Rosebud Mountain

The "mountain" above looks close, but it is actually a mile away from where I stood on the road to take this picture. Last spring the municipality (I assume) decided to store gravel in an unused farmyard; so there it is. Rosebud is the name of the area in the countryside where we live.

Not far from the gravel pile is a country hall that has been used for many years for dances and parties. Sometimes when I'm sitting up reading late on weekends the deep drone of the bass is audible from across the field between the hall and our place. For only a moment there is a sense of "missing all the fun," but it is just old habit. You couldn't drag me out of my cosy bed to that noisy hall; not with a herd of wild horses. I know exactly what I'm missing: nothing. Or put another way: been there, done that, got the Tshirt.

The flight to Saskatoon was uneventful yesterday but for a small boy, too young to make intelligible words yet, who peered over the back of his seat ahead of my row and entertained. The two ladies beside me laughed and played with him -- "Boo!" --  and I went back to my reading until he'd holler at me in his garbled language to Pay Attention! I wasn't to be allowed to wriggle out of it that easily. Smiling toddlers; gotta love 'em. Or else.

There's been heavy rainfall throughout the night and it's still windy and wet out there. Cathy and I will attend her daughter Emma's musical theatre performance this afternoon -- I've never seen her onstage so this is a long-overdue event for me -- and tomorrow I'll head down the highway home.

Scott, when we spoke on the phone while I was away in March, insisted on putting the receiver to little Ducky's ear so that I could speak to him. The dog reacted by pawing at it. This trip, when Scott did the same thing and I said a few words to the dog (not my idea, I'll have you know; too silly, but I obliged), he licked the receiver. Awww.......