Dear Grandma in January

January, 2019


Dear Grandma,

It has been close to 30 years since I have spoken to you. 
I am now nearly the same age as you were when I was first born.  I think my earliest memory of you is me  being picked up out of the metal crib and being held on your lap.  I have the impression that I was quite ill at the time, probably with a fever and a cold or even chicken pox.

All the changes that happened over that time.  It is terribly cold here these last few days.  I live in a rural area much like you did when you were my age.  As I sit here looking at the outside temperature gauge and listening to the wind howl I start to wonder how you managed  to live the life of a farmer's wife for five decades.
 You were brought to the farmstead as a bride.  I am pretty sure you wouldn't have had power back then.  How quiet the days must have been.  No radio. No fridge motor humming away.  Probably not even a  telephone for the first while.  Grandpa would be busy I imagine, feeding cattle and pigs in the barn, milking,  feeding chickens, working on machinery, hauling wood,  repairing bins all while you were in the house heating water, cleaning floors,  washing clothes and  making meals with only your thoughts to keep you company.  Newspapers were rare.  The Western Producer and the Family Herald were probably the main monthly papers  delivered to the post office 10 miles away. 
I envision you pouring over the Women's Columns in these papers looking at recipes and the latest news about fashion trends and family living advice which could involve gardening tips as well as serial stories  and advertisements for feminine needs.

I have kept a few of your recipe books, wire bound stenographer pads , that have cut outs from the Western Producer taped into them with some time honoured gems such as Tomato Soup cake,  Yorkshire Pudding, and even a recipe for a No Egg Cake.  It certainly would have been a challenge to bake anything in a wood stove oven without a proper temperature gauge with the only way to turn the heat up or down depended on the quality and quantity of wood placed in the hot box. 

Washing must have been quite the chore in the winter.  I do remember watching you hanging wet sheets outside on the line in minus 30 degrees temperature and hauling them in again a few hours later,  stiff and frozen and then putting them on the kitchen table to drip dry. 

I think of you going about your daily housework tasks primarily in silence day after day. The only sound to be heard would be the sound of labour.  Placing wood in the cook stove by first lifting the metal burner and hearing the clunk and consequent instant sizzle of the wood turning to flame especially if it was really cold outside. The clunk clunk clunk of the iron  being heated on the stove to smooth out wrinkles of every piece of linen and sheet, tea towel, work shirt, coveralls, and handkerchief.  Many a young bride was judged by her mother in law in those days by the white of her tea towels, the neatness of the linen cupboard,  and the crease in her husband's dungarees. 
I can imagine the sound of the handle of the hand pump creaking and squeaking as  it is pumped up and down until the swoosh of  cold water gushes out the spout and into the waiting wash basin or 
pail, depending on the chore at hand. 


I wonder if you sang or hummed a song or if you day dreamed of other times when you were with your sisters in town going skating or visiting with friends.  Would you be planning the next meal, or would you worry what you would wear to the next school social?  I know you liked to look nice as I recall you getting your hair done in home permanents often--no natural curly haired beauties in our family was there?

It will be minus 40 here tonight.  That is in Celsius degrees which actually is also the same on the  Fahrenheit scale so you will have a full understanding of how cold it really is...at least that is one thing that hasn't changed. 

Hope all is going well.  Say hello to Grandpa for me.  I know he is probably close by.  Think of you both often.  

Love and miss you,

Penny 

Bowing ..I Hope Not ...to the Absurd

We are in the midst of typical winter weather where frost hangs on the trees with every bit of tenacity as it does on windows and windshields; where the  sharp and inexplicable sound of  a nail being 'pulled' in the middle of the cold dark night can jolt one awake with same burst of terror that one has when awakened by a door slamming or something falling to the floor *.  You know something wakened you but you are quite sure what it was.


It is the type of cold that makes the butter hard in the cupboard, the cloths that one has wedged into the edges of the door  freeze onto the jam, and the wood when placed on top of the glowing embers start to flame even before one finishes filling the stove. 


 It is the type of cold that harkens a cloud of frost filled air to follow anyone who returns from the  outside   become a fog bank of ice and frigidity whose chilly fingers scurry over the floor  seeking warming solace in the feet, legs, and ultimately  spine of any living being six feet from the door  resulting in goose bumps and shivers to its host.


It is during this type of cold that one can only be thankful that wood  and  fibreglass are reasonable
insulation and that the discovery that air between two or three  panes of glass can ward off both wind and freezing temperatures.   It is truly a marvel indeed that within a space of about 6 inches  the destiny of human life is allowed to survive and even thrive in sub zero temperatures.


It is one of these types of cold days that I chose to stop in for a midmorning coffee at a neighbour's unannounced .


It was one of those winter days where footsteps crunch, frosty breath lurks around one's head and quickly freezes the 'all hairs' of one's facial features.


  It was one of these winter days that  I left my vehicle, climbed noisily up the steps of the deck and  I pushed the doorbell and heard the welcoming call of  'Come In the Door Is Open'. 


 It was one of these winter days that I  opened the frost jammed door with a bit of a jerk and went inside  and was immediately accompanied by a cloak of foggy  ice crystals as the cold air met warmth. 


It was one of these winter days that my glasses  fogged up as I entered the house and as I took my mitts off to lift them off my nose I looked in at my hosts and saw  evidence of the beneficial effect of fibreglass insulation and trapped air pockets between two panes of glass, although I was not immediately conscious of that scientific analysis right at that moment. 


What did impress me at that very moment when I returned my defogged glasses to my face is something so image filled, so mind etching, so visually inerasable   that it  can and should only be expressed in rhyme .

Bowing....I Hope Not to the Absurd

Stopping for warmth on a cold winter's day
For a short little chat and a friendly Good Day
My mind became confounded and really confused. 
And not because of the frost or the fog that ensued
 
I saw three great big men at the round table 
And through my frosted specs able 
To see they were naked from the chest up
Eating their cheerios and  slurping from cups.


 As I stood there in shock, I looked in dismay
I said a short  prayer to quickly convey
My hope that I would not ever be able
While during that visit, see under that table.




* I refer to the sound  of a dresser situated  at the end of the bed in the middle of the night falling over because the drawers weren't properly closed.  Apparently it was a traumatic experience for a new bridegroom so much so that it has been referred to at least 4 times a year for the past 30 years of marriage. The tirade usually starts out with..."just like the time you didn't close the drawer of that dresser....."  So the unexpected and unexplained sounds in the middle of the night can bother a person for years to come...or so it seems.

Bird's Eye View

Sometimes I think it would be great to be a bird--
flying here and there. Never seemingly to get cold even when it is minus 30 degrees. Swooping up and down. Spying and checking out various spots in the area for random food sources such as an abandoned dog dish, garbage bag left unattended, or  some juicy frozen (in the winter)/half cooked (in the summer) road kill.

Aside from the obvious dining advantages resulting from being able to fly, one could also glean much information regarding the habits and lifestyles of strangers as well as acquaintances within the variable unlimited limitations of free flight.

I think it would be 'flightfully' delightful this cold and blustery January day to be able to swoop down and peek randomly into the windows of  friends and neighbours.

 I could maybe see a friend as they sat and watched their favourite soap opera, or another as they played and cuddled with their newly wakened from a nap toddler with rosy cheeks and smiley disposition. Perhaps I would hear singing and music playing as someone prepares for their choir practice.  A few flight miles further  might allow me  to spy on a shut-in as they sit and read a card from a far away loved one. Still further I could watch a hairdresser busy cutting and shaping a client's hair with the skill and quickness of a seasoned professional.

If I approached a school yard right now I probably would see hundreds of colourfully dressed youngsters in parkas , mitts, and toques as they line up to climb onto exhaust spewing school buses for their respective rides home. 

I probably would see some office people at work sitting at a desk with a word processor, and still others idly talking on the phone discussing the weather, plans for the future, family activities, and future vacations to warmer climes.

Yes, sometimes  I think it would be nice to be a bird ...even if I did have to lay an egg once in a while, lose all my feathers, and live in a tree.
 I wouldn't have to worry about going to a dentist.  There wouldn't be any worry about going through security before a  flight. 

 There may be something really good about the fact that it is a rare bird that can 'peck' out any information on a keyboard especially if one keeps in mind  that age old saying that "a little birdie told me".  Those seemingly air borne innocents may know more than we like to think or even want to admit. 

I think I might just close my curtains now and get a cat.

The 'Stuff' of Buffets

If winter means dangerously cold temperatures, high level of snowfall, and dire driving conditions , then my area of the world is experiencing winter in every sense of the word.

If winter, indeed, can also be described in how much wood one has burned so far this wood burning season, then the fact that more wood has been burned (three bin fulls in fact) than any other winter since the commencement of wood burning began in terms of our home heating arrangement.

If winter can be described as a time to stay indoors and hunker down with homemade meals with baked bread and red wine, then that means we have had much in the terms of experiencing the season.

With that in mind, one can perhaps readily understand why we ventured out on a warmish  (-9 Celsius) Sunday afternoon to partake of a Chinese Buffet we had heard about  in a neighbouring town about a half hour's drive from home.  The first outing for no reason we had taken for about a month.

We drove down main street of this small town and spied the restaurant almost immediately, as it was the only building where there were three cars parked.  The verification of our correctness was the sign on the outside that simply read "Buddy's" with a 7up symbol beside it. 

There was a group of five ladies 'of a certain age' sitting at a long table watching our entrance as we knocked snow off our boots, took off our frost covered glasses, and looked for a place to be seated.

Under these watchful eyes we chose an arborite covered table (we had the choice of sitting at one with decoupaged pictures of horses on a pine board) by the windows and informed the server that we would be taking part in the buffet.  The plates for the buffet were plastic, the utensils were 'real', meaning they were metal, and the coffee was served in a cup with a spoon already sitting in it.

The food was at best 'OK'. Considering we got there about 5 minutes after the buffet had started  it seemed to be cold, over cooked, and over fried.  Not surprisingly, there was quite a bit of food to be had as all during my time there I saw no one go back for seconds.
  The service was good as the coffee and ice water we asked for arrived even before we had time to go to the buffet table to fill our plates. Although the only difference between the iced water and the coffee we were served was that the water was colder than the coffee, and the coffee was a bit browner. 

As there was no ambiance music to help muffle the usual sounds one finds in restaurants such as chewing, coughing, clinking and scraping of utensils, coffee slurping, and conversation, we were able to experience the eating out sounds to their fullest. 

After the excitement of our arrival leveled off, the conversation of the ladies at the only other occupied table returned to the mundane.  Topics such as snow shoveling, home care foods and the debate which followed over their value and tastiness. 

 The discussion of whether the local hospital would reopen in spite of the mold took some minutes to consider and almost sparked an argument. We could feel the tension rise as one interrupted the statement of another.  For just a smack of a moment there was a sense that not all the chilliness was coming from the outside.


We sat and ate the food that was good and left that which wasn't.  As we were approaching the end of our meal, one of the attendees at the other table burst out into a series of at least 30 continuous sneezes. This outburst, of course, brought the topic of conversation around to allergies. The topic of allergies, naturally therefore, brought  the conversation  to the fact that one of the other ladies accidentally found out that her sewer was leaking  'stuff' (her word) into her dirt basement. She described the 'stuff' that was coming out around the edges of the pipe, and how she had to call the repairman, and how nice he was to come fix the pipe from leaking that 'stuff' the very same day and how he didn't even charge her because he was working for the Town that day. 

My husband went to pay the bill. As I downed the last of the coffee and wiped  my lips with a paper serviette from the dispenser, I thought of how much I appreciate having as many serviettes as I want whenever I eat out. 


As we drove home across the snowy countryside through our summer camping area, my husband leaned over and put his hand on my knee and said, "Thanks for coming out with me today."                              

 

 

 

 

The 'stuff ' of a great meal is more than the food or the place.

Being Hung Out to Dry

A Cold Afternoon

This has been a cold and quiet November afternoon.

The only sound in the house is the hum of the refrigerator and the snore of the dog who  nestles against me like a burr  to a sock.

  

The chill is due to the lack of fire in the  wood stove.  I did fill it with wood but not soon enough for it to 'catch' and so instead of going through the routine of making kindling and rearranging the split wood I have opted for donning a sweater 'from a corpse'*  while  waiting for someone else to do it when they come home from work.

  

The chilliness isn't really too bad to tolerate except that my violin is probably tuning out with every passing minute due to the change in temperature causing the shrinking and cooling of strings and  the accompaning give and take of its wooden frame.  This perhaps may explain the reasoning behind the term "winter fiddle"...as in the lyric of the song that starts out with "The twists  of your heart are like the strings of  a  winter's fiddle ."*

Thinking of wooden frames and cold puts me in mind of the wooden laundry clothes dryers they had in my mother's and grandmother's day.  If a person wants to know COLD all they have to do is hang some wet sheets and laundry outside on a line on a cold winter's day to 'dry' and then in about 3 hours haul them all back in again to drape, or rather LEAN them over a wooden rack.   Thinking of carrying frozen sheets inside puts me in mind of hauling slabs of drywall into the house.  I think the biggest fear would have to be chipping off a sleeve, pant leg,  or corner of a sheet while manoevering door jams.

 I distinctly remember playing hide and seek with my sister and brother, and crawling under the rack and getting wet because  the clothes were dripping.   I was so surprised that something that hard could be dripping water. I don't think I really could grasp the logic around  the idea that  you put something wet out to dry but, ultimately, you still had to bring it in to finish the job.  

  The  wooden window sills in the house would be laden with thick edgings of ice due to  the humidity  of the 'dry thawing' of the week's laundry.

  

  No Wonder our mothers and grandmothers had arthritic hands.

No Wonder window sills rotted out. 

 No Wonder fiddles sound the way they do.

* second hand clothes from a a thrift store

... a phrase  from the book "Love in the Time of Cholera"--Gabriel Garcia Marquez

* not a real lyric to a song.. I just made it up for effect.

What's the difference between a fiddle and a Chain Saw?
You can turn a chain saw off.

Why are fiddles better than guitars?
They burn longer.