Survival Tips

That title is a bit extreme for what I'm about to tell you.
However.
Just these two things that Bev passed along.

The first came from her former spousal equivalent, who worked for SaskPower.
When your electricity has flickered off and on three times, don't wait for it to flicker off and stay off. It's going to.
Prepare for a lengthy outage.

And two — this one came from her friend who is a florist —
Never mind those little powdery packs of plant food that come with your bouquet of cut flowers. They are good for nothing, Bev was told.
Instead, put the stems of your flowers into a vase of HOT water.

Against my better judgment, but since I am not a florist so why would I know better? I did that with this bouquet purchased last weekend. (I imagined the flowers screaming in agony.)
Are they lasting longer? It's hard to say, isn't it, because there's no way of knowing how long they'd've lasted if I'd done it the other way.

When flowers come without the powder packs or if I've picked them from my own flowerbeds, I usually add a bit of honey or maple syrup or even molasses — whatever's on hand — to the lukewarm water.
Does it make any difference? You tell me.

I had a chuckle Friday morning when the provincial CBC radio morning show aired a piece about a claim made by a connect-with-an-extramarital-lover website. Apparently the site gets its highest number of new signups the day after Mother's Day. The spike in numbers is attributed to disgruntled women who haven't felt their maternal contributions to family life have been adequately appreciated by their husbands the day before and it has prompted them to start looking around for other relationship options.

Of course, as a guest on the show pointed out, it's unlikely that there was a perfectly happy marriage before Hubby forgot to bring home flowers on Mother's Day or take his wife out for supper or express his gratitude for her often thankless part in bearing and raising their children.

Still, smart husbands might take note that a little acknowledgment goes a long way with wives.

A Tinge of Green

"It looks like a concretion." - Jim Merriman, University of Saskatchewan

That is what I learned about the round rock I found a few weeks ago: SEE IT HERE.

Mr Merriman advises looking it up on the internet, so that's what I did, and rather than reposting that info here, I'll leave you to research it yourself if you're interested enough.

Now I need your advice. Sometimes I want to listen to CBC radio programs while I walk. Mp3 player? iPod? What device is best? Scott's been trying to down/up (?) load music onto my iPhone, but gotten nowhere as far as I can tell, and I can't say as I care. I appreciate his efforts, but if I want music while I walk, I'd prefer the birds. Although I would like something in the kitchen to listen to while I go about my business there, as it makes a difference to whether it seems like drudgery or a pleasant pastime.

I'm more interested in loading podcasts onto the phone (or something) so I can hear programs I've missed but really enjoy, like The Age of Persuasion, for instance, or Writers and Company, or The Next Chapter, or Tapestry, or Randy Bachman's Vinyl Tap, or C'est la Vie, or Apropos, or As It Happens, or The Story from Here. That's quite a few programs I don't have time to listen to every week!

From the road south of Golden Grain Farm

Emil is with me this weekend. It's noonish and he'd probably like to drive over to Margo to visit Uncle Neil. I'm feeling neck/headachey, it's ugly cold out (or was when I stepped outside to test the air a couple hours ago), and I just feel like going back to bed. I won't though; if I want the discomfort to go away without the use of prescription drugs, the worst thing to do is what I feel most like doing (lying down). The best thing to do is get moving. There are dishes to do, and cupboard shelves to pack up in preparation for new ones to be installed. Maybe I'll get busy at those things and make some granola so we have something to eat when there is no usable space for cooking, one of these days.

From the road north of Golden Grain Farm

A newsy letter/ chitchat/ nothing more

There were a few days in the past week when it wasn't too cold to be outside.
I think it was Sunday that Scott got busy pruning the caragana bushes and I finally got the main flower bed cleared of last year's dead stalks.

But now it's frigidly cold again. Friggin' freezing. Today when I left the office to get a cloth bag from the car to walk to the store for something to eat, by the time I crossed the street to get to the car I had decided to hell with this shit, I'm driving. Even if the store is only two blocks away.

This, from a person who tsk-tsks at the lazy fools who drive from one place to another in town when they don't have 20 bags of groceries to carry. Goes to show: being holier-than-thou, ever, is plain stupid. People have their reasons. I'll try to remember.

If it doesn't snow, I'll be surprised. Even the frogs are quiet. I bet they've dug themselves deep into the mud again.

After work I went to Everett's, as usual on Thursday nights in not-summer. He wasn't feeling well and, though he felt like sleeping, thought he'd best try eating something. It didn't help, so he went to bed and I came home. No Torchwood for us tonight. No Captain Jack! No Gwen with the lovely lilt! (And yes, Captain Jack is handsome enough, okay. But Paul Gross is still the best-looking man I have ever seen. Next to Scott, of course.)(And I say this -- not always aloud -- every time I see Paul Gross in Slings and Arrows on TV. I always think it.)(Last night I couldn't help myself and out it came, so I asked Scott, "Is there one woman you see in film or TV who stands head and shoulders above the rest, for you, beautywise?" and he said "Not just one." Maybe if I spent any time actually thinking about this, some other names would come up. But I don't. Just ... whenever I see Paul Gross, I'm gobsmacked by his good looks.)

Anyway, instead of watching Torchwood or Sherlock with my boy, I'm drinking red wine, eating toast with peanut butter, and listening to Beck (thanks to a link on the blog "Laundry Hurts My Feelings," a title that cracks me right up; best title ever). It is past 10 and I should go to bed, but I won't fall asleep before midnight anyway so what's the point.

Although I could continue reading Eugene Stickland's first novel, The Piano Teacher, which I'm keeping on my night table. What an excellent idea. À la prochain, mes amies!

As for the title I've given this entry, it's like I told Eugene once when he was asking for intellectual responses to books, "Don't look at me! No intellectual here ... I'm reading Wind in the Willows right now!"

He thought I was kidding. I wasn't.
What I am is smart enough to know I'm not as smart as I think I am.

P.S.
No sooner did I mention the sora (writing yesterday's post, not this one, which I wrote last night), than I heard it this morning. Woo hoo!

Burning Stubble

It's a smell that I love: smoke.

Maybe from my months (years, altogether) of living with only wood for heat.

Here, some farmers burn stubble and the smoke carries long distances.

This burn was just a mile from our place and we took a drive to have a look. Sometimes these fires, even when watched closely, do get away on a person because of the ever-present wind.

Bits of black papery char were floating down into our yard from somewhere, possibly from this fire or even a burn further away.

We have yet to consider having a small bonfire in the front yard, what with the surface of the ground so dry and quick to kindle, and the wind being what it is. It's been too cold anyway; Bev and I sat in the sun the other afternoon but had to put jackets on.

I stand on the step after dark and listen to the birds and frogs and look at the stars, but not for long. Instead I open the bedroom window a crack while reading in the evening. The sora has not yet returned, and I'm waiting with some anxiety. What if it doesn't return? I'd miss it terribly.

It's rare to catch a glimpse of the sora, but I get to LISTEN TO IT before falling asleep each summer night.

Moose-er-os-cer-ous

Down the road I walked, oblivious to the moose's back end stuck out of the willows across the ditch on the righthand side ahead. When I finally noticed the dark rectangle on four poles, I grabbed at my camera (hanging off a belt loop) and wondered whether I might be wiser to turn around and retreat to safety.

However, I've never been chased by a moose. They always run from me. And it's not fall, not rutting season, so it's unlikely to be aggressive.

A photo of its back end wouldn't do, though, so I called it, wanting it to turn and look.
"Oh, Moose! Moose. Moose!"
It didn't seem to hear. So I whistled. Then it turned and looked for the longest time before abandoning its meal and stepping onto the road, where it looked at me some more.

And then little Ducky Doodle noticed the moose and gave chase, against my express command not to. Little bugger.

Rachel and Mike Make Another Video

I see from my blogroll that the Grid Pickers have a new video.

These two live less than an hour from here and perform in their area regularly, I think, but that doesn't mean I get to listen to them onstage too often. Fortunately they're doing a house concert closer to me sometime this summer. They're entertainers with a laidback presence, a sense of humour, impressive talent and, underneath it all, some serious observations of the state we're in.



Go to their webpage to hear more of their music: GRID PICKERS. Your toes will tap and you will sing along.

The Neighbours' Driveways

There are two driveways I pass on my walks, and they tempt me.

The neighbours probably wouldn't mind if I strolled down them, long as they are; one leading to an uninhabited yard, the other to a yard where the owners aren't often home.

Still, I don't go. I'd ask permission first, and the owners would be put on the spot (what could they say but Yes, sure! Why not! even if they'd rather I didn't). So I walk on by.

You need to ask for what you want. Ask and ye shall receive; it's usually true. But people will often say yes or give you what you want when it's not really what they want, and, contrary to popular opinion, that's not their problem. It's mine, too; discomfort and/or resentment affect future relations, and I don't want to get my way at the expense of someone else.

The difficult part is being sensitive enough to be aware that asking for something, and the way we ask for it, and when, and where, may be putting someone on the spot, and figuring out how to ask (if at all)  in such a way that the person can say no without losing face/ appearing unkind/ungenerous, etc.

It is difficult to say no.

"Will you look after my child?"
No.
"Can I bring my dog to your house?"
No.
"Will you speak at my wedding? Parent's funeral?"
No.
"Would you help me with ... ?"
No.

I'd like to think it gets easier, the more often you say it. But it doesn't, really. And we, the askers, would do well to consider that before we make our requests, and come up with ways of asking that leave the person with a respectable and even comfortable out.

Penergetics Presentation

It isn't often that I make a Spanish omelette for breakfast anymore, but since Bev is here ... special guests call for special treatment! I should be careful there, because all my guests (though few) are special, but I don't always rouse myself to make a big breakfast. It's more likely that Starving Scott is at the stove before I've finished my first coffee, so it gets left up to him.

This morning, however, we've just finished a heavy-duty breakfast. I've cleared the table so Bev can set up to give a presentation to the two farmer boys, Scott and his brother Bruce there on the left.

She's a rep for a company (Penergetics) that sells an additive for soil, among other things. These two are organic farmers and fussy about anything that goes onto their fields and into their animals. They also don't make any quick decisions, so chances are this presentation will mostly be an opportunity to practise her presentation, as she is new with the company. She is a stellar salesperson, however, so it will be interesting to see whether they agree to try any of the products. They won't be an easy sell.

Mary K: these are the chairs I'd like to re-cover. The material is still really good but it's dark and I'd like something that comes off to be washed. You know those chair covers you see in the Sears catalogue, that have a kind of "tab" that goes over the arms? I'm wondering if something like that could be sewn with snaps to hold the arm covering and the body in place.

Saturday in May

A good night's sleep after a 12-hour day in the office.
A relaxed morning.
Sheets are in the dryer.
Roomba has run around the floor.
Dishes are done.
I've been for my walk.

Pleasantly surprised to reach the road and see that some leaves have popped out overnight. 

It's not that warm out, as a matter of fact the wind is still cool, but Jenna goes wading anyway.

More delights as snow geese pass overhead. 

See the baby brontosaurus across the pasture? I often wonder, seeing it, what it would be like to go for a walk in dinosaur days. You'd stick to the trees, wouldn't you!

Next! Off to town to pick up a bundle of fresh flowers and something to make for supper. Bev is coming over so I want to make something special. Heaven knows what; I'm hoping for inspiration from the store shelves.

Pretty Garbage

It takes me forever to get around to these things.
For instance, in the kitchen we've got a garbage can where the bag shows on the outside. It's ugly.
So I need to buy a new garbage can. Which means I have to go shopping.
I don't wanna!
OK, so then I could get by with some pretty garbage bags. That might do.
I search online for 15 minutes and give up.
No wonder it takes me so long to get things done. I lose interest.
Now surely there are pretty garbage bags out there somewhere. I just haven't found them yet.

Why don't I task my sister Karen with this kind of shopping? Just give her a list and let her go at it. She seems to enjoy shopping; she goes to the city to do it, anyway. Mind you, that doesn't mean she'd enjoy shopping for someone else.

By the way, my sisters and I are writing to each other at Sister Lines. Feel free to join us there.

Mom and Joanne

When I discovered Wendy Klein's art, I bought some of her greeting cards. This one I got for Mom to give to her friend Joanne.

I remember Mom seeing the card, saying "That's me and Joanne!" and being so delighted at the thought of sending it to her. Mom was blond; Joanne was brunette. The two of them were always worried about their weight, always dieting. But they also enjoyed each other's company and spent a lot of time together over the years, as did our families as us kids were growing up. Mom and Joanne both grew up and then lived in or near the same small village and, after Mom and Dad moved away, kept in close touch by phone and mail. When Mom got sick, Joanne was a constant support from a distance. Mom once said, "She must spend all her time thinking of nice things to do for me!" since there was always something arriving in the mail to give Mom a little lift.

I didn't remember this part, or maybe didn't know — that Mom had written in all these quotes about friendship — but one of Joanne's daughters posted the card (inside and out) on Facebook as a reminder of the special friendship between our mothers.

Joanne was also very good to me after Mom died. She phoned me often, just as Mom would have done. We talked about similar things as Mom and I would have done. She missed Mom, as I did, and shared memories of her and their times together. It was very sweet to get to know her so much better than I ever had, and to know that she was going that extra mile out of her love for Mom. I can imagine Joanne saying to Mom, "If there's anything at all that I can do for you ... " and Mom replying "After I'm gone, think of my children . . . . " Because Joanne certainly did.

Now that Joanne, too, has passed away, all of us (her children and Mom's) like to think of the two of them together again, sharing a joke and having many good laughs.

Wild Spring

A glorious spring day it was, and my coworkers and I spent it indoors. Alas! But it fair flew by, busy as we were preparing articles for next week's newspaper, planning where everything will go, how to make it fit, and so on. It's a time-consuming affair.

I could easily have worked a couple more hours, but after eight of them I closed up shop and headed home, where I threw together a pizza (damn, that bread dough makes tasty crispy crust! better than any store-bought or restaurant pizza I can remember having) and then headed for the gravel road with my hound doggies. There was just time for a half-hour walk while the pizza baked and a beer cooled in the freezer.

I had hoped to get some more of the flower bed cleared off tonight, but it was not to be. By the time I washed a few dishes, read my mail, and ate — that's till right now — I am tired and it's getting dark and I'm going to get my pyjamas on, do some yoga, read some of the book that just arrived in the mail, and hit the hay. It's been a full day.

I think Scott's gone to the other place to check on cattle. So far they've had a set of twin calves and, just today, a "nice bull calf." I'll ask him for photos; he gets excited about calves, every spring. Since he and his brother instigated fall breeding, calves on this farm are born in spring and summer instead of in the cold winter months. One noticeable difference is that there is rarely any problem with the calving; it seems to happen easily and naturally, with no human help required. And there is no more need to go out in the wee hours of the morning, freezing your ass off, to make sure all is well. It just is.

Actually, I've the urge to crack open a second beer and go listen to the frogs and birds. It's wild out there.

The Lonely Chicken

The lone prairie chicken takes one slow step at a time through our yard. I took this photo through the living room window; he must have caught some movement behind the glass and was being extra careful.

He thumps his chest into the night, trying to attract a new mate. It didn't work last year; he was still thumping in the fall. How is that even possible? Where are all the gals?

We hope he has better luck this year.

He lost his entire family to a snowplow the winter before this last one. 

Meanwhile he is a welcome resident in our yard.

Evening Chorus

The frogs are supervocal these days.
Last night I had to take loaves of bread to the deep freeze in the quonset, so I set my camera up on the deck railing to record the singing and croaking.
Turn up your computer's volume if you want to get a realistic idea of the sound all around our house.



WWW: Does this old girldog not look like she could be Ansa's cousin?

Blue Trunk

Scott spent almost three hours mowing our lawn on Friday afternoon, and it rained Saturday so everything is greening up nicely.

That's here.

This weekend in Saskatoon, where we went on newspaper-related business (workshops and an awards banquet), there was heavy snowfall and on Sunday morning the streets were a real mess.

We were bringing Scott's mom home from City Hospital yesterday after a knee replacement, so stopped at a nearby pharmacy to pick up her prescription for painkillers. Scott soaked his socks and shoes in the parking lot, and I, warm and dry in the half-ton, admired this old trunk that someone is using for garbage (I assume) in their backyard parking space. I was also shocked that anyone would put it outside to be ruined by weather.

Why, I believe this blue matches my eyes! Hee!

If you're ever looking for a place to have a banquet, don't overlook the Sheraton Cavalier in downtown Saskatoon. Someone around there really knows how to cook. Fabulous. I was sorely disappointed to be a person with a relatively small appetite.

The Wrong End of the Stick

A typical example of miscommunication that often gets us into trouble:

I'm leaning on the kitchen counter to chat with Scott one evening after he's come home late from work. It'll soon be dark and he's rustling up some supper or filling a plate, and he says:

“I guess Mom’s on her way.”

An unoccupied farmyard a couple miles from our place.

It’s an unusual time for her to visit. I say, preparing to plug the kettle in:

“Oh! Any particular reason she’s coming over?”

Scott, sounding exasperated:

“She’s not coming here!”

Me:

“Didn't you just say — ?”

Scott:

“She’s on her way to Saskatoon!”

She had to be in the city for a knee replacement the next morning. I knew this, of course, but hadn't been thinking about it at that moment. I figured she was coming here for a cup of tea.

We need to speak more clearly and listen more closely.

How easy it is to misunderstand each other. No one is to blame, yet mishearing is the cause of frequent irritation in our house.

Fortunately this misfire was noticed right when it happened and not a day later, when we'd be unable to pinpoint exactly how things got so mixed up and then one of us might accuse the other of "never listening when I talk." 

Those Good Ol' Days

Mistakenly I assume that those of you reading this have also seen anything I post on Facebook, so I don't often post the same photos here that I've posted there. At the risk of boring any of you who do connect with me on FB — and because it's 2 a.m. and I'm sitting up eating toast with peanut butter (you know how that goes: you finally realize, after lying awake for hours, that you aren't going to sleep unless you get out of that nice warm bed and eat something) and want something to do with my hands while I chew, here's a picture I snapped one afternoon while walking around the yard on a day too windy to venture beyond the bush and buildings.

There is something about these old unused vehicles that makes me want to go sit in them. I don't do it; they're probably occupied by rodents now. But I think the urge comes from sitting in the farmyard in my friend Kim's parents' vehicles, smoking Number 7 cigarettes stolen from her mother and listening to AM radio when we were stuck-home teenagers, before we got our driver's licences. Oh those good ol' days! I don't want them back, but I love remembering how they felt.

Something I Found

On my Tuesday walk, I spotted this perfectly round rock laying at the edge of the ditch next to a stubblefield. Thought I'd better carry it home, rather than leaving it there to be turned under when the cultivator goes through, or to disappear when the grass and weeds grow tall again.

Wonder what it could be. 

If it could be an artifact, I need to report it somewhere. 

If it's an artillery ball, wouldn't it be darker? 

It's quite heavy. 

I'll post it on FB and Twitter, see if anyone has ideas. 

The Fields are Drying

It's well past time to get back into my walking routine.

That tripe they feed you about all it taking to form a lifelong routine is to do it daily for three weeks? Bullshit. I kept pretty well to my walking routine for two years! But . . . have been slacking since beginning to work at the news office a year-and-a-half ago.

Even with good company, which I had for the first while (poor Alison, freezing out there without ski pants — no wonder your feet were flying!), there is little pleasure to be had in walking around town. I've been spoiled by a grid road, no neighbours, and negligible traffic; by sightings of deer, fox, coyote, raccoon, badger, hawks, eagles, herons, and so forth; by wildflowers blooming in the ditches.

Even so, I've been lazy for the past year and it's time to smarten up. So I went walking — briskly — 45 minutes — on Monday and Tuesday.

It was cold; I wore leggings under my jeans, a warm spring jacket, a wool scarf, a knitted headband, a felty hat, and gloves. Oh sure, in typical Saskatchewan style everything periodically had to be unzipped, zipped up again, loosened, tightened, removed, put back on — all depending upon which way the wind was blowing.

This is one of the family fields, draining into the ditch by the road. 

For part of my walk, a small flock of skinny robins flitted along in the trees beside me. It's not difficult to imagine they are having trouble finding food, although several black ants have appeared on the kitchen counter in the past couple days and Scott says that means the ground is thawing. One of our news correspondents remarked that a warm rain is needed to bring the earthworms out. I hope it's soon; I'm worried about those robins.

On Tuesday morning, residents of a town not far away awoke to an inch of snow on the ground.

My Dirty Laundry

Every Tuesday or thereabouts, I lug a basket or two of laundry up and down the basement stairs.
The stairs are dangerous ones, with angled edges, covered with shiny, slippery paint, and a handrail that ends a yard above the bottom step.
It's a dark, dank place to do laundry. In the cement next to the washing machine there is a hole in the cement, where Scott has placed a sump pump. Once he found a pair of my panties had fallen in.

I dream of a finished laundry room, with bright walls and a linoleum floor; a laundry room so delightful I will leave the ironing board set up and find something to press so I have a reason to spend time there. Even better would be if the washer and dryer were on the main floor and there were no more stairs to navigate with a bulky load in my arms.

I think the Brits are onto something, the way they keep their laundry machines in their kitchens.