Off to an Auction

The sheltered workshop has opened a secondhand clothing store on Main Street, and once in a while, when I take a break from work and need something to do with myself, I stop in and flip through the clothing on hangers.

Once I picked up a brand new nightie for about $4. It was a "large" but I thought "It's a nightie, it'll be fine," and it is. Not only is it fine, but it is light, airy, and has pretty lace and other sewn features, and I have been wearing it quite a lot on warm nights. I'm wearing it now.

This week I spent $24 and came home with six new items: five shirts and one set of pyjamas. I removed the tags and laid them out on my bed for a photo (thinking always of you!) before folding for drawers or slipping onto hangers.

I lay in bed the next morning, propped up with a book and my cup of black coffee, and was so delighted by the sight of the red-checked shirt in the doorless closet. Clearly I am a lover of the colour, yet do not wear it nearly often enough.

***

There is an auction sale in Margo this morning. It starts in 40 minutes and Scott wants to go. He hopes there will be a tiller for sale. I'll pop over to my aunt Shirley's for a quick visit while he's there.

Then it will be back here so he can keep at the cupboards. He picked up a new sink in town an hour ago and should have everything he needs.

Palm Bay all the way!

Jeebus!
These things are dangerous:

They go down WAY too fast.

AUNT RETA:
HAVE YOU BOOKED YOUR TICKETS YET?

On the War Path

Out of the office by five o'clock on production day. Woo hoo!
Home, and Scott is working on the cupboards. Woo hoo!

The ants, which apparently had a little nest under the kitchen cupboard, discovered my ant annihilator: Borax and sugar. It takes a day or two, but once they've filled up on this concoction and taken it back to their nest, it's usually the last you see of them. I asked Scott how many were still alive when he ripped the cupboard apart. Just a few, he said.

They are gone and so is this cupboard.

Unfortunately some tiny red ants in the pots on my deck are doing all too well. My attempts at poisoning them without poisoning anything else haven't worked. The cornmeal sprinkled on top of the soil hasn't done the trick either. I like to think these methods decimated their numbers, and maybe it's true, but there's a ways to go.

What next? Do they make an Uzi for this?
Keep in mind this is an organic farm. No fooling around; no Roundup or chemical spray.

Layabouts

There am I, slaving away in the flowerbed, while Ducky and Jenna lounge nearby on the grass.

The poppies have begun to bloom and are quite stunning across the breadth of the garden.

My breakfast oatmeal is cooking; I have to set the stove timer, or I'll forget about it.

I'm thinking a lot about a friend who is dying, who expects to go any day now.
Helpless, ineffectual am I, not even knowing what to say, unable to express my own feelings.
It's her daughter's birthday today and she wanted to live to celebrate it with her, but didn't think she would. She has, though! I am not surprised at all.

I wish there was a way to make a person feel the depth of one's care and concern, one's esteem, but words fall far too short.

Ellen: I've just approved a comment from you, and it has disappeared! Anyway, I hope you soon have the opportunity to bake some bread. It's pretty satisfying, any way you slice it. 

Tree Stump Fairy House

Sheila is making a fairy garden.

Here's an idea I like and may implement somewhere, someday ...

If you do it, Sheila, let me know!

If I ever see a fairy, I'll certainly report it here on my blog.

Maybe.

As Dad would say:
"Kathy, you know what they say about people who (see ghosts, talk to themselves, whatever) ... ."

This, That and T'Other Thing

We went to a wiener roast on Sunday afternoon with Faye and Rick's family. Their daughter and her hubby were there with their twin girls, four months old. Their great-aunt had given them these dandy bottle-holders, which worked like the dickens:

The girlysues with their "boppy pillows."

And now ... it's back to work for me, for the next three days.
I've got the slowcooker ready to be plugged in, making a meatloaf for supper tonight.
The arborite has arrived, so I have to get the lower cabinets emptied. Not this morning, though; I hoped to be at the office already, and still have to bath and dress and wash the dishes before leaving.

Arborite waiting patiently in guest room.

One day last week, Everett and I went out for a meal together. He always has the same thing: a grilled cheese sandwich and french fries. He opens the sandwich and carefully lines up the fries on the cheese before replacing the top slice of bread.

My iPhone battery had been draining quickly and he tried to figure out why, since no one else could.

I had taken the phone to the place where it was purchased, and a clerk there turned off every app she could think of that might suddenly have started draining the battery. Why? I don't use any of the apps and there had been no problem till now. Thanks to Everett, we figured out that I had set the Display to always be on, and that was the culprit. Not that I had set the display like this on purpose! Simply that I hadn't known what I was doing.

Show Me the Money

A news story (click HERE) in  Saskatchewan contains a video recording of a bullying incident on a schoolbus.

It's suggested that the driver needed to manage the situation, in the first place.

Why is it up to the driver? In this case, it's because the driver was the only adult present. But why is that?

The driver should be watching the road, not supervising the passengers. These are two separate jobs. There needs to be a position for someone who makes sure all is calm in the seats, so the driver can focus.

The best drivers might actually tune out the noise and commotion, if any, while they are concentrated on the very important work in front of them.

Where would the money come from?
It would be a big program if implemented schoolwide, citywide, provincewide, nationally. Even with volunteers from among the parents, there would still have to be administration, criminal checks, and so on.
This is probably already being done in many places, whence one could turn for a model.

Why isn't it being done everywhere already?

No Prison Here

7:50am

Scott is mowing, or I’d be out on the step. It’s cloudy but not too cool.

Today I’ll bake bread. But there is no rush. I have all day and can start when the mood strikes. 

Among the books I’m reading — four, right now — is Oscar Wilde and the Murders at Reading Gaol.

Prison life as described in the novel is appalling. Not only was there terrible deprivation — a board to sleep on, watery gruel for meals, and the threat of beatings for merely looking at anything — but there was to be no contact with other prisoners, no friendships, no human commiseration or support. Prisoners, when moved from one place to another, had to wear a hood covering their faces, with openings only for their eyes. When made to attend chapel, the prisoners’ seats were physically separated by partition so that they could neither touch, see or speak to each other. When they were walked for daily exercise, they had to wear the hoods and pace five feet apart.

            Conditions in prisons are different now, at least in so-called civilized countries, but I have often heard people say that prisoners have it too good, with their comfortable clean rooms, three square meals a day, and so on. Not only should they have no luxuries, people say, but everyday life should be harder than it is for the honest person who has to work for a living; nothing should come easy for one who has broken the law and been sentenced to a prison term.

            This attitude overlooks the fact that, due to prison reforms and modern reasons we incarcerate law-breakers, prison life is not intended to be the punishment for wrongdoing. The punishment is loss of liberty, itself; imprisonment is only the means of carrying it out.

           

  I refer you to PRISON ARCHITECTURE, which explains it in detail: http://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/prison-architecture/.

8:14am

Scott is in; gone to the basement to transfer laundry from washer to dryer, talking on phone; apparently it is "spitting." We hope for rain. We had two-tenths on Friday night; not enough. 

All my flowers are in! 

Also reading: 

• The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde; Picture of Dorian Gray.

• The Devil You Know, by Elisabeth DeMariaffi.

• The Imperfectionists, by Tom Rachman.

Ah, there he goes. 

"Byyyyyye ... ," he calls from the porch..

"Wait," say I, getting up from this chair. "Where is my kiss? My hug?"
He waits till I get there.

I say, throwing my arms about his neck, "Work! Is that all you can think about? Work? You're all about work! What about love!"

A quick kiss, and off he goes. 

There are Guide Dogs for the Blind, and Sniffer Dogs for Diabetes

When you have sleep apnea, as Scott does, it is not healthy to sleep without your C-pap machine, as your blood oxygen can get low. However if you are like Scott, you fall asleep quickly and easily, lying on the couch or even sitting up.

I have become accustomed to that, but had also arrived at a point where waking him up had gotten to be a pain in the ass. I might be snarled at; I was often ignored. I thought, to hell with you then; you know better than to put yourself in front of the TV where you are sure to fall asleep. It's really up to you to take responsibility for your own health.

That didn't last long. He'd be lying there snoring, and I could almost hear the brain cells dying from lack of oxygen. I redoubled my efforts, getting on Scott's case every single time I noticed he'd fallen asleep (and sometimes, he claims, when he hasn't). I'm not always in the room, though; sometimes I'm here in the office, or I'm reading in bed, or I'm outside, or not home.

But donchaknow, our doggy friend Ducky Doodle has decided to help. He has figured out that Scott must not sleep on the couch, and jumps onto his chest to wake him up as soon as he hears the telltale breathing of sleep. If he's already snuggled up with Scott, he'll get up and put his nose into Scott's face. What a great help he is! Smart little fellow.

Scott's at war with the dandelions.

Ralph's Rainbow

Wow! I have never seen a rainbow quite like this.

The proprietor of Mindless Ramblings posted this photo:

Click to enlarge.

Click HERE to go to Ralph's blog.

Sighful

9:42 am
It is so beautiful outside that it’s a shame to come in. I walked around in absolute bliss in my fluffy green housecoat, glass coffee mug in hand, sun warmly shining, early morning rain rising off the grass, perennials lush and green … .
The birds … far and near, all different songs …
The lonely ruffed grouse still thumping for a mate …
The pair of ducks that flies off the lawn …
The flock of wee birds chasing off a merlin …
The kerfuffle of wings on the water …
Wet dirt smeared on my fingers from pulling grass out of flowerbeds.
I’m going back out with my fresh cup of coffee.

Water that hasn't drained away in several summers has killed trees in the middle of the bush near the driveway.

Tree Sweaters

This:

I would not have thought of doing this, not in a million years.

See more sweet ideas HERE.

After a long hard day, Everett is

He spotted my car the moment I turned the corner and parked in the shade of the trees. We chatted for a few minutes before he went in to clean up his kitchen (he said) and I came home to see what was what.

My evening so far: carry in more groceries, unload bags of soil and peat and a couple new planters from car, drink two caesars a wee bit too quickly, visit with Scott before he hops on the quad and goes to look at the pasture, walk around the yard and to the road (best part of day!) where the wind is cold and turn around and come back, trim sprigs off trunks of oak trees, make oven fries, talk to Emil on the phone, get into pyjamas, have a cup of tea and an oatmeal square, and it's after nine already.

Ain't it excitin'! Tell you what; it's exciting enough.

The oriental poppies are going to make a helluva show this year.

Farming Naked

"You're not putting pictures of me online, are you?" he said, meeting me between the truck and the tractor last night.

"Just the naked ones," I promised.

Broadcasting clover.

Happiness Helper #2

Days with fair weather, long summer days, not too hot, not too cold, when I can be outside and have things to do out there, make me happy.

Not a lot to do. I don't want to kill myself. I like to work among the plants for about an hour, then come in and do something else, then go out again. All day and half the night, in and out I go. It's probably my ideal day.

Bleeding heart basking in evening light.

After picking up groceries on my way home from work, I made supper and walked out to the field to see Scott and got another dozen bedding plants tucked into their summer homes. That's almost all! Just a few more packs to find homes for. Damn it feels good to see them where they want to be. Now to watch them go crazy, growing. The wind has been hard on them but now that they're in the ground they'll withstand it better. I hope.

Simple Is as Simple Does

What is it that makes me happy? Seriously. On a daily basis — What?

1. A clean kitchen.

I threw out several recipes that can as easily be found online. 

It’s true. Give me a clean kitchen first thing in the morning or right after breakfast, and I’m like to be inspired to actually make use of it. To enjoy myself in it.

Some of yesterday's accomplishments, on their way out to the deep freeze

Conversely, let those dishes pile up and the counters fill, and there is a weight of distaste on me till everything’s clean and tidy again. The more they pile up, the harder it is for me to get started; I may ignore the job altogether until there is no choice.

I decided to use up the tomatoes and peppers in the deep freeze by making salsa.

It would be wise to wash the dishes often, even when there aren’t many, so that there is rarely a buildup. Then I would be happy more often, wouldn’t I? And happiness breeds more happiness.

And then I outdid myself by making oatmeal squares for my sweeth tooth. 

Sometimes it’s the simplest habits that are the most difficult to undertake, to establish and stick to. Even when they are essential to my happiness, or at least contentment. What the hell!

***

Somewhere lately I read this advice for when you're feeling down or even a little depressed: Get out the broom and sweep a floor. 

I decided to remember it because of its practicality. Who doesn't feel better after sweeping a floor? Even if it's only the floor in one small room, it's one step toward putting a place in order, and doing that changes my mind. 

Those of you living with clinical depression — feel free to ignore the above. I do not mean to suggest I know anything about that condition, or presume to advise. I'm talking about your run-of-the-mill, everyday crappy mood, not the I-don't-want-to-get-out-of-bed state of being. 

***

Deeper not Wider

Some people give their handwritten journals a title on the first page. I don't always remember to do it, but with the most recent notebook, begun August 2, 2014, I happened to. A title may entrench or foresee a theme that will emerge in the months ahead, they suggest. A title may help you keep in mind a life lesson you are working on.

"Deeper not Wider" is on the front page of the notebook I am coming to the end of. It's a life lesson I've been trying to learn for quite a few years already, and still don't feel I've really mastered it.

I need to make better use of what I already know, rather than casting my net out again and again, gathering new knowledge to set on my shelf of abilities and rarely take down.

On the back page I have collaged images of joy and beauty to give me pleasure whenever I see it, reminding me of that which I seek.

Throughout the notebook I have scribbled things I want to remember. Some I intend to try, like this one:

Flaky Pie Crust made from Olive Oil, by Jeff Davis
Stick 2/3 c olive oil in freezer for an hour, until consistency of gelato (more or less), then cut that into your dry ingredients in place of shortening. Then add liquid to bring it all together.

and

"The Foreskin's Lament"

and

Jen Grant, "Compostella" CD, No One's Gonna Love You Like I Do

Stacy May Fowles, Infidelity

The Promise of Energy Psychology, 2005
-David Feinstein, Donna Eden, Gary Craig

grumpy art historian

PREVENT CRAZY
•TREAT CRAZY •HEAL CRAZY
-if I ran the world

Meditation yesterday:
Mom and Grandma Benson came and we all did the Highland Fling and laughed and laughed.

Maan, by Kim Thuy
Notes from a Small Island, by Bill Bryson
Love Enough, by Dionne Brand
They Left Us Everything, by Plum Johnson

"We all have our inconsistencies, prejudices, irrationalities which, although strongly felt at the time, may be transitory. A letter captures the mood of the moment. The transitory becomes immutably fixed, part of the evidence for the prosecution or the defence." - P.D. James autobiography
This is true about diaries and journals as well as letters. She explains it better than I have been able to.

Pray to St. Anthony for the recovery of things lost.

People of the Plains, by Amelia Paget
As for Me and My House
Bird Brains, by Candace Savage

For the liver:
dark green leafy veggies
*spinach
*cabbage
*broccoli
*greens
-"especially good source of B vitamins and minerals liver needs to cleanse its detoxification pathways"

Protects against cataract formation:
-broccoli, cauliflower, brussels sprouts, and dark leafy green veggies

"Research suggests that zinc deficiency contributes to the slimming disease 'anorexia' by impairing the sense of taste and smell, and therefore the desire to eat." - Dr. Joshi

http://mannersaresexy.com/

"I know now, too, that the darkness heralds healing: that with each bout I am invited to a deeper place within myself and, paradoxically, to a deeper release. If I give myself over to depression, engage with it rather than resist it, it will take me places I never would have imagined."
-From Between Gods, by Alison Pick

@birddetective (Twitter)

Jenny Lewis, CD Acid Tongue

-an old-fashioned dance called the Irene Skipping Rope


Pics taken last night:


Emil has a little trouble making the transition on Sundays from being here to being back at the group home. He likes it there and likes his job the following week, but that switch from "Mom home" and "Work home" seems to get him worked up. I can tell because he will start talking unnecessarily about things already discussed and decided, to try to delay my leaving when I drop him off. To give him something to look forward to, we pick Everett up and go to the drive-thru for an ice cream treat. I have a small butterscotch-dipped cone and the boys each have a blizzard. When those are gone, Everett carries Emil's shoebag and packsack to the door of the group home. It's very windy; Emil does not have a hunchback.

And with that, my fine-feathered friends, I leave you and get on with the day. I've already taken three trays of potted plants from the porch to the perennial flowerbed and watered them and the ones on the deck and the pansies under the oaks. I've mixed up a batch of bread and the dough is rising now. I've run a sinkful of soapy water and filled it up with last night's supper dishes and wiped the counters and must now make my way through them. But first, just one leisurely walk to the end of the driveway. I've gotten cold, sitting here.

What the Dying May Be Trying to Tell Us About Where They're Going

Read this excerpt from the book:

What the Dying May be Trying to Tell Us

Its author, Patricia Pearson, will be interviewed on 'Tapestry' today on CBC Radio.

Listen to the full episode online HERE.

"According to Patricia Pearson, about fifty percent of the bereaved sense the presence of the dead. Her book is called, Opening Heaven's Door: What The Dying May Be Trying to Tell Us About Where They're Going."

Pearson

Another Kathy

Wise words from my "internet" friend of 15 years, Kathy:

Life can be really fucking mean so you just better have a good time while you can.

I'm reminded that we all share the human experience of, among other things, losing loved ones.

I see that her hubby has good taste in television. He too is a fan of Doc Martin, a comedic series set in Cornwall. It's one of few programs that Scott and I both watch, and I'm pretty sure Mom would've liked it.

Kathy ... she makes me laugh.

It's their 28th anniversary and Nugget has just shaken her hand. HA!! The foolishness of men; but it's making me grin all over.

Kathy's also recently celebrated five years free of breast cancer.

When I see Kathy's blog rise to the top of the list (Arts & Letters in the column on the left), I immediately go read. Kathy is not to be missed!

Here's her most recent entry: CLICK HERE.

Last Minute Check

This was the scene last Friday afternoon at the news office as some of my co-workers and I looked through the pages one last time before sending them off to press. Gotta make sure all the booked ads are there, and try to catch any unnoticed misspellings or errors.

Left to right: Rita, who does our paginating; me, editor-type; Bev, receptionist.

And here we go again! I'm off out the door shortly.

You'd Think I Was a Busy Person

How I managed to squeeze five hours of actual work into yesterday, with all the running around I did, I don't know. As a matter of fact, I am going to recheck my addition, as it hardly seems possible.

My trusty hairdresser is taking a month holiday starting next week, which meant getting my do done before she leaves. (Have a wonderful holiday, Sandy!) After that, a trip to the doctor's office was on the agenda. I felt a woodtick under the upper ridge of my right ear on Monday morning — felt it when it bit in. Gross little bastards! The ear has been swollen, red and itchy, so I thought antibiotics might be in order.

This is the waiting room, which never seems to be busy. I wonder why they added onto the clinic recently.

Instead the doctor prescribed an antihistamine and a cortisone (?) cream.
"Come back in a few days if it gets worse," he said.
"Okay," said I. "This means I can still have my beer and wine."
"Yes," he replied, winking, "Medicine is an art, you know, not a science."

So it was off to the drugstore, and making a few quick stops in other places while waiting for my prescriptions. I picked up a foot-high stack of library books, got a refund for a flower arrangement purchased for a funeral but accidentally undelivered, purchased some gauch, stopped at the post office, and perused store shelves for a new notebook, as the current one is nearly full. Then back to work and settling in for mere moments when I received a text from Charlene:

"Just a reminder: 4 o'clock appointment."
And out the door I went for another hour.

This might be the first time I've had my bi-weekly, now monthly, shiatsu treatment without any tender spots in my lower back and the soles of my feet. Could it be that after three months of daily hatha yoga, things are happening that ought to be? My nose still won't touch  my knee, though it will get there eventually. As we get older the muscles and tendons take longer to come around, or something like that. (Thank you, Charlene; truer words may never have been spoken.)

When I got back to work, there was a text from Karen. She'd been in town for a funeral (which I didn't know anything about or would have gone) and wondered if I had time to meet for coffee or supper. I would roll naked over pointy pebbles to spend five minutes with either of my sisters, but yesterday I just couldn't manage it. There was work to do and if my employer had a mean bone in her body, which she doesn't, she'd have been bending her eyebrows in my direction. I texted Karen back that unless she could meet me in an aisle of the grocery store in about half an hour (we were getting company overnight and needed a few things before the store closed at six), I couldn't make it.

"That's good," she returned my text, "because I'm already on my way home."

A mere half-hour at my desk and I was off to the store. When that last errand was done and the bag of groceries was tucked into the office fridge, I sat down at my desk with a sigh of relief. Everyone but Alison and I had gone home for the day. The phone wasn't ringing; it was nice and quiet. I read through an opinion piece, picked out some photos, scoured an article about a local event, and Alison and I looked over the page layout and made some changes, fitting stickers denoting articles and ads onto the blank sheets, like a jigsaw puzzle.

Then Scott called on my cellphone.

"What are you doing?"
"Working. What are you doing?"
"Doc's arrived. We're just having a beer. Do you have a plan for supper?"
"Bringing pizza fixins home."
"Anything you want me to do?"
"Chop up onions and peppers."
"Okay, see you in a bit."

That was at seven o'clock. I figured I'd better be a good host and so called it a day and got on the road home.

Two beer and two slices of pizza later, and after a couple hours of gabbing at the kitchen table, I got my pyjamas on, did my yoga, and said goodnight.

Now and Ten Years Ago

When Mom was in her last days, I remember it seeming unreal that the rest of us would go on without her. We would, of course, but I couldn't imagine my own life without her in it, or our family life without her. I couldn't imagine what it would be like in a year, let alone ten. But here we are. Ten years. Wow.

I thought it would get to be less painful, but it hasn't, actually. Well, it's different. Not so intense, but much deeper, like a very old regret that no longer affects today but rattles the foundation a little when recalled. Tears can still come quite quickly at times though, surprising me, as if sorrow is barely under the surface. But it's not as if I walk around grieving, or even think of Mom every day.

I'm still pissed off at life for letting us down, disappointing us so hugely. Never mind that it's irrational; it's how I feel. We can talk about Mom and remember her and have our laughs and fond memories, and that's all good. I like that and like being with other people who knew her and/or loved her. Losing her made me appreciate Dad and my sisters and brothers more than ever, and know — in my bones, now, and not just in my head — that someday we'll part, too, wrenched away from each other.

Kelowna
Wed, May 11, 2005
She couldn't stay awake well enough to get a muffin from the plate in her lap to her mouth. Dad fed it to her by spoon. Anemic; blood transfusion tomorrow morning. Then an x-ray of the bum left shoulder.
She did manage to drink an entire glass of Ensure.
Poor sleepy thing. I kneel by her chair, caress her feet and calves. She says a few drowsy words, makes sense but so, so tired.
*
Scott gone back to Saskatchewan today. Lonely bed.

Sunday, May 14, 2005
Mom hasn't picked up as much as in the past after transfusions.

Monday, May 16, 2005
Went to Mom's around 10:30. She was unable to pee when she sat on the commode, or the toilet either; she hasn't since last night, and wanted the palliative care nurses called to put in a catheter. Reta is a nurse but Mom didn't want her to do it.
"I wonder how much longer I have," she said to me while this was happening. She looks pretty good, colourwise. Aunt Reta says the methodone for pain can be shutting things down.
I spent most of my time there cutting and preparing fabric squares for the quilted tablecloth Mom wants to make for Mary Jo. Came home after picking up the boys, and went straight to bed. After one hour, woke myself up crying about Mom. After another hour, woke myself up again, also crying about Mom in a dream.
Joanne Bohl phoned last night to say she and Gerald plan to come around the 13th if Mom is well enough to know them, by then. I can't imagine she'll go downhill that fast — but of course I can't, and she might. Dr. Davidson told Dad again that with the amount and size of Mom's tumour, he doesn't understand why she's still with us. And that things could go wrong very quickly. If she stops eating and drinking, Dad said, it could be two or three days only.
Mom goes to hospital for a bone scan Wednesday morning, and a shot of radiation late that afternoon. Did I mention her shoulder is fractured and there's cancer there?
Poor girl, if it isn't one thing it's another.

Mom can't do much of anything now and Reta has been taking care of her. Dad too. I go over every day and talk to Mom, help with what I can.
Biscuits! I should bake some fresh biscuits over there. Mom might like that.

Wednesday, May 19, 2005
-flowershop for two bouquets for Mom from Aunt Gladys; lily, and gerbera daisies
-home to work
-sing with ugly sisses
-supper
-off to Mom and Dad's

mom's not good
mom's not good
mom's not good

i haven't cried this way in a long time
forgot what it feels like

Saturday night, May 21, 2005
Neil and Rose had arrived. Dad was out with Karen, looking at cars, so I visited with them and Reta. Mom had been awake when they got there but hadn't stayed up long. I went and checked on her several times and spoke to her but other an an eye flutter, no response.
Dad had steaks out for supper so I came home and fed my boys. Neil and Rose called around seven when they were ready to be picked up and brought over here.
I went in to see Mom and as I looked at her — tucked her sheet up around her chin, untangled her hand from the bedrail and a bag-string threaded through her fingers, stroked her face — for the first time I thought her dying is not a long way off. It is here, or soon.

I knelt by the bed and held her hand between my two, trying not to cry. They were waiting for me in the living room so I didn't want to start. It took me a while. Dad came in to see. "Nothing?" he said, looking at me. "No." He shook his head and walked out. I composed myself with great difficulty.
I knew there is no way I can leave next Saturday for a week. No.
Unless — unless I see her awake tomorrow and she is somehow different. Reta thinks by the middle of the week we'll know whether it's the radiation that's doing this, or something else — the slide. But radiation didn't do this before. She could always wake up and respond when I spoke to her.
So — it was a knowing.

Sunday, May 22, 2005
Mom is weaker today.
Reta says she may only live a couple more days.
Grandma was phoned, and Uncle Bruce, to prepare them.
Cameron was phoned and told not to wait till Saturday as planned. He and Gord decided to drive out together tomorrow instead.
Scott and Dick are organizing themselves to come right away. Scott likely would have started off tonight but is waiting to hear from Dick in the morning whether he can come now or will have to come in a couple days.
If Neil and Rose weren't in the bed in the room directly below, I'd be sobbing noisily. It is a struggle to be quiet. I wonder if I am feeling sorry for myself. I hate myself if that's what this is. I am carefully wiping my eyes with a warm wet cloth in hopes that if I don't fall asleep with them soaked in salty tears, perhaps they won't swell shut on me again.
Uncle Neil told me he cries a lot too. Rose, who has lost two brothers and her dad, says it is harder to lose a sibling than a parent. I can't imagine anything, any death, being more painful than my darling mom's — even if someone who's been there says so. Except maybe deaths of children. But then, I can't imagine losing my kids, or my sisters, or Scott. I can imagine, but not with the emotional punch. Not the same as the real thing.
I left the bottle of rose oil by Mom's bed; it's supposed to help make dying easier. When we're alone I dab it under her nose, on her sheet, on her pillow.
Her system is shutting down, they think. Rose says this is what her dad looked like just days before he passed away peacefully. Reta thinks the end will be very soon.
Mom didn't eat today. She couldn't lift a water glass to her lips. She told Reta (when? not sure, but Reta told me today) she dreamed that her friend Mary Jo was going through the clothes in Mom's closet and Mom told her not to worry, that her three girls could wear her tops and that Karen had the same size bum as her and would be able to wear her pants.
I told Reta that's funny, Mom always said Karen and Joan have no bums and I am the one with a big bum like hers.
Oh, what is going through Mom's mind as she lies there? Was it just this morning that Reta got her onto the bedside commode and Mom managed the move and the sitting there quite easily?
And yet all I see is Mom hardly able to open her eyes, and barely able to get a word out. I understand her meaning sometimes — barely perceptible — she's thirsty, her lips are dry, the noise of people talking in the rest of the house is not bothering her at all — not really in words but somehow I understand.
She drank only a little bit of water today. She couldn't wake up enoguh to take her pills. She stayed in bed. She ate nothing. She got her liquid methadone in.
Thank God for Reta. Without her, Mom would be in hospice or hospital. Home is so much better, and Reta sees no reason why we can't keep her there until the end.
It is hard to have faith that Mom is going to a better place, that she'll never really leave us, that we'll all survive our broken hearts.
I keep seeing her smiling, healthy face in my mind though, very clearly. I hope I can always see it.
Karen is quitting her job tomorrow so she can help with Mom.
For a service here in Kelowna — "for Mary Jo" — Dad said Mom wanted it — I suggested we have the barbershop quartette sing, and we serve ice cream. Isn't that so Mom? Add to that: it should be a quilting bee — and we'll have covered all the bases.

Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Reta's 63rd birthday
Was there today when Mom awoke and was "restless" — what Dad and Reta called restless. I call it pain and panic. Reta gave her a shot that would put her back to sleep, but it wasn't immediate. Pretty distressed; she was, and so were we.
Dad had told me earlier that Mom was awake in the morning, experiencing the same thing. She'd said, "Get the doctor to give me something."
Dad said, "You mean you just want it to be over?"
She said vehemently, "Yes!"
After seeing her awake this afternoon, I know we have to keep her asleep if we can, otherwise she may suffer and we can't permit that to happen.
Reta had waited four hours between doses, but from now on will dose her every 2-3 hours so it doesn't happen again.
What could I do? Lay my hand on her forehead, her neck, her cheek, and speak soothingly until the shot came. Try to stay calm, to calm her.
After the shot, rub lotion into her feet. It seemed to help her settle down.

I threw off my blanket and went to sit beside Dad, and put my arms around him. He said he wanted to keep her asleep; we'd all had a few good moments with her yesterday. She'd asked us girls to sing our songs for Cameron, so we did in spite of his protests sing "Cheek to Cheek" a capella for her and, though it was impossible not to break into tears here and there, we got through it — and that would be enough for us.
I said yes; now we have to think of her and not of ourselves. You are absolutely right to keep her asleep.
Later when both Dad and Cameron sat at her bedside holding her hand and crying, I put my arms around each of them and told Mom not to worry, I would take care of them. This was two different times. How I managed not to cry myself I don't understand. I have shed so many tears (fewer since Scott arrived Monday around midnight; he must be a calming influence) and I know many more are coming.
I want to just stay there now and help look after her. If she is still alive in the morning I'm going to ask Dad if I can. Reta and Dad are doing a great job but I want to be there for Mom. Just be there even if I don't know what to do. My presence has helped her before — many times in the past year — and maybe it can help again.
Dad thinks tonight might be her last night and wanted all us kids to go over for a while with her after supper just in case. I asked Emil whether he'd like to come and see Grandma one more time before she died, and he said he would. Everett, who was with Gord at his rental suite, thought not but "Tell Grandma I love her and give her a kiss for me." Gord figured it was important enough to insist he go, and he took him over, and in.

She is breathing slowly but deeply. Her pulse is strong, Reta said. But her hands and feet, though warm, are becoming a bit mottled. She hasn't eaten for days and has drank only a glass of water or so.
The expression on her face and in her eyes has completely changed. Her eye colour is different but also somewhat vacant. She responds sometimes but is not always understandable.
I think we will be relieved for her sake when she goes, now. Poor thing.
*
Karen sponged Mom's face with a cloth yesterday to keep her awake until Joan could get there so we could sing "Happy Birthday" to her with Mom, or around Mom's bed.

Saturday, May 28, 2005
Mom died at 12:23 p.m. May 27, with Dad on one side of her, holding her hand, and me on the other with my hand on her neck, her brow, her face. Reta was there, and Karen, Joan and Cameron came in almost immediately. It was a relief for all as Mom's breathing had been laboured for a day or two. After a couple short periods of distress on Tues. or Wed. it was obvious she needed to be kept sedated in order to feel no pain, so we gave her shots every two hours till the end. Joan and I stayed overnight on Thursday and took turns giving Mom her meds so Reta and Dad could sleep. I am so glad I was there.

Where We Belong

One might think, from reading my journal, that I’m self-involved and lead an insular existence, unaware of and unconcerned by the struggles others face.

I watch the national news on tv sometimes though, though rarely, because there are too many commercials. I hear the news on the radio at least once most days, and read the news stories online that catch my attention. I’d never go without a local newspaper. I like to listen to As It Happens on weeknights on CBC radio, where a co-host calls around the world and talks to people involved in events that are occurring right now. I have a clue what’s going on. I’m interested and I care.

Another woman has been killed by a man she knew, a former lover who terrorized her when she chose not to be with him anymore. There is nothing new in that scenario; it keeps on happening. It makes me want to scream. Why can we not stop this?

A man with cancer, who took it on with as much humour as he could muster, has died. Everywhere you turn, cancer is killing someone. If it hasn’t taken someone you love yet, just wait. It will. Maybe you.

And bullying, not only by children but by adults too, and not just in other places but right here at home in our workplaces. Extreme poverty. Addictions. And pollution. Environmental disaster. Rape. Genocide. War. Injustice. You look around and wonder what is wrong with people. Why do these things keep happening? And what is my part? Is there something I can do to change any of it?

Some people will write pieces clarifying the state of affairs; once in a blue moon they even offer solutions rather than just pointing out the stupidity of others. Some will involve themselves in politics or activism, intending to make an impact somehow rather than accept the status quo or do nothing. Many donate cash, which they spent their time earning, to worthy causes. Huge numbers of people step out in their own communities and volunteer, doing what they can to improve situations locally, regionally, nationally, internationally. All are ways of feeling less powerless, less helpless against what feel like overwhelming odds; they are doing something.

We do what we can, where we can, how we can. Not everyone has the same energy; not everyone can focus on the same problems; everyone has their own path to navigate, and every right to stay on it. People are fighting their own battles every day, unseen, often misunderstood; most of us pass quietly through this world, leaving very little mark except upon those we have loved. And that, too, is okay. Private victories are just as essential as public scores. We can’t all be Nelson Mandela or Abraham Lincoln, nor are we meant to be.

I don’t write about world events and current affairs. Not only do I have no realistic solutions; I don’t even have bandaids or healing balms. I listen and observe; sometimes I understand; sometimes I weep, witnessing what is going on in the world, what is happening to people and animals and landscapes and oceans and the air we breathe.

No matter what you do or how much you do it, there is always more to do. You could run yourself ragged, sacrifice your health, your family life, and your peace of mind in order to save the world or your little corner of it. Is that what you want to do? Then go for it. If it feels good and right to you, do it.

But don’t assume that people who aren’t doing what you do or what you think they should do are doing nothing or doing the wrong thing or don’t care about anyone but themselves or are unaware or apathetic. Tend your own fire, and know that they are tending theirs. That humble, quiet mother living unnoticed out in the boonies, keeping her children fed and loved? She may be raising a future game-changer, but her name will never be a household word. That farmer with no time to attend meetings and sit on committees? He’s helping put food on your table as well as his own, and it’s not just an eight-hour-a-day job to do it. Everyone is playing their part, even if it’s behind the scenes. Even if they only whistle a merry tune when they see you, don't be fooled. They are as smart as you and as strong as you; take off your judge's cloak, stop making assumptions, and realize that most of us are just as concerned as you are about this world and the people in it. Not everyone is looking for accolades or recognition or letters after their names, but that doesn't mean the homebodies, the sports fans, the fashionistas, the TV-watchers and the shoppers aren't every bit as effective wherever they choose to put their attention. It all counts.

These two snipes were running around my lawn this morning. That's something I never see! Hear the air winnowing through their wings all the time, yes; see one sitting on a chimney of the tractor shed, yes;  but zipping around on the grass in front of the house — never! Quite a treat. I snapped this photo through the window and they didn't stop moving for even a second, so it's a bit blurry. 

A Farmer Needs

Sunday, 2 p.m.

Just back from the field just down the road, where Scott is cultivating. The air is scorchingly dry.

I warmed up a couple cans of mushroom soup and made two bunwiches with last night’s leftover steak, thinking he’d come in for lunch since he was close by. By 1:30 I knew he’d be starving and thought I might as well take the sandwiches out, and a cold beer. I considered biking as it’s so close, but decided it’s too hot.

When I parked on the approach the tractor was a quarter-mile away, halfway across the field, but he spotted the car and came rumbling toward me right away. Hungry, I knew.

The car doors were open so a breeze could blow through, but he didn’t sit. He stood and gobbled down the food, then poured the beer down his throat.

“Thanks, that was nice,” he said, turning to go.

“Glad I could help,” I replied, watching his shirt flap in the wind as he struck out across the freshly turned chunks of black dirt.

Kitchen Makeover

The top cupboards have been empty for a week or maybe two. Dishes for everyday use sit on the kitchen table. The rest are in boxes in the office or on the bed behind my desk.

That is all about to change.
After working in the field all day, Scott came home and started on the top cabinets.

They are "cheap" cupboards, he said.
"Hmph," said I, after saving for the past year to buy them. "They're better than what we had, and that's good enough for me."
The odd time I was called to fetch a bag of screws or a clamp. I was here in the office at 10 o'clock last night when I heard, "Aren't you even going to come and see how they look?"

This morning he is back out in the field.
The plan is to install the bottom cabinets when the arborite arrives.
I can hardly wait to not see all that crap inside the lower cabinets.

Today I'll be wiping down the shelves and putting the dishes away.

Sun to Wind to Rain to Cloud

It's another beautiful day out there and I'm still in my pyjamas, sitting in the office! Must rise from this chair and get some blood flowing to my ass.
But first . . .   .

Thanks to Scott, I was awake around 8 because he brought coffee to the bedside table before leaving for the field. It's been a lovely few hours of reading and writing. Eating buttered toast, drinking chilled orange juice. Hauling my bedding plants out to the deck, hardening 'em up before they go into pots a few days from now.

Life is good. The only thing I lack is a friend to sip margaritas on the deck with. Considering that I have no tequila to make margaritas, perhaps that's not such a bad thing.

Northern shoveller female, left, and American coot (what we call a mudhen)

I do, however, have a magnum of cold apple cider that I bought when Cathy came out from the city in February. What am I waiting for? Someone to share it with, as that stuff packs a punch but once opened you want to consume it so it doesn't lose its fizz.

Yesterday, for the first time since I began working at the WADENA NEWS a year-and-a-half ago, we had the paper off to press and I was out of the office at 5 o'clock. It was a lovely warm day and so nice to get outside. I went straight to the liquor store to pick up beer for Scott, as I figured he'd be in the field all day and not have a chance to get to town. While I was there I might as well nab another bottle of wine; ended up with two more. I'm set for the next week or two when it comes to booze, for sure.

After stopping at the two garage sales in town and spending a whopping $3, I dropped off a $1 shirt at Everett's and came home, where I found Scott on his garden tractor mowing the lawn. He'd already been to town, wouldntchaknow, and had put beer into the fridge. I lugged my bedding plants to the step and took a cold beer out to him before starting on the dishes I hadn't done the night before.

By the time those were done and Scott was in the house, dreaming about supper and no doubt disappointed, I was ready to crack a beer for myself and sit down for a few minutes. We enjoyed the peacefulness of our living room until my beer mug was nearly empty, and then he leapt up.

"I'm going for a drive," he said. "You coming?"

You bet. I love going for a drive cross-country. I downed the last swallow of bitter and followed him out the door.

There had been a farmyard fire on Victoria Day when a lawnmower blade struck a rock, igniting a flame, and Scott wanted to know whose place it was at. (Sheila B., it's your old place! I think the barn burned down.)

From there we putzed along, noting farmhouses for sale and fields of burnt stubble, wondering why at this time with so many fire hazards out there and the restrictions the Province is advertising on the radio, farmers are still lighting those fires. It doesn't make sense.  Maybe they don't listen to the radio or watch the news? Or maybe everyone thinks it couldn't happen to them.

Finally I said, stomach rejoicing, "Let's go to the Hendon bar. I'll buy you a burger."

It turns out the bar is for sale and its last day of operation will be May 30. Hate to see another small business go under, but it's the way of things with drinking establishments, especially in communities with a population of only dozens. It's not like rural dwellers can have a few drinks and then drive home, and even when you do have a designated driver, many people can't afford to socialize in bars too often when one drink costs five or six bucks.

We ordered our burgers and beer — Pilsner, once made in Saskatchewan and purchased by us last night only because the only beer made in this province now is Great Western and the bar doesn't stock it. Scott drank three-quarters of my beer after inhaling his own, and we both made pretty good dints in our plates of burgers and fries, and were home just before the stars began peeking out. Jupiter and Venus shone in the western sky next to the quarter-moon. The frogs sang. The sora called. I was sorry to come indoors and, now that I think of it, wonder why I did.

***

It was a beautiful day when I began this entry. But this is Saskatchewan, where the weather can change in an instant. I heard a sudden wind come up, and bolted out to the deck to move my bedding plants out of it. There were some hard raindrops, and then a big scary noisy wind, and now it's quiet again. Hm.

In Other Words

Reading Priya Parmar's novel, I often set the book down and pick up my notebook to copy one of her sentences. She writes beautifully (though the quotes below are not examples of it) and captures many subtle understandings that I recognize but have never put into words.

Writing as Vanessa, about Roger Fry: “I do not mind the stamp of ignorance, as I know he could never feel contempt. It is not within his spectrum of emotions.”

Plainly put, but it hits home. Contempt is a common attitude, and people who are not that way about others are the kind I prefer to be with.  It's no wonder Fry was so well loved by his friends.

Stopping to copy out excerpts slows down my reading, but with some books I am doing it every five minutes. About the writing of E.M.Forster:

“Morgan’s ideal is to bring the muddle into the open. He does not try to solve the muddle, he just hopes not to hide it. What a small, important thing he is doing.”

Yes. To face truths, but also accept rather than try to change or control.

“Virginia was trapped in a cyclone of anger and resentment by then and too far gone to hear.”

Again, so simply yet well put! I have never thought of it just that way, but of course that’s exactly how it is sometimes. People get trapped in intense, swirling emotion  and can’t or don’t know how to get out during those moments.

“Surprising that sincere affection can exist where there is no trust.” Again, simple yet true. We may be very disappointed in people but still care very much about them.

“The small day-to-day details of a family continue even when the heart of a marriage has been broken.” Vanessa’s new husband had a crush on her sister and had an affair with an old love, and so his intimacy with Vanessa was damaged. They carried on for some time with the everyday things, though, in spite of her broken heart.

“I do not owe the world a happy marriage, a perfect family. That is not my job.” Again, a truth so plainly put. How often do we women feel we are failures when our relationships and families don't fit the ideal!

Vanessa and Her Sister

I worked till 6:30 last night and got home shortly before 7. It was so gorgeous outside that I hauled in my packsack, my purse and a parcel  picked up earlier at the post office, and headed back out the door and down the road on foot. No jacket required! Just a little cotton blazer that I’d been wearing all day.

Scott was cultivating and as I walked back he stopped the tractor alongside the edge of the field and got off, so I went over to chat. He still wasn’t feeling too well so, though he had hoped to work a couple more hours and finish the field, he shut off the tractor and drove home on the quad. He was in the tub by the time I arrived with the dogs. When I went into the steamy room, I laughed: he was lying on his back and his face was black with dirt. I hadn’t noticed it when we stood talking outside. He wouldn’t let me take a picture, though I promised it would only be from the shoulders up.

A pair of blue-winged teal

I am reading a novel about Vanessa Bell and her sister Virginia Woolf. It is based on reality. Vanessa has discovered that her new husband is having an affair (perhaps only of the mind, but a love affair, nevertheless) with her younger sister, and she is struggling to keep her balance and reform her social convictions. How will she live with this knowledge? How will she not let it ruin the life she has created? How will she safeguard her relationships with those she loves?

It has got me thinking about betrayal. There are so many kinds of it. The obvious ones, like cheating on a spouse or sleeping with your best friend’s wife; these are the ones that society points at with disdain as beneath the decent person who is above reproach.

But what about all the other betrayals, not always recognized for what they are and the damage they do? The ones people so often don’t take responsibility for: betrayals of trust and kindness and respect and fairness, made out of foolishness, carelessness, weakness, cruelty, revenge, immaturity, anger, impatience, misplaced intention, disloyalty, lack of discernment. These betrayals are frequent, and while less obviously humiliating and hurtful, their impact is every bit as powerful.

Deconstruction

I never fail to be surprised by how long it takes to do things. There is so much more detail to deal with than I'm aware of! And it's not a matter of smashing things out quickly, but of taking them out carefully, step by step, and then doing repairs like plastering and waiting for plaster to dry and then painting and then waiting and then ... and so on.

Between all that, and the flu, and the fieldwork, we are living in an upside-down kitchen.

Scott removed the top shelves over the weekend; late yesterday afternoon I ran to town for a gallon of paint so he can do the touchups, and picked up a book to look at door and drawer handles.

Some of the old cupboards have gone into the basement for storage, and some have been carried out to the quonset, which Scott has full of tools and machinery and, of course, the biggest deep freeze I have ever seen, as there has to be a place for beef when the time comes.

Up and at 'er

We see moose so often, now, that last week I thought twice about digging out the camera to get a picture of these two as we drove back from Kelvington.

Meh! Who cares ... just more moose.

That was last Wednesday. The leaves have since come out a lot more, in spite of the cold over the weekend.

I've spent two days of my four off lying abed — much of Saturday with migraine, yesterday with a flu. I never get the flu! Guess it was my turn. Looks like Scott has it today.

I have to be out the door in 25 minutes to make an appointment at 10:15, so should get dressed. But I am not one to hurry in the mornings. It's fortunate that I'm not a half-hour makeup, half-hour hair kinda gal (anymore; been there, done that). Now it's splash some water on the face, soak down the bedhead (maybe), shovel down a piece of toast or bowl of granola, brush my teeth, and be gone.

After yesterday, I'm still not moving too fast, either. I can look forward to coming home and catching up on everything that didn't get done yesterday. Fingers crossed I'll have the energy and not end up back in bed.

Gardens to Come

Once the greenhouses are open, I can't stop myself.
Even though I know it's too soon.
Even though I've promised myself that I won't plant anything out before the second week of June, because of the way the weather's been in recent years. Even though I get sick and tired of moving the trays in and out of the porch at night, and trying to keep them out of the horrid wind, and of the soil in the small pots drying up so quickly.
I've already been to two different greenhouses and already spent $125 and here's what I have to show for it:

First tray gets its first direct sun out on the step.

Both trays come into the porch for the night. It still gets down to freezing out there.

These are not even all my favourites! They're just flowers that caught my eye.

And some green peppers and jalapenos and a few herbs. Someone has decided to prepare a proper garden space behind the house, and has been hauling soil from the field:

He is a fine vegetable gardener so I hope he goes for it. My first love is flowers and they will always be my priority (unless I'm starving), but I'll chop and freeze tomatoes and peppers and make all the salsa he can eat if he keeps a garden.

We did have a garden back there when we first moved. It was quite large and was all flowers, but the soil was shallow and there was a lot of clay. Eventually I moved everything to a new flower bed in the front yard, where I could admire it through the windows of the house.

In the back yard we had a new well dug, and a new septic tank installed. Last summer the ground was left to settle. This year it is being levelled for grass planting, and ... a new garden space with rich black soil.