Repairs to the hall in my home town, photo courtesy of K. Ekstrom, roving photographer
The house is quiet and serene today, as Scott is out and around doing his usual things, and Everett is experiencing his first real (as in, paid) day on the job with our friendly neighbourhood accountant. He's not sure how many hours he'll be getting but it sounds like he's to be put on the employee schedule.
Tomorrow morning he goes for his last hour with the driver's training instructor. After that we can make an appointment for the driver's test. Scott says they seem to flunk most everyone the first time they test, nowadays, unlike when we were 16 and rushing to get our licences the day of our birthday. I didn't parallel park properly (usually I could, but not the day of the test; so nervous I was soaking wet) but the tester told me to keep practising and passed me.
My hometown pub sustained severe hail damage several years ago
There will be no regret involved in seeing the end of the laundromat days. We've come up with a simple solution that is not perfect but will avoid the problems that come with laundromats ... like dryers stealing your quarters and not delivering their services, and washers that don't drain, and all this when no one is around to refund your money and even if they are, you are still stuck there an extra hour after waiting for a machine to be free so you can wash or dry that last load after a malfunction. It sounds like I'm complaining, when I'm not even the one who has been doing the laundry. I swear, Everett is a prince. He sees that time in the laundromat as a perfect opportunity to read for a couple hours with minimal interruptions, so it's all fine with him.
But what, he wonders, does his mother do while he is there?
Why, she picks Emil up and has a quick visit with all the residents of the group home where he lives, and the supervisor's adorable dog, Pete the miniature bulldog sort, who gets quite excited when anyone comes or goes. I keep inviting him to come home with me, but his owner just laughs.
Then I drop off the recycling. We have an incredible amount of recycling! Has really made me aware of how much stuff we were sending to the landfill before. Horrible. Recycling is a pain in the ass, but totally necessary. If you don't recycle, shame on your lazy shortsighted ass. Nobody is lazier or more shortsighted than me, and if I can do it, you have no excuse not to.
Yesterday there were no other errands so Emil and I went for some poutine, ordered fries for Everett who came across the street to the café for a half-hour, and were joined by Dave, Wadena's coffee inspector. It is a dirty job, he says, but someone has to do it.
Afterward Emil and I went for groceries. Well, his mother went for groceries. He just struts up and down the aisles looking for people to waylay and converse with. Or to. Maybe it's more "to."
A fine long email came into my inbox this morning from Ms Bell, who is travelling in Rome right now. The little gallavanter. I have requested permission to post her letter here, so if we're lucky we can gallavant vicariously. I've suggested she try her hand at travel writing after she retires from her current profession.
***
Be sure to check out today's entry from Italy. The link to the webpage is always there, on the left under the heading Around the Planet. Here's what Louise has written today: click here. Maybe you'll want to find a new source for your chickens and eggs.
I could think of my life as two lists
(which in itself is sick)
called "Stuff I have to Do"
(Worklist)
and "Stuff I love to do"
(Funlist)
and all activities are entered
into one of these lists.
You might find the dentist appointment
on the first list
and "go dancing" on the second,
for example. . .
This is all subjective as some people
may actually prefer a root canal to dancing
but you don't want to know these people.
Something I have noticed
like a slap to the head
is that lately even the things I love to do
are drifting over to the Worklist--
that is so messed up!
Enjoying a winter walk has become
"getting some healthy exercise,"
laying around with Hubby is now the dreaded
"increasing marital intimacy,"
and drawing is called "fulfilling my creative potential."
My anxiety about having fun
has become so stressful
that fun is no longer fun
and thus the Funlist is just another
neurotic guilt trip
Today is my day off
and, true to form, lately,
I sorted papers and bundled up garbage
while making the coffee,
tidied up the living room
while cooking eggs,
noticing that three more hours
of housework would be a mere beginning,
made some quick phone calls
while making toast,
turned off the screaming smoke alarm,
then sat down to my black breakfast,
wondering if I'm losing my mind.
Sit down, girl, breathe,
I tell myself,
think about what's really important.
Some women keep a tidy house
but they don't phone their lonely friends--
I take pride in the fact
that I am not one of those,
as I sweep a pile of junkmail off the table
so I can write a card to Mary.
By Julie Paquette
[other writings by Julie can be seen in her pages on the left, under Lookee Here]
I particularly get a kick out of DiCaprio as a kidlet; looks like an imp.
Please note that my mom's best friend Joanne has posted an entry today (see under column Lookee Here, on the left). And I am trying to armwrestle Julie into giving permission to post a poem-letter she just wrote me in response to yesterday's entry. Her poems are so full of spicy clarity.
Yesterday was spent sleeping, and last night seemed sleepless because of a surface discomfort. Damn neck migraines. Got up early this morning and took a pill, which should've been done last night before going to bed; it's so hard to know when to take them and when not to, without waiting so long that it's too late. I took one this morning, and it worked. Yippee! but makes me tired and slowmoving for the rest of the day.
I have yet to get out of Mom's housecoat. Everett's favourite radio shows are on so he is making cookies, loading up the recycling, and taking down the Christmas tree while he listens. I'm going to catch up on yesterday's editing work, missed thanks to my finicky neck. Saturday is the day we haul the laundry to town and Everett sits happily in the laundromat for two hours while I pick Emil up, get groceries and run errands; we'll head out in a couple hours.
It had been three years since we'd been to a dentist for a checkup and cleaning. Three years! Where does the time go? I didn't get out of there before paying $250 for my visit and booking an appointment to have my only two wisdom teeth out next month. There is nothing to look forward to in that prospect, is there? Two needles for freezing, an hour in the chair repeating a silent mantra to remain calm and relaxed while my mouth's stretched open and hands and tools dig around inside it, swelling and painkillers to follow, and finally two raw gashes where the teeth used to be. Oh, and the bill. Let's not forget the bill.
I left feeling sick to my stomach at the whole idea of that next appointment.
Every time I go to a dentist I refuse the x-rays they insist on, and every time they lecture me about how they can't do their job properly without seeing what's unseen in my mouth, and how the x-rays are the equivalent of 20 minutes in the sun and don't do you any harm, and half the time I end up letting them do it and hating myself for that because I don't believe a word of the "it's harmless" spiel but I have been learning over the years that if I'm going to pay professionals to do a job, I should also take their advice. So in spite of my misgivings I eventually agree reluctantly to the x-rays.
A dentist advised me 20 years ago to have the wisdom teeth removed, as they were crowding my other top teeth. I ignored him because they weren't causing obvious problems and why mess with something that seemed natural? In the years since, the overcrowding has pushed one of my front teeth out of alignment, which likely wouldn't have happened if I'd listened to the dentist and let him yank those wisdom teeth out.
So. I don't wanna listen, but I'm going to.
Click around bottom of image to play video interview with Paul Gross.
Paul Gross stars in the Canadian-made movie Gunless, which came on at 10:30 last night so I called Everett and stayed up to watch it. I’ve only read one review and it was scathing, but I never believe a word reviewers say; I’ll make up my own mind, thank you very much.
And I liked the film. Beautiful landscape of southern Alberta, no gratuitous violence, a happy ending, and Paul Gross still makes me drool, even playing a gun-happy American killer with skanky long hair. He manages to look good wearing the clothing of a Chinese launderer, which on most men would just seem silly. He takes the girl in his arms and I sigh loudly “She gets to kiss Paul Gross!” They wake up in bed together and I sigh loudly “She gets to sleep with Paul Gross!” Everett rolls his eyes. I bat my eyelashes at Scott and say sweetly, “He’s almost as goodlooking as YOU.” Gunless isn’t your typical Hollywood crap. Give me a Made in Canada production any day, whether it stars eye candy like Paul Gross or not. Canadians tell good stories and they tell them well, and the Canadian public’s support of Canadian productions is long overdue. I like the quirkiness of Canadian stuff; you sort of never know what’s going to come up when you’re watching a Canadian-made show.
Mind you, I wanted to like the new so-called comedy Men With Brooms, and I just can’t. I’d also like to like the Newfoundland-made series Republic of Doyle, and can’t. And as much as I'll watch pretty much anything actor Michael Riley is in, and as popular as Being Erica is, it's not for me. There's plenty I don't think much of. I’m not saying Canadians never put out infantile garbage; just that they do make a lot of excellent stuff too. Slings and Arrows, also starring Paul Gross, is one example. Less Than Kind, filmed in Winnipeg, is another.
Then, the stuff I like best often gets cancelled. For example, I loved Deb McGrath and Colin Mochrie’s Getting Along Famously, yet it didn’t last long. The harder I laugh, the shorter the run seems to be. Just my rotten luck.
And the stuff I don't get at all is the stuff that gets the highest ratings. The American-made Two-and-a-Half Men? The Big Bang Theory? How are these funny? Take out their laugh tracks and you'll wonder where the punchlines are. Yet they're getting awards left and right and are popular as hell.
I know: different strokes for different folks. I also don't "get" the popularity of hockey games, yet still call myself Canadian. Go figure.
***
From Maggie Turner's webpage:
Food labeling is a life or death issue for me, and others. The new labeling laws in Canada have not been passed yet and I need help. I will be submitting my views to Minister Stockwell Day, the President of the Treasury Board, and to Prime Minister Stephen Harper using this reliable and respectable web site: http://www.allergicliving.com/petitions/food-labelling/.
The Finance Canada And Treasury Board Secretariat has already viewed this entry, very quick to monitor public reaction. It would be great if other bloggers included this link for their readers.
I suggested to Don, our friendly neighbourhood accountant, that Everett come in one day and “shadow” him at work, to see if he’s interested in taking up such a career, since it was in his accounting class that my son achieved his highest marks in school. Don agreed and so this morning Everett appeared beside my bed early, wearing the purple shirt and striped tie I gave him for Christmas. With his heavy dark-framed glasses on, he was the stereotypical picture of an accountant already and I had to chuckle. Scott drove him into town, so I've got the house to myself today.
Strange and wonderful lad that he is, Everett seems to love that tie. He’s the kind of kid who wears his shirts with the cuffs fastened and the buttons done up as high as they’ll go. Short-sleeved T-shirt? Never. Shorts? Never. Covered up to the hilt, always. He likes to have slippers on his feet, too.
Yesterday Scott and I drove to Humboldt, the halfway point between here and Saskatoon, to meet up with Kathy P and deliver the organic beef she and her sister have bought from the farm. We were sitting in a restaurant sharing a meal when my cellphone rang to remind me that I was due back home at a meeting on Emil's behalf, one that has been noted on my calendar for weeks already. Oops. I wasn't embarrassed — I'm human, these things happen — but more concerned because this is not the kind of thing I ever do. I rarely show up late for an appointment, let alone forget about it entirely. Particularly after looking at it marked on my calendar so many times.
Oh well. I'll blame it on the menopause, like everything else these days.
***
There are half a dozen horses on the farm that need to go to new homes. They are in imminent danger of being sold at auction, which means they'll likely be butchered and made into dog food. If you know anyone who loves horses and might be interested in saving them from this ugly fate, please put them in touch with us.
One of the wonderful things about having a snuggle-bunny is the snuggling. And one of the best things about fighting with your snuggle-bunny is making up from the fight, because then you get to snuggle. Ever in the mood to snuggle, but your bunny doesn't want to? I'll bet you get into a fight over it. And then you make up, and you snuggle. So everything's great.
Except, of course, for the fight. Fighting takes a long time, it's tiring, and it's bad for relationships. So some nice people got together and invented “fair fighting.” Have you heard of it? Just Google it. You'll find lots of versions. There are rules like, “Take it private, keep it private,” so you don't embarrass each other in front of others. Wouldn't that defeat the point? Or how about, “Avoid accusations.” Or, “No hitting below the belt.'” Why go to all the trouble of fighting if you're going to fight fair? Why not fight to win?
I guess the theory is that as long as you're going to fight, you should fight fair. But if you can just decide to fight fair, willy-nilly, then why can't you just decide not to fight at all? Because it's human nature to fight, that's why. At least, that's what I say to justify my occasional lack of self-control and infantile behavior.
Fighting Might Do Damage
Even if you fight fair 99% of the time, that extra 1% you might say something that's better left unsaid. Nothing destroys relationships like loved ones going straight for each other's insecurities. So they didn't tell you until after you were married to them that they weren't the gender you thought? Obviously it's a sensitive issue for them. Bringing it up in a fight about whose turn it is to wash the dishes is not going to win you any brownie points.
Fighting Takes Too Much Administrative Overhead
And, of course, fighting rarely starts small and stays small. Imagine a couple where one person is mainly concerned with tasks, whereas the other is mainly concerned with relationships and feelings. Just imagine how things might go: a fight starts over a task. “It's your turn to do the dishes.” “Is not!” “Is too!” The feeling-centric person then notices the conflict is generating bad feelings. That upsets them. That is a big problem. “You just had to start a fight, didn't you? You always do this! You take a nice evening and ruin it. You can't just discuss it calmly!” To the task-centric person, that is going off task. Which, of course, is a big problem. So they get even more upset about that. “You're always changing the subject. What about the dishes?” “This isn't about the dishes; this is about your inability to be an authentic human being!!”
Now we have three fights going on. One fight about the dishes, one fight about whose fault the fight is, and a third fight about how the second fight is distracting us from the first fight. Who can keep track? You might try using the grid technique from my episode on managing multiple projects, but that becomes a fourth fight: “Why are you writing out a grid? Don't you care about our relationship?” At that point, trying to explain you're writing a grid so you can track the fights that you need to fix so you can make up and snuggle ... just won't work.
Yes, there's an easier way.
Make a Fight Sheet
Did my sample fight sound familiar? That's because fights aren't original. Most of us have the same fights as each other, and we have them over and over and over. Even the fights about the fights repeat! This is silly! If you're going to get hot and bothered with your snuggle bunny doing something repetitive, there are better alternatives. For example, jumping rope.
But if you must fight, streamline the process. Create a word processing document and type in your standard arguments. Include both points of view, but just how you both say them. Don't cheat to make yourself look better than you are; record both sides of each argument. Put in a bold header for each argument to make it easy to find, and include a table of contents if it helps. Start with a title page, “Our arguments.”
Now print it out and make sure you each have a copy. Next time you start to argue, run (don't walk) to your nearest copy and hand it to the other person. Then you can each turn to the proper page and run through the argument silently. When you're done, if either of you have anything else to say, say it. Record those additions for next time, of course. Voila! What used to be a two hour argument now takes mere moments. You can look at each other, laugh a bit, and go snuggle and make up.
Yes, I'm Serious
In my life, this tip works. The idea appeared in my head in the middle of an argument, when I realized the argument was really, really familiar, but it was too late to stop it from escalating. I thought sarcastically, “There's gotta be a way to streamline this.” Then I realized it could be funny to give it a try. My first version was my partner's main points and what my responses would be. That would help me save time in proving I was right. Then I realized that wasn't fair, so I included both points of view. It was funny. We only had to use our argument booklet two or three times before almost all of those arguments lost their force.
This tip doesn't actually work because you're streamlining your arguments, it works because you're reminding yourselves how silly and futile arguing is in the first place. Life's too short. Go snuggle instead.
By Stever Robbins, the Get-It-Done Guy.
Sign up for his mailout by clicking here.
Scott hasn't been feeling well for several days, so he's been home drinking hot water with honey and cinnamon, and lying on the couch in front of the TV.
Alas for me, that means I can't sit in the living room in the afternoon to have my daily tea and birdwatch. Not without listening to the TV, which frankly I need to escape at every opportunity as it's a great big time-wasting teeth-gritting too-much-frigging-advertising irritating brain-drain that hypnotizes me just as hard and quickly as the next guy, if I let it. I've been spending most of my daytime hours in the office with the door closed, and my nights in the bedroom reading, though sometimes I get stuck in front of the tube in the evening too if I'm not careful.
For the deep relaxation that comes from 15 minutes of birdwatching, I've brought an old milking stool from the barn and set it against the outside wall of the house. After the walk, which gets my blood flowing, I brew a single cup of Red Rose tea in a travel mug and sit outside with the dogs. In my hand-me-down (thank you Aunt Jean) mink, ski pants, Sorels, scarf, tuque and glove/mitten combo, I am toasty warm, the dogs get their fill of petting, and I am content. The weather has been mild this past week. In 30-below it wouldn't be so welcoming.
Constant visitors to the oak trees are hairy woodpeckers, downy woodpeckers, redpolls and chickadees. Dozens of them. There are magpies that come too; not while I'm out there, but they check out the ground beneath the feeders every day and I like them even though they are despised by Scott because they have been known to peck the eyes from newborn calves. How awful is that. I figure if they get enough to eat they might not have to bother the cattle, though warm, moist newborn calf-eyes must be quite a treat to them.
Oscar called from Regina last night to say that the report was good: no more cancer was found. He's got to undergo a year of immunotherapy now, and some plastic surgery, none of which will be a breeze, but compared to the alternative this news has Oscar, Barb and everyone who loves them jumping for joy.
He had bought a bottle of wine to celebrate and I decided to do the same thing here.
This is me with my cousin Oscar at the Margo School Reunion 16 years ago, when everyone who'd ever attended any Margo school came home for the weekend. Festivities were held in the rink— meals, dance, so on, so forth. Hundreds of former students showed up.
Oscar's dad and my grandfather were brothers, so Dad and Oscar are actually cousins and Oscar and I, as I understand it, are first cousins once-removed. He's only a few years older than me and we grew up in the village of Margo, and of course when a little girl like I was has a slightly older boy in the family who happens to be sweet-natured and kind, she follows him around like a puppy and pesters him mercilessly. Some of my fond childhood memories are of checkers played in the afternoons at Oscar's house — he must have had so much patience! — and of being dragged around the floor by the leg, probably because I wouldn't leave the poor lad alone. (Nowadays when I see my niece Jordan, who is in Grade 3, with my son Everett, who is 18, I think it's much the same dynamic.)
As teenagers we often went out driving around the countryside together, having a few drinks and laughing pretty much constantly. That was social life in rural Saskatchewan back then, for teenagers. It's probably the same today, although I like to think that drinking and driving has fallen out of favour. For us, there was nowhere else to go when you wanted to escape your parents' home. You got into a vehicle and went out to see who else was out and around, and then you hung out on the back roads somewhere.
Oscar married his high school sweetheart and they set up on a farm north of town and had three fine boys who are grown now; one works with Oscar in the family business and two of the three have started their own young families.
Not long before Christmas, Oscar had a mole on his neck removed and the diagnosis that came back from the lab was melanoma. His doctor got him into the operating room right away and exploratory surgery showed two out of three lymph nodes on one side were cancerous. So back into the hospital he went for radical surgery, removing lymph nodes from neck, chest and back. The next day they kicked him out and sent him home, which is a three-hour drive from the city where the surgery was performed. He spent several days in a lot of pain and discomfort but when I called him on New Year's Day he was, though still sore, starting to feel himself again.
Today he and Barb are in the city, getting the results of tests done after the surgery. With luck, the operation removed all the cancer. It HAS TO have.
At the nursing home where Grandma lives now, the auxiliary throws a Christmas party for the residents and invited guests and a photographer takes portraits, which are then attached to cards and sent out to family members on the mailing list.
Aunt Reta, I didn't have your address with me last fall when they asked me to come up with a list. I'll forward my card on to you, and make sure your info gets added for Christmas 2011.
Scott, Everett and I had supper with Scott's clan at his grandmother's house in Kelvington on Sunday. She turns 102 later this month. After the dishes were done, we three strolled over to the nursing home to see Grandma. It was 7:30, and she was already sound asleep, so we left her be and walked over to Cara's to say hello to her and her family for a few minutes. They were getting the kids ready for bed so we didn't stay long.
It was a cold, crisp night, but thankfully there was no wind so it was beautiful and there were still a lot of Christmas lights up around town. Yesterday I came back from my afternoon walk with pretty chilly cheeks, but today it has warmed up considerably and was mild enough to go all the way to the ravine with the dogs. That's only about a mile round-trip, but on days when the wind is blowing and the thermometer is in the low twenties, it's a formidable hike and I usually turn back much sooner, into the calm of the trees.
Dad turned 72 yesterday. SEVENTY-TWO!! That sounds OLD, and Dad is NOT old! Are ya, Pop?
I hope you won't be crossing my name off the will for not phoning. I did send an email, and just talked to you the other day, and figured you'd be getting calls from lots of other people so wouldn't feel forgotten or neglected. Honestly though, if I'm in as good a shape as you are when I'm 72, I'll be happy. As a matter of fact, I'd likely be happy if I was in as good a shape as you are now, as I come up to 52!
On New Year's Eve, Scott, the boys and I covered up with quilts and settled in to watch the latest Shrek movie. For those who haven't seen it, it starts out with the ogre Shrek living a happily mundane life with his wife and three tiny tots in a peaceful and friendly environment. Aside from the pristine nature of his surroundings, which are less-than-satisfying for an ogre, the repetitiveness of raising children and taking care of a home gets to Shrek. He is constantly called upon to take care of the backed-up outhouse, for instance. Over and over again.
Chuckling at that, I looked over at Scott, who also deals regularly with similar issues here, and said, "See? This is part of every man's life. It's not just you!"
Shortly after, he fell asleep, and stayed that way till the end of the film.
Which reminded me of the time I took Baby Everett to a display of life-sized, moving, roaring dinosaurs, and after his initial terror he fell asleep and remained in a coma till we left the museum.
Some things are just too overwhelming.
And speaking of outhouses, we do have one. We don't use it (yet; I'm wondering if we might need to one of these days, the way things are going), but I took this photo while out for my walk yesterday:
The thermometer said 25-below, I heard, but it was gorgeous out there. Not a breeze... snow sparkling...air fresh and crisp...happy dogs bouncing around me as we made our way down the road under the sunshiny blue sky...
I didn't make New Year's resolutions, as I promptly forget them anyway. Instead, on New Year's Day I tried to do everything that I hope to do much, much more of in the year ahead—to “seed” the year:
1) Up before 9, make the bed
2) Make breakfast for everyone
3) Clean kitchen, including doing dishes
4) Listen to music; my CD choice, Robert Plant and Alison Krauss, Raising Sand
5) Dance
6) Sing
7) Bath and take the time to oil my body afterward
8) Call someone who is dear to me; I phoned Dad, my cousin Oscar, and my gal-pal Cathy
9) Have a "wrestling match" with Scott
10) Followed by a cuddle and short afternoon nap
11) Take a Medicine Walk; all walks are medicinal, right?
12) Do the Tibetan Rites
13) Play guitar
14) Eat an orange for my health
15) Read
16) Write
17) Meditate
18) Afternoon tea and birdwatching
19) Get editing work done
Well I didn’t do them all; didn’t play my bass, sing (beyond my usual mindless melody-making while doing other things), eat the orange, watch the birds or meditate. And that is okay! It was a full, satisfying day and we watched How to Train Your Dragon with the boys in the evening.
I'll drive Emil to Aylesbury House this afternoon. He's been home since the 23rd and has said countless times, "Mom, aren't you happy you got to have me here so many days?" and "Will you miss me when I go back?"
***
Were you a Led Zeppelin fan back in the '70s? Do you love Alison Krauss's angelic voice (which, by the way, my sister Karen's singing voice is often likened to)? Then here's a little treat for you, one of the songs on their Raising Sand CD, a favourite of mine:
A moth that caressed a flame
Is now incinerated;
Flood waters have swept away a house,
And someone once deeply loved is now alone,
Staring at a flickering screen
In an empty room.
Even as these letters are formed,
They fade,
Just as you and I are fading,
And everything we know and love
Or think we hate,
Is being annihilated
If made of matter.
And that is why things invisible
And thus not prone to decay
Are what I silently push across a table to you
Somewhere between the soup and the pudding.
Invisible gifts cross the barrier of death;
Love given is never lost--
It creates new galaxies and lights the stars
In our heavens.
Look at that swanky new angel-hat Cathy is wearing!
The ladies arrived yesterday in the early afternoon, shared a late lunch with me, hung out in the living room for several hours and were back on the road by 5 o'clock.
The visit was short, but sweet. One thing about them driving all the way out here was that it made me feel like it really is a "holiday season."
The end of an arduous voyage during the Yukon gold rush
This photo is among my great-great Aunt Alma's collection, presumably from the time she was nursing up in the Yukon. People went north to make their fortunes, and often lost their lives on the way. It was a rough route whether by land or water and they were often woefully unprepared. This group no doubt had good reason to rejoice when they reached their destination.
In contrast two of my high school friends from the dormitory days of Luther College are making their leisurely way out from Regina this morning, only a two- or three-hour drive. The forecast was for snow and wind and cold(er) but so far the sky is clear and my fingers are crossed that the highway's not icy, so they'll be here safe and sound in time for lunch. I'm making one of my favourites, curried eggs with toast, and am searing pork chops to throw into a casserole dish with mushroom soup to bake for supper — easy, tasty, and out of the way so that I can relax and spend the day visiting.
Scott knocked out a wall so we'd have more space around the table, put in new windows and a new exterior door, chopped off a corner cupboard that jutted into the room, removed cupboard doors so the old wood could be painted (my aunt Rose did that), re-boarded the ceiling and painted it and the walls, and changed the light fixtures.
The windows face north so we needed to get as much light as possible.
Kitchen Now
It's a small kitchen but comfortable enough. Does the trick. There are still things to do, but none of them seem urgent although shelving without doors quickly becomes — well, late's face it: filthy — and so their open charm has worn off.
This afternoon Everett took curtain rods and curtains down from the other house; I hope to make use of some of them over here.
Reta, the plug-in has been wired for a few months so I've asked Scott several times to mount the under-the-cupboard CD-player you gave me. (Note to self: Must.Nag.Harder.) I think he said he needs some particular tool to do it with. As if I buy that one, Mr Has-Every-Tool-Known-to-Mankind.
More likely I'll just do it myself one of these days. But it will be all wrong and fall down. Kind of like when I hang pictures; they never end up where I intend, no matter how carefully I eyeball and measure. It's a crapshoot. He will be sorry!
3:58pm
I’m at the computer, editing a biography of Marie Dressler, when the phone rings.
“Hello?”
Crackle, crackle. It's Scott, on his cellphone a mile away.
“Can you bring me something to eat and drink? I’m on the hill.”
“Sure.”
I pull cold chicken and a loaf of bread from the fridge and start cutting slices for sandwiches while Everett goes out to start the van for me. The phone rings again.
“Don’t bother cooking anything. I won’t be here long. Just bring the leftover bean dish and something to drink.”
“Okay.”
I abandon the chicken and bread, throw the Tupperware bowl of bean dish and a tablespoon into a plastic bag, along with two alcohol-free beer and a bar of dark chocolate, and head out the door. It’s cold today but I’m dressed for it —overdressed, some may think— in my usual way, with ski pants. I’m toasty.
In a few minutes I’m on the hill, which actually isn’t a hill, but used to be before the municipality razed it flat while building up the correction line road. I drive toward the green tractor I see beyond the fence, where Scott is moving bales. He jumps out of it and into the van, tears the plastic lid from the bowl like a starving man and begins scooping bean dish into his mouth with the spoon.
I wonder aloud why he couldn’t take time to come home and eat, or even wait for me to heat something up before taking it to him; is there an emergency or what? He says, “It’ll be dark soon.” In moments he’s eaten half the bean dish, grabbed a can of beer and the chocolate bar, and is kissing me thank you before leaping out the door again.
Some people are highly dedicated to their work.
Bean Dish
Fry separately and drain:
¾ lb bacon
1 and ½ lb ground beef
Add:
½ to 1 cup chopped onion (optional)
1 can green lima beans
1 can kidney beans
1 can brown beans
½ c ketchup
3 heaping woodenspoonsful brown sugar (or less; to taste)
Warm and simmer, covered, for 15 minutes or for hours, as you please. Delicious hot or, apparently, cold. [Thank you for this recipe, Suzie; it’s been a family favourite for years now and always goes over well at a potluck.]
