Trusty Pancakes

I would have captioned that photo "Jealous, Everett?" except that his stomach would turn at the sight of yogurt on a pancake. He could handle the syrup, but that would be it.

Funny who you think of, and why. We're out of maple syrup so I cooked up a quick sauce with brown sugar and water, which made me think of Luanne, who gave me the idea back in the day; and while eating that delicious breakfast (thought I'd taken too much but no, I managed the whole thing! Scott would be proud of me), I thought "I'll give her a call later." Well, it's later and I still haven't. I worked three hours and went for a walk and now have to come up with something for supper.

Or we could just stick the rest of these pancakes into the toaster:

Dogs and Moose Tracks

2:11pm
I am so lazy! I have washed and dried dishes, eaten a breakfast of eggs and toast with Emil, and sat for at least two hours here at the computer, logging two banking hours and then catching up on a bit of email and such. And now it's time to go out for my walk, and it looks like a beautiful day, and I don’t want to go! Silly. I think it’s because I get bored out there sometimes.

There's been a moose out behind my frozen flower garden next to the house. It crossed the road and went through the ditch. I didn't see it — the dog barked up a storm — but I found its tracks, that's how I know:

Change Not Loss

23 yrs ago: Grandpa Emil, me, Baby Emil, and Mom

While Lyndsie lost her beloved grandpa today, I have been thinking of mine because it is his birthday. He’s been gone for many years now, about 17, but I remember his passing and the days around it as if they were yesterday.

First there was the phone call to my home in Alberta, where Mom and Dad happened to be visiting us for a few days. Dad might have done some golfing with friends, as it was in the spring, and Mom would have spent many hours on her knees pulling things out of the kids’ closets to send to the dump. She liked to keep busy when she wasn’t playing with the boys or giving them ice cream (and having some herself), and I was grateful to her for the help sloughing out the unused and no longer necessary junk. I was also relieved that I always had a chance to go through the boxes before they left the house in case there was anything I didn’t want to part with.

Mom took the call from family back in our home town, with the news that Grandpa was in the hospital on life support and that they thought they should do what he would have wanted, which was to let him go, and they needed to ask whether she agreed. As the eldest of the four siblings, her opinion carried weight. (As well it should! Do you hear me, my younger brother and sisters?! I should also inherit the family title and estate. I’m the eldest. You guys can go into the clergy, the army, and the navy.)

I remember Mom hanging up the telephone, visibly shocked and upset, and Dad putting his arms around her there in the dining room while she wiped her nose and eyes with a kleenex. I remember him holding her and saying gently, “It had to happen sometime.”

That seemed a heartless thing to say — but now I know it was the most comforting thing he could have said, because somehow the matter-of-factness of it moves you from — Oh my god this is the worst tragedy ever I can’t stand it! — to — This is a natural part of life, don’t freak out.

So instead of feeling like you’re in a horror movie, you shift closer to a sense of acceptance, which is exactly what helps you get through. The situation still hurts, but you can cope, you don’t have to fall apart completely. My dad’s a smart one. Practical as hell.

And 10 years later, when Mom herself was dying and afterward, I often reminded myself of his words because although her death was a tragic loss for those of us who loved her dearly, I couldn’t afford to think of it as a tragedy or I wouldn’t be of any use to anyone else — they’d end up looking after me. (As was almost the case in the first weeks following Mom’s diagnosis of stage 4 terminal cancer; I wept till my eyes swelled shut for a week, didn’t sleep, developed hives on my arms that near to drove me insane with itching, couldn’t manage simple medication and had to have Scott dole it out to me, couldn’t make simple decisions like what to make for supper; it was weird. I thought I was a centred, sensible gal, yet I … fell apart.)

Eventually I looked out from my own pain, and around at all the other people in the world living through the illness and loss of loved ones, and realized this wasn’t only happening to my family and our loved one; that death was part of the human condition, nothing out of the ordinary, although it felt like a disaster.

It helped.

It also helps (helps me -- maybe not you) to think of it as change, not loss.

Cat Castle

House for a Cat

Joanne P, your cat house awaits!
The inside height of the door (just to give you an idea of the size of the wee building) is 12 inches.
The house, built of scrap lumber, is shingled, insulated, and carpeted.
The retired gentleman in town who builds them sells them for $40. That doesn't even reimburse him fully for his labour, so these little houses for your outside cats are a steal of a deal.

All You Need is Love

So much for hearts and flowers ...

I'm all about recycling, so repurposing a birthday card to suit the occasion is fine with me. I like this kind of resourcefulness, especially when it comes to cards that disappear into neverneverland after they've been seen yet are so hard on our precious and disappearing trees.
Inside the card, which Scott left on my desk this morning while I was still asleep before he went to work, there are a dozen graphic depictions of various sexual activities.
I made a bright red checkmark beside each one and set the card near the phone, where he will see it as soon as he gets home.
Heh!

Meanwhile, I've got these to do:

and then will sit back down here and spend the afternoon working, before throwing together something for supper.

And how are YOU spending Valentine's Day?

Baby Alert

The baby is always the star of the show.

Sunny and Cold

There were sundogs yesterday; thought they meant the weather was to change.

It still seems plenty cold out there, but the kittens were sunning themselves this morning so it can't be so bad:

My uncle Neil is coming to pick up Emil and me to spend the afternoon at his place. Two of my cousins are going to be there with their kids, and I haven't licensed my minivan since the plates ran out last month. Thought I could get away without it for a while, considering Scott has two vehicles; however, his work truck has broken down and the other one is never available, so it looks like I'll be off to the Saskatchewan Government Insurance office one of these days to lay down my cash.

 It's not that I've felt stranded; I don't often go anywhere other than my weekly run to town for groceries, laundry, and Emil, and I'm just as happy to stay home, to be honest. Nevertheless, in spite of letting the laundry pile up so I didn't need to take it in, I've relied on Scott to stop at the store when he's near it, and to bring Emil out on Fridays and take him back on Sundays for the past month, and this cannot continue.

In other news, my cousin Oscar has had his final c.t. scan after the past year of interfuron followup treatment after his surgery for melanoma, and the chemo and radiation he endured, and he is cancer free. Yippee!!!! He and his family have been through a year from hell. Even so, he is one of the lucky ones.

Thirty Below = a Balmy -22F

Brekky, complete with vities

A hearty oatmeal breakfast with black coffee should fuel me up for a walk in this weather. Right?
(By the way, that's whole flax in the oatmeal, not ants; but it could be ants if I had the nerve to eat insects, because I'm catch-and-releasing about two off the kitchen counter every day. And feeling guilty about throwing them outside to freeze; but squishing them is something I can't do, it would give me the heebie-jeebies. Out they go, after being caught under an overturned glass, with a postcard slid under the opening, because what else am I gonna do, let 'em run riot in the house for the rest of the winter?)

1pm
Just sitting down to work for the afternoon, but here's a photo my sister Karen sent moments ago, taken from her kitchen window:

Click to enlarge. Great horned owl?

She doesn't dare let either of her two little Yorkies outside to do their business!

Slip of the Tongue

Emil and I went for supper together before I dropped him off on Sunday

The other day I received one of those joke/forward emails that listed anecdotes about times people have been embarrassed by things they or their kids have said. Which reminded me:

Last summer when I picked Emil up from Camp Easter Seal at Manitou Beach I stopped at this little café on the main street where I always hope to get a slice of their to-die-for pecan pie. They had run out of it and suggested I return the following week, so I replied "Oh, I only come once a year!"

Yeah. We all pretended they weren't thinking "Oh, you poor girl."

Can't Win fer Losin'

A bolt and a blowout. This tire was going, one way or the other. I was a mile from home when it did.

Is the universe trying to tell me something?

I swear, in recent years I've had a flat tire every other week. This one was on my mother-in-law's vehicle, which I was driving.

Through the Office Window

5pm
The dog is barking right behind the house and I hop up on the single bed behind my desk to look out the window, letting my eyes follow in the direction Jenna's nose is pointing. The most beautiful coyote is standing in the trees next to my flower garden, and I, thrilled, turn away to reach for the camera. By the time I'm back at the window, only seconds later, Jenna Doodle has entered the bush after the coyote, and instead of running it comes after her! Only my voice hollering through the hurriedly opened window — "You get out of here! GIT!" — scares it off, and it trots through the trees, toward the road, and is out of sight. Jenna is still barking 15 minutes later, pissed off at the coyote's audacity, though the intruder is no longer visible to me.
Ooh the excitement!
Obviously when she's barking, there's a good reason, though we don't always get to see what it is. It happens every night; I guess the coyotes are here, hoping to catch one of our cats hunting in trees around the yard. We haven't seen the mother cat for a few weeks now, nor a particular one of her kittens in recent days even though they usually stick close to the safety of the tractor shed. Darn it. And heaven forbid a fox or coyote nabs Ducky Doodle if he runs out to the road at night, let out to do his before-bed business, thinking he's a fierce big fella. Guess I'll have to slip into my boots and go out at the same time; if I wait on the step, he's unlikely to go far.

Meditation Changes Your Mind

Handy little chair I picked up for $1 at a garage sale last summer

Sure, I'm the only one who sits on it to put my boots on. For anyone taller, it's too close to the ground. It's also light and easy to move around, but good and solid.

*:-.,_,.-:*'``'*:-.,_,.-:*'``'*:-.,_,*:-.,_,.-:*'``'*:-.,*:-.,_,.-:*'``'*:-.,_,.-:*'``'*:-.,_,*:-.,_,.

One day last week I tucked Aunt Jean's transistor radio into the pocket of my jacket when I went walking. Quirks and Quarks was on — it's a science program on CBC — and they were having a segment called "Your Brain on Meditation" that I wanted to hear.

They've finally done enough scientific study to prove what the gurus have been telling us for many years: meditation helps fight depression, stress, addictions, and may even help us avoid such brain diseases as Alzheimer's. Meditation physically changes your brain, and the effects of such change are not restricted to the moments spent in actual meditation. The change is long-lasting.

Also, meditation doesn't require hours of chanting while sitting cross-legged on the floor. It can be as simple as sitting quietly and focusing on your breathing for just a few minutes a day.

You can listen to the show by clicking here: Your Brain on Meditation.

Sad Snow Situation

Shadows of me and dogs 

(Dad, you were asking how much snow we've got.)

The birds are already displaying courtship behaviour, which is when they flit around showing off to each other and don't notice there's a window in their way.

Gorgeous days for walking, though.

The RM has made these snow ridges in the field to help keep the roads from blowing in. Not that there's been any danger of that so far this winter.

It's nearly one o'clock. Perhaps I should get dressed and think about what I'm going to do for the rest of the day. Have polished off several cups of black coffee and eaten toast with peanut butter. Emil slept in, too, and had a bowl or two of puffed wheat cereal for brunch. An hour ago Scott headed up north with his parents to visit his sister near Flin Flon so it's just me and my boy, who says he's happy to get me all to himself for a change. As if the two of us aren't usually here alone while Scott's off working somewhere, even on the weekends.

I was up late last night, watching TV. There was a one-hour program called A History of Scotland, and then I watched Marketplace, and then a Hercules Poirot mystery.

There's no Scottish blood in my ancestry that I'm aware of, but I still find myself drawn to the history of Scotland, as I am to that of England and Ireland. Perhaps there is Scots somewhere in the genes from way far back; who knows, right? You never really do. The gene pool we know of on both sides of my family contains English, Irish, Norwegian and Swedish. But you can never know for certain who else may have contributed way back in the generations and where they came from. And then there's reincarnation and unconscious memories from other lifetimes. Anything's possible.

Last night's Marketplace was about misleading labelling of food in the grocery stores here in Canada. None of it surprised me much; I already know that if I want to eat decently, I have to start from scratch in my own kitchen. For a long time I've walked down the aisles of the store in town and -- well -- not bothered. Cookies? I make my own or do without. Cereal? Make my own or buy only puffed wheat; most everything else, except maybe Muffets, is chockful of sugar and godknowswhatelse. Bread? I make my own. Juice? I buy fresh fruit instead, except for orange juice, because oranges are such a pain in the ass to eat. Meat? Scott raises his own beef and poultry and buys pork directly from a farmer. Flavoured yogurt? No more; it's full of sugar. Frozen french fries or pizza? Nope, make my own. Not that I "never" buy any of the above, but now it's only when weakness gets the best of me.

All of which requires more time in the kitchen, and I don't want to spend half my day feeding us, but there's no doubt that simple, plain homemade food is the best way to go. Now I only wish I had someone to cook for me, because I'm not all that interested in food, to be honest. I can pretty much live on toast, granola, and the odd egg.

As for the Poirot mystery, I knew who the murderers were right from the beginning, but still enjoyed watching him figure it out.

Shit Saskatchewanians Say

Only a few differences stand out ...  at my house we like Pilsner beer but don't buy it any longer because the brewery moved to Alberta. We now drink Great Western because it's the only beer made in Saskatchewan. We like to support local business as we're able.

And I don't give a shit about hockey or football.

The rest, though, is right on the money.

Food

Cooling

Ten minutes till my working day begins, and the oatmeal mixture above (oatmeal, vegetable water saved and frozen for breadmaking, salt, molasses and oil), is still too hot to mix with flour and yeast. Usually I cook the oatmeal the night before, then add warm water in the morning so the oatmeal's the  perfect temperature to add to the dry ingredients (yeast is like Goldilocks; fussy). I forget why I did things differently this time. It happens.

Last night I riffed on the recipe below for supper. I thought it was pretty tasty, but Scott took one look (and maybe a sample, not sure) and reheated some leftovers for himself.

Hoo's Hot Black Beans with Linguini

Sauté two cloves of garlic and one small finely
chopped onion in olive oil for five minutes.

Put on water to make one normal sized package of whole
wheat linguini. Start the linguini.

Add one can of black beans to the onion and garlic.
Salt and pepper to taste. Put the liquid from the
beans in the pan too.

Allow beans to cook down for 5-10 minutes (however
long it takes the linguini to cook).

Drain the linguini, toss in the beans with the pasta.
Serve with Frank's Hot Sauce.

January Down on the Farm

Still problems with sewage system ...  

the walk

late afternoon from the tractor shed (where the cats live)

pretty, isn't it. and so peaceful.

can't go wrong with flowers. they make me happy.




On this day one year ago, I had pulled out my quilt in hopes of getting it finished. I have not succeeded. It's been folded and sat on a sewing basket since spring.

Come along on a trip down Memory Lane?


Jan 2010

Guess I disappeared from the planet in January 2009.

Jan 2008

Jan 2007

Jan 2006

Jan 2005

Jan 2004

Jan 2003

Babette

Babette

Lovely Lilac Tree in Winter

The most sweet-scented lilac bush, by the back step.

Homegrown Gal

Listen to her music here.

Belle Plaine's first CD was released yesterday.

Melanie Hankewich grew up near Fosston (about a half-hour north of here) and performed for a house concert in Wadena last year. Shadow House Concerts had secured the Good Luck Diner for a venue, and a few music lovers managed to squeeze in around Melanie's local family and friends who'd driven down for the evening's entertainment. Her bass player and a piano man accompanied her, and they too have connections in the area, so the place was packed.

We dined on delicacies smorgasbord-style, then tapped our toes while Melanie's sweet voice out-sugared the dessert.

http://www.belleplainemusic.com/

Music-loving Bird

If you're not a bluegrass fan (what's the matter with you?), stick it out anyway till around the three-minute mark for proof of my theory that birds appreciate our music as much as we love theirs.

Thanks to Marilyn at Nag on the Lake for bringing this video to my attention.

College Boy

Email from Gord, Everett's dad:
College Boy; see attached.

Return email:
Awwwww... he's so cute....
first haircut since August?
K.

Email from Gord:
Well about a week ago he cut his own hair . Looked like a total doufus. I should've taken a picture . You would have died laughing. So when I suggested to take him for a cut today there was no hesitation. Shoes and coat on in record time.

Email from Everett:
You asked about my classes a while ago, so here is me finally giving you a list of what I'm taking this semester.

Video Production Techniques
Cinematography
Visual Design Development
Audio Production Technology
Organizational Behaviour
Production Planning Process

Six classes. That is three less than I started off with in the first semester. It's going fine for the moment. Sorry I was late telling you about it, but I have work to do in between leisurely activities. Er, I mean, I have fun things to do in between doing work. Yeah, that's it.

-Everett-

Canine Courtship

Loverboy wears his courtin' coat

Jenna Doodle, 10 years old, not spayed, has never had pups or been pregnant, and appears to be in heat again. Let us hope she continues to remain infertile and that, in the event of a miracle, no male dogs wander over; pups, we don't need.

Ducky Doodle, who has been neutered, is serious about making whoopee with her anyway. He is keeping a close eye on her and currying her favour. Nothing can come of it, thank dog.

The photo above was taken several days ago, when the mercury was very low, maybe 30 below. Ducky was cold but didn't want to go inside.

Then yesterday I donned my ski pants, balaclava and layers of warm clothing, as I'd been doing for the past week, and set out down the road. Before I'd gone 10 minutes it was necessary to whip off the balaclava, unzip the jacket and remove my mitts. It's like spring. There's been rain.

Giving Thanks

An uplifting music video by Tamara Podemski, the younger sister of Canadian actor Jennifer Podemski. Jennifer appears in Sarah Polley's film Take This Waltz and has been in all kinds of stuff. Remember her in Moccasin Flats and The Rez?

Tamara is in a location where there is so much poverty and struggle, yet she appreciates the tree and the friendly faces and the plain old joy of walking down the street feeling great.

103-yr-old Lady and Bold Fox

103 candles would've set off the smoke alarm

After a nice visit and potluck supper at Scott's grandmother's with his immediate family, we swung back to Wadena to take Emil to the group home for his week's work. While passing the Co-op service station on the busiest corner in town, Scott spotted a red fox between the gas pumps and the front doors; it was stood looking through the glass at the people inside. Because of the darkness and distance I was unable to get a decent photo, but we did drive closer and watch it eat something it found in the parking lot next to the building before our approach finally scared it off.

It's not that unusual to see wild animals in town; we hear reports of deer and coyotes, and Emil and I were once close up to a moose (man they've got long legs!). But this little guy's moxie was a bit unnerving, mostly because rabid animals are brave this way, thus possibly dangerous.

Whipped Shortbread

Before

Yesterday I made a batch of whole wheat cake doughnuts. Not many left, as you can see. I had two for breakfast, with my coffee. They're 75% healthy, if you don't count the oil they were fried in. Right? Oh, all right, but once in a blue moon ... anything's allowed.

Scott is going to see his friend Floyd tomorrow. Floyd lives in a nursing home in Yorkton; they've been buddies since their high school days. Last time I took whipped shortbread to Floyd, he said they were "the best thing I've tasted in my life." That was a few years ago, when he still lived in Wadena.

I make them small, a scant teaspoonful of dough, so you can pop them in your mouth and there won't be another crumbly half to make a mess. Also, Floyd has only one hand to use; not that it makes any difference I suppose. However, here's where I'm looking for ideas from all you experienced cooks out there. I'd like these cookies to look nice as well as melt in your mouth. Do you think a pastry cone would work? Would the dough be soft enough to go through it?

After

Books are Dangerous

Another link from Everett, who says, "Ian's mom is a pretty great character. Don't you agree?"

Yes, I do agree. Mwa ha ha ha ha! POOF!

I have been watching these two characters, Anthony and Ian, fairly regularly since Everett discovered their little vignettes. It is one of the many sacrifices a mother must make to keep the lines of communication open with her teenagers. Sigh.

Is anyone else who knows my niece Danielle reminded of her when they see Anthony? I think it's his haircut; she has the same one.

Phone Calls

Waves, frozen

We've got a friend we call Rick, and my sister Karen is married to a gentleman we call Dick. Both men's given names are actually Richard, and this has had Emil puzzled. It is plausible to him that Rick is derived from Richard, but Dick? That just didn't make sense, and I couldn't explain it to his satisfaction.

Emil phones me every night now for a chat.
"Did anyone come over today?"
No.
"Have you had any company this week?"
No.
"Rick and Faye came over to your place on Saturday."
That's right. They came for supper.
"Did you have a nice time when they came over?"
Yes, very.
"Rick's real name is Richard."
That's right.
"Dick is also a short form of Richard."
Mm hm; that's true.
Then he reels off the following, so fast the words run together:
"R-I-C-K spells Rick and that's a short form of Richard and you can just take the R away and put the D there and you have Dick, so that works! That's what Auntie Karen told me and she's right!"
He repeats this speedy spiel a couple times in spite of my acknowledgement and agreement, till finally I get exasperated and say I heard you the first three times!
He's coming out this weekend; Scott will pick him up when his working day near town is done. Emil is looking forward to the new Lorax movie that is being made. He still loves Dr Seuss.

Scott just phoned.
"Have you ever heard of blood oranges?"
I pause; the words "blood diamond" flash through my mind, but no. Why?
"I picked up oranges at the store and just opened one up; it's red inside."
We know nothing more but he says it tastes fine.
"Did Jenna go outside again?" he asks.
Jenna is our border collie/shepherd cross; she is 10 years old, and although she has long thick fur and an insulated doghouse with a flap of carpet over the door, we've invited her into the porch the last few nights because it's been so cold.
"The first thing she did when I let her out this morning was roll in the snow," he says.
For the past three days before rising (Scott gets up long before me and lets her out) she's sat on the south side of the house, howling.

This Balaclava Was Made for Walkin'

My response to Sheena's balaclava photo on her blog

I'm not the only one out there in this weather; check out the Treaty Walks blog, where a Ft Qu'Appelle teacher is hoofin' it to school every morning: click here. Have a look at some of her "popular posts." Here's a good one. And here.

One of the hardest things about my walks was getting out there regularly in the first place; I'd always enjoyed walks, but only when I felt like it, and the walks were leisurely, not brisk, and there was no minimum time requirement. Now that I've got myself relatively disciplined — I'm going, and that's that for that — the hurdle du jour is that I sometimes get a bit bored while walking. My route varies between the same two every second day because I can turn either north or south at the end of the driveway; but one thing I don't like is going a mile, then re-tracing my steps. Wish I could go in a circle. But I'll have to walk through fields (hard on the ankles) or walk six miles, if I do. Not ready for that yet.

Thinkin' maybe an Mp3 player or iPod might be a nice change once in a while from my own thoughts.

When I get back into the house, there are a few moments of claustrophobia when I can't get all this extra clothing off fast enough.

What If?

Yesterday the sky was blue at the beginning of my walk, and darkening by the time I got back to our yard.

Everyone's talking about the cold snap; finally we've got "real" winter, with 35-below on the thermometer and the weatherfolks on the radio saying "Feels like 45 below, with the wind chill. Exposed skin will freeze in five minutes."

I haven't found it so terrible as they're saying, though it's crisp all right. I walked my usual two miles yesterday, and cut it down to slightly more than a mile today because it was windier. Yesterday I walked backwards quite a ways to reduce the biting wind in my face. Balaclava or no, the air can still sting.

Scott and I went to a lunch seminar this week to get information about retirement investing. The presentation projected possible income over the long term; and of course it would be easy to make investment decisions if you knew when you were going to die. I thought, "How would I handle my money if I knew exactly how long I had to live? What if I could know that I had, say, only five years left? What would I do differently?"

It would be wise to ponder that question seriously and not let it go till I've answered it. More likely I'll forget about it in a day or two. What about you? Do you take stock of your life in a serious way or do such thoughts flit through your head for a short time and simply disappear?

Vintage Photo at Pavilion Beach

From left to right: Julius Bohl, Elmer Braaten, Marion Otterdahl, Evelyn Bohl, Alvin Stenbeck, Laura Stenbeck, Edna Johnson, John Johnson. 

What Joanne remembers and has told her daughter Tammy:

“This picture would have been taken in probably 1958 or thereabouts. It was taken at a lake, so probably was at the Pavilion Beach. Aunt Laura and Edna Johnson had bathing suits on. My mom had her purse on her arm as always (like Sophia from the Golden Girls!). There would have been a wiener roast for supper."

 Grandpa Otterdahl took the picture: Dad says that was probably the day there is footage on my dad's home movies of Grandpa Bohl in my dad's boat. Grandpa Bohl did not like water and he seems pretty stiff on the video!”

My grandparents are Edna and John, on the far right. I'm said to be Edna's spittin' image, and in this picture I can almost see it, except for her darker hair. - K., a.k.a. Stubblejumpin' Gal

Thanks  for  posting  the  picture  on  your  blog ..... You  really  are  a  lot  like  Edna...even  moreso  in  your  "ways " !!! Very  special  ladies .

     Joanne

Joanne,

I don't have many memories of her since I was only 6 when she died, but of the few, there is one of her doing her hair while seated in front of one of those fancy little dressers with the mirrors that all the ladies had. Grandma's bedroom was in the middle of their house, which I still remember of course in a lot of detail, as I spent so many winter afternoons there, playing cards with Grandpa and drinking hot chocolate.

Looking forward to the next one,

Kathy

Men are from Sears: Women are from Bloomingdale's

Paintings by Louise M., which I somehow did not save in a decent size.  

Fantastic program today on Under the Influence; if you didn't catch this, I hope you get a chance to listen to it:

The item is called "Men are from Sears: Women are from Bloomingdale's."
Click below to go to the page; you can subscribe to the podcast free.

http://www.cbc.ca/undertheinfluence/season-1/2012/01/14/men-are-from-sears-women-are-from-bloomingdales/

Their entry into the subject is a description of the way shopping styles differ between men and women, but the show goes far beyond that into the ways men and women perceive and organize the world they live in. "When you take evolution into consideration, when you account for biology, and when you analyze those differences, it really does demystify the behaviour." It goes deeper than simply stereotyping gender behaviour; it digs into the territory of understanding, respecting and valuing it.

I cranked the radio up loud so it could easily be heard in every room of the house as I dusted, moved furniture, swept and tidied.

Cat on a Cold Shake Roof

Yippee ... snow! NOW it looks like winter out there.

Stop My Waffling? I Think Not.

It may be hard to believe that at my age and after many pancake breakfasts, this is the first waffle I've ever made. And well should you not believe it, because this is actually the second one. The first one went straight down my neck, slathered in Shelly's homemade apple jelly. And was it ever delicious; I'll be getting into the habit, even though they're more pain in the ass to make than flapjacks.

We are still basking in near-zero temperatures so, on days like today when there's no wind, my walk is perfectly pleasant (I must ask Yukon Pete how he keeps warm on a dogsled, assuming he's stationary there, in the North's deeper cold. Even wearing fur ... Perhaps there's less wind so it's not so bad?) and, if I didn't have things to do, I'd add another mile to the usual two.

But we're looking forward to friends coming for supper this evening, so I'm going to tidy up the hovel, beautify myself, and make squares: Helen's Pink Lady Dessert. Making these always reminds me of our good neighbours back when we lived in Legal, who treated us like family and became fast friends. I'll take a stroll down memory lane while measuring and mixing.

Poor old Scottie, today, is messing around with the sewer pump when he had hoped to be doing his part in the kitchen. I know, I know ... with a new septic tank installed just a couple months ago, all that crap is supposed to be over with ... oh well, at least he's not slipping and sliding along the edge of a lagoon, and it's not 30-below. Yet. We hear forecasts that it's coming this week.

If I'm lucky, it'll all work out in the end (oh my but the puns are flying fast and furious aren't they) and I'll be soaking in a tub of warm water while he's peeling potatoes and preparing his specialty: stuffed mushrooms. Fingers crossed.

The chicken's already roasting slowly and smells divine.

Go for a Walk

Dim Bulbs

Might  just leave the Xmas lights up all year

We've got a lot to say, don't we? We say it with enthusiasm and conviction. Other people believe us, because we believe our own words. Often they don't give much thought to what we've said before they accept it as truth, and we too accept other people's versions of reality without any examination at all. We're a bunch of sheep who don't want to think too hard, and we make up our minds without digging up all the information needed to make a balanced and fair judgment.

There is no better example of this than the comments pages at the bottom of internet news stories. If you want to see how ignorant and uneducated your fellow citizens are, take a gander. You will be shocked at the low level of intelligence displayed there. I'm guessing that most people with brains don't bother leaving comments at these sites, or waste their time reading the comments.

"But we must have discussion and free speech!" the newspaper editors say, and they're right, we must. It's just that there is some discussion and free speech that lowers the level of exchange so far that it's not really discussion at all; it's no more than providing a forum for opinionated blowhards to spread their contempt and hatred for others. They're given a soapbox to stand on and wave their self-righteous know-it-all flags, when clearly they don't have a friggin' clue.

Many of my friends and family say I'm outspoken and direct, and to a point I am; I won't, to keep the peace, agree or go along with something I'm sure is wrong, and if you're obnoxiously out of line there is every possibility I will say so rather than keeping my mouth shut to avoid a confrontation. But not always; not anymore. I may think someone is a total twit, but don't necessarily feel any need to say so. I've come to believe "It's more important to be kind than to be right" and I'd rather feel sorry for a fool in private than correct him in public. The effort to assert my opinion isn't always worth it. More often than not, engaging with a jerk just opens you up to abuse, and who needs that? What is to be gained? I've learned to choose my battles in many ways, and not to waste my energy talking when others are not really listening and when it isn't going to make a damn bit of difference. Even when people bait me, as some have been known to do, I just don't bother. I let it slide. They're welcome to their beliefs and as long as I don't see anyone being hurt, I'll usually stay out of it.

In the past I've tried to make myself understood, even when it was unlikely a person would even hear what I was saying, let alone agree with me. I've begun to think that being understood is overrated, and that if I continue to care about being understood, I will continue to be disappointed. None of us can comprehend beyond our own open- or close-mindedness, our inability to face our shortcomings (fears, blindness and weaknesses) honestly, and our refusal to admit we don't know everything and that — gasp — we have not only been wrong, but we have acted like dickheads. (I cringe to recall times I have spoken or acted with self-righteous conviction without realizing there were other, better, wiser options.)

There are articulate people who can respond to an asshole in such a way that the logic of their reaction is unassailable. I wish I was one of those people, but I'm not. I don't think fast enough. I usually hear a crock of shit and sit there frozen in my disbelief that anyone could say such a ridiculous thing. I don't know what to say, or how to say it in a sensible way that makes an impact, and so I say nothing, and I don't pursue conversation with the other person any longer.

I recognized a like-minded individual a while ago when he was interviewed on CBC radio about his book called You Are Not So Smart, which is all about the phenomenon of human self-delusion. His website is here.

Rethink Plastic

Links My Son Sends

Ducky keeps Scott's lap warm

From Everett:

I wonder if Ducky would do this.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KBluUZ4NnZg&feature=youtu.be

iPhones, the best way to fool animals.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LbNl3J8HXw4&feature=related

Smartphones. Why I don't need one.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nYG6QA9gF0o&feature=uploademail

Stylin'

My new hat has ear flaps and ties under my chin

A neighbour pulled up alongside while I was out walking yesterday, and laughingly said "You look like an old babuschka in that hat!" I laughed right back and said "I don't care how I look, I'm warm!" When we were in the city overnight for a medical appointment before Christmas, I must've stood out on the downtown streets with my ski pants, sorel boots, and jacket with hood pulled up and scarf wrapped around my throat. I know I did, because I saw so many freezing-cold women hurrying along the sidewalks wearing short skirts with leotards, little leather jackets, and thin boots with heels. They looked stylish enough ... if shivering, clenched teeth and miserable faces count as stylish. Ah, but I've been there, done that ... oh yes. Why, when I was 15 and my parents gave me a skidoo suit for Christmas, I believe I crept down to my room and wept! And the skidoo suit went back to the Sears catalogue. I wouldn't have been caught dead in that thing, and of course wasn't smart enough to heed anyone who advised me to dress warmly. I have been a stubborn learner all my life. Heh!

Another thing I now wear that I never thought I would: this apron Mom sewed up for me:

By cracky, it really DOES keep my clothes clean and unstained! Now that I've been lugging clothing to a laundromat for a year, these things matter.

Also, whenever I put it on, I think of Mom.
I also think of her while I'm working at the countertop, playing my new Cds:

She said it's not a great voice that is the most important thing, it's the choice of a good song, and I agreed with this yesterday as I sang and danced around the kitchen while listening to Madeleine Peyroux. Hers is not a voice I particularly like — as a matter of fact, I might actually dislike her voice a little — but I love the songs on the CD.

Here's a sample from the CD; click here:

Don't Wait Too Long

I mean really, doesn't it make your own toes start tapping? Don't you start yodelling?

However, it's still Melody Gardot's simple songs — and the sweetest voice that sings them so, so perfectly — that never fail to make me amorous. I swear, Scott is not safe when her CD is on the player:

Click here: Baby I'm a Fool:

Bye Bye Birdcats

Rescued redpoll at rest

Still having problems with birds slamming into the windows. I haven't ordered the zen windowsavers (see above) because Scott has an idea for something similar he can make himself; it's waiting for him to do it that is the problem now. Yesterday a redpoll died instantly when it hit the glass; I went out to make sure the dog didn't get it, but it was too late, it had bled from the beak and was dead.

We thought maybe if I turned on the flashing Christmas lights hung on the window, even during the day, that might do the trick. But no; the redpoll above flew into the glass anyway. Fortunately it was only sitting in the snow stunned when I got to it, and after perching where I set it on the feeder for 15 minutes or so, it flew off.

Last week a hairy woodpecker hit the window and by the time I got out there one of the tomcats had it, still alive, in his mouth and was making a dash for the tractor shed to kill and eat it. I didn't try to get the bird from him at this point, as a quick death would be better for it, I figured, than being injured and in shock if and when I could catch the cat and extricate the bird from his deadly jaws. My heart sank, though, and remained low for quite a while, and sinks each time I recall the scene.

Which is why I was more than happy when a neighbour whose barn needs mousers came yesterday and took the two yearling tomcats home with her. I miss them, friendly fellas that they were, but I don't miss seeing them under my oak trees stalking the birds at the feeders or quickly snatching them up when they hit the window and fall stunned to the ground.

In appreciation of her new cats, my neighbour brought me 18 of her hens' most beautiful eggs, two of which made me a delicious breakfast of scrambled eggs this morning.