This Far

Done!

Well okay, not all the way done. Still gotta find a spot for all those pillows and put the quilted bedspread back on. Scott's going to tackle the closet one of these days and the pillows will go in there afterward. I had been meaning to reorganize the closet for some time, and his work in there forced it. Kinda. It took three weekends of best intentions, once he put everything on the bed. It wasn't that pressing.

I got rid of and put away a lot of shit. 

Wrapping paper and old Christmas cards and an entire plastic grocery bag full of bubble wrap.  

A fax machine and a sprout-maker and ... on it goes. 

Some things we never use and likely never will: out they go.

The garbage and recycling and giveaways are in the porch, awaiting transfer to the car.  There'a a bag of Emil's things to be taken to his place. Ducky figures it's a good place to park himself. 

You see the lineup beside the door, ready to go.

The wrapping paper that I chose to keep and the Xmas cards to make tags with and the potential gifts are now stored in the old cardboard trunk till next year. They lay flat atop the Christmas decorations, the tree skirt, the strings of lights, the stuffed elf, and so on.

One job down, 364 to go.

Flowers in a Pasta Jar

"Why don't you take a bunch of pictures while I'm doing my yoga," I said to Scott, who was splayed out on the couch after we'd eaten a birthday supper of takeout Greek ribs. "If I'm lucky, there'll be one I can post on the blog and say 'This is what 57 looks like.' "

He obliged me and took six or eight shots in the dimly lit room. I was doing the spinal twist. I set the phone to speaker when Emil called, and it stood on the coffee table in front of me. Balancing on one foot first and then the other, I did the eagle, the thumb of my curled palm touching the tip of my nose as I kept my eyes on the yardlight outside. My yoga routine lasts about 20 minutes. It's a series of my favourite postures, which I've chosen from all the possibilities for specific areas and organs — for optimum health.

The next morning I deleted the photographs. I like my physical self; it does a great job of making my life comfortable and I appreciate it. I feel good most of the time, and I don't even mind what I see in the mirror most days, if I don't look too closely or for too long at the face I barely recognize; it has changed so much in the last 15 years. I am what I am, and one can't get to 90 and still look 30. But in pictures? Not one bit. Me in pictures is a shock almost every time, and slightly horrifying.

One might assume it's a dislike of my aging face, but it's more true that I have never liked current photographs of myself. They've rarely if ever seemed to look like me, like the way I feel, like true representations. I sure as hell don't look as gorgeous as I feel. Hee! There are very few I've kept over the years.

"I didn't know where you keep the vases," he said when I came in the door.

There won't be one decent head shot to print with my obituary.  I'd prefer there was no obituary, now that I think about it, just like I'd prefer no funeral service and would rather Scott have friends over for a shot of whisky one afternoon instead. Will anyone respect these wishes? She's gone, they'll say; the funeral is for those left behind; the ritual helps them somehow. The obituary is for friends, acquaintances and the merely curious who love the life stories of other people. I'm one of those; biographies, autobiographies, memoirs and obituaries make the best reading.

I could always re-title this entry as "She Rambles On."

Morning Kiss

This little sweetheart seemed determined to get into the house this morning while Scott and I were having our coffee. Quite the dance, and totally unafraid of us.

Strange.

Redpoll.

We have dozens of these guys in our yard this winter. The bird book says they will be abundant in even-numbered years, and scarce in the odd-numbered ones. I'll be paying attention next winter to see if that's true.

***

I was awakened today by the delivery of a cup of hot coffee and a kiss — just the way we all are woken up every morning if we are lucky.

My Seahorse

A little treasure as far back as my childhood is this keychain that comes complete with a seahorse. It was at my grandparents' house for as long as I remember, and at some point it became mine.

Funny how the details slip away, though for years they seem to be part of a life's wallpaper.

Keys to my safety deposit box, Cathy's house in the city, and Scott's little house down the road.

Where did it come from? Who brought it back from their travels? 

Also how, when you blog every day, you repeat yourself.
Just one of those things that happens!
Like getting grumpier as you get older, Dad said tonight when we spoke on the phone.
"I hope not!" I said, and we had a little chuckle.

Grandma's Birthday

Scott's grandma turned 107 yesterday and he had some cake with her last night. She still lives in her home in Kelvington with help from Meals on Wheels, home care services, and evening meals with members of her family, who take turns making and having supper with her.

Big Pile

Guess what I'll be doing with this next few days off.
(I said the same thing last weekend, so ... you see how serious I can be.)

Scott has been installing a fresh air exchanger, and it's meant hauling everything out of the closet in the guest bedroom.

I will be re-homing some of these items. 

Uncle Bruce

Dear Karla,

I have these pictures of Uncle Bruce for you.

The telltale Bartley tooth gap!

Emil at Work

My oldest son, Emil, is in one of the pictures for this story in the Wadena News.
CLICK HERE.

Pizza Cupcakes

This recipe came up on my Facebook feed, and since it uses Pillsbury dough I thought I'd give it a try. Something different.

 Ingredients

·    1 can refrigerated Pillsbury Seamless Dough Sheets

·    ½ cup pizza sauce

·    1 cup shredded mozzarella cheese

·    ½ tsp garlic powder

·    pizza toppings - pepperoni, ham, sausage, peppers, onions, mushrooms, pineapple, peppers etc.

Instructions

1.      Preheat oven to 375 F.

2.      Spray or grease a muffin pan.

3.      Unroll dough sheet and cut into 8 equal squares. Press into muffin cups.

4.      Sprinkle some cheese into each dough cup. Add 1 Tbsp. pizza sauce followed by remaining cheese and the toppings of your choice. Sprinkle garlic powder over toppings.

5.      Bake for 15 minutes.

6.      Remove from pan, carefully, with a fork.

7.      Serve.

Will the recipe go into the STUBBLEJUMPERS CAFÉ collection? We shall see.*
 I'm waiting for them to cool so I can do the taste test.

As for #6, a knife works better. 

* 
*Nope. 

They're all right, but nothing special. 
Too much piddling around; I'd rather spread toppings far and wide and quickly on a regular crust than drop pinches of them into muffin tins. 

Postcard

This came in the mail yesterday. Thank you, Ms Maggie the Librarian.

Ed Runci, Skirting the Ride, 1950

Oh dear oh dear oh dear

Bang!

Another bird crashes into the living room window.

I have moved the feeders back into the oak trees near the house.

Where they were, we had to walk over sunflower shells to get to and from our vehicles, and it looked filthy and bugged me. 

Good thing you didn't come over, Faye, while the feeders were in the maple. (Faye is afraid of birds.)

Anyway, I moved them and, as before (no matter where the feeders are, but this seems a degree or two worse), birds are periodically crashing into the window and bouncing off, flying away to the trees. 

This afternoon, though, a pine grosbeak is splayed out on the snow beneath the window. 

Don't die! Be okay! I'm sorry! That's it, you're moving your head ... your neck's not broken. 

What can I do?

I put my coat and boots on, trudge through the snow and pick the bird up in my bare hands. 

Do I need to keep it warm? Or do I need to set it up somewhere safe where it can get its bearings without being scared shitless of this monster that is far too near for comfort? Oh, what to do, what to do?

If only I could reach this robins' nest and set the grosbeak there. But no, too high.

There's a flat-floored feeder with a roof, but there's a bit of snow in it. I think it's better to find a snowless perch for the little fella, but it is so dazed it doesn't even attempt to uncurl its claws and hang on. I do it for the drowsy bird.

Poor wee darling can hardly keep its eyes open, but will look at me when I speak to it.

I don't want to frighten the grosbeak more, on top of the shock it is already in. I step away from the tree.

A cheeky little monkey. I can't tell one chickadee from the next.

The downy woodpecker is more shy.

There are a good dozen redpolls alongside the dozens of chickadees; there are more grosbeaks (why none of the red-hued ones, I wonder); it's quite the busy place out there in the oak trees. When I'm home in the afternoon, I sit with a cup of tea and watch them through the window.

It's well past time to get my ass in gear and order "birdsavers." Birds injured and worse — dying sometimes — due to my lovely large windows. It's an awful thing.

It leans against the tree for about a half-hour and then, just after I've hung four long scarves in the window (gotta try something till the birdsavers arrive), I look again and the grosbeak is gone. 

Crow and Raven

Marya was wondering some years ago how to tell the difference between a crow and a raven when they aren't side by side, where one is obviously bigger than the other.

Click image to enlarge; from Saskatchewan Birds.

***

During the night I woke up and put the radio on and heard someone talking about using progressive (?) meditations to deal with health conditions.
Or that's what I think I heard.
While searching the CBC website to find it, this came across my path:

http://www.cbc.ca/radio/dnto/what-makes-you-happy-1.3402687/want-to-boost-your-mood-talk-to-a-stranger-1.3406575

Out here everyone talks to everyone, strangers or no.

The MIdnight Fire

To all readers who call Margo their home town:

Can anyone tell me who is the author of this rather fine poem?
It is on two typewritten sheets of paper that are tucked between the pages of my History of Margo book.

The poem may have been among Aunt Jean's things (that's my great-aunt Jean Bartley, for anyone who doesn't know my family well), or it may have been among Grandma's (Doris Bartley Benson) and came my way after she moved out of her house in Margo.

I'll have to take another look through the history book, which probably gives accounts of the (apparently) three lumber yards that burnt, back in the day.

But if anyone can shed light on the identity of the poet, please do!

If you click on the images below, they'll enlarge for easier reading.

It does contain one politically incorrect reference to a person of Chinese descent. 

In these small Prairie villages, there was often one Chinese family who owned and operated a café. It was commonly that way when I was growing up in the 1960s and '70s too and from what I can see, it's not that much changed now. All the restaurants in Wadena, for example, are presently operated by relatively recent (judging by their accents) immigrants.

Let's remember that back when this poem was written (what year? I wonder; I bet it's in the book, which I may not get back to, today), everyone who wasn't First Nations was either an immigrant or the child of immigrants, just as we remain today.  

Many of those early immigrants came with nothing but what they could haul, and it was a hard life for sure. What some did have on their side, however, were friendly, helpful, welcoming neighbours who could make all the difference between survival and failure. Those who came before that met with friendly, helpful, welcoming First Nations people. If they hadn't, Canadian history would be a lot different.

THIS JUST IN:

Dad read my post on FB and phoned. Who wrote the poem? He doesn't know, but suggests I contact Elsie Peters, whose father took an interest in local history and maybe told some stories. 

Dad told me that the fire would have had to be in the 1930s or '40s after Emil Gohl moved to town from the farm, after his wife passed away. Mr. Gohl had a shoe repair shop across the street from Kulcheski's Garage on Main Street. The shop flooded every spring and when you went there you had to wear your rubber boots.

He also remembers a retired schoolteacher who lived in a railway car (right where Olga Daviduk's house stands now) next to the lumber yard. She was pretty smart and could've written such a poem, but after her husband died she no longer spoke to anyone except the Daviduks, even when you spoke to her. McCrae was her surname and she would go around town collecting bottles.

Another clever schoolteacher he remembers was Mr. Harbridge, who also would have been capable of writing such a poem and contributed a lot to the Margo history book. He lived next door to where Dad lived with his own parents when the moved from the farm to town. 

Thanks, Pop!

Charita: It could be Harbridge. However, I know that John Grand did a bit of writing as well as the 2 Fairburn bros. Jack and Ed. The Mrs Mcrae that lived by Daviduks was Tina McRae. She used to go around town with her wagon, collecting beer bottles.

Wide Sargasso Sea

It was a case of the preface being more interesting than the novel itself.

The preface described the life of the author Jean Rhys and explained that she invented a life for the Rochester's mad wife, the woman locked in the attic in Jane Eyre. What a concept! Loved it. But the novel itself ... I didn't find believable. Stuff happened that had no logical cause and made no sense to me.

Yet the book is very highly thought of.
So there you go. What do I know?
Only what I like and don't like.
Only what inspires and thrills me, and what doesn't.
Only what satisfies me, and what doesn't.

Ray Mears

Thanks to Scott's "Cousin Al" over there in Eng Land for sending along a link to this short film about Arctic survival.



And it's a doubly good thing you sent this, Alex, because I didn't get home till 8 o'clock tonight and can hardly think straight, let alone write an entry here. Bedtime for Bonzo!

Brendonn Holdings Cap

Okay fellas, which one of you left your hat here?

We don't get a lot of company, so you'd think it would be easy to track down the owner of a left-behind cap, but no.

Scott likes to tease me by saying that one of my lovers left it behind after a secret tryst while he was at work during my days off.

Other items he finds that aren't his are gauch, socks and the occasional T-shirt. You can see why he wonders! But usually we can trace these things back to Emil, whose stuff has somehow gotten into our laundry basket when he's been out for a weekend.

The cap was in the porch, so whoever left it must have taken it off before coming into the kitchen and forgotten to put it back on when leaving.

Uncle Andy? Rick? 

Travelling Journal

A few years ago — actually, more than 10 years ago, I think — I went out and bought a blank-paged, hardcover journal. 

I wrote (and drew, and embellished with a little pasted-in flat paper vase and cut-out paper flowers) an entry in it, explaining that it was to be added to in whatever way chosen by the next person who agreed to receive it, keep it for only two weeks, and then put it into the mail for the next participant. 

Eventually it was to come back to me. I wrote my address on the back page and tucked in a few dollars to cover the cost of postage for the next person who would have the book. 

As they received it, friends wrote to tell me how fascinating and even beautiful it had become. They were thrilled by it, happy to add their words and art to it. Apparently there was even becoming a nice little stash of currency in it, so postage need never be a hindrance to anyone when the time came to pass it along. 

The reputation of such travelling journals was that not one, ever, had been completed and returned to its original owner. So I kept track of who had it, their address, their phone number, and so on, hopeful that if the book got set aside and forgotten, I would be able to contact someone and give them a nudge to get it on its way. 

And still the book disappeared without a trace. The last person it was sent to disappeared, no longer at her address or phone number, and yet the book did not get sent to the return address or to me. 

What a disappointment. I would love to see that book again, and still in my heart of hearts I wonder if it might show up, if someone might find it forgotten on a shelf all these years later and flip through it and see my address in the back and do the right thing: put it into the mail.

If I were to try it again, would you join me? 
If so, email me at katiekate@gmail.com. Put "travelling journal" in the subject line and give me your mailing address and phone number, please.
If I already have your contact info, just leave a comment.

As before, my promise is that when (always the optimist!) the journal is returned to me, full to bursting, with the permission of each entrant I will scan and post all the pages here. 

Who's up for it?



Part Blog, Part Homepage

Oh hell no! I don't read all the blogs listed here every day, that is for sure.  What you are seeing are simply lists of webpages I will revisit. They are here for my own convenience, like "Bookmarks" or "Favourites" on your own computer. I am not recommending them though needless to say if they didn't interest me, they wouldn't be listed here.

In some ways this blog is used as my homepage.  Others may open their browsers and go directly to Yahoo or MSN, for example. Not me. I get news headlines and links in daily digest emails that I've signed up for. Blogs I choose to remember are listed on this page because when their owners post a new entry, the title of the webpage rises to the top. It's handy.

There are many times when I don't go read a blog's latest entry. I lose interest in certain "places" (people? their subjects?) for a while, or am not in the mood for what the writer offers, or I'm just plain elsewhere and will catch up with multiple entries at some later date. I may see that there's been an update but that doesn't mean an automatic visit.

If your blog isn't in one of the lists at all, it could be because you rarely update.
If your blog is there but always at or near the bottom of the list, you haven't updated recently and/or you need to activate your blog's RSS feed.

Among the pages I am likely to read immediately when noticing an update is SUCH FRIENDS, which publishes slice-of-life tidbits from the lives of writers, artists, and others in history. I'm glad to bring it to your attention, but I have no expectation that you will find it as fascinating as I do. We're all so different! Many of my blogging friends are wonderful writers with good minds, and often they recommend others, yet when I follow up, I wonder what the attraction is. My friends and I have many tastes in common, and just as many not. And that's exactly as it should be.

Meetups in Meditations

Would you care to have a gander at my two beloved sisters and their hubbies in Maui?
Joan posted photos to our SISTER LINES blog.
It just warmed the cockles o' me 'eart, it did!

*************************************

I promised to tell you about my "intellectual self," and so I shall.
There may be no more dull reading than someone else's meditations, however, so I'll try to keep it brief.

I was reading a book called Huna. It's about a way of relating to the self, I guess, and originates in Hawaii. Anyway, there is nothing unusual about the advice to get yourself into a deeply relaxed state and then imagine yourself going to certain places — for instance, to your favourite beach, which is one of the places I commonly go in my mind to meet up with ... man, how to explain this so it doesn't sound too flaky? — in order to have a conversation with various parts of oneself or even with your dog or another person or someone who has passed or your spiritual guides or fairies. Shamans do this all the time; they go within to get where they need to go.
Hm.
Anyway.
I'm trying. If you don't do visualizations yourself, this may seem too intangible. If you do, you have no trouble recognizing what I'm talking about and knowing the value of it.
It's communication on a whole different level, and although it takes place entirely in your imagination, there is a quality of truth to it that can (and has, at times) take my breath away. I have even been brought to tears of joy by such an experience, once.

According to Huna, there are aspects of ourselves that we need to relate to consciously, and we can do this by reaching a meditative state (just some deep, slow breathing for a couple minutes) and then imagining ourselves going to the place where these aspects of ourselves can be spoken with.

*************************************

"... emotionally withholding people ..."
 "... there's an elaborate caste system out there ..."
Joni Mitchell talking about Saskatchewan.
And more:
MUCH MUSIC INTIMATE AND INTERACTIVE

*************************************

As I was saying ...

Huna advises us to make intimate contact with our inner self, our emotional self, our mental or intellectual self, and so on. Each serves a different function, though they are all part of each person.

I decided to not just read the book, but to put its suggestions into practice. The first time I did one of these meditations, there were interesting and moving results.

My inner self appeared as me at age three or four, and she was thrilled to see me in the particular landscape where I imagined meeting her. We joined hands and danced around and hugged each other with pure delight. And then there was conversation. And over time she has changed appearance; sometimes she looks like that exuberant little girl, and at others she is a very large and powerful being, and at still others she is a long-haired woman wearing glowing robes, and sometimes she is a type of nature who cannot be seen, is only felt.

I made the trip to meet my emotional self. She was more difficult to find. While my inner, child self had rushed forward to greet me, my emotional self had to be sought through a dark tropical forest. When she did show herself, she was cautious, shy, reticent, as if she didn't trust me. This surprised me, as I think of my emotional self as being obvious, visible. Ha! I had to think again. This emotional self was elusive.

My intellectual self had a room just across the hall from my emotional self. She was quick to call "Come in!" and when I entered, she had risen from her desk near an airy screen door and was advancing across the floor to meet me.  She had hair like Andy Warhol, like Haystack Calhoun (not the wrestler, but the children's book character whose hair looked like, well, a haystack). She was thin and bony, wearing a brightly coloured striped sweater. She told me I had an "Irish intellect." I didn't know what that was, so in the days to follow I asked a few friends and put the keywords in quotation marks into the Google search engine. No luck. It wasn't till a couple years later, when I put the question to WISE WEB WOMAN, who happens to come originally from Ireland, that I got my answer: it's intuition.

Since then I've come to know these "parts" of myself as individuals. All in my head, of course ... and yet it seems to me that each encounter has been absolutely truthful and more than a little enlightening.

A Mild Heat

Tonight is the first time I've come home with aching hands from a day at the office. I've put in longer hours at the keyboard before. So what could be up? Maybe just that after two weeks off, my hands have decided to complain about going back to work? They didn't complain Wednesday or yesterday.

I've got the hot water bottle out.

What I'd like, next to a kind and gentle friend to rub my hands, is a nice mild lotion to put on them, one that would give a little heat without burning the skin. Tiger Balm burns; can't use it.

Any suggestions?

Will I Ever Get There?

Back at work I am since Wednesday, with office hours yesterday that extended to 8 p.m. because I took myself off for a lunch meeting with Alison (my friend and employer, who also bought the meal) and later for an hour's shiatsu treatment with Charlene (my friend and co-worker, who also writes for the Wadena News), and so I stayed late to make sure what needs to be done is done. It was still less than an eight-hour day of actual work.

We have a second man in the office now, in the new year, and also his dog. More male energy! The two men are still outnumbered two to one.

This has been a headachy nauseated week for me so far — fun fun fun. I have had these "neck migraine" bullshit things since I was 28 years old. I have had my eyes checked, my jaw checked. I have seen doctors and alternative healers and even psychics. I've had regular chiropractic treatments, regular therapeutic massage. I've tried cutting out every kind of thing — various foods, drinks — to see if it made any difference, whether the neck thing could be traced to an allergy. I've done yoga, walked, lifted light weights, worked on my posture. I've tried to eat three regular meals a day and snacks in between, and more protein. I'm not very good at that kind of routine and don't like eating when I don't feel hungry, but I try. I try to make sure I drink enough water.  I try to relax, to release tension in my neck and shoulders, where I do tend to hold it without even realizing.

Once I even requested of my inner self a dream answer, and just the moment before I woke up, was in a room with a doctor in a white lab coat, who asked me if I was getting enough sleep.  At the time I probably wasn't, as Emil was still a nursing baby who woke several times a night, and boy was I cranky about that and sometimes even not very nice, and thank goodness Gord was a prince who often got up with the kid and got him something to eat or drink.

I've also worked on my thoughts, my beliefs and expectations about my physical health, trying to make sure I'm not sabotaging myself somehow. I'm healthy and fit, I insist. I deserve good health and physical comfort. And so on.

Nothing has made a damn bit of difference, except that the chiropractic treatments I got every week for a year helped me recognize the beginnings of the neck thing so I could sometimes head it off at the pass rather than waking up in the morning with it full blown and impossible to manage.

Anyway, all this old-person talk about my physical malady in order to tell you that yesterday I made an appointment with a retired physiotherapist who is now doing alternative therapies using both her old skills and some new ones. She is very good at what she does, I think, and last year (or was it the year before? or even the year before that?), she is the one whose ministrations helped me when my back had gone out so ridiculously that I couldn't even wipe my bum in the ordinary way, and this had gone on for such a long time. As always, I am hopeful that someday I won't have to take a frigging anti-inflammatory eight times a month — one that sometimes works and sometimes doesn't, and when it doesn't, I spend the day puking.

For years I thought that because Grandma had had migraines that stopped after she had a hysterectomy, it was hormonal and once past menopause my migraines and my sister Karen's (she gets the same ones, only hers sometimes last three days) would stop. I haven't had a period for about three years (yay! so over and done with that shit! don't miss it a bit) but the frequency of migraines hasn't changed.

So wish me luck. Next week Elaine will show me exercises to strengthen my upper back and shoulders, I presume, and I will do them faithfully and have no more migraines. Yep, that's the plan!

Oh, and I want to bring to your attention this perfect expression from a blogging friend, Maggie:
"The happily ever after is, after all, full of ups and downs and all arounds." Is that ever true! You can visit Maggie's blog HERE.

Winterson

I'm only 54 pages in, but I love this book so far.
First, I read Jeanette Winterson's novel Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit. Apparently she received many accolades because it is considered a unique and modern style of writing.
I don't know about any of that. I only know that before the end, I was skimming through large tracts of it.

But then, from this library stack here in my home office, I picked up Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? Winterson has written an autobiographical book filled with clear truths and simple explanations about her own life. Her observations are straightforward; her explanations are simple; her writing is powerful and alive. I don't want to put the book down. I want to quote her three dozen times for you already, just because she is saying things so goddamn well.

It's great when a book has that effect, isn't it! And for me, most autobiographies do.

Dragonfly and Snakeskin

It does look as if I collect bags, but that's not the case. Or maybe it is; I can't throw out a perfectly nice, usable bag. They've become a collection without my intention.
What I use them for is to hold rose petals and other items for making amulets and such.
I found a dried, shed snakeskin once; it's in a mesh bag hanging here in the office.
A dragonfly got into the house and was dead before I could put it outside.
Neither have yet been used. But what's the rush?

Hits the Nail on the Head, She Does

Nevertheless, life is pleasant, life is tolerable.  Tuesday follows Monday; then comes Wednesday.  The mind grows rings; the identity becomes robust; pain is absorbed in growth.  Opening and shutting, shutting and opening, with increasing hum and sturdiness, the haste and fever of youth are drawn into service until the whole being seems to expand in and out like the mainspring of a clock. How fast the stream flows from January to December!  We are swept on by the torrent of things grown so familiar that they cast no shadow.  We float, we float . . .

The Waves, by Virginia Woolf, from the Woolf in Bloom blog at http://woolfbloom.blogspot.ca/.

Emil Donny Donny Donndo

Oh sure, he may look happy as we leave Uncle Neil's place, but guaranteed he is not.  So what has got him so giggly? Darned if I know. Most of the time he doesn't either. Something's just tickling his funny bone, that's all.

You can kinda see where he's lost a tooth, if you know where to look.

A New Year's Jaunt

New Year's Day, Kathy style, meant picking up Emil in Wadena and driving out to my uncle and aunt's north of Margo.

But first, a leisurely morning and a short walk.

Down the road

My cousin Leanne is spending a few days there, having come in with her three kids from Edmonton, so I took the opportunity for a visit.

When Emil and I arrived, Leanne's kids were outside with her sisters' kids, taking advantage of the crisp, bright, sparkly winter day.

The cousins through their grandparents' dining room window

They came in all pink-cheeked to find the rest of us at the table eating Christmas treats and sipping on wine. After a while my cousin Heather, as if we looked peckish, deep-fried what she calls "moose-balls" for a hot snack: marinated moose meat breaded with herbs and spices. Tasty!

When Emil and I waddled out to the car just as the sun touched the horizon, I was pretty sure neither of us would be needing supper.

Beyond, the field south of their farmyard