Found Too Late

Mr. Daviduk, deceased, was found with his truck sometime Thursday. At the news office, we received the RCMP report that evening.
He was located in a field four miles west of Wadena and one-half mile south, well within the range of the intense and organized ground and air search that had gone on for more than a week and covered a 100-kilometre radius from the town.
Explain that, goddammit.
I was angry, and I'm still angry, under over and around the sad. All that earnest effort; how did we manage to miss him?

Tree Hugger

Damn right I am.

Here is the largest tree in Wadena that I know of, directly south of the news office.

Waiting for Emil to get into the car. 

It's been a quiet day at home; not much to tell.
I worked five hours for the newspaper. Did dishes. Took work calls for Scott. Set the roomba to work in the hallway and the porch. Took the dogs and went for a walk. Filled the birdfeeders. Made something new for supper but didn't have all the ingredients so had to wing it. Was okay but would be fab with everything the recipe calls for. Did dishes again. Rubbed Scott's feet (my turn) before he went out to visit a couple of pals. I'm about to climb into bed and read.
Just another day.
Life's pretty good most of the time, isn't it?

No Luck

We never quite made it to the actual village of St. Front, so I still haven't seen it.

But we did drive past this churchyard out in the country. There were no tracks around it.

Scanning the land this way made me realize just how vast it is and how many places a person could be and how difficult it could be to find you if you had gotten off the beaten track.

We had to stick to the roads, but we stopped to look closely at any empty or unoccupied farmyards where a half-ton could've driven in and gotten stuck. Scott would put the truck into park, walk into the yard, and be on his way back before I'd gotten my coat on and gotten halfway down the driveway myself.

Finally, somewhere up by Spalding, we had to give up and come home after one last foray into a treed farmyard where no one lives anymore:

The story in the WADENA NEWS today can be read HERE.

Emil's Day

"Looking at this, I think maybe we didn't go as far as we thought," Scott said, showing me the Google satellite image of the area he and Bruce had searched the day before. "Do you still want to go for a drive to the St. Front area?"

We get correspondent news from St. Front, a tiny francophone village northwest of Wadena, and I've never been there.

First he had to go give a bale to the cattle, and I had to go get Emil and stop at the news office. Emil has never been there and I knew he'd like to see it, so I invited him in.

Emil enters. My desk is on the right, and you can see Alison sitting way at the front.

The first thing he said was "There's a fan" and then "There's another one. Do they work?"
No surprise there. He's got a severe case of fan fascination; always has.
This seems to be a common symptom of autism, doesn't it? Emil was never diagnosed as more than "borderline" autistic, but definitely has some of the traits.

About to go out the door again. The paper we worked long and hard to get to press the day before has already been printed and delivered, stacked and ready to be labelled and mailed on Monday morning.

When we got back out here, Emil didn't want to join us on the search, so we left him with the phone number of family less than a mile away, told him not to cook anything, and repeated instructions for what to do in case the smoke alarm goes off. We thought it would take an hour to get to the area Scott wanted to check and an hour to drive around there.

"We'll be back in about three hours," I told Emil. And away we went. That was four o'clock.

At 7:15 we were less than five minutes from home when my cellphone rang.

"I just thought I'd check," Emil said, "since you said you'd be back by now."

When we walked in, Scott returned a phone call and I started frying eggs and making toast. I asked Emil what he'd done during the three hours we were gone.

Did he make any phone calls? He'd thought he might.
But no.
Did he read any books?
No.
He walked around the house a bit, he said, and that was about it.
Weren't you bored? I said.
No.

Downhearted

All week we've been concerned for Mike and his family. We've been hopeful, though.
Now I feel sick. He had still not been located when the searchers came in last night.
Scott and his brother have been out with them for the past two days.

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The bird feeders were last filled on Thursday morning. It's time to get out there again.
Emil will be calling from town, ready to be picked up. He went to Codie Prevost's concert in Wynyard so wasn't ready to come home with me after work yesterday.

Here's Emil. I'd better get dressed and go.

Mike Missing

Tonight is the third night that a man from our community has been missing. The RCMP and many local volunteers have been out searching the rural roads and unused farmyards for his truck, which he was driving Monday afternoon, the last time he was seen in town. It's only about 10-below at night and he is a resourceful man, but he is 85 years old and we are all pretty worried.

Yesterday Scott and I drove around between the Godhe land and up to Lintlaw, looking for tire tracks on rarely used roads, thinking "You never know ...  he could be anywhere," but didn't see any sign of him.

His wife and daughters won't be getting a decent sleep if any at all — what a helpless hell this must be, and my heart goes out to them — but I'm off to bed in hopes of some good news tomorrow: that he's been found safe and well somewhere tonight.

See the Wadena News website for a little more information, if you're curious.
If you browse through some of the other articles since Christmas, you'll see one that Mike wrote after he got stuck in the snow — stranded — for a night or two once before. He came through it no worse for wear and maybe he'll be just as lucky this time around.

How to Live

"How does one achieve peace of mind? On this latter point, Plutarch's advice was the same as Seneca's: focus on what is present in front of you, and pay full attention to it." - from How to Live: A Life of Montaigne in one question and twenty attempts at an answer, by Sarah Bakewell

So, "Be Here Now" is not just a New Age philosophy, is it!

I've been reading Bakewell's biography of Michel de Montaigne, who was a self-examiner if ever there was one, and whose most common written statement might well have been "but I'm not sure."

A few bits, among the many, that struck me:

"Montaigne himself did not brood in his tower like a Gormenghast earl: he liked to be out walking."

"Easy conversation in trivial situations was valuable; it opened the path to deeper relationships, and to the more pleasant evenings where one could joke and laugh at ease."

"The only hope of emerging from the fog of misinterpretation is to remain alert to its existence: that is, to become wise at one's own expense."

CLICK HERE TO READ MORE ABOUT MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE.

Meanwhile, I'm going outside for a walk under the big sky.

Dear Shelly

Your Christmas creation has managed to stay on the back step all winter so far. A Christmas miracle, apparently.

It's a pleasure to see it out there and remember your last visit. 

Your pail of pussywillow blew off the step and was set up in the snow on the table below, but I see it has blown onto the ground and needs a "quieter" spot.

Light and Shadow

It was a perfect day for a walk.

I turned north from the driveway.

Click on images to enlarge.

After half a mile I retraced my steps and wondered what it would be like to follow this trail of animal tracks down through the ditch, across the field and into the bush. For a moment I was tempted. Such a beautiful day ... 

Instead I strolled on past our driveway and the grass driveway that goes into the back yard, and swiveled to look yet again behind me.

It's all about the light, out there!

I kept on going south, toward the ravine and the correction line. Twice, Ducky Doodle stepped on a layer of snow and ice and it cracked, scaring the shit out of me. Sounded like gunfire, real close.

From our driveway to the correction line and back takes me a half-hour. And the light! And I often do a 360-degree turn to see if there's a moose crossing the road behind me after I've passed. It's happened before. 

Home again, home again, jiggity jog. Halfway down the driveway, I look past the trees and beyond the rusty old car to the road leading north. 

I don't even know who I'm talking to, but almost every day when I go for a walk, I thank someone or something for the pleasure of living here and the time to enjoy it.

This Far

Done!

Well okay, not all the way done. Still gotta find a spot for all those pillows and put the quilted bedspread back on. Scott's going to tackle the closet one of these days and the pillows will go in there afterward. I had been meaning to reorganize the closet for some time, and his work in there forced it. Kinda. It took three weekends of best intentions, once he put everything on the bed. It wasn't that pressing.

I got rid of and put away a lot of shit. 

Wrapping paper and old Christmas cards and an entire plastic grocery bag full of bubble wrap.  

A fax machine and a sprout-maker and ... on it goes. 

Some things we never use and likely never will: out they go.

The garbage and recycling and giveaways are in the porch, awaiting transfer to the car.  There'a a bag of Emil's things to be taken to his place. Ducky figures it's a good place to park himself. 

You see the lineup beside the door, ready to go.

The wrapping paper that I chose to keep and the Xmas cards to make tags with and the potential gifts are now stored in the old cardboard trunk till next year. They lay flat atop the Christmas decorations, the tree skirt, the strings of lights, the stuffed elf, and so on.

One job down, 364 to go.

Flowers in a Pasta Jar

"Why don't you take a bunch of pictures while I'm doing my yoga," I said to Scott, who was splayed out on the couch after we'd eaten a birthday supper of takeout Greek ribs. "If I'm lucky, there'll be one I can post on the blog and say 'This is what 57 looks like.' "

He obliged me and took six or eight shots in the dimly lit room. I was doing the spinal twist. I set the phone to speaker when Emil called, and it stood on the coffee table in front of me. Balancing on one foot first and then the other, I did the eagle, the thumb of my curled palm touching the tip of my nose as I kept my eyes on the yardlight outside. My yoga routine lasts about 20 minutes. It's a series of my favourite postures, which I've chosen from all the possibilities for specific areas and organs — for optimum health.

The next morning I deleted the photographs. I like my physical self; it does a great job of making my life comfortable and I appreciate it. I feel good most of the time, and I don't even mind what I see in the mirror most days, if I don't look too closely or for too long at the face I barely recognize; it has changed so much in the last 15 years. I am what I am, and one can't get to 90 and still look 30. But in pictures? Not one bit. Me in pictures is a shock almost every time, and slightly horrifying.

One might assume it's a dislike of my aging face, but it's more true that I have never liked current photographs of myself. They've rarely if ever seemed to look like me, like the way I feel, like true representations. I sure as hell don't look as gorgeous as I feel. Hee! There are very few I've kept over the years.

"I didn't know where you keep the vases," he said when I came in the door.

There won't be one decent head shot to print with my obituary.  I'd prefer there was no obituary, now that I think about it, just like I'd prefer no funeral service and would rather Scott have friends over for a shot of whisky one afternoon instead. Will anyone respect these wishes? She's gone, they'll say; the funeral is for those left behind; the ritual helps them somehow. The obituary is for friends, acquaintances and the merely curious who love the life stories of other people. I'm one of those; biographies, autobiographies, memoirs and obituaries make the best reading.

I could always re-title this entry as "She Rambles On."

Morning Kiss

This little sweetheart seemed determined to get into the house this morning while Scott and I were having our coffee. Quite the dance, and totally unafraid of us.

Strange.

Redpoll.

We have dozens of these guys in our yard this winter. The bird book says they will be abundant in even-numbered years, and scarce in the odd-numbered ones. I'll be paying attention next winter to see if that's true.

***

I was awakened today by the delivery of a cup of hot coffee and a kiss — just the way we all are woken up every morning if we are lucky.

My Seahorse

A little treasure as far back as my childhood is this keychain that comes complete with a seahorse. It was at my grandparents' house for as long as I remember, and at some point it became mine.

Funny how the details slip away, though for years they seem to be part of a life's wallpaper.

Keys to my safety deposit box, Cathy's house in the city, and Scott's little house down the road.

Where did it come from? Who brought it back from their travels? 

Also how, when you blog every day, you repeat yourself.
Just one of those things that happens!
Like getting grumpier as you get older, Dad said tonight when we spoke on the phone.
"I hope not!" I said, and we had a little chuckle.

Grandma's Birthday

Scott's grandma turned 107 yesterday and he had some cake with her last night. She still lives in her home in Kelvington with help from Meals on Wheels, home care services, and evening meals with members of her family, who take turns making and having supper with her.

Big Pile

Guess what I'll be doing with this next few days off.
(I said the same thing last weekend, so ... you see how serious I can be.)

Scott has been installing a fresh air exchanger, and it's meant hauling everything out of the closet in the guest bedroom.

I will be re-homing some of these items. 

Uncle Bruce

Dear Karla,

I have these pictures of Uncle Bruce for you.

The telltale Bartley tooth gap!

Emil at Work

My oldest son, Emil, is in one of the pictures for this story in the Wadena News.
CLICK HERE.

Pizza Cupcakes

This recipe came up on my Facebook feed, and since it uses Pillsbury dough I thought I'd give it a try. Something different.

 Ingredients

·    1 can refrigerated Pillsbury Seamless Dough Sheets

·    ½ cup pizza sauce

·    1 cup shredded mozzarella cheese

·    ½ tsp garlic powder

·    pizza toppings - pepperoni, ham, sausage, peppers, onions, mushrooms, pineapple, peppers etc.

Instructions

1.      Preheat oven to 375 F.

2.      Spray or grease a muffin pan.

3.      Unroll dough sheet and cut into 8 equal squares. Press into muffin cups.

4.      Sprinkle some cheese into each dough cup. Add 1 Tbsp. pizza sauce followed by remaining cheese and the toppings of your choice. Sprinkle garlic powder over toppings.

5.      Bake for 15 minutes.

6.      Remove from pan, carefully, with a fork.

7.      Serve.

Will the recipe go into the STUBBLEJUMPERS CAFÉ collection? We shall see.*
 I'm waiting for them to cool so I can do the taste test.

As for #6, a knife works better. 

* 
*Nope. 

They're all right, but nothing special. 
Too much piddling around; I'd rather spread toppings far and wide and quickly on a regular crust than drop pinches of them into muffin tins. 

Postcard

This came in the mail yesterday. Thank you, Ms Maggie the Librarian.

Ed Runci, Skirting the Ride, 1950

Oh dear oh dear oh dear

Bang!

Another bird crashes into the living room window.

I have moved the feeders back into the oak trees near the house.

Where they were, we had to walk over sunflower shells to get to and from our vehicles, and it looked filthy and bugged me. 

Good thing you didn't come over, Faye, while the feeders were in the maple. (Faye is afraid of birds.)

Anyway, I moved them and, as before (no matter where the feeders are, but this seems a degree or two worse), birds are periodically crashing into the window and bouncing off, flying away to the trees. 

This afternoon, though, a pine grosbeak is splayed out on the snow beneath the window. 

Don't die! Be okay! I'm sorry! That's it, you're moving your head ... your neck's not broken. 

What can I do?

I put my coat and boots on, trudge through the snow and pick the bird up in my bare hands. 

Do I need to keep it warm? Or do I need to set it up somewhere safe where it can get its bearings without being scared shitless of this monster that is far too near for comfort? Oh, what to do, what to do?

If only I could reach this robins' nest and set the grosbeak there. But no, too high.

There's a flat-floored feeder with a roof, but there's a bit of snow in it. I think it's better to find a snowless perch for the little fella, but it is so dazed it doesn't even attempt to uncurl its claws and hang on. I do it for the drowsy bird.

Poor wee darling can hardly keep its eyes open, but will look at me when I speak to it.

I don't want to frighten the grosbeak more, on top of the shock it is already in. I step away from the tree.

A cheeky little monkey. I can't tell one chickadee from the next.

The downy woodpecker is more shy.

There are a good dozen redpolls alongside the dozens of chickadees; there are more grosbeaks (why none of the red-hued ones, I wonder); it's quite the busy place out there in the oak trees. When I'm home in the afternoon, I sit with a cup of tea and watch them through the window.

It's well past time to get my ass in gear and order "birdsavers." Birds injured and worse — dying sometimes — due to my lovely large windows. It's an awful thing.

It leans against the tree for about a half-hour and then, just after I've hung four long scarves in the window (gotta try something till the birdsavers arrive), I look again and the grosbeak is gone.