Blither
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Monday, September 16, 2013
Taste Testing
Last night I was driving alongside a field of several moving combines (I believe I could make out about five). As their lights shone and twirled in a whirl of dust it put me in mind of a sort of Harvest Hoedown. Pulleys twirling and cutters and headers moving in an exotic rhythm as dust and insects became momentarily visible only to disappear suddenly as the machine quickly turned inwards and sashayed in another direction.
Along with this Harvest Polka , I noticed that two park lights of what appeared to be a small truck sitting on one side at the edge of the field were on and the vehicle wasn't moving.
I recognized the reasoning behind this scene immediately, then thought to myself that over the last 40 years some things never change.
It probably still is a bad thing to drive over an unharvested grain swath with any type of vehicle --even a bike.
It probably still is a good idea to have the back chute closed before filling the truck box up with grain, rather than driving back to the house with a full load leaving a little tell tale trail behind.
I'd even bet it is still a bad idea to mess with the mirrors of any type of grain truck for at least the next six weeks. This bad idea also can cover the risk one takes by moving any oddly placed boards, flags, or pails near the hopper and auger where grain trucks back up to unload.
Even with the common use of hopper bottom bins it seems to me that it still isn't a good idea to leave rarely used wooden bin door slats inside the bin and proceed to auger grain on top. Children can learn many many new swear words with the breaking of this rule.
Books in a grain truck are OK as long as one doesn't see the full combine having to wind it's way over to the truck from the other side of the field because there has been 'reading going on" instead of paying attention. I use the term 'wind' as combiners will never break the 'Do Not Drive on the Swath Rule'.
I KNOW this one is still in effect: One must never ever lean over the twirling power take off which is situated under the lifted truck box to pull the hoist lever to tilt the full box even higher. You will get yelled at a lot if you do this...I know. This rule is a real biggie right along with knowing which is the diesel fuel tank and the purple gas tank if you are the Gas Gopher for the season.
And finally, I'd bet some Serious Coin that there are at least a few farmers who still think the best way to test the fitness or grade of the wheat is to grab a handful of grain from truck as it flows from the chute to the auger and, after a careful look at the general colour and shape of each kernel in their open palm (while flicking away the odd beetle or grasshopper), raise it up to their mouth and stick their tongue out to pick up some of the golden coloured grain in order to give it the chew test which analyses the hardness and texture. These taste test predictions, it was thought, helped the farmer decide whether to wait a day or so before finishing a field or to surge on ahead into the wee hours of the morning as long as the dew stayed away.
Now getting back to the park lights on in the parked half-ton.
How else are you going to find your mode of transportation back to your home/bed on a moonless night at 2:30 am after the barley finally gets tough as there are no landmarks or bushes left on the rock pile free, mostly level prairie grain field?
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Ready to Eat!
These are the times when lights traveling across the field in long angled trails, sometimes twirling, sometimes seeming to magically multiply as combines, tractors, and trucks join together only to part again and continue on to travel on imaginary highways avoiding sloughs and rocks, while momentarily disappearing behind softly rising hills and dips on the prairie landscape.
These are the days when tomato sandwiches and mayonnaise taste the best. Purple plums eaten with hands that have handled the hose of diesel fuel, messed with greasy pulleys, and probably swept out at least one mouse nest from the grain truck have a flavour and savouriness not found anywhere else on the planet.
Yes, harvest meals are truly a unique experience and are almost a welcome challenge to the meal makers as they prepare, pack, and transport meals to the harvest field. Pots full of mashed potatoes, roasters of fried chicken, casseroles of hot buttered corn, along with a fresh pie or two are only a small example of the nutritious fare travelled out to the back forty; packed in newspapers in cardboard boxes, along with 'real' dishes and metal utensils...all in accordance with that heretofore little known by urbanites harvest meal law that somewhere on some grain box is sketched out in a combination of axle grease and barely dust:
Items such as cold Cheese Whiz sandwiches on white bread, canned fruit, and bags of potato chips are NEVER EVER to be disguised as a meal for a Harvesting Prairie Farmer.
Alas,there was once a time when I, as a mother of two preschoolers, married to a then farmer who was 'out combining in his field' mistakenly and yes , brazenly, thought that this above previously unproven agriculturally based law could be broken.
I thought of this because I was tired, busy, and wanted to cut corners...soooooo...I went to the nearby rural general store and purchased some bottles of Coke, a bag of Doritos, a few chocolate bars, and some garlic sausage and proceeded to travel fifteen miles out to the field, with the children strapped in their seats, over gravel and dirt roads until I finally reached the approach closest to where the combine and more importantly my combiner was busily traveling around and around on the field.
I remember distinctly that it was an almost festive time. The children played in the dusty stubble as my husband sat in the car eating Doritos and hunks of sausage listening to the sound of grasshoppers and children laughing. All too soon it was time to pack up paper and wrappers when alas, alas, alas, as I picked up the plastic label that had once protected the garlic sausage I saw these words:
This is a RAW meat product. Do not consume until it is fully cooked.
The truth of the Harvest Law of the Meal had made itself evident.
For the last 30 years I have always always checked for this sign whenever I purchase over the counter meat products.
Monday, September 2, 2013
Trailer Boat Innovation
1. Note the position of boat in relation to shoreline.
3. Hook up rope.
4. Begin winching as boat rolls along easily on extra extended tire surface.
5. Boat on trailer in less than 2 minutes.
Fishing/ Camping Rules
Fishing/Camping Rules:
1. Get a Fishing License.
2. Get a Boat Driving License.
3. Read and know about the catch limits for your area.
4. Do not leave your 28' motor home and boat trailer parked at the boat launch while you go out on the lake to fish, as other people may need the launch to get in and off the water.
5. If your garbage flies out of your boat, make at least some small attempt at retrieving it instead of just letting it drift away.
6. When changing your fish line, pick up the old line and take it home and put it in YOUR garbage instead of just leaving it on the ground.
7. When starting up your generator, it would be polite to talk to your campground neighbours informing them of how long you think you will be needing to disrupt their peace and quiet and opportunity to listen to wild life in nature. Do NOT ever run the generator longer than three hours and try to do so at noon when mechanical noises are not so noticeable in the wild. If you find that you need to run the generator longer than three hours perhaps you should either a) get a bigger battery b) go to an electrified campsite c) stay home.
8. Do not use your fish net as an oar. It just doesn't work very well.
9. It is always BEST to check to see if you have a bung in your boat and that it is inserted correctly before you launch it. In fact, it is strongly suggested that one check this before leaving home recalling this ancient fisherman's motto "Do you know where your Bung is?"
10. Turning your hitch at right angles as you unload your boat from the trailer is never a good thing. It is unnatural for other boaters to be able see the floor of your boat from the middle of the lake.
11. (a)Trying to start your boat motor with it tilted UP will only result in much frustration on your part--not to mention the motor itself by overheating and sputtering. Carburetors like being level.
(b) Further addressing the topic of difficult to start motors, in the event that any difficult to start boat motor does indeed start, it is not a recommended fishing practice to head out immediately to the furthest and most isolated side of the lake.
12. Please do not try to hide the fact that you are the type of fisherman that keeps every single fish no matter the type or how large or small. When you stand on the other side of your truck discreetly 'cleaning, cleaning' for an hour...we all pretty much know you have TOO many fish; and we for sure know it when you come back the next day and do the same thing.
13. If you have a boat without a steering wheel, one should sit on the right hand side of the motor...to counteract the spinning of the propeller. It keeps the boat leveller and makes the steering easier.
14. Throwing hooks into the water when you don't catch a fish does not really reap you anything but a possible pulled shoulder and a bigger bill next time you go to the fishing tackle place.
15. There are no family secrets when fishing and camping in public. One can pretty much ascertain what some people's wives and children have to deal with when one hears swearing, banging, scraping, while watching the zero to sixty attitude towards other fisherman with regard as to where they park their trailers. (Threatening to flatten tires really isn't part of very many effective conflict resolution methodologies and probably should be avoided.)
16. Finally and most importantly, lifejackets are to be worn.
Until next year.
1. Get a Fishing License.
2. Get a Boat Driving License.
3. Read and know about the catch limits for your area.
4. Do not leave your 28' motor home and boat trailer parked at the boat launch while you go out on the lake to fish, as other people may need the launch to get in and off the water.
5. If your garbage flies out of your boat, make at least some small attempt at retrieving it instead of just letting it drift away.
6. When changing your fish line, pick up the old line and take it home and put it in YOUR garbage instead of just leaving it on the ground.
7. When starting up your generator, it would be polite to talk to your campground neighbours informing them of how long you think you will be needing to disrupt their peace and quiet and opportunity to listen to wild life in nature. Do NOT ever run the generator longer than three hours and try to do so at noon when mechanical noises are not so noticeable in the wild. If you find that you need to run the generator longer than three hours perhaps you should either a) get a bigger battery b) go to an electrified campsite c) stay home.
8. Do not use your fish net as an oar. It just doesn't work very well.
9. It is always BEST to check to see if you have a bung in your boat and that it is inserted correctly before you launch it. In fact, it is strongly suggested that one check this before leaving home recalling this ancient fisherman's motto "Do you know where your Bung is?"
10. Turning your hitch at right angles as you unload your boat from the trailer is never a good thing. It is unnatural for other boaters to be able see the floor of your boat from the middle of the lake.
11. (a)Trying to start your boat motor with it tilted UP will only result in much frustration on your part--not to mention the motor itself by overheating and sputtering. Carburetors like being level.
(b) Further addressing the topic of difficult to start motors, in the event that any difficult to start boat motor does indeed start, it is not a recommended fishing practice to head out immediately to the furthest and most isolated side of the lake.
12. Please do not try to hide the fact that you are the type of fisherman that keeps every single fish no matter the type or how large or small. When you stand on the other side of your truck discreetly 'cleaning, cleaning' for an hour...we all pretty much know you have TOO many fish; and we for sure know it when you come back the next day and do the same thing.
13. If you have a boat without a steering wheel, one should sit on the right hand side of the motor...to counteract the spinning of the propeller. It keeps the boat leveller and makes the steering easier.
14. Throwing hooks into the water when you don't catch a fish does not really reap you anything but a possible pulled shoulder and a bigger bill next time you go to the fishing tackle place.
15. There are no family secrets when fishing and camping in public. One can pretty much ascertain what some people's wives and children have to deal with when one hears swearing, banging, scraping, while watching the zero to sixty attitude towards other fisherman with regard as to where they park their trailers. (Threatening to flatten tires really isn't part of very many effective conflict resolution methodologies and probably should be avoided.)
16. Finally and most importantly, lifejackets are to be worn.
Until next year.
May your waters be calm, and your boat keep you dry
That little one you threw back may become next year's
Big Guy.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Gypped
Irene Hilda Lundeen was born August 25, 1922 in Preeceville, Saskatchewan the eldest daughter of Swedish immigrants. Her father, Ole, was a farmer and fur trapper in the Porcupine forest in North East Saskatchewan, Canada. Her mother, Ester Sjostrom was a hardworking farmer's wife who gave life to four children despite a seven year stay in a sanatorium for treatment of tuberculosis.
Irene grew up in an area of Saskatchewan where the farm land was best left uncultivated and where rabbits, raccoons, and bears were a common sight both in the garden and in the traps set and designed to catch any and all fur bearing mammals. While the most young women of the day embroidered and attended dances, Irene was trapping animals to sell furs to the local fur traders.
As I mentioned before, Irene's mother Ester was seconded to a sanatorium for treatment of tuberculosis and was for all intense and purposes absent from the life of the then 5 year old Irene and her younger brother for seven long years. During this time, Irene and her brother Irwin lived with her Aunt , her mother's sister, and her husband, who worked for the Canadian Pacific Railroad, in a box car on a siding on the outskirts of a small prairie town noted for its perogies, cabbage rolls, and home brew. Her father, Ole, remained on his trap line and tended his crops for seven years without his wife and family at his side. After this seven year banishment the family was duly reunited and consequently , two more siblings arrived.
In due course, Irene, returned to the community where she spent her growing up years with her Aunt and family and married a local farmer. Life was full of hard work for a farmer's wife in the '40s and '50's. Raising 1000's of turkeys and chickens, milking cows to send cream to the dairy, planting gardens an acre in size, plus the canning, freezing, and preserving of fruits and vegetables made time fly by, but Irene managed to sew quilts, mend clothes, and crochet doilies and tablecloths in her 'extra' time. Besides raising four children, keeping them clean, fed, Irene put on 'parties' where family and neighbors were invited and Three spot and Canasta were played, lunches of homemade sausages on fresh baked buns offered, and cakes made from scratch from hen house eggs served.
As her children gradually left home, Irene devoted her summertime to her flower garden and her wintertime, being a woman of thrift, to sewing quilts, using material cut from used clothing.
Irene had four lovely granddaughters all born within three years of each other. She described these grand babies as her four little birds who would follow her around ...tweeting and chirping ...as they watched her prepare favourite desserts, wash strawberries from the garden, or crochet an doll clothes. Many special meals of palt and bacon, blueberry cheesecake and fresh raspberries were served to these little 'birds' by their wonderful doting Grandma Irene.
Now, when one gets married one doesn't often just marry one's spouse. One marries not only an individual but also the individual and their family. At least that is the way I see it, and so when I married Irene's second son in 1981 I felt I was , in fact, getting a sort 'Kit'. This marriage Kit was made of various facets if one included in-laws, nieces, cousins, aunts and uncles. The main attractive component for me was the 'mother' . I was looking forward to years and years of being instructed in the art of quilt making, pie crust rolling, and jam preserving by the matriarch of my new family.
I envisioned this woman as being the grandmother of my future children, the soft hand that would stroke their head when they were sick, the baker of cookies and sweet cakes for after school snacks, the summer holiday guardian and the safe haven of unconditional love and acceptance that helps every child to bloom.
People have milestones in their lives that mark the start of something momentous such as graduating from High School, one's first job, and holding one's new born child in their arms. Usually they are happy things.
But for me one of the biggest of life milestones was of a disappointment that has shaded the rest of my life. It was a day that was only 2 weeks before the birth of my first child and 15 months after my marriage.
It was on March 17, 1983, St. Patrick's Day, that the family was told that Irene had inoperable and terminal cancer of the colon.
We laid her to rest on August 1 of that same year. Her second son's first child and her only grandson was just shy of turning four months old.
A comment made to me at the funeral sticks with me still. A neighbour leaned over and whispered, "You were Gypped."
And gypped I was---and so was she.
As was my son, Alexander, and my daughters, Sarah, Rachel, and Heidi.
One can only guess at what they have missed because that Kit was irreparably broken and washed away by the tears that have fallen over the last thirty years.
I am EXACTLY the same age as Irene was 30 years ago when she passed away. I think today of the future of my own children's ' Marriage Kits' as my son will soon be espoused. I, too, have grandchildren I have yet to meet and sons-in-laws to welcome and greet.
I hope we all get a fairer deal this time around.
Letter 1 from a young Irene to her mother in the Sanatorium.
Letter 2 A letter to her Dad.
Letter 3...a bit older child.
and her quilting.
Irene grew up in an area of Saskatchewan where the farm land was best left uncultivated and where rabbits, raccoons, and bears were a common sight both in the garden and in the traps set and designed to catch any and all fur bearing mammals. While the most young women of the day embroidered and attended dances, Irene was trapping animals to sell furs to the local fur traders.
As I mentioned before, Irene's mother Ester was seconded to a sanatorium for treatment of tuberculosis and was for all intense and purposes absent from the life of the then 5 year old Irene and her younger brother for seven long years. During this time, Irene and her brother Irwin lived with her Aunt , her mother's sister, and her husband, who worked for the Canadian Pacific Railroad, in a box car on a siding on the outskirts of a small prairie town noted for its perogies, cabbage rolls, and home brew. Her father, Ole, remained on his trap line and tended his crops for seven years without his wife and family at his side. After this seven year banishment the family was duly reunited and consequently , two more siblings arrived.
In due course, Irene, returned to the community where she spent her growing up years with her Aunt and family and married a local farmer. Life was full of hard work for a farmer's wife in the '40s and '50's. Raising 1000's of turkeys and chickens, milking cows to send cream to the dairy, planting gardens an acre in size, plus the canning, freezing, and preserving of fruits and vegetables made time fly by, but Irene managed to sew quilts, mend clothes, and crochet doilies and tablecloths in her 'extra' time. Besides raising four children, keeping them clean, fed, Irene put on 'parties' where family and neighbors were invited and Three spot and Canasta were played, lunches of homemade sausages on fresh baked buns offered, and cakes made from scratch from hen house eggs served.
As her children gradually left home, Irene devoted her summertime to her flower garden and her wintertime, being a woman of thrift, to sewing quilts, using material cut from used clothing.
Irene had four lovely granddaughters all born within three years of each other. She described these grand babies as her four little birds who would follow her around ...tweeting and chirping ...as they watched her prepare favourite desserts, wash strawberries from the garden, or crochet an doll clothes. Many special meals of palt and bacon, blueberry cheesecake and fresh raspberries were served to these little 'birds' by their wonderful doting Grandma Irene.
Now, when one gets married one doesn't often just marry one's spouse. One marries not only an individual but also the individual and their family. At least that is the way I see it, and so when I married Irene's second son in 1981 I felt I was , in fact, getting a sort 'Kit'. This marriage Kit was made of various facets if one included in-laws, nieces, cousins, aunts and uncles. The main attractive component for me was the 'mother' . I was looking forward to years and years of being instructed in the art of quilt making, pie crust rolling, and jam preserving by the matriarch of my new family.
I envisioned this woman as being the grandmother of my future children, the soft hand that would stroke their head when they were sick, the baker of cookies and sweet cakes for after school snacks, the summer holiday guardian and the safe haven of unconditional love and acceptance that helps every child to bloom.
People have milestones in their lives that mark the start of something momentous such as graduating from High School, one's first job, and holding one's new born child in their arms. Usually they are happy things.
But for me one of the biggest of life milestones was of a disappointment that has shaded the rest of my life. It was a day that was only 2 weeks before the birth of my first child and 15 months after my marriage.
It was on March 17, 1983, St. Patrick's Day, that the family was told that Irene had inoperable and terminal cancer of the colon.
We laid her to rest on August 1 of that same year. Her second son's first child and her only grandson was just shy of turning four months old.
A comment made to me at the funeral sticks with me still. A neighbour leaned over and whispered, "You were Gypped."
And gypped I was---and so was she.
As was my son, Alexander, and my daughters, Sarah, Rachel, and Heidi.
One can only guess at what they have missed because that Kit was irreparably broken and washed away by the tears that have fallen over the last thirty years.
I am EXACTLY the same age as Irene was 30 years ago when she passed away. I think today of the future of my own children's ' Marriage Kits' as my son will soon be espoused. I, too, have grandchildren I have yet to meet and sons-in-laws to welcome and greet.
I hope we all get a fairer deal this time around.
Letter 1 from a young Irene to her mother in the Sanatorium.
Letter 2 A letter to her Dad.
Letter 3...a bit older child.
The letters are a bit hard to read...perhaps one will have to increase the size of the display.
Grandma Irene and some of her 'little birds'.
and her quilting.
I think of you often. I always miss you. I always will.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
10 Things I Didn't Know Last Week--*But I Do Now*
1. The phrase "Fish don't wear bells" --from the book Shipping News--by Annie Proulx.
2. That there is ALWAYS payback..no matter what the cost...there will always be a way in which you will have to Pay Back the Favour.
3. There ARE houses messier, dirtier, and more dangerously unhealthier than mine.
4. It takes more than just self-identifying yourself as a Witch to make you one.
5. When you look sick, feel sick, and other people say you are sick...you shouldn't go to work.
6. The phrase " A voice like a wasp in a jar" --from the Shipping News encore une fois. (This along with " "the wind was like the breath of a stepmother").
7. I can and will get annoyed when a huge over sized piece of machinery takes up ALL the space on a PUBLIC roadway. A piece of machinery that is not necessarily farmer owned, and therefore, is actually part of someones private enterprise, who has not paid licensing fees for said piece of machinery, nor the massive taxes that a regular farmer must do; BUT still travels willy nilly on country roads taking up all the room and interfering with the general coming and goings by bona fide licenced vehicles whose fees go towards the maintaining of said roads and, thus, help pay the insurance to cover accidents that may occur in collisions with slower moving larger unlicensed mobile devices. ( Truly did not know that this would ever happen--this feeling of annoyance I mean).
8. Someone thinks of me as their TRUE friend after 50 years...which I guess I am.
9. I can pick out Peggy's Cove, Nova Scotia from a picture without ever really being there.
10. 'Growing Up' has nothing to do with Age, Intelligence, Education, Religion, Monetary Worth, Health, or Technological Savvy; but has more to do with Common Sense.
2. That there is ALWAYS payback..no matter what the cost...there will always be a way in which you will have to Pay Back the Favour.
3. There ARE houses messier, dirtier, and more dangerously unhealthier than mine.
4. It takes more than just self-identifying yourself as a Witch to make you one.
5. When you look sick, feel sick, and other people say you are sick...you shouldn't go to work.
6. The phrase " A voice like a wasp in a jar" --from the Shipping News encore une fois. (This along with " "the wind was like the breath of a stepmother").
7. I can and will get annoyed when a huge over sized piece of machinery takes up ALL the space on a PUBLIC roadway. A piece of machinery that is not necessarily farmer owned, and therefore, is actually part of someones private enterprise, who has not paid licensing fees for said piece of machinery, nor the massive taxes that a regular farmer must do; BUT still travels willy nilly on country roads taking up all the room and interfering with the general coming and goings by bona fide licenced vehicles whose fees go towards the maintaining of said roads and, thus, help pay the insurance to cover accidents that may occur in collisions with slower moving larger unlicensed mobile devices. ( Truly did not know that this would ever happen--this feeling of annoyance I mean).
8. Someone thinks of me as their TRUE friend after 50 years...which I guess I am.
9. I can pick out Peggy's Cove, Nova Scotia from a picture without ever really being there.
10. 'Growing Up' has nothing to do with Age, Intelligence, Education, Religion, Monetary Worth, Health, or Technological Savvy; but has more to do with Common Sense.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Friday, June 28, 2013
Apple Faces
We have all had those moments in life when we wish we could go back just a few seconds to redo, to rewind, to flip back a page or so for multiple reasons.
I suspect that one of the most common reasons is due to that ever present Nemesis of the human spirit that plagues each and every one of us even to the grave ~ that being the cherry red cheeked hotness of embarrassment.
This red flag of the rising warmth of pink cheeks blazed across our face as a result of the exposure of our imagined inner and hidden thoughts and yearnings , or even our physical desires not to mention bodily functions socially deemed to be private if not sacred in some cultures, has been cause for wars, demotions, and literal 'loss of face'.
I will never ever forget the moment when the mother of one of my pre-adolescent crushes said point blank to me, "You like Billy don't you?" I didn't realize that one could be frozen in place and have one's face literally burn until silent tears came to one's eyes all at the same time.
It has happened to us all, this 'unmasking' of our inner beings either as a result of our words, deeds, actions, or inactions being more revealing than we anticipated.
Another time this scarlet dirge become evident in my life was the day that I absentmindedly called my Grade 1 teacher , who was nineteen at the time and male , "Grandma". It happened again when I referred to our Chemistry teacher, a fellow from India, as "Mom" when I raised my hand to answer a question.
I always thought of those little slips of the tongue with a certain amount of humour as I recalled the look of surprise from the recipients.
It wasn't until recently that I came to realize that maybe they didn't mind being called Mom or Grandma because these terms meant that I obviously felt safe and a certain amount of comfort in their presence.
I have an interesting job that involves the supervision of young women living away from home. The other night as I said, "Nightie night. Have a good sleep." to one of the clients, she turned around and said, "I love you too." She turned and gasped as she realized to whom she was talking. She then blushed and quickly covered herself with her blankets.
As I turned off the light and closed her door, I smiled to myself, as I thought that something must be a little right in her life if she can utter such words to a near perfect stranger even par hazard.
It was kind of cool.
I suspect that one of the most common reasons is due to that ever present Nemesis of the human spirit that plagues each and every one of us even to the grave ~ that being the cherry red cheeked hotness of embarrassment.
This red flag of the rising warmth of pink cheeks blazed across our face as a result of the exposure of our imagined inner and hidden thoughts and yearnings , or even our physical desires not to mention bodily functions socially deemed to be private if not sacred in some cultures, has been cause for wars, demotions, and literal 'loss of face'.
I will never ever forget the moment when the mother of one of my pre-adolescent crushes said point blank to me, "You like Billy don't you?" I didn't realize that one could be frozen in place and have one's face literally burn until silent tears came to one's eyes all at the same time.
It has happened to us all, this 'unmasking' of our inner beings either as a result of our words, deeds, actions, or inactions being more revealing than we anticipated.
Another time this scarlet dirge become evident in my life was the day that I absentmindedly called my Grade 1 teacher , who was nineteen at the time and male , "Grandma". It happened again when I referred to our Chemistry teacher, a fellow from India, as "Mom" when I raised my hand to answer a question.
I always thought of those little slips of the tongue with a certain amount of humour as I recalled the look of surprise from the recipients.
It wasn't until recently that I came to realize that maybe they didn't mind being called Mom or Grandma because these terms meant that I obviously felt safe and a certain amount of comfort in their presence.
I have an interesting job that involves the supervision of young women living away from home. The other night as I said, "Nightie night. Have a good sleep." to one of the clients, she turned around and said, "I love you too." She turned and gasped as she realized to whom she was talking. She then blushed and quickly covered herself with her blankets.
As I turned off the light and closed her door, I smiled to myself, as I thought that something must be a little right in her life if she can utter such words to a near perfect stranger even par hazard.
It was kind of cool.
Monday, May 27, 2013
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.
.JPG)
Monday, May 13, 2013
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).
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).
Saturday, May 4, 2013
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."
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."
Friday, April 26, 2013
For Reading Out Loud
A recent radio program spoke about sharing books and asked what were the criteria one used to choose which books to share with others and which to just quietly read, enjoy, savour, and replace on the shelf without comment or recommendation.
I rarely recommend a book to another and conversely, if someone recommends a book for me to read I rarely do.
Having said that, I do believe that the absolutely best way for someone to really share a book with another is by reading it out loud . My fondest memory of having someone share the written word is when my Dad would get the coloured comics from the newspaper and we would listen to the radio station together as the comics were being read. Ogo Pogo, The Bumstead's and Lil'Abner were read in animated voices by radio announcers every Sunday morning. If we somehow missed the show then Dad would pitch in and read them to us much to our delight.
BUT, the very, very, very best book sharing that I have ever experienced was when my sister read me stories from Thornton Burgess that were at first printed in the weekly edition of the Western Producer. The tales of Peter Rabbit, Chatterer the Red Squirrel, Reddy Fox, Old Man Coyote and all their friends, describing their antics in the Green Forest with Old Mother West Wind bounded off the page, unto my sister's lips, and were forever imprinted upon my then four or five year old brain as we sat in a quiet corner of the house or a shady place on the grass.
The Thornton Burgess Bedtime Story books were later collected by myself and my friends with as much frenzy and jealousy as any group of children today have for the possession of action figures, video games, or electronic gadgetry.
The arrival of Longlegs the Heron and Lighfoot the Deer to the limited library of our rural school house caused a panicky lineup amongst the reading crowd to see who would get to be the first to read these coveted writings.
I tried to pass my love for this series to my school students and later to my own children with limited success.
But for myself , whenever I see Jimmy Skunk, Sammy Jay, Jerry Muskrat's house, or hear Grandfather Frog croaking in the Babbling Brook I recall a warm summer day laying on a blanket while listening to my sister's voice as she read with all the skill that an eight year old could muster to bring the story to life.
I guess she did a pretty good job of it.
I rarely recommend a book to another and conversely, if someone recommends a book for me to read I rarely do.
Having said that, I do believe that the absolutely best way for someone to really share a book with another is by reading it out loud . My fondest memory of having someone share the written word is when my Dad would get the coloured comics from the newspaper and we would listen to the radio station together as the comics were being read. Ogo Pogo, The Bumstead's and Lil'Abner were read in animated voices by radio announcers every Sunday morning. If we somehow missed the show then Dad would pitch in and read them to us much to our delight.
BUT, the very, very, very best book sharing that I have ever experienced was when my sister read me stories from Thornton Burgess that were at first printed in the weekly edition of the Western Producer. The tales of Peter Rabbit, Chatterer the Red Squirrel, Reddy Fox, Old Man Coyote and all their friends, describing their antics in the Green Forest with Old Mother West Wind bounded off the page, unto my sister's lips, and were forever imprinted upon my then four or five year old brain as we sat in a quiet corner of the house or a shady place on the grass.
The Thornton Burgess Bedtime Story books were later collected by myself and my friends with as much frenzy and jealousy as any group of children today have for the possession of action figures, video games, or electronic gadgetry.
The arrival of Longlegs the Heron and Lighfoot the Deer to the limited library of our rural school house caused a panicky lineup amongst the reading crowd to see who would get to be the first to read these coveted writings.
I tried to pass my love for this series to my school students and later to my own children with limited success.
But for myself , whenever I see Jimmy Skunk, Sammy Jay, Jerry Muskrat's house, or hear Grandfather Frog croaking in the Babbling Brook I recall a warm summer day laying on a blanket while listening to my sister's voice as she read with all the skill that an eight year old could muster to bring the story to life.
I guess she did a pretty good job of it.
Childhood Survived!
I have been a parent for over 30 years now. My mother has been a mom for over 66 years. My grandmother has been a mother for 89 years. Over these years I suspect parenting skills, at best, have improved in some ways, and no doubt have at least changed in many others depending upon the mode of the day and technology.
For instance, the use of 'Mother's Milk' which was probably used in Grandma's day changed to using corn syrup and canned condensed milk warmed up in a glass bottle in my Mother's time of feeding infants. This was accompanied by the practice of putting soothers into the sugar bowl before being offered to a colicky crying infant (which is in stark contrast to the more primitive calming method of rubbing vodka or home brew on its soft spot). Some of these maternal practices, along with the use of the softest of pillows and placing them at the bottom of the baby carriage in dry cleaning plastic to keep it clean , have thankfully gone by the wayside and have been replaced with more sanitary, safer, and saner maternal practices.
Diapers in those days were flannelet and were held in situ with safety pins which sometimes were not so safe. No plastic cap snap pins in those days, nor were there Velcro closing fasteners for cloth diapers either. Paper diapers weren't hardly even a choice 30 years ago.
As toddlers grew the use of walkers with wheels were the common toy--allowing the youngster to whiz around the kitchen and/ or down stairways at speeds not otherwise experienced by a small child until they at least learned to ride a two wheeled bicycle.
Car travel held its own perils during my childhood years. The most obvious danger in cars at the time was that they were made of an all metal exterior and interior. They weren't even equipped with turn signals or seat belts. The closest thing to car seats for children on the market would have been a metal pet carrier.
The then solution for many a family?
The large shelf under the back window of the car.
This kept the child out of the way from unbelted sibling car antics and within sight of the driver in the rear view mirror.
BTW--being 'belted' in the car had a whole different meaning in those days to an errant child who asked once too often , "Are we there yet?"
The importance of being 'belted in' has always been a priority for me with my own children as I hearken back to the 'pre belting' day of my childhood when, as we were traveling down the road with my mom at the wheel and I in the back seat , I noticed that the door on the passenger side of the front seat was rattling. I distinctly remember telling mom as I leaned over the front seat to grab the door handle, " I'll close it for you Mom.....".
A lesson in Physics thus commenced as it was at the precise moment that I grabbed said door handle that Mom turned a sharp corner (there was definately (I am almost certain) an actual sharp corner in the otherwise flat, straight prairie farm road) and due to the law of Physics called inertia the door swung wide open with my hand and me attached to it. The prickliness of the grassy ditch and the rolling rolling rolling that was accompanied by my surprise arrival outside of the car did not phase this then five year old. The calling out of , "Mom wait for me." as I climbed out of the ditch, was quickly heeded as the car stopped about a 2 minute walk further down the road and I reentered, and our journey continued. As I think back to this happening, I have just realized why I can't remember Mom ever referring to this incident again. Nope there is no recollection of her recounting the tale to either my dad or any of her friends. The more I think of that and being a Mother myself I think I may know the reason.
Living in a rural area, with a Grandma just 2 miles away it was very tempting for a 4 year old to ride her tricycle along the dirt road all the way without telling anyone. (I distinctly remember Grandma standing on her step waving to me and saying that Mom had just called on the phone looking for me. I turned the tricycle around and pedaled home as fast as I could.) The next time I rode that far I told my Mom and she wisely tied a pink ribbon onto the right hand handlebar so I would know which side of the road to drive on both coming and going to grandma's. She did this especially because there was a road construction crew building the road up and she wanted me to be safe (I'm almost certain of it).
Using mustard plasters for congested chests, placing socks covered in Vick's around a child's neck for a sore throat, as well as the placing of a glass mercury laden stick into a sick child's mouth, along with the stern warning of "Do NOT bite on this." to determine fever level have pretty much gone by the wayside.
I wonder how many 'new fad' ideas of allowing children to or not to have video games, watch television, or cell phones will be considered blase and dangerous 50 years from now?
Perhaps all things will become Cyber such as travel, feeding, playing, and exercise. Perhaps the need for motherhood traditional care will have gone by the wayside and all the conundrums and traditional methods will be lost and replaced by FINALLY the correct and most logical answers to Child Raising ever to be devised never to be challenged again.
For instance, the use of 'Mother's Milk' which was probably used in Grandma's day changed to using corn syrup and canned condensed milk warmed up in a glass bottle in my Mother's time of feeding infants. This was accompanied by the practice of putting soothers into the sugar bowl before being offered to a colicky crying infant (which is in stark contrast to the more primitive calming method of rubbing vodka or home brew on its soft spot). Some of these maternal practices, along with the use of the softest of pillows and placing them at the bottom of the baby carriage in dry cleaning plastic to keep it clean , have thankfully gone by the wayside and have been replaced with more sanitary, safer, and saner maternal practices.
Diapers in those days were flannelet and were held in situ with safety pins which sometimes were not so safe. No plastic cap snap pins in those days, nor were there Velcro closing fasteners for cloth diapers either. Paper diapers weren't hardly even a choice 30 years ago.
As toddlers grew the use of walkers with wheels were the common toy--allowing the youngster to whiz around the kitchen and/ or down stairways at speeds not otherwise experienced by a small child until they at least learned to ride a two wheeled bicycle.
Car travel held its own perils during my childhood years. The most obvious danger in cars at the time was that they were made of an all metal exterior and interior. They weren't even equipped with turn signals or seat belts. The closest thing to car seats for children on the market would have been a metal pet carrier.
The then solution for many a family?
The large shelf under the back window of the car.
This kept the child out of the way from unbelted sibling car antics and within sight of the driver in the rear view mirror.
BTW--being 'belted' in the car had a whole different meaning in those days to an errant child who asked once too often , "Are we there yet?"
The importance of being 'belted in' has always been a priority for me with my own children as I hearken back to the 'pre belting' day of my childhood when, as we were traveling down the road with my mom at the wheel and I in the back seat , I noticed that the door on the passenger side of the front seat was rattling. I distinctly remember telling mom as I leaned over the front seat to grab the door handle, " I'll close it for you Mom.....".
A lesson in Physics thus commenced as it was at the precise moment that I grabbed said door handle that Mom turned a sharp corner (there was definately (I am almost certain) an actual sharp corner in the otherwise flat, straight prairie farm road) and due to the law of Physics called inertia the door swung wide open with my hand and me attached to it. The prickliness of the grassy ditch and the rolling rolling rolling that was accompanied by my surprise arrival outside of the car did not phase this then five year old. The calling out of , "Mom wait for me." as I climbed out of the ditch, was quickly heeded as the car stopped about a 2 minute walk further down the road and I reentered, and our journey continued. As I think back to this happening, I have just realized why I can't remember Mom ever referring to this incident again. Nope there is no recollection of her recounting the tale to either my dad or any of her friends. The more I think of that and being a Mother myself I think I may know the reason.
Living in a rural area, with a Grandma just 2 miles away it was very tempting for a 4 year old to ride her tricycle along the dirt road all the way without telling anyone. (I distinctly remember Grandma standing on her step waving to me and saying that Mom had just called on the phone looking for me. I turned the tricycle around and pedaled home as fast as I could.) The next time I rode that far I told my Mom and she wisely tied a pink ribbon onto the right hand handlebar so I would know which side of the road to drive on both coming and going to grandma's. She did this especially because there was a road construction crew building the road up and she wanted me to be safe (I'm almost certain of it).
Using mustard plasters for congested chests, placing socks covered in Vick's around a child's neck for a sore throat, as well as the placing of a glass mercury laden stick into a sick child's mouth, along with the stern warning of "Do NOT bite on this." to determine fever level have pretty much gone by the wayside.
I wonder how many 'new fad' ideas of allowing children to or not to have video games, watch television, or cell phones will be considered blase and dangerous 50 years from now?
Perhaps all things will become Cyber such as travel, feeding, playing, and exercise. Perhaps the need for motherhood traditional care will have gone by the wayside and all the conundrums and traditional methods will be lost and replaced by FINALLY the correct and most logical answers to Child Raising ever to be devised never to be challenged again.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Gossipy Geese
I returned to my 'old stomping' grounds this last weekend and had a great time. I saw friends and visited with people I hadn't seen in years. I exchanged news and information about children, jobs, and vacations. Bygone memories of times long past but surprisingly still fresh were recounted and enjoyed again.
Yes, indeed, the evening was almost too perfect, and as all too perfect evenings are there was that inevitable little mar that just gave one that bit of reality reminder that not only can one not 'go back' but that in some instances one does not want to.
I had taken along a friend for company, and it was out of her mouth that this life truth was illustrated. We hadn't been in the hall which was full of my hometown crowd more than five minutes when my friend turned to me and said, "There are two women sitting over at that table to the left and they are talking about us." I had actually been aware of these two 'ladies' with heads down and eyes glancing at us as we walked in but I had chosen to ignore it and looked away, but the spoken recognition of the fact by my friend, a complete stranger to the people and hall, impressed upon me just how blatant, open, and lengthy this discussion of myself and my friend must have been. It was almost as if these two people thought they were in a little one way bubble visually. Perhaps they thought they could see us but we couldn't see them so they could stare and talk without shame or fear of retribution.
So what does a lady such as myself do in an instance such as this?
She does this:
As she knows the name of one of those of no couth or candor, she writes the following on her Social Network Status the next morning:
You know what is really interesting is when one walks into a hall full of people and you get a sense that 'someone' is talking about you. You look over the crowd and can immediately spy out who it is...almost like having whispers behind covered hands becoming coloured. LOL!
THEN she invites the Lady of the Tongue (who she has previous has had same lady Social Networkly blocked) to suddenly become her friend on said Social Network, hoping that the Lady of the Tongue would accept and see the first status ever of the One That Has Been Gossiped About being the above.
AND ...she did
AND.... she did read
...she must have.
The Lady of the Tongue will be Re--blocked after the mandatory 48 hours has passed.
Yes, indeed, the evening was almost too perfect, and as all too perfect evenings are there was that inevitable little mar that just gave one that bit of reality reminder that not only can one not 'go back' but that in some instances one does not want to.
I had taken along a friend for company, and it was out of her mouth that this life truth was illustrated. We hadn't been in the hall which was full of my hometown crowd more than five minutes when my friend turned to me and said, "There are two women sitting over at that table to the left and they are talking about us." I had actually been aware of these two 'ladies' with heads down and eyes glancing at us as we walked in but I had chosen to ignore it and looked away, but the spoken recognition of the fact by my friend, a complete stranger to the people and hall, impressed upon me just how blatant, open, and lengthy this discussion of myself and my friend must have been. It was almost as if these two people thought they were in a little one way bubble visually. Perhaps they thought they could see us but we couldn't see them so they could stare and talk without shame or fear of retribution.
So what does a lady such as myself do in an instance such as this?
She does this:
As she knows the name of one of those of no couth or candor, she writes the following on her Social Network Status the next morning:
You know what is really interesting is when one walks into a hall full of people and you get a sense that 'someone' is talking about you. You look over the crowd and can immediately spy out who it is...almost like having whispers behind covered hands becoming coloured. LOL!
THEN she invites the Lady of the Tongue (who she has previous has had same lady Social Networkly blocked) to suddenly become her friend on said Social Network, hoping that the Lady of the Tongue would accept and see the first status ever of the One That Has Been Gossiped About being the above.
AND ...she did
AND.... she did read
...she must have.
The Lady of the Tongue will be Re--blocked after the mandatory 48 hours has passed.
This is a far far better method I think than walking over to the table and saying, "Hello. Is there anything you would like clarified?" Less risk of confrontation.
The next time I see them I will just smile and wave.
The next time I see them I will just smile and wave.
I am not pretending that I never gossip. But what I am saying is that because I don't pretend not to, I know that one has to be discreet about it. I
know that people can actually see me talking about them so I take precautions..I carry either a paper bag to cover my head or I simply write and exchange notes with my co-gossiper--chewing and swallowing the evidence afterwards.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
An Open Letter to Rachel Anne
An open letter to my long missed and absent daughter, mom to my first and only grandchild (as far as I am aware), who is dearly thought of and sorely longed for,
It has been almost five years since we have had much contact other than those few times that were too short and too strained to be considered any real contact other than visual and a cursory acknowledgment of our been in the same room physically.
I know you must have some pretty valid reasons for why we have not heard from you and I just wanted you to know that I know for a fact that there have been without a doubt things that I have done to contribute to your decision to not include myself or your dad in your life. I know there are many things we could have and should have done differently and better. I know that I made some bad choices in parenting and I truly truly apologize for the hurts that I have caused you in the past.
This letter is my way of openly and publicly acknowledging that you were wronged and that I was, as your Mom, responsible for wrongs done to you and I am publicly asking and hoping that you may find it in your heart to help me make amends to you for the hurts and wrongs that I have caused to happen to you so that we may slowly and safely resume our relationship in a new way and form.
Much love,
Mom
It has been almost five years since we have had much contact other than those few times that were too short and too strained to be considered any real contact other than visual and a cursory acknowledgment of our been in the same room physically.
I know you must have some pretty valid reasons for why we have not heard from you and I just wanted you to know that I know for a fact that there have been without a doubt things that I have done to contribute to your decision to not include myself or your dad in your life. I know there are many things we could have and should have done differently and better. I know that I made some bad choices in parenting and I truly truly apologize for the hurts that I have caused you in the past.
This letter is my way of openly and publicly acknowledging that you were wronged and that I was, as your Mom, responsible for wrongs done to you and I am publicly asking and hoping that you may find it in your heart to help me make amends to you for the hurts and wrongs that I have caused to happen to you so that we may slowly and safely resume our relationship in a new way and form.
Much love,
Mom
Monday, April 8, 2013
A Little Bit of Lawnmower Goes a Long Ways
I have always enjoyed that Lawnmower commercial where the guy is showing off all the stuff he has owned over the years and which he still uses.
"See this shirt..had it for 15 years. See this car..had it for 20 years. See this tool belt...it was my Dad's."
The presentation ends, of course, with the reliability of the chosen and aged lawnmower --a selling feature in today's culture of built in obsolescence.
Actually that line "See this (whatever article chosen)..I've had it for 30 years" has been used by myself to tease my husband who loves the idea that many of the items in his possession are well used and still functional. He treasures the first set of tools he ever owned, wears every pair of slippers until the developing holes become a danger on stairs and floor alike, and still crows over the sound and size of his stereo speakers which he bought 35 years ago.
I, too, have come to realize the value of keeping and using things as much as possible. As I think of my 31 year old electric stove, the 'newer' 15 year old refrigerator, and the pine table and china cabinet set that have served the family through 4 children, at least 60 birthday party celebrations, 33 Xmas dinners, as well as several games of cards, Easter Egg decorating, along with sausage making episodes and homemade pasta making afternoons; I realize that perhaps that 'use it till it falls apart and then make a rag out of it philosophy' may apply to myself as well.
We still use the quilt my mother-in-law sewed from used clothing 40 years ago, the hooked rug I made while still a single teacher, as well as the paint worn and handle bent wheelbarrow that we bought for use in our first garden.
I feel a sense of pride not only in our thriftiness, but also our ability to appreciate and utilize the things we have to the fullest.
One can, however , take things just a little too far in terms of keeping items just in case one might need it, as I found, much to my surprise, in my laundry an item that mysteriously had decided to 'float' to the top and make itself known once again after many many years of even the remotest usefulness.
A Nursing Bra!
"See this shirt..had it for 15 years. See this car..had it for 20 years. See this tool belt...it was my Dad's."
The presentation ends, of course, with the reliability of the chosen and aged lawnmower --a selling feature in today's culture of built in obsolescence.
Actually that line "See this (whatever article chosen)..I've had it for 30 years" has been used by myself to tease my husband who loves the idea that many of the items in his possession are well used and still functional. He treasures the first set of tools he ever owned, wears every pair of slippers until the developing holes become a danger on stairs and floor alike, and still crows over the sound and size of his stereo speakers which he bought 35 years ago.
I, too, have come to realize the value of keeping and using things as much as possible. As I think of my 31 year old electric stove, the 'newer' 15 year old refrigerator, and the pine table and china cabinet set that have served the family through 4 children, at least 60 birthday party celebrations, 33 Xmas dinners, as well as several games of cards, Easter Egg decorating, along with sausage making episodes and homemade pasta making afternoons; I realize that perhaps that 'use it till it falls apart and then make a rag out of it philosophy' may apply to myself as well.
We still use the quilt my mother-in-law sewed from used clothing 40 years ago, the hooked rug I made while still a single teacher, as well as the paint worn and handle bent wheelbarrow that we bought for use in our first garden.
I feel a sense of pride not only in our thriftiness, but also our ability to appreciate and utilize the things we have to the fullest.
One can, however , take things just a little too far in terms of keeping items just in case one might need it, as I found, much to my surprise, in my laundry an item that mysteriously had decided to 'float' to the top and make itself known once again after many many years of even the remotest usefulness.
A Nursing Bra!
Monday, April 1, 2013
Lambing
It's that time of year again.
The time of year when one dons the traditional black and red rubber boots, loads up the wheel barrow with knapsack or whatever else one wishes to have carried 'out to the car' and proceeds to walk about a city block out to the the top of the road where the vehicle is parked for the duration of the melting and mudding process that takes place every year in our yard. It is only with great trepidation and dire need that we will drive closer to the house until the snow, water, slush, and deep sinking mud have disappeared for fear of tearing great ruts in the lane as well as risk having to be pulled out with a tractor.
This little night walk outside in the dark down our lane and around a corner into the persistent and ever present wind reminds me of the days when we had goats and sheep out in the barn and the trips in the spring every hour or so during lambing/kidding season.
The air has a special quality to it late in the evening and into the early hours of dawn . There is a stillness and even an unexplained unique smell in the air which does not exist any other time of the day. I would even bet that if one were to blindfold me and deny me access to what time it was in the day and walk me outside at 3:00 am I would be able to determine within a couple of hours the time on the clock by the stillness and aura in the air.
I wish I could find a poem or a piece of prose that adequately describes the process that a farmer must go through when checking on domestic animals on the verge of giving birth in the middle of the night.
Some of the words used would be the following:
Sleeping fully clothed.
Alarm ringing.
Quietly putting on boots, coat, and hat and opening the creaky outside door.
Cool Fresh Air awakens the senses.
Stars above and flashlight in hand.
Crunch of snow and ice underfoot.
Dog panting along side.
Startled momentary rustle as barn light is flicked on.
Smell of hay, manure, and animal scent.
Quiet gazes exchanged as scene is observed for unusual stance or isolation since the last visit.
Hushed accounting and quick glance at exits to ensure all are present.
Light flipped off...flashlight clicked on.
Quiet walk back to the darkened house.
Chilled air returns to pinch the face.
Coat, boots, flashlight deposited by door.
Soft steps back to the bed.
Alarm set for two hours hence.
Cold cheeks on soft pillow.
The time of year when one dons the traditional black and red rubber boots, loads up the wheel barrow with knapsack or whatever else one wishes to have carried 'out to the car' and proceeds to walk about a city block out to the the top of the road where the vehicle is parked for the duration of the melting and mudding process that takes place every year in our yard. It is only with great trepidation and dire need that we will drive closer to the house until the snow, water, slush, and deep sinking mud have disappeared for fear of tearing great ruts in the lane as well as risk having to be pulled out with a tractor.
This little night walk outside in the dark down our lane and around a corner into the persistent and ever present wind reminds me of the days when we had goats and sheep out in the barn and the trips in the spring every hour or so during lambing/kidding season.
The air has a special quality to it late in the evening and into the early hours of dawn . There is a stillness and even an unexplained unique smell in the air which does not exist any other time of the day. I would even bet that if one were to blindfold me and deny me access to what time it was in the day and walk me outside at 3:00 am I would be able to determine within a couple of hours the time on the clock by the stillness and aura in the air.
I wish I could find a poem or a piece of prose that adequately describes the process that a farmer must go through when checking on domestic animals on the verge of giving birth in the middle of the night.
Some of the words used would be the following:
Sleeping fully clothed.
Alarm ringing.
Quietly putting on boots, coat, and hat and opening the creaky outside door.
Cool Fresh Air awakens the senses.
Stars above and flashlight in hand.
Crunch of snow and ice underfoot.
Dog panting along side.
Startled momentary rustle as barn light is flicked on.
Smell of hay, manure, and animal scent.
Quiet gazes exchanged as scene is observed for unusual stance or isolation since the last visit.
Hushed accounting and quick glance at exits to ensure all are present.
Light flipped off...flashlight clicked on.
Quiet walk back to the darkened house.
Chilled air returns to pinch the face.
Coat, boots, flashlight deposited by door.
Soft steps back to the bed.
Alarm set for two hours hence.
Cold cheeks on soft pillow.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
A Mathematical Easter
TW --Total Hours Worked
CC -- Chocolate Consumption
A -- Age
SW -- Shifts Worked
ST -- Sleep time
fw --foil wrapping
Using the formula of SW(A x TW) x ST equals CC - fw.
Therefore : CC -fw equals 4 (60 x 46) x 40
CC- fw has to be 10400 x 40
CC-fw therefore is 41600 units.
Minus the unknown factor of the fw which will be arbitrarily designated a value of .9987 the CC therefore calculates out to be 41600 x .9987 as 41545.92 units of Chocolate in danger of being consumed.
Unknown factors are:
1. Supply Source of Chocolate (if not the Easter Bunny then who(m)??)
2. Formula does not account for any hours wasted in useless Facebook perusing, Easter Bunny Google Searches, or actual workplace duties being performed.
3. WP (Will Power) has been deliberately factored out as it never had much of a value in past calculations.
It would be nice to know how to use all special mathematical keys on the keyboard.
CC -- Chocolate Consumption
A -- Age
SW -- Shifts Worked
ST -- Sleep time
fw --foil wrapping
Using the formula of SW(A x TW) x ST equals CC - fw.
Therefore : CC -fw equals 4 (60 x 46) x 40
CC- fw has to be 10400 x 40
CC-fw therefore is 41600 units.
Minus the unknown factor of the fw which will be arbitrarily designated a value of .9987 the CC therefore calculates out to be 41600 x .9987 as 41545.92 units of Chocolate in danger of being consumed.
Unknown factors are:
1. Supply Source of Chocolate (if not the Easter Bunny then who(m)??)
2. Formula does not account for any hours wasted in useless Facebook perusing, Easter Bunny Google Searches, or actual workplace duties being performed.
3. WP (Will Power) has been deliberately factored out as it never had much of a value in past calculations.
It would be nice to know how to use all special mathematical keys on the keyboard.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
A Patriotic Christmas Carol
As Rachel's birthday is in the middle of December it was usual that the birthday girl would have a Christmas Tree as part of the birthday decorations. On one of Rachel's birthdays..6th or 7th..she had a friend come over after school to help celebrate . These two little girls spent the afternoon dressing up, playing with their dolls and toy dishes.
I noticed they were in the living room, all dressed up, looking at the tree and the creche underneath. I heard Rachel say that they should sing a song to Baby Jesus. I listened closer wondering what they would choose to sing.
Soon their earnest voices rang out with sweetness an original version of O Canada.
Lovely memory.
I noticed they were in the living room, all dressed up, looking at the tree and the creche underneath. I heard Rachel say that they should sing a song to Baby Jesus. I listened closer wondering what they would choose to sing.
Soon their earnest voices rang out with sweetness an original version of O Canada.
Lovely memory.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Porridge for Easter
Easter on the Prairies 2013
The skiers and skaters loved the long winter a lot
But the people who lived on the Prairies did NOT!
The people watched helplessly as the snowmobiles roared
The people cried desperately as the flakes fell in hoards.
The snow filled the ditches, the streets and the lanes,
Every shoulder from shoveling was suffering pain.
The wind blew with a fury and made the roads icy
Making any travel at Easter a plan that was dicey.
The people were worried that the Bunny would say,
"Oh, it is much, much too dangerous. I must stay away.
The baskets will stay empty this year.
Being a Rabbit that hops, I am not a good skier."
The people on the Prairies cried out in great fear,
"No candies? No chocolate? No Easter Parade?
Not even one Marshmallow Egg?"
"No! No! No! No!", they cried , cried, cried, cried.
"What's Easter without baskets and surprises inside?"
Then the People of the Prairie got an idea!
They had banquets and auctions,
They sold pies at the rink and canvassed the streets
Trying to raise money for some great Easter Treats.
After dances, and dinners, and discussions galore
The People realized they needn't do more
As they now had the money to buy a new Cat
The Good Easter Bunny could not say no to That.
Easter dawned cold, with a wind that blew drifts that started to stick
Across the roads and the fields to get one stuck quick.
Did THAT stop the Bunny?
NO!
He loaded his Cat with his baskets of chocolates, marshmallow chickens,
and eggs made of candy with new pastel additions.
He raised the blood sugar of all in the town
With just the new rendition of the Chocolate Easter Clown.
He brought Easter Joy across the white spaces
bringing grins and full stomachs instead of sad faces.
What happened then?
While the People of the Prairies all say
That when the wrappers from the candy thrown down on ground
Got the warmth of the sun, it caused them to heat
Then the snow started melting and couldn't be beat.
The Prairies were flooded..all the candy was lost
Long Ears on Arctic Cat took off for the South.
Porridge for Easter was the fare for the day
We were lucky to have that as some say.
No flowers, or lilies, or crocuses blooming
But spring will come soon , so nonsense in moving.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)