Home Home on the Range

Well...we did it.  After 32 years, several solderings and multiple minor repairs , we purchased a new kitchen stove from the very same furniture store that the original stove was purchased.
 
The new stove is nice. It's white. Three small burners, one large. No clock. No timer. No light--not even in the oven. No electrical dash plug in.  Oven is NOT self clean.
 The top  shiny ledge is curved, leaving no place for salt and pepper and other traditional decor on top of stove.  
It is  probably the most Plain Jane basic electric stove on the market.
Nice. Serviceable.  Looks and is adequate.

That was about 2 weeks ago--the purchase that is.  It is still a nice, white, clean,  new stove sitting on top of the last of the carton it came in--unused and basically unwanted.

 It rests in the middle of the kitchen floor.

I can't do it.  I can't trade the  blackened and brazed almond coloured Admiral  stove  with the broken broiler element , whose  timer and clock have long since ceased to be functional ; that no longer has a safe self cleaning oven, with  the black glassed  door that had to be replaced only once due to the fact that S..... Happens in every family.

This original stove is the one that was bought with wedding money and chosen by my then new husband and his father, and was unseen by myself until the grand 'unveil' as it was unloaded from the truck from its trip from the big city. 

I am not sure why I won't just Let It Go  exactly but it might have something to do with  the fact that this stove  is the symbol of my connection with a long gone household of  hungry and busy family members that needed  care and nourishment. 

  This stove served as not only an instrument to provide  healthy family sustenance  over the course of 25+ years, but it also was the tool used to help try to convey the message of  the love that was felt for each one of its members. Alas, there were times when this message might have become a bit muddled in the translation especially when one thinks of the episode involving Cornish Hens and the Christmas Supper and also the Rancid Buckwheat Cabbage Roll incident at a dinner that ended up being a simpler and more tasty fare of  Peanut Butter and Jam Sandwiches.

There wasn't a meal made without prior thought and careful judgment going into the choosing of what would  be presented; whether it was favourite pancakes in various shapes, special meat loaves, or fresh breads. Nutritional balance along with an attempt to satisfy the taste preferences of the majority were always at the forefront of any meal preparation and that stove was a central part of the process.  The thoughts that pass through one's mind while preparing any repast are primarily thoughts on how the food would be received,  sometimes hoping that the old standby of tuna casserole would be enjoyed for the umpteenth time as much as, perhaps , upon another occasion, a new recipe would turn out as well as the picture in the cookbook portrayed it to be.

The choice of porridge to cook in the morning, the type soup to be consumed at noon, and the method and manner the meat would be prepared for supper was always chosen with thought of the would be consumers. 
 
  That awkward sticking of the oven door which doesn't quite open  smoothly as one takes out and puts in roasters, pans, and  cookie sheets along with  the accompanying grating sound, triggers not only remembered smells but also the feeling of satisfaction that comes from the   accomplishment  of a goal after much planning and consideration for the benefactors of the products. 


The successful baking of loaves of bread, buns, cinnamon buns,  pita breads, bagels, cakes, doughnuts, turkeys, chickens,   roasts, sausages, pies and tarts, raisin desserts, chocolate deserts, and  Christmas cookies along with even a rabbit and a goat or two,  all involved that piece of metal and wire.  Not to forget also, the watching of the boiling of the Palt and the making of spaghetti sauces with earnest helpers standing on chairs to see the process.

The myriad of birthday cakes  (at least 150), along with pans and pans of oatmeal cookies , pots of  boiled potatoes  to be later buttered and mashed ( referred to as clouds in the family vernacular) ,  and Easter Eggs boiled are pretty much uncountable.  The  numerous cupcakes  for school lunches and noon hour sales seem like a blur.

Yes , the burners have been changed numerous times.   Yes, the oven can no longer safely be considered 'self clean'  due to undo flamage and not enough insulation, along with  the need to use a knife to  regulate the knob designated to control oven temperature.   But even the smudge prone black glassed oven door with the obligatory stickers from years  past still stuck on,  holds memories of  long ago babies looking at themselves in the reflection in awe and dismay,  and serves as another blow to the chance that that new stove sitting unplugged and ignored while blocking our path to the cupboard will ever get installed and used.
  The  nicknack's that sit atop the  old stove ledge are some that were given  to me as presents from a little child years ago...a little cow bell, a balancing tightrope walker, and a plaque proclaiming the important steps of marriage... will all have a place to call home for a little while yet.

 

POOL TIME

I think there might be a bet going on at work.

I think there might even be a POOL started.


 I think it might involve me and when either I QUIT  working or when I drop dead either at work or at home.  I suspect it's double bonus if it is at work.


 I think this because I let it be known  recently at my place of work that  I will be 61 on my next birthday. 
  I know  this age reveal wouldn't really be all that unusual if one worked in a dress shop, make up counter, or candy store with other workers of the same gender, life experiences, and /or even clothes style.  But as I don't, and I do work with people who are primarily below the age of eighteen with co workers primarily below the age of fifty, I suppose 61 seems really really out there.  One leg in the grave and the other on a banana peel type of 'out there'. 

In fact , I suspect that I am older than most of their parents and perhaps even some of their grandparents, this includes my supervisors and team leaders.

I have  had 4 or 5 co workers casually ask me since  the unveiling of my age (as if they didn't already suspect) when I plan on quitting.  They sort of just incidentally work the topic into the conversation using their crafty and insidious professional methods of interviewing by saying things like, "So how long do you think you will be working here?"  or " Do you find that you have begun to ache all over in your joints?" as they look quizzically and unrelentingly into my eyes waiting for my reply.

 Yes,  it has all the markings of a pool of some kind being organized.  It won't be the first time a pool has been established based on my physical and/or bodily functions.

 They (the undefined and ever present in life They) organized one when I was about to give birth to my first child at the age of 30.

 I think almost all of the whole of that small town in Saskatchewan where I lived at the time was in on it--at least  I am pretty certain all the ones who regularly attended the  local tavern had their names entered.  I sort of recall that the  bristol board gridded sign up chart was posted behind the chip rack by the bar between the Cheezie and Hickory Stick stand.

You can imagine the look on the nurse's face who helped me through the delivery when I told her from the table that she should phone her son (the organizer of the pool ...not the organizer of the baby)  to tell him the exact time and date I delivered of an 8lb.4oz boy.

I got $56.75 from that pool thirty years ago. 

 What with inflation and cost of living increases ,   I figure I should get at least triple that with this one,  even if I don't drop off in situ.

 (which ,of course, will result in an automatic double your money refund).

Serpentine Adventures

It appears that finally spring is on its way.  The snow is melting rapidly, the birds are back, the babbling brooks are flowing freely and fast.

The ground has begun to thaw as is evidenced by the quick  disappearance of the spring run off.  Soon   frogs who have been abed deep in the  mud  bottomed swamps  will arise once again to add to the richness of sound and activity in the freshly thawed and life laden natural world.

Besides the appearance and throaty songs of frogs and tadpoles back into our wildlife rich environment there will be another who will soon make their presence known..if not necessarily heard..and certainly never comfortably felt. 

 I am , of course, referring to the snake population.

Now I KNOW that the type of snake that inhabits the part of our world is the most harmless in creation, and indeed considered by some to be very important to our environment.  There are those who consider them to be quite lovely in colour and form.  Some also think them graceful in their swiftness and silence.

PAS MOI!

My earliest recollection of snakes is  at the old well in front of my Grandpa's house.  It used to be a bit of a Sunday afternoon sport to catch snakes as they crowded around the shallow well covered in rocks.  Grandma used to have to take her broom and swoosh snakes off her cement steps on a sunny afternoon.

When we first moved to our farmyard 30 years ago there was a population of snakes that came out from their winter home along the outside of our cement foundation every spring.  It always gave me the creeps to think that  in a space of about 8" with only a bit of hardened but porous rock  in between, there probably  were about 40 or more snakes curled up sleeping for the winter.  I could only hope that the 50 year old plus foundation had few cracks and that those would be either too deep into the ground or too narrow for any would be reptilian visit to occur.

My husband's family seems not to share my dislike of these legless creatures.  He has recounted an incident when he was driving up to his sister's farmhouse and seeing his two nieces squealing while scrambling and jumping up and down   each with a half dozen snakes in their hands.  He called out, " Drop them. You'll be okay."  They replied, "No! No! They are getting away."  Another time he recalls his 12 year old  niece who was about 10 feet away from him yelling at him to Stop!  He immediately did so and looked down to see a snake at his feet--tied with a lasso around its neck.  (She was taking her snake for a walk and he had nearly stepped on it.)   

My children, too, did express some interest in snakes--albeit mostly of the plastic wiggly type bought in cheap discount stores.  I know this because there was this one particular black plastic snake that seemed to show up in various places in the basement--sometimes by the the washing machine--sometimes by the bedroom door.  Once it was even found on my bed much to their delight and mine own horror.

I had thought this idea of sneaky snakiness had only been confined to our own family, but , alas,  so it seems that I was in error.

I recently told my daughter that I was going to meet a friend of the family in the city, to which my daughter pleasantly replied that I should be sure to remember her to my friend and to say "Hello".

 This lovely young lady of 22  continued on to say, (Oh indeed, it all became so crystal clear as to why my friend has not visited for nearly ten years) "Ask Yvette if she remembers the black snake we put into her purse the last time she visited." 

 

For Reading Out Loud

A recent radio program spoke about sharing books and asked what were the criteria one used to choose which books to share with others and which to just quietly read, enjoy, savour, and replace on the shelf without comment or recommendation.
I  rarely recommend a book to another and  conversely, if someone recommends a book for me to read I rarely do. 
Having said that, I do believe that the absolutely best way for someone to really share a book with another is by reading it out loud .  My fondest memory of having someone share the written word is when my Dad would get the coloured comics from the newspaper and we would listen to the radio station together as the comics were being read.  Ogo Pogo, The Bumstead's and Lil'Abner were read in animated voices by radio announcers every Sunday morning. If we somehow missed the show then Dad would pitch in and read them to us much to our delight.

BUT, the very, very, very best book sharing that I have ever experienced was when my sister read me stories from Thornton Burgess that were at first printed in the weekly edition of the Western Producer.  The tales of Peter Rabbit, Chatterer the Red Squirrel, Reddy Fox,  Old Man Coyote  and all their friends, describing their antics in the Green Forest with Old Mother West Wind bounded off the page, unto my sister's lips, and  were forever imprinted upon my then four or five year old brain as  we sat in a quiet corner of the house or a shady place on the grass. 

The  Thornton Burgess Bedtime Story books were later collected by myself and my friends with as much frenzy and jealousy as any group of children today have for the possession of action figures, video games, or electronic gadgetry.

  The arrival of Longlegs the Heron and Lighfoot the Deer to the limited library of our rural school house caused a panicky lineup amongst the reading crowd to see who would get to be the first to read these coveted writings.

I tried to pass my love for this series to my school students and later to my own children with limited success.  

 But for myself , whenever I see Jimmy Skunk,  Sammy Jay, Jerry Muskrat's house, or hear Grandfather Frog croaking in the Babbling Brook I recall a warm summer day laying on a blanket while listening to my sister's voice as she read with all the skill that an eight year old could muster to bring the story to life.

 I guess she did a pretty good job of it. 

 

Childhood Survived!

I have been a parent for over 30 years now.  My mother has been a mom for over 66 years. My grandmother has been a mother for 89 years. Over these years I suspect parenting skills, at best, have improved in some ways, and no doubt have at least changed in many others depending upon the mode of the day and technology.

For instance, the use of 'Mother's Milk' which was probably used in Grandma's day changed to using corn syrup and canned condensed milk warmed up in a glass bottle in my Mother's time of feeding infants. This was accompanied by the practice of putting soothers into the sugar bowl  before being offered to a colicky crying infant (which is in stark contrast  to the more primitive calming method of rubbing vodka or home brew on its soft spot).   Some of these maternal practices, along with the  use of the softest of pillows and placing them at the bottom of the baby carriage in dry cleaning plastic to keep it clean , have thankfully gone by the wayside and have been replaced with more sanitary, safer, and saner maternal practices.  

Diapers in those days were flannelet and were held in situ with safety pins which sometimes were not so safe.  No plastic cap snap pins in those days, nor were there Velcro closing fasteners for cloth diapers either. Paper diapers weren't hardly even a choice 30 years ago.

As toddlers grew the use of walkers with wheels were the common toy--allowing the youngster to whiz around the kitchen and/ or down stairways at speeds not otherwise experienced by a small child until they at least learned to ride a two wheeled bicycle.

Car travel held its own perils during my childhood years.  The most obvious danger in cars at the time was that they  were made of  an all metal exterior and interior. They  weren't even equipped with turn signals or seat belts. The closest thing to car seats for children on the market would have been a metal pet carrier. 

The then solution for many a family?

                               The large shelf under the back window of the car.

  This kept the child out of the way from unbelted sibling car antics and within sight of the driver in the rear view mirror.

BTW--being 'belted' in the car had a whole different meaning in those days to an errant child who asked once too often , "Are we there yet?"

The importance of being 'belted in'  has always been a priority for me with  my own children as I hearken back to the  'pre belting' day of my childhood when, as we were traveling down the road with my mom at the wheel and I in the back seat , I noticed that the  door  on the passenger side of the front seat  was rattling.  I distinctly remember telling mom as I leaned over the front seat to grab the door handle, " I'll close it for you Mom.....".

A lesson in Physics thus commenced as it was at the precise moment that I grabbed said door handle  that Mom turned a  sharp corner (there was definately (I am almost certain) an actual sharp corner in the otherwise flat, straight prairie farm road) and due to the law of Physics called inertia the door swung wide open with my hand and me attached to it.   The prickliness of the grassy ditch and the rolling rolling rolling that was accompanied by my surprise arrival outside of the car did not phase this then five year old.  The calling out  of , "Mom wait for me." as I climbed out of the ditch, was quickly heeded as the car stopped about a 2 minute walk further down the road and I reentered, and our journey continued.  As I think back to this happening,  I have just realized why I can't remember Mom ever referring to this incident again. Nope there is no recollection of her recounting the tale to either my dad or any of her friends.  The more I think of that and being a Mother myself I think I may know the reason.

Living in a rural area, with a Grandma just 2 miles away it was very tempting for a 4 year old to ride her tricycle along the dirt road all the way without telling anyone.  (I distinctly remember Grandma standing on her step waving to me and saying that Mom had just called on the phone looking for me.  I turned the tricycle around and pedaled home as fast as I could.)   The next time I rode that far I told my Mom and she wisely tied a pink ribbon onto the right hand handlebar so I would know which side of the road to drive on both coming and going to grandma's.  She did this especially because there was a road construction crew building the road up and she wanted me to be safe (I'm almost certain of it).

 Using mustard plasters for congested chests,  placing socks covered in Vick's around a child's neck for a sore throat, as well as the placing of a glass mercury laden stick into a sick child's mouth, along with the stern warning of "Do NOT bite on this."  to determine fever level have pretty much gone by the wayside.

 I wonder how many 'new fad' ideas of allowing children to or not to have video games, watch television, or cell phones will be considered blase and dangerous 50 years from now?
 
Perhaps all things will become Cyber such as travel, feeding, playing,  and exercise. Perhaps the need for motherhood traditional care will have gone by the wayside and all the conundrums and traditional methods will be lost and replaced by FINALLY the correct and most logical answers to Child Raising ever to be devised never to be challenged again.

 

Gossipy Geese

I returned to my 'old stomping' grounds this last weekend and had a great time.  I saw friends and visited with people I hadn't seen in years.  I exchanged news and information about children, jobs, and vacations.  Bygone memories of times long past but surprisingly still fresh were recounted and enjoyed again. 

Yes, indeed, the evening was almost too perfect, and as all too perfect evenings are there was that inevitable little mar that just gave one that bit of reality reminder that not only can one not 'go back' but that in some instances one does not want to.

I had taken along a friend for company, and it was out of her mouth that this life truth was illustrated.  We hadn't been in the hall which was full of my hometown crowd  more than five minutes when my friend turned to me and said, "There are two women sitting over at that table to the left and they are talking about us."  I had actually been aware of these two 'ladies' with heads down and eyes glancing at us as we walked in but I had chosen to ignore it and looked away, but the spoken recognition of the fact by my friend, a complete stranger to the people and hall, impressed upon me just how blatant, open, and lengthy this discussion of myself and my  friend must have been.  It was almost as if these two people thought they were in a little one way bubble visually. Perhaps  they thought they could see us but we couldn't see them so they could stare and talk without shame or fear of retribution.

So what does a lady such as myself do  in an instance such as this?

She does this:

As she knows the name of one of those of no couth or candor, she writes the following on her Social Network Status the next morning:

You know what is really interesting is when one walks into a hall full of people and you get a sense that 'someone' is talking about you. You look over the crowd and can immediately spy out who it is...almost like having whispers behind covered hands becoming coloured. LOL!

THEN she invites the Lady of the Tongue (who she has previous has had same lady Social Networkly blocked) to suddenly become her friend on said Social Network, hoping that the Lady of the Tongue would accept and see the first status ever of the One That Has Been Gossiped About being the above.

AND  ...she did
   AND.... she  did read
                  ...she must have.


The Lady of the Tongue will be Re--blocked after the mandatory 48 hours has passed.

This  is  a far far better method I think than walking over to the table and saying, "Hello.  Is there anything you would like clarified?"  Less risk of confrontation.
 The next time I see them I will just smile and wave.

I am not pretending that I never gossip. But what I am saying is that because I don't pretend not to, I know that one has to be discreet about it. I

know   that people can actually see me talking about them so I take precautions..I carry either a paper bag to cover my head or I simply write and exchange notes with my co-gossiper--chewing and swallowing the evidence afterwards. 

An Open Letter to Rachel Anne

An open letter to my long missed and absent daughter, mom to my first and only grandchild (as far as I am aware), who is dearly thought of and sorely longed for,

It has been almost five years since we have had much contact other than those few times that were too short and too strained to be considered any real contact other than visual and a cursory acknowledgment of our been in the same room physically.

I know you must have some pretty valid reasons for why we have not heard from you and I just wanted you to know that I know for a fact that   there have been without a doubt things that I have done to contribute to your decision to not include myself or your dad in your life.   I know there are many things we could have and should have done differently and better.  I know that I made some bad  choices in parenting and I truly truly apologize for the hurts that I have caused you in the past.

This letter is my way of openly and publicly acknowledging that you were wronged and that I was, as your Mom,  responsible for wrongs done to you and I am publicly asking and hoping  that you may find it in your heart to help me make amends to you for the hurts and wrongs that I have caused to happen to you so that we may slowly and safely resume our relationship in a new way and form.

Much love,
Mom

A Little Bit of Lawnmower Goes a Long Ways

I have always enjoyed that Lawnmower commercial where the guy is showing off all the stuff he has owned over the years and which he still uses. 

  "See this shirt..had it for 15 years.  See this car..had it for 20 years.  See this tool belt...it was my Dad's."

 The presentation ends, of course, with the reliability of the chosen and aged lawnmower --a selling feature in today's culture of built in obsolescence.

Actually that line "See this (whatever article chosen)..I've had it for 30 years" has been used by myself to tease my husband who loves the idea that many of the items in his possession are well used and still functional.  He treasures the first set of tools he ever owned, wears every pair of slippers until the developing holes become a danger on stairs and floor alike, and still crows over the sound and size of his stereo speakers which he bought 35 years ago.

I, too, have come to realize the value of keeping and using things as much as possible.  As I think of my  31 year old electric stove, the 'newer' 15 year old refrigerator, and the pine table and china cabinet set that have served the family through 4 children, at least 60 birthday party celebrations, 33 Xmas dinners, as well as several games of cards, Easter Egg decorating, along with sausage making episodes and homemade pasta making afternoons; I realize that perhaps that 'use it till it falls apart and then make a rag out of it philosophy' may apply to myself as well.

We still use the quilt my mother-in-law sewed from used clothing 40 years ago, the hooked rug I made while still a single teacher, as well as  the paint worn and handle bent wheelbarrow that we bought for use in our first garden. 

I feel a sense of pride not only in our thriftiness, but also our ability to appreciate and utilize the things we have to the fullest.   

One can, however , take things just a little too far  in terms of keeping items  just in case one might need it, as I found, much to my surprise, in my laundry an item that mysteriously had decided to 'float' to the top and make itself known once again after many many years of even the remotest usefulness.

A Nursing Bra!

Lambing

It's that time of year again.  

The time of year when one dons the traditional black and red rubber boots, loads up the wheel barrow with knapsack or whatever else one wishes to have carried 'out to the car' and proceeds to walk about a city block out to the the top of the road where the vehicle is parked for the duration of the melting and mudding process that takes place every year in our yard.  It is only with great trepidation and dire need that we will drive closer to the house until the snow, water, slush, and deep sinking mud have disappeared for fear of tearing great ruts in the lane as well as  risk having to be pulled out with a tractor.

This little night walk outside in the dark down our lane and around a corner into the persistent and ever present wind reminds me of the days when we had goats and sheep out in the barn and the trips in the spring every hour or so during lambing/kidding season.

 The air has a special quality to it late in the evening and into the early hours of dawn .  There is a  stillness and even an unexplained unique smell in the air which does not exist any other time of the day.  I would even bet that if one were to blindfold me and deny me access to what time it was in the day and walk me outside at 3:00 am I would be able to  determine within a couple of hours the time on the clock by the stillness and aura  in the air. 


I wish I could find a poem or a piece of prose that adequately describes the process that a farmer  must go through  when checking on domestic animals on the verge of giving birth in the middle of the night.

Some of the words used would be the following:

Sleeping fully clothed.
Alarm ringing.
Quietly putting on boots, coat, and hat and  opening the creaky outside door.
Cool Fresh Air awakens the senses.
Stars above and flashlight in hand.
Crunch of snow and ice underfoot.
Dog panting along side.
Startled momentary rustle as barn light is flicked on.
Smell of hay, manure, and animal scent.
Quiet gazes exchanged as scene is observed for unusual stance or isolation since the last visit. 
 Hushed accounting  and quick glance at exits to ensure all are present. 
Light flipped off...flashlight clicked on.
Quiet walk back to the darkened house.
Chilled air returns to pinch the face.
Coat, boots, flashlight deposited by door.
Soft steps back to the bed.
Alarm set for two hours hence.
Cold cheeks on soft pillow.

A Mathematical Easter

TW --Total Hours Worked
CC -- Chocolate Consumption
A --  Age
SW -- Shifts Worked
ST -- Sleep time

fw --foil wrapping

Using the formula of  SW(A x TW) x ST  equals CC - fw.
Therefore : CC -fw equals  4 (60 x 46) x 40

CC- fw has to be 10400 x 40
CC-fw therefore is 41600 units.

Minus the unknown factor of the fw which will be arbitrarily designated a value of .9987  the CC therefore calculates out to be 41600 x .9987 as 41545.92 units of Chocolate in danger of being consumed.

Unknown factors are:

 1. Supply Source of Chocolate (if not the Easter Bunny then who(m)??)

2. Formula does not account for any hours wasted in useless Facebook perusing, Easter Bunny Google Searches, or actual workplace duties being performed.

3. WP  (Will Power) has been deliberately factored out as it never had much of a value in past calculations.

It would be nice to know how to use all  special mathematical keys on the keyboard.
 

A Patriotic Christmas Carol

As Rachel's birthday is in the middle of December it was usual that the birthday girl would have a Christmas Tree as part of the birthday decorations. On one of Rachel's birthdays..6th or 7th..she had a friend come over after school to help celebrate . These two little girls spent the afternoon dressing up, playing with their dolls and toy dishes.
I noticed they were in the living room, all dressed up, looking at the tree and the creche underneath. I heard Rachel say that they should sing a song to Baby Jesus. I listened closer wondering what they would choose to sing.
Soon their earnest voices rang out with sweetness an original version of O Canada.

Lovely memory.

Porridge for Easter

Easter on the Prairies 2013


The skiers and skaters loved the long winter a lot
But the people who lived on the Prairies did NOT!
The people watched helplessly as the snowmobiles roared
The people cried desperately as the flakes fell in hoards.

The snow filled the ditches, the streets and the lanes,
Every shoulder from shoveling was suffering pain.
The wind blew with a fury and made the roads icy
Making any travel at Easter a plan that was dicey.

The people were worried that the Bunny would say,
"Oh, it is much, much too dangerous. I must stay away.
The baskets will stay empty this year.
Being a Rabbit that hops, I am not a good skier."


The people on the Prairies cried out in great fear,
"No candies? No chocolate? No Easter Parade?
Not even one Marshmallow Egg?"

"No! No! No! No!", they cried , cried, cried, cried.
"What's Easter without baskets and surprises inside?"

Then the People of the Prairie got an idea!
They had banquets and auctions,
They sold pies at the rink and canvassed the streets
Trying to raise money for some great Easter Treats.

After dances, and dinners, and discussions galore
The People realized they needn't do more
As they now had the money to buy a new Cat



The Good Easter Bunny could not say no to That.

 Easter dawned cold, with a wind that blew drifts that started to stick
Across  the roads and the fields to get one stuck quick.



Did THAT stop the Bunny?

NO!
He loaded his Cat with  his  baskets of  chocolates, marshmallow chickens,
and  eggs made of candy with  new pastel additions.

He raised the blood sugar of all in the town
With just the new rendition of the Chocolate Easter Clown.

He  brought Easter Joy across the white spaces
bringing grins  and full stomachs instead of sad faces.

What happened then?

While the People of the Prairies all say
That when the wrappers from the candy thrown down on  ground
Got the warmth of  the sun, it caused them to heat
Then the snow started melting and couldn't be beat.

The Prairies were flooded..all the candy was lost
Long Ears on  Arctic Cat took off for the South.

Porridge for Easter was the fare for the day
We were lucky to have that  as  some say.

No flowers, or lilies, or crocuses blooming
But spring will come soon , so nonsense in moving.

Spring Signs

As the human demarcation of the beginning of  spring denotes that it will and must begin tomorrow , one comes to terms with the fact that perhaps, just perhaps, it isn't going to happen according to  anyone's will, want, or calendar.

I catch myself looking for signs of this elusive and long awaited, albeit artificially imposed quarter of the cycle of the earth's turning. 

 I imagine perhaps that there are more birds about the yard and feeder. 

I think the sun is just a bit stronger than it would even have been in January, if it had indeed actually shone during that dull introduction to the year of incomparable amounts of  snow, bad roads, along with consumption of record amounts of burned fuel to supply light and heat to a society's infrastructure that has come to rely on its ready use. 

 I insist on wearing my light winter jacket and pass by my high topped mukluks in favour of my regular albeit rugged ankle leather boots.


It perhaps is a time of hope, trust and even delusion that within a month  the roads will be dry, water will be streaming only where it is welcome and expected, and the rebirth of the creatures and greenery of the earth will burst forth , thankfully, soundlessly, at least to the human ear.

But until that time one must pay attention to other signs in order to be safe. 
Signs that have definite and non seasonal meanings.
Signs that are provided for not only direction but also for safety.


I am talking about the signs in your vehicle.  The signs on your dashboard that describe in what gear your car is in, be it either high , low, neutral, park, and yes, even reverse.

 

The importance of this sign was made very clear to me this end of winter morning as I proceeded to try to clear the windshield of last night's drift of snow by merely turning on the wipers and letting physics and mechanics do the job. 

 But as ice and frost would have it, the wipers refused to engage and I hastily jumped out of the vehicle leaving the driver's side door open and ran around the back bumper to the front on the passenger's side  (as there is always that chance that if you close the door with the keys in the ignition it will magically lock), and proceeded to brush and tap ice off the windshield when the vehicle slowly and mysteriously started rolling backward.  

 As the snow bank on the driver's side was too high to climb over I had to again run around the back of the moving vehicle and jump in and hit the brakes.  The gear indicator showed that when I had put the cold and stiff  vehicle into what I THOUGHT was Park was instead Reverse. 

 

My Bad

 I live in an area of the world where seasonal weather changes are as precise and drastic as it gets on this planet.  It is a place where it can be 30+ C above one part of the year - where if you did not have access to moving air and water you would expire within 30 minutes. 

It is also a place where 6 months later it can be
-30C where if you were exposed to any type of wind or water you would expire within 10 minutes if your body was not sufficiently covered, and even then after 20 minutes under the right wind and temperature conditions, you would have a hard time not succumbing to the elements.


I find that this continuous bombardment of cold temperature, blowing snow, shoveling, and daily dangers to health and extraneous limbs a time that stirs a strange hunger and yearning for law defying risk taking, along with the  ultimate chastisement from power figures that results in the exhibiting of the  rebel within my soul. 

No , I do not drive fast on icy roads.

No, I do not risk leaving the yard without candle and matches in the vehicle. 

No, I do not steal away randomly into stormy blizzards. I always have my cell phone fully charged. I always let people know when I am leaving and where I am going and when to expect me whenever I venture out for the upwards of 5 winter months we experience. 

No, I do not see how far I can walk one way across the snow laden field just to see if I can get back before my hands/ feet fall off in icy chunks.

  What is this evil torment that grips my being every winter that defies authority and reveals a certain weakness of character and moral uprightness coupled with  a certain saucy daring that spits in the eye of justice and social order?


I must now ask the reader to pause before reading further and consider  this writer with compassion and some understanding as I share this  obvious flaw of moral fibre, character lack and indeed, blatant disregard for ultimate world safety.
 
This is the source of the marring of my public esteem,  the stain upon my soul, and the searing scar  that can no longer be hidden from the world:



 It is that I cannot  resist the thrill of pure juvenile and irredeemable 'BADNESS' that runs down my spine as I  sit on my  stiff 'ice block like' car seat in my frigid  vehicle that spews  gaseous vapour  that rises at a right angle from the exhaust pipe while the temperature gauge slowly oh so slowly climbs from the left hand side of the gauge to the middle, all while I stare defiantly and full faced  for 10 minutes at the sign in the government parking lot that proclaims:

 

 

 

                         





 

Answer Me That!

I was having a conversation regarding the use of computers and how I can't figure out how to do 'stuff' anymore with my computer with my High Tech Savvy Son. 

I was explaining to him that things just  seem to change  randomly on the computer and that one time hitting one key will do one thing and then the next time hitting the same key will do something else. HTSS just shook his head in silence, rolled his eyes, and then proceeded to explain my trouble was that I am not able to visualize my actions in the abstract--(whatever THAT meant!)

To which I , of course, quiered, "What does THAT mean?"

"It means," came the answer as he stared  back into my bewildered gaze, "That you expect that if you do the same thing over and over again on the computer the same thing will happen. You and people of your age group think that if you hit the same key you will get the same results." 

 He went on to explain that 'people of my generation' never look up at the screen, we just expect that if you hit the same key the same thing will happen and we don't pay attention to the display or to which computer  'mode' is running.

And  my reply to HTSS was,  "Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

That little conversation explained a lot to me about where this world is going to.

 If we can't even hope to have consistency in a binomial based 1 on -- 0 off  bit of solder and plastic, then why are we even a little surprised when our ability to accurately visualize non abstract incidents involving smart people doing stupid things, governments overspending themselves into bankruptcy, along with  the  unravelling  of  the basic values of society due to  drugs, violence, and corruption is consistently correct without the use of any computer at all?

Answer me THAT will you?

Society's Guilt

Gee Penny--Was this why you have always said that alcohol shouldn't be served to minors at graduation parties, hockey games, and football wind ups? Is this why you said that the term 'learning to drink' only involves a flat line on the learning curve?  Is this why you think that the normalization of alcohol is a dangerous thing for our young people  with developing brains and underdeveloped skills in judgement and self awareness--and that is why they are still considered minors? 

                                                            --asked no one ever.

I am adding a copy of an Editiorial from the Yorkton This Week Paper...by Murray Mandryk, March 13, 2013


In all the talk about the new Saskatchewan, what sometimes gets lost is that not everything about the old Saskatchewan was bad.

There again, perhaps it is time every now and again to refresh old attitudes.

The Saskatchewan Party government’s decision to not change the drink age from its current 19 years speaks to both issues.

Some are already questioning whether the announcement by Saskatchewan Liquor and Gaming Authority (SLGA) Minister Donna Harpauer to keep the status quo and not lower the drinking age to 18 years is just another example of a risk-averse province holding on to its past.

The drinking age in Manitoba and Alberta is 18 years. And with a worse record of underage drinking and underage drinking and driving than either neighbouring province, there’s an argument that Saskatchewan’s more prudish approach simply isn’t working, anyway.

But a province — always overly sensitive about its perception as a little more backwards than more urban provinces — shouldn’t ever had to apologizing for doing the right thing.

And lest anyone think that lowering the drinking age to 18 years is the right thing, consider the tragic death of 17-year-old Jaiden Lynn Slaferek.

Slaferek was the Grade 12 student from Qu’Appelle who plunged 12 metres to her death from the catwalk above the stage at Regina’s Conexus Arts Centre on Jan. 15, 2012.

Jaiden and two companions — 19-year-old Mason Smyth and 21-year-old Todd Horrocks — were in a place they shouldn’t have been in. The trio went to great lengths to be there. They got on a freight elevator, went up a series of stairs and through several unlocked doors including one reading “Danger, Do Not Enter” and under a girder to gain access to the catwalk that is no longer in use because of safety concerns.

They did what young people sometimes do: They made some very bad choices when their judgment was impaired by alcohol.

At the time of her death from head trauma, Jaiden Slaferek’s blood alcohol content was four times the legal limit — some place between .30 and .37. Certainly, she was far too drunk to be navigating a 70-centimetre wide catwalk.

They had been drinking at a house party earlier and more alcohol was snuck into the high school dance at the Conexus Art Centre.

Now, some would choose to view this event as evidence that the age 19 drinking age isn’t working anyway.

But Jaiden’s father Rick Slaferek views it as a call to tighten up the law as it applies to those who would provide alcohol to underage kids.

“The whole issue seems to be acceptable in our society today,” Slaferek told reporters after his daughter’s coroner’s inquest. “I would really like to see it start at home that we clamp down on that.

“You get close to grad and multitudes of parents buy their kids liquor. They’re not 19. We need them to feel there are consequences.”

Of course, the issue is a complicated one. Many parents feel that under-age kids drinking in the controlled environment of a house party is a lesser evil than allowing their teenagers to sneak away to drink or drink and drive. There is legitimacy to this point as well.

However, Slaferek does seem to have a point that maybe we do need to rethink our approach. In our rural culture, the drunken bush party is often seen as a right-of-passage for both rural and urban kids. And until we see a tragedy like that of the Slaferek family, we assume that is just the way it has to be.

Sometimes it is important to re-examine our old way of thinking.

But sometimes it’s also important to recognize what we are already doing works best.

Murray Mandryk has been covering provincial politics for over 22 years.

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.