WHAT'S THE STORY

We’re having some warm sun in recent days and if you’re out of the wind your ears won’t blow off. Cathy with a little chuckle called it Indigenous Summer.

What gives political correctness a bad reputation is that people usually just slip up, not even knowing we have or only suspicious we might’ve. We didn’t intend our words to be damaging to anyone, yet we are being corrected and we’re not sure what the reason is. It’s no wonder some think political correctness has gone too far. What are we supposed to say now? When did it change? Why?

Often people don’t even ask those questions. We aren’t particularly interested in the answers. We might have to practise empathy and respect in an unfamiliar way for someone whose experience we do not share or understand. We might have to admit that we didn’t already know everything about everything; that we weren’t, ourselves, above reproach. We might have to think about one more damn thing. Sheesh, don't we have enough on our plates already!

And then there’s cultural appropriation, a practice considered harmful and yes, politically incorrect: a fancy term for being pissed off over nothing, you big whiner. That’s the attitude.

Recently I could not adequately explain why it’s now politically incorrect to call a ball team, for example, the “Indians.” I only knew that many First Nations people found it offensive, and that was good enough for me. But why does it offend them?

I did a brief internet search for an explanation. HERE’S WHAT I FOUND. 

Let’s be open-minded. Let’s educate ourselves instead of insisting that demanding political correctness is little more than a platform for too-thin-skinned complainers. Let's listen and be willing to adjust our perspective.

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These youngsters stared me down at the gate while their elders hightailed it to the place where Scott was putting a fresh bale out. They're curious about anyone new. They're not hostile but I'm nervous anyway. 

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My day so far has consisted of reading while drinking my morning coffee, mixing up a batch of bread for our household (the last two batches were sold and we were down to half a loaf this morning), doing yoga in the living room once the dough was on its first rise, making marinated tomatoes (that's the last of Scott's garden produce dealt with) and the inevitable dishwashing which, by now, goes without saying so why do I keep saying it. Maybe because it takes up so much time. 

The wind on the step is nasty but I'll go out anyway as soon as the six loaves of bread come out of the oven. When I get back it will be time to think about supper. Oy. I don't want to. I might have food-prep overload.

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Doc MacLean is touring over in South Africa for the first time in his long career as a blues musician. He doesn't always have access to the internet but he's posted a good collection of photos at his blog: http://zuluskies.blogspot.ca/ .

WISE WORDS FROM TONY

When I was in Kelowna at Joan's we watched the documentary about Amy Winehouse, an incredible vocalist with serious addictions that killed her at age 23. So young and with so much life ahead of her! And what talent she had ... what she might've done with it ... what a sad ending.

She was thrilled to meet and sing with the legendary Tony Bennett, who remarked that she was the best jazz singer that ever was. Now that's saying something! He also said, wisely I thought, after her death, "Life will teach you how to live it, if you live long enough." So just hang in there, you young people contemplating suicide as an exit from the discomforts and dissatisfactions of life. Just hang in there, because nothing lasts forever. Everything changes.

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Cathy arrived from the city yesterday afternoon as I was returning home from a walk.

She had picked up some fresh herbs for me, as I couldn't get them at the store in Wadena, and also brought a jar of her home-made jam and pre-mixed caesars. We got right into those caesars. 

I made her work for her supper. The wild rice salad was already chilling in the fridge, and it was tasty and a nice change from the usual. I'll post the recipe at Stubblejumpers Café one of these days. Another part of my supper plan was stewed chicken with cinnamon. I've made it before and it was delicious, but I must've thrown the chicken whole into the stewing pot. This time I decided to follow the recipe more closely by cutting the chicken into pieces and removing the skin before stewing it. I knew, however, that I don't know the proper (if there is one) way to cut up a chicken. Cathy thought she did, as she'd watched her mother do it many times while growing up on the farm at Wilcox. So while I busied myself with other kitchen errands, Cathy attacked the chicken. The stew turned out beautifully and I'll post that recipe too. One of these days.

Cathy's just driven out of the yard and I'm on my way to town in a few minutes to pick up Emil from Everett's after his three-day weekend and ferry him over to his own place, which is too far for him to walk. It's not that he can't walk that far, it's that it takes him forever and he's exhausted afterward.

It's a gorgeous fall day, sunny but requiring a windbreaker, something warm beneath it, a scarf, and ear coverings if you're striking out to walk on my road. It rained during the night so Scott's harvest has halted again. On Thursday afternoon headed into town I met a convoy of eight combines on the road, on their way to do custom work for a local farmer.

The SODA CRACKERS recipe has been posted at Stubblejumpers Café.

A MOVEABLE FEAST

"Never take a trip with anyone you do not love," wrote Ernest Hemingway in his Paris memoir A Moveable Feast. How wise is that! 

He also advised F. Scott Fitzgerald, author of The Great Gatsby, that it's not the size of your equipment that is important, it's the angle in which it is employed. Fitzgerald's wife Zelda had told him he was small in the junk department. He asked his friend Hemingway's opinion. Hem assured him his size was normal, whatever that is.

Funny the things that grab your attention when you read. The things you remember.

Hemingway married four times. It seems he and his first wife Hadley were quite happy but he cheated on her anyway, destroying their marriage. He never lost his goodwill toward her. "I wished I had died before I ever loved anyone but her," he wrote, describing his feelings of guilt before Hadley became aware of what he'd done and was continuing to do: sleep with his next wife.

Many will say that if that first marriage was happy he wouldn't have cheated. It's one of those "popular wisdom" beliefs that isn't necessarily true even though everyone takes it for granted. Like the one about cheating spouses: "If he cheated on her, he'll cheat on you." If you believe that, you believe that people don't learn from their experiences. Do you really think a man or woman who has once hurt a spouse and their children will think another affair is worth embarking upon? A person who has "been there, done that" is more likely to avoid temptation, nipping opportunities for poor judgment in the bud. While there are those who view extramarital affairs and one-night-stands as mere recreation, most people learn as they live. They don't forget that along with following their "bliss" may come deep regret, and have learned to value discernment. They have realized (thank you, Julie, for putting this into words) that our emotions are "like the weather — they come and go" and are not always reliable factors upon which to base our actions.

Scott calls this overflowing dugout at the back of our yard a "shithole." I call it "wetland." It's teeming with bird life and frogs for three seasons of the year. There is a muskrat (family?) house across the water, and other animals come to drink.  

Scott and Bruce took their machinery out to the flax field, with high hopes. It's just across the road and south of our place.

I happened to be walking by.

There is a set of preachy people knocking at my door. Ducky Doodle barked and ran toward the porch. I began to make my way there until through the dining room window I spied the van that was here the other day, when I did the same thing upon seeing two women carrying pamphlets crossing the front yard: walk back into the office and let them think no one is home. I can't even be bothered to tell them no thanks, go away; I won't give them two seconds of my time.
I might put up a sign to deter them from continuing to come. I don't want it to be rude. What could it say? Taking suggestions if you have any.

How about "Not Taking Suggestions." 

Hee!

Reply to Comments

rea has left a new comment on your post "THE IMPORTANCE OF LITTLE THINGS": 

getting into a routine of doing things is the ticket,however I don't but in the long run it serves you better.still don't have our floors done so hope we get no visitors.what do you mean when you say I have written on you time line? 

You must be talking about Facebook. Your "timeline" is the page you get when you click on your name at the top on the right-hand side. Maybe you left a comment on something I posted, which would've appeared on my "timeline." 

THE IMPORTANCE OF LITTLE THINGS

I'm on my way to bed and remember that I haven't posted anything here today. What the heck have I been doing with myself then, you ask?
Well (Reta), I've been keeping up with the dishes since you were here. That's time-consuming in itself, but doesn't seem so for the simple reason that I'm doing small amounts more often. I don't wait for them to pile up. It's easy when I'm home all the time! 
I also tried out a new recipe for soda crackers, adding sesame seeds and finely chopped onions to the dough. They turned out okay. Nothing spectacular, but pretty decent. 
I went with Scott when he had to give bales to the cattle this morning. His brother, who usually does the chores with him, was nowhere to be found and the "coos" were hungry, so my help was enlisted. All I had to do was stand at an open gate and make sure no cattle came through it. Easy enough. They weren't trying very hard. But man it was cold out there! I wore leggings under my jeans, a winter jacket with the hood up, a scarf, tuque and gloves, and still the wind got the best of me. I'll never figure out how those two men handle the cold while taking care of their herd. Moving more than I was, maybe that's it.
I washed the sheets from all three of our beds. Cathy's coming tomorrow! 
In the late afternoon I bundled up and walked three miles with Ducky Doodle. 
So yeah, not too exciting, nothing to write about really, but there goes a day.

The article (titled The Importance of Little Things) following the link at the end of this excerpt is long but interesting; here's a brief taste:

"Many of the difficulties of modern couples and families can in part be blamed on the way prestige is distributed. Couples are not only besieged by practical demands at every hour, they are also inclined to think of these demands as pretty much humiliating, banal and meaningless, and are therefore likely to be averse to investigating them at length or offering pity or praise to one another, or themselves, just for enduring them. The word ‘prestige’ sounds wholly inappropriate when applied to the school run and the laundry because we have been perniciously trained to think of this quality as naturally belonging elsewhere, in high politics or scientific research, the movies or fashion. We seem unwilling to allow for the possibility that the glory of our species may lie not only in the launch of satellites, the founding of companies and the manufacture of miraculously thin semi-conductors, but also in an ability – even if it is widely distributed among billions – calmly to spoon yogurt into small mouths, find missing socks, clean toilets, deal with tantrums and wipe congealed things off tables. Here too, there are trials worthy not of condemnation or sarcastic ridicule but also of a degree of prestige, so that they may be endured with greater sympathy and fortitude." -From THE BOOK OF LIFE

WHY HURRY

I was getting ready to go for a walk when I stepped into the porch and a spider on a long web was hanging there in front of my nose.“I don’t think I want you in my house,” I said. “I’m going to put you outside. Sorry, buddy.” 

It's cold out, is why I'm apologizing.

I got a glass from the cupboard and a postcard wedding-invitation off the fridge, slapped one on each side of the insect, and released it on the railing of the step.

Scott’s truck had come roaring into the yard a minute earlier and parked on the other side of the Quonset while he got something from another building. I meant to stroll over for a word, but while returning the glass and the postcard to the kitchen I saw the truck speed out the driveway.

“He’s a man on a mission!” I said out loud to myself. “Oh yes he is!”

That's not a bad thing, for sure, but it does suck to be always in a hurry. 

When I catch myself that way while mixing ingredients for cookies or doing any number of errands that aren’t pressing, I deliberately slow down. 

I catch myself rushing, and I take a breath and remember that the next thing is not more important than this thing in front of me. Why stress myself by acting like I'm late for a fire? 

Why think about the next thing I want to do instead of what I’m doing right now? I've become more conscious of the fact that it is only a habit and not a helpful one.

My natural inclination (sometimes it almost seems like an OCD trait) is toward efficiency in movement and energy use. I'm learning that speedery (my blog, can make up words, remember) doesn't necessarily serve me well.

ON ANOTHER TOPIC 

What I think is verbal abuse, others sometimes call simply crankiness, bad manners, immaturity, frustration, anger. I used to think that’s all it was, too — the unfortunate acting-out of the unenlightened who are short on self-control.

Recently at the recycling depot I read a sign on the wall:

Verbal Abuse Will Not Be Tolerated:

-No Yelling

-No Swearing

-No Insults

and I forget what the fourth item was. No Spitting? Though that doesn’t really fit.

It’s well past time our society started calling a spade a spade. Clearly I’m not alone in refusing to accept the above three behaviours as no more than shocking disappointments or poor communication skills. They are verbal abuse. Putting this label on them is an important step in seeing them for what they are. Before you've done that, you're just making excuses for attack-verbiage. "That's just how men are. They're different from us women. Boys will be boys," and so on. Baloney. 

Was I verbally abusing DT supporters in my post yesterday? Whoopsie daisy.

DREAMS

Don't you hate dreams where you've killed someone, hidden the body, and are spending the rest of your life worrying about being caught?

I had one of those last night and had to keep semi-waking to remind myself that it was only a dream and I had nothing to hide. Otherwise my sleep wouldn't be worth shit. And it wasn't anyway.

I'd cut the throat of a man, an acquaintance from my twenties whom I haven't seen since, and buried him in the basement. 

Here's what one dream book says:

"Killing someone may be a sign that you are releasing parts of yourself that aren't necessary in your present evolution; killing off beliefs or behaviors that are no longer needed by you. Do not feel guilty if you have a killing dream; it usually signifies the beginning of a great spurt of self-growth. A positive symbol."

All I knew for sure during that dream was that I would hate to have killed anyone. What a horrible thing to live with.  

GRUB DEPARTMENT
Try these: BAKED PARMESAN POTATO HALVES. Everyone loves them. The recipe definitely is a keeper for me.

Click to enlarge. I thought there was only one moose here but saw there were two when they both got up, turned and trotted into the bush. 

Reply to Comments

Joan McEwan has left a new comment on your post "Too Too Too Too Too Too Bad": 

I am also flabbergasted! Although, I must say, as I watch and hear more, I do believe that not all that voted for DT can be racist, sexist, uneducated, etc. There are many I think that feel he was their only choice for change from the current state of government- I see the question as not why he was voted in but WHY he was the republican candidate in the first place? As a human being, those who voted DT, can't think he's a honorable, decent person from the way he campaigned. 

... racist, sexist, uneducated, etc. ... maybe each person is not all of these things, but every DT supporter I've heard speak has demonstrated at least one of these characteristics or certain other beliefs that make my skull swivel on its post.
I have not heard every DT supporter speak, so my evidence is anecdotal and I've made a generalization in expressing the way they come across to me. And I've only seen these people on TV or read their rantings, making little to no sense, on FB.  Nevertheless I've yet to hear an intelligent, well-balanced argument for DT being suitable to sit in the president's chair. And then to watch/listen to the man himself during his campaign, well ... what kind of person thinks that man's any better than a monkey? and why should a monkey represent millions of people? 

Teresa has left a new comment on your post "Too Too Too Too Too Too Bad": 

How sad! I'm all for change but progressive and inclusive are paramount. It seems that fear and divisiveness are the future. My house is news junk central, between the American news "all things election" and Al Jazerra "blow them up TV". I'm totally disgusted with the horrible things happening in the world and politics that have created and encouraged it to continue. 

Political promises are the equivalent to the promise of rainbows and unicorns. 

I'm going to avoid the news for a while. I'm sick of it, and particularly this election crap. Everyone is talking now as if they're hopeful DT will turn out to act better/surprise us all in a more decent and reasoned way than we have seen he is capable of. Of course we're all hopeful, but worse than that: after what has happened, we are desperate to believe it's going to be something better than we pretty much know it is. We knew before he was elected that he didn't belong in the running let alone in the White House, and we know it now too.

Too Too Too Too Too Too Bad

I've been shaking my head for two years that DT was even considered as a U.S. presidential candidate. It amazes me that any thinking person could believe he was suitable, no matter who he was running against. At least most lowlife assholes try to hide their flaws from the public; this person seems proud of his. I'm embarrassed for the United States, and grieving for those — not enough of them, apparently — who had the good sense to fight against a Republican electoral victory. It's a sad day and people around the world are shocked and mortified. Here in our household, too. I got to sleep last night by reminding myself that there isn't anything I can do about it or could have done, but still slept fitfully.

I've been on media lockdown for a while now, sick of seeing that cringeworthy man and his racist, sexist, bigoted, uneducated, foolish supporters on the news. My disappointment that there are so many people like this is palpable this morning. I've always had faith that people are basically good and sensible and will do the right (kind, fair) thing. Now I have to struggle to hold onto that belief.

Why am I so surprised? There are plenty of right-wing voters in this country too. Canadians elected Stephen Harper, and Saskatchewan elected Brad Wall. These citizens seem to be smart enough, practical enough; some are even my family and friends. I don't get it. Maybe they just aren't forward thinkers? Maybe they have never really studied what the different political parties stand for, and only vote like their parents did? Maybe they watch and believe what they see on FoxNews? Maybe their allegiance to a political right is held onto like religious leanings instilled in children — accepted without thought or balanced study, even as adults?

I'd have been just as heartsick if Stephen Harper had been elected again, here in Canada. That's because of the record his government had already established when he was prime minister, gutting environmental protection laws, serving big business, and the list goes on; there's no need to mention the lying and subterfuge, is there?

Where Should We Invade Next

Scott woke me around 7 a.m. and we left our house about 10 to drive to Calgary, where we would spend the night with Gunnar and Melissa. The state of crops on either side of the highway was visually inspected by Farmbeau all the way there. Verdict: There is a lot more crop still in the fields than the agricultural reports are claiming.

That night Gunnar put on Michael Moore's documentary titled Where Should We Invade Next.  I assumed it was about U.S. military incursions into other nations around the world, and was pleasantly surprised to learn that instead that Moore had visited countries to highlight ways they do things far better for their population than the U.S. does for its own. Even, as Dad suggested when I told him about it the next day, if Moore cherry-picked people and places that exemplified his messages, the film is still well worth watching and I'm here to recommend it. Apparently Italian workers get eight weeks of paid holidays each year, and receive an extra month's salary in December. French children eat chef-prepared, healthy gourmet food instead of cafeteria slop, and for the same cost. Finnish students have the highest marks of any in the world, yet they aren't assigned homework and only attend classes about three hours per day. There's more. Much more! Don't tell me Moore isn't your cup of tea; watch the film and tell me what you think of what you saw.

After a night in Calgary I left Scott there to visit with his family and hopped a Westjet plane to Kelowna to visit some of mine.

Two days after I arrived in Kelowna, Joan's 14-yr-old daughter Jordan and her friend sat in the yacht club restaurant as far from we two old ladies as they could get. Joan and I sipped sangria in the lounge while waiting for a very fine chicken and quinoa salad containing candied pecans. To Die For. Although I suspect those nuts, followed by a Thai supper that included peanut sauce and cashews, caused an outbreak of cold sores that evening before I went to bed. 

Joan tells me that too-short entries disappoint her and she likes me to ramble on longer.  So I'll try.

 So Far Today list:
1. made six loaves of sunflower bread for a paying customer who will pick them up in the morning.
2. cleaned the kitchen.
3. scrubbed a sinkful of garden carrots given to us; they are drying on the counter.
4. put two loads of laundry into the machines in the basement

Now it's lunchtime and I'm going to warm up last night's supper, which was delicious, if I say so myself. I made LENTIL-HERB SOUP (the basic recipe, without paprika and olives, but I added sautéed celery, some leftover wild and brown rice, and about four cups more water; the end result was more like stew than soup). When the soup was ready, I added MEATBALLS that were first baked in the oven.

You may presume (by looking at the meat section in the Stubblejumpers recipe collection so far) that hamburger is my favourite when it comes to eating dead animal flesh. You'd be right, but pork chops and bacon are also high on the list although eaten more rarely, and so is marinated beef steak grilled to medium-rare. I don't consume any of these particularly often as I don't prepare dead animals every day, but I did grow up with this diet and have my preferred recipes. Scott will eat meat every day if he can, and for every meal if he can get it. Keeping our deep freeze full of organic beef including roasts and stew meat and ribs and such is one of his rewards for all the labour involved in raising cattle. He is one serious meat-and-potatoes man.

Can't You Take a Joke?

I married a guy whose humour was bitingly sarcastic and whose idea of fun when in company was to make me the butt of his "jokes." My friends didn't like it and I found it tiresome and it's one of the things that led to the end of our marriage: he wasn't my friend anymore and I didn't owe him my loyalty or devotion. He has since become aware of the tendency and has worked to discard it, and thinks he's been successful. I hope so. He deserves to be happy with his new sweetheart and she deserves — as did I — to be spoken to and about with consideration and respect.

Scott has a very different kind of wit but eventually he too crossed the line and I was constantly being teased. "Where's your sense of humour?" he'd say. "You used to like it." Indeed a little teasing is fun but too much falls flat and gets on my nerves. Often I'm not sure when he's serious and when he's trying to be funny. Apparently he needs to wear a grin when it's the latter, so I know.

I've observed other husbands whose conversations with or comments about their wives in my presence are almost pure teasing. I doubt they are conscious of what they are doing and how it may make their wives feel. I know the wives are not always entertained, though they try to be "good sports" about it. I hope those men wake up before they destroy some of the trust within their relationships.

I can't say it's always men who do this to women. I can only say that I haven't seen women do it to men as often, if at all. I wonder who the men are trying to impress. Other men? You tell me. I can tell you that what impresses other women is when a man speaks highly of his wife and treats her with affection in public as well as in private. Husbands like that are admired by women as much as men who are able and willing dancers.

A couple days of unseasonably warm weather are making us hopeful that the flax might yet come off the field this fall.

Dining with Dad

 Here's the guy whose air miles paid for my round-trip flights between Calgary and Kelowna while I was hiatusing (it's my blog, I can make up words if I want to). He picked me up at the airport and drove me there when I left too.

Me in 20 years. I might have more hair and a fluffier chest (I know: might). Note the toothpick; we've just finished our meal and moved into the living room.

One night he had me, sister Joan and her taller half Gary over for supper. The Jackson Triggs shiraz he poured into my glass tasted like heaven. I raved about it. I'd be sure to ask them to get it in at the liquor store in Wadena. And the surprising thing was that it's a cheaper wine; I think Dad said he paid $10 for the bottle. When I got home I pulled out the half-empty bottle I'd opened before leaving, and what do you think it was? The exact same wine. Hoo, Nellie. I should worry about my lack of observational skills or maybe my memory. But I don't think I will. It's only details.

Gary gave me a demonstration to show that wine poured through a small aerator tastes far better than wine that is straight poured. I couldn't tell the difference even after a second taste-test. Dad can't either (and doesn't remember how he poured the wine, but possibly the aerator is why I noticed the bright flavour at his place and not mine).

Dad had discovered that Costco sells a delicious chicken pot pie so he served up two of them along with a variety of fresh cut-up vegetables, followed by apple pie and maple walnut ice cream. I didn't cook one thing while I was "on the road," but ate like a queen.

Close Calls

Several times I almost lost Everett, or might have, or thought I had.

When he was just a toddler, he followed other children and their dad into a lake after my husband took him down to the shore, decided to visit an outhouse, and left Everett by himself. But the other dad wasn't aware of Everett; he was busy playing with his own children, walking deeper into the water. Fortunately I was watching from a distance, higher on the beach with Emil, who was slowly making his way with his walker across the hot sand. The moment I saw Gord abandon our baby I sprinted to the shore and waded into the water, catching up to him just as he stepped into a pothole and his head disappeared underwater. Thank God I was right there to reach in and pluck him out. Thank God Thank God Thank God.

Once we came out of the post office onto the sidewalk in Legal, Alberta, where we lived for seven years. I had a hold of Everett's little hand, but he pulled it out of mine and ran into the street so quickly I didn't have time to think. I froze as a big delivery truck screeched to a halt, with him right in front of it.

One sweltering hot day I told Everett, who was two or three, that we were going to the store. As we were getting ready, the phone rang and I answered it. After the conversation, Everett was nowhere in sight. I called in the house and around it, then began going to the neighbouring houses. Two doors down lived Joe and Helen (best neighbours ever ever ever). Joe hopped onto his quad and began searching the alleys and drove downtown; maybe Everett had set out without me. After his first reconnaissance of the town he came back with his report — no sighting yet — and went again. Helen stood with me in their driveway, and I stood beside her near tears — could someone have taken him? — until I saw a shadow through the front windshield of my van, parked in the street and facing Joe and Helen's driveway. I hadn't thought to look there! I'd planned to walk to the store, but Everett thought we'd be driving. And there he was, my boy, crying in the heat of the vehicle, unheard, unable to open the sliding door to get out. Oh what relief to find him there, oh how stupid I was for not looking there in the first place, oh how flushed and warm he was, oh what might have happened had I not been standing where I was and seen him! I carried him into the house and we sat on the step, him in my arms, both of us weeping with relief.

When Mom was sick and we moved to Kelowna to be with her and Dad, the boys were enrolled in schools there. I drove Everett to his on the first day and went in with him, and was told where to pick him up at the end of the day. When 3:30 came around, I drove to the bus stop and waited. The schoolbus came and went without Everett getting off. I followed it until it stopped again, and asked the driver where my little boy was. He had no idea. He radioed the school. They had no idea. Well, I got back into my vehicle and lost my mind. I drove to the school in tears; practically in hysterics. What if he'd gotten off somewhere else? He didn't know our phone number or address in Kelowna yet, and I pictured my lost little boy at the police station or picked up by someone else, someone who shouldn't be picking up children on the street. It was horrible — another taste of what parents of missing children experience — until the school finally located him. The teachers had put him onto the wrong bus, and finally he was brought back to the school after the bus dropped off all the other children along its route.

When I think of any of those times I still feel the sick horror in my belly, all these years later.

A favourite picture of my sweet Everett, the darlingest little boy, thrilled to pick berries from my garden.

I'm pretty sure I've written about all those close calls before, and if you've followed this blog for any length of time you're already aware of the stories above. The risk of repetition is strong here, and becoming stronger year after year. I no longer remember for sure what I've shared and what I haven't, and just plunge on in, hoping for the best. Thank you for your patience as I become a little old lady repeating herself!

Everett is 24 years old today. I went to town last night to get Emil for the weekend, stopped at the grocery store to buy a key lime cheesecake and then dropped it off at Everett's house. He doesn't celebrate birthdays, he says, doesn't want any fuss or gifts or extra attention. But I'm his mom. I can't help myself. I handed him two new pairs of thermal socks we figured would be good for him to wear at work, since he is in and out of the building all day, and he seemed glad to get those. In spite of not seeming to want company when I called a few minutes earlier to say I was coming over, we chatted enthusiastically before I said I had to go because Emil was waiting in the car.

Taking a Break

It's time for a little hiatus from blogging. The well's been a bit dry recently. See you back here late next week. 

The corner where you turn to drive up to our place. 

Moving Cattle

The gents decided to bring some of their herd back to the family farmyard before the weather gets worse. Me and Little Green, my wee Taurus, were called into service to head the cattle off at the pass should they decide to head north rather than following Scott's truck from one pasture to another. But they followed him, the Pied Piper of Cows, and I didn't even have to get out of the car.

Wandering Around in a Fog

Maybe today the fog will finally lift.

Taken from the back step.

It's so quiet. Although one night the train was so loud you'd swear it was less than a mile away. And there are no railway tracks within four miles of our place. 

Scott says a loud train means a change in weather.  

We fully expect at least a week of sun and warmth to get the flax crop off, and if we don't get it we'll be putting in a complaint with the powers that be. 

Down One Cat

I didn’t want to go to the barn again the next day for fear of finding KitKat dead out there. He had let me walk right up to him for the first time since he was brought here this summer. Usually he'd swiftly disappear whenever he heard or saw anyone. 

The lady who lived here before us said that skittish barn cats get friendly when the weather turns cold, and it’s true, but I was pretty sure something was wrong with KitKat. As I stroked his orange fur and talked to him, I wondered if he’d been injured, and was relieved when he got up and took a step closer so he could curl up right next to me. He looked fine but it took quite a bit of petting before he purred. 

He showed no interest in the fried egg I was delivering. I left it nearby and covered him with a blanket. That night I lay in bed worrying that I should have done something more for him, that maybe he was seriously ill and not just a little under the weather.   

It was foggy last night and again all day today, but not windy; perfect for a three-mile walk this afternoon.

The next day Scott came in and told me the cat was laying dead under the stairs leading to the loft.

Reply to Comments

Wisewebwoman has left a new comment on your post "Walking & Chewing Gum? No!": 

I miss the piano and singing - and I had some fun with a musical I wrote and directed. Gee I really miss the piano, don't have one now and I always did. Mainly for my own pleasure.....love the video. He's great!

Isn't he!
I do have a piano, which Scott would like me to move out of the living room because the room's too crowded and I never play it. Until I do, and then it's worth the wait (to me).

Joan McEwan has left a new comment on your post "Walking & Chewing Gum? No!": 

I ve been playing and singing with my neighbour, Mark, for a few months now. We practise every week if we can and it IS fun! He played guitar and piano and is very good musically..... A good way for me to get practising and force myself to do something a little out of my comfort zone..... 

A regular play date is the best practice motivation there is.

reta has left a new comment on your post "Food's the Thing": 

going to try to send response,did you never look at all the bartly men?they all had that round bald spot.at what age it started I don't no,maybe bev would.also mom could not smell.is that hereditary? 

I never noticed the Bartley men's hair (or lack of it), no!
I've read that anosmia can be hereditary. 

Food's the Thing

Emil has a weird oval bald spot on the back of his head. It looks like someone made a wild swipe with a razor while buzzing off his hair. I hope that's all it is, otherwise ... I'd be hornswoggled as to the cause.

Of course he doesn't give a rat's ass about it.

He's more interested in what's on the stove. Eatin' Emil, that should be his moniker. As soon as he arrives he checks out the fridge and the cupboards too, and remarks upon any foodstuff he likes.

"I see you bought some peaches."

"You bought three root beer."

"You bought ice cream!" Worth an exclamation mark, that one.

He likes these Spanish Beans, he tells me, having had them numerous times.

The recipe's been doubled so we'll have leftovers.

The recipe for Spanish Beans is HERE.
Now, what to do with that thing on the counter that I think is a marrow? Cook it like a spaghetti squash?

Walking & Chewing Gum? No!

A generous gift from my great-aunt, Aunt Jean, was used to purchase my Cort acoustic bass guitar a good long time ago. I've played the same three bass runs since I was about 24 years old! and never stuck with it or gotten any more skilled. I couldn't even sing and play at the same time! and that's saying something. Like: Give it up and do something that comes naturally.

I pick up the guitar for enough days in a row to get my fingers calloused and to the point where they know what they're doing and will play by themselves (it's the coolest thing!), then I forget about it for weeks at a time or months.

Since being at home full-time this past month I've made a point of playing those same old bass runs most days. I'm still a beginner but it is fun, and I'm all about having some fun every damn day. I've even started humming along sometimes, a major advance for this poor fumbler.

A song has been added to my brief list. The bass is simple and the words are worth learning too. Fun! I don't sing in public and don't want to, but offered to do my part with the following at the Engdahl family reunion a couple summers ago if my sister Karen would play the guitar. The Engdahls would've liked the humour in this one. Karen didn't take me up on the idea and I was just as glad when the time came. Knowing I am about to get up in front of everyone and sing is a horrible feeling. When Karen and our sister Joan's turn came to perform something for the gang, I was so relieved it wasn't me. What was I thinking! A lot of the Engdahls are natural entertainers, but I didn't get that particular gene.



Morgan was in Wadena doing a show with Doc MacLean some years ago.

The fourth bass run I always practise is this one from Desperado. It doesn't get "fun" to play till the chorus, so I jump to that a lot more quickly than they do here:



My sister once asked if playing the bass was boring and I said it isn't, but actually the real "fun" of it is when someone joins in on rhythm and/or lead guitar, which was the case when I had a guitar-playing beau, the one who showed me those first three bass runs. The guitars together is what makes the more sedate fingerwork of the bass so worthwhile. I never play with anyone else so I don't get that pleasure. Maybe someday. You can have a lot of fun playing bass when by yourself too, and I do.