Home Home on the Range

Well...we did it.  After 32 years, several solderings and multiple minor repairs , we purchased a new kitchen stove from the very same furniture store that the original stove was purchased.
 
The new stove is nice. It's white. Three small burners, one large. No clock. No timer. No light--not even in the oven. No electrical dash plug in.  Oven is NOT self clean.
 The top  shiny ledge is curved, leaving no place for salt and pepper and other traditional decor on top of stove.  
It is  probably the most Plain Jane basic electric stove on the market.
Nice. Serviceable.  Looks and is adequate.

That was about 2 weeks ago--the purchase that is.  It is still a nice, white, clean,  new stove sitting on top of the last of the carton it came in--unused and basically unwanted.

 It rests in the middle of the kitchen floor.

I can't do it.  I can't trade the  blackened and brazed almond coloured Admiral  stove  with the broken broiler element , whose  timer and clock have long since ceased to be functional ; that no longer has a safe self cleaning oven, with  the black glassed  door that had to be replaced only once due to the fact that S..... Happens in every family.

This original stove is the one that was bought with wedding money and chosen by my then new husband and his father, and was unseen by myself until the grand 'unveil' as it was unloaded from the truck from its trip from the big city. 

I am not sure why I won't just Let It Go  exactly but it might have something to do with  the fact that this stove  is the symbol of my connection with a long gone household of  hungry and busy family members that needed  care and nourishment. 

  This stove served as not only an instrument to provide  healthy family sustenance  over the course of 25+ years, but it also was the tool used to help try to convey the message of  the love that was felt for each one of its members. Alas, there were times when this message might have become a bit muddled in the translation especially when one thinks of the episode involving Cornish Hens and the Christmas Supper and also the Rancid Buckwheat Cabbage Roll incident at a dinner that ended up being a simpler and more tasty fare of  Peanut Butter and Jam Sandwiches.

There wasn't a meal made without prior thought and careful judgment going into the choosing of what would  be presented; whether it was favourite pancakes in various shapes, special meat loaves, or fresh breads. Nutritional balance along with an attempt to satisfy the taste preferences of the majority were always at the forefront of any meal preparation and that stove was a central part of the process.  The thoughts that pass through one's mind while preparing any repast are primarily thoughts on how the food would be received,  sometimes hoping that the old standby of tuna casserole would be enjoyed for the umpteenth time as much as, perhaps , upon another occasion, a new recipe would turn out as well as the picture in the cookbook portrayed it to be.

The choice of porridge to cook in the morning, the type soup to be consumed at noon, and the method and manner the meat would be prepared for supper was always chosen with thought of the would be consumers. 
 
  That awkward sticking of the oven door which doesn't quite open  smoothly as one takes out and puts in roasters, pans, and  cookie sheets along with  the accompanying grating sound, triggers not only remembered smells but also the feeling of satisfaction that comes from the   accomplishment  of a goal after much planning and consideration for the benefactors of the products. 


The successful baking of loaves of bread, buns, cinnamon buns,  pita breads, bagels, cakes, doughnuts, turkeys, chickens,   roasts, sausages, pies and tarts, raisin desserts, chocolate deserts, and  Christmas cookies along with even a rabbit and a goat or two,  all involved that piece of metal and wire.  Not to forget also, the watching of the boiling of the Palt and the making of spaghetti sauces with earnest helpers standing on chairs to see the process.

The myriad of birthday cakes  (at least 150), along with pans and pans of oatmeal cookies , pots of  boiled potatoes  to be later buttered and mashed ( referred to as clouds in the family vernacular) ,  and Easter Eggs boiled are pretty much uncountable.  The  numerous cupcakes  for school lunches and noon hour sales seem like a blur.

Yes , the burners have been changed numerous times.   Yes, the oven can no longer safely be considered 'self clean'  due to undo flamage and not enough insulation, along with  the need to use a knife to  regulate the knob designated to control oven temperature.   But even the smudge prone black glassed oven door with the obligatory stickers from years  past still stuck on,  holds memories of  long ago babies looking at themselves in the reflection in awe and dismay,  and serves as another blow to the chance that that new stove sitting unplugged and ignored while blocking our path to the cupboard will ever get installed and used.
  The  nicknack's that sit atop the  old stove ledge are some that were given  to me as presents from a little child years ago...a little cow bell, a balancing tightrope walker, and a plaque proclaiming the important steps of marriage... will all have a place to call home for a little while yet.

 

POOL TIME

I think there might be a bet going on at work.

I think there might even be a POOL started.


 I think it might involve me and when either I QUIT  working or when I drop dead either at work or at home.  I suspect it's double bonus if it is at work.


 I think this because I let it be known  recently at my place of work that  I will be 61 on my next birthday. 
  I know  this age reveal wouldn't really be all that unusual if one worked in a dress shop, make up counter, or candy store with other workers of the same gender, life experiences, and /or even clothes style.  But as I don't, and I do work with people who are primarily below the age of eighteen with co workers primarily below the age of fifty, I suppose 61 seems really really out there.  One leg in the grave and the other on a banana peel type of 'out there'. 

In fact , I suspect that I am older than most of their parents and perhaps even some of their grandparents, this includes my supervisors and team leaders.

I have  had 4 or 5 co workers casually ask me since  the unveiling of my age (as if they didn't already suspect) when I plan on quitting.  They sort of just incidentally work the topic into the conversation using their crafty and insidious professional methods of interviewing by saying things like, "So how long do you think you will be working here?"  or " Do you find that you have begun to ache all over in your joints?" as they look quizzically and unrelentingly into my eyes waiting for my reply.

 Yes,  it has all the markings of a pool of some kind being organized.  It won't be the first time a pool has been established based on my physical and/or bodily functions.

 They (the undefined and ever present in life They) organized one when I was about to give birth to my first child at the age of 30.

 I think almost all of the whole of that small town in Saskatchewan where I lived at the time was in on it--at least  I am pretty certain all the ones who regularly attended the  local tavern had their names entered.  I sort of recall that the  bristol board gridded sign up chart was posted behind the chip rack by the bar between the Cheezie and Hickory Stick stand.

You can imagine the look on the nurse's face who helped me through the delivery when I told her from the table that she should phone her son (the organizer of the pool ...not the organizer of the baby)  to tell him the exact time and date I delivered of an 8lb.4oz boy.

I got $56.75 from that pool thirty years ago. 

 What with inflation and cost of living increases ,   I figure I should get at least triple that with this one,  even if I don't drop off in situ.

 (which ,of course, will result in an automatic double your money refund).

Serpentine Adventures

It appears that finally spring is on its way.  The snow is melting rapidly, the birds are back, the babbling brooks are flowing freely and fast.

The ground has begun to thaw as is evidenced by the quick  disappearance of the spring run off.  Soon   frogs who have been abed deep in the  mud  bottomed swamps  will arise once again to add to the richness of sound and activity in the freshly thawed and life laden natural world.

Besides the appearance and throaty songs of frogs and tadpoles back into our wildlife rich environment there will be another who will soon make their presence known..if not necessarily heard..and certainly never comfortably felt. 

 I am , of course, referring to the snake population.

Now I KNOW that the type of snake that inhabits the part of our world is the most harmless in creation, and indeed considered by some to be very important to our environment.  There are those who consider them to be quite lovely in colour and form.  Some also think them graceful in their swiftness and silence.

PAS MOI!

My earliest recollection of snakes is  at the old well in front of my Grandpa's house.  It used to be a bit of a Sunday afternoon sport to catch snakes as they crowded around the shallow well covered in rocks.  Grandma used to have to take her broom and swoosh snakes off her cement steps on a sunny afternoon.

When we first moved to our farmyard 30 years ago there was a population of snakes that came out from their winter home along the outside of our cement foundation every spring.  It always gave me the creeps to think that  in a space of about 8" with only a bit of hardened but porous rock  in between, there probably  were about 40 or more snakes curled up sleeping for the winter.  I could only hope that the 50 year old plus foundation had few cracks and that those would be either too deep into the ground or too narrow for any would be reptilian visit to occur.

My husband's family seems not to share my dislike of these legless creatures.  He has recounted an incident when he was driving up to his sister's farmhouse and seeing his two nieces squealing while scrambling and jumping up and down   each with a half dozen snakes in their hands.  He called out, " Drop them. You'll be okay."  They replied, "No! No! They are getting away."  Another time he recalls his 12 year old  niece who was about 10 feet away from him yelling at him to Stop!  He immediately did so and looked down to see a snake at his feet--tied with a lasso around its neck.  (She was taking her snake for a walk and he had nearly stepped on it.)   

My children, too, did express some interest in snakes--albeit mostly of the plastic wiggly type bought in cheap discount stores.  I know this because there was this one particular black plastic snake that seemed to show up in various places in the basement--sometimes by the the washing machine--sometimes by the bedroom door.  Once it was even found on my bed much to their delight and mine own horror.

I had thought this idea of sneaky snakiness had only been confined to our own family, but , alas,  so it seems that I was in error.

I recently told my daughter that I was going to meet a friend of the family in the city, to which my daughter pleasantly replied that I should be sure to remember her to my friend and to say "Hello".

 This lovely young lady of 22  continued on to say, (Oh indeed, it all became so crystal clear as to why my friend has not visited for nearly ten years) "Ask Yvette if she remembers the black snake we put into her purse the last time she visited."