Heidi Ho--Prairie Treasure

Well, within one day of writing this my baby will be one year farther away from being my baby.  She will  have completed another year of being a grown woman, with adult freedoms and adult responsiblities. 

But being my baby, the youngest of four babies, I think there will always be a place in my heart where she is still the little pink skinned. round headed, fair haired girlie that I brought home .   After a 3 week stay in the hospital, awaiting the grand arrival, Heidi was born at 4:30 in the afternoon with almost every nurse on the floor coming to watch. I think they had been taking bets when/if this baby was ever going to be born. Her Dad was there witnessing it all--the only birth he did witness.

  Grandma and Grandpa D. happened to walk in just in time to find out that Heidi was coming into the world at that very moment.  And, true to form, Grandma and Grandpa D. LEFT the hospital to go shopping.  They came back in time to watch me do the  first baby wash up.   The nurses came and took the baby after a few minutes and told me to get some sleep.  There were about 6 other babies born that day in this particular hospital.  When I awoke, I heard an infant  cry and went to the doorway of my room and called the nurse asking, "Is that my baby crying?"; and yes , indeed, it was my Heidi Ho.  They were quite surprized that I knew my baby's cry so soon after having met her.

 Heidi Jayne fit right in.  She was the apple of her big sister Sarah's eye who referred to her as 'the newborn baby'.  There was nothing that Sarah wouldn't have done, given, or sacrificed for the 'new born baby'. She even offered up her treasured stuffed animal bag to me so that I would have something to put the 'new born baby's ' things into.  I suspect one could still cause tears of regret to well up in Sarah's eyes if one ever brought up the time she dropped her treasured sister when she went to lift her out of her playpen.  Happily no harm was done except some of Sarah's heart was broken .

Heidi has another sister closer in age ,who being 2 1/2 at time of her arrival, simply was not all that impressed with a baby who had no teeth, no hair, and couldn't play or eat. Nope, Rachel was not pleased.  Of course, that time soon passed as the two youngest girls became good playmates while the other siblings were off to school.

The big brother of the family ,  being seven years old, pretty much tolerated another girl baby being brought into the house but was a dutiful brother when it came to running and fetching things for mom while the baby was young.  Alexander was a willing and able sleigh and wagon puller for baby, as well as being the 'cat' when playing house.

The first away trip for Heidi would have been staying at the cottage at the tender age of 1 week.  July was always cottage month for the family and Heidi and her carriage landed on the beach  with mosquito netting and playpen.  Her first birthday was at the lake. I think everyone in the family remembers the 'pink' shovel.

Some memorable moments for Heidi as she grew up are: having a chicken bone in her foot, having a nail from a board  in her foot , skating at Sheho, falling off her bike and spilling her candies on the gravel road (which Rachel went and picked up for her ), playing in the water trough sans clothing, playing in the sandpile, kittens from the barn, chocolate chips in the play refridgerator, tea parties, playing house in the barn loft, playing with the old Christmas trees in the snow, shows in Yorkton, cake decorating, getting  books from the library, getting her passport by herself at 16, composing at the piano, cottage time with Dad, hurting her knee, surprise Santa Gifts at age 17, two trips to build houses in Mexico, scrapbooking, wilderness camping, and working in the school cafeteria. 

Heidi has to have the BEST sense of humor and the most beautiful smile set off by flawless  white teeth and just a hint of a dimple.  The appreciation for the just a 'little bit' twisted is what I like.  Her fearlessness and her adament sense of what is right and wrong is what I think are her best characteristics.  Not much gets past her when it comes to identifying the  superfluous and superficial both in personality and materialism.

She is a people person and enjoys meeting, and learning about, and appreciating the differences of everyone she encounters.  She doesn't judge  on  occupation, religion, culture, looks, age or education.  She looks to see who the individual is on the inside first before condemning or sterotyping; and I think that THAT is what I admire about her the most. 

Heidi is  a taller than average woman with a build to match her interest in maritial arts and fitness training. She has recently completed four years post secondary education which includes the aquistion of a decent grasp of Spanish , and she continues to thirst for knowledge. She loves reading, biking, going the gym, parties,  camping, wearing cool clothes (that fit gorgeously on her 5'10+ frame). Sometimes  this blonde haired, blue eyed beauty of Swedish ancestory also needs just sitting and thinking time to examine  her life and her future.

My baby is a treasure and I wish her a life of wonderful adventure full of caring and  loving friends who will lift her up and appreciate what a jewel she truly is.

If you ever get to meet Heidi or are already her friend..get her to explain the difference between salmonella and syphylis.  It's important she gets that straight in her mind.

OUCH..that hurt!

During the last couple of months I have had the dubious opportunity to require the services of a physiotherapist.  Before this I had never given much thought as to what these people did. How bad could it be?  I thought perhaps they rubbed your muscles , or wiggled your arms, or crinked your neck. Nope. That's not what they do at all, at all, at all. 

What they do is make you WORK! You are made to work your muscles to the brink of tears and exhaustion while they calmly stand beside you , arms crossed, leaning against the wall, as they watch. They watch how hard you are pulling, bending, stretching and grimacing. Then, after all that, they invite you into their 'little room' where you are told to lie facedown on the cot that has what I refer to as a "screaming hole". Its that little space you put your face into because if it wasn't there your face would be smacked down flat and  the scream drool would have no where to go and it would be messy. 

 You follow  their directions merely and primarily because some government agency is paying your way to be there. So you have to show up, sweat up, lie down, and  floor scream  not so softly into that modern day scream catcher.
And THEN, the  physioperson grabs the injured body part (in my case the leg)and proceeds to bend it backward.  Like really backward.  Like so backward the only thing louder than the popping and cracking going on inside  the joint are the gasps and groans being thrown literally to the floor through that little hole of pain.

Now physioperson says, "Feel THAT Penny?"  Or, as physioperson starts actually leaning their body weight down lower and lower upon my bent and suffering limb, "How about this?"

I did not KNOW that is what physiotherpests do and I told them that one day.  The reply was , "Just because it hurts doesn't mean it harms."---

--and THUS starts the purpose of this blog....

 I like to think that that phrase , "Just because it hurts doesn't mean it harms" can also be applied to concepts surrounding relationships.


We most assurdely all hurt, have hurt, been hurt,  and will be hurt.  We all will be guilty of  hurting our peers, our loved ones, our children,our parents, and strangers. 

We can be hurt in several ways:verbally,physically,sexually,emotionally, and  morally. I could stop there and say, "That's that. You are, were and, will be hurt..so suck it up princess and get on with life." Sometimes we do that very thing and sometimes we don't follow such advice either because we won't or can't, but mostly because in the long run it doesn't work.

And sometimes there is harm that follows the hurt. Harm that fractures lives and makes a wound that festers and scars both the one who caused the hurt and the recipient, as well as whoever may be in the vicinity physically or emotionally to witness the hurtful act.

The hurt may and most times does come from an outside source, but it is the harm that results is what comes from within.  We can go to doctors and physiotherpists if it is a physical hurt, or we can see counsellors and psychologists for an emotional hurt.  But no matter what those people tell us, it is still ultimately up to us to do the work..of exercising or in the case of hurts that are other than physical taking the time to adjust our thinking. Part of this adjusted thinking will inevitably lead to having to repeatedly forgive just as much as a daily ritual  of stretching and bending is for a physical hurt.

People often have a hard time forgiving because of the  genuine feelings of hurt that occur,just as it is in the case of the pain that comes with a physical injury and required  painful exercise to follow. But if one doesn't forgive and do that exercise of learning to let go, accept, and trust , the harmful effects of fear,isolation , and anger will start to harden one's heart until other parts of one's life become affected.  Relationships get cut off, bitterness sets in, and innocent people start getting hurt which in turns creates even more harm. This will happen just as assuredly as if one didn't  exercise a damaged ligament; the rest of one's joints would bare too much pressure and get damaged in the long run creating further injury and hurt which,again, if not cared for becomes  permanent harm.

There is a reason for that little hole in the scream table--it is to help the one who is hurting to cope with a painful situation. May we all find our own little scream table in life so that when we hurt we have someone or somewhere to go to help us stop the harm.


 Hurt -- inevitable.
 Harm -- optional.
 Forgiveness -- mandatory. 

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

My husband wakes up at much at the same time of day everyday--5:30 am.  He wakes just before the alarm goes off.  He claims it is because his body gets too sore from lying in bed , but I think it is because he hates the sound of the alarm clock.

I can pretty much only sleep about two hours at a time because my body, too , protests the constant pressure of being laid prone with joints unmoving and seemingly at rest, but in actuality in various states of seizure. Hence the pain of even turning over stirs one to awaken with a hesitancy and a certain dread  caused by wondering  which  movement will lessen or worsen the  condition.

The days when  one could work and play for more hours than sleep have vanished as completely as my desire to do so.    Those times of having to have the alarm clock placed inside a metal cooking pot set across the room so one would have to actually stand up and walk to stop the sound in order to become fully awakened  are but a faded memory.  What was I doing that I would be so absolutely exhausted that I wouldn't be able to wake up to a regular set alarm clock?   If I recall correctly, it was the effect of  the burning of the candle at both ends.  Now that's a phrase seldom thought of and  a  concept even less seldom applied in this household for at least two decades.

Another guaranteed 'up and att'em' practice that circumvents the comparative gentleness of the clanging of any alarm clock is the tradition that was practiced in  my family of origin by the early morning glass of water in the face.  Now this wasn't an every day occurrence and in reality probably happened no more that two or three times to either myself or any of my siblings during our comparative short  stay in the family home.  I think it was the seemingly randomness of the act that made it so effective. The coldness and liquidity of the water certainly made it more memorable. 

Now, it seems, one can be awakened by almost any sound, bell, musical selection,or song.  One can even program the room's lighting to gradually brighten or fall as needed to fit the  slumber needs of the individual.  This compared to the abrupt flicking of the overhead ceiling bulb or the flipping up of the bedroom blind is , if one will please forgive me,  like night and day.

  It makes me wonder how did people actually know and have the motivation to get out of bed and prepare for the day's work before all the gadgetry and inventions of the modern world came to be?  I think it probably had a lot to do with  having to eat to live, and in order to do that, one had to get up and  earn one's daily bread or salt as the case may dictate.  In an agricultural setting , one has to variably go fetch or catch the food to be eaten, so sleep in that instance,  is often regarded as a necessary inconvenience to ongoing survival-- more of a hindrance than a pleasure.

Gone are the days of working from daylight to dawn with the only pleasure being able to sit and eat three times a day.  Gone is the simple satisfaction that comes from having the health to fulfill a day's labour.  Gone are the reasons to feel genuinely fatigued enough to fall gratefully into bed and sleep the dreamless sleep of one satisfied with life. Gone, it seems too, is  the motivation to leave that sleep to embrace the day.  

And so with these thoughts in mind, I wish each and every one of us a night of worry free slumber that can only be a result of a day's toil full of heartfelt vigor and love of the activity performed.  May the knowledge that whatever choices we made during the day that wanes, were  made out of compassion, love , and understanding for the fellow creatures sharing our world.  It is my wish that all   our awakenings will be with ease and blessed with  an optimism  and confidence that whatever unfolds minute by minute,  we will do our best to make it a day that will end in a welcome and deserved rest full of pleasant dreams of both the day to come and the day just passed.

Drowning Video

DROWNING

Fishy Fishy in the Sea

Fishing Vocabulary

Lure ,
Hook,
Spool,
Spoon,
Swivel,
Fillet,
Rod,
Reel,
Anchor,
Trolling,
Casting,
Limit,
Jack,
Wall Eye,
Pike,
Len Thompson and,
Canadian Wiggler.


Some Common Fishing Rules Are:

Keep the tackle box closed in case it gets dumped.


WEAR the life jacket in case you get dumped.


Reel in as soon as you know the other fisherman has caught a fish.


Keep your rod up and your tension on.


The boat coming off the water  is the boat that has the next right to use the dock.

Never fish off the same side of the boat as the other person.



PHRASES Heard on a Fishing Weekend.

Got One!
Oh..a nibble.!
Gone!  Really Gone! Gone! Gone! Gone! (as in hook is Gone in weeds, fish, or rocks) . The same meaning can be expressed   with the phrase, "Fish On! Fish Off!"
I just bought that hook.
"It  got away you mean," in reply to, "It Let Go!"
I've seen sardines bigger than that!
I need a new leader.
It was huge!
Did it ever pull!
Where  are the licenses?
Should we keep it?
Watch out for  the Rock!
Did you see it?
Hammer Handle!
Grandpa..what if we have to pee when we are in the boat?
Sure you can look in my cooler, Sir.
WHOA!
I'm hooked.
I guess there were some rocks there.
Got the first fish!
Got the biggest fish!
Do you think they are going to run that all night long? (generator reference)
Why would they need those?



SOUNDS one hears on a fishing trip.

Boat motors.
Sea gulls.
Kill deers.
Loons.
Waves splashing.
Boats on rocks.
Trucks spinning tires.
Squeak of trailer springs.
Generators :(
Electric filleting knives. ?????

SIGHTS on Fishing Trip

Boats on water.
Boats with high sides.
Boats with low sides.
Wide Boats.
Narrow boats.
Boats on trailers.
Boats on trucks.
Fish jumping out of the water.
Pelicans sculling.
White caps.
Campsites with Halogen Lights.
Boat being paddled back to shore in the morning.
Another boat being paddled back in the morning.
Boat being paddled back (again) to shore in the afternoon.
Hooks flying unleashed from the line.
Kid in raft without life jacket.
Man in underwear in water trying to  reach lost hook.
Dogs  in water.
White caps.
Four people standing up in boat at the same time.
Two people in boat without life jackets.
Man standing behind 6 year old with rod and hook.
Man being hooked by 6 year old with rod and hook.
Conservation Officer driving ghost truck.

What to Wear...What to Where?

For most of my 'womanly' years, I have hated the pressure of having to look right, dress up, or get jazzed up for any special event.  The reason for this may be the not so evident inner desire  to not be noticed, or it may be the more evident desire not to have to pay for someone else's standard of what the term appropriately dressed means.

I went to university during the early 1970's, which in Canada was actually the tail  end of the revolutionary 1960's in the rest of the world.  As the histrionic student  unrest hit Canadian campuses, the fashion of looking like one who came off of some boat carrying immigrants from Central Europe in the 1930s was  preferred if you didn't want pamphlets  in your face and 'would be' Trotskyites following you around.   Therefore, being  Forever in Blue Jeans , and blue jeans with a tee shirt worn with or without a bra (male or female)  were accepted and expected campus fashion  statements. 

I worked as a professional during the later 1970's and the worst part of my job was finding clothes that FIT!  I was neither over nor under weight,  nor exceptionally tall or short, but I was not built for the styles available to most of the other young women my age. There was something about being raised on meat and potatoes and working on the farm , along with the combined genetics of not so little grandmothers , that did something to my body that made my shoulders too wide,  my legs too short,  my feet too big, and my waist non existent  to be able to easily buy youthful looking clothes right off the rack.  I remember once, after  finally finding a style of dress slacks that fit properly, buying four pair,  one of every colour, for cash.

Then along came marriage, motherhood, maternity and mayhem.  With marriage  and motherhood there came the need to economise  on fashion, which wasn't all  that difficult  as I never really left the role nor the house for about 8 years.  Who cared how the Mama looked as long as she was clean and covered?  A wise friend once told me that it would have been more inappropriate if the children were poorly dressed and the mother the fashion plate. 

 At least every couple of years in the 1980's my wardrobe did change as the maternity clothes were brought out for six month spells at a time.  Haute Couture had nothing on me for seasonal adjustments to proper attire.


  My standard of having enough clothes in those days was primarily having one pair of black slacks that weren't either  too tight or too loose,  were clean (not necessarily ironed), and had the hem at the cuff at least duct taped up; along with a blouse that did not gape when the buttons were done ;  and a pair of dress shoes that if when you wore them with socks no one would notice. Those knee high nylons just did not last long enough nor were they warm enough to  justify buying them on a regular basis.  This outfit would be considered my 'going to town, church, and  out to supper ' attire and served me well well into the early 2000's.

Yes, there were some fashion faux pas' no doubt.  I do remember wearing rubber boots to the city with knee high blue jean culottes.  I wore a Mickey Mouse over sized tee shirt over my bathing suit for years at the lake; which other than the age inappropriate graphics, was probably considered a wise and welcome choice by many.   The once in every one's life memory of wearing something inside out to church , school, and/or town occurred  in every venue mentioned during those frantic years where the goal of  merely arriving was considered  the  achievement.

In a small town in rural Canada high fashion on a daily basis is not really expected or required in most businesses .   Grocery store clerks usually have a type of uniform, clerks in hardware stores gas stations,  and restauranteurs often wear aprons or coveralls.*  The only place in town that one might  encounter someone actually dressed up as an employee is the Bank ,  and that is the first place I headed upon my arrival in town that fateful fashion faux pas day.


  I remember going through the glass doors of this monetary home  of the fashion savvy and efficiently manicured bank clerks and suddenly--- I was LIMPING.  Not just a bit -- but quite a bit. 

 Was I suffering a stroke?
 Had I tripped? 
 Was someone playing a cruel joke on me?

No. None of the above.

 I looked down at my legs and feet  and  with terror I realized that ...



                  ..... I was wearing two different shoes.



To be fair they were of the same colour and ilk--both slip on type. No, I had not laced one up and ignored the other.  They were both outdoor shoes. They were not slippers--neither ballet nor bedroom.



  *I should clarify -- waitresses in small town cafes do NOT wear coveralls--well,  not often and not well and often not  willingly.

Too Long a Tale to be Told

  A  recent  Face Book status read : With STORYTELLING being such a beautiful art, why would anyone want to make a long story short?

My instant reply was  that if the story could be made short then it wouldn't have  been  a long story in the first place.

And now I will proceed to make my short story on this subject  long, which in effect, if one can indeed make a story longer than it was then, in fact, one may argue  that it indeed wasn't a story in the first place but rather a story in the making.

But if a story in the making was indeed shorter than  the longer, one would have to say that  that story would have previously  been made long before the making of  whatever it was after it was lengthened.

BUT if  the art is in the actual  telling of the story, then no matter how long or how short the length of the story may seem, it is  in the beauty of the telling that will make whatever the length of the story seem short.

 Conversely,  if there is no beauty in the telling, then one might wish indeed that in reality there was less in the length, and thus wish the long story short. 

Get my POINT?

Y?

Y?

Y? Is it OK that the telephone company can call you at any time with offers to update your service  BUT won't call you when your Internet service is down?

Y? Is it OK for the government to pay for needle replacements for heroin users and aged diabetics and colostomy patients pay for their supplies out of their own pocket?

Y? Is it OK for  people who do not ever say Grace at their own table to protest the request of others to have the saying of Grace banned?

Y? Is it OK that you now can't buy a cell phone that won't take pictures, but you can't buy a camera that you can text with?

Y? Is it OK for parking meters to take more money than the time allowed  and not have to give you your change back?

Y? Is it OK for  convicted Canadian perpetrators of child sexual abuse in 3rd World Countries be allowed to spend their Canadian prison time in a facility with a higher living standard than the child victim does in his own country?

Y? Is it OK for men, of any age and  build, to walk around shirtless at any time while supposedly decent women have to always cover the top half of their bodies ?  

Y? Is it OK for people to swear and use bad grammar and poorly phrased English  while out and about, but not OK for  people from a visible minority to speak in  their own language to each other in public?

Y? Is it OK for a company to sell someone an electronic device and assume that person has access or understanding of how to look up the directions to use it on line?

Y? Is it OK that companies have been allowed to shirk their responsibility in providing ready service to their customers by  not doing the most important thing ? That thing being the answering of the phone with a live person.

Y? Is it OK that when one has Call Waiting  the caller already on the line is generally the one who ends up waiting?

Y? Is it OK to order a Denver Sandwich after 11:00 am in a restaurant but you can't order eggs and toast?

Y? Is it OK to have your mail sent  General Delivery  and the clerk will give it to you, but if you have a Box Number at the Post Office you have to have your key to get your mail?

Just asking....

My Four Fathers

Well, its Father's Day.

Counting my two grandfathers, my own father, and the father of my children there have been four men in my life who have influenced my definition of what being a father actually means.


Charles Cooper was born on February 5, 1891 in Manitoba.  I know little of his childhood, and even less of his upbringing.  He was, what to me as a child,  a tall slim man who never wore his false teeth.

  I do know he married a dark beauty named  Bella Jane and fathered five children , all of whom served in the Canadian Forces during  World war II.  I know that somehow or other he became a mechanic and worked for little pay until he moved his family,  after years of poverty and want, to Brandon, Manitoba.  It was at this time that he started his own cab company "Cooper's Cab".   I had the opportunity more than once to accompany  Granddad on his pickups and delivery and having him explain proudly that I was his granddaughter from Saskatchewan.
  
 He also had a love for boating and fishing as is evident in  his owning a  wooden fishing houseboat "The June Bug."  I saw it only once resting in his garage.  I believe he and Grannie took it to the Pacific coast one year at least , to fish probably for salmon. 

Granddad also owned and wore huge diamond rings.  I don't know how or why he had them, probably an investment of some kind. Perhaps the result of a distrust of banks and financial institutions borne out of being an adult in the 1930s.  That might explain why Grannie and Grandad had a huge  combination safe in their bedroom where cash was kept. I do know that whenever I see one of those eye pieces that jewellers wear  to examine the worthiness of gold or jewels I think of Granddad .  Strange what one's memory chooses to cut and paste .

I do know that Grandad had suffered a huge tragedy when he lost his parents in a car accident.  I recall standing by Grandad at his desk-- a desk cluttered with nick nacks--little figurines that did tricks--balancing fishermen on ledges, ceramic horses, and papers and adding machines.  There was a picture of a lady on the wall and I asked him who that lady was.  I was about 8 years old but I recall how his eyes welled up with tears as he said that that was his mother.   I later found out that his parents had driven off a cliff during a rainstorm in British Columbia on their way back from visiting him and his family.

He had the deepest dimples when he smiled that I have ever yet to see on another person;  not even surpassed by my own mother's.

  He smoked.  I  remember watching him with awe as he rolled his own cigarettes using  a home cigarette rolling machine. Watching the ritual of the  process is not unlike, in a strange sort of way, the  watching of  a tea ceremony .   The clearing of all the superfluous off the kitchen table.   The smell of the tobacco as the can was opened ; the preciseness of the amount of tobacco as it was placed evenly along the leather slats, as well as the carefulness of the rate of rolling which  culminated in the bringing out of the razor blade to cut the length of each cigarette.  A little bit of magic in this child's eyes.  Unfortunately, as a consequence of this activity,  I can also still hear his deep and laboured breathing that would announce his entrance into a room.  

 He did drink. Sometimes to excess.  Mom recalled how he and another fellow came home all wet, in more ways that one,  one day. They had drunkenly sunk the boat in the Assiniboia River that runs through Brandon.  I am not sure of the circumstances, but another  family story is that Granddad accidentally discharged a shotgun in the kitchen whilst cleaning it one day.

I can  remember Mom speaking about a time when, for whatever reason, Granddad had 10-- $100 bills in his hand , a fortune in the early 1940's;  sitting in the  chair woefully proclaiming with tears in his eyes, " Oh, what we could have done with this when the children were young." 

Charles Cooper was always referred to as 'Daddy' by my mom.  He died in the spring of 1961 of emphysema. 

William Edgar Dixon  was born on his parent's homesteaded farm on October 3, 1898 near Lemberg, Saskatchewan.  He was the youngest of 6 children.  He had four brothers and one beloved sister who everyone referred to as ''Sis'.  He attended  the country school Chickney  and achieved his Grade 8 status. 

He worked on the family farm. He joined the  Royal Canadian Army and was stationed near York, England during WWI.  Grandpa  had a tattoo and if ever I could figure out what it was I would get one to match it. He lost at least two fingers during a farming accident. He met and married my grandmother Edna Aileen  in 1920 and fathered three children; two sons and a daughter.

 He was the School Secretary for Chickney School for many many years, as was his father before him. Perhaps his only claim to  common fame was that he was a pallbearer to the Rt. Honourable James G.  Gardiner , former Premier of Saskatchewan, and Federal Minister of Agriculture for the Dominion of Canada.

I grew up and lived only 2 miles from this grandfather and have many many happy memories of visiting and learning about this wonderful man who was small in stature but great in being able to be happy and content.  I can only recall one time when he was sharp with me and that was when I was in the grain truck with him. I was putting my feet on something that wasn't supposed to have feet on it.  He admonished me with some anger in his voice and I can still feel the sting of the hot tears that rolled down my cheeks.  That was the only time I recall of ever seeing him ticked off with anything or anybody..(yes..and it had to be with me :( ).

Grandpa Dixon could and would talk to anyone about anything.  He loved to socialize and he loved to laugh.  He never was at a loss for words, and I do not recall him ever saying a bad word about any person or group of people.

 His favourite trick was to put 'something' in the toe of your shoe or boot when you weren't looking , so there would be some excitement at the door when we would be leaving. 

He rarely drank.  I am not sure if it was his decision solely or if he was 'influenced' by Grandma's opinion of the evil drink.  I do remember his proudly showing me a bottle of Brandy in the cupboard that he had recently bought after a heart attack because the doctor had prescribed it. 

I spent many many happy times playing rummy, checkers, and UNO at Grandma and Grandpa's house.  Saturday afternoons were often spent going to town with them.  I spent my seventeenth birthday with them in Melville where  we went out for Chinese food.  I can recall consciously thinking that that was a special day not to be forgotten, and I am so grateful for that thought  as it still is one of my favourite birthday memories.

Grandpa died  on a Saturday morning in February in 1973.  I was attending university at the time.  I was supposed to go see Grandpa and Grandma the night before, but being young and stupid, I made the unfortunate choice to meet friends at the local bar, with intentions of visiting the next day.

The next day never happened as at 7 am  that Saturday morning the telephone rang.  It was Grandma calling asking my dad to come quickly as Grandpa had had a spell and had fallen out of bed.  Mom called from the bottom of the steps to my bedroom telling me to get up and go with Dad to Grandpa's.  She thought that I would want to go.  I will always be grateful for her insight and acknowledgment of my need to be there.

Grandpa had passed by the time we drove into town.  He had probably passed before he even hit the floor.  I believe he did not feel any physical pain.  I know I was in his thoughts just prior to that as Grandma relayed that he had mentioned earlier that  morning that I probably would be coming into town that day as I hadn't stopped in the night before. 

 It is nice but also sad that I was part of his last thoughts on this earth.   


Russel Edgar Dixon was born in the house that his father had built on the family farm on   September 25, 1923.  He was to be the eldest of 3 children.  He attended Chickney school until the end of Grade 9.  He worked on the farm until the age of 18 and then he enlisted in the Royal Canadian Air Force to serve during World War II.  He was stationed near York,  England, like his father before him in World War I.

While stationed at Shilo, Manitoba, my father met my mother , Elsie May  of Brandon.  After serving overseas he married this Brandon girl and together they made their home on a farm not far from his own family's   He fathered four children; three daughters and a son.

Farming was Dad's main occupation.  He farmed about five quarters of land for most of his farming career.  He also had about 40 head of cattle.  When I was about 6 years old I remember looking out my bedroom window and seeing the first of what was to be a litany of Caterpillar Tractors in the yard.  Dad had decided to enter the road construction and bull dozing business.  Dixon Construction existed for about 30 years and became the basis of our family's income over farming. 

Dad worked hard to make a living.  From the time he bought the first D2 Caterpillar until the day I left home he was constantly , constantly working long long hours.  There were times when we children would not see him for two weeks at a time.  The only evidence of his existence would be the shine of lights on our bedroom ceiling as his 1/2 ton would drive into the yard at ten or eleven at night or else the sound of the dog barking at 5 am as it drove out again.

I remember as a small child Dad having a band.  He played many musical instruments. I suspect that if he had been born at a different time in a different spot in the world he could have been an acknowledged musician. There were many many years when his guitar had not been brought out at all due to lack of time or energy.  It was only during the last 20 years of his life that his music was given any attention.

   Because of his many miles traveling from job site to job site, he  seemed to have the permanent ''farmer tan' on his arm. You know, that left arm tan that happens when one's arm is leaning on the edge of the turned down window. I spent many hours and days with my dad in his truck as he drove around to job sites and meetings with customers and the inevitable 'parts people'.  These truck conversations would often be about politics--actually mostly politics when I think about it.   Political conversations combined with the playing of music on the radio.  I distinctly remember the  new song , "Rocking Robin" being played  and Dad tapping to the music on the steering wheel.  I remember literally walking in his footsteps in freezing January weather out in the open pasture helping to carry feed to the cattle.  I watched him chop ice in the dugout to water the stock and traveled with him to check muskrat traps and watching in awe as he skinned  his catch and tanned them in the basement.  There is a smell involved with that that is pretty near indescribable.

The most special time I remember was when I wanted to watch the Lucy Show on television.  It came on at 9pm--past my bedtime. Dad took me in his lap and whispered in my ear   to go to bed now and 'sneak' back down at 9 to watch.  I do believe that there has not been very many times in my life that I have felt as delightfully extraordinary as that little moment when I was five.


What else do I remember most about my Dad? I remember his hard work, his  being able to pull over at the side of the road, fall into a deep sleep in seconds, wake up in ten minutes, and continue on his journey refreshed as if he had had a full night's sleep.  I remember how his frustration with life and the pressures that accompanied it were sometimes manifested in unreal expectations  and an impatience with myself and the rest of the world. Sometimes his actions were unreasonable and seemingly cruel, and they were. But as I look upon them with an adult eye , an adult who has also experienced frustrations and exhaustion and have also made bad choices, I feel  much empathy for both the child I was and for this faulty adult who made bad and regrettable decisions.   

 I also remember that he was the absolute BEST gift giver I have ever known.  I admire anyone who can give great gifts because it means to me that the gift giver has actually given thought of the recipient.  A lot of insight and understanding on the part of the giver has to occur before a good gift is chosen. I thank him for the gold pearl pierced  earrings he bought for all his daughters one Christmas, as well as  the flashlights, the metal grill made from re bar to help me get unstuck in bad weather as well as the inevitable Jersey Milk chocolate found at the bottom of a box of groceries.  He also brought me home a chameleon from the local fair one year.   I must not forget the biggest gift ever and the biggest surprise ever; that being a saddled  cattle pony, Lady Jane,  being driven into the yard in the back of a truck  on a June 8 morning as I was getting ready for school.  

My Dad loved music and he loved to dance. He was a great dancer having learned ball room dancing while overseas during the war.

Dad was a reader of History.  He was accepting and interested in different cultures,  a value which I believe he has handed down to me.  He had the gift of his own father for being able to talk about anything to anyone.  He enjoyed a good joke and a good trick and would repeat them and laugh as much the fifth time  as he did the first.

Dad suffered terribly during the last two years of his life. I spent quite a lot of time  with him and got to renew and redefine our previous troubled relationship.  I realized that inside that sometimes hard exterior he had while I was growing up, there was  a very vulnerable, caring, loving human being who in many ways had been  doing his best, the best he knew how. 

All in all I wouldn't have traded a minute of time with my dad with anyone else.  I was and always will be proud to be able to say that I was Russel Dixon's daughter.  I am glad I told him that before he passed away in 2004.

IRWIN MURRY HOFFMAN is the father of my four children,  one son and three daughters.

Irwin was born in Foam Lake, Saskatchewan , the middle child of a family of four, 3 boys and a girl.  His father was a farmer and his mother a homemaker. 

Irwin followed in his father's footsteps and farmed until he hurt his back in his early 20's.  He then sort of 'retired' and lived off the rent of the farm until he married and had children of his own.   Four children arrived in quick succession, and it seemed that with each birth a new challenge rose.  

The first child was born amidst the news of the impending passing of Irwin's dear wonderful mother.  The mixture of joy and sorrow was never felt as much as during those horrible/happy days of the spring of 1983. 

The second child was born shortly before the decision to return to farming was made.  Long hours of building, fixing, fence making,  and field work made getting to know his first baby daughter very difficult.

The third child was born on the very day of the beginning of the process of turning the  farm back to the financial institution.  The winter following was a time of contemplation, bargaining with lawyers and banks, and of renewing his acquaintance with his children. This was the winter he spent building a complete miniature wooden kitchen set that was enjoyed for at least a decade by all.

The fourth child came along during a time of employment and a certain amount of fleeting financial security which  was only to disappear within a month of her birth.

The things that I consider to be gifts of character handed down to these four children  by their father are: perseverance, faithfulness to family , diligence, responsibility, zest for learning, honesty, integrity, and unselfish giving of time.  He is and always has been their greatest fan being confident and proud of their ability to do right  and to excel.  He gave the time he could when he could.  He never shirked the honour of caretaking during the most difficult times as is evident in his time taking three preschoolers to the  lake one summer, and four preschoolers the next, while I was away taking classes. 

Irwin also accepted the challenge required to return to school at the age of 35 in order to upgrade his education for the sole goal of being able to improve his children's future.

 He also took over the  role of 'stay at home Dad'  for a full year with an ease and confidence rarely found in one of his generation.

I am sure each child has their own special memory of times spent with this man.  Times spent alone at the cottage, bike rides, times of game playing, making of special spaghetti sauces, palt making, campfires, grass cutting, Christmas mornings, Easter mornings, birthdays and book reading. 

Sometimes character development doesn't happen with the  direct expression of  verbal direction but of visual observation .   I believe that each and every one of our children have benefited greatly by watching and learning from the actions of this father who was not perfect.  In spite of his imperfection, this father expressed his love for his children through his example of how to  persevere in life even with its foibles and  frustrations that at times were inappropriately vented  and  unhappily comes along with the making of  unfortunate choices.

There was no time that any decision made concerning his children,  no matter how ill conceived or badly it turned out, was not made with  the best of intentions.

I believe my children have been blessed with such a man to be their father, and I hope that they know and  believe so too.

And now just recently, I have learned that I have a son- in- law who has become the father of my first grandchild.  I know that this young father is filled with all the good intentions and confidence of knowing what choices to make with the benefit of his child in mind, just as the men who I described above have done.  I wish him well in his choices and hope that his decisions in the future will be met with compassion and forgiveness as he too will only do the best he knows how. 

Chirp Chirp

Strange Things I Have Eaten

 10. Chevron..meat from a goat...very good actually.   I shouldn't even list it as strange as so many people around the world eat Chevron every day.

 9. Rabbit--again common everywhere but North America. Very good and a very economical source of protein.

8. Prairie chicken..which isn't all that unusual..except that I had hit it with my car traveling between my parents' house and Wolseley. I stopped, picked it up..took it to the next door neighbour..he cleaned it (poor lil ol'me). I fried it up and ate it.  Road Kill -- Can't get any fresher than that. (Doesn't everybody do it?)

7.  Chocolate covered ants.  I bought them in a gourmet section of Safeway for my Dad for his birthday.   They were quite a hit.

6.  Conch--the sort of flat gooey pancake colored sea  animal that lives in those pretty pinkish shells that people buy to "listen to the ocean to".   I was on a catamaran once in the Bahamas and divers were bringing them up from the bottom of the ocean.  They then cooked them fresh...pan fried and seasoned.

5. Cricket cookies from my daughter's Science Fair Project...she is now a vegan.

4. Clams...from a local lake this time...probably quite a dangerous practice due to the high risk of  poisoning found in improperly prepared shellfish.

3. Roe--Fish eggs milked from Northern Pike.  Fried and seasoned.

2. Palt--a Scandinavian ground boiled potato and flour patty with butter , black pepper, and bacon.

1. A worm--when I was little.


This all puts me in mind of a young mother who  described a disturbing happening when she went outside to check on her two year old daughter.  After calling and calling and looking all around the back yard she finally found her young baby sitting quietly  in the shrubs. The top of her dress  was blood stained and feathers  were sticking here and there on her hair and clothing.  With twinkling eyes and a bloodied mouth smile, the little girl held out her round  tightfisted hands that contained ....


                                             ...... a headless robin.

               This cookbook has receipes to cook Muskrat Meatloaf, Sweet Pickled Beaver, Ground Hog, and Turtle and many more Wildly Exciting Delights.

Cruising

I was cruising this afternoon.


.
 I have cruised in other ways.

I am, of course, referring to the the idle driving up

 and down main street of my North American 

hometown on a Saturday night in whatever

vehicle my father let me have for the night,  and

with about as just as much gas as it would take to

get  me to where I said I was going and home

again, unless I hadn't doubled backed and filled

up  at the obligatory farm fuel outlet known as the

''Gas Tanks" situated on the edge of the far trees.



  More purple (1) gas was burned on a Saturday

night than by any tractor on any fields that  were

cultivated, seeded, harrowed or plowed all during

the week.

 As I got older I have to admit that I did a bit of

 'cruisin'' in bars other than the gas

type  during my university years and beyond.

But the type of cruising that I am referring to

today is the type that hearkens to the open road,

the carefree touch of a button and 'zoom zoom'

you are driving over  the horizon with only  the

rare speed  zone sign triggering the quick tap

on  the brake followed by the  hopeful  adequate

coast allowing one to have slowed within the

correct parameters of  town requirements.

Today's motivation for cruising was far  more primal.

Speed On!   Soundless wee beastie  having succumbed ,  stretched sightless and smelly since being stroked softly by the soles of a  shoe until  suddenly shaken  by  scurrilous and scandalous screams of someone surprised by the squishy sluggishness of such a soulless symbol of the unsanitary and  the insane  

 (1) Purple gas refers to gas that has a purple dye added to it.  Farmers could use Purple Gas for agricultural purposes only and then used the receipts for income tax deductions.  That was why most farmers had their own tanks of farm fuel located near the home quarter.   The only difference between Purple gas and gas bought from the gas station in town was the color.  About once a year there would be a Purple Gas Blitz where RCMP officers would syphon gas from cars parked around town to make sure there were no 'Gas Abusers'.  As I recall the principal of the school got caught for "Purple Gas"...I don't think many of his students were surprised.

Blogland

4000


There have been 4000 hits on my blog.


Wow!


Kind of interesting.

Makes one wonder how many were actual people who wanted purposely to read what I had written, or were they such random hits as people browsed the Blog Sites.


Makes one wonder how many Posts were read from start to finish, how many people critiqued the grammar, spelling, and content.

It would be nice on this sort of Anniversary Day of 4000+ if people would simple write their first name in the comment section so I could get a 'feel' of who is out in BLOGLAND and who actually reads my blither.


Yep. It would be nice.

My Best Wishes to All of You who have chosen to read what I write and also My Best Wishes to All of You who have accidently come across my blog and will choose never to click on it again. 

Bye for now.

Penny Lou

Today Travellers

It is raining.  It is raining very hard. The window is open and a cool moist breeze is wafting through the living room chilling my bare legs.  I feel the warming comfort from the  laptop as I type this.  I can hear at least 4 types of birds chirping over the soft  rain taps on the roof .  The  what must be a very wet squirrel is running to and fro over my head across the shingles.

The sky is a slate grey due not only to the cloud cover but also because of the early morning light.

I can also hear the  periodic hum of tires on the highway about a mile down the road.  It is odd how one can seemingly instinctively know which vehicle is a transport truck, which a van or car, or quarter ton.  It is not as if anyone ever consciously thinks 'I must remember and note that sound for future reference..it might be important some day'. 

This morning I do think about the people traveling in those vehicles.  Are they comfortable? The car heaters will surely be turned on to ward off the dampness.  Are they listening to Satellite Radio above the sound of the windshield wipers? Are they conversing idly or intensely with their travelling companions if they have them?   Are they talking  or idly thinking about their children, parents, lovers, jobs, finances? Are they nearing their destination or have they just begun their voyage?

 I envision Cheezie  and candy  wrappers (pink chicken bones) lying on the floor , beside empty coffee containers awaiting a refill at the next gas station.  They might have  just had a greasy bacon and egg, toast, black coffee breakfast at the local 24/7 restaurant ten miles back and are feeling the  consequential lethargy setting in.

Maybe they are traveling on business, or they are on vacation.  Perhaps they are moving permanently ,  never to travel this particular highway again.  Their minds filled with plans, hopes and regrets as they sojourn towards the new and unknown.

Some of those people traveling might be people that I could be good friends with if I ever had a chance to meet them.  Others, no doubt, might be of the class that seeing the trunk of their car disappear into a distance would be considered a blessing indeed.

I wonder if these travellers ever think of the people who live along the roadside?  I wonder if they are as curious about us as I am about them?  I know that whenever I travel through a town or village during the night and see a light on in a house it always looks so safe and warm and I am strangely filled with a type of envy at the coziness imagined.

I hope that none of these vehicles will be involved in any accident due to the wet roads,  driver inattention, or mechanical failure.


 I wish them well..my Today Travellers.  Unbeknown to them, they have helped me think about something other than myself for a few moments and sometimes that 'other than myself thinking' is a good thing.

Twenty Five Years

It will soon be 25 years. Twenty five years  of anything is usually a time for celebration.  A time of feting with silver decorations and dances and fancy dinners.

Not so with this anniversary year.  It has been twenty-five years since we lost the farm. Twenty -five years since we were worried about seeding, haying, baling, harvesting,  and bankers. 

  A quarter of a century has passed  since I sat at a neighbor's for coffee and had one eye on the gathering clouds as my friend chatted about how she hoped the rain would help her garden, and I simultaneously worried about the rain ruining the hay.

Those long lonely days of busily looking after a four and a two year old while my husband would be, what I thought having a good day, harrowing, seeding, cultivating, or swathing ;  only to typically find that he had been at the garage most of the day getting a weld or repair done on a broken  piece of machinery were far too frequent. 

 I will never forget  the terror of the spring morning when I awoke and realized that he hadn't come in off the field all night.  I packed up the kids hurriedly, grabbed some bread and an orange and a bottle of juice and drove the 15 miles out to the field hoping against hope that he had simply fallen asleep in the tractor and nothing else had happened.  As I approached the field I saw the puff of the exhaust from the engine and realized that he had been cultivating all night long.

He  also baled all night long that last fall. The twinkle of the tractor lights  in the  middle of the night as the tractor  traveled  round and round with the occasional pause in accordance with letting the bale 'drop', seemed like a strange sort of  waltz  made stranger by the fact that there were no break downs, no hammering, nothing stuck or broken for a whole 18 hours. The salesman who had delivered the new baler at 2 the previous afternoon found it hard to believe that the machine hadn't stopped since he had left the yard, when he phoned at 10 the next morning to see if my husband needed any help in understanding how to run the new piece of equipment.

We got malting barely and milling oats that harvest, and top price for the excellent round bales. 

We also got our last call from the banker. Our line of credit was overdrawn, our cash flow was too low, and our debt level was too high. 

The land was repossessed and the cattle were sold the same day our third baby arrived. 

Big changes in lifestyle occurred.   Boxes were packed. Choices were made and challenges met.

The stress was almost unendurable. The pressure of the unknown and unwanted I am sure can be compared to what refugees from war torn parts of the third world experience.  Walking into city government offices and talking to people in dress pants and white shirts and ties, seeking  to qualify for government retraining were times of unbelievable strain.

It was about five years later before we could actually say we were again 'doing ok'.  We had lost about $250,000 but we had a steady income, four healthy children by then, had both increased our formal education, and were living back on the home quarter.  We had gotten through it.

Never again would we ever feel so scared, frustrated, guilty, humiliated, and helpless.





Or so we thought.

HERK

My husband and I were just watching an episode of Will and Grace where Grace and another woman got into a real knock down, face slapping, hair pulling, clothes ripping fight. 

Just watching it made my adrenalin flow just a little bit faster, the old ticker beat a little bit quicker, and the mouth become just a little bit drier as it took me back to a couple of episodes of  my inglorious and not so lady like  youth. Now I am not talking about sibling rivalry where sisters and brothers often scratch, bite, and squeal with fingers pointing until the AUTHORITY FIGURE intervenes.

 I  am referring to a noon hour girl fight with someone two years older than myself. We literally slapped and scratched, pushed and shoved our way down the aisle between the rows of desks in our country school, under the hushed silence of pupils from Grade 1 to 8  observing every blow and pulled out strand of hair  fall limply to the painted hardwood floor .   I am not even sure why the fight started -- probably over a missing eraser. Erasers were important in those days.  I am almost certain that I won.

  I am also talking of a couple of old fashioned  'teacher turning a blind eye' school ground scraps that ended up in skin being forever felt under one's fingernails whenever the memory resurfaces (even after 45 years). I am talking about  the creepy feel of some body's greasy Brel Cream on your hands after giving the hair  on their head such a jerk that it pulled all the curl out of it for at least the next two days. 

  That person never stole another comic book from me although about a year later he had to be tuned in during a noon hour volleyball game during Junior High.

 After  I gave and received a few well landed blows, and having my blouse ripped just a little (odd that I remember that blouse exactly), my rage was assuaged as the Big Grade 12 boys who witnessed the whole scene   escorted him into the boys' washroom  for a 'talk'. 

 Only a few bruises, which faded, and an unfortunate nickname, which didn't, were the result.

Ode to a Killdeer

  Early in the season camping trips help set the stage for understanding the activity of many birds and animals during the coming summer  weeks. 

 The first morning,  when I initially saw gulls flying to and fro from one lake to the next, calling and twirling in the air as long strands of material dangled behind them, my first thought was that they had been caught in some sort of plastic wrap---doomed to an early demise.  But as I looked closer, I saw that what they were doing was  carrying  reeds from last year's bullrushes that were no doubt going to be used in nest making.

Watching the courtship dances of the common coot with the splashing, dashing, pecking and squawking caused one to recall the group of baby coots and their mama swimming back and forth in front of our  late season campsite last fall .

Apparently you can't get the one scenario without the other. 

I also came across a limping Killdeer on the gravelled drive way leading into our  little camping area.   At first I tried to follow it as it limped and spread out its damaged wing as it cried and cried out in pain, and then what came to mind was my Grade 4  Science Lesson  Chapter 14 :  HOW MAMA BIRDS PROTECT THEIR BABIES  Subsection B (1) "A mother bird will often feign injury in order to distract a would be predator from discovering her nest of live chicks or eggs."

 I immediately turned on my heel and walked in the exact opposite direction from whence I came, much to the Mother Killdeer's increasing chagrin.  I found the precious but simple nest located on the ground with the only protection being a few tufts of grass and a dandelion plant close by, about a foot from the gravel driveway.

Can you see the three little eggs?

I watched that Mother Killdeer quite often over the course of the next few days.  I saw her sneak quickly, running on her spindly legs,  when she thought no one was looking, over to the edge of the road to get a quick dip of water from the ditch before she ran back to perform her 'sitting' duty.  I am not sure when she had had the time to actually eat, perhaps the male killdeer came to relieve her sometime during the  process.  The Saskatchewan Birders' Manual said that it would take 28 days for the eggs to hatch...a whole month..at least two weeks , a most dangerous time for both mother and nestlings.  

And then...
         ..... the inevitable happened.

 It was just before sundown, we saw the lights and then the dust  of a truck pulling a camper coming along the road.   We heard the truck motor slow down and the squeak of the trailer springs as it made the turn into the camping area.  The cry of the Killdeer  pierced the air as we saw the bird fly by in panic calling and twisting back and forth over the lake and then back again over the campground.

The driver had no idea  what he had done as he busily set up his outfit rolling the tires back and forth to get the right spot. The killdeer stopped its call after a few hours, barely noticeable if one didn't concentrate on trying to hear it over the sounds of all the other night bird sounds.  

I am not one to actually project human feelings unto animals, but at the same time I did feel badly for the Killdeer and her family.  Heartbeats were beating in those shells.  Something in that mother bird's instinct told it to care and nurture those eggs as much as something triggered a response of disquiet and unease at the destruction of the nest.

Is it no wonder then that when  we humans " the actual thinking species" while  visiting  places where there have been great  losses of life and tragedies,  speak of the palpitativity of sorrow in the air.  Is it no wonder then that people refer to broken hearts and spirits in their own songs of sorrow? 

 I think its even more of a wonder that  that very same Kildeer, even now, is probably planning and preparing for another nest this season; just the same as many people who have been hurt both physically and spiritually will continue on in striving for the best.