Day in a Nutshell

Still Life on Fridge?
Joan was giving my new camera a workout.

The sun shone most of the day. I was out early, loading our sick dog into the back of the half-ton to take her to the vet, one last time. I could barely force myself to go through the motions, but had to. Sat out in the truck afterward and had a little weep, then carried on.

Picked up two gallons of honey from my trusty supplier. Cath, one is for you, so don't buy any.

Took a loaf of bread over to Uncle Pete. Found out he was overseas for six years during the Second World War. Aunt Irene's funeral is on Thursday.

Went and saw Grandma. The aides said her new clothes all fit and looked so cute they called her Doris Day and she thought that was funny.

Stopped at the Co-op for groceries and dog food. Bought a chicken salad wrap for lunch.

Thought about visiting Cara and the kids for a few minutes but figured sympathy might get me started again. My niece has a soft spot for dogs and knew Chloe was a sweetheart.

Headed down the highway toward home. The sun still shone, so I made a U-turn and backtracked to the greenhouse, and picked up another tray of plants: a castor bean, a rayflower, some yellow daisies, some pink ones, some oregano, some gazanias. Cathy I almost bought a blue centurea but talked myself out of it. Don't ask me why. Should've got it. Gave the last bite of the chicken wrap to a miniature pug who came to see me while I perused the trees and bushes on display.

Jiggity Jog.

Worked at the computer; took short breaks every hour to pull dandelions out of the flower garden and transplant volunteer violas to the front.

Starving, ate, zonked, off to bed with my books.

The Ugly Sisters

I'm on the left, trying not to look my usual frowny-faced self; Karen is in the middle (doesn't she look evil? I'm sure she's up to something); and Joan, the baby, is on her way back to Kelowna.


***

A phone call from a cousin today shared the sad news that my great-aunt, Irene, died last night of what was probably a massive heart attack. It seems to run in the Engdahl family (that's Dad's mom's side), as this is the way a good many of them have left us: among them Dad's mom, who died suddenly at age 47; her sister, Aunt Ingrid; and the list goes on for some distance. Dad himself came close to having a heart attack in his early fifties; he had an angioplasty in the nick of time, 17 years ago. It's no wonder Mom started urging me to "Get your heart checked" the minute I turned 40.

So there will be another sad family get-together in a week or so. I'm glad I got to see, talk with and hug Aunt Irene just weeks ago, after [her brother] Uncle Walfrid's funeral. Right now I'm mostly feeling for my cousin Mavis, who will be devastated at the loss of her mother. It will be a terrible shock. Auntie Irene was in her early eighties, but she was sharp, spry, and healthy as far as we knew.

I phoned Dad with the news. "The family has lost a comedian," was one remark he made.

Bus Accident

It was about 8 a.m. when the phone call came.
"A half-ton truck pulled out in front of me."
That was the driver. "I won't be picking up the kids this morning."
There were no kids on the bus yet and no one was hurt.

Old Hippy

Check out this photo of an old "hippy" in Sweden ... click here.

Sourdough

I can only use one cup of sourdough starter at a time, so had to settle for a small batch of bread. This time. When I find a recipe I like, I'll put another batch of starter together so there will be enough to make six loaves.

This is called egg and yogurt bread. It is moist and soft (I sliced the crusts myself, before baking, to differentiate these loaves from the others in the freezer), and besides whole wheat flour it contains wheat bran, wheat germ, and rye flour.

Alas it's not the flavour I'm craving these days.

Whenever possible I put sesame and sunflower seeds in our daily bread, but lately it seems bland to me — even when toasted — which is why I decided to make sourdough for the first time in years. It has its own unique flavour, which is the one that got me baking whole wheat breads back in the day.

However ... I'll try something different next week, when it's time to replenish the starter with some fresh flour and water.

Thinkin' maybe a raisin rye, which is not a sourdough but might satisfy my desire for serious taste.

Mosquito Repellent

Several years ago I read that if you eat bananas, mosquitoes are attracted to you. If you eat citrus fruits instead, mosquitoes are repelled by the smell of your skin. So for the past few years, in spring I stopped buying bananas and didn't start again till after the first fall freeze, when the mosquitoes were done for. And I ate an orange every day.

It didn't do the trick, though. Mosquitoes still liked my blood.

A couple weeks ago I attended the funeral for my great-uncle in Lintlaw, and the next day went back to visit with some relatives who had come to Saskatchewan for the occasion. Dad's cousin Mavis (that makes her my first cousin once-removed, I've been told; not my second cousin) was among the group sitting in a shady circle under a tree. The mosquitoes attacked me immediately. I had eaten a banana for lunch, having given up on my "No bananas from May to Sept" method.

Mavis told us that she and her parents had tested out the banana/mosquito theory and her mom, the one who had just eaten a banana, was viciously chewed upon by mosquitoes while Mavis and her dad, who had eschewed the curvy fruits that day, were ignored. It worked for them; the results were immediate.

She also said that if you take Vitamin B1 the mosquitoes won't like you. So I went straight out and bought some, and put it on the kitchen table so I'll remember to take it. It's been a week or so and so far the mosquitoes still bite, but not as much as they might. I'll report again later.

Right now, I have to go out to the correction line to meet my sister Joan, who can't remember how to get here. She's been in Saskatoon since Wednesday taking a photography course, and has rented a car to come out here and visit her sisters et al. Better go, before she gets there and drives on past if I'm not there waiting!

Get Stuffed

Mistakenly, I thought at age 21 Emil might be willing to let go of some of the stuffed animals he never looks at (to my knowledge). They were stuffed behind the bed, stuffed in the closet, stuffed on the shelf in the bedroom at the old house. But he insisted on bringing them along, and he piles them all on his bed every morning and throws them in a heap on a chair every night.

The stuffed animal of honour is the sheep that Jane Siberry gave him after a concert at the Manhattan Ballroom outside Saskatoon one frigid winter night:






















Joan, thank you for the tip on placing photos easily! It works like a charm.

***

Yesterday marked five years since Mom's death. I had, a week late this year as well as last, found a memoriam verse and emailed it to the Wadena News in the morning. I had shed a tear while thinking about Mom, but wasn't marking the anniversary by feeling low or even particularly solemn; had almost forgotten the significance of the actual date. My aunt Shirley met me in town for lunch and I did some running around and got home late in the afternoon with groceries and was just about to put my feet up for a minute when Joanne called, wondering whether I was having an okay day or not.

I always like thinking and talking about Mom, so the call was welcome. I love that Joanne misses her too, and that she cares enough to check in with me. How nice is that? What can I say. It's good to bring Mom into the present in whatever way we can. After five years, the uncomfortable thing is that time seems to be taking Mom further away rather than healing the loss; as if I've gone on, and Mom's been left in the past.

A May Day

Sourdough starter, ready to use tomorrow.

It's been icy cold and windy for several days, so I've been indoors most of the time. I've dragged bedding plants, tomato pots and the rose bush back into the porch, and covered some flowers last night and tonight that I apparently jumped the gun by transplanting already.

You'd think being inside would mean lots of time to update here, wouldn't you? It should work that way; can't say why it hasn't. Nothing happening? Sure, that makes sense.

And here's the little lost puppy, whose owner was found within a day and came and picked him up. We almost hated to see him go.

And last but not least, see the horrible furniture we bought in August. Microfibre that you are not supposed to scotchguard, that holds onto lint, hair and everything else that floats by, and you can't get it off with a clothes brush, a vacuum cleaner, or a sticky brush without going to great extremes. Like tweezers, and pulling things off one at a time. Even then you have to work at it. I imagine that unless a solution is found, this stuff will be hoofed out as soon as we can convince ourselves we've gotten our money's worth from it. It wasn't expensive, fortunately. But it sure as hell was expensive considering the garbage that it is. We didn't buy it from Sears, by the way, but they have it in one of their sale catalogues. Don't buy it. Or, if you are Super Housekeeper and can suggest a solution, please do.

Heard on the radio today that the chemicals used to make green paint are dangerous to humans. Some to make certain other colours are, too. Damn, we're screwed.

Can anyone tell me how to put pictures into an entry conveniently when there is more than one? Man, I hate being dumb. I upload them all, but then add some text, need to move them, and they don't let me drag them over to where I want — well, sometimes they do and sometimes they don't. And sometimes I just say to hell with it. I'm sure there is a simple and obvious solution that is too simple and obvious for my small but powerful brain to grasp alone. Usually the answer comes to me the moment I hit Publish Post, so I realize within moments what a doofus I am, and so does everyone else!

Tonight, my photos keep disappearing as I work on this entry. Think I'll upload that furniture pic one last time, then go to bed and read.

Found Dog

A truckload of wood mulch awaits my bidding. And my back.

It's been unloaded onto the garden and I planned to start spreading it today. But it's raining. More delay. That's all right. It's never all done and I'm learning to let that be okay. There's no choice anyway.

A young dog wandered into the yard today when the rain began to fall; our adolescent Chloe was growling and snarling from up on the step for some time before I went out to see what was up. Here it was this pup cowering against the building, trying to keep dry.

We've phoned all the neighbours and no one knows where the lost mutt might have come from. We live about six miles from town so if no owner is found, the verdict will be that someone dropped the animal off out here. They say it happens all the time with cats and litters of kittens.

Black with a brown nose and a red collar, and maybe six months old. Anyone?

***

Family news:
Emil and I ran into Heather in the Co-op store this week and she followed us out here on her way home. Good thing Emil was with me or I would likely have missed her altogether.

Recycle Old Sweaters

Are these not wonderful ideas?

"Pocketbook" pillows for children and the pretty ladies for pretty ladies?

I came across these somewhere and have misplaced the url; sorry.

Sweet Sara

Sara stuck under the front step

Sara Doodle the Dumpling Dog is a five-year-old blue heeler/border collie cross who is terrified of thunder. When area farmers use scare cannon to keep the hordes of geese out of their fields, Sara will do anything to get into your house and hide in your basement. This is the same dog that made a wide berth around me one afternoon when I'd been snapping my bubblegum.

The other morning when the boys went out to catch the bus, Everett informed me that Sara was unable to get out from beneath the step. She'd managed to get herself in there somehow so should've been able to get out, but apparently not.

Just a few shovelfuls of soil to deepen the hole did the trick, and she was soon out, wagging her tail and running around the yard with Chloe Doodle. She spent the day lying on the grass with our two dogs and then headed home to the old place a mile down the road, where we moved from, in time to greet the kids there when they got dropped off by the schoolbus.

Winkn Blinkn n Nod

"The boys are happy."

Three bulls were taken out of wet corrals (or wherever they were) and put onto the grass in our pasture.

I walk out to the fence every day and lean over it, tell them how handsome they are, and pretty much get ignored.

I don't go over the fence when they're in there, except to take this photo; and there's an electric fence inside the other fence, so I kid myself that it is any protection if I get behind it fast. It's not; a pissed-off animal this size would walk right through it. Same with the permanent fence I suppose, as far as that goes. Anyway, I'm nervous around these big beasts, but am told they're more scared of me than the other way around. Good, but I don't care.

So we're wary of each other.

WAS Unidentified Bird NOW Harris's Sparrow

This little fella has been at the feeder outside the living room window for several days, but I can't find him in my Birds of Saskatchewan book.

With luck, a shout out to my favourite group of bird lovers will bring a swift answer to the question: Who is this?

*** Thanks to those who knows, the bird has been identified as a Harris's sparrow in breeding plumage. He'll be on his way to a northern forest to start a family.

HEAR HIS SONG at this page: click here.

Wednesday

Just a couple more minutes in the office after supper.

Finally we've had a gorgeous spring day! Finally I used the hoe! Take that, blasted weeds!

Note the new feature on the right: a little bit of tarot.

Nighty Night

The front of my nightshirt.

I am reduced to using the photo booth on my iMac to come up with an image for today. Still learning how to get pictures off the new camera. Long dull story I won't go into.

Yes I'm ready for bed, and that's where I should be, instead of sitting here reading onscreen.

Started The Letters of F. Scott Fitzgerald this morning. Looks promising.

Where does a girl have to go to find painted daisies around here? There were none at my favourite local greenhouse, so I drove an hour-and-a-half to the one where I bought painted daisies last year. (Not enough. I want more.) And they didn't have any. Where to, next?

Last year's painted daisies:


It was not a wasted trip by any means, as I met two girlyfriends for lunch and then came home with two trays full of bedding plants. The Flower Frenzy has begun.

Some Mothers

My great-great grandmother, Mary Jane Walker. At Portage la Prairie, Manitoba.

Reta, who would the little girl standing in front of her have been?






















My sister Karen with a portrait of our great-grandmother, Caroline Engene. Some serious genes going on between those two. Karen is at least 20 years older than the lady in the oval frame, but still the spittin' image:










The Wendy Klein print reminds me of Mom, because of the joyful noise those gals are making:

Cold Fingers

Perhaps the last photos taken with the camera we bought for ourselves for Christmas 2002.

Yesterday on the phone:
"Where are you?"
"Yorkton."
"Where?"
"At the mall."
"Doing?"
"Just met up with C and J and the baby; had coffee with F; thought I'd look for something for you."
"Me? Oh, you want ideas. I always like a new CD."
"I was looking at digital cameras."
"Really?"
Alpha Dog (pfft) described two—a larger camera with a fancy lens, and a smaller one, half the size of a cigarette package. You may shake your head at me, but I preferred the little one (unless I could have both, but that would be greedy!). I won't carry a big beauty with me on walks or in my purse, and that's that for that. Better pictures, or fewer pictures: no contest. Backwards as that is.

Carl, your fresh flowers (roses) got to O.Z. one afternoon this week. It was well worth my while to play delivery girl, because on top of the customary hot beverage I was offered, Lily had been making cabbage rolls when I phoned. Guess what we had for supper that night (the frying onions were to go with the perogies)(note to self, phone Mary to order more)(I chopped up two-and-a-half onions; do we like onions much around here?)





















Emil and I had planned to go to town for a garage sale and the Mother's Day farmers' market today, but it's frigid out there; the garage sale has probably been cancelled and there's nothing I really need at the market, so that plan isn't so appealing anymore.

Everett was thinking ahead when he took shortening out of the fridge last night to soften up for his cookie-manufacturing efforts this morning; he's out there right now, still in his housecoat, mixing up dough and listening to Quirks and Quarks on the radio.

My fingers are cold.

***

Everett just brought me a wooden spoon full of cookie dough.
Now Emil's just come into the office to kiss my cheek.
It's Mother's Day every day around here.

I Love My Library

Truman Capote: "I knew over four hundred of them [multiple murderers.]"

Lawrence Grobel: Is there anything they all have in common?

Truman Capote: "Eighty per cent of multiple murderers have tattoos. Interview after interview after interview, the person always turned out to be tattooed, either a little bit or a lot."

and

"They all believe in God."

Banksy

To see a gallery of the graffiti artist's work around the world, click here.

Fred Penner

Emil with two of his favourite women.

Donna and her daughter have both worked with Emil at the high school as aides, and today they were out cruising and stopped in. They stayed for about an hour and Emil still hasn't stopped vibrating.

During the course of the conversation I was reminded how careful I have to be when I speak to Emil. Of course I'm already aware that I mustn't say anything I wouldn't want repeated — word for word — but today was an example of why I have to think twice about figures of speech and colloquialisms and such, too.

Donna and her husband took Emil to a Brooks and Dunn concert in Saskatoon a couple years ago and, music lover that he is, Emil mentioned that the duo is performing in the city again tonight and he'd sure like to go but alas, has no tickets. He went on to talk to the ladies about James Taylor and Fred Penner, the children's entertainer, adding vehemently "If you don't like Fred Penner there's something wrong with you!"

Naturally I had to say that everyone has different taste in music so there's not something "wrong" with you if someone's music isn't up your alley.

"Yes there is, Mom! You said 'There's something wrong with anyone who doesn't like Fred Penner!' "

But - but - but - I didn't mean it literally ... try explaining that to Emil! I'm not sure he gets it. Now I remember that conversation though. Maybe I was right in the first place. Maybe there IS something wrong with you if you don't like Fred. I mean, what's not to like?

Click here and put your cursor on Fred there, in the middle. He'll sing you a tune.

Fred was playing and singing for kids and their parents when my boys were small. Now that they're 17 and 21, Fred has been touring the country and playing in university bars. In a radio interview he said these university students were all kidlets back in the day, and when he plays the bars they know all the words and sing along and it's a wild fun time. I believe it. What's not to love about these songs? And imagine a bunch of inebriated twenty-somethings who can sing along. How often do you find that nowadays? I mean, that people actually know the words to songs and can join in and enjoy themselves.

Fred Penner saved my skin on many a road trip with Emil and Everett. Between him and Sharon, Lois and Bram, all I had to do when a kid got fussy in his car seat was plunk in a cassette tape and voila, instant contentment from the back seat. Sweet relief in the front. It even worked if I had no cassette handy; I'd heard the songs enough to know them myself, so I'd just have to start singing. Every parent needs a tool like that one in her brat-busting kit.