Grandma's New Outfit

Grandma needs a new pantsuit for dressy occasions, so Aunt Reta put me on the hunt for one. Today I checked out Wadena's dress store.

What kind of pantsuit does a tiny 93-year-old lady like?

I didn't find one but got some good deals and put together this set for a summery day.

Let's hope she doesn't hate green. The pants are green pedal-pushers (What are they called now? Anyway, woo hoo, Shirley! they won't need shortening!), and as you can see the pretty blouse is bright green.

I also found a second pair of pedal-pushers, white with pinstripes and large pockets; cute.

The flowered T-shirt is particularly pretty due to the strip of lace running vertically behind the flowers. I rather covet it myself. Might just have to go back there for another one.

Cheek to Cheek

Ferme aux pissenlits, a.k.a. Ste-Edwidge Farm, by Louise Martineau

Don't tell me the dandelions are already up in Quebec, Louise!

***
Louise is still working on her cows; her son says her painted cows look like blobs.
However, Lou, that is exactly how cows DO look sometimes -- like giant blobs. So you're not that far off anyway.
***

The vet advises us to put Chloe Doodle down. I've cancelled her Monday appointment to be spayed, in view of that fact, but haven't got the heart to make an appointment to euthanize her. She seems so happy, so lively, so glad to be here. It just doesn't seem right and we are having trouble taking that step.

***

I was out on the back step at 7:30 this morning, black coffee in hand, wearing my fluffy white housecoat with a winter jacket on top, sitting in a lawnchair overlooking the slough, listening to the frogs and various birds including snow geese off in the distance. Gorgeous calm day, eastern horizon pink behind the trees; a flock of long-necked swans flew over my head.

Later, after a walk to the ravine with the dogs, I sat on a flat rock in my herb garden and listened to the birds calling to each other all around the yard. It's heaven, I tell you.

I didn't sing it then, but often do while out walking around here:

It's a Dogs' Life

How Casper and Chloe spend their days

While me, I have three million things to do and, to be honest, only feel like doing one of them: and that's getting outside for a walk. To hell with the dishes, work, supper -- who needs 'em?

Living Skies - No Kidding

It's like the skies are filled with swarms of mosquitoes for as far as the eye can see. Only they're loud mosquitoes; last night the flock that settled in the field southwest of our house drowned out the already-loud singing of the frogs in our own yard.

All night. They were still gabbling this morning when I woke up. I wonder what that's all about. Are they smaller flocks meeting for an evening's mating dance? Previously acquainted flocks that have lots of catching up to do? Parts of the same flock that have to compare notes and make plans for the next day's flight routes? Maybe the intense noise keeps coyotes and foxes at bay when the birds can't see their predators approaching in the dark.

Saskatchewan licence plates say "Land of Living Skies" and there are some folks who don't see the significance of that. I laugh when the CBC does its radio call-in shows and someone calls in to say the "motto" is meaningless. Where are these people's heads, I wonder? They must either be city dwellers who don't experience this display of bird migration and have no idea what they're missing, or they are people who never look up and don't listen to what's going on around them. The secret: be still, be quiet for one whole minute. How easy is that? And with the snow geese flying over on their way to northern nesting grounds, you don't even have to do that much. You can't miss 'em.

Granted, we live on a migratory flight path. Maybe we're just lucky. But I imagine most of the province is passed over by these huge flocks of birds, and not just snow geese either. There are sandhill cranes, too, giant long-legged birds that stand like flamingos as they feed in the stubblefields, and fly over, high, in slow, lazy circles.

A few of the snow geese last night, seen from my back step:

Land of Living Skies

Spruce grouse next to the driveway

The flock of snow geese is so noisy a half-mile away, landed in the stubblefield, that it sounds like the hum of an engine. I can only say Wow.

And when they fly low over the house, their wings make a mechanical zing.

Lost Day

It's been a wasted day, to be honest, unless you're someone who believes sleeping is a good way to pass the day.
I woke up feeling pretty sprightly at 9 but by 11:30 was exhausted from doing nothing and crawled back into bed for another short snooze. Then woke up tired yet again and decided a walk in the warm wind and sun might fix me up. It didn't. By the time I got back in I was doing that thing you do before you empty your guts -- you know, where you're hot and cold at the same time? That thing. So I did what was called for, took a pill, and slept till 7:30. Now I'm rarin' to go! What's on the agenda for Saturday night? Not much. We'll probably watch a movie. The best part of that might be eating potato chips and sipping on gingerale. My life is so exciting.

Everett had to go out and rescue a garter snake from Chloe Doodle this morning, and when I was out in the afternoon there was another one crossing the lawn and Chloe was barking and pouncing at it. I didn't have the nerve to pick it up and deposit it elsewhere but Chloe listened when I told her to leave it alone, so I was impressed with her. Another dog I used to have, Annie Doodle, when she saw a snake would roll on it until it was dead. That was lovely, as you can imagine.

Have I mentioned that her hair is growing back in? Yeah, so that's a good sign that maybe, just maybe, she has beat this demodex thing. Although she still has bloody, raw patches of skin, so maybe she hasn't beat it. She's got an appointment to be spayed on the 27th but I need to take her to the vet first, to see what he thinks. If he doesn't agree that she's got the parasitic infection beat, we probably should put her down before the mosquitoes and ticks get bad. The former were out today, I'm told. I don't want to put my doggie friend down, so I have kept hoping and giving her every chance. Her diet has been modified to include vast amounts of raw beef and bones over the winter (our yard looks like an above-ground graveyard; it's gross), and we're making sure to buy kibble that doesn't have colourings and preservatives in it, and I even made herb tea to boost her immune system and mixed it with the dry food; she licked that right up.

I was in bed by 9 last night because my Mr brought the screens up and put them in the windows, and I could lie there listening to the frogs croaking and singing. There must be thousands of them in the slough behind the house; it's absolutely wonderful. I just lie there and smile, and smile, and smile. I love the sound. And wonder why it is that some frogs croak, and some sing. Or do they all do both? Must see what I can find out.

On a Friday in April

"There were times when I could not afford to sacrifice the bloom of the present moment to any work, whether of the head or hand.
Sometimes, on a summer morning, I sat in my sunny doorway from sunrise till noon, rapt in a revery, amidst the pines and hickories and sumacs, in undisturbed solitude and stillness, while the birds sang around or flitted noiseless through the house, until by the sun falling in at my west window, or the noise of some traveller's wagon on the distant highway, I was reminded of the lapse of time.
"I grew in those seasons like corn in the night, and they were far better than any work of the hands would have been."
-Henry David Thoreau, in Walden Pond

The City = Money Spent

When we drove past this dog on the roof of a house in Yorkton yesterday, the man behind the wheel quickly made a u-turn and said "Get the camera out! Otherwise no one will believe us."

Had a visit with Agnes (my second mom) and Elgin McLelland while we were there, also saw Chrissy L-Bo on a meal break from her cooking job at Zeller's, and two people from Margo.

Came home with four cordless phones (our old one interfered with my iMac; it would wake it from sleep, and turn it on from Off) for the price of two; an ironing board because Everett bent the old one out of shape, not knowing how to put it down (not that I iron more than twice a year but when you have to, you have to); a new clothes brush and one of those sticky-rolly ones with tape on it (they don't work, either, for what I bought them for: the furniture we bought in August came with all this sawdusty stuff stuck in the microfibre and nothing removes it -- not the vacuum cleaner, not a damp cloth, not my fingernails without a lot of time and cursing, nothing -- I am going to have to go over it all with tweezers and what a pain in the ass that will be. Should've taken the furniture out of the boxes it came in, before December; then would have felt all right about returning it. As it is, the vendor shrugged when we told her in January, but she offered no options, solutions or apology; we won't shop there again, I guess, even though it's not her fault it took us four months to inspect our purchase); Louisiana hot sauce from Peavey Mart; new doorknobs for the office, bathroom and bedroom doors; $42 worth of organic apples, oranges and tomatoes from Superstore, since our local Co-op doesn't get organics in regularly (we aren't fans of big box stores and prefer to help keep our local businesses in business, but sometimes they just won't let us! Though the Co-op has now got a line of organic products in, so good for them -- they're trying); and a "thing" to hang the garden hose on.

We hate shopping. It's a dirty job. But you know: somebody's gotta do it.

God Damn Dishes

Sigh.

:)
Just kidding.
Rick even offered to do the dishes after we had supper with him and Faye on Thursday night.
After I scraped myself off the floor, we all went for a short walk in the cool evening air, instead, and then sat about drinking wine, rum and/or tea and eating chocolate fudge.
The dishes above aren't those from Thursday night.
They are what awaited me on the kitchen counter when the boys and I arrived home around 8 last night.
***
I'm told Chloe Doodle had a standoff with a coyote in our back yard yesterday morning. Didn't think the little hound had it in her; neither animal was backing down, till the coyote heard a human voice from the bedroom window and vamoosed.

Dinner for Four

The slough behind my garden, where a pair of gigantic Canada geese have been hanging out on the water that is open

I have to do last night's supper dishes this morning (we had my sister-in-law Lynn over so I visited with her instead of cleaning the kitchen after we ate), do the Tibetan Rites and squeeze in four hours of work sometime today, make dessert for tonight's supper with friends, and then make the simple supper. It's going to be an easy one, too -- pork chops browned in a frying pan and then baked in mushroom soup (always a favourite around here)(we just bought half a pig; it's *real* farm-raised pork, not factory-farmed, and that makes a huge difference in flavour) and home-made cabbage rolls, which I bought from a lady (Mary Psovsky) in town yesterday, and a green salad and maybe some steamed carrots. Someone else will have to wash and peel potatoes if he wants them, because I abhor that job.

I intend to do all the kitchen work in the most enjoyable manner I can -- listening to music that I love and singing along, dancing around the kitchen, and maybe even sipping on a glass of chilled white wine to put me in the "party" mood. If all goes well, the food will be prepped and the kitchen cleaned up before Faye and Rick arrive, so I can relax and maybe, if I don't pay attention, have one too many glasses of wine. Nah; it isn't worth the headache I'd likely get.

Another Week

Me and Chloe Dog got out for a walk across the road to the old homestead this afternoon. There's not much left there now but some old junk and a crumbled foundation, but you walk back into a beautifully private, treed meadow on a slight hill. This would be your view facing south, if you built a house there. I've always pictured the spot with a tipi in the centre of it.

We had company for the weekend, and after they left this morning, I talked to both Dad and Joan on the phone. Joan's updated her website; go have a look. Especially if you live near Kelowna.

Paska

The making of paska, an Easter bread, by chef Mary Woloshyn

Willis and I made the rounds of hospital patients yesterday and then strolled over to the nursing home to have afternoon tea with the longterm-care residents. One of the local ladies was making this traditional Ukrainian paska so we admired her handiwork.
















You have to move quickly to get all the tiny pieces of dough into place before they rise too much, but when you're successful, the finished product looks like this:

Still Alive

Photo taken from the parking lot at Ten Thousand Villages on Avenue C in Saskatoon

The store was just about to close when I drove past it on my way back from dropping the boys off with Gord in North Battleford, our halfway meeting-point, on Saturday. The fellow behind the counter was counting up his cash and gave me a few minutes to zip through the store and see what I could see. I ended up buying some funky birdhouses. Photos to follow one of these days. I hung them out in the oak trees this afternoon before hurrying off.

So Emil and Everett are gone to Edmonton. I've run into town for the past two afternoons — on Tuesday for a hair cut and today for my palliative care volunteering — and of course no trip to town is short and simple. Hell no. You always have to do 40 other things too: get the mail, stop at the library, go to the bank, pick up groceries, drop off things at the goodwill, take recycling in, blah blah blah. There is no such thing as a quick trip. Yesterday I wanted to wash the duvets and two of the quilts Mom made, so did a stint at the laundromat too, where they were done in an hour instead of the six it would have taken to clean them at the old house. We still don't have a washer and dryer hooked up at the new place so laundry remains a pain in the keester to do.

Among my CDs of choice this week is one by Leon Redbone. If Everett were here he'd be climbing the walls, because Redbone's songs are all so singable and I never shut up. Plus, I can whistle:



On the night table is A Mother's Story: the Fight to Free My Son David, by Joyce Milgaard with Peter Edwards. That is one terrible, sad story that makes my guts churn. Talk about not getting your prayers answered ... for more than 20 years. Talk about being screwed over by the police, the courts, and even your so-called friends.

Now that my running to town is done for this week, I hope to do some baking: more jam-jams, since the first batch disappeared like magic; some raisin-rye bread, as Cathy picked up some rye flour for me and I haven't made raisin-rye bread in some years; and bagels. We need some home-made bagels. Good intentions; how much do you want to bet I don't get more than one of those things done by Sunday. The inlaw clan is descending for the Easter weekend so I may be busier than usual-- that will have to be my excuse even though only Gunnar and his girlfriend will likely be staying at our house.

* Heather, tell your dad I picked up another bagful of books for him at the library today. All giveaways.

Ducky Doodle, the Dumpling Dog

The morning ritual:
Ducky comes upstairs with Everett, who opens the basement door. I hear Ducky's claws clicking toward me down the hall, as fast as he can come. He jumps onto the rocking chair next to the bed, then onto the bed beside me, and I say good morning and pet him. He presents his chest for rubbing.
I get up and make the bed, then take my coffee and go sit in my housecoast in the armchair in front of the living room window to watch the birds. I invite Ducky to join me and he hops up and makes himself comfortable. I pet; he presents his chest for scratching.
The afternoon ritual:
I take my tea to the armchair and Ducky hops up and snuggles in while I sip the hot brew and watch the birds at the feeders. There are redpolls, black-capped chickadees, and two pairs of woodpeckers -- downy, and another pair that is almost twice the size, also black and white but with some red on the male's neck, just as the male downy has. Must set the bird book beside the chair so I can figure out what they are, next time. And of course, magpies land on the ground under the oak trees once in a while to scavenge for sunflower seeds.
Today on my way back from Karen's (she'd made doughnuts; yum) I saw and heard crows. We've also seen a few Canada geese. Yep, spring she is a-springing, even though it's below freezing again.
I had to leave Ducky at Karen's for a few nights, but keep thinking I hear his nails clicking toward me in the house and then am disappointed when I remember he's not here. Everett, too, says he misses him already. We look longingly at the empty laundry basket where he sleeps during the day. Nothing in it now but a quilt, a rawhide bone, and a squirrel hand-puppet. We sigh. And he's only been gone a few hours. Pathetic.
This morning I made jam-jams. It's been years since I've had jam-jams!

*** See Scott's cousin Lasse's photo of a leaping lamb ... cute cute cute. Click on the photo to enlarge it.

Sitting Up Late

This isn't a good photo of Grandma but it's the best I can do since the lodge is quarantined due to the Norwalk virus. Aunt Reta, who came up from Phoenix for Uncle Bruce's funeral, won't be able to visit Grandma one more time before starting her trek home on Saturday. How much does that suck, after coming all this way and being unlikely to get back for some time?

The picture above was taken during a recent visit to Grandma. I took her a bag of Werther's toffee and she seemed to enjoy handing them out. It's just over a year since I moved her from Wadena to Kelvington. She weighed 72 pounds at that time. Since then, she's gained more than 30 pounds and twice I've had to go shopping for pants another size larger. She's gone from wearing 6Petites to 10Petites. Has her health improved that much? Well yes; she was in horrible shape the day I moved her. She had to go by wheelchair everywhere and I needed helping getting her in and out of my vehicle. She'd insist on trying to walk herself, and for the first few days the staff kept a belt around her waist so they could keep her from falling while they walked beside her.

This afternoon I had a real treat. I glanced out the office window and saw, on the other side of the frozen slough behind the garden, a coyote hunting mice by the fence. It was a beautiful young animal with thick luscious fur, rust-hued on the backs of its ears and legs, and a playful attitude. It pounced at a spot on the snow and then dug frantically, and the next thing I knew a small dark rodent stood out against the white snow, on its hind legs as if it was calling the coyote out for a duel. The coyote danced with the mouse for quite a while, almost coyly and with what appeared to be a slight, sweet smile, before the mouse disappeared into the coyote’s narrow, sharp snout. It pounced and dug, sticking its nose into the snow several more times, while a hopeful magpie watched from a fencepost just feet away.

Finally I heard growling from next to the house; our beast Chloe had noticed the wild dog. In a few moments she started barking and the coyote threw its head up in surprise and looked toward the house before bolting reluctantly toward the line of trees to the south. It went barely through an opening and then stopped and turned to look back at the dogs, both of which were now barking. The coyote took a few more steps onto higher ground (or higher snowbank) behind a few trees and laid down to watch the dogs. It wasn’t until they lit out toward it that it leapt up, yipped as if to complain about the inhospitability of these damn domestic servants, and ran out the other side of the trees and along the edge of the field, out of reach of my binoculars.

Naturally my camera wouldn’t turn on because the batteries were dead. Can they not invent a camera that will notify you when your batteries are getting weak before they're actually dead, so that one doesn’t miss such opportunities? You'd think so.

White Knucklin'

Everett's 17 years old and seems to be in no rush whatsoever to get his driver's licence. Unlike me and any other kid I've ever known, who could hardly wait till the day they turned 16. Anyway, he's finally got his learner's so I made him get into the driver's seat the other day to go a mile down the road to the old house for something. It's his knuckles that are white, not mine. I thought it was supposed to be the parent who was nervous when their kid drives, and not the other way around. Not in this case; he's so cautious, I'm tempted to tell him to stomp on the gas pedal.

After two weeks with this weird cold, and one night this weekend when my migraine meds didn't work so I spent half the night on the floor with a puke pail, I am finally feeling normal again. I don't know how people with chronic illness or pain do it; I really don't. Hats off to them.

We're getting a dose of winter again today. Cool wind, snow. I wore my ski pants this afternoon. Laugh all you want; I didn't have to hurry into any buildings.

***

Lately Emil’s been showing off his knowledge of homonyms.
“Mom. Sometimes two words sound the same but they’re spelled different and they have different meanings.” He says this so earnestly. “I’ll tell you some. Their and there. T-h-e-i-r, and t-h-e-r-e.”
I listen and say “MmHM. That’s right.”
“Or close and clothes. C-l-o-t-h-e-s is like clothes you wear, and c-l-o-s-e is like close the door or the drawer.”
“Or shoe and shoo. One is s-h-o-e, like the shoe that you wear on your foot, and the other one is s-h-o-o, like when you shoo a fly away.”
He goes on to explain the difference between son and sun, then adds “I’m pretty smart you know.”
That’s true, I say. He goes on:
“K-n-o-w, like what do you know today or what song do you know, or no like no you can’t.”
“W-o-u-l-d, like would you like to do something with me or would someone make fun of you, or w-o-o-d, like wood you use to make a fire.”
There is a quite a long list, and as long I will sit beside him on the couch he will continue edumacating me.

Love Me Like a River Does

Some people don't like a lot of vibrato in a voice, and I often fall into that camp. But not in this case. It really works for Melody Gardot in this song, which has some of the sexiest lyrics I've heard in a long time. Not too much, not too little ... just right.

Does it make you wish your honey was home, and your kids were not?

eBay Infant

Princess Ann dishes

Resting on my butt for a few minutes while onions sauté for the cheese soup I'm making. A good time to make a short entry.

When Dad came out from Kelowna for Bruce's memorial, he brought me the above set of dishes, which belonged first to his mother and then to Dad and Mom. Out of curiosity she had asked me five years ago to poke around on the internet to find out what they're worth. I had no luck then, but this afternoon I went to eBay to try again. Not that I'd part with them, you understand. I've even managed to make room to display them on the shelves of our little kitchen.

Again I was unable to find these particular dishes online, but I did end up with lists of Princess House crystal for sale and when I saw a couple good deals, figured I'd try to pick up a couple things I've wanted for a long time but are no longer available as new items.

Learned a good lesson when, as highest bidder for a tabletop knife-holder (I won the auction for tabletop spoon- and fork-holders several minutes earlier), the countdown to the end of the auction was down to five minutes and as I watched the seconds tick away I thought I should be prepared to raise my bid at the last moment. I put my cursor in the bid box, ready. With 10 seconds left to go, the other bidder topped my bid by 50 cents and I missed beating the new bid by one second! Next time I'll have that bid box filled out and my finger hovering over the "Enter" key. Hmph.

***Aunt Reta just told me these dishes were on the head table at Mom and Dad's wedding supper. Nice to know. How lucky am I to have an aunt who knows all these interesting tidbits and thinks of telling me?

Yesterday we loaded up the back of the half-ton for a trip to the dump, so I put on my "work" jacket—not because I did any hefting but because it's spring weather and my winter coat is too warm. After a leisurely drive through the countryside we nipped into town for mail, a few groceries and some gas.

I noticed a tiny puppy in the vehicle next to ours and her owner gladly stepped over to show her off. In no time at all she drew other admirers, wondering whether ... well let me put it this way: Note to Sheila B~ to find homes for puppies, take one with you when you go to public places!

This is Peanut and her girl:

Good Time for a Snuggle

Buck Duckster III, also known as Little Lord Fauntleroy, at tea time.


I've had a cold since Monday and have been staying close to home. Not suffering; just resting. Strange mild cold, and two others in the household have a variation of it.

The snow is melting.

Buck Duckster's cushion:

Redpoll Rescue

Birds hit our living room window almost every day; sometimes more than once a day. Most of them "stumble" midair and fly off to get their bearings in a nearby tree. This little redpoll had struck the glass hard, his fallen body embedded deep into soft snow below the window. Everett scurried out to scoop the tiny creature gently into his hand. Was it alive? Its eyes were closed, its head drooped, but wait! One eye opened, just slightly, to peek at us. After several minutes the bird was alert but still unmoving in the palm of Everett's hand, but when I spoke to it in soothing tones and tenderly caressed its feathered breast, it flew a few inches and clung to his bunnyhug. Twenty minutes later it attempted to escape to the sky, but crash landed at Everett's feet instead. He quickly grabbed it before Chloe Doodle the Dumpling Dog could check it out too closely. When the redpoll finally made a successful flight into the trees, Everett had been standing patiently in the yard for 40 minutes.

Uncle Bruce

Bruce's obituary was to be brief; there would be no rhapsodizing about his heroic qualities either in the obit or at his memorial; he wanted everything to be down to earth and factual — no weighting of his earthly existence on the side of saintliness. "He wasn't perfect," my aunt Shirley said, as we sat down to put the obit together. My reply: "He almost was!" He could sound gruff, but he was a gentle man; he never hurt anyone, to my knowledge; he took care of his family and I am pretty sure that anyone who ever needed his help got it.
He was 15 years old when I was born and although I was likely teased and playfully roughed up as a little girl, my Uncle Bruce always treated me right as I grew up. When he started bringing his girlfriend Shirley out to Margo on weekends, they never came without chocolate bars for me and my younger siblings, which of course made their arrival much anticipated. It was Uncle Bruce who started my Christmas gift-buying habit. When I was in Grade 3 and sister Karen was in Grade 1, he gave us his year's collection of pocket change, which filled a tobacco tin or two. We'd work and save to add to it so we could afford presents for all the family, and we had a lot of fun finding the perfect gift for everyone. When we were a little older and Bruce and Shirley were married (we sang Whither Thou Goest at their wedding, wearing short matching blue fortrel dresses that Mom sewed for us, with ruffly white blouses), Karen and I were invited to stay with them in the city during summer holidays. They'd be at work and we'd play their Hey Jude Beatles LP and walk to the neighbourhood pool on hot afternoons and I'd terrorize my poor little sister if she didn't do just as she was told; she probably still has nightmares. Years later, after I'd left home, weekend visits weren't complete until I'd driven out to Bruce and Shirley's farm for a cup of coffee with them. I don't think either of them has ever said an unkind word to me and after 51 years, that's a pretty decent record.

Anyway, after that little ramble, here's Uncle Bruce's obituary:

Archie Bruce Benson was born in Wadena on June 27, 1943, and passed away at the age of 66 on Feb 27, 2010, in the Wadena Hospital.
Bruce was the eldest son of Doris (Bartley) and Emil Benson and was raised along with Grace, Reta and Neil on the family farm eight miles north and two miles east of Margo. During some winters the family lived in town and the hotel patrons got a kick out of little Bruce, who, sent by his dad to encourage a certain gentleman to come back to work after dinner, would use some colourful language.
After graduating from Margo School, Bruce studied drafting at the Saskatchewan Technical Institute in Moose Jaw and then worked for the City of Regina. While living in the city he met Shirley Scott, a Foam Lake girl transplanted to Regina, and they married in 1969. After several more years in the city they purchased the farm next to Bruce’s childhood home and made it their residence for the next 35 years. There they raised their two children, Karla and Gerald, and farmed until moving into Margo in 2008. Over the years Bruce also worked for Doug Domeij and for Wheatbelt in Wadena.
Bruce volunteered with the Emergency Medical Service in the City of Regina and after moving home, sat on the boards of the Sask Wheat Pool, the Margo Community Club and the Margo Co-op. Some of his favourite pastimes were hockey, fishing, camping and hunting, and he loved old cars.
He was very good to his kids, and when they had children of their own, Bruce was a delighted grandpa. His smile showed off the Bartley gap between his two front teeth — a trait shared by many of his close relatives, including his granddaughter Gracie.
Bruce was predeceased by his sisters Naomi (who died in infancy) and Grace, and by his father, Emil. He is survived by his mother, Doris; brother Neil (Rose) Benson and nieces Heather, Jolene, Leanne and families; sister Reta (Carl) Morris and nephews Nathan, Damon and family; brother-in-law Don (Grace) Johnson and Kathy, Karen, Cameron, Joan and families; wife Shirley; daughter Karla (Dallas) Dareichuk; son Gerald; and grandchildren Tristan, Gracie and Paxton. He will also be missed by Marley, the little dog Bruce called “Fluffy.”
Bruce would be pleased if donations in lieu of flowers were made to the Margo Hall.

Forty Days

Each day for 40 days this glass on the kitchen window sill will be refilled with fresh water.
I learned about this ritual from a neighbour who attended the Greek Orthodox church. When someone dies, the water is placed out for 40 days for the spirit of the loved one to come and drink.
It's a reminder of Bruce many times a day; it's a prolonged, private goodbye; it helps me mourn.
It brings to mind the biblical promise of the Christian god not to send another flood after the one that lasted 40 days and 40 nights. It's a reminder that there won't be another Bruce, either.

Your Long Journey

After you've spent a few hours with someone meeting their death, you may be fortunate enough to understand that it was time to go and that he was ready. At least, that's what Bruce told me on the day he went into the hospital, and while I hoped he was wrong about being "on my way out," as he said, I can understand that he had had enough. I'm glad he was ready, even if the rest of us really weren't ready to part with him.

Anyone who's had to say a final farewell to a loved one had best prepare to shed a few tears if you're going to listen to this song, a duet by Alison Krauss and Robert Plant:

Quick 'n' Dirty

I've spent a lot of time at the hospital over the past week with my Uncle Bruce, who passed away on Saturday afternoon. Between that and working in my office ... well, you can understand why I haven't had time to update. Will get back to it when I can. - Kathy

Emil at the Lodge

Looking out the café window at suppertime.

On Sunday we finally got to Kelvington to see Grandma, after stopping for a fast-food meal at the service station at the highway. I gave Grandma all my excuses for it being so long since we'd been there: stormy weather snowing us into the yard; Emil's cold lasting too long; this, that and the other. Her response: "Oh, is that it?"

After two hours it was time for her to get ready for bed so she walked us to the door. Emil had worn winter boots instead of running shoes, and sat on a piano bench inside the front door to pull them on. Grandma sat in a chair against the wall, alongside two other residents who watched Emil's progress with some interest. He had a lot of trouble, but did not want me to help, so Everett and I waited patiently. And waited.
He struggled to hold his foot up so he could get hold of the boot; oh it was painful to watch, believe me.
"Good thing there's no fire," I said. "Are you sure I can't help you?"
"No, I can do it myself."
We waited. He kept trying. No luck.
Finally I suggested that the liner in the boot was twisted or squashed and maybe I should have a look. Emil thought he needed to sit on a lower chair, then he'd be better able to manage. He moved over beside Grandma and carried on, but took off the boot and let me straighten the liner first.
The lady and gentleman watching had been making comments to each other: "His foot is turned the wrong way" and "I used to slide a plastic bag over my foot."
Finally the lady told Emil, "Put a plastic bag on your foot and it will slide right into your shoe."
Emil got excited. "Actually," he said, "it's a boot, not a shoe!"
She looked perplexed. I explained that Emil thinks very literally, and always corrects me when I say, for example, "It's nine o'clock" if it's actually five to nine. Or if I tell him to go get in the car, when what we drive is a van. Close isn't good enough. He can never let it slide, even if he's understood what I meant.
They got quite a kick out of that.

Little Ol' Laddie-Hoo

2:08pm
Everett sits behind me on the couch. He says “You would look funny on video.” I have just put on a CD and am dancing and singing in front of the picture window, looking out at the bright snow covering the lawn.
As long as I’m still dancing and singing, I figure I must be doing all right.
Everett’s bedroom is at the bottom of the stairs and he closes the door when he plays videogames. I can’t as loudly call down as I can yodel “Little ol’ laddie-hoo” and this has begun to drive Everett batty.
I live in fear of becoming youtube fodder. Heh!

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.