The Last Time

This is time in the world  that has been deemed  the  Era of  Information.

  An era where knowing is the be all and end all. 

 It seems the raison d'etre, the goal, the ultimate point of any activity nowadays is to find and seek out truth for the sake of knowing more and knowing first as one travels through the game of life seeking contentment and wisdom.

How many times do we hear the excuse  "I didn't know" or " If I had known I wouldn't have done, said, or thought ...and therefore would have acted with more wisdom, correctly, or swiftly"?

I think there are some things I am glad I didn't  or won't know until they are long past done and gone, although the importance of their existence is never lessened because of it.


1. The last time I  read a story to one of my children.
2. The last time I would play a game of Gin Rummy with my Grandpa.
3. The last time I would pack up my family to go to the summer cottage.
4. The last time I would see our pet dog.
5. The last time I would sleep under my parents' roof.
6. The last time I would ride  on a bike, horse, or Ferris wheel.
7. The last time I would hear my Dad play his banjo.
8. The last time my child sat on my knee.
9. The last time I would hear the laughter of a friend.
10. The last time I would hear my Grannie's sneeze.


 And finally, as far as this list is concerned, the last time I would 'dance like nobody is watching' with the certain  confidence of youth and  beauty, without pain and later regret.

A Lovely Afternoon

This past  Sunday afternoon was  lovely  and quiet.

The sun shone through the windows, the wind was soft, and the snow sparkled with the promise of an early spring.  It was so quiet in the house that I believe we might have even heard the cawing of a crow outside--if so, he would be considered an early bird sans doubt.

It was the type of afternoon where one could just lie on the couch and  peruse through the books on the shelves imagining what stories and information each might contain.  I remember afternoons like this when as a child our parents would be having a nap and we would have to be quiet so as not to disturb them, so quiet play with puzzles, reading, homework,  or diary writing would be the activity of the day.   As a teenager these types of days often brought on quiet experiments with messing around in the kitchen with results of under and over  boiled fudge, caramelized popcorn that bordered on burnt, as well as crumbly undercooked puffed wheat cake.

Today this type of afternoon simply brought lonesomeness.  Lonesome for  my children who have moved on with lives of their own, and for my parents, grandparents, and friends who have passed. 

On days like this snowmen would have perhaps been made, a cartoon movie watched, or a craft done if the children were still at home.  If my grandparents were still available, I might been allowed to take the Snow Cruiser across the field to play a game or two of rummy before supper.  Talking on the telephone with school friends while parents napped would have been another option.

But, instead, a perusal of  the books on the shelves, some gazing out at the woods behind the house to watch the dog, and my own nap was enjoyed because of this quiet and  sunny  afternoon which brought to mind  the ease of living in a world without the threat of frigid cold and raging winds.  

A lovely afternoon indeed.

Rainbow Connection #2

Hey everyone! My name is Annie Robertson and I am Maranda's Brownie leader. I also help Maranda's mom Crystal with the facebook page, as it is can be a lot of work. I am writing to get your help! I am asking everyone to take a couple minutes out of their day to write to the ellen show. How can ellen ignore over 2000 people? We want to make sure Maranda gets as many rainbows as she deserves which is a lot! The world needs to know about how amazing Maranda and her family are. So please please go to http://www.ellentv.com/be-on-the-show/#Lifechanging and write in. It will just take 5 minutes and will mean the world to this awesome family. Feel free to use any pictures from this page.

Thankyou in advance its amazing what the kindness of strangers can do!!
Annie Robertson

Blindsided

Living in rural Canada is pretty much an example of living par 'status quo'. 

 A person often lives in the same community where they grew up, traveling the same roads they used to learn to ride their bikes, and later, to drive a car.  People pass by neighbours' houses that haven't changed since forEVER , except perhaps a new coat of paint, or a shingle replacement, and a new dog every 10 to 15 years.

Routine is about as certain as the rising of the sun and the setting of the moon.  Every year there is the birthing of livestock, cutting of hay, harvesting of grain, and the ultimate clearing of snow followed in turn by the slushiness of spring run off.   With all these work-a-day happenings interspersed with the play time of card parties, bonspeils, hockey tournaments, Poker Derby's *,
along with Sports Days, one can complete the annual picture of traditional life on the prairies that has remained unchanged in spite of unavoidable delays ( but only delays) caused by unforeseen weather or ill health.  A place where one can plan ahead, predict, and pretty much know what would happen in a semi-certain way what activity would be happening in home and community from day to day and week to week.

Not so, however,  for me and mine this weekend--a weekend of changed plans, surprise events, and unpredicted outings have in effect spiraled myself into what can only be described as a pressure cooker of shock and awe resulting in a tizzy which I suspect could be compared to the 'fast lane' of city life with its mandatory quick decisions and the surge of adrenalin caused by  the instant acceptance of change which is so often accompanied by a   massive outpouring of money for less than quality merchandise.

  The first bit of change occurred with the unavoidable cancellation of  a supper party due to ill health  that was disappointing but  an easily accepted  bit of change as health issues certainly due surpass any  prior social commitments.

As Sunday morning dawned, the decision to attend our country church was made. We groomed, ironed, and dressed accordingly, and drove the 15 minutes across country enjoying the morning sunshine. Our arrival at our destination  five minutes before service was to begin was overshadowed when we realized that no one was  parked at the church building , no one was in the church building, and there clearly wasn't going to be a service at the church building at the time we expected it to be.  We accepted this as probably mostly our own fault for not checking  the schedule as we have been absent for the past six weeks or so.

As a consequence, we were, therefore , literally 'all dressed up with no where to go', so we stopped and  pondered as  to which restaurant we could go to (this in spite of all the food left over from the uneaten company supper which still rested in our fridge at home).  It was decided to go to the little cafe right in the same town as the last time we had stopped  there we had a great traditional breakfast.

As we drove up we at first thought the For Sale Sign meant that the restaurant was Closed--until we saw the small almost unnoticeable Open Sign in a far corner of a window,  and gladly walked in looking forward to our traditional breakfast.  Upon placing our order we learned that there was only going to be a Breakfast Smorg that morning and no traditional plates of poached eggs, brown toast (no butter), and bacon would be served.  We were also told that the Smorg would not be ready for 20 minutes.

 We chose to wait and discovered that,  yes indeed, a Breakfast Smorg can be overcooked, cold, full of fat and grease, and served with some questionable hygienic methods. 

We ate and came straight home in spite of the Auction Sale held in the former Co-Op building where, if we had known, we could have stopped and probably had a homemade egg salad sandwich and coffee for a fraction of the cost we paid for the Smorg and at the same time been able to  bid on a 5 gal. pail of paint, miscellaneous Vintage Books , and a marble topped coffee table to name but a few  items that were listed on the bulletin board  by the door going out from the restaurant.

Change and acceptance were part of almost everything planned this weekend. 

What does it all mean I wonder?  

Perhaps it means that just because one isn't working on Wall Street, or  living in a Metropolis, or trying to bring Peace to the World,  it doesn't mean the rest of us , who strive to live quietly, don't have to  also use and hone our coping skills to adjust, accept, and make choices with whatever comes popping around the blind sided corners that is part of Life.

It also  maybe means that Living and Boring are pretty much antonyms if you are doing anything right at all.

* A Poker Derby in Saskatchewan is a type of activity that involves the riding of snowmobiles throughout the countryside stopping at predetermined rest stops where the driver gathers traditional playing cards until he has developed a Poker Hand.  At the end of the tournament the Driver with the best Poker Hand wins the Poker Derby.  People can also sign on for a fee as a Ghost Rider and get to take part in the Poker Game as well.  Usually great food is served and beverages of all sorts are available. 

James (ch. III, v. 7-8)*

“The tongue like a sharp knife... Kills without drawing blood.”

Buddha quotes (Hindu Prince Gautama Siddharta, the founder of Buddhism, 563-483 B.C.) The above quote is the first one to come up on my Google search on 'Tongue Quotes' and oddly enough it applies exactly to this tragic and searingly unhappy life experience. The story starts about 15 years ago when my husband was in the process of taking each of our children out to our little cabin on the lake for their Autumn Holiday with Dad. Starting about the middle of September and ending close to the last weekend in October , my husband would pack each of our four  children up in the car loaded with ice cream, snacks, games, bikes, and their favourite goodies and spend the weekend for some good old quality one on one time.  There always was some controversy about which one would get to be the last one taken for the year as that one would get to gorge not only on their idea of favourite foods, but also get to finish up the other three's left overs.  They would leave right after school on Friday and come home early Sunday afternoon full not only with ice cream and candy , but also with memories of extended board games, bike riding, and lake side exploring. Those times were treasured moments for my husband as well and he often had said that he would hope he would get to do that with each one until they were at least 40. Tragically the innocence of  that all ended suddenly and cruelly, not because of a passing, or ill health, or loss of free time, but because of the cutting, slashing, and ripping of someone's tongue.  This disemboweling of my family's sense of well being and trust was not done by a stranger or even a thoughtless neighbour, but by my husband's own father and it happened like this: My husband was at the lake one September weekend with our middle child who was ten at the time.  My step-mother - in - law had asked us for supper that same weekend and I had to refuse as not everyone was going to be able to attend.  When I went to explain why we wouldn't be coming as the reason was because of the two campers being away, my father-in-law, who up until that very moment I believed pretty much to be a near perfect grandparent, turned to me and asked me , "Why don't you take the kids to the lake?  How come he takes them?  Do you know what is happening there?  What if one of the girls gets pregnant in high school? What will people  think?"  More words were spoken and repeated with the gist being that my husband might be up to 'no good' out there at the lake with his daughters. The shock, hurt, and sense of loss and disappointment nearly caused me to keel over as  the ramifications of this thoughtless, cruel, and truly diabolical utterance slammed into my consciousness. Never again would I see that man  in the same light.  To me the grandfather of my children was murdered by his own words.  His character and who I thought he was, dropped dead to the floor never to be revived.  My husband cried on the phone that night when I told him what had happened.  We did seek counselling but the relationship was forever ripped apart not only because of my father-in-law's ( in the counsellor's words ) 'lack of personal insight' but also due to the fact that my step mother in law stirred the  pot by gossip mongering. Not only were my children forever denied the grandfather we (my husband and I) thought we were giving them,  they were denied, consequently, other aunts, uncles and cousins, who, because we never told everyone all the story, didn't understand our absences from family gatherings. All my children have been the victims of incest. Even though they were never touched, exposed to any sexual content or innuendo and were always loved and kept safe, they have suffered much because of the  ripping, scaring, and unmerciful slashing of someone's tongue...made even more tragic as that mouth should have been rising them up, praising and protecting them.  That is the end of this post, but the hurt and loss has continued on through these last 15 years and I suspect  it to continue well into the future, as it  not only taints this generation but threatens also to harm the next.  *“The stroke of the tongue breaketh the bones. Many have fallen by the edge of the sword; but not so many as have fallen by the tongue.” The fall camping/cabin trips continued for several years after, but in many ways the special  innocent spark of  what it meant was dampened in my husband's heart by the hurt and memory of that evening when he was brought to tears by his own father's accusations.

Spidey Sense

Today I had a close call.

 It wasn't a particularly dangerous or life changing, threatening, or  a financially disastrous close call..but a close call nevertheless.
 
It wasn't the type of close call that I experienced at the age of 22 when I ALMOST ignored the Yield sign in my small hometown just because there was so little traffic at 6:00 pm when everyone was at home eating supper and no one would  or should have been driving around-- except of course the Grey Hound Bus!   Yesiree Bob that gray piece of iron just whipped by my front bumper only by the width of the layer of grasshopper guts plastered to it.  I have to thank what people in the security business refer to as the "spidey sense" that made me slow down and take that one mini-second extra glance to my right and see the cruising vehicle bearing down towards the intersection I was just about to drive through.

This 'spidey sense' has  made itself evident upon occasion only a few times since. Sometimes avoiding only minor consequences and at other times major catastrophes.

This morning for instance a minor consequence was avoided as I was drawn to leave for my trip to town a full hour before my  salon appointment.  I seemed to have time on my hands at home this morning while getting ready.  I even wrote a couple of letters and stamped and enveloped them for mailing.  I fiddled with my hair (even if it was going to soon be cut, coloured, and combed by a professional).  I played with the dog, put wood in the stove, and started another load of laundry.  When I couldn't think of anything else to do I felt compelled to start out for town an  hour before I would have had to be there.   It was only when I saw the town buildings on the horizon that I remembered that I had an appointment to get the oil changed in the car and I had now 5 minutes to  be there on time.  I believe it was the 'spidey sense' urging me to 'get going' so I wouldn't be late.

That was an example of 'spidey sense' in remission if you will. 

This  is Spidey Sense on Warp Speed!

Envision this:

Two children.

One about 18 months sitting at the kitchen table eating cereal with a spoon.

 The other child about 3 months of age  sitting in a yellow plastic chair on top of the table. 

 Mother is at the kitchen sink doing dishes with her back to the children but watching the table through  the use of a mirror  mounted on the wall in front of the sink. 

 The only  sounds in the kitchen were of baby in chair babbling, the splash of dishes in the soapy water, the slurping of the cereal by the toddler. 

 Mother hears the gentle clink of something falling to the floor--a soft little metallic sound.

It could have been just part of the eating process by the toddler but then again---!

That's when I believe the 'spidey sense' kicked in as the Mother swirled around to see  that  part of the  chair with baby in it was half on and half off the table.

 The toddler had been pulling the chair closer to him so he could see the baby better and inadvertently had knocked a spoon off the table to the floor--the little metallic sound the Mother had heard.  

The Mother's ability to tap into her God Given 'spidey sense' allowed her to avert what otherwise could have been a dire consequence.


Have YOU ever experienced the 'spidey sense'? and if so to what end?

	Spidey sense:
	Derived from the "Spidey sense" of the comic book superhero Spiderman, it is generally used to mean a vague but strong sense of something being wrong, dangerous, suspicious, a security situation.

Hire a Farmer

Some people wish they were farmers.

Some people wish they married a farmer.

...but what they should really really wish for is to be raised by a farmer because...


... if you were raised by a farmer you will have learned how to get up early in the day.

....if you were raised by a farmer you will have learned how to work long in to the night.

...if you were raised by a farmer you will have learned how to manage your money from one harvest to another.

...if you were raised by a farmer you will have learned that sometimes you do things you do  not like to do simply because the people who provide you with food and shelter have told you to do it.

...if you were raised by a farmer you will know that sometimes you don't get a coffee break, lunch break, vacation leave, or time in lieu until at least January as long as the livestock are fed and the road isn't blocked.

...if you were raised by a farmer you are probably the  best employee your employer could ever get because you have a sense of responsibility, self respect, and accountability that does NOT come by being raised by people who cater to your every whim, treat you as if you were a delicate piece of china; who spend money on an education that teaches you facts but not skills of life necessary to make you a happy, proud, and contented contributing member of society,  who knows what your work is worth while at the same time knows the worth of work.

The land too poor for any other crop, is best for raising men.    Pocock, R.

Endometriosis

My friend Kelly Day has this post on her FaceBook page and she has allowed me to copy it and post it here.  If anyone wants more information or contact with Kelly..just make a comment expressing such and I will pass the information on to her.

 

 

March 4th-10th is Endometriosis Awareness Week. It's a month early, but I feel this is important to post as it affects the lives of millions of women globally, including me.

In a nutshell, endometriosis is a reproductive disorder that can... cause debilitating symptoms such as chronic pelvic pain, menstrual dysfunction, bladder and bowel dysfunction, infertility, food intolerance and allergies, fatigue, depression, and much more. It is a disease of unknown origin, though research indicates that both genetic and environmental factors play a role - areas with high pollution and dioxins have higher rates of endometriosis. It is treatable, but unfortunately considered 'incurable'.

This is of utmost important in my life, because for those of you who don't know, I was diagnosed with endometriosis when I was 20 but have suffered with its symptoms as far back as 13. Since then, I have undergone 4 surgeries to correct it, including a sub-total hysterectomy. Despite good results, the disease continued to grow back after each surgery. I am thankful that through much sacrifice, persistence, faith, and some very supportive people, I am battling this disease day by day. Traditional Chinese Medicine, diet, meditation, and even my move to Vancouver Island have all helped to make my life better. However, I will be undertaking a 5th surgery at the end of this month as I continue to suffer. I hope it is my final surgery, but cannot say for sure.

This is not a message of pity, or of desolation, rather a message to bring awareness. If the women in your life do not suffer from this, be thankful and pray for their continued health. If they do, please be gentle with them.

Most importantly, in the coming weeks, be gentle with EVERY women you meet. I guarantee that some of them will be suffering more than you could possibly imagine.

If you or someone you know is battling endometriosis, feel free to contact me as I am very happy to share all I have learned in taking control of this disease.

In the interim, I wish health and happiness to all in my life. Thank you to those who have supported me through this.

 

 

Sitting on the Fence

This is a very disappointing move on the part of the CWB*. The consideration that this type of image  is acceptable in terms of marketing or the portrayal of a woman's role in agriculture has long since been put in the wastebasket (along with girlie pictures in garages, bars, and any other public places).

  For Heaven's Sake people..it's time to get past being in Grade Six.

 It is just that this shouldn't even be called a Cowgirl..no real cowgirls dress like that..or would sit on a fence like that..and if one doesn't think there is a sexist thing going on ...just where the heck are her panties?...It is crude and suggestive..


The worst part about it is that it just plays into the hands of those who believe the CWB has out lived its usefulness..and having this stupid picture as its banner just serves as proof that they might be outdated and out of touch with the real world if they think that they should pass this type of image off as representative of anyone who would vote for them. I bet not one of the people who suggested they use this picture would allow their own daughter to pose for a photograph like that...I know I wouldn't.

 It is demeaning to any hardworking serious agriculturally minded woman.

The days where the banker or the machinery dealer phones and asks for the "Boss" when a woman's voice answers are long gone and the CWB should know that.

 

 

THIS is a Canadian Farm Woman Sitting on the Fence

 

 

*Canadian Wheat Board

Canadian Penny

A--Admittedly an  aged adult although arduously active and animated.

B--Basically a busy Bread and Bun Baking Broad

C. Cautiously canoes creating catastrophic conditions causing cantankerous co-canoers  considerable consternation.

D. Daringly dances despite desperate drummer demands to desist.

E.  Enjoys eating eagerly every edible entree entirely.

F. Fiddles fiercely and ferociously fearing few flats and fugues.

G.  Giggles gregariously gabbing and gossiping while  gamely guzzling gallons.

H. Habitually and historically has herself hugely heaping helpings of Holubchi

I. Is insistent that insanity isn't  instant in her id in this instance.

J.  Jail time generated by juxtapositoning jesting and gestures resulting in judiciary judgement.

K.  Kindly kisses kittens, kindergartners, and kinsmen.

L. Lately, lameness and limping led to lazy living laying low.

M. Moments of memorable motherhood makes many mothering memories marvelous.

N. Not noted for neatness nor nails nor newsworthy tales.

O. Often  oppressively opinionated not often opting for  other's options.

P. Pretty pragmatically programmed.

Q. Questions  quiet quirkiness quite quickly  quelling  and quieting quirky quacks.

R. Rarely remembers rancour but rather recants raving remembrances righteously with rigor.

S. Seeks safety in sincerity subtly secreted in signs of simple sensuous signals.

T. Tends to   trust tenuously and tentatively til Time's tests are taken.

U. Uncommonly un-understanding of , and unhappy with,  unctuous underlings working ultimately under par..

W.  Once waged into  wanton wrestling  rounds with one weirder and weaker.

X.  Exacting exhibitionist exhausting and exasperating.

Z. Zealous in zapping and zipping.



Ground Hog Day

The Origin of Groundhog Day:

Groundhog Day originated in the Middle Ages. Each year, on February 1st, after a special blessing, all the men in the village would take part in a great collective groundhog hunt. The groundhogs would be skinned, gutted (with the liver saved), and soaked in brine overnight. Their flesh would be cooked with special spices (no village used quite the same spice combinati...on as any other) and consumed in a great feast on February 2nd.

The fat of the groundhogs would be rendered and made into candles. A good hunt would result in enough groundhog fat for a 6 week supply of candles; in other words, for the rest of the winter. This was the origin of the Church holiday of Candlemas.

However, there was always one groundhog who was captured alive and not killed. He was deemed "King of the Groundhogs" and before dawn on February 2nd, the young boys of the village would take him from door to door, crying out, "Sing us a song for the King of the Groundhogs!" (These boys were often called "Hog Boys," although sometimes people did not call them anything and just threw stones at them.)

If the King of the Groundhogs saw his shadow at dawn on February 2nd, he was set free; otherwise, he was eaten. In times of famine, he was eaten no matter what he saw.

In the 1880s, Groundhog Day became commercialised, and now bears no resemblance to its original celebration. Perhaps saddest of all, uncounted numbers of groundhog recipes, passed from mother to daughter over the generations, are lost forever.

Written by Jim Tubman...who said, "Make it go viral."

How Cold is it Mr. Fox?

It is minus 33 degrees Celsius. Combine that with the wind speed it is equivalent to minus 47 in my part of the world.

I remember it being about minus 50 degrees about 25 years ago.  That was the time the rotor on the vehicle literally snapped off with a huge clang and a spurt as the motor came to a cold and grinding stop.

It is hard to image what people did  in the past or why they even did it in order to survive in this part of the world of such extreme weather conditions. 

What is it about this area that people have persevered with coping with the fact that if one left the shelter of their homes they would easily die just by the doing of it?  No wild animal attack, no rebel militia hunting them down, no poisonous gases or steep cliffs or torrential rains to sweep them away.  Just the simple turning of a door knob and the stepping away from the shelter for  even less than 10 minutes could determine one's  quick and surprisingly pain free demise.

Actually the pain would only begin when , and if , one returns to the warmth of the shelter. As toes and fingers begin to thaw there is a deep and burning itch which accompanies the deicing of human tissue . This discomfort can only be compared to  that which occurs when one finds that the zipper on the one piece snow suit one has unwisely donned is 'caught'* and the beads of sweat start forming not only along your hairline but also starts to roll down the your spine as you struggle and twist and bite your tongue trying to get the *#(&# thing to pull down.  Combine this with the inevitable consequence of  the condensation caused call of Nature that  occurs the moment one feels the indoor  warmth  and the panic filled realization that the socially acceptable conclusion is not probable within the next five minutes, makes the returning to the warmth of home and hearth almost as stressful and dangerous as the going out in the first place.


Things that I KNOW I have froze during my 60 years on the prairies are:

1. My ear. ..age 4...consequence of hat not being put on my head good 'nuff by my older sister.

2. My fingers....woolen mitts just do NOT do it for
-40 degrees.

3. My toes...consequence of curling on natural ice with just school shoes on during a day long high school bonspeil.  There were tears that day as I placed my feet against the heater of the vehicle on the way home--which in hindsight was NOT a good idea.

4. My whole body almost got really cold when the little truck ran out of gas on a Saturday night in January.  Good thing I was in town and not on our country road on the way home.  (pre CB radios, pre cell phones).

Cold Weather First Aid

* The rule of the stuck zipper is that the amount of liquid consumed prior to the going out is directly proportional to the amount of material caught in the track.

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.

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