No Go

It seems sensible to stay home, keep warm, and not spread this dastardly cold one inch further than I already have by going to work for the past four days.

I hated to do it. I'm the first one to preach that when you're sick you should stay home, for the sake of other people if not for your own healing, and to hell with everything but resting. Your health is more important than any of it.

But I understand why people go to work when they're sick. It's not so much that they need the money — at least in my case right now, it isn't — but that they're very likely part of a team and they don't want to let others down. They want to get the job done, dammit! Then they will rest.

Last night I arrived home feeling not too bad, considering the state of me in the morning. Oh sure I had some ugly coughing fits during the day, but could think straight, at least. I actually felt well enough when walking in here about 7 o'clock to tackle the dishes that were overflowing on the counter. And then I stayed up till midnight, and was still wide awake at 3:30 a.m. after lying abed for hours in the dark! Weird. Maybe too many hours of sleep the night before?

I will never understand the reasons this body does what it does. I'm just thankful it only gets migraines, cold sores, the occasional bizarre uncalled-for (as far as I'm concerned) back injury and the rare head/chest cold. Many would be glad to trade places with me if that was all they had to live with. So I count myself fortunate — at least, on the many good days. And most of them are.

So today, I rest.
There are still some dishes to do, and I've run hot water into the sink with some soap and am letting them soak. And if I get around to them, good. I like a clean kitchen. But if not, C'est la vie. They'll be there tomorrow, as the saying goes.

The  pretty blouse Joan brought, which looks silly on me because of its peculiar style, with little foldy fluffy pleats on the sides. I am probably too short for it. Next! Cara, you give it a try.  Though you're shorter yet. It's gonna look great on somebody. Maybe on someone tall? In which case, no one in our family.

Also, Cara, the packages of jujubes and lifesavers I've been carrying in my purse for your kids are probably a year old now. That is just sad.

Oh My Aches and Pains Boo Hoo

Super shitty day and night yesterday, coughing and choking and blowing nose; then a migraine came on. When I dragged myself home after work it was to take a pill and go straight to bed and stay there all night except for a short time up to eat a scrambled egg Scott made for me. Thank goodness I no longer have kids to look after, as I can barely take care of myself. 

Woke up in the middle of the night soaking wet, had to get up and change my shirt. Must've had a fever. Better this morning but neck still bothering and voice still very deep.

At least I had no problem sleeping, which as far as I am concerned is the best escape from discomfort that there is.

I'd crawl back into bed this morning, too, if I could, in spite of having been up long enough to have a bath and make a pot of coffee. But all hands are needed at the newspaper as it's production day and there is a press deadline to meet. I'll look forward to a date with my pillow later.

Someone posted this on FB and I have sent it to many of my ambitious and crafty friends for inspiration:

Down But Not Out

Feeling too shitty this morning to do anything but go back to bed. Got no voice (to speak of)(ha ha).
But off I go to the office anyway, taking a page out of Scott's book: if you're not dead, keep working.
I almost made it an entire year without a cold, though. Or maybe I actually did. All I know is that I hadn't had one since starting at the news office last year after Thanksgiving. Maybe the last cold was well before that. Anyway I was pretty pleased when all around me were coughing and sniffling and I wasn't catching anything from them. Thought maybe I'd finally found the best preventive: wash those hands, wash those hands, wash those hands.

Off I go, in the spirit of Marg Delahunty, warrior princess:

Illustration by http://joribolton.tumblr.com/post/52547065311/a-fun-spot-portrait-of-mary-walsh-as-marg

Happy Birthday to Cameroni Bumboni

It didn't freeze last night. Yay! I've got some serious snipping to do in the flowerbeds after work. Meanwhile they are all blooming brightly and beautifully. It will be a shame to see them frozen black. I'll bring in as many as I can find vases for.

Today is my little brother's birthday. I was six when he was born and apparently when he was brought home from the hospital, remarked that I'd rather have a puppy. That is really the only thing I remember being told about my reaction. Other things I've been told are that as a child in our little hometown, Cameron used to go around wearing a pink pillbox hat. And once when he was quite small he told Mom, who was working in the kitchen, "I feel mean." He was just tired, she said, and needed a nap.

So here's to you, Cameron ... may you eat pizza and beer with friends tonight!
And when I get home, I'll have a drink in your honour.

Maybe I'll even pick up a pizza at the deli counter ... if I can just remember what day it is, and that the store closes at 6 tonight.

Did you hear on CBC radio last night that they think they've finally identified Jack the Ripper, using mitochondrial DNA? They've matched his "leavings" with a relative or descendant and believe he was a schizophrenic Polish immigrant who ended up in an asylum.

This is not the first time it's been thought that Jack the Ripper was named; but it's the first time there's been DNA evidence, if I'm not mistaken.

A book has just come out. It's called Naming Jack the Ripper.
Here's more: CLICK HERE.
Don't you love it when a murder mystery is solved?
I'm still waiting for the police to catch the prick who murdered the young nurse in Saskatoon in 1962. I was three years old at the time and Mom said she used to send me to the grocery store by myself before that happened. Imagine that, in a city the size of Saskatoon? It wouldn't happen often nowadays, would it. And after that murder, Mom didn't do it again either.
See Sharon Butala's book The Girl in Saskatoon.
Butala, a Saskatchewan author, has also written my absolute favourite book: The Perfection of the Morning. Click on the book titles for links to more information.

And have a jimdikkitydandy day! I have to get my ass out the door.

Brrzy Wrrzy WooWoo

Holy moly bumboli.
Not only did I wear leggings under my jeans today, but the second time I left the office in the afternoon it was with jacket and gloves on and wishing for a tuque.
I'm regretting not getting home before dark so there would have been time to cut a nice big bunch of purple coneflowers before they freeze on the stalk. Oh well, c'est la vie, ma fille!
No regrets, really. It was cold when I got here. I scurried into the house like a little rat.

New Wheels

Somebody finally, finally, FINALLY bought himself a new work truck.
It only took him years of careful "shopping" on Kijiji.

Ducky Doodle checks out the new tires.

Same old, same old

You must get ever so tired of seeing the same landscape photos here all the time. The same road, the same trees, the same dogs. Blah blah blah.
However, that's my life. If you want something different, go to someone else's blog!
It's a pretty simple solution.
Meanwhile, welcome to my world.

2:16pm

Last night Everett came with me to pick up Emil and give him a ride to Everett’s for the weekend. When I dropped them off, Everett said, “Wait a minute. I’ve got something.”

He went in and came out a minute later, handing me a tube of Rolo chocolate candies.

“Ah!” I said. “You DO love me! It can’t be denied!”

“Don’t get too excited,” he replied. “They were on sale.”

“Still,” I insisted, “you remain my sweet boy.”

And he is. Current surly attitude aside (I see it as adding layers of protection over his sensitive nature), I know who is in there underneath it all. Mothers never forget and are difficult to fool.

3:38pm

So far I have spent the day moving stuff so the vacuum can do its work. And doing several loads of laundry. And dyeing two loads of clothing. And sorting and bagging and tying up the recycling and setting it on the step to take to Little Green (car). And heaven knows what else has kept me so busy since getting out of bed this morning. I haven’t washed the bag of soil-laden potatoes yet, as Scott requested, but I did just get them into some water to soften the caked dirt. I haven’t got the chicken into the roaster yet, but it’s on the counter now while the oven preheats. And I did phone our little Rebecca down the road and say “Wanna make 20 bucks?” so she came over and washed the bathroom and kitchen floors for us. I got her to roll up the quarters to pay herself with, as I only have a $5 bill in my wallet.

Next: it’s a sunny day and I will dress against the cool wind that is felt when the sun hides behind a cloud, and go for a walk with my doggy friends.

Rainbow Dental Therapy

About to walk out the door shortly after six o'clock, I noticed my co-worker Rita was busy doing something at the back of the room and thought I'd lend a hand so she could get home too.
She was counting, cutting and stapling raffle tickets, so I followed her lead and we had the job done after another half-hour.
She didn't want to be in the photo, so I've cropped her out, but here is the heavy-duty machine that was used to cut the tickets.

On Tuesday I visited the Rainbow Dental Therapy office in Kelvington for a checkup and cleaning. I need one small but deep filling, dammit, but enjoyed the quickest and most gentle tooth-cleaning I have ever had. Usually they are a bit of an ordeal. Not this time! If Amelia, the therapist at Rainbow, is half as adept at doing fillings as she is with cleaning teeth, my next appointment will be a breeze!

This dental therapy clinic is the only one of its kind in Saskatchewan. Amelia does her work, which is overseen and approved by a licensed dentist (naturopathic, if I read right) who comes out to the office once a month.

I couldn't be more tickled. Usually to find professionals who do this kind of work, we have to drive all over the province. And here we are with them set up just a half-hour away. Woo hoo!

Amelia also makes her own tooth-cleaning recipe that replaces toothpastes full of fluoride and other enemies of healthy teeth that are on the commercial market. I've purchased a jar of her peppermint-flavoured concoction and am liking it just fine.

Turning Over to the New Season

One morning last week there were yellowing leaves on the trees along the road.
And suddenly there were yellow leaves laying across my driveway.
It begins!
And I love it.
You go ahead and cry about the end of summer if you want to. It does seem to have gone too quickly, I'll give you that.
But fall is gorgeous. The scents, alone!

Before we know it, the giant flocks of geese will be here. The scouts have already arrived.
In my house, two of the menfolk are suffering end-of-summer colds. Scott works through his; Emil goes to bed and stays there. Hard to say which is the wiser.

Setting Sunlight

Coffee Time

What a pleasure it is to have a friend who likes to have coffee outside with me in the morning!

A bit behind on the backyard landscaping, but what can you do -- skip the morning coffee? Methinks not!

Friendship of 40 years

Company's coming! Company's coming!

Cathy will arrive from Saskatoon sometime today.

So much water in the past couple years that we now have reeds growing in the ditch outside our driveway.

Odd Coincidence

This morning I posted a recipe at Stubblejumpers Café, one that was given to me by my friend Carolyn. It’s been years since we’ve spoken on the phone and I don’t see much from her on Facebook, so before leaving for work I sent her a message just to say her recipe was up. Just a little shout-out, for fun.

 When I got home, I saw my cousin Karla’s number on the call display and rang her back. “What’s up?”

She is a lab tech assistant up north and was taking a man’s blood today when he said, You’re not from around here, are you. You remind me of someone I used to know. A girl from, where was it now ... Margo. 

By cracky. Karla is from Margo!

No kidding! What was that girl's name, now? He described her to Karla, who said “That sounds like Kathy.”

And sure as shit, he is someone Carolyn and I used to know up north and I, at least, haven’t thought of often for 30 years. And the funny thing is, he is Carolyn’s ex.  

And funnier still – no, stranger – is that he couldn’t explain what reminded him of me. It was the way Karla moves, talks ... He didn’t know why either really. The memory just came into his head, he said, as if he was quite baffled. 

That’s the first I’ve heard of anyone seeing a family resemblance between Karla and me. We are both surprised and amused. But it is kind of nice too.

I said I hope she isn’t too insulted by the comparison, considering I’m 15 or 20 years older than she is. Woot! as they say in blogland.

Evening walk

Too bad you weren't here to walk with me.

Dancing

Well, the sun is out again.
In the summer, the first thing I do is take my cup of coffee and go see if it's warm (and dry: the dew settles on the chairs) enough to sit out there and bask.
Not today. Not quite. Almost.
Were I dressed . . . it might make all the difference.

One morning last week, I literally skipped down the driveway, just happy to be here.
The child has not gone from me. Oh no, she hasn't. 

Speaking of the child, here I was at age four I think, as the flower girl for Mom's cousin Beryl. 

Beside the bride, of course.

One thing I remember from the wedding day is that I wore this thing under the skirt to make it stick out like that. And was there a hoop? Well it was pleasing to me at that age, at any rate. The fabric of the dress was silky-lovely, and I was feeling pretty fancy. Did Mom make the dress, Reta?

And at the dance, a tall man (or was everyone tall to me, then?) plucked me from someone's knee and held me in his arms, prancing away with me. I was both thrilled and terrified, and laughed so hard that I cried at the same time.

I might still do that when I'm frightfully scared in moments of danger. Fortunately it happens rarely.

The last of a set of stationery cards on my bookshelf.

Furnace in August

Yesterday it was 67F in the hallway. I cranked the furnace up to 72 and stayed indoors all day, except for my trip to town to visit Emil for an hour in one of his two livingrooms.

I wore my swanky new leggings (thanks Joan) under my jeans and thought, well, aren't these much slicker than long underwear! No extra bulk, and nice and warm.

Emil insisted that we sit, not in his bedroom or in the living room that was quiet, but in the one with the TV on. 

Conversation was somewhat occasional, and I was often distracted by the television, but we sat there for an hour. And then he heard the house supervisor tell someone it was time to wash up for supper. He was up and out of his chair before I could lift my chin. I don't ever doze off while sitting up, but may have rested my eyes for a moment, a break from the four splashy women chattering on the TV screen.

"WoopWoop! I guess I'd better go wash my hands! It's supper time. Thanks for coming, Mom."
And he was off, and I was of no more interest to him than a gnat.

Earlier I had stopped at the Red Apple store, needing pillowcases. Okay, not "needing." Just "wanting." 

You've heard me pontificate about "discount" or cheap-as-dirt stores, saying that everything you purchase there is sub-standard and will start falling apart in the first washing, if it gets that far. But I had two sets of brand new feather pillows that needed pillowcases —Where have all the pillowcases gone? I guess they don't last forever, and the house elf hid ours for our own good — and there is no place else in town to buy them— or is there? shoulda held off till a weekday and checked the hardware store— and I didn't want to wait till I get to the city because heaven knows when that will happen.

And then, given my druthers, fabric containing polyester is avoided. But that's more when it comes to clothing, because the fabric doesn't breathe; perhaps it doesn't matter as much with a pillow case. Anyway, every bit of bedding at the Red Apple had polyester in it. I threw up my hands and grabbed two sets of pillowcases that were available without matching sheets, thinking at least these will keep the pillows clean till I find some better quality sheet-sets in my travels.

I washed and dried the pillowcases after arriving home and sure enough, while slipping them over the pillows, found a one-inch tear in the seam of one of them. 

And sure I could package them back up and exchange them for a new set, but screw it: it would take less time to stitch up the hole myself (and that's saying something, because I'm all thumbs with a needle after not touching one for perhaps years) than to stand at the counter while they fill out the paperwork. 

This frilly thing is far from my favourite type of poppy, but I'm partial to anything in the red colour spectrum. 

I really must go spend a weekend with Shirley, my industrious gardening, quilting aunt who lives in Margo, and finish the quilt Mom and I started during the year from heaven/hell, her last. Nine years ago. Lordy!
Hell because Mom was dying and that just friggin kills anyone who loves her. Heaven because it was nine months living in the same city with her and my sisters. We spent lots of time together, and not just ordinary time— though there was lots of that— but precious time because for those months we were all wide awake.

Virginia Woolf woodcutter

My literary loves are diaries, biographies, autobiographies, memoirs and letters.
I made my first forays into the mind of Virginia Woolf by reading her diaries.
I then read a biography and, at the same time, some of her novels and essays.
Think I’m due to have a look at a collection of her correspondence.
Definitely I’d like to watch The Hours again!

Received this link today in a digest for a Virginia Woolf list:
http://woodcuttingfool.blogspot.ca/2014/08/virginia-woolf.html.
It’s a great introduction to Virginia Woolf and a pleasing read when she’s an old friend. The writer is also a woodcutter, and has included Virginia Woolf’s likeness.
“Nicely done,” as the man says.
The man being Jian Ghomeshi, host of CBC Radio’s weekday-morning flagship. He has used the words so often after a musical guest’s performance that I feel positively plagiaristic saying them myself.

On that same list was a link to this excellent article with photos:

http://www.the-tls.co.uk/tls/public/article1448792.ece

Singalong Saturday

Is there anything not to love about sleeping in on Saturday morning, drinking freshly ground and brewed black coffee, reading and writing at your computer and listening to CBC Radio's weekend programming?
I say not.
Unless it's an early morning walk on a mild day.
I did go out on the step and deadhead a few nicotianas, but it's cold out there. Me and my fluffy green housecoat came back in.
"What are your plans?" Scott asked last night.
"None," said I, "except Emil would like me to go visit him at the group home, so I'll do that. You?"
He'll be in the field all day. Was gone before I got up, and may rush through the house to stuff food down his neck once or twice, but basically is trying to get things done ahead of portended rain.
I admire farmers, but I sure don't want to be one. Too much pressure.

A couple of my favourite CBC radio shows:

Quirks and Quarks

Randy's Vinyl Tap
-A couple hours early Saturday evening, listening to this show together, is my idea of a pretty much perfect date.

And here's Peter Gabriel's lovely song, covered by Pink and John Legend:

I love Fridays

It's turned cold.
Can't say as I don't welcome it.
Though I won't be saying that if my flowers freeze one of these nights.
They are looking splendid just now. In their prime, I suppose.
And they like cooler weather. They perk right up.
Which I need to do this minute. I've only been out of bed half an hour and am not dressed yet, when really I should be walking into the office to get down to business.
It's production day for the paper, which is due at the press by three or four o'clock. We've never managed that since I started the job, but lately we've shaved off the last two hours from the end of the workday, so maybe we'll get there yet.
This week I've put in a few hours practising pagination; that's putting text and photos onto the pages and requires attention to detail as well as a cordial acquaintance with the tools. I need a lot more practice.
I've read through articles and polished 'em up. I've written captions for photos. I've cobbled together a column of bits and bobs. I've written up stickynotes and used them to make a plan for the layout of this week's issue. Fitting the ads, stories and pictures onto each page is like doing a puzzle. And today, once each page is finished and printed, I'll read everything again and try to catch anything that isn't quite right.
And finally, I'll load pictures and text onto a thumb drive to bring home with me for Monday, when I'll add them to the webpage.
So I'd better get a move on. It's the busiest day.

Where I'll sit and sip my wine at the end of the day, if it warms up.

Wildflowers

Some may think it's macabre to have a little doll around that is patterned on my mother, who has passed on. But I'm here to tell you that if I clasp Little Grace to my heart and think of Mom ... well, it is a moving experience and quite lovely. 

Cellphone Racket

The step is wet this morning and that's okay with me.
I like a change.
Summer isn't summer until it's warm enough to sit outside in the evening after dark. We've had a few of those nights now, where not only could I sit on the step and admire the stars, but could leave the bedroom window open all night and wear nothing to bed. That's summer.
But so is rain and the sweet, fresh scent of it.
And the Newfoundlanders have it right; their "old wives" calendar considers Aug. 15 to be the first day of fall. It seems early, but we've already seen sandhill cranes here in recent weeks, which means they're on their migratory path back south. Crows are gathering into murders and yesterday on my way home from work a large flock of Canada geese flew over the road and landed in a farmer's field.
And when I sat out on the step last night, I was overwhelmed by the size of a flock of barn swallows that swooped and dove expertly around me and over the water of the dugout, and held a noisy planning session in the trees. Our own yard/barn has only been home to half a dozen of them this year, so these others have obviously come in from elsewhere. And soon they will all be leaving, together.
I don't mind fall— as a matter of fact, I love it— though I'll be sorry to see summer go. It seems it's just got started.

If you are texting me and getting no reply, this is why. My cellphone, barely two years old, not only has a dead, swollen battery that is not replaceable locally, but has fallen from a car seat onto concrete and had its screen shattered. It still works when plugged into the charger, but I'm told that dropped phones are in danger of exploding and should not be used. Whether it's true, I don't know, but I'm leaving the thing off anyway.
Meanwhile I am struggling with my inclination toward frugality and having trouble with the idea of laying out the kind of cash they want for these apparently throw-away items.
Maybe a few days without using the thing will break me of the habit, and I won't miss it at all. Though texting is a handy tool, which is basically what I use my phone for, it does seem like a bit of a racket when you look at what the phone companies are charging for these bits of circuitry and plastic and how they make them obsolete within a year or two. Maybe I'll opt out completely.
Because dammit, if I'm paying $750 for a new toy, I'd like to believe it might last me for more than two years. And don't get me started on their contract "freebies." You end up paying an extra $250 for your phone over the two years your contract extends. Why don't I just withdraw a couple hundred bucks from my savings account and set a match to it right now?
I'm cheap that way. And I know I'll drop the thing sometimes; it's inevitable. The one above hit the dirt several times; it was the concrete driveway that did it in, and I'm to blame for being careless. Still, less than two years old and the place that sold it to me can't find me a new battery to purchase? Something is wrong with this picture.

Mr. Gonna-Get-the-Work-Done

Waiting for Scott to get out of the tractor. This field is about 5 miles northeast of our place and he needs a ride home.

Maybe every field is my favourite, because I love being out at this one, too. Want a ride there or back? Need a meal brought out? I'm your gal. 

Last year I spent a mere hour driving the bale truck around this field on a warm, sunny day in the fall. The cab of the truck is about 10 feet off the ground (OK just feels that way) and you drive super-slow and you bounce all over the seat as you do, and the steering wheel is the size of a tire.

One hour is about right. If only farming were that easy for everyone! These guys put up with a lot of physical discomfort: long hours; heat and no air conditioning; biting horseflies ... I admire their stamina. 

Mr. Gonna-Get-the-Work-Done

Purple Coneflower

A rare summertime treat is the sun shower. You know — when it rains, but the sun continues to shine. We got that yesterday afternoon while I was in the flower patch, and I was able to keep right on deadheading along. The flower patch got its facelift and I only got pleasantly damp.

This photo was taken on Tuesday, when I used the sprinkler to give all the flowers their weekly deep  soak.

Purple coneflowers, a.k.a. echinacea. After years without success, there is finally a population of them in my flower patch.

I don't think of myself as a writer.
Oh, I write.
Competently enough.
But I don't "craft" my writing.
Oh, I tighten and polish it alittle.
But I don't think about structure, colour, action, storytelling and persuasion, as "real" writers do.
I just say what I have to say, as clearly and accurately as I can without labouring.
I don't challenge myself to make an art out of it.
Just sayin'.

Come walk with me

Do you think I will ever remember to take a hammer and nail out there and tack this sign to a tree? I've only been meaning to for about two years.

There. The hammer is out of the desk drawer and onto the bed. Next: find a nail.

When you pull out of our driveway, you barely look, thinking it's safe to go. But long grass in the ditch can surprise you when a speeding vehicle streaks out of it. And if you had pulled out, you'd'a'bin T-boned.

Don't risk it. 

Stop.

I walked across the road yesterday afternoon and took a very pleasant hike around the perimeter of the field where Scott was making bales.

I am particularly fond of this quarter-section of land; don't ask me why. Maybe because it makes for a very private walk. Maybe because, to my knowledge, it has never, ever had a drop of poison sprayed onto it.

These were my happy and excited companions.

There is just the right amount of open field mixed with bush and sloughs.

Look! Yonder a ship appears on the horizon. The earth is round!!!!

I wonder who has been sleeping here. It looks like a comfy spot.

There are hobo spider webs all over the stubble, in certain areas. Hobo spiders build a funnel web and lie in wait at the bottom of it for their prey. Look closely and you'll see the spider there.

Click to enlarge.

When I got home, I cracked a chilled can of Palm Bay, the vodka/juice cocktail Karen has wafted under my nose and given me a taste for, and plopped down into a chair on the back step.

One reason I don't walk often over my favourite quarter is that I don't have ankle-protecting boots. I need to make a trip to the city to try on the Blundstones I believe will fill the bill.

Meanwhile, these leather shoes Cathy gave me are just about right.

Before long, Scott drove into the back yard and started baling up the swaths behind the house. I went in and got a can of "pop" out of the fridge to take out to him; he'd be thirsty.

Something was up with the baler, though, and when he called it quits and pumped out the last one, it was a baby.

Shy birds Cautious birds Flighty birds

Turkey vultures cleaned up a carcass down the road.

They wouldn't let me close enough for a good picture, but ... it is what it is.

Click on photo to enlarge.

Poppy City

I've never met a poppy I didn't like.
In my yard they are welcome wherever they volunteer themselves, just like violas, which I have learned to respect and leave be.
This year I have backed off my flowerbeds, letting them have their way (just to see what they'll do), being a slacker when it comes to weeding and deadheading. And I never, hard as I try, do enough staking for this fricking windy yard.
Yet these colourful plants give me so much pleasure. In the mornings I literally say a regretful goodbye to them before leaving for work. I'm serious!

It's been such a hot day that it's 76F in the house and that's still cooler than it is outside, now, at 10:30, so we will leave the windows closed a while yet.

It's really summer, I figure, when windows can be wide open all night. Love it.

Rosebud Hall

This little country hall is one mile from our place, as the crow flies.

It was built in 1937 or so, but is still in use for community events.

We attended a wedding there last month.

When the DJ started playing Nazareth's version of "This Flight Tonight," my dance partner made some remark about the song and I said "Joni wrote it." He thought I was kidding. 

I thought, You've Been My Sweetie for 14 Years and You Think I Am Kidding?! 

I said, Damn Right. 

He gave me that look. You know, the one that means he thinks I am deluded. But dammit, he wouldn't bet me any cash! I proved it the next morning and couldabin 50 bucks richer.

And here's Nazareth:

On the Lake with Karen

And what a lovely afternoon it was!
I found Karen in her kitchen, with a plate of cut saskatoon/raspberry squares (three pieces = lunch) on the counter. We had a cup of coffee and watched pelicans out on the water, then decided to head out in Karen's paddleboat.
I had never been in one and was actually in the thing and being pushed away from shore before I remembered: I do not go into deep water without a lifejacket!
Karen, super swimmer that she is, laughed at me when I got out of the boat and walked back up to the house to find safety gear. But I do NOT fool around when it comes to water. I have a horror of drowning. I don't any better like the idea of watching someone else drown, either, but Karen was having none of that lifejacket business. (But Karen, you have so much to live for! And accidents happen!)
We "bicycled" around Margo Lake for an hour or two, chatting, watching the birds on the water, admiring the private beaches where, were I 30 years younger, I'd've been silly enough to sunbathe and soak up those old cancer rays naked.
Unfortunately my little point-and-shoot camera couldn't zoom in close enough to get a great shot of the pelicans, those humongous, splendid creatures!

OOGLY SEESES

It only took me five years to make use of the three-way calling option on my SaskTel phone.
I had to call SaskTel and ask how to use it. Oy!
Fortunately it's very simple, and so at 9 a.m. I dialed both my beautiful ugly sisters, one in BC and one at Margo, and had a nice chat.
Must make a habit of it.

Speedwells

No Once and For All

My plates and glasses and bowls and coffee cups were all purchased at garage sales. Nothing matched, and that's the way I liked it. There was variety.

But someday, I thought, someday I am going to find a set of dishes that I fall in love with, and I'll buy them.

I never did fall in love with a set of dishes. At least, not love at first sight.

Instead my mother and sisters gifted me over the years with dishes from Princess House, which I thought so ridiculously expensive that I wouldn't buy them myself. For example, a set of four highball glasses is $50, and shipping them would add another $15 to the bill. Who can afford that? Hmph. I mean, why would you when you could spend 50 cents at a garage sale and take home half a dozen?

However, I ended up with a bit of a collection since my sister Karen was a rep for PH and when there were good sales, I'd look at the catalogues and purchase a set of crystal wine glasses or coffee mugs or something.

When Mom was living with terminal cancer in 2004/5 and I moved with my boys to Kelowna to be with her, we rented a suite that came complete with dishes. However, the first time I poured white wine into the glass provided by the rental kitchen, I was shocked at the difference in quality and esthetics between your everyday wine glass and the crystal goblets I had left back at home. This thing I was drinking out of was no beautiful object; it was functional, but not beautiful, and back home I had grown accustomed to holding something beautiful in my hand.

I had been spoiled.

When I turned 50 my sisters gave me a whack of money to spend, and I used it to purchase two or three sets of matching plates, side dishes, serving bowls and plates, casseroles and so on. Everything I could possibly want and was ordinarily too cheap to buy, I could now afford, and so I did.

Once at a garage sale I picked up and brought home a ceramic cereal bowl that appealed to me. But when I set it in the kitchen cupboard alongside my PH cereal bowls, it looked shabby and ugly in comparison. I gave it to the dog.

We've lived in this house here at Golden Grain Farm for about five years without livingroom or kitchen curtains. They're not really needed when no one can see in your windows, so there was no rush, but I figured someday I'd shop for curtains I really, really liked and then I'd buy them. I watched the Sears catalogues that came out, but never went to the city to look; I don't enjoy shopping and don't do it unless I need to.

And then this winter I thought, if I wait till I make a trip to the city look for curtains I can fall in love with, we will never have any. And you know what, Kathy? I said to myself. It's not brain surgery I'm doing here; mediocre curtains can be replaced. I can hang any old set of curtains up on that picture window and, if one day I come across a pair I love, I can buy them and pass along the old ones. Meanwhile we'll have curtains to close if we want to watch TV in the afternoon or keep the cold out in the winter, and the living room will feel cosy and complete.

I ordered some from the catalogue. They still aren't hung, nor are the rods I ordered to hang them on. But they're here.

Don't wait and wait and wait for that "someday" in order to find that perfect thing. As we all know, that someday may never come.

If you are happy with your eclectic collection of kitchenware, that's okay too. I've been there. It's just that I have inadvertently, without intending to, fallen in love with my Princess House dishes. They are actually a pleasure to wash, dry, and put away, because they are, to my mind, somewhat lovely (as dishes go).

Maybe I'll fall in love with these curtains, if they ever get hung.

It's the same with jewelry. I can rarely find anything fabulous enough to buy, and don't get excited when jewelry is given to me, but after wearing it for a while become quite enamoured of it.

There may be no point to this entry, but I won't wait till it has a perfectly good reason for being. It probably never will. You can have it right now.

Driver

Some of the most blissful times for me are drives out to the field.

 I may go along with Scott when he goes to check crops, or maybe I'll take him out there and leave him with a piece of machinery that he will drive home later (as in the photo below), but either way, the trips to and fro are happy times. I may be bumping slowly over a rough dirt road at low speed or absentmindedly listening to my farmer remark upon the state of affairs — it's soon time to do this or that, depending on what level of development the plants are at — but I know I'm living the good, good, good life when I'm out there.

What I do at my job

I asked Lorna what she would like to see more of, here.
Her reply: "I haven't quite figured out what you do at your job." Something like that.
I have been thinking, How would I describe my job?

It's been a learning experience.
Not that I haven't worked for newspapers before, but it was in a different capacity, and Wadena News is one of a kind.

It's been around since 1908 and has a readership that spans generations of families.
People move away and still subscribe to it so they can keep up with folks back home. We mail all over the country as well as to 21 communities locally.
Some people drive into town on Mondays just because that's the day the paper will be in the mail.

My job is to relieve the owner and publisher of some of her editing and layout duties so she can concentrate on other essential areas.

I soon offered to manage the Opinions page, where we print commentaries and letters to the editor, and the This and That column, which is a hodgepodge of items too last-minute or too short for an article but of some interest.

Then, I read. And read. And read.

I'm an incorrigible proofreader. If I notice a typo or error, I can't help myself: I have to fix it. I read every article and column that goes in, and everything else there is time to read before the paper goes to press on Friday. I write captions for photos, headlines for articles, and subheads for columns and correspondent news.

Scott parks in the shade of the maple tree when home during the heat of the day.

Then I read. And read. And read. That's what editors do, tightening and polishing as they go, trying not to be too heavy-handed even when they're dying to rewrite something completely. Editors are improvers, clarifyers, and nitpickers.

Coming from a decade as a subject editor with the Canadian Encyclopedia, my editing skills till now have been geared toward the facts, the facts, and nothing but the facts, with vignettes of colour sneaked in whenever possible. One time I edited a biography of a well-known First Nations actor who wanted it to list the names of his dozen grandchildren and his half-dozen great-grandchildren, of whom he was naturally proud and who, he was right to assume, were important life accomplishments of his own as he and his wife were raising some of them. I had to say sorry, but our bios can't include all that detail beyond what you have accomplished in your career.

Here, however, it is just the opposite. Since everybody knows everybody, and knows everybody else's immediate families and cousins, not to mention everybody else's neighbours, and usually their neighbours' dogs' names, too, we want to put names galore into the articles, and mention who the subject's parents and grandparents are, and where they were all raised.

After 10 months in the e-chair I am still learning how to look at community news, what requires more coverage than other things and why, and how, and so on. When they said you can learn something new every day, I think they may have been talking about those of us who work at newspapers.

Get back on that horse, giddyup, giddyup

And it's back to the morning scurry for this kid.

Not that I'm complaining. It's good to have a job, and I enjoy the work well enough. But time off is addictive and passes too quickly.

Fortunately, and I remind myself often, most weeks I have more days off than on if you don't count the hours I put in Monday mornings from my home office, putting articles and pictures onto the webpage (Lorna: http://wadenanews.ca). They don't feel like work so I tend to forget about that.

And now, the oatmeal porridge is down and it's time for a quick dip in the tub, and then I must leave poor Ducky Doodle alone in the porch for the day.

Summer Days

8:48a.m.

"You no bring me coffee, me no clean filter basket!"

Maybe Scott is finally getting the message, because he brought me a mug of the black early this morning, before leaving the house. So I’ve been up for an hour, instead of sleeping till 9 or 10.

Holidays, what are they good for! Sleeping in, that's what I say.

Honest to god, I'm a sleeper. I'm a stay-up-late, sleep-till-the-cows-come-home kinda gal, trying to be an early-to-bed, early-to-rise'er and not being very successful. But it's coming. Slowly. 

Emil was here all weekend, and as usual in the morning when I remember he’s not here, I’m a bit disappointed at finding myself alone in the house. If you don't count my doggy shadow, that is. The Duck has been keeping pretty close since we've had days and nights of thunderation mixed in with the heat and sun. Yesterday there was a five-minute shower that I waited out, stood under the eave outside the door. Lots of gorgeous weather to watch from the chairs on the deck, with my evening glass of wine in hand and my neck and ankles slathered up with an essential oil combination meant to repel mosquitoes and ticks.

The only thing better might be having some company out there once in a while.

Scorpion Alert!

Everett likes to go down to the farmers market in town every second Saturday. He is a fan of homemade jams and, apparently, of iron art. This was on the kitchen table yesterday when I dropped Emil off at his house for a couple hours. Its creator said it took him all evening to make one.

Everett is a Scorpio, so this is fitting. Watch out for those pincers.

Vodka and Pink Grapefruit Juice

Yeah, so?

I am on holidays, and it is hot out.

And it's not as if I didn't do anything today. Scott offered me cold cash to sweep up a couple rooms at a construction site, so off I went in my leather sandals and without workgloves. Drywall dust could be wiped off the sandals after, but a blister did start developing on my little finger. Good thing it was done in less than two hours. Thank goodness; I was bored silly anyway, though it was a welcome change from what I've been doing the past week or two.