If Only Mosquitoes Were Edible

Last Friday we put in a 10-hour day at the news office. There hasn't been much of that lately, but sometimes it just works out that way. Alison was working on another publication so we didn't have her help, and that slowed things down.

I left the office about quarter after eight that night. It was rainy and cool, and Emil was waiting for me at the group home.

"I thought you forgot me," he said, laying down his crutches so he could put on his "outside" shoes. (For the benefit of those new to this blog: Emil is my 27-yr-old son who has cerebral palsy and developmental delays.)

I got him and his two bags loaded into the truck and then drove to the store, and he waited while I popped in for a few groceries. The Co-op is open two evenings a week now and it's great; it's about time, too.  Emil loves to go in with me and walk up and down the aisles looking for acquaintances to talk to, but it was late and I was tired and it was rainy and so I convinced him not to, this time. Then we drove slowly home through the dark and wet.

But we got a shock when I parked the truck in the yard and opened the door to get out. The mosquitoes swarmed! And that's not good when you've got Emil. I can outrun them, but he can't. He's slow getting in and out of vehicles and he can't really run, and they were ravenous. I grabbed a few bags and sprinted to the house, then back out with insect repellent to spray Emil before they sucked the poor lad dry. I sprayed myself too, but still they bounced off my face and neck. And when I reached behind the seat to grab the last few grocery bags, I could see hundreds of them swarming around the truck's interior light. Crazy!

When we got into the house — and of course another thousand got in as Emil made his way through the door, because there is no hurrying him — I spent the first half-hour at home swatting mosquitoes when what I really wanted to do was collapse into a chair with a glass of red wine.

To fill several spaces in the newspaper we were working on that day, Rita and I perused several copies of the Wadena News archives from 1915, 1919, 1935 and 1965. You could read these things all day; they are chockful of entertaining stuff. We had several pages with big fancy ads for the town fair this weekend and needed something to go with them, so we thought some scans of old ads and articles about the fair would be perfect.  

The Cuzzes & their Kids

My cousins were born when I was in my early teens, and some of them have parents who still live around here so they come to visit them from time to time, as it should be.

I'm always saying "Phone me when you're down and I'll drive over to see you."

But do they? No, never! I find out they were here ... after they've been and gone.

Maybe I'm supposed to get a message from this, but if I am, I ignore it.

Finally I gave one of them (Karla, this means you; I also gave Uncle Neil a poke so we'll see if it made a dent) "shit." If you can call it that. It wasn't shit, really, but I made sure it was heard, is all.

I don't expect them to come and visit me, because they are spending time with their parents and this, also, is how it should be, and I don't want to take them away from there and make them run around the countryside even more than they already are.  But I would go out of my way to have a short visit with them and see their kids once a year, you know? So PHONE ME ALREADY!

Bless her heart, Karla did give me the heads-up one day last week as she was packing up to leave her mom's the next morning, so I hopped into the truck (a.k.a. the Big White Bus) and beat a path to Aunt Shirley's door in Margo.

It was a visit that was short and sweet, as they were busy, but I got to give them all a hug and that was the main thing.

Karla's boy Paxton with his grandma Shirley, my aunt. Everyone says he reminds them of Uncle Bruce, who was a "little bugger" as a boy. "You never knew what the hell was going to come out of his mouth," Dad said, remembering. I don't know if Paxton is the same way, but he sure is huggable. 

Karla's girl Gracie, a real sweetheart.  They'd just been out picking crabapples and were cutting them up to make juice.

Blossom Fudge Brownies

We had a few cold mornings when I actually turned the furnace on. Once the chill was off, so was the furnace, but later when I was still finding it cool it seemed more sensible to use the oven for something. So I dug out one of the recipe cards in Mom's handwriting and made these brownies.

I can't figure out why they're called "blossom" fudge brownies. It seems like a pretty straightforward brownie recipe, to me.

front

back

Who needs icing? I didn't bother with it.

Also, I had to bake them an extra 10 minutes. You know — if you're going to try it.

Then I did a serious purge of the old wooden recipe box that used to be Mom's, and threw out recipes that I never make or that I have on file on the computer or on the STUBBLEJUMPERS RECIPE COLLECTION webpage or, simply, recipes that can easily be found online if ever I want to make them. The box was overstuffed to the point that I seemed to be filing things behind the wrong letter half the time anyway.

 Maybe I'm misremembering, but it seems to me that this recipe is better than the one for brownies over at Stubblejumpers. Though you can't really go wrong with brownies, can you.

Banana Split Boy

The thought of eating a banana split never appealed to me. Then I had one and was pleasantly surprised at how delicious they are.

I haven't had one since, but nevertheless I said to Everett that we should go down to the dairy bar one evening this summer so he could sample one.

By the time I ate a chicken burger I was too full for dessert, but he still had an appetite after his deep-fried perogies and his mozza sticks, so he went up to the counter and got a banana split.

The verdict?
Ah. Okay. 

Cows and their Cud

Emil wanted to be sure to see Aunt Reta one more time before she leaves this week, so on Sunday afternoon we climbed into the half-ton and drove out to Neil and Rose's northeast of Margo, my home town.

On the way we passed several swathers out cutting canola, and a small herd of cattle.

"Mom," says Emil. "Do cows chew their cud standing up?"

I don't know, says I. They probably lie down to do it, says I.

"Shayla, Kathy Hoffman's daughter, says they chew it standing up too," he says.

Maybe they do, says I. We'll ask Scott. He'll know for sure.

Stay tuned for the definitive answer from the Cow Boy himself.

My cousin Heather and one of her two girlysues were leaving Neil and Rose's around the same time as Emil and I were. 

When we got home, my brother Cameron arrived from Alberta to spend the night.

Making his breakfast this morning

Today he's gone golfing — it's a gorgeous day, not too hot, not too cold, and not too windy — and then will go see Neil and Rose, and I expect will be back here sometime tomorrow, and Reta too.

I'm baking a batch of bread to send home with him. It'll be out of the oven in an hour and then I'm heading outside. It's just the right weather for this Goldilocks to take a walk.

Whenever my ex-hub Gord is out here, I give him several loaves of bread and say "Give Cameron a loaf or two."
Cameron says, "What? That s.o.b.! He never has. He's not getting any of these."
They live in the same condo complex in St. Albert.

Old Dog New Trick

When you are an old dog with a limp, you don't stop having that irrational love for taking walks with your humans. Stay home? Skip it? Never!

I say "irrational" because Jenna Doodle is a farm dog, which means she is outside all the time (except in thunderstorms when she is terrified, and in 30-below when the heated pad in her insulated doghouse might not keep her warm enough) and she can go for a walk any time she pleases.

And yet when I go out and she and Ducky Doodle think I might be going for a walk, they both frisk and leap about like pups. They are so excited and happy that their enthusiasm rubs off on me. I guess it's a dog thing, that's all. A walk with the pack, perhaps, is more highly valued than a solitary wander.

Pulling the "age card," when I get tired and sore I lie down in the road and wait, knowing that Kathy and Ducky will pick me up on their way back home. - Signed, Jenna Doodle, age 13 (at least)

Handle Hopes Dashed

So I'm just getting my teeth into that Charleston Attic website when Scott comes home and starts frying up side pork.

"What are your plans for the rest of the day?" I ask, still in my pyjamas and housecoat. "It's your night to have supper with Grandma, and you'll go in an hour early to visit your dad. Anything else?"

It's rainy so he can't hay or make bales;  he was in town already this morning, working on a house addition.

"Maybe I'll get these handles on," he says.

"Woo hoo!" I think, but don't say. We've had them for two or three weeks now, but he's been busy.

What I say is, "Oh! I'd better get these dishes done then." Why I think he'd need a clean countertop, I don't know; he takes the doors off and the drawers out anyway, right?

But anyway, the dishes need doing so I do them.

Alas, I am meant to be disappointed, because he takes quite a while weighing just where and how he's going to place them on the wood, and then he has a little nap, and then someone asks for a favour and he leaves the house to do it, and then he delivers the favour before heading for Kelvington to do his visiting and supping.

Sigh. Maybe tomorrow.

Charleston Attic

Look what I've found!

"Charleston, home of twentieth century artists, Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant, and their daughter Angelica Garnett, was the Sussex retreat of the Bloomsbury Group. It is now a successful house museum, and from April 2014 will host a series of Heritage Lottery-funded curatorial internships. This blog is a record of our work cataloguing, researching and interpreting the Angelica Garnett Gift from the Charleston attic – overlooked by a bust of Virginia Woolf."

https://thecharlestonattic.wordpress.com/

There goes the rest of my morning.

Furnace in August

I thought twice about it, but then I did it: turned the furnace on.

This girl ain't walking around a 67F house all day.

Even if she did sleep till almost 10 o'clock, and only got up then because little Ducky was scratching like crazy at the porch door and when she let him in, she found he had torn into a bag of garbage Scott left in the porch so she had cleanup to do. Goddamn dogs (and men).

Now Scott, he left the house at 7:30 (she knows because that's when Ducky asked to be let outside and she got up the first time) and must've gone to work. No weekends off for that boy.

Plug-Ins

How many times have I gone to plug something into a wall socket, and had to pull the end back and turn it around so that the appropriate side goes into the slot that fits? A thousand, I'm sure. It only takes a second or two, but it irritates the hell out of me.

I'm one of those people who, once they have a goal, has some trouble re-setting it. Tunnel vision? One-track minded? Inflexible? I am getting where I'm going, come hell or high water; sometimes I can't even see that there is a ferry I could take, rather than forcing my way on foot through the waves and getting soaked over top of my waders.

A sensible person would examine electrical plugs and sockets and see if there is a visible sign clearly indicating — and quickly — which side goes into which side of the socket. It's probably simple and obvious, if I'd but take the time for a closer look. One side is wider than the other, and maybe it's marked on the rubber. And probably the wide side always goes on the right.

It's all in the details, and in slowing down and paying attention to them.

Elegant lavatera

Plagued

We had a cold spring and a hot, dry June and July, and I've heard it said that we had 90% fewer mosquitoes than usual. We are paying for it now.

When I go out to the truck in the morning, I run to escape them. When I open the door, a swarm goes inside. I spend several minutes killing them before starting the engine. Others buzz around me as I drive. At the end of the day, after the truck has sat in town for eight hours, there are still a couple in the cab.

When I go for a walk in the evening, I put on repellent lotion (handmade, all natural, no poisonous ingredients) and spray commerical repellent on my clothing. The mosquitoes still bounce off my face, annoying the hell out of me.

Any night now, if we have a good freeze, I will not complain. It may decimate gardens and crops — no, that wouldn't be good — but there would be one bright side. Death to mosquitoes.

The Little Things

If there’s an obituary written about me, it won’t say “She was a hard worker.” Around here, you’re only considered a hard worker if you grow a big garden, do lots of canning and cooking and yard work, perhaps run a farm, and so on. Physical labour. But repetitive physical labour bores me silly, so it’s not something I sign up for very often.

Mental labour is more interesting to me and I’m willing to put in long hours getting a job done that requires thinking, writing, planning, etc. However, that never counts toward making you a “hard worker,” at least not that I know of. Also, I value my free time and guard it. I avoid busyness; I want time to enjoy life outside of earning money and, of course, to get through the daily chores required to live in relative order and comfort. But I don't want those chores taking up one more moment of my day than is absolutely necessary.

Another word that will never describe me is “longsuffering.” Nosiree. If I don’t like something and have to cope with it repeatedly or for long, I’ll be doing or saying something about it. Some would call that “bitching” or “complaining” but I prefer to describe it as “telling it like it is.”

It's the little things.

So if I am irked with my spouse, for instance, he hears about it. On the flip side, I believe it's important to acknowledge people when they are good at something or have done something kind or thoughtful or generous or smart. 

One morning last week I got into the truck to drive to work and found a sprig of wild rose Scott had put there for me. It’s late for wild roses to be blooming and I appreciated his small gesture of gallantry, of knowing this would please me.

Yesterday he asked if I need to get anything to wear to Gunnar’s wedding. Maybe he was going to suggest we take a shopping trip, or offer to buy me a dress. A lot of men wouldn’t think of that. I don’t need anything, really, so the conversation didn’t go much further except that he gets a few extra “sweetie” points for the question.

Current Reading

When we met for lunch in town a couple weeks ago, Scott's cousin Bev brought me four books to read. I started Girl on a Train and remembered, on the first page, that I’d read it not long ago. Actually I didn’t read it all. I read the first few chapters and then skipped to the end to see what happened. Some books are like that; you don’t enjoy the reading of them, you just want to know what happens. Some books seem to plod on and on, taking forever to get where they’re going. Bev said she often, lately, finds herself reading a bit of a book before remembering she’s already read it. I just did the exact same thing.

I got A Beauty, by Connie Gault, from the library. Read the first 120 pages and then skipped to the end, finding myself uninvolved with the characters, not wanting to accompany them on their journey from start to finish. Sometimes I just don't give a hoot. What're ya gonna do?

The stack Bev lent me contains the latest Flavia de Luce mystery by Alan Bradley. Thanks to Bev and her book collection, I’ve read the entire series till now. Little Miss Flavia is a quirky child sleuth and she's funny (without knowing it, poor kid), but instead of picking up this book first, I’m saving it till last. It's nice to have a good book — one that I know won't disappoint — to look forward to.

The Cuckoo’s Calling, by Robert Galbraith, is on the bedside table right now and it's one I've just begun and know I'll finish. Some just are. What is it that makes some books can-hardly-put-downs and others set-asides? Is it the state of being of the reader at the time, or is it the quality or style of the writing, or the uniqueness of the story, or what?

On the weekend I started Benediction, by Kent Haruf. Instantly I was drawn in. The writing is plain and clear yet forcefully alive, and immediately I cared about the many characters. It was all I could do to stay out of bed and wait till the evenings to get back to reading it.

In the magazine rack in the bathroom is another book that just came from the library. It’s called Difficult Conversations, and is about communication, about how we all think we are right and that those who don't see it our way are wrong, and how we won't enjoy satisfactory results of communication till we understand that we aren't more right than others and learn to seek solutions that make sense to those on all sides of an issue. 

Out to Lunch

The newspaper goes to press on Fridays, so I usually eat at my desk.
But last week my aunt and uncle were going to be in town and they invited me out for lunch.

Neil and Reta, Mom's brother and sister

We still managed to get the paper out by five o'clock, so there was no harm done!

September Party in August

We were invited to Faye and Rick's farm for a potluck supper last night to celebrate Faye's upcoming 50th birthday. She is facing a serious surgery in the very near future and won't be up to a party on the actual date in September.

When we arrived, Faye and Rick along with other friends were out in the yard playing some kind of game; I have no idea what it's called. Lawn chairs were scattered about; bottles of booze and mix were set out on a table in their relatively new and still-under-construction garage; food was in the house and a pork roast was on the barbecue.  When everything was ready, we filled our plates buffet-style and carried them out to the garage, where we sat around two tables and chowed down.

Then there was birthday cake:

Almost 50 and still younger than the rest of us.

Afterward, Rick made a bonfire on the gravel driveway and, while several guests stayed behind to tend to it (i.e. relax in their lawn chairs), the rest of us went for a short walk.

Two of the gals were a little speedier than the rest of us, and when they turned around, one of them said we reminded her of a famous photo of the Beatles — something about the way we were spread out across the road. She borrowed my camera, which was hooked onto a belt loop on my jeans, to try to get a picture of it. The end result was not what she was aiming for, but here's the pic anyway:

Left to right: me, Faye, Carol, Scott, Rick posing as walker. 

You may notice I was not wearing my fabulous new Blundstones! I knew I would be going in and out of the house and wanted footwear easy to slip off. I'm not quite yet at that point with the boots, which still require sitting in a chair and some focused attention.

Advertising Works

The marketing wisdom I've heard is that potential customers need to see your advertisement at least eight times before they'll decide it's time to purchase your product.

I, however, only read about Schmutzie's Blundstone boots once, and knew they were the boots for me.

My steel-toed workboots were 30 years old and the soles had cracked and let in water any time I stepped in anything even a tiny bit wet. I wanted high-topped boots to support my ankles so I can walk on uneven terrain without having to pick my way carefully over it. I wanted boots without laces to futz with or zippers to break. They had to be comfortable for walking several miles and they had to be able to breathe so my feet weren't hot and sweaty. Schmutzie's description of her Blundstone boots sounded like just the thing.

I went online and looked at the various styles and learned where they could be purchased. They are manufactured in Australia and only select retailers sell them. I didn't want to buy them without trying them on, and when Cathy and I were leaving the Broadway Café in Saskatoon, I remembered that the shoe repair shop down the street sells them. We meandered north a block or two and found the place. I tried them on, paid for them, and that was that. It was too hot to wear them except for one evening last week, when me and my new boots went for an evening walk.

New Blundstone boots, thanks to a generous cash gift from Scott at Christmastime.

Last night and this morning we had lightning and rain, and today it's grey and cool, so I'm able to wear them again. One more reason to eschew those hot summer days we've been having!

To read the original blog entry that introduced me to Blundstone boots, CLICK HERE.

At the Eye Clinic

Here's the view from my chair in the waiting room at the Wadena Hospital.
I had an appointment on Tuesday with the optometrists' clinic there.

About 10 years ago I got bifocals that I never used because I never got used to them. Instead I switch between reading glasses and distance glasses, and lately find that I see the television better without the distance glasses than with them. I figure my eyes have been changing and the eye test is a year overdue. The lenses on both sets of my glasses both seem a bit scratched. I'm sick and tired of carrying two pairs around, even though I can see without glasses; but noticeably read better with than without.

Most people I talk to who have gotten glasses at this particular clinic say they have not been satisfied with the glasses they got there or the way they were treated by the staff. But it is right in town and it is convenient to go there rather than drive an hour or more to another place, and I prefer to make my own judgments. My experience could be quite different.

Take this as an example of my not having the sense to take advice from those who have "been there." Or take it as an example of independent thinking. Probably it's a bit of both.

I found the staff perfectly pleasant, picked out a pair of frames as quickly as I could (because really they all start looking the same to me after I've tried on five pairs), and felt sick for two days at the cost of it all ($764). I had better be happy with these glasses when they arrive in two weeks.

You enter the building through the door on the right.

You go down the hall to the left to visit patients, and to the right to get lab tests done.

New Tarot Page on Facebook

How are you at keeping up your chosen routines?
I don't mean the easy ones, like drinking a cup of hot coffee every morning. I mean the ones that are easy to forget, like (in my case) drawing and reading a tarot card every day and posting the interpretation on my TAROT PAGE here on the blog.
My intentions are good and I stick to my routines for a while, sometimes for weeks or even months, but then as soon as my routine gets interrupted by some small thing, I just forget, plain and simple, to pick it up again.

So I thought maybe if I hung out my shingle on Facebook it would be a better motivator for me, and I set up a page there.

If you use FB and also have an interest in the tarot, click below to find the page:

Non-Traditional Tarot

Please "like" and "share."

Charleston

Life in Squares is a TV series being broadcast on BBC, but it hasn't aired in Canada yet. I'm looking forward to it; it's about the Bloomsbury Group, among whose members were Virginia Woolf and her sister Vanessa Bell.

Bell was a painter and she decorated the house she lived in, Charleston. Time has been doing its ruinous work, though, and so there is a fundraising effort being made to conserve the art.

Placement

Other folks may do it differently, but I do it the way that works best for me.
Some people put all their favourite photos and paintings in the living room or some place that visitors will be sure to see them.
Me, I put my favourite stuff somewhere that I will see it as often as possible.

In the bedroom, there's a small quilted tablecloth Mom made, and a set of quilted place-mats, and a framed needlepoint Aunt Reta made and gave me. I like to see all three of these every morning while I'm dressing and every time I walk into the room.

If you've been reading here for any length of time, you've already seen most of these. Probably more than once.

In the hallway between the bedroom and the office is a collection of family photos. Sometimes, seeing pictures of those who have passed away, I get heart pangs. This happens often. But I'd still rather be reminded than not. (I still miss my mother something terrible at times. You would think that this grief would be processed and no longer upsetting, but that is not the case even after 10 years. Anyway I'm sure it's normal. Right? It's not as if it keeps me awake at night or anything. It's just that the intensity of the impact — even now, occasionally — surprises me.)

An unwelcome thought is that someday, if nature takes its course, it won't just be Mom I'm missing when I see this photograph.

In the office is Mom's first palette painting; I love this one, as it really does look like poplar trees with a breeze rustling them.

And there is one of my sister Joan's early pastels, with colours that I adore. They appear a bit washed-out here, unfortunately.

And in the living room is a new one that Aunt Reta brought with her from Saskatoon. Her (and Mom's) cousin Judy is moving from her house into a condo and no longer has a place for this, and apparently neither do her children or nieces or nephews, because it came my way and I was quick to say "I'd love to have this!"

Reta's husband Carl painted it from a photograph of Grandpa Jack, my great-grandfather, who was a telephone linesman well into his seventies. I remember him as a moustached old man, always sitting and with a cane nearby. I think I was about nine when he passed away.

We still have to pick up the "thingies" required so that they lay flat, for the three flowers Joan painted for me. I've got the canvases leaning against the wall and am looking forward to getting them up; they're going to pull the room together beautifully and brighten every day.