Winter Heating

This is what one must do in order to survive in January on the

Canadian Prairies if one doesn't use Natural Gas, Oil, or Electricity

 to heat their house.

                      
 About once a week, after one has chosen what one believes to be a warmer day than the rest, one starts hauling seasoned poplar wood from the the wood shed to the house.  The wood has been sitting drying in the shed for about  2 to 3 years, although there are probably some sticks seasoned for as long as 6.

   The camera has caught the moisture condensation from our breath as it hits the cold air.

 If you look at the top of the partition you can see the wood piled up on  other side of the bin--next year's cache,  if it doesn't get used before this winter's end. 

 Those sticks at the very top are dangerous as sometimes they fall down onto the wood gatherer without warning. Ouch! 

 One of probably eight loads of wood to be hauled into the house.

The nicely blown path had to be made before the wood hauling was even begun.

Note the thermometer on the outside of the house. When the needle is straight up it shows 0 degrees Celsius.  In this picture it hovers around minus 24.  With the wind chill the temperature today is approaching minus 40 degrees Celsius. I have seen it at 30 degrees Celsius.

 The wood is thrown  through an opening into the basement of the house for storage and easy access for splitting and burning. 

 There is quite a bit of clunking and banging while the wood is being thrown into this space.  No sleeping goes on while this chore is being done.

 This is the inside storage area.  One can feel the coldness from the frozen wood for about two to three days  After that time one may find that a few flies and/or mosquitoes have been awakened from their hiding places in the bark by the warmth of the house. It seems strange to complain of a buzzing mosquito in the bedroom on a frigid January night, but it does happen.

 View of the  winter wood getting process from the warmth and safety of the house.

 In order to get the wood to start on a bed of coals the coals first  must be stirred.  This involves the use of a bent piece of iron.  The assuring sound of this stirring is actually comforting in the middle of  a cold winter's night whenever the stove needs refilling.  The comfort of  hearing this  metal clanging sound may be due to the fact that if I am awakened by this sound then it must mean it is not I who is actually out of bed putting the wood in the stove

Depending upon the outside temperature and the dryness of the wood, one has to empty the Ash Pan about every three to five days.

*Please note Bunny Chair for reference below.

 Ashes are safely disposed of in a metal barrel..and not so safely covered with a piece of plywood as seen resting in the snow. (Note to amateurs: It is not a good idea to store garbage  on top out of reach of animals even for a short time unless of course one LIKES barbecued trash.)

  The emptied Ash Pan being returned to its place under the Firebox.


The next step in the Home Heating process is the careful selection, measurement and stacking of this varied and often awkward solid fuel.

Removal of storage room door for easy wood access.

Scientific measurement of extra long looking pieces. (Two knot holes from the door jam--too long.)

Note the height of the pile of wood.

 

Another stick destined for the camping pile.

 

This process may also involve obligatory splitting of the larger sticks. This  process used to be done by hand with an  axe for about six to eight hours a week. The purchase of  a splitting machine has decreased this time to about one hour a week.  The homemade Bunny Chair is optional but does fit into the theme of self sufficiency in spite of the fact that the Splitter is electrical.

And now the final step of Filling the Stove.

The flaming of a piece of wood while one is still loading the stove is a true sign that it is very cold outside.--Note the orange tongue on that piece along the edge.

                            That piece barely passed the measurement test.

Sometimes it takes the hand of a master to get just the right amount of wood packed in.

Before

After

“A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.” — Robert A. Heinlein

Flash Mob

The season has just passed where one might come in contact with one of those beautiful moments where a local chorus would seemingly spontaneously happen to meet in a mall and sing Christmas Carols a cappella, much to the amazement and awe of passers by.  These moments were referred to by the media as a Flash Mob.

There has also been a recent display of peaceful and heartfelt grassroots  public protests that one could  describe as being somewhat unplanned and unstructured but no less meaningful.  These have also been attributed the Flash Mob adjective.

Today I witnessed a somewhat smaller display in public that the descriptive 'Flash'  if not in actuality a 'Mob' could be given.

 It happened whilst visiting our favourite book store.  My husband and I had been perusing the 50% off  calendars, and I had just found a series of novels that were actually about my place of birth and hometown.  While I was busily analyzing the information about the author and plot on the book jacket I suddenly heard my husband's voice echo throughout the bookstore. 

 I swung around in surprise and saw that he was standing across the store where several discount books were displayed. He was waving one in his hand while he was talking to me.  As I immediately (of course) focused my full attention to his utterances, I sensed rather than actually saw the other customers in the store stop and turn towards him as well.

He was wielding  a book in his hand stating its title and author, when it was written, and then proclaiming it to be considered the absolute authority of war tactics of all time.  He then announced that that book was written over 2000 years ago and  that  it is still used today as a reference for military strategy by every military power in the world. He said that if one reads any reputable book on the History of War that this particular book would be part of the bibliography.  He went on further to say that because of his reading of this book he was able to detect two errors in a recent edition he had purchased from the Folio Society on the History of Civilization.

When he had stopped speaking, I asked if he had a copy of it at home.
The reply was, "Of course. I've read it three times." 

I returned to reading the  jacket of the novel I had in hand; my husband replaced the book he had been holding; other customers started walking around the store again.  The normal ebb and flow of books and commerce recommenced,  infused with perhaps just a bit more insight and thoughtfulness than before the
Flash Mob Book Report.

It has been said that to have a conversation with my husband is like talking to someone who has five people in their head who are all playing Trivia Pursuit.

Swedish Hair Treatment

I went to the  Beauty Parlour today.

In a small town on the Canadian Prairies a Beauty Parlour primarily means  the place where either males or females can get their hair curled and colored, cut or removed at the fraction of the cost that one would have to pay if one were in the city. At some all inclusive 'parlours' one can even sometimes get one's nails 'done' and their body massaged. Some parlours in our sun deprived climate actually make money from renting spaces and time on tanning beds.

The best part of the visit, however, is not the cut, the shampoo (which is lovely on so many levels) or the  hair coloring that I receive at each visit. The best part does not involve my hair at all. The best part involves my ears.  The best part of the visit is the gossip that is gleaned from each and every visit.  It is the little snippets of conversation one catches between customer and professional. It is  the little asides the beauticians give to one another regarding their children, in-laws, neighbours as they chat between the arrivals and departures of clients. The telephone calls and consequent  appointment making and references to first names pass on more information for the seemingly idle listener and thus become sparkles on the  jewels in the crown of surmising and  reveries  that is part of every gossip mongers unique attire.

There is something perhaps metaphysical about the fact that as one  entrusts their hair and their looks for the next four to six weeks into the hands of someone they rarely see out in the real world that causes one to reveal secrets of family, political bents, and personal habits to this person  who is standing behind them, scissors and hot appliances in hand, all the while totally ignoring the fact that at least three other people are in the room also listening to their reveals.  (Why, I wonder, does a Catholic Confessional keep coming to mind at this point?)


 Today I heard, almost immediately upon my arrival,  whilst waiting for my professional to wait on me, a conversation between another beautician and her client. They were discussing an unnamed 'someone' who had somehow been 'chosen' to do something in the community  for a duty that was not garnering the approval of either the client or professional. One of the comments made was, "They could have chosen anyone but him."..followed by the intriguing comment of , "You'd figure what with all those vehicles unpaid for."  Now if that wasn't food for gossip fodder I don't know what is as one could almost label any number of  several people in the area that had the privilege of 'owning' several unpaid for vehicles.    The mind could, and did, and actually still does like an ever present background program running on a laptop,  race literally amuck with the possibilities of the who? what? where? when? and why? That little snippet of overheard conversation assures me that  I shall have several minutes, if not indeed hours, in future days to ponder these questions. Such is the benefit of visiting such a place of beauty and information extraordinaire, no matter what the cost.

Further to this  salon visit I found out what a passing acquaintance did for New Year's (watched television instead of playing cards in the kitchen); found out how fast some lady's hair grew, and whose husband actually rated some consideration as to just how short or long his wife's hair was to be (sheesh). ( Okay so not all things heard  at first flush are gossip worthy.)

 I also learned, however,  that someone whose name  mentioned and  for whom I have no high regard,  had for the second day in a row not shown up for their appointment. This was an opportunity for an  even more titillating and gleeful imagining as to why. An illness perhaps? A lack of funds? An unexpected house guest?  

 The scenarios were endless as my imagination marched on, although there was nothing  overheard today  to compare  to the time I was sitting quietly under the noise of the dryer when the timer shut it off suddenly, and I heard as plain as day one of the beauticians saying to the other, "The lawyer called and said I don't have to testify."  Now that little tidbit was worth every dollar spent and has given me days if not months of delightful and diverse musings.

Something that I didn't have to imagine  today was the fact that the Hot Water tank in the building had broken just prior to my arrival and that there was no hot water left to rinse out my hair. There was no guessing or surmising about the constant danger hovering over all  my procedure that I ultimately might have to partake of the so called  new beauty treatment of sticking my dyed and foiled head straight into a snowbank in order to complete the colouring process :(.

The Swedish Polar Bear treatment they were trying to call it. $5 extra.

Thankfully the plumbers were able to attend, analyze, and repair the tank almost immediately. Within an hour there was  enough measurably and miserably warmish water to rinse my hair without me having to leave the building thus saving me $5, as well as helping avoid the inevitable main street photo opt for the local paper, thus creating more gossip material for others than I had garnered at the salon that day or any other.

A note:  Parlour basically comes from the French verb parler which means:

To speak!



This is CORNY!

So what did I do today?

I planted a garden*.

I planted beans, spinach, marigolds, snapdragons,  and baby tomatoes.

I planted them all in the flower pot that I got for Christmas. No rows, no raking, no stakes, no hoes (as in garden tool).

I used  packages of seeds that I had in my junk drawer for about 5 years.

I used dirt** that I bought  50% off about three years ago, which has been 'resting' in a bottom of a dresser. (In a bag..not just loose in the drawer.)

I put all the seeds from all the packets into the dirt..and stirred the dirt around..threw in some water and stirred again.
                          *Garden                      January 3, 2013

                                                  

                  I set the pot in a sun shady warm spot in the kitchen.

   ...and now I will wait.  You can too, if you want, as I will post pictures as the garden progresses until harvest ( if there is one).

                                          January 13, 2013

**I have a real problem buying dirt as I live in an area that has about 3 to 4 feet of the blackest, richest, most fertile soil on the planet , not to mention whatever can be found in every corner, floor, cupboard, and closet in my house. I might have miscalculated the amount of dirt needed  but it will have to do as it is not easy to get anymore with everything frozen for about 3 feet, and it will be surprising to see any for sale  at our small town hardware store before Ukrainian Christmas is over.

A shallow garden it shall be and as thus the saying goes:



                                              * January 23, 2013

"Root gardens run deep, leaf gardens have no depth."



It would be Corny -- if I had had some old seeds left in the cupboard.