Reta:

Saw Neil & Rose at the store in town today after work. They were on their way home from a long day in Saskatoon.

 The temperature dropped suddenly this afternoon. One person I spoke to in the vegetable aisle is taking some of her plants in tonight. I turned the furnace on when I got home.

Go ahead, call Saskatchewan "flat" all you want. I'll never believe you.

It was a lovely evening for a walk and I took advantage of it after wolfing down beer and pizza and whipping through the few dishes. There was copious hard rain while I was indoors at work, but it had cleared off. The plants and air are scented and lush. And the gentle, magical light before sunset! I live in an everyday paradise for which I am so grateful, there are no words. My perennials as well as the reeds in the ditches are shooting up about six inches a day. The oriental poppies have multiplied like crazy and have begun to form buds; they'll be glorious this year ... actually, any day now.

I'm not difficult to please.

Supper in Stenen

First thing you see when you turn in to Stenen, Sask.

     “Want to come with us to Stenen for supper tonight? It’s an hour’s drive from our place, but there’s a good restaurant there.” It was Rick calling.

During seeding time it’s not often we get a chance to spend time with Rick and Faye, but as the fields are too wet to work in we rearranged our "busy" schedules in order to take the opportunity. I took Emil back to Aylesbury House before supper instead of after, and Scott abandoned his plan to go do some drywalling. At four o’clock we hopped into the half-ton and headed to Faye and Rick’s farmhouse about 20 minutes from here. After a quick cocktail at their kitchen table, our designated driver got behind the wheel of their vehicle and we headed northeast.

I hadn’t been out that way for several years, and then it had been in the winter, so really enjoyed the ride through the lush green countryside. The land is more heavily treed than right here around Wadena, and there is a lot of swamp, but it’s pretty country.

Stenen looks to be about the same size as Margo.

   

Over the past decade or two, a lot of small communities in Saskatchewan have lost their schools because of the trend toward centralization. It’s killing us out here, but the school boards are saving a dollar and that’s what seems to matter to them more than the welfare of students or the preferablity of not having to travel an hour or two every day. 

In Stenen, after their little school closed and the students started bussing to neighbouring towns for their education, someone bought and renovated the building into Rawhides, which is quite the going concern! We were shocked and very pleasantly surprised to walk through the doors and find an old school so lovingly, so beautifully repurposed. Not at all what we were expecting. They've done a beautiful job on it. 

The view from our table in Rawhide's restaurant

Faye gave me a little tour while we waited for our food. 

They've created separate sections so there is a room for games, with a pool table; there's a room with a cosy fireplace; there's a room with these booths, where we sat; there's another small room for quiet gatherings; and there's even a room set off from the others for VLTs so that the rest of the diners don't have to listen to the machines. And yet all the rooms are open to the others; the place isn't remotely like a rabbit warren. It's gorgeous. There is a little store that offers Rawhides' merchandise like bunnyhugs, hats and T-shirts, and while they have a TV with sports on the screen, not every client is forced to listen to it, as is the case with some restaurants — you think you're going out for a pleasant relaxing meal, but your ears are bombarded by sports on TV — well thanks, but no thanks.  

And the food at Rawhides is fantastic. It's not cheap; you'll pay what we call "city prices." But it's well worth it. Cooked to perfection, presented beautifully and quickly; somebody around there is a real chef, and the owners have done their homework. 

We checked out the guest book. People drive for many miles to go to this eatery, just as we did. It's a happenin' place!

Faye and Rick leaving Rawhides with full and satisfied bellies.

Here: TAKE A LITTLE TOUR of your own. I'm off to work. And if you want to sit in one of those booths, you'd be wise to phone ahead and reserve one.

Down on the Farm

Emil lives for seeing Uncle Neil. 

He talked Rose's ear off and ignored Neil.
Heh.
Not really. He gave Rose's attention a good workout too.

The house behind them sits at the bottom of the hill where Grandma and Grandpa's old farmhouse was. That's where my sister Karen and I spent a lot of happy times. A lot.

There was a double clothesline with two pink posts at either end. Someone — probably Grandpa (also named Emil) — had hung a thick loop of rope and made nicks in the ends of a board to craft a swing for each pair of posts. Oh the hours we spent there, my sister Karen and I!

Karen often carried a hen in her arms when we were roaming about the yard.

Neil, who would have been about 13 then, had a hammock made from a double mattress between two evergreens on the hill near the house, slung there on heavy chains. Many happy hours there, too, Karen and me.

I remember the rooms of the house, and Grandpa's dark workshop. I remember him out there making a birdhouse from a hollow chunk of tree trunk and two pieces of plywood (a floor and an angled roof; he painted those red, and varnished the trunk; Neil has made one just like it minus the red and it's on a post in their yard), and I remember the smell of the workshop and the old clamp fastened to Grandpa's workbench.

Where Neil and Rose's house sits now was very near the place that the chicken coop was.

There was a toy cupboard in a wall of the living room, near the oil furnace that sat on the linoleum floor at the back of the room; among the toys on the shelves was one I can't name. It was a clown with a round yellow bottom* so it rocked when sat on the floor and given a push. I've never seen another one like it.

Hostess potato chips in their foil bags were a common treat, with their plastic coin "prizes" in the bottom that had a car illustration glued to them.

There was a woodstove in the kitchen, with a warm water reservoir. Beside it was sink with a hand-pump, and on an adjacent wall there was a freestanding cabinet for the dishes.

I remember Grandma in their bedroom off the kitchen, her string of white plastic pearls, her Noxzema. I remember being tucked warmly in bed upstairs in the morning before the house was heated up; Karen next to me, of course. Little sisters -- ya just can't shake 'em. Hee! Actually she was a perfect companion then, and still is.

Lots of happy memories, that's for sure.

In the upstairs bedroom, the smell of cedar from inside the slant-front desk; the beaded moosehide bookends (which I have and treasure, though they need repair; I won't let them go anywhere just in case I don't get them back); Karen's green dress and my purple one, and both of us wearing grey plastic old-lady wigs; and we two little girls running naked in a warm rain.

When I hear a screen door slam, or a fly buzzing on a hot day, it takes me back there. Those were some of the good times and they are probably why I love where I live.

*Email from Aunt Reta: "The toy was called a rolly polly, given to Neil when he was 1 yr old."

Thanks Reta, with the name I was able to do a search and found this:

Wall Mural at Kylemore

When Emil and I go for a weekend drive toward Margo, we first go a few miles south to the convenience store at Kylemore for a pop and chips to nibble on while ambling at about 40 kph through the countryside.

Yesterday afternoon I parked facing this building so the hot sun would be behind Little Green (car) and open windows might coax a breeze through.

I've never seen a bear around here, by the way. But upon occasion one has been spotted.
As for buffalo, the odd rancher raises a herd of them.

Today it's rainy and cool, and my flowers don't mind one bit.

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My friend Julie said something just right about grief and loss, and I was going to quote her here because her words were just so Damn Right, but I see she has posted them on her own blog so I'll just point you in that direction: Here you go.

For me, the song that has more than once been heard at a coincidental time that made me feel like Mom was giving me a sign is this one, The Mother Song:

Saturday before Sunday

My weekend companion

11:20am

Been outside with my housecoat and coffee, pulled dandelions and grass from flowerbeds, sat on deck overlooking slough birds for a while. Lovely lovely.

Came in, read and wrote a little, wiped counters, ran water over stacked dishes in sink, made scrambled eggs and toast, brought them to desk to eat while reading and writing a little. Did a little work that is like play, online.

Next: do dishes, wash and dress. Emil is here and maybe we’ll go for a drive out Margo way. I love the days off.  

12:24pm

Finished the dishes, ooh it’s spic and span out there! Emil has been out for a stroll around the yard. I went out after him with my hat, as he was in the bright sunlight at the noon hour. Now it’s a quick dip in the tub for me and then — then — well, we shall see.

Lorna! Cathy! Have you got a phone number or mailing address for the Uff Da lady? Her website appears to be down. And I want to order a vat of lemongrass lotion.

Kitchen Table

7:50 a. m.

Finishing last cup of coffee from pot and having some toast before I splash water on my face, soak my hair, dress and run out the door aiming to be at work at 8:30. The week has gone by fast, as they all do now.

Looks like it’s going to be a gorgeous sunny day. We’ve had rain so my flowers are all happy and fluffy.

The place I was stung by a bee is still itchy and last night was red and swollen so Scott thought I should see a doctor and find out if I need to get an epi-pen! Scared me enough to get out of bed at midnight and take an antihistamine. And it’s still itchy this morning, but less red and less swollen.

I’ve gone online to see what’s normal after a bee sting, and it appears I’m having a normal reaction. Whew.

Uff Da Lemongrass Lotion

I was transplanting zinnias into the perennial bed last night when a bee stuck its stinger into my forearm for no good reason. I feel betrayed! Ungrateful little beast. I pulled the stinger out right away and made baking soda paste to apply to the spot, which took the pain away immediately, but this morning it is itchy. More baking soda will be required I guess.

However, while Scott has found ticks on himself and has been pulling them off both dogs in vast numbers, I have yet to see one on me. Knock on wood. Normally by now I'm feeling them on my neck or in my hair. I wonder if my saving grace is slathering up with this lemongrass lotion purchased from the lady in Norquay who makes her own lotions and soaps. I smell like a lemon, and don’t mind one bit. And I love using a product that isn't full of unpronounceable chemicals and synthetic scents, and is made by someone right here in Saskatchewan. It has to be kept in the fridge because it isn't laced with preservatives, and it wouldn't surprise me one day to hear that someone has spread it on his toast.

The power went out last night and then a huge thunderstorm blew up. Ducky was freaked out but I wasn’t having him – Tickbait, as Scott calls him — on the bed, which is what he was asking for. The house wrap was blowing loose, making so much noise outside my window that I couldn’t hear any thunder. The storm blew down a tree in Scott's mom and dad's yard, he says.

Goodness, where has the time gone! I'd better get to the office.

New boots

All dudied up for a walkabout on a rainy day

Nine Years

With my sisters and Mom and all her side of the family, you have to be careful what you say.

If you say “I’d love one of those!” they insist “Take it” and send it home with you.

That’s how I got this handy-dandy jewellery bag that is hanging on the bathroom door. I admired Joan's and asked where I could buy one. 

Today is nine years since Mom went. I still have trouble saying "died." And while I think of her often, and enjoy thinking of her and talking about her, I don't think of her for long. It's too painful, and if I'm alone, I'll cry.

When she was dying, I couldn't imagine life going on after she was gone. I couldn't imagine myself 10 years into a future without her. And yet, here I am. There's something about it that makes no sense. 

I've decided: Supper is one thing that makes a house a home. Not breakfast or lunch, not even love or curtains. It's supper. 

Zen things

On Monday mornings I work from home for several hours, putting photos and text onto the newspaper’s webpage. Today my internet server decided to go offline after the first half-hour, so I’m doing other things:

• got the dishes washed, dried, put away - WOO to the HOO, I tell you

• got the three cast-iron frying pans seasoning for an hour on the stove

It’s raining, a soft cool pungent sprinkling that my flowers were hoping for.

Speaking of which, I gave in to the urge late yesterday afternoon and put my one trayful from the closest greenhouse into pots.

A Facebook connection posted the above list and I set it as my desktop, needing these reminders on a daily basis or else they just slip away and I go back to my habits.

I do many things at once, fitting smaller tasks inside the spaces of larger ones. I hurry through it all.

It’s been my way. My movements are efficient. I am putting together a jigsaw puzzle every time I do something.

This list reminds me that there is another way to go through life.

Shit happens, that's for sure

Scott and his tractor turn up the soil.

Some of the things I like about Scott:
• while on the tractor, he tries to avoid birds' nests
• he looks good on a tractor seat
Well, I shan't go on about it. I like farmers and carpenters, and he is both, and that's all you need to hear about that.

11:26 a.m.

Coffee drank, a toasted bun down my neck in hopes of heading off the migraine trying to happen, most of the dishes washed (and Scott dried; how nice to have him beside me, lightening that load, after he’d come in from the field and had something to eat), and a fruit smoothie made. It’s a cooler day after several too hot and humid ones; I prefer this. And I’m tempted to start putting some of my bedding plants into the ground. But the wind is cold and I know I should wait till June. I know I should. Should should should.

The leaves are out. Woo hoo! And there is that scent of something that I love, whether it’s poplar or what, I’m not sure. I just love it. It's too early for the wolf willows to be flowering. 

So I go into work Tuesday morning and our receptionist is on the phone with a caller telling her we have flubbed up the caption under a photo we ran last week. We got the guy’s first name wrong, we got his home town wrong. How? How! How is this possible? I went back to my hard copies and indeed the correct information had been sent to us, and I checked what I had sent through to the page and it was wrong. Now, I had pored over the clippings and info sent, in order to glean the essentials and get the “story” right. And still I put the wrong first name and home town! It hornswoggles me and I can’t figure out how it happened. I shake my head, print a correction and apology, and vow to pay even more attention to detail, while wondering if I have early-onset Alzheimer’s or something. 

And one day, I get a columnist’s text and at the end he poses a question that he wants us to put the answer to on another page. He puts the one-word answer at the end of the text, and I read it, but I DO NOT MAKE THE CONNECTION. I see it several times and don’t realize it is the answer, and email him back to ask for the answer. He must think I’m a real dolt, and to be honest, I’m starting to agree. Clearly I am not as sharp as I used to believe I was. Not anymore.

On the other hand, if readers knew how many mistakes we correct and details we clarify before things sent to us go to print, they’d be astounded. They’d be impressed. But no one sees that, they only see the end result; they only notice the errors that get past us or that we ourselves create.

I might benefit from some brain exercises. Lumosity.com, here I come.

Maybe working in an office like that, with so much reading all day, might just overload the thinking/noticing processes occasionally. Not that I’m not a bit absent-minded at the best of times. I admit it; I am not as observant as I could be, either.

One time we received a correspondent’s report including someone’s parasailing height as 400 feet, and we managed to print it as 5000 feet! How? How! We can’t figure it out. I joke “It’s the office ghost” or “Those damn cats” (we have shop cats), but it does leave us bewildered. 

And then, to top it off, thousands of pairs of eyes see the error. That’s mortifying. I know no one is perfect, and I sure as hell am not, but still … for your mistakes to be paraded … oy! That’s hard on the pride, I tell you.

Happy Birthday to the Babyest Seester of Them All

Seen on FB

Now what will I leave you with today, as I am hot to get out the door?

It is my sister Joan's 46th birthday. I called. She is busy collecting happy. She has a good friend visiting from Saskatoon, they've been out for breakfast, done some window shopping, were heading out for frozen yogurt and plan to go out for supper. The only thing missing is her two adorable sisters, I say!

I haven't bought her a gift, but as I sit here, all slathered up with a mosquito-repelling lotion that you could probably eat, it occurs to me that this might make a perfect birthday present. They tell us that in Kelowna they don't have mosquitoes, so when they come out here they are a bit discomfited.

This is my first time trying this lotion; I'll let you know if it makes any difference. I do smell like a lemon, but on the other hand I haven't seen more than one mosquito yet this year. So it's a bit early to tell.

Dora Carrington

Picking Vegetables, by Dora Carrington

Eggs on a Table, Tidmarsh Mill, by Dora Carrington

Dora Carrington was portrayed by Emma Thompson in the film Carrington, which I'd like to see again. She was a painter who used her artistic talents to create a beautiful home and surroundings. She loved a gay man, writer Lytton Strachey, and was so distraught after his death that she killed herself.

See some paintings HERE.
Check out the movie.
And a bit of a bio.

Duck Bums

A pair of northern shovellers were getting a bite to eat while I sat on an old piece of machinery near the barn.
I also saw a set of blue-winged teal out there.
A pair of song sparrows checked me out, and three barn swallows made an appearance.
The wings of a snipe were winnowing above me, but I didn't try to spot it. It's a constant presence now till fall.
Several crows flew over, and a trilling-like-a-bicycle-bell redwinged blackbird landed on a cattail.
Oh, it was a glorious evening.
And the frogs! They are having the time of their lives.

The House that Scott Built

This is the house my Scott has been working on all winter. It's just north of Wadena, on the old drive-in grounds. I think this aerial-drone film was taken at the end of March.

Yesterday, the leaves on the trees started to peek out.

This one was taken earlier in the month. The elementary school is in the centre of town, and Scott (Comfort, a local realtor) is standing out there with my pal Al, publisher of the Wadena News:



And here's the story she wrote about it: CLICK HERE.

Hea-Ven, I'm in Hea-Ven

I couldn't resist grabbing a bouquet from the Co-op store in town.

But it may have started something.

Thus my first visit to a greenhouse this spring reaped the following benefits:

Happily hardening off under a cool and cloudy sky.

I did not go overboard, but was quite sedate.
And now, can hardly wait to set them into the ground.
Saw others putting their bedding plants into the dirt this weekend, but over the past few years have learned my lesson:
Just Wait.

Happy Birthday Ms Victoria

We are on our way to Kuroki when Scott spots a calf unmoving and so we pull over.

Scott walks out there, hollering repeatedly; the other cattle head for the feeders, and this little guy pokes its head up to see what's happening.

We are joining friends and family for supper in Kuroki. From our moving vehicle I snap these photos at the edge of the little town (or I guess it's a hamlet):

I have a bottle of red wine tucked into my bag, and Scott wants to take some beer, so we stop at the Kuroki bar to buy some:

A Spanish-style villa on mainstreet Kuroki, Saskatchewan

The Joan

I remember the Chinese cafés and the "dreamin' on our dimes" jukeboxes . . .  .

Christmas is sparklin'
Out on Carol's lawn
This girl of my childhood games
Has kids nearly grown and gone
Grown up so fast
Like the turn of a page
We look like our mothers did, now,
When we were those kids' age

Nothin' lasts for long

Long weekend begins

The grass road into our yard

Once in a while I like to leave CBC radio on all night and hear bits of programs from around the world when I surface into wakefulness from time to time. Last night I learned that sports agents take boys from Africa to other countries to play, and when they don't do as well as hoped, they abandon them to live on the streets. Nasty.

Emil is up, making himself a fried egg. I'm soon off to town for breakfast with my pal Al, and then we're going to check out the garage sales. There are only about three. I plan to spend the afternoon in my flower bed, and then we have a supper invitation. The forecast is for rain to start tomorrow morning. But we've had a couple warm days, quite a treat after the long cold winter and spring. I am pretty sure I can see a tinge of kelly green on the poplar trees in the distance.