Starburst Quilt

This handmade quilt was a yard-sale purchase when we spent nearly a year in Kelowna.

Mom nearly had a conniption when I showed her the embroidered dedication on its underside: "To my beloved granddaughter...."

I had asked the seller if she was sure she wanted to part with the quilt, and said that she would regret doing so, one day. She insisted that no, her grandmother gave her quilted items every year.

When I told Mom I thought I'd go back to the house and tell the young woman how to reach me if she ever changed her mind, Mom advised me not to, because "That girl doesn't deserve to have a quilt like this."

Mom knew the hours upon hours of time that went into the making of the quilt, and was incensed that anyone would sell it at all, let alone for $20, which is probably what I paid.

As a bedspread in the master bedroom at Golden Grain Farm, it barely covers the kingsize mattress I had been sleeping on till this weekend, when I ceded the bed to Everett and moved onto a single mattress on the office floor. We'd been considering keeping the kingsize bed in there but this has made me realize that if we did so, I wouldn't be able to use the quilt Mom gave me as a bedspread. So we'll be keeping our queensize.

Garden Gnome

He Who Must Not Be Mentioned On My Blog planted his garden last weekend: sunflowers and peas.

Today he'll sow radishes, spinach and green onions, and transplant the lonely canteloupe. He thinks it won't bear fruit without another plant of its own kind though.

***

Casper didn't even think about following the van when we drove out of the yard a few minutes ago. Looks like the pup for company has done the trick. Fingers crossed.

I put a cardboard box on its side near the house and plumped an old quilted blanket, one used to cover garden vegetables in the fall, inside it, and Chloe was immediately contented and spent the night there. Not far from Casper, but not too close either or Casper growls and barks at her. At first I was a little worried —Casper is scary when she snarls—but she doesn't bite the pup, only gives her fair warning that her chest is not to be jumped upon and her territory is her own.

The Coming of Chloe

This is as close as the puppy can get to Casper, so far.

Well, it's her own fault. When we arrived at the farm she herself growled at the big dog first.

What I then had was a baby feeling sorry for herself, howling and whining, and dogging my footsteps. She even yipped and trotted back toward the van, twice, turning to me as if to say "How 'bout taking me back where I came from?"

She's no dummy, but she is younger than I realized because she has been mournfully crying a little.

Karen said that when she and her siblings were picked up, the little girl who lived at their birthplace had names for them all, and this one was Chloe. That seemed a silly name for a dog, but already I find it suits her.

Sweet Little Kitten Fish

Cuddles' kittens begin to make their way out into the wide world.

All four of them had their heads in the door opening when I arrived this morning.

Usually I'm almost obsessive about my keys and always check my purse to be sure they're there before I go out and lock the door. Yesterday after working in the garden for an hour-and-a-half I went indoors, got an apple, grabbed my purse off the table and headed for the van after locking the door behind me. Unfortunately the house and van keys were unseen on the table next to my purse rather than inside it.

(Yes, I have had a key made that I could hide in the yard for just such a situation, but the original key is so banged up that the copy wouldn't work in the lock. So much for that plan. We will be changing the doors anyway so I'll just wait.)

Fortunately it was a gorgeous calm day and there were still vegetables and flowers to transplant, so I did that for two-and-a-half more hours until a friend stopped in and gave me a ride over here, where my computer is. I was tired and sore, but had enjoyed sticking those flowers into the ground. That's part of the fun—figuring out where to put them, imagining how they'll look when they bloom, how high they'll get—in a way it's like creating a living painting. You dab the colour onto a certain spot and then the flowers do what they will. They're never exactly the same from year to year. One might almost think the flowers have a mind of their own, but I guess it's the different weather conditions each summer that are partly responsible for the variations.

Tonight Scott and I are off to the community hall to set up for the Grade 12 graduation banquet tomorrow night. Parents of Grade 11's help with the planning and decorating as well as the meal and exercises the next day and the cleanup after the dance, so that the parents of the graduates can relax and celebrate with their kids. Everett, who is in Grade 11, will be working at the banquet tomorrow night.

***

Alex, I can't watch the Youtube video you left the link to in yesterday's comments, because We.Are.Still.On.Dialup. It would take 45 minutes to download the clip and listen to it. But from what I can see, I agree: The word is the bird.

Update us on your mom's health, would you?

Casper Doodle the Dumpling Dog

Can anyone identify this breed?

Miss Casper refuses to remain at Golden Grain Farm when I leave during the day to work at my computer. If I don't let her up into the back seat of my van, she'll walk the mile "home" and then bark to return in the van with me later. Last time she followed me she arrived with a pronounced limp. This morning she waded through a water-filled ditch while I weeded a flower patch at the end of the driveway, so there was no way I was letting her in the vehicle.
Alas, I have to play hardball with her.

She is much more active at Golden Grain Farm than at the old house, where she usually just lies about. At GG Farm she is walking all over the larger, more open yard, exploring or perhaps inspecting. Today she flushed a duck (northern pintail perhaps) from its nest near the wishing well behind her. No hatchlings, just eggs there.

The nest Scott found nearer the water now contains only a couple broken shells. Something must have taken the eggs because the shells from the nine eggs that were there are not around.

There is no owl report from Karen yet today so I offer my own:

At 5:30 yesterday I was standing at the edge of the wet garden, when a small light-brown owl, its body no more than a foot long, made its way past the poplar trees on the south side of our property. It got chased by a small bird or two, or it chased them— I'm not sure who was the aggressor. It floated past the slough and then came past me again and turned back once more to sit on a fencepost, swivelling its head, near the slough. Suddenly it flew up and dove into the long grass beside the water. I thought, "Oh no! I hope it isn't taking baby birds," and watched closely as it came again my way, carrying something in its claws. It flew right over the garden in front of me as if to show off the nice fat mouse it would have for supper in a few moments.
At 9:30 I went out again (the air was totally windless and smelled like heaven; blessed rain) and a small owl with slightly different markings and colouring flew past me a couple times, making me wish I'd taken the binoculars out in order to have a better chance of identifying it. Probably I am seeing a male/female pair hunting to feed their young.

In Keeping With the Bird Theme

Everett holding a hummingbird nest that was found when the raspberry bushes were pruned.

Doesn't he look thrilled? This is his face of choice when anyone looks in his direction lately.

From Karen yesterday:
"The owl seems to be doing o.k., but I don't think he's eaten since I got him. The vet says to feed dog or cat food because he needs the calcium that's in it. He is sitting in a kennel on the table today just to try to get him used to humans, he's still a bit nervous."

The sun's coming out. We've had a grey and rainy couple of days; it smells divine out there. Aunt Shirley says it's not going to freeze again. I want to believe her, and will stick the rest of my bedding plants in the ground as soon as the ground dries up a little.

Sister Karen, Rescue Princess of the North

A long-eared owl at my sister's house.

We went to a house concert (transferred to the village hall due to cool rainy weather) yesterday afternoon. The performers were Alison Lickley and Sheena Grobb; fine voices, both.

This morning I received these photos and email from Karen:

"I found the owl on my way out of town. It was caught in a trap so Dick and I removed it but its leg is badly broken so now I have to nurse it back to health...imagine that!"

Knowing you, Karen, that is not remotely difficult to imagine.

My sister's had an extremely soft spot for animals in trouble for as long as I can remember. As well as the above "accidental tourist," she brought back four puppies rescued from the north and has already found homes for a couple; these two are left:
I am tempted by the little sweetheart on the right, but not anxious to raise a puppy, what with all the digging in my flower garden that it might do. I'm thinking an older dog would suit me better.
Unfortunately, our old Casper dog is getting more crippled up every day and I'm starting to worry that she may be suffering.

Let There Be Heat

As well as visiting Mom's grave in the Margo cemetery, Joan, Jordan and I dropped in on other relatives.

Of course none of them were there, but their grave markers were. John and Edna are Dad's parents. Happily, I remember them well, though I was only seven when Grandma died from a heart attack at age 47. Grandpa lived till he was 81. He's the one who taught me as a child to play rummy and whist, and spent many hours playing these card games with me before I reached my teens. What patience he must have had. He kept chocolate ice cream, my favourite, in his deep freeze and was always so good to me. I've been lucky, the family I've had (and have.)

***

Glory Halleluiah, Golden Grain Farm now has a working furnace and HEAT!
We still need it too. Scott says the thermometer registered 0 degrees at 4:30 this morning.
I was able to have the bedroom window open a crack during the night and the frogs weren't even singing. Too cold.

***

I was uncovering seedlings and flowers this morning while a male American goldfinch followed me closely all around the garden and talked to me. At one point he nibbled on seed from a dandelion poof on the ground, not three feet from where I stood chatting back to him. Many people mistakenly call these goldfinches 'canaries' because of their bright yellow feathers.

***

A northern shoveler (duck whose male partner has plumage of similar colour to that of a male mallard) has a nest on the ground between the garden and the slough, or dugout as Scott calls it. When I go near, the female flies into the water and pretends to be injured. No babies yet, just eggs. Scott found the nest last weekend when he discovered himself standing in it.

Les Cuz

Emil thinks he and his cousin Marc look alike.

This was taken at my sister Karen's on Saturday. She had a family shindig so that everyone could visit with Joan while she and Jordan were here. We ate like royalty. Grandma was there (wanting to go home an hour after she arrived, but I twisted her arm so she'd stay for supper)(as if she had a choice!) and also our cousin Karla and her family were down from Denare Beach.

Joan cracked us up with her story about the time she was driving along with her friend Brenda and they saw a licence plate bearing the letters SLMDNK.
Joan exclaimed, "Slim Dink! Why would a guy advertise that?"
Brenda cleared it up immediately.
"He's a basketball player; Slam Dunk!"
Our Joanie, a bit of a clown.

Quick 'n Dirty Update

Where have I been? On the go.
Picked up Joan and my niece Jordan in Saskatoon last Thursday.

Some Canadian schoolkids cross the highway through Humboldt.



Got no photo of Joan and Jordan while they were here. What was I thinking?
Went to see niece Danielle in her Grade 12 graduation gown; got snapshot of her with her parents, Karen and Dick.















The leaves are finally out and the horses are in search of green. It looks like summer, but it's not acting like it. We had a freeze several days ago; I lost my basil and peppers. Serves me right for putting them in the ground and not covering them (came home from Saskatoon sick on the day we drove Joan and Jordan to catch their plane, and wasn't up to going over there even though it was damn cold) but it was June already, we had heat, and I couldn't believe it would freeze again.



Scott and his cousin Perry have a quick visit on the road.

This kind of socializing is very common around here. Farmers have been in the fields, seeding, and are in a rush to get everywhere.

I've slept at Golden Grain Farm the last two nights, because I could (even though it is not comfortably warm in the house yet; I wear Mom's heavy green sweater) and because deer ate the tulips. So I take the old dog Casper with me, in hopes that she'll scare the deer off before they do more damage.

I had a reaction to a woodtick bite and am on antibiotics to head off an infection. Will never forget Joan squealing and jigging on Sunday afternoon, scared she had a tick on her -- and she did.

Had two flat tires and a fast leak on my van within two days. Fortunately there was someone there to change the tire both times I was driving, and the day Scott's brother discovered the leak he was in town with the van and able to get the tire patched right away. I've gotta get a new set of four tires ordered and shipped to town here.

That's about it for this update. I come over here to work at my desk on weekdays from 10 to 2:30 and then head back over to GG Farm to hoe and whatnot in the garden. I'm only gradually finding time to tidy up inside the house, which is covered with Scott's tools and construction materials throughout the kitchen and Emil's bedroom, where the fridge and stove are for now.

Local residents, I hope to see you in Margo on Sunday afternoon at the house concert: Alison Lickley and Sheena Grobb. It's at 3 p.m. and there will be signs around town. Bring your lawn chair. Call me for details.

The End of a Life

We attended the funeral yesterday for one of Scott's father Ivan's oldest and dearest friends.

After the service at one of the two funeral chapels in town, we joined the procession of vehicles to the cemetery where only the family and close friends attended. Then we headed to the community hall for a mid-afternoon lunch and some visiting.

Alec Bajbula (pronounced BaBOOla, if I've even got it right) was 30 years old when he was the victim of an industrial accident that kept him in a wheelchair till the end of his life. He was in his seventies when he passed away last week. Wheelchair or no, with the help of his little firecracker wife Sylvia he farmed right up until last year.

He had a nice little silver half-ton that would pull into the yard and, if you didn't notice him out there right away, he'd phone you in the house so you'd know to go out and see what he wanted. Ivan and the boys sometimes gave Alec a hand on the farm and Alec helped them out in return by allowing them the use of some of his machinery. But often he was just looking for Ivan so they could have a visit without Alec having to make his way out of his truck, into the wheelchair, and up the ramp to the house. The ramp, of course, must have been built instead of steps so that Alec could get easily into the house.

But mostly, when I think of Alec, it will be sitting in his truck with a smile on his face.

***

When Scott went out to check the cattle this morning at 5:30, the thermometer read —3C.
Today the sun is shining and Sonnyboy and I are off to the garden. Scott's got Devon, my old friend and Scott's unofficial brother-outlaw, with him and they are going to do some work on the house today. Yippee!! The furnace-replacement screwups are a story in themselves and still going on, but at last it looks like the weather is cooperating and Scott can make the most recently received wrong part work. One of the sheds is sheltering our new windows, some $4000 worth, and Scott wants to start putting those in too.

My "hack" sounds pretty bad, according to Scott's mom, but I am thinking it's nothing compared to the fever and sinus issues I was dealing with before that. I'd much rather be coughing and am sure it's just a matter of time before that's nothing to worry about either.

Cuddles Has Kittens

Cuddles is a two-year-old barn cat that's just had her third litter of kittens.

Peeking in from the tiny doorway, you can see her snuggled up with the three little fellows at the back of the cathouse, purring, with her eyes half closed. It seems like she is in heaven.

***

As of yesterday I'm feeling human again, if not able to exert myself for more than an hour. Should be back at full speed by the weekend, if not sooner. After school every day my son has been digging up manure by the barn and wheelbarrowing it to the garden, while I prune deadstalks from last fall and dig fresh dandelions up by the roots with a slim, long-handled tool. I've tossed flower seeds saved last year into flower pots and chosen spots, and slowly and lazily mixed shovelfuls of manure with worn-out soil. I'm not pushing myself, but after one hour I still come home and collapse onto the couch to rest.

Goliath

"He's so huge, I think I'll call him Goliath."

I turned down two invitations to go out visiting today, because I’m still coughing and blowing. But I didn’t have the heart to refuse the one that came from Scott after supper.
“Wanna bring the camera out and get a picture of me with this big calf?”
It was born today and is twice the size of most newborn calves, and Scott is tickled.
So I put on my winter jacket and a pair of shoes and followed him to the corral next to the barn. It wasn’t until he opened the gate and made his rubber-booted way across the thick, spongy manure-covered ground to a brown calf on the other side that I hesitated.
“You want me to go in there? With that mother cow eyeing me like she is?”
“She won’t bother you.”
“So you say. She’s not happy about something.”
“She’s telling me to leave her baby alone, and she wants him to go to her.”
“Yeah, well….”
Walk in shit up to my knees, and risk that cow coming after me—no problem. You'd think he'd know me well enough by now to realize—but no, apparently not.
“Are you going to take a picture, or not?”
By now the calf and its mother had reunited and the cow had returned to her feeding station, and Scott had followed and was wondering what my problem is and why I’m such a coward. Which I am; never doubt it. But I set forth across the crap, one eye upon that one-ton Annie, and snapped a photo for the man. He loves those little calves and it's quite endearing, really, to see him scratch their chins and heads and listen to him talk to them like pets. And they are cute and curious.

***

Last time he told me not to worry about cattle was a few weeks ago when he'd asked me to go for a walk in the pasture with him to "check on them." That was this spring when, as now, there are newborns and there are cows in labour most every day, and one has to be on top of the whole thing in case a cow needs help giving birth. I was reluctant, but went along, and was nervous as hell.
"Just stay close to me," he said. Exactly what I wanted to hear; it didn't make me feel any more confident.
Unfortunately, the neighbour's dog happened to be here that evening and decided to follow us inside the fence. We were in the midst of the herd of cows and calves when the cows spotted the unfamiliar dog and rounded on it. Their hooves hitting the ground sounded like thunder and I thought sure as shit we were going to be pounded into dust. It's not like that didn't scare me any.

Snowy Day in May

Yeah. I am not frigging kidding. Took this picture early this afternoon, through the kitchen window.

On the positive side, He Whose Name Must Not Be Mentioned left the Saskatchewan Birds book open on the kitchen table before leaving to school, to the page showing the rose-breasted grosbeak. There were a half-dozen pairs out there to be admired. Guess they're passing through. I didn't think to get a picture of them chasing the smaller birds away from the seeds on the ground.

The boys' dad had driven out from Edmonton to go along with the Grade 11 biology class on its trip to the Moose Jaw tunnels and Grasslands National Park. The plan was to sleep in teepees last night. I had made my son wear his winter jacket, which turned out to be a good thing. The underground tunnels were fascinating; I remembered to send the camera along with my kid, but he forgot to carry it with him when they toured the tunnels. Too bad; I've never been there. They say Al Capone smuggled liquor through the tunnels. That was cool, I was told, but it was depressing to see where the Chinese had lived underground while building the tunnels. They were housed in terrible conditions, paid slave wages, and abused when they appeared aboveground among the precious white folk.

The national park was busy digging itself out from under a foot or two of snow, so the overnight part of the trip was cancelled. Just as well.

Well Shoot - the Virus Got Me

I was healthy as could be on Sunday, so it was left to me to deliver the vases and flowers to our grandmothers and to Scott's mom.

Afterward, the boys and I went to pick up fast food at the drive-through for supper, and I said "Remind me to start taking ColdFX when we get home." With Scott fighting strep throat since Friday and Everett still sniffling from his head cold, I should have started boosting my own immune system days ago.

Alas, I got up Monday morning with a runny nose and have been wiping and blowing ever since, and have a slight fever. What a waste of two lovely days, as I'm staying in, resting (and working at my desk) rather than "playing" in my garden, which is where I'd be if I could.

Damn colds.

Bloomage

For two days it was too cold, even in the glassed-in deck, for my babies.

This afternoon the air warmed up so I cleared off the kitchen table. Let's hope this cold and snow business is over for the season.

Everett and I spent some time hauling the Adirondack furniture, the plant pots, the hoses, the water barrell, and so on, from one of the sheds out to the garden. I dug up the last half-dozen shasta daisies, which many people call "weeds," from the area they'd been seeded into last year. I know how they spread; that's exactly why I like them. They're tough as hell and their foliage is a deep bushy green. It was a patch of solid daisies between a sidewalk and a tall fence that first turned me onto flowers when I was in my late twenties, and I intend to have a field of them in my own garden too. There are already more than a dozen that were transplanted in the fall so there will be no shortage.

The flower displays at the Co-op store on Friday were a big hit, buzzed around by all the local ladies, who ooh'd and aah'd in small gatherings while the flowers flew off the shelves at high speed. I bought arrangements for Scott's mom and our two grandmothers, and a bouquet for myself in case no one else thinks of me. It's a good thing, too, because Scott is down with strep throat this weekend and neither of my sons asked to be taken shopping. But when I put my bouquet on the table, Everett said, "I'll pay you for those, okay?"

Cold Enough for Snow

This roadside memorial is next to the highway just east of Watson.

My heart always gives a little flip when I drive past it, because this lad was in school with Emil. He had recently graduated, gotten himself a job in the oil patch I think, and was on his way back to work early one morning after a visit with his parents in Wadena when his truck rolled into the ditch and he was killed. I don't think it is known what caused him to lose control of the vehicle; road conditions were good.

I'd never stopped to have a close look at the cross, until I was on my way home from Humboldt the other day. The greenhouses are open and I've been visiting them.

Last night my lovely bedding plants were shivering in the glassed-in deck, so I brought them in. This morning there is some snow on the ground near the house. It's so cold on the deck that I don't want to put them out there for the day; instead I've carried them all to the kitchen table, where they can at least be next to a window. I'm glad to have them there anyway, where I can admire and talk to them. Who needs a table to eat on? I've got a lap.

We did have several warm days when I was able to spend a few hours in the garden, with my trusty horseshoe hoe. The slough near the house is so loud with frogs that even indoors, with a couple open windows, the sound permeates the air. Between that and the flocks of snowgeese flying over the yard, Golden Grain Farm is a pretty great place to be these days. When I'm in the garden the supper hour goes by without my noticing; the fellas can fend for themselves; I have spring fever.

International Wetland

The horses still can't find anything green to eat.

Yesterday was the last piano lesson forevermore (boo hoo)(that is me, weeping into my hands) for He Who Must Not Be Mentioned. We planned to have supper in town afterward. He wanted to go to the drive-through for french fries and mozzarella sticks, so once we got our food we motored out to the wetlands look-out. It is an international bird station and will be a fine place to go walking, when the weather warms up.
As it is, I wore a winter jacket to read the billboards. A bundled-up lady came off one of the windy trails and asked if I was a "birder." I said no and began to explain that I am a birdlover, though, when she put her binoculars to her eyes and said "I think that's a [some kind of warbler] I'm looking at" and scribbled in her notebook and I'm sure she wished I'd be quiet. So I was.
It looked like the warbler that's been at our feeders for a couple days: the yellow-rumped warbler. I'm not a birder, but I have Saskatchewan Birds, by Alan Smith, and a decent pair of binoculars.
For the first time in my life, I was old enough to order off the seniors menu, thank you very much. My fellow 50-year-olds, I see you turning green already.

Warm Weather is Coming ... I Promise

A photo of my garden at Golden Grain Farm last summer, for the upliftment of my friends in Alberta who are suffering cold and snow.

It's pretty chilly here today, too. I have no desire to go out.

Still No Green

Aside from the sky and the blue reflected in the sloughs, everything is in brown and gold tones.

I don't mind one bit. Warm days are right around the corner. My walks are short in this weather—a half-hour at most— because the wind is cold. Even a winter coat and something on the head don't make for a pleasant stroll, unless you can get out of the wind. I have not taken my ski pants off the hanger for several weeks, so none of you can laugh at me. But I have considered them.

The boys and I have finished supper—whole wheat spaghetti, homemade marinara sauce, and some kind of pork that was thawed in the fridge so I figured I'd fry it up for Scott. He and I have a half-baked plan to take a drive into to town tonight. A little date, if he ever gets home (it's 7:30 now). He Who Must Not Be Mentioned failed to make sure his bag of clothing was in the vehicle when the boys left Edmonton with their dad, and so it was shipped on the bus on Friday and arrived this morning. Someone has been wearing the same pair of pants for the past six days. Bet there will be a lot of double-checking next time, before they leave the city.

I was under the weather with a neck-migraine yesterday so wasn't able to go to Kelvington and see Grandma. Must reschedule; and meanwhile, try to catch her in her room, by phone. Wish me luck with that one. Miss Out-and-About doesn't stay home too much. This is desirable, of course; she's busy, just the way she likes it.

***
"A mythical half-man, half-animal called Tyi Wara is honored annually on this date with songs and dance by farmers in the African republic of Mali. It is believed among the Bambara tribe of that region that Tyi Wara was sent down to Earth by the gods of nature in order to teach human beings the necessary skills of farming." - Original Source Unknown