City Slickers

When we get company who've never been here before or it's been too long, they often phone from Wadena. I give them directions to the corner three-quarters of a mile south, and wait for them there.

I drive to the correction line and make a u-turn before pulling over to the side of the road.

Out the passenger window

It usually takes about 10 minutes till they get here. I sit and listen to the radio (today it was Quirks and Quarks on CBC; guests were talking about "fake" tattoos that can read physical conditions like high cholesterol, cancer, etc., and about gleaning electronic energy from human sweat; wow, I say).

Out the driver's window. Hm, where are they? Should be here by now.

Text:
We're on Lone Tree Road by the greenhouse sign.

Text:
By the sign or by the actual greenhouse?

Text:
The greenhouse.

Text:
Oh. Okay. You can get here that way, too. Drive straight, another mile to the four-way stop, and turn left; I'll be in the little green car.

And so I back up onto the correction line and mosey on over to the Kylemore grid and toward Lone Tree Road, and soon see Kathy's car approaching from the distance. She blinks her headlights a couple times and I do the same before turning around in a driveway so the car points toward home again.

This time the girls have a pilot vehicle and pull into our yard right behind me.

Little Kath and her daughter Jessie come out from Saskatoon for the afternoon. 

 I'm meeting Jessie, age nine, for the first time. Kathy and I have known each other since she was 11 and I was 23, when her dad was my new beau. For four years Kathy and her two younger siblings spent their summer holidays with us.

Ducky thinks he's died and gone to heaven. Two more laps to sit on, four more hands to pet him; what's not to love! And when Jessie leaves her mom and me at the kitchen table and moves to the couch to draw and write in her book, Ducky goes along.

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How's this for an answer to the unspoken question, How do you account for your long life?

"I pick all my own fruit," he said. "It gives me a reason to stay living." -"Jam Man" in Prince Albert
FULL STORY: http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/saskatoon/jam-man-vows-continue-1.3453544?cmp=rss&cid=news-digests-saskatchewan

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Response to comments:
• LORI - I went to your webpage this morning again. Looks like you guys had a great time. So interesting to one who's never been up there ... like me.
• ANNETTE: Cameras, eh? I like my little digital, mostly because I've dropped it a half-dozen times and it keeps on ticking! But it does do weird things with perspective, like bring a field close that is a mile away, that kind of thing. However, it's all in fun and that's enough for me.

Foggy Morn

Brrrring! Brrrrring! Brrrrrring!

Wha...? Is that my phone?

I was asnooze in Everett's living room in town. Last night he introduced me to Rick and Morty and Ash Versus Evil Dead. The former had its humorous moments. I was bored by the latter.

Scott was calling.
"Ducky is lying there whining, this morning. Can you bring his medication out, or do I have to come in and get it?"

The pills had been picked up from the vet in Yorkton yesterday and delivered to me at the office.

I dressed, started the car, and drove slowly out to our place over icy roads. It was around seven o'clock. Ducky Doodle got his meds (second round; he's been scratching himself crazy for weeks) and I got a big mug of hot black coffee before heading back to town around 8:30.

It was foggy and the sun was barely up and just beginning to burn through. Down the road, I threw Little Green into 'Park' and got out to take a picture.

The camera did not capture the beautiful scene I saw. Alas.
It was quite magical.

Let's Talk Somerset

Laughed out loud when I heard the Bristol accent.
The county of Somerset is where some of the family ancestors came from.

And we do, for sure, come from farmers for generations upon generations.



Some of our English antecedents were wealthy landowners in Upper Woodlands in the area near Frome, which isn't such a long way from the famous Bath, frequented by many travellers. There was a castle surrounded by a moat, on the estate. In 1805 a daughter of these landowners married their gardener or manager, who had been a soldier. It didn't go over too well with her parents and there was subsequent estrangement between the young couple and her family, although when her brother died in 1818, he left some of his valuable worldly goods (like his bed; valuable in those days) to his sister, brother-in-law and one or two of his nephews.

But anyway, I come honestly by my love of flowers.

One's own ancestry is of much more interest than that of others, usually, but my relatives reading this might not have heard me go on about these few details before.

I love the shows on TV that trace ancestry for selected guests. There is a lot of cultural and social history to be learned from them, just like there is from Antiques Roadshow. When it's on, I can't look away.

Sleep-In Morning

Why, I ask you, would a person have a completely headache-free day and then the moment she lays her head on her pillow, it begins? Rzzl Frzzzl Grrr.  It meant I slept poorly and had to get up in the night and take a pill that, unfortunately, didn't do the trick 100% but went as far as putting me into a semi-coma that will make me later than I want to be for work this morning.

While waiting for my oatmeal porridge to cool enough to eat, I might as well update the blog. As if there is anything of interest to report.

Not.

I was telling Dad on the phone last night that we are having the kind of days where, when I go for a walk, I don't need mitts on but still need my hood up because the wind is cutting even in this unseasonably warm temperature.

We've also had a bit of snow in recent days, so everything is blanketed in a soft white.

There, the porridge is cool enough to pass through my lips. I'm off and running on the road to the office!

P.S.
Grandpa Benson's birthday today. I think he'd be turning 102, but I doubt he'd've liked to reach that age, feeling as he did the last few years of his life.

Nothing Fancy

Valentine's Day was sunny and warm, so we thought we'd zip up to the Hendon Hotel for a beer and see what the new owners are doing with the place. Fortunately they'd advertised in the local paper so there was a phone # to call in order to find out whether the pub was open on a Sunday afternoon. It wasn't but as it turned out we came right by there on our way home anyway, so it wouldn't have been a wasted trip had we gone without calling first.

What should we do then? Scott thought it would be nice to pick up some ice cream and take it over to Everett's for the boys, so we did that and visited with them for a few minutes. Everett was finishing up his dishes and planning to bake chocolate cupcakes. Emil had been watching movies all day but graciously paused his film about the Sneetches while we were there.

We stopped at the office so I could pick up a library book I'd left on my desk; it was time to return a stack of them, most unread. No time, no time! Alison was there, working away. A quick chat and I was on my way back to Scott and the truck. We gassed up and headed out for a drive through the countryside, the trees glittering with hoarfrost.

Home again, Scott prepared steak and I prepared potatoes and carrots, and while they cooked, we read through the papers we'd picked up in town. The WADENA NEWS had been delivered to the office on Saturday morning so I'd grabbed a copy, and Scott had gathered the district freebies that are distributed in boxes in front of the library.

No Hearts and Flowers

Have you ever heard of "vinegar" valentines?
I hadn't, till today.
Thanks to Librarian Maggie, who is a connoisseur of vintage cards.

For some time it was all the rage to send insulting valentines, not only to your sweetheart but to others with whom you had business dealings or other connections.

More nasty valentines to be seen with the following article:
THE CURIOUS TRADITION OF VALENTINE'S DAY HATE MAIL

Found Too Late

Mr. Daviduk, deceased, was found with his truck sometime Thursday. At the news office, we received the RCMP report that evening.
He was located in a field four miles west of Wadena and one-half mile south, well within the range of the intense and organized ground and air search that had gone on for more than a week and covered a 100-kilometre radius from the town.
Explain that, goddammit.
I was angry, and I'm still angry, under over and around the sad. All that earnest effort; how did we manage to miss him?

Tree Hugger

Damn right I am.

Here is the largest tree in Wadena that I know of, directly south of the news office.

Waiting for Emil to get into the car. 

It's been a quiet day at home; not much to tell.
I worked five hours for the newspaper. Did dishes. Took work calls for Scott. Set the roomba to work in the hallway and the porch. Took the dogs and went for a walk. Filled the birdfeeders. Made something new for supper but didn't have all the ingredients so had to wing it. Was okay but would be fab with everything the recipe calls for. Did dishes again. Rubbed Scott's feet (my turn) before he went out to visit a couple of pals. I'm about to climb into bed and read.
Just another day.
Life's pretty good most of the time, isn't it?

No Luck

We never quite made it to the actual village of St. Front, so I still haven't seen it.

But we did drive past this churchyard out in the country. There were no tracks around it.

Scanning the land this way made me realize just how vast it is and how many places a person could be and how difficult it could be to find you if you had gotten off the beaten track.

We had to stick to the roads, but we stopped to look closely at any empty or unoccupied farmyards where a half-ton could've driven in and gotten stuck. Scott would put the truck into park, walk into the yard, and be on his way back before I'd gotten my coat on and gotten halfway down the driveway myself.

Finally, somewhere up by Spalding, we had to give up and come home after one last foray into a treed farmyard where no one lives anymore:

The story in the WADENA NEWS today can be read HERE.

Emil's Day

"Looking at this, I think maybe we didn't go as far as we thought," Scott said, showing me the Google satellite image of the area he and Bruce had searched the day before. "Do you still want to go for a drive to the St. Front area?"

We get correspondent news from St. Front, a tiny francophone village northwest of Wadena, and I've never been there.

First he had to go give a bale to the cattle, and I had to go get Emil and stop at the news office. Emil has never been there and I knew he'd like to see it, so I invited him in.

Emil enters. My desk is on the right, and you can see Alison sitting way at the front.

The first thing he said was "There's a fan" and then "There's another one. Do they work?"
No surprise there. He's got a severe case of fan fascination; always has.
This seems to be a common symptom of autism, doesn't it? Emil was never diagnosed as more than "borderline" autistic, but definitely has some of the traits.

About to go out the door again. The paper we worked long and hard to get to press the day before has already been printed and delivered, stacked and ready to be labelled and mailed on Monday morning.

When we got back out here, Emil didn't want to join us on the search, so we left him with the phone number of family less than a mile away, told him not to cook anything, and repeated instructions for what to do in case the smoke alarm goes off. We thought it would take an hour to get to the area Scott wanted to check and an hour to drive around there.

"We'll be back in about three hours," I told Emil. And away we went. That was four o'clock.

At 7:15 we were less than five minutes from home when my cellphone rang.

"I just thought I'd check," Emil said, "since you said you'd be back by now."

When we walked in, Scott returned a phone call and I started frying eggs and making toast. I asked Emil what he'd done during the three hours we were gone.

Did he make any phone calls? He'd thought he might.
But no.
Did he read any books?
No.
He walked around the house a bit, he said, and that was about it.
Weren't you bored? I said.
No.

Downhearted

All week we've been concerned for Mike and his family. We've been hopeful, though.
Now I feel sick. He had still not been located when the searchers came in last night.
Scott and his brother have been out with them for the past two days.

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The bird feeders were last filled on Thursday morning. It's time to get out there again.
Emil will be calling from town, ready to be picked up. He went to Codie Prevost's concert in Wynyard so wasn't ready to come home with me after work yesterday.

Here's Emil. I'd better get dressed and go.

Mike Missing

Tonight is the third night that a man from our community has been missing. The RCMP and many local volunteers have been out searching the rural roads and unused farmyards for his truck, which he was driving Monday afternoon, the last time he was seen in town. It's only about 10-below at night and he is a resourceful man, but he is 85 years old and we are all pretty worried.

Yesterday Scott and I drove around between the Godhe land and up to Lintlaw, looking for tire tracks on rarely used roads, thinking "You never know ...  he could be anywhere," but didn't see any sign of him.

His wife and daughters won't be getting a decent sleep if any at all — what a helpless hell this must be, and my heart goes out to them — but I'm off to bed in hopes of some good news tomorrow: that he's been found safe and well somewhere tonight.

See the Wadena News website for a little more information, if you're curious.
If you browse through some of the other articles since Christmas, you'll see one that Mike wrote after he got stuck in the snow — stranded — for a night or two once before. He came through it no worse for wear and maybe he'll be just as lucky this time around.

How to Live

"How does one achieve peace of mind? On this latter point, Plutarch's advice was the same as Seneca's: focus on what is present in front of you, and pay full attention to it." - from How to Live: A Life of Montaigne in one question and twenty attempts at an answer, by Sarah Bakewell

So, "Be Here Now" is not just a New Age philosophy, is it!

I've been reading Bakewell's biography of Michel de Montaigne, who was a self-examiner if ever there was one, and whose most common written statement might well have been "but I'm not sure."

A few bits, among the many, that struck me:

"Montaigne himself did not brood in his tower like a Gormenghast earl: he liked to be out walking."

"Easy conversation in trivial situations was valuable; it opened the path to deeper relationships, and to the more pleasant evenings where one could joke and laugh at ease."

"The only hope of emerging from the fog of misinterpretation is to remain alert to its existence: that is, to become wise at one's own expense."

CLICK HERE TO READ MORE ABOUT MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE.

Meanwhile, I'm going outside for a walk under the big sky.

Dear Shelly

Your Christmas creation has managed to stay on the back step all winter so far. A Christmas miracle, apparently.

It's a pleasure to see it out there and remember your last visit. 

Your pail of pussywillow blew off the step and was set up in the snow on the table below, but I see it has blown onto the ground and needs a "quieter" spot.

Light and Shadow

It was a perfect day for a walk.

I turned north from the driveway.

Click on images to enlarge.

After half a mile I retraced my steps and wondered what it would be like to follow this trail of animal tracks down through the ditch, across the field and into the bush. For a moment I was tempted. Such a beautiful day ... 

Instead I strolled on past our driveway and the grass driveway that goes into the back yard, and swiveled to look yet again behind me.

It's all about the light, out there!

I kept on going south, toward the ravine and the correction line. Twice, Ducky Doodle stepped on a layer of snow and ice and it cracked, scaring the shit out of me. Sounded like gunfire, real close.

From our driveway to the correction line and back takes me a half-hour. And the light! And I often do a 360-degree turn to see if there's a moose crossing the road behind me after I've passed. It's happened before. 

Home again, home again, jiggity jog. Halfway down the driveway, I look past the trees and beyond the rusty old car to the road leading north. 

I don't even know who I'm talking to, but almost every day when I go for a walk, I thank someone or something for the pleasure of living here and the time to enjoy it.

This Far

Done!

Well okay, not all the way done. Still gotta find a spot for all those pillows and put the quilted bedspread back on. Scott's going to tackle the closet one of these days and the pillows will go in there afterward. I had been meaning to reorganize the closet for some time, and his work in there forced it. Kinda. It took three weekends of best intentions, once he put everything on the bed. It wasn't that pressing.

I got rid of and put away a lot of shit. 

Wrapping paper and old Christmas cards and an entire plastic grocery bag full of bubble wrap.  

A fax machine and a sprout-maker and ... on it goes. 

Some things we never use and likely never will: out they go.

The garbage and recycling and giveaways are in the porch, awaiting transfer to the car.  There'a a bag of Emil's things to be taken to his place. Ducky figures it's a good place to park himself. 

You see the lineup beside the door, ready to go.

The wrapping paper that I chose to keep and the Xmas cards to make tags with and the potential gifts are now stored in the old cardboard trunk till next year. They lay flat atop the Christmas decorations, the tree skirt, the strings of lights, the stuffed elf, and so on.

One job down, 364 to go.

Flowers in a Pasta Jar

"Why don't you take a bunch of pictures while I'm doing my yoga," I said to Scott, who was splayed out on the couch after we'd eaten a birthday supper of takeout Greek ribs. "If I'm lucky, there'll be one I can post on the blog and say 'This is what 57 looks like.' "

He obliged me and took six or eight shots in the dimly lit room. I was doing the spinal twist. I set the phone to speaker when Emil called, and it stood on the coffee table in front of me. Balancing on one foot first and then the other, I did the eagle, the thumb of my curled palm touching the tip of my nose as I kept my eyes on the yardlight outside. My yoga routine lasts about 20 minutes. It's a series of my favourite postures, which I've chosen from all the possibilities for specific areas and organs — for optimum health.

The next morning I deleted the photographs. I like my physical self; it does a great job of making my life comfortable and I appreciate it. I feel good most of the time, and I don't even mind what I see in the mirror most days, if I don't look too closely or for too long at the face I barely recognize; it has changed so much in the last 15 years. I am what I am, and one can't get to 90 and still look 30. But in pictures? Not one bit. Me in pictures is a shock almost every time, and slightly horrifying.

One might assume it's a dislike of my aging face, but it's more true that I have never liked current photographs of myself. They've rarely if ever seemed to look like me, like the way I feel, like true representations. I sure as hell don't look as gorgeous as I feel. Hee! There are very few I've kept over the years.

"I didn't know where you keep the vases," he said when I came in the door.

There won't be one decent head shot to print with my obituary.  I'd prefer there was no obituary, now that I think about it, just like I'd prefer no funeral service and would rather Scott have friends over for a shot of whisky one afternoon instead. Will anyone respect these wishes? She's gone, they'll say; the funeral is for those left behind; the ritual helps them somehow. The obituary is for friends, acquaintances and the merely curious who love the life stories of other people. I'm one of those; biographies, autobiographies, memoirs and obituaries make the best reading.

I could always re-title this entry as "She Rambles On."

Morning Kiss

This little sweetheart seemed determined to get into the house this morning while Scott and I were having our coffee. Quite the dance, and totally unafraid of us.

Strange.

Redpoll.

We have dozens of these guys in our yard this winter. The bird book says they will be abundant in even-numbered years, and scarce in the odd-numbered ones. I'll be paying attention next winter to see if that's true.

***

I was awakened today by the delivery of a cup of hot coffee and a kiss — just the way we all are woken up every morning if we are lucky.

My Seahorse

A little treasure as far back as my childhood is this keychain that comes complete with a seahorse. It was at my grandparents' house for as long as I remember, and at some point it became mine.

Funny how the details slip away, though for years they seem to be part of a life's wallpaper.

Keys to my safety deposit box, Cathy's house in the city, and Scott's little house down the road.

Where did it come from? Who brought it back from their travels? 

Also how, when you blog every day, you repeat yourself.
Just one of those things that happens!
Like getting grumpier as you get older, Dad said tonight when we spoke on the phone.
"I hope not!" I said, and we had a little chuckle.

Grandma's Birthday

Scott's grandma turned 107 yesterday and he had some cake with her last night. She still lives in her home in Kelvington with help from Meals on Wheels, home care services, and evening meals with members of her family, who take turns making and having supper with her.

Big Pile

Guess what I'll be doing with this next few days off.
(I said the same thing last weekend, so ... you see how serious I can be.)

Scott has been installing a fresh air exchanger, and it's meant hauling everything out of the closet in the guest bedroom.

I will be re-homing some of these items. 

Uncle Bruce

Dear Karla,

I have these pictures of Uncle Bruce for you.

The telltale Bartley tooth gap!

Emil at Work

My oldest son, Emil, is in one of the pictures for this story in the Wadena News.
CLICK HERE.

Pizza Cupcakes

This recipe came up on my Facebook feed, and since it uses Pillsbury dough I thought I'd give it a try. Something different.

 Ingredients

·    1 can refrigerated Pillsbury Seamless Dough Sheets

·    ½ cup pizza sauce

·    1 cup shredded mozzarella cheese

·    ½ tsp garlic powder

·    pizza toppings - pepperoni, ham, sausage, peppers, onions, mushrooms, pineapple, peppers etc.

Instructions

1.      Preheat oven to 375 F.

2.      Spray or grease a muffin pan.

3.      Unroll dough sheet and cut into 8 equal squares. Press into muffin cups.

4.      Sprinkle some cheese into each dough cup. Add 1 Tbsp. pizza sauce followed by remaining cheese and the toppings of your choice. Sprinkle garlic powder over toppings.

5.      Bake for 15 minutes.

6.      Remove from pan, carefully, with a fork.

7.      Serve.

Will the recipe go into the STUBBLEJUMPERS CAFÉ collection? We shall see.*
 I'm waiting for them to cool so I can do the taste test.

As for #6, a knife works better. 

* 
*Nope. 

They're all right, but nothing special. 
Too much piddling around; I'd rather spread toppings far and wide and quickly on a regular crust than drop pinches of them into muffin tins. 

Postcard

This came in the mail yesterday. Thank you, Ms Maggie the Librarian.

Ed Runci, Skirting the Ride, 1950

Oh dear oh dear oh dear

Bang!

Another bird crashes into the living room window.

I have moved the feeders back into the oak trees near the house.

Where they were, we had to walk over sunflower shells to get to and from our vehicles, and it looked filthy and bugged me. 

Good thing you didn't come over, Faye, while the feeders were in the maple. (Faye is afraid of birds.)

Anyway, I moved them and, as before (no matter where the feeders are, but this seems a degree or two worse), birds are periodically crashing into the window and bouncing off, flying away to the trees. 

This afternoon, though, a pine grosbeak is splayed out on the snow beneath the window. 

Don't die! Be okay! I'm sorry! That's it, you're moving your head ... your neck's not broken. 

What can I do?

I put my coat and boots on, trudge through the snow and pick the bird up in my bare hands. 

Do I need to keep it warm? Or do I need to set it up somewhere safe where it can get its bearings without being scared shitless of this monster that is far too near for comfort? Oh, what to do, what to do?

If only I could reach this robins' nest and set the grosbeak there. But no, too high.

There's a flat-floored feeder with a roof, but there's a bit of snow in it. I think it's better to find a snowless perch for the little fella, but it is so dazed it doesn't even attempt to uncurl its claws and hang on. I do it for the drowsy bird.

Poor wee darling can hardly keep its eyes open, but will look at me when I speak to it.

I don't want to frighten the grosbeak more, on top of the shock it is already in. I step away from the tree.

A cheeky little monkey. I can't tell one chickadee from the next.

The downy woodpecker is more shy.

There are a good dozen redpolls alongside the dozens of chickadees; there are more grosbeaks (why none of the red-hued ones, I wonder); it's quite the busy place out there in the oak trees. When I'm home in the afternoon, I sit with a cup of tea and watch them through the window.

It's well past time to get my ass in gear and order "birdsavers." Birds injured and worse — dying sometimes — due to my lovely large windows. It's an awful thing.

It leans against the tree for about a half-hour and then, just after I've hung four long scarves in the window (gotta try something till the birdsavers arrive), I look again and the grosbeak is gone. 

Crow and Raven

Marya was wondering some years ago how to tell the difference between a crow and a raven when they aren't side by side, where one is obviously bigger than the other.

Click image to enlarge; from Saskatchewan Birds.

***

During the night I woke up and put the radio on and heard someone talking about using progressive (?) meditations to deal with health conditions.
Or that's what I think I heard.
While searching the CBC website to find it, this came across my path:

http://www.cbc.ca/radio/dnto/what-makes-you-happy-1.3402687/want-to-boost-your-mood-talk-to-a-stranger-1.3406575

Out here everyone talks to everyone, strangers or no.

The MIdnight Fire

To all readers who call Margo their home town:

Can anyone tell me who is the author of this rather fine poem?
It is on two typewritten sheets of paper that are tucked between the pages of my History of Margo book.

The poem may have been among Aunt Jean's things (that's my great-aunt Jean Bartley, for anyone who doesn't know my family well), or it may have been among Grandma's (Doris Bartley Benson) and came my way after she moved out of her house in Margo.

I'll have to take another look through the history book, which probably gives accounts of the (apparently) three lumber yards that burnt, back in the day.

But if anyone can shed light on the identity of the poet, please do!

If you click on the images below, they'll enlarge for easier reading.

It does contain one politically incorrect reference to a person of Chinese descent. 

In these small Prairie villages, there was often one Chinese family who owned and operated a café. It was commonly that way when I was growing up in the 1960s and '70s too and from what I can see, it's not that much changed now. All the restaurants in Wadena, for example, are presently operated by relatively recent (judging by their accents) immigrants.

Let's remember that back when this poem was written (what year? I wonder; I bet it's in the book, which I may not get back to, today), everyone who wasn't First Nations was either an immigrant or the child of immigrants, just as we remain today.  

Many of those early immigrants came with nothing but what they could haul, and it was a hard life for sure. What some did have on their side, however, were friendly, helpful, welcoming neighbours who could make all the difference between survival and failure. Those who came before that met with friendly, helpful, welcoming First Nations people. If they hadn't, Canadian history would be a lot different.

THIS JUST IN:

Dad read my post on FB and phoned. Who wrote the poem? He doesn't know, but suggests I contact Elsie Peters, whose father took an interest in local history and maybe told some stories. 

Dad told me that the fire would have had to be in the 1930s or '40s after Emil Gohl moved to town from the farm, after his wife passed away. Mr. Gohl had a shoe repair shop across the street from Kulcheski's Garage on Main Street. The shop flooded every spring and when you went there you had to wear your rubber boots.

He also remembers a retired schoolteacher who lived in a railway car (right where Olga Daviduk's house stands now) next to the lumber yard. She was pretty smart and could've written such a poem, but after her husband died she no longer spoke to anyone except the Daviduks, even when you spoke to her. McCrae was her surname and she would go around town collecting bottles.

Another clever schoolteacher he remembers was Mr. Harbridge, who also would have been capable of writing such a poem and contributed a lot to the Margo history book. He lived next door to where Dad lived with his own parents when the moved from the farm to town. 

Thanks, Pop!

Charita: It could be Harbridge. However, I know that John Grand did a bit of writing as well as the 2 Fairburn bros. Jack and Ed. The Mrs Mcrae that lived by Daviduks was Tina McRae. She used to go around town with her wagon, collecting beer bottles.

Wide Sargasso Sea

It was a case of the preface being more interesting than the novel itself.

The preface described the life of the author Jean Rhys and explained that she invented a life for the Rochester's mad wife, the woman locked in the attic in Jane Eyre. What a concept! Loved it. But the novel itself ... I didn't find believable. Stuff happened that had no logical cause and made no sense to me.

Yet the book is very highly thought of.
So there you go. What do I know?
Only what I like and don't like.
Only what inspires and thrills me, and what doesn't.
Only what satisfies me, and what doesn't.

Ray Mears

Thanks to Scott's "Cousin Al" over there in Eng Land for sending along a link to this short film about Arctic survival.



And it's a doubly good thing you sent this, Alex, because I didn't get home till 8 o'clock tonight and can hardly think straight, let alone write an entry here. Bedtime for Bonzo!