Country Living

Not too long ago someone spoke to me about the lifestyle of those who live in rural Canada.

Their breathy awe filled voice spoke with phrases sprinkled with pastoral metaphors, odes, and similes  when they described the abundance of Nature's Beauty,  the Simplicity and Quietness of Daily Living, the Purity of Air and Water, the Relaxation,  Freedom from Schedules and Traffic found in the Crime Free Rural Lifestyle, as well as the total Economic Freedom  from Financial Burdens as a result of the  Ability to Live Off The Land.

I let them speak.  I let them fantasize. I let them think that the  Nirvana type lifestyle in their mind's eye of country living was every bit as good as they dreamed.  I did not contradict or explain, or 'point out', or correct. 

I let them ignore the presence of 150 pound  security dog in the yard , the building full of  tools such as: chains,  hammers from claw to sledge, generators, gas tanks, saws, wagons,  ATV,  snowmobile, axe and .22 rifle. The majority of these items my city friend would have  had a hard time even naming let alone using with efficiency or safety. 

 I avoided discussion of sewer pumps, sump pumps, water heaters, and cut off valves.  I did not point out the  shed filled with cut and cured wood for winter burning.

 I did not comment on the need for two well maintained  , gas filled vehicles needing to be plugged in for at least 4 months of the year 24/7...one to drive..the other to pull.

The existence and frequency of the siting of skunks, snakes, raccoons, squirrels porcupines, coyotes, deer, moose and occasional bear along with lynx and cougar were not discussed.

The absence of mosquito control, pest   inspectors, law enforcement officers, fire departments, water inspectors, plumbers, and electricians was not even touched upon.


Further to the conversations that did not take place, the incident of the neighbour walking 3 miles for help after his arm was caught in the baler, and his choosing to walk another mile even further as there were children playing in the first yard and he didn't want to upset them. 

This non conversation also did not cover the subject of blocked roads in winter and wet and washed out roads in summer. Nor was the possibility that the hour long trip to the nearest ER ward over icy roads during a snow storm that looms in the back of every rural resident's mind from October to March, ever mentioned or hinted at.

I am not quite certain why so many subjects were not touched upon with my Fantasizing Urban Innocent. Perhaps it was because I liked the idea of someone from the City being a little envious of my Country Bumpkin ways. But more likely the cause was because, deep down,  I was hoping against hope they would offer in some monetary way to trade living arrangements.

Alas, the offer didn't happen.

I am still enjoying my Pastoral Life free from Pollution, Crime, Social Pressures, and  am able to partake of  Nature's Seasonal Offerings that build Strength of  Character and  Instill Values that are  so often the result of there being 'No Where Else to Go'.




I suppose the pleasure of country life lies really in the eternally renewed evidences of the determination to live”--unknown

“The country life is to be preferred, for there we see the works of God; but in cities little else but the works of men. And the one makes a better subject for contemplation than the other.”

William Penn

Travels

It was a lovely trip.  Blue skies. The gold of harvested fields.  Balmy breeze.  Pleasant company.  Lots of interesting sites to visit and learn about.

My  fall 'holiday' included many observations about life and lifestyle choices giving one pause to wonder  just 'What is with that?' on more than one occasion.

For instance , the presence of a television  at the side of a rural highway.  It was difficult to determine if it was flat screened or not  due to the speed of our passing, but it did have an intact chassis and the rabbit ears were not evident.

After a day of perusing art galleries, tourist attractions, and guided tours of museums and cathedrals,  the most unusual item seen on that sunny cloudless day was an upright  14 ' aluminum boat situated in a grassy ditch, minus both trailer or owner; not to mention the total absence of water or fish. 

The following day while continuing on our travels we were treated to another 'what is with that?' type moment as we noticed the frame of a gas  Bar B Q on a roadside approach, fifteen or so miles from the nearest farm/ranch or town. 

The who? what? why? of these objects will never be known; but if one was to dwell in the metaphysical meaning of such a sightings, perhaps one would note that the television was perhaps doing the watching of the public instead of the other way around. Hopefully it might have found the continuous , monotonous and relentless repetition of the 'reality' programming it would have been exposed to as vehicles passed, and passed, and continued to pass in a boring, repetitious, unchanging litany of sameness  not unlike that which  the drivers of those same vehicles have to endure as they sit and watch what passes as action and intelligence on televisions around the world.

I could guess that the boat in the dry ditch might be a symbol of the hopelessness of weather variances on the prairies or simply a sign of a fisherman's frustration after a particularly disappointing foray into a freakishly frustrating fishing fiasco.

For sure the presence of a Bar B Q on the open  rural and treeless approach could be a sign of society's comment on omnivores and their eating habits. But I doubt it.  It probably was more a sign of a broken tail gate after a Rider's Game--win or lose.

Yes,  the sighting of all of the above can be stretched to fit some sort of weak metaphysical metaphor to describe the state of the world, but my last encounter with the culture that our society encircles is much more easier to understand.

It happened while waiting to transfer my baggage from one bus to anther on the last leg of my journey home.  A woman came up to me and asked if I smoked.  I replied in the negative.  She then handed me her Bic lighter and asked if I could light her cigarette for her.  I looked at the cigarette she held to her mouth and said, " It is already lit."   She repeated again , " Light my cigarette, please."  I repeated, "It is already lit."  She looked down at the glowing cigarette and simply said, "Oh". She took her lighter from my hand and wandered away.

Nope, there is not a metaphysical meaning behind this strange encounter.  There  is, to my mind at least, an interesting 'Sheldon like'  physical law behind it in  the fact  that there were two things  already 'lit'--- even if only one was actually smoking. 


                                     ---Bazinga!

 

Rainbow World

James Ewart wrote: :: Patricia Verhelst > Regina Baby Momma's Group I am helping a friend out and asking everyone to help out! Could everyone, including you big kids, draw a simple picture of a rainbow and mail it to Patricia Verhelst Box 355, Radville, SK S0C 2G0 by next week and I will send them all in together. There is a little girl in Saskatoon who is sick who wishes to get a rainbow from everyone in the world...

This is in Canada...so that would have to be added on to the address..please and thank you. :)


https://www.facebook.com/MarandasRainbowConnection/posts/380421352028662

I Wrote a Letter...

Some Things Never Change... 

 

                        ...and then again some things do --all the time.

 

For instance, the way we communicate has changed. 

 

 When is the last time any one of us has received a hand written personal letter sent through the Post Office?

 

  I am talking about a good three page letter written on all sides (and in the margins as my grandmother did) imparting antidotes of family activities and social events along with the opinions of the writer, sometimes with a political or moral judgment either blatantly or sublimely implied without fear of court action and 'without prejudice'.  

 

There were  days when 'friendly' letters written in pencil were accepted and expected in the "pre Bic" days of pens.  Letters written with the traditional pen and ink were usually those of the 'business' type .

 

 

The envelope upon receipt would be just a little bit crinkled and worn from the long and arduous journey from its source...often having travelled a week or more from its origin to destination.

 

There were no Postal Codes. In fact, depending upon the recipient's character and length of stay in the community, one often only had to write the name of the town and province to assure correct delivery.

 

The letter would traditionally be written on white paper as would the envelope itself.   No little extra stickers or cartoons would be placed on the envelope other than the stamp which would usually only be a reflection of the reining monarch's image. 

 

There was quite a stir when my sister took a match and burned a little hole at one corner of the envelope and wrote "Hot news inside" at the end of a drawn arrow.  Often post office workers would not deliver letters if they suspected anything other than paper was slipped into the envelope such as a small picture or magazine article. 

 

Greeting cards were allowed to be delivered for a lower cost providing the card was unsealed. 

 

Now, of course, we have email, texting, ecards, and social media.  There is lots to be said of the instantaneous transmission of knowledge and consequent power that gives to society.  

 

I do think , however, that society has also lost out on the the value that a handwritten letter signifies.  A handwritten letter requires the writer to consciously set aside a moment of their day to actually think about the recipient  (no mass emails) with regards to their interests and inclinations, or perhaps give a more direct answer to some  previous query thus enhancing communication and ultimate understanding.  More care in choosing the correct words (no text completion)as well as the time and concentration on actual letter formation and word spelling would help the whole process to be rewarding and appreciated. 

 

I see a handwritten letter as a gift of time and thought from the sender.  I see it as a moment in time that someone has taken out of their busy lives to actually sit down and have me in mind during the fifteen minutes or so to take pen  in hand on chosen paper all the while actually concentrating on proper word choice and grammar, and then  forming with care and flair their thoughts that they have chosen to share with me. 

 

 

Yes some things have changed...and then again some haven't.

 

 

 

 

The annual  fall migration of geese hasn't changed and hopefully never will.

 

 

 

One time offer:  Write your address in the comments and I will send YOU a handwritten three page letter.  I have paper and pen and stamps at the ready.

 

 I will not publish your address.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Suprise!

1.  Why are we surprised even a little bit that a 22 year old woman married to a 69 year old man --a  Canadian Senator no less--decides to drink too much and finally tells her husband of one year what she thinks of him.  Yes it was unfortunate that she threatened to slit his throat while at the same time being aboard a commercial air flight over the Canadian Prairies.  I do agree it was inappropriate and probably very upsetting to all who were present on the flight witnessing this domestic fiasco...but at the same time all I am stating is "Why is anyone surprised?"

2.  The issue of William and Kate  and her photographed bosom. Why are people so  surprised re: the pictures of her mammery glands? Why do people have to look at 'her's'? Did they think she didn't have any? Were they supposed to be rare or different in any remarkable way in terms of number (an Anne Bolyn reference), colour (a tat or two?), form (square or triangular perhaps?). Or is it that society has not enough uncovered boobies to look at in many movies and/or television docudramas?  And why, oh beautiful Kate, are you surprised that you were photographed at all? Do you think that you could actually bare all outside in broad daylight (no pun intended), in this day and age, without getting your upper torso focused on?  It's hardly like you haven't had people take your picture before.  I say put those things back in your room and close the curtains, and if they still get put on the National Post front page then you can sue.


3. Why are people so upset or surprised that the term Holiday Tree is going to be used?  What is it about  the water downed Christian mentality that believes that  Christmas Trees and Santa Claus has anything remotely to do with the Virgin Birth of Jesus in a manger?    I believe the Christians of the right wing fundamentalist  ilk along with the Easter/Christmas funeral/wedding goers of the mainline churches are more likely the cause of the befouling of the traditional Christmas terminology applied to a tinselled and bejewelled, electronically  lighted overgrown, domestically raised , chainsaw shaped, as well as  sometimes plastic imitation of a coniferous tree supposedly brought down from the wild and natural woods that has been deemed the sacred symbol of Our Lord's Birth on Earth.

Christmas Trees have pagan roots.  There is no where in the Christmas Story or  indeed the Bible that states that Joseph along with that cute little drummer boy crawled up to the loft of the manger to drag down baubles, strung popcorn and candles to decorate an Olive Tree (no conifers were being imported at that time--plastic or recycled) to celebrate Jesus' birth.  There weren't even any PRESENTS until the kings showed up ( about two years later)  let alone any mention at all..ever..ever ...ever of some sort of magical elf that brought   various items  to symbolize love, value, and worth of the recipient ironically replacing the message of His being placed on Earth in the first place; and which would cause Joseph  and generations of others  ultimately to have to remortgage the ass (donkey) in order to pay for it all.

    It is NOT our right as Christians to call it a Christmas tree...particularly when during the other 50 weeks of the year 80% of the Christians who celebrate Christmas neither read the Bible, go to church or live according to the teachings of Jesus in terms of loving kindness to neighbours at home or abroad.

 Why hasn't this happened before this , this calling of a 'Christmas' Tree a 'Holiday' Tree you query?  Is it because  of all the non Christmas celebrating immigrants entering the Western World? Is it because of some immoral societal slide perpetrated by dark terrorists waiting to take over our faith and culture?   I say neither of these are the reason, but rather it is because of the lackadaisical attitude and poor example of valued Christian living and forgiveness that neither fundamentalists or Easter/Christmas Christians have displayed.   It is this outpouring of  crocodile tears around  the naming of something that is, in all likelihood, festooned with Made in Indonesia (by children)  sparkled plastic,  that makes people like  Ben Stein and others rightly point out..."We Reap What We Sow".

HO! HO! HO!

  

It's OVER! :(

No more camping  for this year.
  No more popcorn on the fire.
   No more fish fried in butter.
    No more marshmallows roasted.
     No more fishing.
      No more wood chopping.
       No more beer drinking.
        No more hooting of the owls, calling of the elk, honking of the geese.
         No more watching for skunk or mink.
          No more shimmering trees.
           No more smoke in the eyes.
            No more coyote howls.
             No more Lesser Legs, Loons, or Grebes.
              No more games of Dominoes under the stars.
               No more reading by shoulder flashlight.
                 No more flies and mosquitos, hornets or bees.

               
                      Not minding all the No Mores of this fall,

                           I do Know More than I did last spring,

                             So in saying Goodbye to it all,

                               Camping has proven to be a very good thing.

 

Would You Rather Be A Mule?

What a beautiful September Friday afternoon.  Hot and dry with just a slight breeze.  Perfect weather for the farmers in the area, gardeners digging potatoes, and for students walking across campus lawns carrying books and thinking about their last class of the day as the first full week of lectures will have ended--unless they are of the same luck as I who had an 8 am  Saturday morning AV (audio /visual) class for  one  whole semester. 

I really miss those wonderful days of university with the beauty of the prairie with coloured leaves falling combined with the fly over and call of Canadian Geese flocking for their long flight south.

In fact, it has made me so homesick for those days that I have spent the afternoon perusing the University course on-line calendar, as well as exploring and comparing rates and meal plans of the on campus residences.

Imagining.  Imagining what courses would be the
the most interesting.  Which would be the one that I would find the most intriguing--Astronomy? Psychology? or perhaps History?  Would I still be able to sustain the required reading and discipline it would take to succeed, or would I tire of the novelty and regret the loss of freedom and money it would cost to reenter that hallowed ground of learning?

I imagine myself wandering the classroom buildings looking like someone's lost helicopter mother, or even an eccentric lecturer out of shape, out of mode, and  foresure out of the younger set's  realm of 'new' ideas.   Would I be someone more to be talked 'through' rather than 'to'? Would the instructors be kinder? speak slower? give directions louder? if they saw me sitting peering at them through bifocals taking notes with actual pen and paper? ( A laptop still conjures a sleezy connotation in my mind).

It came to my attention during my calendar perusal that at the age of 65 one may attend and participate in bona fide-- for credit-- university classes for FREE!--no tuition fees to pay. These are the actual degree needed classes offered to the regular students--not some watered down home and garden variety that are aimed for the hobbyist-,the mildly interested or the simply  curious, to be taken over  three hour long sessions followed by coffee and snacks.

The leaves will still  be crunched on campus sidewalks and the geese will still be flying and honking overhead five years from now, I suppose.  Time will tell if I will be part of  the crunching and the listening. 

I've had a great afternoon dreaming of it all anyways.

Tea Time

Today is the first day of school.  Mothers and teachers, students and bus drivers, and janitors are all going to partake of the ritual of excitement along with the determination to make this year the best.

 Mothers thinking that they will take more time to make sure interesting and healthy lunches are packed , supplies bought and marked, and  the budget for new clothes intact and used with care. 

 Teachers striving to choose the best practices in dealing with curriculum and behavior. 

 Students vowing to themselves to study more, make more friends, and make at least ONE team over the school year.

Bus drivers hoping to set the right mood for safety and happy times for their charges to and from their homes and places of education.

 Janitors working hard to polish floors , dust classrooms, and clean windows all for the purpose of providing a healthy and clean environment for society's up and coming citizens.

In our house one of the things that somehow became a must became the annual 'after the 1st day of school tea' complete with china tea cups, personal tea pots, fancy teas, flowers on the table, snacks of sliced cheese, meat, and crackers, raw veggie plate along with cream filled doughnuts. Music was turned on the CD player.

The discussion would be about who got which teacher, class schedules, new kids in school, who had moved away and if there were any new kids on the bus. 

As each of the four children graduated and left home there were fewer and fewer people around the tea table until at last there was only one left to catch that first day of school school bus.   I had thought of perhaps asking someone over to fill a space at the table as it seemed that it would be rather a dull  sad gathering with just the two of us trying to be gay and decadent in the silence of lonesomeness.



Someone else  apparently had been thinking of that particular tea time as  well,  as one of the older siblings managed to make it home, unannounced, from her university class that day right on time for the very last of this household's First Day After School Tea Time. 

It was nice.



First there were four....

Then there were three.


and then two...

....and then  there was one-- except for the owner of the hand at the end of the table. ;)

 

 

 

 

Note: the teapots

Camp Life Through Binoculars.

Things you don't want to see or hear on a fishing/camping trip:

1. Guy with beer bottle and no life jacket climbing into a boat and roaring off to the other side of the lake.

2.  A truck with 4 wheel drive (but not put into 4 wheel drive) stuck to its axles at boat launch.

3.  A boat being paddled with a broken oar and broken motor.

4. A flipped boat floating amongst whitecaps across the lake in isolation--bereft of passenger (see #1)

5. A boater LEAVING the boat and swimming across the lake to shore. ( again see #1).

Things that are good to see on a fishing/camping trip:

1. Young man helping an elderly couple tow their boat to safety. (see #1 above). 

2. A man and woman being profoundly nice, polite, and patient to each other (even chuckling) after getting truck stuck, having to paddle boat half way across the lake before being rescued, and locking their keys in the vehicle.  We have pretty much assumed that they weren't married or otherwise related--probably just courting.  

3. Wind and whitecaps on a lake can help you remember being 'Sea Side' in Great Britain.

4. Interesting to note that life jackets, fishing gear, cooler, gas and motor all survived the boat flipping and unescorted float to shore. (All were safely traveling with the boat tucked underneath--not one thing lost).

5. "Lost" and  extremely stupid and fortunate boater was able to get  to campsite unharmed in spite of 3 foot waves and strong winds.  Hopefully  he will tell the story to his grandchildren some day to explain why one should always   a) wear a life jacket when boating, (b STAY with the boat in case of a mishap and   probably the most important--not drink alcohol on a boat.

  

Binoculars can certainly add drama to one's life.

 Boat Safety Rules

Shank's Pony

Getting to and from school during my first six years of formal education was an adventure in itself as parents were expected to provide transportation, the method of which was not a concern to the Department of Education nor it seems to the Child Welfare Department.

Most of the time getting to and from our little red school house on the prairie involved the packing of lunches, jars of water,  and homework into a bike basket; and the student travelling 2 1/2 miles to and from school across country roads, braving whatever weather the had to offer--wind, rain, hail, or dust twister; through puddles or  up hills over gravel roads in a countryside with foxes, badgers, and  coyotes on a one gear bicycle that in my case had been my mother's when she was 19 (I was six) and my sister used our aunt's. The only size adjustment available was the raising or lowering of the seat.  Full pedals were not always part of the bicycle equipage , nor were chain guards or handlebar covers.


Riding a bicycle after a rain storm would often involve  of  a lot of pushing as the mud would jam in the fender , and if you didn't have a fender the back of the  your jacket and pants would be splashed with mud and water until you were surely soaked by the time you reached your destination.

One  school afternoon during a particularly heavy downpour, the teacher telephoned a neighbouring farmer to ask if he would bring his tractor to help transport some of the students to a road where the gravel was heavier and where their parents could meet them to pick them up.  Bicycles would have to remain at the school for the night.

Before the farmer and the tractor arrived, this same teacher took the time to check every one's rubber boots  and shoes to make sure they were dry. If they weren't as dry as he thought they should be, he stuffed newspaper wading inside to make sure our feet were warm before we started on the bumpy albeit novel trip across pasture lands and quagmire of dirt roads in the rain.

I believe there were at least 5 students who somehow managed to 'hang on' on that perilous and wet journey. 

 My  Dad met the tractor with the 1/2 ton truck and got us safely home.  Upon our arrival , my mom took one look at the newspaper in my boots and went straight to the telephone and called the teacher's residence.  I heard her thanking this 19 year old fledgling pedagogue for his thoughtfulness and commonsense. 

I got a new pair of boots that next Saturday. We got the bikes home the next day. I think ( for safety sake??) the next week was when I started riding the horse (bareback) to school as I followed my sister  down the road as she rode the bike.  The horse could walk down any road --muddy or not.

My friend's mother would often refer to using  Shank's Pony to get to school--SHE could do that as she only lived 1/4 mile from school.

Reading/Writing, 'Rithmetic

 

It has been 54 years since I first started school.  I was 6 years old and attended a one room school house on the Canadian Praries. 

On that first day my hand had to stretch to get a good grip on  my 4 small lined notebooks along with my wooden pencil box, which I had recently received as a 6th birthday gift, and new tin lunch kit  resting on my knees while riding in the car with Mother at the wheel traveling over 2 1/2 miles of mostly dirt and gravel roads to the most mysterious and exciting place I could imagine. 

 I did not know what reading was,except for the fact that my sister read Thorton Burgess stories to me occasionaly. I really didn't know what school was except for going to see a couple of Christmas concerts, along with  whist drives and box socials that  our  family had attended.

Inside there was the following:

Fourteen students. Grades 1 to 9.
Two students in Grade One. 
Twenty books in the library. 
Blackboards truly black.
Painted wooden floors. 
Cream Can with 'fresh' water.
One teacher.
Several bicycles along the side of the school.
A barn on the far side of the playground.

I can clearly remember the teacher, a 19 year old, asking everyone in the school to come up and introduce themselves to the class. My sister, who was in Grade 7, commented to Mom when we got home that she was so embarrassed because I had talked so loud and so long. 

Although it didn't happen on the very first day, I do remember going to the board and being taught how to write my own name, learning the number  1-- (THAT was a cinch), and being allowed to use the biggest thickest red lead pencil I had ever seen. 

Then I was handed this book...

                   

...and after about three weeks of school I was handed this book...

            I remember being just a little bit suspicious of that 'Dick type' guy with the water hose.

 

 

   LOOK!

 

        I had learned to read!

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

Teachers that taught me some things somewhere sometime along the way:


Mr.  C. Datchko-  Grades 1 and 2
Miss Doreen Haggard -Grade 3
Mrs.  C. Kenyon- Grade 4 (until Thanksgiving--she was also my Dad's teacher at one time).
Mr. Irvin Krug-  Grades 4, 5, and 6.
Mr. Bing Runquist -Grade 7
Mr. John Brown- Grade 8
Mrs. Darlene McCall- Grade 9
Mrs. Louise Heuchert- Grade 10
Mr. Baines- Grade 11
Mr. Brian Clarke- Grade 12
Mr. Clay, Mr. Dosange, Mrs. Engle , Mr. Lavigne, Mrs. Krause, Mr. Pugh.




 

Rural Visitations

We very seldom entertain.  It is a rare evening when any one person or couple  will call up to say they would like to come over for a visit or ask us over for coffee.

  In fact, I would say that neither of the two scenarios have occurred at all in the year 2012, apart from the fact that one couple did stop in while passing through and stayed overnight just last week; otherwise, the need to  attempt to make clever conversation  with non family type people, along with something just as clever and even more tasty for lunch, is a rare demand upon my social psychic and cuisine art or  Cuisinart as my mood may dictate.

 As our company skills are rarely exercised  along with a lagging and rapidly weakening social etiquette there is also a certain lag in housekeeping procedure.  I would say  the lag is  probably in the area of the three week mark. 

But I digress. The purpose of this writing is not to comment upon the distress  of my housekeeping skills. It is, instead, intended to be a commentary upon the absence of friends and acquaintances not only  in our lives, but  indeed, in our whole physical area of the world. 

 There are few , near or far,  who are able, and moreover actually willing, to spend their own hard earned free time in the required shunning of their own habitual premises, which quite likely are more organized, cleaner, and uncluttered than mine,  and enter into the vast unknown, untidy, and if done on a spur of the moment as a hastily unannounced urge to visit, a surely unclean adobe; thus taking  the chance of being either served a lunch somewhere in the range of  rare and unnameable to something rare and uneatable.

 When my four children were all living at home there would be a squeal and a sort of terrorized shout out that included the words, "There's SOMEBODY here." in response to a surprise knock on the door. They would all then line up behind me, peering around pieces of furniture and little peek-a - boo hideeholes, nervous giggling and geegawing abounding,  as I opened the door to the unsuspecting guest.  These are the same children that would ask whenever I said it was time to clean up the house, "Why? Who is coming over?"

Yes,  rare and unexpected visitors are part and parcel of living in  most rural areas. 

 It puts me in mind of the time when my Mom , who lived 5 miles from the nearest store and having no vehicle for transportation, making arrangements for a friend to stop in with her car to pick Mom and us three children up for a trip to town one summer afternoon.   We had all been washed and dressed in clean clothes, hair combed and ribboned,  Mom in her town dress and hat, sitting in eager anticipation at the kitchen table waiting and waiting  for the expected friend to drive into the yard.  Finally we heard the sound of a  car motor approaching and Mom announced that it was time to go out the door and that we should hurry so her friend wouldn't have to wait. 

 I am not quite sure  who was more surprised to see us all standing  on the step and  smiling-- Mom or the Watkin's Man, as he  drove into the yard.  I wonder if he had ever had such a welcoming group come rushing out to greet him for the rest of his salesman career.

 

Shimmering Trees

Harvest #1

What a joyous  end of August Monday.  Blue blue skies. Warm sun. The sound of the voices of numerous types of flocking birds coming through the open windows. Golden Rods blooming and crops in various stages of turning from green, to lime, to beige, to yellow and ultimately to gold. The hint of chill in the mild breeze in spite of  the warm temperature serves as a reminder to treasurer these beautiful moments in this season of transition.

This is truly my favourite time of year.  I am not sure quite why this is so. Perhaps it is because for so many years autumn meant the excitement of harvest .

Harvest. 

The time when Everyone counted on the farm. Everyone had a job.  Everyone was focused on the same goal.  Everyone was on the same team.  

 If you were part of the younger set ( 12 and under)  you were probably employed as  an official 'gopher'--go for the hammer, go for the water jug, go for the grease gun, go for the oil can,  and if your legs are long enough, go for the half ton.

Women  not only kept the house  organized, garden weeded , laundry done  and cared for children during this weather dictated season; but they also served as fuel organizers, auger haulers, parts repair retrievers;  and sometimes some became combine operators, grain haulers, and swather operators.   This was the only time in rural Canada when male and female roles seem to merge--although it was the rare male that harvested AND organized the Meal in the Field.

 The Meal in the Field was a culinary art form that goes back as far as the beginning of agriculture itself.  The Ploughman's Lunch could perhaps be considered  the first Meal in the Field.  Some  of the more energetic  Meal makers would pack hot saucepans full of new potatoes, with pork chops or hamburgers in foil, along with another pot full of fresh  vegetables gleaned from the garden.  Dishes and pots were packed in cardboard boxes and newspapers for insulation , along with condiments and fresh bread/buns.  I have even heard of ice cream in coolers to compliment the warm apple pie or rhubarb crisp.   All this would be loaded into the backseat  and trunk of the car, along with kids and dogs , and driven across and around fields (avoiding the swaths and potential oil pan damaging rocks) to the waiting stomachs of harvesters who perhaps hadn't seen the inside of a building for eight hours or more.

 There is nothing quite like the smell of barely dust and hot potatoes, along with combine grease, complimented by the sound of the burring of grasshoppers to complete the portrait of dusty truck drivers and even dustier (pre cabs and air conditioning) combine operators sitting in the  stubble with coffee thermos close at hand as they partake of perhaps their only  hot meal since dawn and perhaps their last, if the wind stays up and the straw stays dry, until dawn returns the next morning.

I am not sure if those days really still exist.  I somehow doubt it as machinery is bigger, people work off the farm so much more,  convenience foods abound; along with the likelihood that the actual owner of the field is doing the harvesting is lower now as people often opt for custom combiners to do the harvest work.

I loved those days and love the memory of them.  I guess running around barefoot in the stubble with a piece of chocolate cake in hand is not something one forgets easily.

Sent by an Angel

There has been quite a bit of stress in my life lately.  There seems that the only news is bad news, or at least news that just creates more questions and tension.  Compound this  with some health , work , family ,  and financial issues  that have all seem to have chosen for whatever the heck reason to pile up in one little six week time slot called the Summer of 2012. My life seems like one great big balloon that is on the verge of bursting, leaving fractured and ragged pieces flying across the universe, never to be repaired.

This stress has had a tendency to build until sometimes one feels that the only way out is through some sort of ESCAPE  either physically or mentally.  My legs won't run very far any more to make that a truly viable option, nor do I have a passport so flying to the other side of the world can't be considered (for the time being).

As the physical escape , therefore, seems to be out of the question , it just leaves the escape in terms of mental coping.  Not an easy task.  A learnable skill so I am told, but until this mastery of thought control occurs I have many , many , moments, minutes, hours, afternoons, evenings, nights, and days of total and ultimate hopeless and endless despair.

I was in the throes of this type of what can only be described as luscious wallowing of self torment and self pity while out at our pretty much semi isolated campsite yesterday.   Only one other person had come with a boat  during the morning and had long since left.  There hadn't even been very many cars driving along the dust gravel road about a 1/2 mile away.

 There was only myself and my husband sitting in the hot afternoon sun.  All was quiet except the tinkle of  fish hooks  and fishing gear as my husband was fixing something on his reel . This sound was  interspersed with my long sighs of worry and angst every few moments.

It wasn't a real happy time at all.

Pity parties rarely are.

After about an hour of this painful self inflected hell , I heard the sound of a vehicle drive along the road and, consequently, saw it drive into our little closed in area.

It was someone we knew!  We hadn't seen him for at least two years.  What were the chances that he would be driving around and choose to stop right at our campsite?

This lone visitor parked his vehicle and came sauntering, almost skipping over to the campsite.  Smiling,  sun hat gingerly upon his head, and a spark of mischief in his eyes, as he started to tease us about how lazy we were spending time fishing instead of working.  After being offered a beer and a chair in the shade, the conversation turned to days gone by, fishing stories, and how much things have changed.

Then this visitor proclaimed with a grin and a slap on his knee, " You know life is too short to be unhappy.  It's good that you guys are taking every weekend off to go fishing.  You just never know what is going to happen around the corner. That's what we should all do--just be happy and forget about the other stuff."

He left soon after while proclaiming the next time he dropped in he would want some fish on the fire and a cup of coffee.

I thought about him as I watched the dust from his vehicle fly up on the gravel road as he headed to his empty home about 20 miles away.  I thought about what he had said.  The stuff about being happy and that life is too short.  
I also thought about his wife who is now lying continually in a nursing home unable to move, walk, or talk clearly due to a debilitating illness which she has suffered with for the last 30 years.  Our visitor never once complained that his life has been a series of continual losses of opportunities and dreams as he cared for and watched over his wife as her disease slowly destroys her mind and body.  When he did mention her he merely said that she was still in good spirits.
Would one say he was an angel?  Perhaps no.  But I  suspect he was sent by One.

Our visitor's jaw would fall open in astonishment and surprise if ever I would tell him so.  He'd pro bably say something like, "An angel?  If I had been sent by an angel, it should have sent me a fishing rod too."

PJ's

What is so practical about Practical Jokes? From my experience some of the most efficient and effectively funny 'jokes' were most decidedly impractical, involved a lot of work, and sometimes balanced on the precarious edge of being illegal if the matter was more closely examined. 

What is it exactly that is in our psychic that allows us to think  that cheap, simple and easily done trickery imposed on other human beings is so dang enjoyable and repeat worthy? 

 For instance, why does hiding behind a door and jumping out shouting BOO create such a sense of  superior self satisfaction when one is rewarded with the  consequential look of paled  shock and dismay, especially combined with the  inevitable scream of terror emitting from the target? What is it about putting cotton balls in someone's bed  in a University Dormitory that would cause one to giggle hysterically until an almost too late mad dash to the bathroom is required--indeed demanded? 

 Sometimes a scream isn't necessarily the desired outcome. Sometimes it is simply the blank look of jaw dropping surprise that is the aimed for effect--that look a deer gets in the glare of the headlights-- stunned confusion between flight and fright.

Some Practical Jokes are benign. Harmless.  Some are more inconvenient for the perpetrator(s) than for the target.  I hesitate to use the term victim because of the lack of ulterior motive  involved and as the goal is  usually nothing other than some  infliction and observation of  another's character revealing confusion.

 True  Practical Joke's are the manifestation of a usually not necessarily well thought out  idea  concocted  to inject a little bit of surprise and novelty to an otherwise humdrum world of both the perpetrator and the target.  I would classify the putting  of a walnut or pebble in someone's shoe as  benign, as is Frenching some one's bed--startling perhaps ,  surely confusing, but little harm done.

Somewhere further up the Practical Joke ladder of  the 'not so harmless' plots are those that involve substituting flour for bath salts, flour for sugar and /or salt for sugar.   Pushing the legal boundaries might be described in the sneaking (some might say breaking and entering) into the apartment of 6 young bachelors by 2 young bachelorettes ( who lived above them like the angels they weren't) while said young bachelors were out working. These 2 young bachelorettes  having gained entrance, proceeded to  switch clothes from one bedroom to another, move dishes from one cupboard to another, and yes, even substituted flour for salt in the shaker. The sounds of wonder and dismay upon the targets'(victim's?)  arrival home  could be clearly heard  by the angel ears  which were pressed in anticipation on the cold tiled floor above.

The stuffing of pantyhose,  high heeled shoes, and not so fashionable dress with newspaper and the placing a balloon with a painted face and wig on a string, and attaching this all to a broom stick, and the consequential  dangling  of the puppet type character dubbed "Mona" out  of the third floor apartment window until the tips of her shoes  gently tap tap tapped at these above named same bachelors' bedroom window directly below , until    the   sudden flying open of the window and   grabbing of 'Mona" (wig and balloon face et al) by an  oh so masculine and muscular   hairy  arm which pulled her loveliness into the dark recesses of this second floor  unkempt lair of malodorous maleness, could have been considered hovering on the edge of harassment in some circles and courts of law.  Luckily, Mona was found a few days later outside our apartment door lying prone , absent of shoes or wig,  balloon face all askance-- totally ravished and literally in pieces.  She was never the same.

Then there are the Practical Jokes that are not so practical, not so funny, and not so smart. I am talking Practical Jokes that have almost the opposite desired effect predicted by the perpetrators because the targets in this case either by their own interpretation or action in response to the  Practical Joke, or because of the lack  of good planning or 'plottery', the targets truly do become victims.


Some examples being:

Warning:

Children and/or Would Be Adults

Do Not  Try These at Home

-- The placing of a firecracker inside of a cigarette so that when the cigarette was lit it explods in the smoker's face.

-- Placing a stuffed 'dummy' into your roommate's bed so when said roommate returns home from late night shift she  is given such a 'start' that she screams in terror and then cries and hyperventilates hysterically.

-- Sending a much cherished Silver Tea Pot  along with two Turkey feet stuffed inside through the mail --mail delivery is MUCH too slow for this to be considered sanitarily successful.

... Sending  a professional looking one page letter in the mail with the words "..if this is not corrected immediately legal advice will be sought"  which has had Page 2 written at the top.  (Potential to wreck a good roommate relationship).

-- Being guests at a 25th Anniversary  Party and taking the master bed apart, then dragging it down to the basement where it was reassembled to be discovered by the 'bride and groom' after all the guests had left.  While not really harmful to the targets , it was harmful to the perpetrators as their backs were victims of their own creative musings.

--Having two preschoolers lie down behind a parked car and then run to the house to tell the mother that you drove over them. Totally BAD!


Pshaw! Practical Jokes are pretty much practiced with pleasantries planet-wide . Plots are planned and performed to please the perpetrator. These people playfully put preposterous plans in place to perform their precious and precocious ploys  designed  to placate the prankster's profound preference and proclivity for buffoonery.

Paperwork

We of the North American civilization (using the term loosely and  not without certain a sense of irony) take pride in our achievements in science, medicine, economics, and education. It is a fact that we have indeed surpassed the previous generations of ages past in having a standard of living that is  and would be the envy of all the world  since time began.  That is why I am fascinated when I see people pay money to buy stuff that is designed to make our houses look as if they are just a literal  stone's throw  away from looking like a cave.  

It seems that we who live inside have some innate desire to pretend we are outside. We place windows in walls that we have first built to keep out the outside and then place the windows so we can observe with a certain trepidation that very same outside. These windows range from peep holes to huge wall-to-ceiling openings of every shape  imaginable.  Some windows open  wide, some never open, and  some are tinted, but the one thing that is almost a given, is that they can all be  covered. That covering is usually a cloth or some painted board type material made to look like either a furred skin  with flower and fauna patterns embossed or printed, or a wooden wall (perhaps in a forest of trees?). These coverings sometimes  even cloak over  a  another film like  or sheer material that seems to be  designed to make one think one is either peering   through  a fog or else one's cataract operation is soon due.

 These same  people, who have paid  high fees to have natural gas and the consequential ease and warmth of central heating in their homes, bring stones and wood into the house to build fireplaces because  they think it's classy and modern. I  suspect it is eerily truly only our natural urge speaking to us and has been for eons, except that eons ago one didn't have to worry about higher insurance rates as a consequence.

This fascination with controlling our 'in house' world also affected my mom.  She would bring home specially chosen wallpaper to 'do' either the living room, kitchen, or a bedroom on what seemed to be a regulated biannual schedule of painting one year, papering the next. 

The  fact that this otherwise seemingly intelligent woman would  arbitrarily decide that instead of the nice shade of yellow, or green ,or blue, or whatever previously judged to be perfect shade of paint she had chosen some months prior to her wallpaper purchase,  seems to be  a reflection on the lack  of an outlet for her creative urges  which were not able to be met in those 'pre-blog' days of the 50's and 60's. (I have never wallpapered).

 As a consequence, Mom would  put her energy, money  and effort "one more time" to cover the chosen room all over, ceiling to floor, wall to wall,  with either flowers, leaves or fairies dancing among some type of fern, wood grain, storytime characters, sports athletes,  and so many colour and size variations of paisely that any woodland scene on the wall would have been more welcome. Once , in the kitchen, a design with stones accentuated with bits of  painted ivy growing out and about was hung in imitation of some far away Welsh kitchen on the banks of the Irish Sea. Mom  even took the next step into high interior fashion when she varnished the wood grain wall paper in the living room. It didn't look too bad except for the solid brown plastic corner strip that was nailed to the wall. What was with that anyhow? As if no one would realize there is a place where the walls meet in a corner! As if it was some sign of bad architecture or something if you didn't make them stand out. The room had CORNERS in it--four of them. Did we  need to have them marked?  

Mom papered every room of the house on a regular paper/paint  rotation with eagerness and a certain finesse rivalled by any paper professional of the era.  She could mix  paste, measure and cut , move furniture, and climb step ladders with  an ease and agility not  commonly found in most young mothers of four, even in the rural areas of Canada  today.

There was only one quirky little trade mark that made Mom's attempt at self-made home decor her very own.  I am not sure if it was an indication of any type of passive aggressive tendency, accidental or on purpose, conscious or unconcious,  brought on because  she never received any  help from my Dad except perhaps (and I am not even sure of this) a simple,  "I see you did some papering" comment whenever he came in off the field. 

This little trade mark showed up  even if the edges were done with a perfect  neatness of creases in the  corners,  the ceiling border  level to the eye, and  the pattern on the wall  straight as a plumb line.   For whatever the reason, practical or psychological, and never seen in any wallpapered rooms in any of my friends' homes,  the  electrical switch and receptacle plates, as well as the light socket fixtures were never taken off during any of these room renovations. They were, instead,  papered over with just the little black light switch and plug-in holes being  neatly poked through the newly hung paper. At day's end the radio could  perhaps be plugged into a clump of red roses, or the light bulb shining from a limestone rock in the ceiling or even a piece of colorful fruit.  I  well remember  my curling iron being plugged into (as fortune would have it) the mouth of  one of the cutest little kittens frolicking over, and over, and over, in a meadowland scene. 

                 

                
  It often didn't take long for busy kiddie fingers to finish poking all around those switch plates leaving the consequential ripped wallpaper to gradually get  dirty and worn away

                              .... just to be papered another day.