, usually just in time for the last frost, but the effort keeps me busy and my livingroom looking like a mini greenhouse for a couple months while we wait for the snow to go away.

Time seems to pick up speed around the middle of April.  Farmers get antsy to get out on the land.  Their wives get antsy to get the men out of the house.  I take up a daily walk around the yard looking for signs of life … a first green blade of grass, the first buds on the trees, even a fist dandelion makes me happy in April; anything that shows proof of life.  Last fall I went crazy with over 100 tulips bulbs so spring was very colorful and rewarding this year.

Our front yard is a natural basin so there is always a period of flood with the snowmelt in the spring.  ‘Lake Hainsworth’ had been and gone enough for me to mow 80% of the yard before Mother Nature decided everyone needed to take a break from seeding and gave us three inches of rain in May.  Seeding was stopped for two weeks and I am now back to mowing around smelly swamp.  The moisture was welcome (especially for those of us who got their gardens in before it came) but it could have been better timed.  I say that like Mother Nature cares what I think; she does not.

Another sure sign of spring is our rise-and-shine time.  In the dark of winter I can manage to ‘sleep in’ until 6:00 or 6:30 somedays.  I know.  I know.  This is a dismal fail for a retired person but I literally can’t help it.  And, as if that’s not bad enough, when the sun starts getting up earlier, so do I.  This past month it’s been more like 5:00.  My mom always said it was the most peaceful time of the day and it turns out she was right … about just this one thing, of course.  I love my solitary coffee and game of Wordle.

These past few weeks I’ve been awakened even earlier – like 4:30ish - by my phone buzzing that there is a text.  It kind of spooked me the first time it happened because there is an unwritten rule in this house that you don’t call after 9:00 or before 8:00 “unless someone has died, someone has been born, or a house is on fire”.  Apparently, there is another allowable circumstance – If you’ve just spent the morning touring Italian towns and are sitting at a quaint little streetside café having lunch, this is a perfectly acceptable time to send pictures to your sisters in Canada.  The first morning it kind of freaked me out but after that it just gave me something more to do after I poured my coffee.

Sadly, the surest sign of summer has arrived.  Forest fire smoke stains our skies, makes us cough, and hurts our eyes … and we are hundreds of miles away from the real damage and destruction.  I sure wish Mother Nature would brew up another three inches and send it north.

 

THE SOUND OF RAIN

There is nothing quite as peaceful and soothing as the sound of rain falling outside your window.  Unless, of course, it is the heavenly scent of rain - petrichor.  They announce to your soul that all is well with the world.  That plants will grow, that we will have shelter from the trees and food from the fields and gardens, that animals will be fed and watered.  That our lives will be filled with abundance simply because water falls from the sky.

We woke to that sound and smell this morning.  It wasn’t a surprise, the weather people had been telling us it was on the way for several days, but it wasn’t quite as much of a blessing as we would have liked.  If the predictions are true this rain is too early and way too much.

At first they were talking about only a half inch for today.  That would have been perfect for the middle of May.  Seeding has been going great guns for two weeks – some farmers are almost done, some are halfway, and some just nicely started.  A half inch would give them a day of maintenance time for both human bodies and farm machinery, but the downtime would be short-lived.  They would be rolling again in no time. 

This newer forecast of 4 inches over 5 or 6 days is a whole other matter.  That much moisture will stop fieldwork for two weeks; you can’t plant in the rain or in the mud, and if we get 4 inches there is going to be a lot of mud.  Everyone in our neighbourhood worked late last night trying to get as much planted as possible.  If this plays out as predicted there will be two distinct harvests in the fall of 2025 – the crops that were planted pre rain, and what went into the ground after it was dry enough to go again.

Farmers weren’t the only ones pushing to get done though – gardeners play by the same rules for the same reasons.  Knowing that the rain was coming I put in some long, physical hours to get my garden tilled and planted.  Except for tomatoes I can call that job done, and I have the sun/wind burn and sore muscles to show for my work.  It’s not perfect and I got a little devil-may-care rebellious with my farmer’s expectations of straight rows toward the end.  Heat and wind and mosquitoes (who knew that all three could exist at the same time?) weakened my give-a-damn on all rows after the onions.  He can worry about perfection on his own rows.  It’s hardly a level playing field though - he has GPS on his tractor and my method and tools pretty primitive in nature; two stakes and a length of bale twine.

It's not raining at this moment and the little voice in my head keeps telling me that I should be out getting some bedding plants and dahlias planted.  A slightly louder voice insists that if it rains 4 inches that flower bed will be under water for a week and everything will be drowned out so my work and the plants will all be wasted.  I’m listening to the loud mouth because I just want to be lazy today.  I anticipate regretting this decision at some time in the not-too-distant future.

Instead I will spend my afternoon happily tapping away at my keyboard and then make an actual sit down meal for supper where we eat together at an hour typically associated with the evening meal, and then have the dishes done before bedtime. 

It’s funny how it’s the little things that make a person happy.

Like waking up to the sound of rain gently falling on the roof and the scent of petrichor on the wind.

It’s not the desired amount for this moment in time, but the sound is still soul-cleansing and the smell is divine.

 

 

JUST LIKE GRANDMA USED TO MAKE IT

A while ago I received a phone call from my daughter asking for my recipe for cheese cake.  Although it neither ‘my’ recipe, nor is it actually ‘cheesecake’, I knew what she was talking about and went to dig out the recipe book it’s in.  It’s been a while since I’ve made that dessert so it took me a bit of a search.  I have a full shelf of old-fashioned, spill-stained, dog-eared, beat-up recipe books and could only remember the one I was looking for was a local fundraiser project I had inherited from my grandmother’s belongings.  I had the idea it was the one the Redvers Lodge of the O.O.R.P. put together in 1967 but that’s the one that the banana bread recipe is in.  Turns out the PHILADELPHIA CREAM CHEESE CAKE is in ‘Kitchen Kapers’, a book compiled by the Golden Age Center back when their address was where The Optimist Café is now. 

Obviously my recipe book shelf is a historical reference site.

Anyway, back to my daughter and her request.  Her son had chosen grandma’s cherry cheesecake for his birthday cake.  Of course he thought that meant it was my cake but we need to go back at least one more generation to get to the rightful grandmother and yet another generation to the original owner of the recipe book.  I know my mom used this recipe because it’s her writing that says the cup of icing sugar is too much - the first modification in it’s journey to 2025.

To begin with I was going to just snap a picture of the page and text it to the cake baker but thought the better of it when I realized the deletion of icing sugar was only the beginning of the alterations.  I have tweaked it a few times myself.

I don’t use a whole box of graham crumbs – that’s way too much.  I use 2/3rds of a box and then and let the rest go stale in my cupboard. 

The ½ cup of melted butter is actually margarine. 

The 8 oz package of cream cheese is accurate, but the womenfolk in our family use real whipping cream – Dream Whip just seems wrong for people who grew up on a dairy farm. 

As far as the can of cheery pie filling goes, I never feel that one can is enough but two is definitely too much.  I know this because I tried it; who knew too much of a good thing is no longer a good thing?  Using only 1 ½ cans of cherries would have a ½ can going bad in my fridge and that seems like more of a waste that a 1/3 box of graham crumbs so I settled on just the single can.

I suppose, if I got all thrifty and technical I could use a bigger pan, all of the graham crumbs, and two full cans of cherries but then I would need more margarine, cream cheese and whipping cream … I can’t remember which (or how many) of my teachers told my sceptical younger self that I would need math and fractions in my adult life, but here we are.  In the end, for practical purposes I choose not to build a bigger cheesecake.  It would only result in a cake that wouldn’t fit in my fridge, and eventually to me not fitting through doors.  Best to leave that part of the recipe unaltered.

It's funny; when I looked over the list of ingredients and the method to put them together it was obvious that sending the next generation a copy of what my book said would be totally misleading.  The words printed on that page are more of a list of suggestions than actual instructions.  Each line is reminder of what has been changed and sometimes a note to show who changed it. 

Besides, I knew she would be writing down what I gave her in her own notebook.  You know, the one she’ll go find when her daughter calls her someday for Grandma’s cheesecake recipe.  I wonder what it will look like by then?

 

 

GOLDEN

I know it’s cliché, but when they say that the best music originated in the ‘50s and ‘60s they are dead on correct.

 Well actually, ‘they’ don’t say it, ‘we’ do.  It’s my generation that says that.  I’m that old.

But, I’m also correct.  The musicians, singers, song writers and producers who experimented with sound and talent after WWll ushered in a new era.  They pushed the envelope of never-heard-before musical innovation and opened the doors for performers like Elvis Presley, Roy Orbison and Buddy Holly to earn their rightful place in history and our hearts.  Every time I read about or watch a documentary covering those artists in their early days I’m always amazed how they all knew each other, how they toured together, they wrote songs together and admired each other’s work.  The crucible that was the birthplace of rock and roll was very small but the cultural growth that it generated was enormous.  In fact, it took over the music world.  By some lucky stroke of fate this was the generation I was born into.  I was there when it happened. 

Well, actually, I was a little late to the party.  I was born in the mid ‘50s and probably didn’t pay much attention to the music scene for a decade or so.  There is no doubt that I owe my introduction into that world to my sister’s record collection (LPs and 45s) and of course, the fine-honed talent of knowing how to weight the needle arm on the turntable with a penny to keep it from skipping. 

That, and The Ed Sullivan Show on Sunday nights.   

Old Ed prided himself of presenting “A really big show!”   He was the one who gave Elvis tv time – but would only allow him to be filmed from the waist up.  Elvis was too provocative for a full screen, but too good not to have him on the show.  Huge controversy back in the day and a night to remember.  Probably massive ratings numbers too, come to think of it.  

There was also the night Nancy Sinatra performed These Boots Were Made For Walking, and the night The Beach Boys played Good Vibrations (I was home alone that night and nearly blew the speakers on our poor, old tv set).  And, how about the night The Beatles preformed She Loves You, Yeah Yeah Yeah. with teenaged girls swooning and fainting all over the place? 

There was one other of his shows that sticks in my memory.  Sometime in the ‘70s there was an act on that speculated what music would sound like in the 21^st Century.  Being in the middle of this musical revolution and loving it all, I recall being intrigued with this offered glimpse into the future … until they played what they envisioned.  Instead of the warmth of guitars, drums, and pianos there were machine-generated synthetic noises, no vocals, and no drum beat to tie it all together.  I was appalled.  I realize that this shows me to be a cranky old coot at a very young age, but how dare they degrade my music into something so awful?  I was pre-old.

Thank goodness for Sirius XM with their channels sorted by decade.  I can choose whether I want the birth of rock and roll, it’s adolescent Hippie years, or a mix of soft rock or ‘80s country music that it matured into.

But as good it is to have my favourite music on demand, there is absolutely no substitute for a live, in-person show.  Sharing the experience with a crowd is electric, the instrument-playing talents of the musicians always blows me away, and the power of the music stirs my soul.  The opportunity for live music is rare but still possible: two of my ‘also old’ besties (sorry girls) attended “Walk Right Back” a tribute to the Everly Brothers in Regina this weekend.  It was so worth the ticket price, the long drive home, and even having to explain to our waiter at supper who the Everly Brothers were (we gave up and told him to ask his grandmother).  The show was a step back in time to the pure sound of rock and roll’s childhood.  The evening was golden.

To make it even more special I happened to run into friends I hadn’t seen in ages.  No surprise that they would be drawn to this concert – they’ve been playing music all their lives and live right in Regina.  They said they were spending their retirement playing music at seniors homes now and were busier than they had ever been playing some of the very songs we were hearing at the show.  This was the music that made seniors happy.

On the one hand that gives me pause … playing rock and roll to old people?  It seems to upset my space/time continuum.

On the other hand, old people are much younger than they used to be, so I guess it’s okay. 

Maybe it’s a new way to explain “The Golden Years”.

 

 

DAYS OF WINE AND HUMMINGBIRDS

When you’re retired every day is wide open.  Every morning is a fresh new decision on what to do with your time. 

Gone are the solid, regimented, industrious days of gainful employment.  No longer am I safe within the boundaries of a prescribed schedule, meeting deadlines and commitments for a paycheck, working for ‘the man’. 

Ah! Those were the days!  It’s so much easier now that my main reason for being is to decide what to make for supper.

I wonder, how does one retire from making supper?  (asking for a friend)

But I’ll leave that quandary for another day.

Meanwhile, back here in the middle of March, my decision-making processes must be applied to what to do with today’s sunshine.  We all know about March’s lion and lamb.  We also know how untrustworthy this is.  Sure, we began with a lamb but what does that prove?  It’s just something to talk about while dithering about whether if it’s safe to exchange winter snow boots for spring rubber boots yet.  Like, how many times do you really want to haul them up and down the basement stairs until Mother Nature tires of her game? 

What’s that you say?  Just leave them all spread all over the porch floor until Easter, just in case?  With the boot dryer plugged in at the ready?  Besides, the resulting chaos is great cover for the inch deep layer of mud all over the floor.  Win/win, for sure.  I’ll do it!  That will take care of the porch until the end of April.

What about the rest of the house?  While I’m pondering my next move I pick up my vacuum cleaner hose to hunt down the morning’s collection of little stripey flies and fugitive maple bugs.  Their Zombie Awakening is one of the clearest indications of spring so far as they stumble out of their winter hidey holes to test my insect hunting skills.  They will disappear about the time mosquitoes begin the show up.

My insect hunt has taken me to my windows.  They were so clean last fall; they are so not clean now.  I am not prepared to do anything about this today, but hey … my window policeman isn’t home this afternoon … an hour or so of fresh air couldn’t hurt anything …  

And the fresh window air will nicely complement the freshly aired bedding I washed and hung out on the line this morning.  That was one of my very first decisions today; bedtime is going to smell like heaven tonight.

As always I have a list of things I need to do – I better confess to the jobs I am avoiding:

·         Dog poop patrol … for the obvious reasons.  There’s fresh snow on it at the moment thank goodness!

·         Take down the last of the Christmas decorations and put them away.  Some of them are still frozen in the ground so, awe gee, can’t do anything about that!

So I find myself back on my deck, surveying my kingdom.  This is where all my best decisions are made … like what flowers to plant this year, where to put them, and who to share them with.  It just doesn’t get any better than this.

I have marigolds and zinnias already sprouted, dahlias to bring out of cold storage, and over 100 tulips and daffodils ready to make spring 2025 special.  The Internet promises me that hummingbirds have already started North.  What more could I ask for?

Oh yeah, that making supper forever until I die thing …