September Party in August

We were invited to Faye and Rick's farm for a potluck supper last night to celebrate Faye's upcoming 50th birthday. She is facing a serious surgery in the very near future and won't be up to a party on the actual date in September.

When we arrived, Faye and Rick along with other friends were out in the yard playing some kind of game; I have no idea what it's called. Lawn chairs were scattered about; bottles of booze and mix were set out on a table in their relatively new and still-under-construction garage; food was in the house and a pork roast was on the barbecue.  When everything was ready, we filled our plates buffet-style and carried them out to the garage, where we sat around two tables and chowed down.

Then there was birthday cake:

Almost 50 and still younger than the rest of us.

Afterward, Rick made a bonfire on the gravel driveway and, while several guests stayed behind to tend to it (i.e. relax in their lawn chairs), the rest of us went for a short walk.

Two of the gals were a little speedier than the rest of us, and when they turned around, one of them said we reminded her of a famous photo of the Beatles — something about the way we were spread out across the road. She borrowed my camera, which was hooked onto a belt loop on my jeans, to try to get a picture of it. The end result was not what she was aiming for, but here's the pic anyway:

Left to right: me, Faye, Carol, Scott, Rick posing as walker. 

You may notice I was not wearing my fabulous new Blundstones! I knew I would be going in and out of the house and wanted footwear easy to slip off. I'm not quite yet at that point with the boots, which still require sitting in a chair and some focused attention.

Advertising Works

The marketing wisdom I've heard is that potential customers need to see your advertisement at least eight times before they'll decide it's time to purchase your product.

I, however, only read about Schmutzie's Blundstone boots once, and knew they were the boots for me.

My steel-toed workboots were 30 years old and the soles had cracked and let in water any time I stepped in anything even a tiny bit wet. I wanted high-topped boots to support my ankles so I can walk on uneven terrain without having to pick my way carefully over it. I wanted boots without laces to futz with or zippers to break. They had to be comfortable for walking several miles and they had to be able to breathe so my feet weren't hot and sweaty. Schmutzie's description of her Blundstone boots sounded like just the thing.

I went online and looked at the various styles and learned where they could be purchased. They are manufactured in Australia and only select retailers sell them. I didn't want to buy them without trying them on, and when Cathy and I were leaving the Broadway Café in Saskatoon, I remembered that the shoe repair shop down the street sells them. We meandered north a block or two and found the place. I tried them on, paid for them, and that was that. It was too hot to wear them except for one evening last week, when me and my new boots went for an evening walk.

New Blundstone boots, thanks to a generous cash gift from Scott at Christmastime.

Last night and this morning we had lightning and rain, and today it's grey and cool, so I'm able to wear them again. One more reason to eschew those hot summer days we've been having!

To read the original blog entry that introduced me to Blundstone boots, CLICK HERE.

At the Eye Clinic

Here's the view from my chair in the waiting room at the Wadena Hospital.
I had an appointment on Tuesday with the optometrists' clinic there.

About 10 years ago I got bifocals that I never used because I never got used to them. Instead I switch between reading glasses and distance glasses, and lately find that I see the television better without the distance glasses than with them. I figure my eyes have been changing and the eye test is a year overdue. The lenses on both sets of my glasses both seem a bit scratched. I'm sick and tired of carrying two pairs around, even though I can see without glasses; but noticeably read better with than without.

Most people I talk to who have gotten glasses at this particular clinic say they have not been satisfied with the glasses they got there or the way they were treated by the staff. But it is right in town and it is convenient to go there rather than drive an hour or more to another place, and I prefer to make my own judgments. My experience could be quite different.

Take this as an example of my not having the sense to take advice from those who have "been there." Or take it as an example of independent thinking. Probably it's a bit of both.

I found the staff perfectly pleasant, picked out a pair of frames as quickly as I could (because really they all start looking the same to me after I've tried on five pairs), and felt sick for two days at the cost of it all ($764). I had better be happy with these glasses when they arrive in two weeks.

You enter the building through the door on the right.

You go down the hall to the left to visit patients, and to the right to get lab tests done.

New Tarot Page on Facebook

How are you at keeping up your chosen routines?
I don't mean the easy ones, like drinking a cup of hot coffee every morning. I mean the ones that are easy to forget, like (in my case) drawing and reading a tarot card every day and posting the interpretation on my TAROT PAGE here on the blog.
My intentions are good and I stick to my routines for a while, sometimes for weeks or even months, but then as soon as my routine gets interrupted by some small thing, I just forget, plain and simple, to pick it up again.

So I thought maybe if I hung out my shingle on Facebook it would be a better motivator for me, and I set up a page there.

If you use FB and also have an interest in the tarot, click below to find the page:

Non-Traditional Tarot

Please "like" and "share."

Charleston

Life in Squares is a TV series being broadcast on BBC, but it hasn't aired in Canada yet. I'm looking forward to it; it's about the Bloomsbury Group, among whose members were Virginia Woolf and her sister Vanessa Bell.

Bell was a painter and she decorated the house she lived in, Charleston. Time has been doing its ruinous work, though, and so there is a fundraising effort being made to conserve the art.

Placement

Other folks may do it differently, but I do it the way that works best for me.
Some people put all their favourite photos and paintings in the living room or some place that visitors will be sure to see them.
Me, I put my favourite stuff somewhere that I will see it as often as possible.

In the bedroom, there's a small quilted tablecloth Mom made, and a set of quilted place-mats, and a framed needlepoint Aunt Reta made and gave me. I like to see all three of these every morning while I'm dressing and every time I walk into the room.

If you've been reading here for any length of time, you've already seen most of these. Probably more than once.

In the hallway between the bedroom and the office is a collection of family photos. Sometimes, seeing pictures of those who have passed away, I get heart pangs. This happens often. But I'd still rather be reminded than not. (I still miss my mother something terrible at times. You would think that this grief would be processed and no longer upsetting, but that is not the case even after 10 years. Anyway I'm sure it's normal. Right? It's not as if it keeps me awake at night or anything. It's just that the intensity of the impact — even now, occasionally — surprises me.)

An unwelcome thought is that someday, if nature takes its course, it won't just be Mom I'm missing when I see this photograph.

In the office is Mom's first palette painting; I love this one, as it really does look like poplar trees with a breeze rustling them.

And there is one of my sister Joan's early pastels, with colours that I adore. They appear a bit washed-out here, unfortunately.

And in the living room is a new one that Aunt Reta brought with her from Saskatoon. Her (and Mom's) cousin Judy is moving from her house into a condo and no longer has a place for this, and apparently neither do her children or nieces or nephews, because it came my way and I was quick to say "I'd love to have this!"

Reta's husband Carl painted it from a photograph of Grandpa Jack, my great-grandfather, who was a telephone linesman well into his seventies. I remember him as a moustached old man, always sitting and with a cane nearby. I think I was about nine when he passed away.

We still have to pick up the "thingies" required so that they lay flat, for the three flowers Joan painted for me. I've got the canvases leaning against the wall and am looking forward to getting them up; they're going to pull the room together beautifully and brighten every day.

Tires

Scott knows there is nothing I like better than a country drive on a Sunday afternoon, so he invited me to ride along when he and his brother were hauling used tires to Kelvington to be collected for recycling.

I stuffed my camera, cellphone and a book into a bag and hopped into the truck with Scott. He had the back of his half-ton loaded up, plus a trailer behind.


We waited at a corner for his brother Bruce, who was also hauling a trailer full, and followed him.

The boys unloaded tires and placed them in the correct "lines" while I entertained myself by texting a few friends and taking pictures rather than getting dirty. Besides, I hadn't taken any gloves along.

 I'd just opened my book (A BEAUTY, by Connie Gault) to start reading when Scott got into the truck and away we went home again.

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Check out today's TAROT DRAW.

Cat Stalks Deer

Charlene Wirtz writes for the Wadena News and gave us this video she shot at her farm home, where her house cat was seen stalking a deer:

Both Sides

In the fall, a book of interviews with JONI MITCHELL was published by her friend, singer, musician and journalist Malka Marom. My former husband Gord said "Don't run out and buy it! I'm getting it for you for Christmas."

Last month at Lincoln University in England, there was a symposium held for those studying Mitchell's music.
If you're an admirer of Joni's artistry, as I most definitely am, you may enjoy this exchange with the charming Ms Marom:



Thanks to Alex, who, although trying to comment on the blog was such a pain in the ass that he gave up and sent me an email, pointed out that I had located Lincoln University in the wrong city. 

Way Back to Perfect Health

Some of you may remember my friend Bev, who was diagnosed with breast cancer, didn't take the recommended allopathic treatments but followed the beat of a different drummer against all advice to the contrary, and is now cancer-free.

She's been in town this week and came out for a visit last night. 

Bev takes a call from her brother while I make myself a grilled cheese sandwich for supper.

I'm not always on the ball enough to remember to get out the camera. Did I post a pic when Dad was here? Oh yeah, I think so. Good for me! Alison was out for tea last week and I didn't think of taking a picture. Yesterday I went for lunch with another Bev and forgot to get a photo. Sandy was out one day with her hubby and the camera was the furthest thing from my mind. I met up with my sister Karen at a flea market and got pics but never posted them. When I think about how much goes on ... and all the people and things ... that are never even mentioned on this blog ... tsk tsk tsk. It is what it is, of course, but there is a lot of life going on outside of it.

Now to find the webpage where Bev chronicled her successful alternative treatment of cancer. We need to update it; there must be people who are surely wondering if she's still healthy.

Here it is: HERE'S TO ... PERFECT HEALTH!

Good Friends Among the Best Things in Life

A lovely afternoon with Ms Bell, who had flown to Regina to attend a Nitty Gritty Dirt Band concert in Raymore, Sask., with a girlfriend and then drove out here to spend the afternoon with me yesterday. We had a leisurely lunch and then when Aunt Reta went for a nap, Cathy and I took a nice long walk in the hot sun and much-appreciated wind.

Isn't she a doll? And then there's me; I make all my pals look good. Of course, Cathy is a young chick compared to me. We were roommates at Luther College when she was in Grade 8 and I was in Grade 10. She is the most professionally accomplished person I know and very hardworking, and also has her life priorities straight and is kindhearted and a straight-shooter. I count myself fortunate to have the most wonderful friends, caring and true. 

That crooked tooth of mine seems to be getting worse. Is it worth doing anything about it, I wonder, at my age?

When I was in my early thirties, a dentist told me I should have my upper wisdom teeth pulled because there was so little space in my mouth that they were already crooked and would push my teeth out of alignment. I ignored his advice and now regret it. (As the founding editor, former editor-in-chief, and my employer at the Canadian Encyclopedia for 10 years once said, what is the sense of asking for input from an expert and then ignoring it? Live and learn.)

 I did have the wisdom teeth pulled within the past couple years but it doesn't make any difference now, as at my age (56) the teeth are firmly set in bone and will not be likely to move on their own even when given more space.  I would probably have to get braces and wear them for at least a year. Do I care enough about straight teeth to do that? Not just the expense of it, but the discomfort. I don't think so. But I can't say as I'm pleased when I see photos of myself with the crooked tooth. Not that I ever have liked photos of myself, so let's be realistic; it doesn't really matter what I do or don't do. I'll be self-critical anyway, as women often are.

Aunt Reta dropped me off at work this morning and went to my Aunt Shirley's at Margo to spend a few days. I just called her to say I've gotten used to her presence and now I miss her. It's true.

And here's Joni Mitchell's video and song "Good Friends." Sometimes change comes at you like a broadside accident. There is chaos to the order; random things you can't prevent. Michael McDonald's voice (he's joined her in this endeavour) makes me lustful. No nerves of steel, no hearts of gold. No blame for what we can and can't control. It doesn't take much, mind you. Watching two people kiss on television will do it! And that's a good thing as far as I'm concerned.

Visiting Galore

 Businesses are open this morning after the long weekend so Scott has pumped up the tire and Reta and I are off to town. I'll drop her at the seniors' residence to do some visiting while I take the tire to the repair shop. Once the car's road-ready again we'll scurry home, where I'll be making my MEXICAN SOUP and waiting for Cathy B to arrive in time for lunch.

But at the moment, Reta is washing breakfast dishes and I'm about to pour my second cup of coffee. Rain has been forecast for two or three days but none has materialized, so I've set the sprinkler on the flower garden for now, till we leave for town.

Aunt Reta prepares to take some pictures to take home to Phoenix.

Ducky has found a new cuddler.

The handles for the kitchen cabinets are supposed to be delivered to Wynyard at the end of the week. We're looking forward to getting those on. The tabs Scott made with masking tape tend to tear off and he insists it has something to do with the way I pull on them. I think if he opened those doors and drawers as many times in a day as I do, they'd rip off for him, too, so Back Off! I say, and carry on my merry way.

Half Gone

Emil will go back to town tonight; Reta will be on her way to her next family visit as soon as that flat tire is repaired; Bev S. is coming for tea this afternoon, as she's been out for a niece's wedding; Cathy B. and her friend Susan are coming for lunch tomorrow, driving out from Regina; and I go back to work on Wednesday.

Summer is half over but still beautiful. There have been crazy storms and there are more to come but aside from wind and rain knocking down some of my tall flowers and hail tearing up a few blossoms, our yard and crops have been untouched for the most part.

An unexpected calf was born in the pasture yesterday; Scott can't figure out how the bull managed to get to its mother, as they were in separate fields at the time the calf would have been conceived. I guess they find a way! Fences never stop cattle if they want to go somewhere, I'm told, and this calf is proof of it.

Sloths

A flat tire on my car Little Green and no place open before Tuesday to repair it, an unwillingness to go anywhere without a usable spare, Scott needing the tools in his work truck when he's on a job or in the field, and the new truck being difficult to get in and out of for both Reta and Emil because it's so high: all have conspired to keep us home for the last two days. But since we have nowhere pressing to go, no one is complaining.

Busy Visiting

Lazy days of chatting with Aunt Reta ...

Still at war with the little flies ...

Stay tuned ... .

Broadway Café

I hadn't seen Cathy's eldest daughter Caitlin, except for photos on Facebook, for several years. So while I was in the city, getting a close-up glimpse of her was my one request when asked if there was anything in particular I'd like to do. She waits on tables at the ever popular Broadway Café, so Cathy and I went in, split a plate of fries and gravy, and waited till Cait managed to join us for a few minutes when there was a slow-down in the action.

Cait, hard at work

Cathy and Caitlin

It's good to see our kids all grown up and smiling.

Tree Swallows

"Are you up, Kathy?" he calls from near the picture window where he sits in the mornings with his coffee and his laptop, perusing the farm machinery, truck, and vintage-car ads on Kijiji. From his corner on the couch he has a good view of the yard and sees quite a lot of activity: sometimes a rabbit, sometimes the prairie chicken, sometimes a deer; the timid beasts are brave in the early hours. "Come and see these birds!"

So out I go to the living room and join him to watch at least four or five dozen TREE SWALLOWS swooping through the air and reconnoitring at the tops of our tall spruce trees. It's quite a show, as these fancy flyers are catching insects on the wing for their breakfast.

They've also been smacking into the windows the last few days, since I washed the insides. The outsides are still dirty as I haven't found a ladder or a long-handled squeegee (nor have I poked around the quonset looking for these things; it's hot in there during the day, which is when I think of it), and I'm reluctant to clean the windows properly for fear of even more collisions. So far they hit the glass and manage to fly off; I haven't found a dead or injured bird on the grass yet this summer. Knock on wood.

Most years we have had an abundance of tree swallows only right before a big rainstorm. This year they've obviously moved in around our yard so we see them more often, and they are very welcome.

I'm out walking, and the driver of this truck is probably a farmer coming home for supper.

Just Breathe

A lot of people consider Facebook a time-waster, and they are absolutely correct. It is, just like television. So are a lot of movies, and so is most commercial radio with all its repetition and advertising, and so is Twitter.

That is, if you let them waste your time. You don't have to, you know. You are in control. You can limit the amount of time you spend on these social media sites, and I'd advise it: setting a timer and changing your focus when the buzzer goes. It's all too easy to think you've spent 15 minutes there and discover you've just lost an entire hour. That's the way it is with any kind of reading, don't you find?

You can also switch off your television, find a channel without advertising cutting in every five minutes, or read during the commercials. You don't have to watch a movie till the end, just because you gave it 15 minutes of your attention to start with. Turn it off and move on.

You can listen to podcasts and recorded music; you can turn to a public radio station that doesn't advertise but offers fascinating, informative programming. There are a million ways around the time-wasting aspects of these things we do to find out what's going on with our friends and in the world.

On Facebook, I've very little interest in people's political statements, or in puppies, kittens and cute children, or in the inspirational quotes, the recipes, and so on. Most of it has already been seen 15 times, or if I am interested in a subject I can easily search it out myself online; I don't need Facebook to bring it to my attention. And that's the main reason I scroll on by a lot of what is posted in people's FB feeds. For me, a lot of that stuff is a time-waster. What interests me is what my friends and acquaintances are up to, and photos of them and their families.

Very rarely — but it does happen — there is a message that is a perfect reminder of something important to me.

Travel Time

Washing sheets, remaking beds, taking a bath, packing for two nights away, hoping there is no stormy weather between here and Saskatoon before I'm home again on Thursday afternoon.

The huge tornado that went through southern Manitoba last night did so without hurting anyone, but I guess it was quite the thing, about a kilometre wide and lasting for hours.

We did have lightning, thunder and rain during the night, and a phone call has just informed me that one of the three group homes was struck by lightning in the wee hours and there was a fire. I've seen a photo on Facebook and it wasn't the house that Emil lives in. As my aunt Shirley says, had it been, Emil would have had something to talk about for a long time.

Well, I had best get back at my preparations. They always take longer than I expect and I want to be out the door in a couple hours so I'm not too late arriving at Cathy's.

Under the three oaks

Grey Sky Day

Cool rainy days are my favourites now. Not windy cold miserable ones, but the calm ones with a gentle rainfall, the kind that don't turn your house into a cooker if you use the oven. The ones that let you keep your windows open, and you can walk around outside without feeling like passing out from the heat and humidity.

There are serious storm warnings for parts of the province slightly south of us, but so far here it's been a perfect day. I've spent it baking bread and muffins and granola; fast food for a week or three if it gets hot again. Except that I'm getting company and will have to feed her a decent meal once in a while, won't I?

After today's hard labour, it's six o'clock and I'm about to pour myself a glass of red wine and go outside to admire the flowers and let the birds admire me. Maybe my fella will be home soon and keep me company.

What Day Is It, Again? During Holidays, I Lose Track

In less than a week it will be time to put together my monthly newsletter. (If you haven't yet signed up to receive these five fabulous factoids, what are you waiting for? See the link above.)

For the first newsletter, I picked through my notebooks and easily found tidbits I hadn't included in the blog. But in recent weeks I haven't been writing in the notebooks, having recently filled one, looked at the stacks on my dresser in the bedroom, and thought maybe I will stop adding to them. It wouldn't be the end of the world, now would it?

Perennial yellow daisies are compact, long-lasting and don't spread like crazy.

Scott came in from the field late this morning when I was outside in my pyjamas, pulling weeds from the flowerbed. I watched him go into the house and thought I'd finish what I was doing and go inside to see how his day'd been going and what else he had planned. After 5 minutes or so I stood up, turned around, and got a jolt — as you do when you see something unexpected. Or at least, I do. There he was, standing a few feet behind me, munching on a meatloaf sandwich and looking ever so pleased with himself for sneaking up on me.

Aunt Reta flies into Saskatoon today, woo hoo! I'll drive into the city to spend a couple days with Cathy and then bring Reta home with me. I don't find Reta and Mom to be very alike, but it's still the next best thing to actually getting a visit from Mom.

Bra Free

Bountifully bosomed broads wear bras less for support than to avoid unwanted attention.
One of the best parts of being home on holidays is leaving the girls free and unencumbered.

And no, there's no photo to illustrate.

The dragonflies were on the move so they are just a blur, but here's an idea how many there are!

Oh, and Everett has SOMETHING NEW on his page.

Where Emil Lives

Emil doesn't come out here every weekend. For instance, tonight he has decided to stay in town at the group home. He'll come here next weekend or go to Everett's place; I can never keep track of his plans, really, though he probably has some sort of rotational pattern in mind.

He often asks me, though, "Do you miss me when I don't come to your house on the weekend?"

I tell him I don't miss him because he lives so close by and I can see him anytime I like, and how fortunate I feel to have him and his brother both living nearby so we can get together often.

I may never understand why he'd rather stay at the group home on the weekend than come out here, but I sure don't mind. The only time I do get a little jolt of "missing" him is when he's been here for a couple days, I've driven him back to town Sunday evening, and I wake up the following morning and remember he's not in the house. It's a fleeting moment of empty nest syndrome all over again.

The group home's main floor has one kitchen and dining room, two bathrooms, two living rooms, a bedroom suite for the house supervisor, and six bedrooms for the residents. Whenever you come or go, the residents are at the door to welcome you or see you off.

This is Sherry with a big smile and a whole bunch of sweetness:

Saskatchewan Jungle

Quite the light show late last night!

In the far distant south, the entire sky was lit up by lightning, continuously (and I mean continuously, not continually!), for a long, long time. I'm waiting to hear on the news where that was. Even from here, it was something to see. Apocalyptic. Far enough away that we couldn't hear the thunder, but incredible enough that you almost hated to go to bed and miss any of it.

Scott threw on some clothes and lit out down the road in hopes of a better view and some photos. I stood in my pyjamas and watched from the back step, rubbing my bare arms, until the cool night air forced me back in.

The dandelion war is not over, by far. 

This morning I awoke, as always in summertime when we sleep with the window open, to the jungle-like cacophony of a variety of birds: the red-winged blackbirds, of course, which seem to be the largest population at the dugout behind the house; the sora's high-pitched exuberance; the song sparrow's pretty trilling; the tree swallows that have moved in lately by the dozens; the odd crow; magpies sometimes; robins; goldfinches; doves or pigeons; mudhens; the snipe's wings winnowing through the air; others whose sound I can't identify. I could lie there for an hour and listen to them, but I don't dare; they'll put me back to sleep.

Out on the step, where I always take my coffee to see what kind of day it is, I see many more birds that have been quiet: the brown-headed cowbirds poking around the back yard soil; the hummingbirds chasing each other; the barn swallows. If I park myself in a chair for a while, some of them flit past my head so close and so fast I think they're teasing me. Up higher, hawks soar, and pelicans circle by, and gulls swing through, and turkey vultures sometimes take a reconnaisance tour above the yard.

Lounging out there is as good as sitting in a busy airport, people-watching. It's a neverending parade. And the longer you sit, the more brave and curious the birds become, and they will come closer and closer to check you out.

Staycation for Katie

Amazingly, astoundingly, the windblown delphiniums look fine since I stood them up again. A few were broken but even they don't seem worse for wear.  The shasta daisies are in full bloom and my hollyhocks (among the favourites) are just getting started. The pink speedwells are starting to turn colour and the purple coneflowers are beginning to blossom, too. Alas, the weeds ... I need to spend a good hour out there with my horseshoe hoe, and the clippers to cut back the seven-foot-tall caragana hedge that is the windbreak.

So, I'm on vacation. Two weeks of holiday time. And what do I do? I stay home. My only plans are to clean the fridge (one shelf per day; let's not overdo this shit), organize the office (a few minutes per day), wash the windows (not all at once), and keep on top of the dishes, for a change.

Oh I am so ambitious.

But there are some big expenses coming up, so I can't hit the highway if I'm going to be practical and not run up credit card bills that add up and empty my savings account. I am two years overdue for an eye checkup and will need new glasses, probably bi-focals or even progressives; my car registration and insurance have to be renewed next month; and stepson Gunnar is getting married in Calgary in early September, so there's time off work, travel accommodations and food to pay for, and so on. Just the usual stuff of life, but a bunch of it in a short time.

I'm happy enough to stay home though, and am not complaining, not by a long shot. There's the odd trip I can't afford to take if I insist upon living within my means, which I do, but there are other things I can enjoy during the work break, like taking the 20-minute drive to visit my sister Karen and pedalling around Margo Lake with her on her fun little paddle-boat. Also Aunt Reta is flying in from Phoenix for a few weeks — something to look forward to — and I've offered to pick her up in the city, so will be able to spend a couple nights there with my dear friend Cathy before coming back out here. And Cathy Bell, another friend from high school days in the dorm at Luther College in Regina, is going to drive out for an afternoon, since I didn't feel I could wisely incur the expense of driving into the city to spend a couple days with her, even though she always, generously, foots the bill for a hotel room when she is there. With the cost of a few restaurant meals and even the most minor of entertainments plus the fuel to get there and back, it's not an expensive trip on its own but it is still too much when combined with the other things I need cash for very soon. So I'm being frugal and staying put.

Globeflowers

Dragonfly Companions

It's been a while since I turned the radio on in the morning, simply because the news always sucks so much.
Today I made the mistake of turning it on; of course the first thing I hear is that some other idiot has blown herself up and taken 30 people with her.
I just about turned the damn thing off immediately. But since it had been a while, I persevered. Soon it was announced that an upcoming guest would be talking about dragonflies, so I left the radio on.

On my walk last night there were so many big blue dragonflies (called darners; according to the guest, their tail ends resemble darning needles) that I was quite amazed. The air was full of them! It's a good year for dragonflies, the guest said, because we've had so much heat.

A few weeks ago, before the ditches were cut, I noticed hordes of them flying along just over the long grasses beside me as I walked along the road you see above. The interesting thing was that when I would stop, so would they; they'd alight on top of the long grass. And when I'd start again, so would they. I did it a few times just to make sure I wasn't imagining things.

They probably do it because wherever there is a warmblooded body, the mosquitoes are drawn. But I prefer to think the dragonflies are my little companions because they enjoy my company. As my sister Joan would say: "Hehe."

No Berries for Me

Nope. I have taken no interest whatsoever this year in these highly prized wild berries, neither in their picking, preparing nor eating.

Scott picked a couple pailsful of saskatoons yesterday along the driveway of his old home. Lots of good ones around the district this year.

Emil cleaned them later in the afternoon while I did dishes and made supper, and this morning Scott sent the saskatoons with his mom to the nursing home where his dad lives, assuming they will be a treat for the residents.

Movie Endings

Movie endings are usually somewhat disappointing to me. I prefer them to be happy but, even when they are, they seem to come too soon. Maybe I just don't want to let go of the characters yet.

Last night I watched Saving Mr Banks for the second time and, when the ending came at about one in the morning, it still wasn't welcome.

Which made me wonder, has there ever been a movie with an ending that was perfect?

Why yes, there has. Just one that I can think of because of its pure exuberant sweetness.

It's the musical ending of The 40-Year-Old Virgin.

It brought me complete and perfect joy.

In case you haven't seen it, our hero, played by Steve Carell, finally falls in love and gets laid for the first time at age 40, and he and all his friends rejoice:

Infestation

The ends of cut green onions were in a small bowl with water, rooting (Why? Scott reminds me, they already had roots), when one day I came home to find them covered in small flies.

The onions went outside immediately, but the flies are still here and they are driving me right around the bend. Every day I pick up the flyswatter and hunt them in every room, killing dozens upon dozens. But still they appear walking on the windows, the walls, the cupboards; they flutter up from the garbage, the recycling, the toilet, the sink; they tickle my nose when I'm reading in bed. I have developed a hate.

Scott has fashioned a couple traps with bottles and paper cones and apple cider vinegar, and the liquid is now a disgusting soup of dead insects.

They are drawn to the scent of the vinegar, but most aren't smart enough to find their way out.

They drown.

Yet it seems to make hardly a dint. Apparently they are laying eggs somewhere. He thinks maybe in my houseplants, and maybe we should move the plants outside. I don't agree; those would be fungus gnats, usually, which are smaller than these, and it is moving them outside that would attract fungus gnats to lay eggs in their soil.

Dad suggests buying Raid, spraying it in all the rooms, and leaving for the day.
Scott suggests moving the recycling outside (what a pain in the ass that will be), keeping the sink drains dry and blocked, the sink and countertops immaculate, and no fruit or vegetables except in the fridge.
We will have to try everything because I am sick of flies in my face.

And flyswatters. Why is it that I see the swatter has missed a fly on the wall, yet the insect falls down to the floor, dead? Why is it that I see I have hit it dead-on, yet it flies away free? So weird.

Soaked Down

Things were looking pretty good out in the flower bed on Wednesday evening. The delphiniums were standing tall and elegant; the shasta daisies had just come into bloom; the maltese crosses were making an orange splash throughout.



But then we had a storm last night, the kind that sent us down into the basement for a while after I spotted a swirling grey-black cloud just to the southwest. It wasn't a tornado forming, but we got sheets of hard rain and loud wind and a bit of hail.

I didn't do a close inspection this morning before leaving for work, but tonight, coming home, am a little disheartened.



Oh well. That's the way she be! I'll get out there tomorrow and see what I can straighten up.

Lessons learned:

1) Cutting old, stained clothes into strips to stake flowers up doesn't help in a deadly wind because the fabric stretches. Darn. I thought I'd found a perfect use for that old stuff!
2) I need to buy more arbours. The delphiniums tied to them did not blow over.

This happens every summer. I don't know why I cross my fingers every year in hopes it won't. It always does! I must be one of those eternal optimists. Or it's just the generations (and I mean generations; I've discovered agricultural and gardening ancestry back to the 1400s) of farmer blood somewhere in me. "Maybe next year will be better."

We needed the rain, though, so can't complain, and the downpour was widespread enough to provide some relief to those fighting wildfires up north. Thank goodness. It was starting to look like that battle might never end. On the news today they're saying that all the evacuated residents can return to their communities.

Guernsey

Most little towns out here have at least one of these old buildings left.

On the way back from Manitou Beach, Emil and I took a drive around the wee village of Guernsey — or what is left of it.

I am 56 years old, and I remember when buildings very like these were still in use in my home town. Whenever and wherever I see these or buildings like them, I'm taken back to those slower, carefree days when the two-month summer vacation felt like an entire year. When there were no woodticks around here. When I had a bike-riding buddy. When my grandparents were alive.

And He's Home Again

Lake Manitou has flooded the low road leading into the small resort village of Manitou Beach, where the famous DANCELAND hall resides.

This year, there are ugly bag-barricades all along the beach, on top of a recently built earth barricade.

I park in the curved laneway in front of the main building at Camp Easter Seal, behind vans loading wheelchairs and luggage.

I visit the ladies' room and then go looking for my boy.

I hear his crutches clicking on the floor before I see him, accompanied by two of his camp counsellors. These are always sweet, open-hearted kids whom Emil adores and does not want to leave. He introduces them with great excitement.

Emil is in no hurry to get down this hairpin-turn ramp and out to my car, which can now be moved ahead. I've left the keys in it and permission for anyone to move it when necessary, and a young man does so before we reach it.

We drive away from Camp Easter Seal for another year. From the road along the shore there is no more view of the salt lake and the low hills across the water.

I need to write a letter of appreciation to whoever it is that sponsors these camp trips for Emil. They are the highlight of his year, and of the lives of all the campers, I'm sure, and it is very much appreciated. If the five days weren't paid for, I'd find a way to finance them but it would require a year of saving. So I'm very grateful that there are donors who make the camp possible without creating hardship on the part of the families. As it is, getting him there (paying someone to take him so I didn't have to take the day off) cost $132; because I was able to pick him up myself yesterday, there was only the cost of half a tank of gas. The camp itself would cost more than $1000, I believe, and campers who need a special van to take them there from the city pay about $450 for the transportation.

Emil's report:

They went to the drive-in one night. They went swimming. They had a banquet and dance. He didn't ride horses this year. They rode all over the place on the open-air cart, which reminds me of a houseboat but has wheels and goes on land. They had a talent show with singing. One of the counsellors asked for his phone number so she can call him sometime, and "Maybe she will!"

Before he left home last Thursday, he told us that he might see about getting himself a girlfriend at camp this year. This did not come up during his report. When asked whether he made any new friends among the campers, he mentioned the name of one young man he met and liked. Normally he is completely focused on the counsellors and takes no interest in the other campers. I ask whether he thinks everyone had a good time. Were the counsellors nice to you? Were the other campers nice? Did anyone seem not to be having a good time? Just one, he says, who was crying as they got ready to leave. She probably didn't want to go home, he said.

On the ride back to Wadena, he reached across the front seat and took my hand.

"I like driving with you, Mom."

"I like it too," I replied. "You're an excellent travelling companion."

"When I was a little boy," he recalled, "we went lots of places."

"Yep. We were always driving from Saskatoon to Margo and from Margo to Flin Flon and from Saskatoon to Edmonton or from Margo to Oakburn. If you'd been a baby or kid who fussed all the time in the car, we wouldn't have been able to take those trips. But you liked to go."