Family Newsletter

Joni van Gogh, a.k.a. Joni Mitchell, self-portrait

Things are peaceful around our house and the boys have been home all week, with classes shut down while the teachers busy themselves elsewhere.

Everett baked cookies one afternoon; I made eight loaves of bread yesterday, and Everett mixed up bagels, which I boiled before putting in the oven.

In family news:

Karen dropped off some food for Buckminster Duckster III one afternoon and stayed for a couple cups of green tea. They enjoyed their week in Mexico. I asked if they'd go to the same place again and she thought not; it was uncrowded and quiet and perfect for a laidback holiday, but if you want to explore and do things you have to travel out from the little village where they stayed. Next time they'd opt for a more touristy location.

An uncrowded beach! That is right up my alley. There aren't enough of those.

What else:

Emil got a hold of Neil, so he drove out yesterday, stayed for a couple cups of tea, and left with a bag of Everett's cookies. Woulda had fresh hot bread if his departure had been delayed by a half-hour. He and Rose have been putting new flooring in their house and since he'd been sawing on the main floor, she was busy cleaning. We know what that's like. Neil's legs still get really sore after very little exertion, since he had a stroke several years ago. Someone told him that can go away, but it can take seven years. He's got his fingers crossed.

News of Uncle Bruce is that he's pretty tired, not going much further than to the shed for a cigarette ... and at the same time, that he and Shirley went to Denare Beach recently to babysit Karla's kids. That long drive (six or seven hours from here) and a couple active grandchildren require some energy, so maybe he's feeling better these days.

I haven't been to see Grandma for a month and although there is usually some reason -- road or weather is bad, something else is on, I'm lazy, Scott and I plan to go and then he doesn't show up till I no longer feel like going, Emil wants to go but has a cold and has been sneezing and sniffling all over the house, so on, so forth. There is always something. I am determined to get there this weekend. Maybe she forgets you were there five minutes after you leave, but she is always happy to see you and it's not only for her that I go, anyway; it's for me. And the boys. We will not have Grandma here forever.

Joni Mitchell sings and plays River, one of her most beautiful songs, in her younger days:

Packing Up the Treasures

Grandma Johnson's china cabinet gets emptied out.

Scott had an offer of help to move heavy objects this week, so it was time to get prepared. I took Emil and Everett with me to the old house yesterday afternoon; they packed up treasures of their own, while I carefully wrapped up old dishes that once belonged to my grandmothers, my great-grandmother, my great-aunts and my great-great aunt.

There are a few other items that didn't require padding: two antique flashlights, one that Grandpa Benson (his birthday today) gave me; a tiny carved set of three wooden cooking utensils that were made by my great-great-great grandfather for my great-grandmother; a brass and enamel bell.

I also made a pile of things to drop off at the recycling centre in hopes that someone else can use them: glass teacups that came from a garage sale with a punch bowl we never used; most of the Christmas mugs (keeping only my one favourite); flower vases that don't get used because I have too many. Now I just need to unpack the boxes so I can get back over there, pack the giveaways into them and haul them to town.

Lucille Clifton

What? Doesn't everybody stand on the toilet lid and look out the window while brushing their teeth?

And yes, this pig has wings. Which is why it's one of my favourites: it reminds me that there is always hope that the impossible is possible.

Lucille Clifton has died. Here's one of her poems:

There is a girl inside
There is a girl inside.
She is randy as a wolf.
She will not walk away and leave these bones
to an old woman.
She is a green tree in a forest of kindling.
She is a green girl in a used poet.
She has waited patient as a nun
for the second coming,
when she can break through gray hairs
into blossom
and her lovers will harvest
honey and thyme
and the woods will be wild
with the damn wonder of it.

Music

Wadena Community Hall last night after a delicious catered supper. If only I could eat more!

Yesterday there were bluegrass and old-time music workshops for musicians in the afternoon, followed by supper and an evening of entertainment. It wasn't intended to be a dance but there were dedicated "stubblejumpers" who got up onto the wooden floor at every opportunity. We love our waltzes and polkas around here.

I realized that bluegrass, in particular when there are vocals and not just instruments, makes me happy. They can even be singing about that poor Jewish carpenter twisted and suffocating on a cross, and no matter: I will be smiling. The singer's wiry voice reminds me of Uncle Bob and his old-time guitar in the kitchen after family suppers, and my feet are tapping and swinging. Happy.

Finally caught up on Doc Maclean’s blog. His Century Tour webpage takes readers on a pictorial tour of Canada — lots of great road shots, human scenery and stage venues with heart. We travel along with Doc and Big Dave as they come across outstanding B&Bs, tasty meals, the Remembrance Day ceremony in Port Hardy, a gravesite with a unique marker (a bicycle with antler handlebars), bits of local history; it's a parade of delighted movement across the land. The tour ended in December and Doc isn’t blogging anymore, darn it. Looks like I’ll have to wait for the next tour.

It’s been a few years since I’ve been on a “road trip” and I’ve had no desire to take another one recently, but Doc’s blog sparks a tiny urge … (hey Shelly, how ‘bout it? My old road-trip pal). It makes me remember how wonderful it always was to meet people, who seem invariably good. Doc may have also inspired me to try my hand at the old washboard that came down from the Johnson side. Between that, Mom’s accordion, Everett’s piano, Emil’s harmonica and my acoustic bass, I could be a full band – if only I could play and sing at the same time. If only I could play, period!

For Valentine's Day, here is a passage from the bible, I Corinthians 13, that Joni Mitchell has put to music:

LOVE

The Luxury of a Saturday

Everett likes to listen to CBC Radio on the weekends. He likes the science show Quirks & Quarks, the comic The Debaters and Wiretap, and Stuart McLean’s Vinyl Café. To keep busy while he listens, he takes over the kitchen. Today he’s making cookies and I can hear him chuckling; last night we had pizza for supper, using the crusts he prepared and froze a couple weeks ago.

I should go over to the other house and start the boys’ laundry. They need their clothes clean and ready for school – wait! They have no school next week! Hey! I don’t have to go anywhere.

Friday All Day

Get out of my sun, woman

Early this morning Buckminster Duckster III had to go outside to do his business and I was awakened by him (somehow; don't ask me) and stumbled to the door to let him out. But not before he danced around in circles and knocked two of my pictures to the floor (they were still leaning against the wall in the hallway) in the dark, so today I moved them to Grandma Johnson's gateleg table in my office. They can lean safely against the wall there.

Ducky threatened to take Scott's hand off this morning when he approached the bed, where me and my little friend were still snoozing. Most peculiar, as the little beast likes Scott well enough. Guess he was just letting the big fella know that Ms Wonderful shouldn't be disturbed during her beauty rest.

Me and my pal Cathy (if I had curly hair and we both put on a few pounds):

Wee Hours Brekky

A doting Uncle Scott with one of his great-nieces.

He gets all googly the moment there is a baby in the vicinity and it's one of my favourite things about him. He is also affectionate toward dogs and cats and never gets snarky when without consultation or warning I bring a new pet home either to visit or to stay. Another of my favourite things about him.

It's 2:30 a.m. and I'm at the computer, munching, because I had to get up and eat. Otherwise I'd have lain awake another god-knows-how-many hours. Peanut butter toast and a side of cottage cheese; let's call it a very early breakfast. A midnight snack would be more along the lines of tortilla chips, in this house.

Here's what I know about my sleepless nights, which there have been few of since my late teens when I was fool enough to drink coffee in the evenings: around 3 a.m. I get hungry; at 5 a.m. I get cold. No matter where I am or what I'm doing.

Now Playing (quietly, of course): Randy Bachman's latest, a — wait for it! -- jazz album:

Melody Gardot

My newest CD arrived in the mail today.

Another gorgeous blue sky day, about 15C-below, snow bright white, light wind ...

This is just for my sister Joan, who says on her website, Sweetlight Photography, that the one kind of music she thinks she doesn't like is jazz. So check this out, Joanie. You like Norah Jones, don't you? Isn't she considered a jazz singer?

Anyhoo, there's jazz I don't like -- it's instrumental -- maybe it's fusion -- I don't know what the hell it is but there is definitely some that grates on my nerves within moments of hearing it. Vocal jazz is a whole other ball game though and I luvluvluv Gardot's stuff.

Okay, here's Melody Gardot:

Three Hens Escape Oblivion

Three Hens Escape Oblivion, 2005

The "house concert" we attended on Tuesday night in Wadena was a small affair with some very big talent. After helping ourselves to the smorgasbord of Chinese food, chicken and burgers, an audience of some 30 of us trekked upstairs to watch Joel Fafard perform.

Fafard is an acoustic guitar player who kept toes a-tappin' throughout his two sets. I picked up two of his CDs: the one whose cover you see above, and his new one, which has been tucked away as a gift for some lucky person on my good side.

Be sure to click on the youtube video and listen to him play a tune, after following the link in the first paragraph.

Lucky Ducky

Somebody likes everything about me, even my dirty laundry.

Karen called the other day. They'd been back from Mexico since Monday and have been catching up on sleep and, in her case, struggling with a migraine.

Would I like to keep Ducky for another month? Hell yeah.

Her female Yorkie should be going into heat and Karen would like her to have every opportunity to mate with the male Yorkie they've got. (I know, three housedogs! What do they need Ducky for?) When Ducky's around, things might go less well.

Did you know that spayed males can still get it on? I didn't. I thought male dogs were all finished with that business once they couldn't breed anymore. But not our Ducky. He's still a sex machine.

So Lucky Ducky (or Sucky Ducky, as Scott calls him) is here for a while longer. He's graduated from the tote-bag in the closet where my laundry was collected, to the basket I finally brought over from the other house. Strange as that is, because he's got the run of the house -- we let him on the furniture, on the beds -- even under the covers, god help us. Why he prefers the laundry ... well, who knows how dogs think.

The Funeral

Bev and her big red snapper

When Bev's father died last week, she came out to spend the week with her mom and the rest of her family and to help arrange his funeral. When Scott and I arrived at her mom's for a visit, Bev and her brother were behind the back fence, clearing snow away to expand the parking area.

The funeral was held in the town hall yesterday afternoon, attended by some 200 people. Afterward we went over to the house to join the family for a few drinks and a delicious supper made by one of Bev's nephews. I did not even finish my third rye and coke but have a slight hangover today. What a lightweight, eh? Oh well, it was worth it. We sat at a long table in the basement and had many laughs and a few "history lessons" from some of the older crowd that joined us.

I found out that vodka didn't always agree with my youngest sister Joan, who was dropped off after school one day, along with her friend Stacy, by Bev's younger brother. The girls went straight upstairs, which Stacy's parents thought suspicious, so they followed shortly after to check things out and found the girls, each with her own pail, leaning over the side of a bed, puking.

Hi Charlotte! Yes, your dad was telling stories ....

Bye Bye Boobies

This print has yet to be framed and hung.

A friend of mine is in surgery today, having a radical mastectomy. It was only a week ago that cancerous lumps were discovered in her breasts and lymph nodes, and her doctors are wasting no time letting the disease spread further than it already has.

They say that humour helps people beat cancer. If that's true, then Kathy will beat the shit out of it and live happily ever after. She's looking at this as the breast-reduction surgery she hasn't been able to afford till now but has always wanted. A quick way to lose a few extra pounds. Now that's what I call positive thinking; Kathy has found the silver lining in this very dark and heavy cloud.

She's got a tough row to hoe. Recovery from surgery, then radiation and chemo; there's nothing funny about any of that but if there is anyone who can make us laugh along with her, she is our girl.

My thoughts are with Kathy and her husband Rick today, and with their two boys; they must all be reeling from the shock of all this happening so fast, and the fear that comes with it even though the prognosis is good.

Lagoon Lament

Where will all the pictures go?

Mon 10:38pm
Scott arrived around 9 this morning for coffee and I broke the news: the sewer had backed up last night while we were out. Was he thrilled? Oh, certainly. Did he curse and swear? Nope. Must be on best behaviour or something.
He must have been a very bad boy in another life, because he's getting no breaks in this one.
So I roused Emil out of bed (one last day home from school, to finish blowing his nose) and took him over to the old house, where water could be used. And while poor old Scott cancelled his plans to work in town and came over here instead to spend his day shovelling snow, augering a hole through the ice on the lagoon, and getting the drainage system working again, I took ye olde minivan to town for an oil change, visited my old friend Bev Semko at her mom's (her dad's funeral is Thursday), and then went and bought $265 worth of groceries and came home just in time to make a quick but delicious—if I say so myself—supper. If you like pasta, spinach, tomatoes and feta cheese, that is—Popeye Pasta is the name of the recipe I followed—as opposed to meat and potatoes. Scott goes into withdrawal if he doesn't eat potatoes at least once a day and sometimes more. So he's often in that condition, when I'm the cook.
After all that, he had the waterworks shipshape once more and Everett did dishes while I spent the entire evening here in my office, catching up on the four hours of work I missed today. That four hours flies by, though, when I get my teeth into something.
It's 20 below and snowing, and that's the scintillating news from Saskatchewan.

***

An entry on Alex Waterhouse-Hayward’s webpage, which I recommend to you, includes the following poem written by his estranged aunt, now in her nineties; a gorgeous photo of WH's aunt; his memory of her and their estrangement. Just click here. Be prepared to lose an hour poking around his webpage. I'm telling you.

Evening At Home
(with bitterness)

There you are
Sitting before me,
Relaxed…sprawling, almost,
Your newspaper making little
Hackneyed rustlings.
And I am here
In the red armchair,
Hands loose in my lap,
Doing nothing.
Dreaming.

Not a word has joined us
For half an hour.
The silence is not expectant,
Not comfortable-
A dull, slate colored silence.

I ask myself, wonderingly:
“How can you miss someone
Who is right before you?”
Because I miss you,
I am unspeakably lonely
Even as I gaze upon you.
(You turn a page…there is a
Crackling.
You light another cigarette.
And I reach for a magazine
Three months old.)

Such As These – Dolores de Iruretagoyena de Humphrey, Mexico D.F. 1955

The Corn is as High as an Elephant's Eye

Everett clears a path to the birdfeeders after the heavy snowfall.

"Oh what a beautiful morning
Oh what a beautiful day
I've got a beautiful feeling
Everything's going my way-ay ...

There's a bright golden haze on— "

Oops, sorry about that. It's just that the sun's shining brightly into my window and the sky is blue as can be, and I've slept in and don't have to go anywhere today. Life could only be more perfect if my sisters and girlfriends were all coming over for coffee this morning, and if Mom was still alive and I could talk to her on the phone. I may not have everything I'd like, but the sun's out, the sky's blue, and life is pretty damn good.

Actually a trip to Kelvington is in order, since we didn't go last weekend and so Grandma may not have had a family visit for more than a week. I never know who else has gone to see her so I always assume no one has, and I'd better get my ass up there. Emil wants to go too but as he still sounds a little stuffed up, I'm not sure he should. Grandma never catches colds, but other residents might.

Not sure I mentioned that last time I was at the nursing home it was 11:30 a.m. and Grandma had taken off her clothes and gone back to bed. This is so unheard of, for her, that even though she assured me she was feeling fine, I mentioned it to an aide. The aide had just returned to work after a holiday and said it seemed to her that Grandma was a little "down," when she got back.

"Sometimes they get like that when they get old; you know how it is," she told me.
"I don't know, actually," I said, "but I'm finding out."

I like to imagine what Mom would have been like if she'd lived to 93, like her mother. She would have been a lovely, sweet old lady, that's for sure. In May it will be five years since she died. Five years! Hard to believe; feels like yesterday I was rubbing her feet and being asked to fetch this or do that because she didn't have the energy. I took to kissing her goodbye before I left, every day, because I was afraid it might be the last, unless she was feeling so good everything seemed normal, in which case I'd fall back into my old ways and take her for granted and not kiss her. We're not a kissy, huggy family, or weren't, though I've become more outwardly affectionate in recent years. Back when Mom was dying, I sometimes wondered what it would be like after she'd been gone a few years; it was hard to picture my life without her in it.

Now I've gone and made myself cry. Can tears hurt my dirty keyboard? It's filthy. Maybe they'll clean it right up! Or maybe I can make a salty mudpie.

Half Back

Scott whips the yard into shape.

Guess what I got for my birthday? A pulled muscle in my back. Yippee!
Spent the last half of Thursday and all day yesterday regretting my lack of adequate sympathy for people who live with aching backs all the time. Because it is no fun, nosiree, no fun at all.

Fortunately after a day-and-a-half of popping pills that didn't help me get comfortable, and ordering others to cook and wash dishes because even a short while standing just about made me pass out (though I managed to get groceries yesterday and remain upright at the checkout counter while the clerks hand-wrote two rainchecks for a little old lady ahead of me and I swear it seemed to take forever), I awoke this morning as good as new. Woo hoo! It is good to be able to whiz through the kitchen again without thinking about it.

People with chronic back pain, I salute you for your stamina.
Me, a tiny bit of discomfort and I'm good for nothing.
Scott's back goes out and before you know it he's up and working through his pain.
Not this chick. I take a pill and go straight to bed. Wuss.

So I've gotten a lot of reading done in the last day or two. Good to a Fault, by Marina Endicott, is a novel set in Saskatoon. It's about a single woman who runs into a family-filled car while making a left turn at an intersection. It turns out the family is living in their car, on their way to Fort McMurray to find work. The resulting trip to the hospital brings a diagnosis of cancer to the young mother, who ends up having to stay there for laborious treatment. Since the rest of the family has no place to go, the woman takes them home and, when their father abandons them, starts looking after the three children and their bitchy old grandmother. It's a big change for her but she does it well, falling in love with the children so much that she's prepared to keep and care for them after their mother dies, as she's expected to. And that, my friends, is all I'm telling you.

Good to a Fault is one of the Canada Reads books this year. I have been unwilling to put it down since the first page, so that might tell you something.

And now that I'm feeling human again, I can get back to carrying out a few of my plans for the week that had to be postponed, like getting more of Emil's things moved over here. He came for birthday cake on Wednesday and never left, due to a cold. He's been snuffling and blowing and coughing ever since, but may be on the mend today.

51 Years

Happy Birthday to me.

As you can see, I'm as old as my years— look at the string on my glasses.

Thinking about Mom today, thanking her and Dad. Life's been very good to me. I've been fortunate in my family and friends, blessed with children, and had the luxury of living in a peaceable land.

Hare Salon

At the hair salon.

Pat, my mother-in-law from heaven, as I like to call her, phoned this morning. She had a cataract operation last week and isn't supposed to get any water in her eyes.
"Could you drive me into town today to have my hair washed?" she asked.
"If I can get out the door," I said.
Last night when I went to take Ducky out to do his business, I couldn't get the door open. That was fine with Ducky; he starts visibly shivering the moment he sees me put my jacket on. Ducky's bladder apparently makes up half his body volume so I knew he could easily last till morning, and it didn't occur to me to go out the front door with him, since we haven't used it in months and the step has a snowdrift on it.
Prince Charming had to come over and rescue me today— the locks had frozen or something—and then I picked Pat up and off we went to town. There's still quite a bit of snow on the roads and you know what? It finally looks like winter is supposed to look around here. There are tall sundogs though so the temperature's probably going to drop drastically.
The bunny above is the resident pet at the hair salon. The stylist remarked, What better place for hairy animals, than a hair salon? Her 13-year-old dog was there too, laying on my feet as I waited.

Little Lord Fountleroy Makes Himself at Home

Buck Duckster the IIIrd, a.k.a. Little Lord Fountleroy, or Ducky

Ducky is the first chihuahua I've been well acquainted with, and now I understand why people love these little dogs. He is the cuddlingest, sweetest, quick-on-his-feet creature; he keeps a close eye on the people he cares for; he couldn't be cuter or more attentive. I am smitten. I like dogs to start with yet have never wanted one in the house to clean up after, let in and out, and so on. But Ducky? No problem; he can do no wrong. Seriously, something must be the matter with me. Or am I getting old and even more softheaded? I will hate to see him leave for home when Karen and Dick get back from their holiday in Mexico. Only one more week to enjoy the wee fellow.

Some 3000 people around the province are without power and heat due to the heavy snowfall over the weekend, but between our two houses we're perfectly snug. The roads are in rough shape and the schoolbuses didn't run today, but Scott drove Everett into town this morning so he wouldn't miss two scheduled Grade 12 departmentals. I've barely poked my nose out the door, shame on me. Will have to be sure to go for a walk with the dogs tomorrow.

It's been oh-so-quiet in the house; the wind shrieked around during the night, but today there's no sound outside of the furnace fan and Ducky's toenails on the floor when he accompanies me from one room to another. The radio's been off since late afternoon and I haven't even listened to any music. Through the window now, after dark, the yardlight glints off the fresh white snow and everything looks peaceful.

Storm Stayed

How do you like the snow overhang out my office window?

Kinda looks like the underside of a great spaceship passing directly over the house. Guess who watched Star Trek with Everett last night.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

The snow’s still blowing and ice crystals sting your face (I was out filling the bird feeders, sweeping the step and knocking snow off a flattened lilac bush), and Scott said my van wouldn’t have made it to the other house yesterday.

He came this morning with the tractor and pushed snow around the yard but the potluck for his grandmother's 101st birthday in Kelvington is postponed. I made "bean dish" anyway; it won’t go to waste as long as Scott and Emil are around to help eat it. Baked a batch of bread too, so supper is taken care of. Everett's just pulled the eight loaves from the oven and is slicing into one. I can almost hear his drool hitting the kitchen floor from here.

Can’t say as I mind a winter storm when we’re all safe and warm at home and have everything we need.

The Big Dump

Chloe and I waded through the snow to the road, just to see how deep it was.

Sat23Jan/10
2:35pm
So much for my big plans to move Emil and his stuff over here to GGFarm today. By the time Scott left for the other house (Emil was there and we don't leave him alone overnight) late last night, a lot of snow had already fallen, and it’s been coming down hard and heavy all day. I went out a while ago to give Chloe her pill – which is pushed into a chunk of wiener (thank you, Faye: why didn't I think of that? it beats putting my whole hand into her mouth) — and discovered there’s been six inches of the fluffy white so far. It’s beautiful out there, but not the best for Emil to walk through. Scott just called to see if I want anything from town and said he spent the last two hours pushing snow out of the yard over there with the tractor. He’ll have to do the same thing here before it will be easy for Emil to make his way to the house.

















Hm. Not too inviting.

It’s a relief to allow myself to stay home and leave Emil where he is.
Everett’s cookies are coming fresh and furious out of the oven, so I’ve had some with some milk and made myself a pot of tea.
Scott came over yesterday morning, saying he didn’t have enough ambition to get any work done and felt lazy. For him it was a wasted day, although he did spend a couple hours trying to get the printer working after it’s sat idle since October, and he did sand the window casings in preparation for one last paint touchup. Before he went home to check on a cow that had been bleeding from her mouth and to try to reach our very busy vet, we agreed he’d come back here and we’d go to town for supper and groceries.

As always, we drove the entire length of Wadena’s main street before making up our minds which of the four open restaurants to go to. We chose the one that appeared through its front windows to have the fewest customers, and I went along with Scott’s idea to order two Chinese food dishes to share. They turned out to both taste about the same — and bland — so it wasn’t a satisfying meal; rather disappointing, instead. But we went to the grocery store on full bellies, which helped me resist the urge to buy potato chips, jalepeno poppers and chicken wings for easy snacks— they were all on sale, but I'm trying to be strict when it comes to convenience and processed food, and junk food. I did impulsively pick up Crispy Crunch bars from the 2 for $1.89 bin, and Emil thanked me not only last night when we dropped off some groceries over there, but we’ve spoken twice by phone today and he’s thanked me again, both times.

We hauled the bulk of the groceries into the house here at GGFarm and put them away, then poured ourselves rye and gingerales and pulled up to the table for a couple games of crib. At 11 Randy Bachman’s Vinyl Tap came on the radio, rebroadcast from last Saturday; when we’d had enough of cards, we reclined in our new loveseat in the dark living room, holding hands, and laid there listening to the show till it ended at one in the morning.

Best to stay home:

And Now We Can Really Move In

Guilty of emptying the cookie jar, Everett and his after-school guest/cousin Xander try to look sweet.

The furniture in the living room is finally out of the boxes it came in, but now covered with blankets so that Little Lord Fountleroy won't leave his hair all over it. Of course, we could refuse to allow him on the furniture, but what fun would that be? He's on his winter vacation, after all, and deserves some doggie luxury.

Scott built a railing on the outside step this afternoon so I'll get cardboard boxes from town for serious packing and transfer Emil over here on the weekend. Aside from his clothes and things, the contents of my china cabinet can now be crated up, my books can start coming over, the rest of my kitchen stuff can come to its new home, framed pictures can go onto the walls; but no rush. All in good time. Why, it could take me two years ....

***

Our donation to disaster relief in Haiti will go by Canada Post to the Red Cross, Saskatchewan branch. Here's the address if you're in our fair province and want to mail a cheque:

Canadian Red Cross
Sask Office
Box 4740, Stn Main
Regina, SK
S4P 3Y4


***

For those who want to give online, my friend Jean has started a relief fund that you can contribute to, here. Jean says, "If you are still looking for a worthy organization for Haiti relief funds, Mercy Corps is a great choice. They have a reputation as an efficient organization with lots of experience."

What Happened to Winter?

Rose-breasted grosbeak.

Now we've got unseasonably mild weather. But no one is complaining.

A lot of people go to Mexico. Karen and Dick got there yesterday. Cathy's going in a few days. Kim and Daryl seem to go often, as it's their favourite holiday destination in the winter months. Scott looked at me this morning and wondered whether we are missing out on something, whether going to Mexico is a trip we should be wanting for ourselves.

Having been there once, I told him it's a place he should go, that he might enjoy it and besides, we have friends (Andries and Mayte) down there whom we'd like to see again and very likely won't unless we make the trip.

But first ... the house and renovations have to get paid for. And Scott has to figure out how to run his business so that he can actually take time off for leisure. That's a big hurdle right there. And somehow we both have to get excited about the idea of going anywhere. As it is, my idea of a perfect day is one where I don't have to leave home. Fortunately I have a lot of those perfect days, afforded to me by my lovely little job that requires only a computer and internet connection.

Which reminds me, I'd better get back to it.

Tea Time

Getting my Little Old Granny groove on.

Me and one of my piggy friends meet for tea in the living room most afternoons.

***

One of the books I grabbed off the library mystery shelves is called All Dolled Up for Murder.
One of the characters is a "purse-dog trainer."
Who knew? Those teeny tiny dogs have to be taught to stay in their owners' purses.
I'm not sure whether to believe it or not. :)

***

Ducky arrived on Sunday. He is the lovingest little love-a-duck; he's made his tiny chihuahua self at home on Everett's bed and then when E gets up in the morning, Ducky clicks down the hallway and ... tries to jump onto my bed, slams against the mattress and falls to the floor. After I pick him up he snuggles up beside me till I roll on out. A frigging hairy dog-ass in my frigging bed ... I can hardly believe it myself, but it's Ducky. I can't help loving him and being a complete pushover.

Visit with the L-BOs

Rick and Faye, or, as Scott calls them, the L-BOs.

With luck I won't be in trouble for posting this. Some people hate almost all photos of themselves, so you never know.

We had another fantastic meal at their place last night; saw a white-tailed deer with a huge ("trophy," Scott said) rack on the drive over. By 11 we were all yawning and Scott and I made our half-hour way home on the gravel roads at about 40 kph.

I always think of Uncle Bob, my great-uncle, when I drive that slowly. He drove a little Toyota and was never in any hurry. In my twenties I could not understand why on earth he'd putz along at such a snail's pace; it was an old-people thing, I assumed, glad I didn't have to ride with him.

Now I get it, though I'm still decades younger than Uncle Bob was. What's the rush? It's that simple. During the day I enjoy the scenery, and after dark I'm listening to the radio and singing along.

It could be that last night I'd had one too many shots of sambuca ... or maybe it was that paralyzer I polished off before we left. I hadn't had a lot to drink but as I'm not a heavy drinker it may have affected my reflexes. At any rate there was no reason to be speedy, especially when a deer or moose could dash out of the ditch at any moment.

Beautiful Day

The gang comes running.

It has been quite a while since I had a visit with the horses, so this afternoon that was remedied by a walk down the road. Poor little balding Chloe Doodle the Dumpling Dog did not know what to think of these great beasts and stood behind me, barking and growling. The horses just stood at the fence and looked at her, obviously underwhelmed by her fledgling guard-dog instincts.

It is gorgeous out there, with a warm wind carrying the scent of spring. A hem. It doesn't hurt to dream.

Another Wild and Crazy Friday Night

Apparently when you try to get potato chips out of your teeth with your tongue, your face contorts and gets stuck that way.

Poor laddie. That looks painful. Don't let this happen to you!

***

Everett brought Xander home with him after school and aside from coming upstairs to gobble up pancakes for supper, I didn't see them till Xander's ride came to take him home. They played on the Xbox in Everett's basement room and I worked at my desk up here. Work, work, work, is that all I ever do? Yeah, that's me. Workity work work. Pffft and piffle.

After Xander left, Everett prepared a soft little corner nook on the bed in his "cave" for me so I could watch a movie with him, in comfort. With a blanket over my knees and a brown cow in my hand. This is the way to spend a Friday night, I say. But what would we watch? It was my choice, he said. Star Trek, said I? Well no, he'd just watched that one. Up, said I? Okay! said he.

Pretty cute. I liked the first 15 minutes best, but I was in tears (god, what a wuss) by the time that part was over. The rest was sweet too; great film for kids, young and old.

Another Pig

How doth he love me? Let pigs count the ways.

It had been a while since my pig collection was added to, but Scott topped it up this Christmas.

His first gift to me 10 years ago, when love was new, was a stuffed pig on a keychain. He was, he said with a grin, "a pig for your love."

And the pigs kept on coming.

Now, when he gives me a hard time about all my "junk," I say "But darling, you gave me half of it!"

***

It's been great having Everett here with me; another body in the house fills it up just right. In the mornings before school he comes and sits in the rocker by my bed and chats with me. All I have to do next is get him trained to bring a cup of coffee along.

***

It's time to get back into hand-written letters again. I'm sponsoring a woman in the Democratic Republic of Congo, which as you probably know is a severely war-torn country where the women have often been raped and enslaved as well as seen horrors that would probably put me right out of my head. They've lost family members, and they're destitute. My $27 a month will help her get into some kind of self-supporting business and will be put to use in the community, too, perhaps enabling her children and others in the village to go to school. I don't know anything about her yet, but we can write to each other and translators will facilitate communication.

To find out more about the operation Women for Women International, click here.

Dogs in Sweaters

Chloe keeping warm.

Okay, at 30-below maybe there's no such thing as being warm, even in a toasty insulated doghouse surrounded by flax bales. But normally robust farm dogs (and cats; note Michu soaking up the sun on top of the bales) manage fine as long as they've got good shelter.

Chloe, however, has something going on with her skin that is causing her to lose patches of fur; the vet at first thought it was not something she would recover from and said that animals that get the infection called demodex, caused by mites, are best put down. He said they get scabby and lose fur so that no one wants to pet them or have them near, which is "not much of a life for a dog." But he was unable to see any mites in the skin scrapings he looked at through a microscope, so thought it worthwhile trying to treat her because it may be something else-- sarcoptic mange, perhaps.

She got a shot of antibiotics, a month's supply of horse pills that I had to give her by putting my hand halfway down her throat (glad that part's over), and some sort of gel applied to a spot between her shoulders once a month for three months. Eye drops immediately cleared up the green goo that had tipped us off that something was wrong. We'd noticed her skin was wrinkled but figured she must have loose skin to grow into or something. Wrong. The vet recognized the problem immediately. She had already lost a lot of hair and had bloody, scabby spots that weren't healing. We'd thought she must have been in a fight with a raccoon or something.

After a month of treatment, not only can you see her pink skin through her thinning fur; there are now patches of hair completely gone. When it was 36-below the other night, I started calling her into the porch to sleep. Due to her excessive naughty chewiness it was necessary to block off an area so that she wouldn't damage Scott's tools or anything else that's out there. But she was good as gold; curled up on the matt and you didn't hear a peep from her. No bathroom accidents either.

During the day she's outside though, so when I left for Margo yesterday afternoon to visit Karen it occurred to me that a sweater might help a little. There was a hand-me-down that Joan gave me (I've worn the hell out of it so it was in a bag in the van, on its way to the recycling depot) and I put that on her and then laughed my head off. Too cute.

Chloe is tied up because the old dog, Casper, is eating outside the photo frame. At 10 months of age, Chloe has gone from pretending to respect Casper's dominance while lying across the food bowl so Casper couldn't get any grub, to growling so that Casper backs off. She is so greedy that, even with two food bowls some distance apart, she will run back and forth between the two in order to keep Casper from eating. Must've been underfed as a pup, unless it's in the nature of huskies to be this way. Don't dogs in northern sled teams need to be fed in individual food bowls and tethered so that they can't fight over them? Chloe will even take individual pieces of dog chow and carry them around the yard to cache them.

Oh no, I've become one of those people who goes on and on about her dog.

My Dad is an Old Bugger Now

Dad turned 71 today.

This photo of Dad and my niece Jordan was taken about six years ago, when we visited Joan and Gary in Kelowna and Mom and Dad came down for a few days. The summer sun was sweltering and thank god for air conditioning, but we still spent every moment we could out on the shady balcony, sipping on cocktails.

Once Scott looked out the door from the kitchen and, seeing Jordan's sippy-cup near Dad, asked "Do you want me to refill your glass, Don?"

***
Cameron came through town on his way back to Edmonton so Emil and I met him for breakfast. "For some reason," he said, scratching his head, "I thought Dad was 75."
For all but three weeks every January, Dad is exactly 20 years older than me, which is why I can always remember his age.

The New Year's Eve Feast

Oh indeed we got festive. To leave the store I wrapped cut flowers in grocery bags and carried them next to my body, under my coat. Grandma Johnson's candlesticks graced the table. We had spaghetti, Emil had ice cubes in his gingerale, and my water glass did wine-holding duty. We had Aero bars for dessert and listened to Emil's new Don Ross CD. {Thank you, Grandpa.}

Karen says the thermometer dipped to 42-below during the night.
Forty-two below. Whoa.
It's warmed up to minus-26 this afternoon, which eases my mind somewhat since both Scott and Everett are on the road home today. It's still dangerous to be travelling so it'll be a relief when they arrive.
Poor old Everett had to get on the bus at 6 a.m. (poor old Gord, who had to get up at 4 in order to deliver him to the depot) and poor old Cathy had to go out in the cold at 1:55 to pick him up in Saskatoon and take him to her place, where Scott can lasso him on the way past.

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On the way to the city Everett was fascinated by the snow swirling across the highway and filmed it with my little digicam. He's got a way to go before he can narrate like Boris Karloff:

We've Made It Another Year

You see four of me? What have you been drinking?

It's cold and snowy outside, warm and toasty inside. Just me and Emil all week; "quiet," he says, without Everett and Scott in the house.

I've got to work a bit yet before driving a mile south to stay overnight with Emil, watching comedy specials on the tube. Maybe he'll be up for his favourite movie, Roger Rabbit, tonight. He always says he wants to watch it with me, but never feels like it when I suggest it. Whatever happens, it'll be a lovely relaxing evening in front of the woodstove.
Emil and I are missing Scott's nephew's wedding shindig in Calgary tonight, so Scott will have to cut enough rug for both of us. The whole clan "motored to" Calgary, as they used to say in our local news write-ups. Unfortunately Scott didn't take the camera; but he did get a blackberry and can take pictures with it. Which should be useful for my blog, because he has a good eye. He didn't take the blackberry either. He didn't leave his head behind, no. What do you mean?

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So here's to you ...
[I'll tip a glass later, in front of the Christmas tree]
See you on the flip side, as they say.

Travel

The road to Saskatoon.

Everett and I left before 8 a.m. yesterday in spite of radio warnings not to travel unless it couldn't be avoided. The highway was covered with snow that had fallen through the night and more was expected, bringing with it poor visibility. And of course it had to be about 25-below.

I've heard these kinds of warnings before and then, once out on the highway, wondered what they were talking about. Not this time though. Even though I drove slowly and carefully, it was pretty ugly and more than once I considered turning back. What traffic was behind us whizzed past as if the road conditions were no danger (I don't understand that, but then I was out there so must count myself among the idiots), and what traffic we met swirled up the snow so badly that for a few moments it was nearly impossible to see where we were going.

At the halfway point things were looking pretty bleak. We picked up breakfast at a drive-through and then carried on. The snow had stopped falling and the snowplows were out. I got Everett to the bus depot on time and got him on his way to Edmonton before heading over to Cathy's and having a relaxing cup of tea. Icy roads and deep cold combined with impatient drivers are a terribly stressful combination.

We had a nice visit, I got to see Cathy's girls too, we watched Julie and Julia last night (Meryl Streep -- wow, she is something else) and this afternoon I hit the highway and headed for home. It was minus-20 or so but the highway was decent this time.

The road home.

And Finally, the Flooring

Look what Scott did!

He finished late last night.

It's true what they say about laminate flooring though. It may be relatively inexpensive, stand up well, and look pretty, but it shows every footprint so that when the sunlight shines on it, it looks dirty.

We thought we'd risk it for several reasons, one of which is that there is natural light only from north-facing windows in the room where we put it, and I thought maybe footprints would be less likely to show up so much. But no -- wrong again.

The other reason was that Scott was still talking about enlarging the dining room someday, and so the flooring would need to be replaced anyway. We got such a good deal on this laminate that we figured it wouldn't hurt us too badly if it had to be torn up.

***

Just finishing up the morning's work and will put in another couple hours, then head for Kelvington to deliver Grandma's Christmas present. Found a really nice set of wool hat, scarf and matching gloves, all of which she needs. She doesn't go out much, but the hood of her coat is so large that she always complains, when she pulls it over her head, that she can't see. Even the thin little leather gloves that she used to have have gone missing. And the headscarves she wears tend to be thin silky material, not anything warm. So we'll get her fixed up.

Foggy and Cool

New elevator in fog, old elevator with bins on right.

Finally got some Christmas shopping and treat-making done, so just have some wrapping to do now.

Emil's decided to stay home this year because Gunnar (Scott's giant lad) is coming out from Calgary for a couple days and Emil wants to see him. So Everett (my giant lad) put up the Christmas tree last night and decorated it.

On Wednesday I'll drive Everett into Saskatoon to catch the bus to Edmonton. It'll be a first for him so he's nervous, especially after the horrific murder that took place on a bus in Manitoba about a year ago. Can't blame him, although it could have happened on the street or anywhere -- when people are crazy, they're crazy no matter where they are and even though there was a bus full of people, no one was able to help the young man who was killed.

We both got haircuts today after school and later we stopped at a restaurant for a snack — for me, baklava and tea; for Everett, cheesetoast, potato wedges and coke. We found a gift for the boys' dad and then gassed up for the trip and dropped off some almond rocha and whipped shortbread for the fellow who's brought vanilla back for me from Mexico on his last two holidays and won't let me pay him for it. He scratches my back ... I scratch his.

Another hour to work before I call it a night. Have managed to bank up enough hours that I can take three days off this week, with pay. It'll feel like a real holiday.

Starry Starry Night

Shoot! We had a going-away gathering for Audrey tonight, and I never thought of taking the digital camera out of my purse. D'uh. So you're stuck with Evil Kate, taken by the handy photo booth built into the computer.
Don't mess with me.
You can see why I am feared by children.

It's warmed up! Woo hoo! I think it was minus-11C sometime today; Aunt Jean's mink coat wasn't really needed tonight.

That's it for my report. It's midnight, it's starry, and it's time to climb into bed and do some reading. Last night at nine I figured I'd get my nightie on and lie under the covers listening to the radio, then get up and do a little bit on the computer. Alas I could not stay awake. It's not very often that I am pulled so deeply and quickly into sleep.

Pings Bangs and Creaks

7:30pm
Can you watch the stars glitter through your bedroom window as you lie in the dark? I can. And the moon. And sometimes even a planet makes its way through my line of vision during a long night.

***

I could say it's quiet, alone here in this house. But it's not. The furnace is running a lot, trying to keep the house warm. There are pings and bangs and creaks that give me the heebie-jeebies, though I know it's just the ductwork expanding and contracting. These are the times a nice well-behaved little deer-faced chihuahua would be nice to have around. Unless he barked at every noise.

The boys were home from school yet again today when the schoolbuses didn't go out due to the cold, and Scott was down with something flu-like. I went over to make a phone call for work and put together a couple meatloaves; one for a potluck tomorrow night and one for the deep freeze. We've already got a lot of leftovers to get through and with Scott not feeling up to snuff, there's no point preparing more food till Thursday. Not till the roast chicken and the chili disappear from the fridge.

***

Last night a pack of coyotes was howling close to the yard. Poor animals, they must suffer in this extreme weather without insulated doghouses and flax-bale duplexes and an easy supply of food.

Grandma's Christmas Party

Emil isn't quite ready to part with Grandma.

He and Everett attended the lodge's Christmas party one afternoon last week; I flitted through, both before and after running errands around town.

They had musicians (a fiddler and a piano player) — a visit from Santa — and a pretty good-looking lunch, from what I saw.

***

It's cold. The radio this morning said 30-below in Saskatoon; 49 below with wind chill. Fortunately the sun shone all day. I put my gloves inside my mittens, consigned my "extreme cold" jacket to the laundry room as not worthy (my arms are cold in it), and dug out Aunt Jean's mink coat. Picture me — three-quarter-length fur coat, one of those tuques with braided ties, black ski pants and white Sorels. The picture of fashion, no, but pretty much warm. Still I didn't try to stay out much longer than from house to car, without a good hood; the wind bites. They were warning this morning to keep your skin covered, as it could freeze in seconds.

Progress

Bubble lights go up in the kitchen. Note that "fine figure of a man."

I've been busy working in here at my desk and Scott's been trimming windows, replacing baseboards, hanging light fixtures and so on. Very time-consuming. It's a pleasant change to have someone else in the house with me.

The only drawback is that Scott likes commercial radio stations or a CD blaring loudly while he toils, and thus I grit my teeth while hoping my head won't explode. Hey, if that's what it takes to make progress in this place ...

It is still miserably cold out — down in the minus-thirties with wind, today — but the sun is shining. Sadly, even though all the windows are brand new, they still collect water and ice along the bottom of the glass and in the corners and today after I did dishes the ones on the north side are completely steamed up. I thought that was an "old windows" thing. Guess not. Or, as Scott says, these windows aren't properly engineered for our weather. They were made in Calgary, where the climate is drier. Hmph. I think the windows are flawed, period. But they're in now, so what're ya gonna do? Keep soaking up water from the sills before it runs down the walls and puddles on the cork flooring, that's what.

Who's in the Doghouse?

Chloe gets up and stretches her legs before bounding toward me.

I'm on my way out with a bucket of water in one hand and a bucket of dog and cat food in the other. A heated blue dish sits next to the new doghouse setup, so that their drinking water doesn't turn to solid ice.
A gentleman in town builds animal shelters in his backyard workshop, and I asked him to construct an insulated one big enough for two German shepherd-size dogs that would, if they had half a brain, keep each other warm inside it. Within a week he delivered it, with a hinged roof so we can easily install a heat-giving lightbulb should we choose. Scott tacked a piece of carpet over the door to keep the cold air out.
Alas, the old dog will not let the young one inside so poor Chloe would lie outside the door, as close to the old dog as she can get, on top of some flax straw. She'd be covered in frost in the morning.
So the doghouse has been moved over beside the long shed and surrounded with flax bales, formed to create a central chamber for the pup, next to the door. From there a short tunnel turns into an entryway. There Chloe likes to lie during the day and soak up the sun. We fear that the old dog has commandeered the central chamber too and may not even be letting the pup that far in. Might have to build a duplex with separate entrances.
Dogs. Gotta love 'em but they can be a pain in the ass.

***
Today's listening:
CBC Radio's current affairs show
cd: Joni Mitchell, Night Ride Home
cd: Doc MacLean, Narrow House

House Ghost

Me 'n Pa.

Naturally the weather cooled off when he flew in from Kelowna— that was to be expected— but it came as a shock to have the mercury drop into the minus-thirties just as Dad was getting ready to leave. I know he will be glad to get the hell out of here tomorrow when his flight leaves Saskatoon.

He spent the week at Karen's— she at least has a decent bed to offer to guests and frankly I'd rather eat her cooking than my own— and got in as much visiting in the area as he could. There were a lot more old friends he'd like to have seen but only so much time and energy; even I, Number One Child, felt fortunate to get to see him three times while he was here. Dad and I are both of the "said all there is to say in the first half-hour" camp and, while I can sit longer than he can, I didn't have to since two of the visits were in my kitchen and I could keep a little bit busy while making conversation. Dad's ass suffered on the wooden kitchen chairs. Can't wait to get moved over here to the comfy padded swivel chairs with arm rests; then a person might be able to sit and chat in comfort.

Scott's got the bathtub drained and everything in working order once again. Though I've told him he's insulted the resident ghost because inexplicable annoyances keep popping up for him to deal with. One day he'd made the morning coffee and we'd been here some hours afterward, and then I left for a while and came back to discover the 10-litre plastic jug, nearly full and thus heavy with drinking water, had somehow tipped onto its side and leaked through the loose lid, leaving a large puddle of water on the kitchen floor. How could that have happened? Scott is not the kind of person who leaves lids loose or full water-jugs precariously balanced; I'm the kind of person who does that sort of thing, but I hadn't been near the water jug that day.

He better make friends with that ghost, that's all I'm saying.

Big Buncha Bull Dung

Someone left a remark in Everett's textbook.

Sometimes ya just have to.

When Scott says this is a house from hell, he may not be that far off. He did some painting in here this afternoon, then cleaned his brushes in the kitchen sink.
I smelled a strong sewer odour but thought it must be the paint fumes, though they seemed more intense and gaseous than before.
Finally Scott noticed the bathtub half-full of white liquid – what he’d washed down the sink had come up in the tub.
WTF? And it’s still there, even after he took the plunger to it.
He is hornswoggled as to what’s going on now; the kitchen drainpipe must be clogged somewhere, he says, but how on earth the liquid made its way to the bathtub ... It seems to be one thing after another and we are just shaking our heads. And cursing loudly, in his case.
Scott will figure out what’s wrong and what to do about it but one can see why he’s tired of the whole ball game.You’ve finally taken a step ahead and then have to stop and take care of some new problem. And it’s constant – one thing after the other. Will it ever end? It doesn’t appear so. What else can possibly be or go wrong with this place? It’s beyond common sense already.

Sneaky Bugger

The harvest is done, and there's no snow.

The other night I made supper at the old place, lit a fire in the woodstove so the basement would be toasty for Scott when he arrived home, and then after waiting till about 8 for him get there, gave up and drove back here to GGFarm.
I stepped into the porch of this completely dark house, dropped my heavy purse, filled up containers of food and water for the dogs and took them back out to the front yard. Before coming in, I grabbed a basket of clean laundry from the van and when I got indoors carried it to the bedroom. There I noticed a still body in the bed, covered from head to toe. Must be Scott, I thought, but that’s funny – I didn't notice his truck when I drove in. Saying nothing, I went out to the entry and hung up my jacket while looking for his coat and shoes. Not seeing them, I began to get nervous: who the hell is in my bed and how the hell did he get in here? Then I saw Scott's cap on the floor and let my breath out.
“But how,” I asked, “did you get here? Your truck's not here.”
His grin was as wide and pleased with itself as a rainbow.
“I drove in right behind you,” he said.
“What? No way.”
“That’s not all. When you went into the house the first time, I came up on the step and stood outside the door. You walked right past me, and I slipped in while you were outside.”
“No way!” I said again. "You're full of it."
“Well, you are oblivious.”
I must be. Granted it was dark, I didn’t expect anyone to be standing there, and I had my hood up so wouldn’t have seen anyone standing so closely to my left. And I bet the bugger followed me with his headlights off, too; there is no way I wouldn’t have seen his truck behind me otherwise.
Hmph. I know I can be absent-minded and since I am a Brilliant Eccentric Aquarian Genius, it's only to be expected. But oblivious? Or, as Scott likes to say to me in another way, "Are they friendly spirits, Bullwinkle?"