White, White Everywhere

My son Everett has no sense of smell. His nose is decidedly off the job and has been for as long as I can remember. So I wondered: if he can't smell anything, would aromatherapy have any effect on him?

Apparently, it would.

A short internet search turned up some evidence that we have olfactory nerves in more places than our noses. CHECK THIS OUT.

Then THIS ARTICLE claims that peppermint oil may help those suffering from anosmia (loss of smell) and migraines. Guess I should be sniffing from my bottle of the stuff more often, see if it makes any difference.

A bouquet of flowers given to the family after Ivan's passing, one month ago today, still brightens our kitchen table. 

The snow has still not begun to melt but the sun is peeking out ... .

Walkin' on SlushShine, Oh Yeah!

On went my big-girl pants and out the door went I. The temperature wasn't so bad, hovering around the freezing point; it was the wind that was nasty. I was ready for it though, and warm enough to take a walk.

There's a lot of whining and crying going on around the countryside, but it's actually quite nice out if you're dressed for it.

Last night I watched a fascinating television program on the Knowledge network, called The Wartime Farm. During the Second World War, farmers in England were asked to double their production in order to feed the country. Knowing what I know — which is that farmers already aim for the highest possible production — this alone seems like an unachievable demand.

Farmers were also asked to train to be guerrilla/resistance fighters, and many did, in case the Nazis invaded British shores. That's something I'd never thought about, but it makes sense to be prepared to sabotage the enemy if they were able to move inland. When Churchill said the British would fight to the end and never, ever surrender, the English took him seriously — and good for them!

Very interesting show; I'll have to make sure Scott knows about it.
Check it out for yourself HERE.

First Snow of Fall

Yesterday and last night, storm winds and rain beat against the walls of the house. This morning I got out of bed, looked out the window, and groaned:

And yet here, inside, I am warm and cosy, with nowhere I have to be; in the lap of luxury.

The groan was more about the perennials I haven't finished digging and/or pruning, and about the field of flax Scott still has to take off, although the snow won't stay long and there will surely be an opportunity to get the harvest in. We did get about two inches of precipitation though, before the snow, and that doesn't help.

I've booked a flight to Kelowna for the end of the month (thanks for the air miles, Pop! I didn't want to spend money on travel when I'm not working, although that is the best time to take a trip, isn't it — when you don't have to hurry to get there and back in a finite number of days) and Joan just texted that she is already making up the guest room for me. It's too bad our sister Karen won't be there at the same time, as it is such a pleasure for the three of us to be together, but her plans and mine haven't meshed this fall. She and her hubby are going at Christmas, while I avoid air travel in winter (long delays sat in planes on tarmacs while they de-ice the wings is not for me); but I've offered to house-sit with her three small dogs while they're away. Christmas, to me, has become a day like any other and I'm not sentimental about it, though I have fond memories of family Christmases in the distant past. I'll think of my week at Karen's as my Margo Retreat, when I'll have many opportunities to go and see relatives and old friends during the time I'm alone there.

Even though Margo is only 20 minutes down the road, I go there infrequently. One afternoon this week I went to Karen's to get some cheesecloth (to strain the motherwort tincture I made), and hoped the two of us might go into the village and to Mom's grave in the cemetery on its periphery. Karen had already been to town that day so instead we had a cup of coffee and a good long chat at her place, looking through the glass of her picture window at the lake upon which floated dozens of gulls and Canada geese. When I left, I hesitated a long time at the corner where I finally turned toward home, rather than toward Margo, which was tugging hard at my heartstrings. Home is home, I guess, and always will be. But I made the "sensible" choice and came home to GGFarm before dark descended and moose and deer would be more of a danger on the roads.

An Indoor Day

"I'm going tomorrow, rain or shine," I promised myself yesterday, turning back from the road because already the legs of my jeans were getting damp. I'd bundle up even better and wear my long raincoat.

But no. Yesterday was a lovely light rain in comparison to the windy deluge today. It's miserable out there.
So far. I'm still hoping the wind at least will die down a bit and I can get some exercise without being blown off the road.

It's been a perfect day for baking bread and making puffed wheat cake to satisfy our sweet tooths. Scott's been home, lazing about, so it feels like a weekend. Last night he practically begged me to come up with some kind of treat, but I wasn't up to starting anything in the kitchen at that hour so he had to satisfy himself with yogurt and bananas. Better for a person anyway.

Between measuring, mixing, shaping dough into loaves, and washing dishes, I've spent the day reading a murder mystery. Yep, it's the life o' Reilly, and don't I know it.

Part of Scott's tomato crop

Reply to Comments

WiseWebWoman, I don't know what the animal was. Part of me thinks Scott was pulling my leg about seeing it. There was a bear in the farmyard a quarter-mile from us in the spring of 2015, but I've never seen a bear around here myself. It makes the news when someone does. I should be more afraid, but until I have a scare, I'm too stupid to be afraid. 

One of These Days . . .

We can be slow to get around to doing things around here.

We bought the house in 2009 and the well water reeked and wasn't potable. We had a new well dug several years later and it too stunk of sulphur and iron; some mornings before getting out of bed, I'd think Scott was cooking eggs (rotten ones), when he was only lying in the bathtub. We meant to get the water tested for drinking, but continued to haul jugs from town.

Then he started researching water treatment systems. We had a salesman out. Scott looked around online. We talked to other people with water issues. A purchasing decision never got made. We still haven't been cooking with or drinking the water that comes from our kitchen tap. The bathtub, sink and toilet were so iron-encrusted and the water smelled so offensive that guests, though they never said so, avoided bathing. I never had to use any product in my hair to get volume or hold; whatever was in our water did the trick. Light-coloured clothing, bedding or towels couldn't be washed here, as unsightly iron stains would ensue. A dishwasher would only have been clogged up, had we bought one, and my glass dishes would have been ruined.

Then this summer Scott treated the well with hydrogen peroxide or something, and like overnight magic we now have clear, lively water with no smell. Today, finally, I took a sample and mailed it to Regina for testing. What a treat it would be just to drink water from the tap! We haven't been able to do that for 14 years, as the house we lived in previously on the farm also didn't have potable water. Our fingers are crossed that the results come back with the news we're hoping for.

I also finally got around to burning some paperwork that never made it to a shredding machine. It's a perfect day for a fire, damp and rainy.

Several journals from the 1970s are in this pile. Goodbye to the past; I'll keep it in memory. 

Oat Field Finished

I was the field jockey last night, kind of.

I'd gone to town to drive Emil over to Everett's, and went to the store too. Once back home, I lugged the first few grocery bags into the house. Something (time of year: harvest) told me to check the phone messages before making my second haul. Sure enough, I'd had a call. It was Scott's brother Bruce needing rides to and from the field up north, twice, to bring the combines home.

By the time that was done it was dark and the sky was starlit. Bruce left the field in one vehicle while Scott and I got out of ours (his truck, my car) and stood in the blackness for a few minutes. Black, that is, except for the glow of headlights in the distance from every direction around us in a circle. All the neighbours' combines were out in full force and we could hear their engines too. It's rather exciting when everyone is out there, racing the clock.

"It's different than it used to be," he said. "It's louder now. Everyone has bigger machinery and there are fewer trees."

Still, any time I get to hold hands under the incredible stars with my sweetie is more than fine by me.

I walked around in the field for a while one afternoon, available to drive someone somewhere. 

Invisible Efforts

When Scott arrived home last night after dark, his face was black with dust and he got into the tub immediately — after reaching into the fridge and cracking open a beer, that is. Oats are itchy! I can see, Ralph, why you say harvesting them was an ordeal.

I was watching the news on TV; Peter Mansbridge was being surprisingly patient and respectful with Newt Gingrich as he interviewed the man, a Trump supporter, and later Bill Maher made me shriek in delight with his skilful excoriation of the circus that is the runup to the U.S. election.

Once he was scrubbed fresh like an oversized pink baby, Scott didn't manage to sit up with me for long.

"It's Friday night!" I exclaimed, with a brief burst of the excitement — the freedom to stay up late — that still accompanies the beginning of a weekend. "I forgot!"

"That's what it's like when you're a lady of leisure," he said drolly, "with nothing to do, day after day."

It surely must look that way, especially in comparison to the efforts of a person who lives a life of constant labour that would probably put me in a wheelchair. He was only teasing, for when he looked around he might notice the house is tidy, the dishes and laundry are done, and someone (a kitchen elf?) must have stood at the cupboard for more than a millisecond preparing the grilled potatoes, onions and carrots he was consuming alongside his pork roast. Just a few of the little perks of having a spouse at home with "nothing to do" all day.

Then again, these things happen all by themselves or are done instantly with but a snap of the fingers, and are of little importance in the grand scheme of life. Right? There certainly doesn't seem to be a realistic notion in our society of the actual time it takes, daily, to make and keep our private nests pleasant to relax in at the end of a long, hard day. Me, I think it matters. Many don't appear to value such comforts, while me, I figure if we don't have that, what are we working for?

The last leg of the route to 15, a quarter-section about 10 minutes from GGFarm, is a dirt road against these trees.

What the Experts Say

The internet gurus say that if you're frequently changing the layout and design of your webpage, it's because the design isn't very good and that's why you're never satisfied.

And while this is likely true, it's not the only reason the layout and design of this webpage are always changing.

The reason is that I like to play with them and I can, so I do. It's fun and it's one way of learning. Granted, it's a slow and pathetic learning curve and there is no expert instructor to actually teach me anything. But as one fiddles around and tries this, that and the other thing, one picks up skills and tips. And that's a good thing.

Out on 15, the blackbirds are flocking. Their chatter in the trees, if you turn your head just so, sounds like water running.

The gurus say that frequent visitors like to see the same thing every time they come to your webpage. They like familiar places and sights. 

Is this true for you? Do you find it disconcerting when you come here and something is different?

A Morning in the Life

I was up at 6:30 because my neck insisted.

"No more sleep for you!" it said. "Get out of this bed right now or I am only going to give you grief for a fourth day in a row."

Well, what choice did I have? Up I got. And settled myself upright in the easy chair, drank a cup of coffee, and nearly finished reading Quiet, by Susan Cain. It's about introverts and extroverts. I wish I'd read it when Everett was a child; maybe I could've helped him cope better, introvert that he is. 

 

At 7:30 we were off to Scott's mom's for breakfast. Well, he was off in his truck. I still had to get dressed, but said I'd be there shortly; I'd walk. 

"You won't get there before 8:30," he said. 

"As if," I sniffed. "When have you ever known me to spend a half-hour in the bathroom, curling my hair and putting on my makeup? Pfft. I'll be there by eight."

And so I was. It was cold out and windy and took 20 minutes of brisk walking. I wore a thick checkered coat under a windbreaker with the hood up over a tuque, and a scarf and gloves. There were gunshots to the south, which made me nervous, and lightning and thunder in the north. Scott came driving back to see if I'd like a ride but I'd warmed up by then, halfway there. When I said no but thanks that is sweet of you, he told me he'd seen a dark animal larger than a dog crossing the road ahead of me. Shit, said I, what do you think it was? No idea, said he. 

"Well if I'm not there in 15 minutes, send a search party into the bushes. If it drags me off, it won't eat my bright red coat."

In the jar I'm making a medicinal tincture with the herb motherwort; on the table are spearmint and wild yarrow, dried, for tea.

Reply to Comments

Maggie Turner on "Please Make Me a Choir": 

I agree Julie, it is such a shame! I loved to sing until that experience. The thing about music was that I didn't hear it at any other time than at school, except a little bit on Captain Kangaroo, I had no experience with it at all, and had never practised using my voice to sing, it was unthinkable. I can soar with the eagles in my mind's ear. 

Julie on "Please Make Me a Choir": 

Hi, you ladies! To Kate, maybe some willing friend who knows lots of good songs can teach you some and then you can start your own choir. 

I'm fussy. I want a choir in my living room; actually I want a barbershop quartet.  - Kate

To Maggie: It is personal to me because I have helped so-called non-singers to sing and I am scathing towards the people who ruined a natural pleasure for so many people. There are so few people who can't sing--if they are tone-deaf and can't hear the difference between notes. I have only met one person like that in a lifetime full of choirs and groups and singing at home with friends. Ironically, the tone-deaf woman sang with gusto; it sounded awful but I was so happy to hear it, my heart was so very lifted up with the joy she was spreading! 

Back to the Oat Field

"I can combine," said the almost breathless voice on the other end of the phone. "Would you bring something out for me? I'm having a quick bite at Mom's right now before I head to the field."

"Sure," I said. "What time?" It was almost 5 o'clock already.

"Doesn't matter. I dunno. Whenever." 

"I've just taken buns out of the oven. Why don't you stop in here on your way?" I suggested.

Nope. The race is on! Every minute counts! There was just time to remind me not to drive over the stubble in Little Green (fire hazard) and not to drive in as far as I did last week or I'd get stuck, since there's been rain. He'd be on the combine quite far away, but he'd be watching for me. 

I made a tomato sauce and put meatballs in the oven and boiled water for spaghetti. Not his favourite, pasta (he's a potato man), but it's what I had planned for supper anyway.

One of two small combines on the farm. A larger one is on the shopping list. 

Reply to Comments

Maggie, I've put the recipe for 2-hour buns HERE in my Stubblejumpers Café recipe collection.

Teresa, we had a ouija board when I was a kid, too. And it predicted my uncle's marrying someone else than the gal he'd been going out with for about three years. It even gave us this unknown woman's first name. He hadn't met her yet. And he did marry her, too!

Ralph, I'm not sure how much is told about the future in a tarot reading. At least, the ones I do aren't so much that, as a look at where you will likely end up if you keep on exactly as you are. If you don't like that prediction, you have the opportunity to change your actions in the present. My readings seem to focus on where a person is at in the present and what that is creating. When upon occasion there is a prediction about the future and it comes true, I'm as surprised as anyone.

Maggie, I once had a reading done by a woman who was very psychic but was only interested in my money. She knew exactly how much I had coming (which I didn't yet know) and she used her abilities to try to convince me there was a lot of trouble in my near future and only she could help me avoid it, for a fee of -- you guessed it -- the amount that was coming to me. There are rotten people like that around and they use their abilities selfishly.
I've also had a reading done by someone who was full of fear and in the habit of looking at the dark side; his interpretations of upcoming events were correct, but skewed so negatively that when they actually happened, my experience of them was very different than what he had predicted.
I learned from these people, but what I learned was not to buy into their perspectives just because they have psychic ability. It doesn't automatically translate into wisdom, caring or honesty.

Also, Julie responded to your comment about singing in Gr. 4: "Those grade four teachers did harm a lot of children because the adults they became are ashamed to sing. Shame on those darn teachers. We don't have to win The Voice. Singing is for our own enjoyment and most people can sing enough to have fun."

WiseWebWoman, the short story contest? Really? Hm. I'll take another look at that entry.

Anyone out there who might like a tarot reading, please look over my Letter of the Law page first and see if it's for you.

22 Questions for Mr. Lakusta

hi Dennis How are you doing? I would like to see you again sometime. Are you still sick or are you all better now? What kinds of foods do you like to eat? Do you think you would ever want to write a song called Godzilla? Do you ride horses? How was your summer? Do you have a new car yet? Have you writtin any new songs now a days? Do you like to go shopping? I am 28 now. What do you like to do at home during the day? Did you write that new song called Emil goes to camp easter seal yet? Do you like to go swimming? I am going on a trip in the new year. Do you have any girl friends or boy friends? I am at my moms place this weekend. Do you like cats or dogs? Do you like to do lots of shopping? What songs do like to sing now? I went to camp easter seal this year. Do you like to go to the mall sometimes? How much do you like to go out and play at concerts? What all did you do today? What do you like to do for christmas? Do you think you would ever want to write a song called The forest? I went for a horse ride at camp easter seal this year and it was a long ride. Do you think you would ever want to write a song called horses?

from Emil

I had second thoughts about posting the email above, as I don't want to disrespect my boy's privacy or have it seem like I am laughing at him. But I do want to share his earnestness with you, as well as his excellent spelling skills, which are better than those of quite a number of people who submit stuff to the newspaper. There was only one word he asked me about; is it spelled "cald" or what? he wanted to know.

On Friday when I picked him up he was considering writing the above email, and wondered if Dennis would appreciate a "really long" one. On Saturday he decided he'd sit down and tap it out on the keyboard the next day, and on Sunday he occupied this chair for at least an hour while he interrogated Dennis. He was pleased to think that Dennis would be happy to receive this lengthy missive.

So ... I only forwarded the email to immediate family members, who would hear Emil's voice when they read it. My sister Joan responded with "Omg! I'm laughing out loud. Emil is great! I sooooo wish Benny could talk !!! Ahhhhh, o needed that. Thx:) " Which reinforced my original notion that it would be okay to post the letter. I didn't ask Emil's permission, but I know he'd give it.

(For those who don't know my son Emil: he was a 10-weeks-premature baby who was diagnosed with cerebral palsy when he was 18 months old. The consequent developmental delays have, supposedly, left him with the intellectual capacity of a six-year-old. However, I find he has wisdom well beyond that age and is much cleverer than he is given credit for.)

Oversized and imperfectly shaped 2-hour buns, but delicious (if I say so myself).

Please Make Me a Choir

My friend is joining a choir in the city and has posted a link at her blog in order to listen to it.
At the bottom of that post are some links to the One Human Family Gospel Choir Workshop that she and I participated in a couple times.

I took another listen to us (click HERE if you care to); I've posted links to this before in my own blog.

"Noble" is a song written by the choirmaster, Eric Dozier. The words are God speaking to us. It moves me to tears; not just the lyrics, but singing it too.

If I could be in a choir like this, I'd go to church (if I didn't have to sit through a sermon, I'd go for sure). My sister Karen keeps telling me I should, that I might enjoy it sometimes, and inviting me to sing with the special Christmas choir she leads every year.

You can see me at the back. I'm about seventh from the left, wearing a light purple scarf; I'm in the alto section and for a change I am not stuck in the front as one of the short people, even though I fit there. (Since when is 5'5" short? It may not be exactly tall, but it's not short!)

I'm the tightass who's hardly moving, compared to everyone around me. I hate the performance part of singing and stand there like a stick. Here at home, however, I'm up dancing and singing. Right now. Arms a-flailin'. Fingers a-snappin'. Head a-bobbin'. Feet a-tappin'. Hips a-swayin'.

But the singing itself, oh my god, I could live for that.

This glass of water for our dearly departed is being refreshed every day for 40 days, "so his spirit may drink." It's a comforting ritual to think of him for a few moments each time I refill the glass, and helps me reconcile with what is. 

Daily Draw at Letter of the Law

If you are interested in tarot cards and like to see how others interpret them — I always learn something from this — you may like to know that I've put up today's "daily draw" on LETTER OF THE LAW.

If I were on the ball and could stick to routine, this would be done every day. However, by now you know me. It's a crapshoot, my friends.

Do you read tarot cards? If not, have you had a reading?

Ducky Doodle has a bed in each room so he can be (comfortably, of course) wherever I am.  Here he is near my feet in the office, stretched out to take advantage of warm sunlight on the floor. 

It's That Time Again

Frost warnings prompted me to bring a zinnia pot into the porch, and Scott picked all his tomatoes and peppers. The digging of potatoes and onions was on the agenda for one morning this week, but rain put the kibosh on that.

It's been coming down almost steadily for about two days; sometimes hard, others a light caressing mist. It's lovely out there, not cold at all but, alas, delaying the harvest.

Man's Search for Meaning

One of the books I'm reading is Viktor E. Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning.


The first part of it describes the lives of prisoners in Nazi concentration camps during the Second World War. Even mundane details are so upsetting that I can only read for about five minutes at a time before putting the book down and thinking about something else.

I've read a number of first-person accounts of the Holocaust, and of course they are always appalling.

A tidbit of Frankl's shared experience that will stick with me, perhaps for the rest of my own life, is that malnourishment/starvation meant prisoners were at all times so exhausted that mounting a six-inch step required hanging onto a handrail and hauling their bodies up.

Just the thought of it makes me not only sad and angry, but tired.

Yesterday I received a phone call from the field. It was Scott, who had asked if I'd drive a combine and was calling to say the swaths were heavy so it wasn't a good day for a lesson. I had packed a cold lunch for him and his brother Bruce, so I hopped into Little Green and drove it up to 15 (one of their quarter-sections of land).

After about an hour out there — and there is no better place on this earth to be than in a golden grainfield on a sunny day in the fall — I came home and slept for three hours straight.

I can't explain that, as I haven't lacked sleep lately and napping during the day is something I rarely, if ever, am able to do.

But it was the best segue I could come up with. (I know, it's pathetic.)

Sure, call me lazy. It's a grey morning after a nighttime rain and there will be no combining today. I think I hear weeping all around the countryside as farmers are chomping at the bit to get their crops off and the moisture is delaying progress.

Big White licks the mineral block in the pasture across the road from Golden Grain Farm. She is the lead cow in this particular small herd (they are not all in this picture). Just as in a herd of wild elephants consisting of calves and adult females, one mature cow sets the tone and leads the way. Scott and Bruce make sure there is at least one mature cow in every pasture where they are summering their cattle. She is less likely than a youngster to spook and cause a stampede when a butterfly surprises her. She's the brains and the experience.

This Little Engine Could So

“If only I could find someone who could run a combine,” he said as he went out the door.

What? He doesn’t think I could run a combine? Hmph!

Whenever he’s suggested it, I’ve thought he was joking and have replied, “Are you sure you want to let me loose on your machinery?” because I might not recognize, for instance, that the motor is making a funny noise and should be turned off before it’s wrecked. But then, that would be the case for anyone who hasn’t run a combine in more than 30 years, and then only ran it once or twice, as I recall, to help Dad. 

I didn’t scurry after Scott and say “What about me? I’m available!” because I just got up and hadn’t even had coffee yet. 

Have I mentioned that I gave my notice at the newspaper several weeks ago and am now happily, for the moment anyway, unemployed? Which leaves me free to head out onto our road every day to enjoy sights like this:

Click image to enlarge.

Transplanted

Another one of those little jobs that gets put off for months on end is finally done: a dying plant has had some of its living parts broken off and stuck into soil, to live another day — if we're lucky.

There are two to give away; if you live here and want one, speak now!

Doggin' It, Doggone It

Most dogs that have never been leashed show it when you put them on a lead. They are constantly pulling you one way or the other, right?

Not this guy. You'd swear someone taught him how to "heel." On a leash, that is.

In recent years I've never walked a dog on a leash. Hell no. I've seen people walking on country roads with their dog on a leash and thought, shaking my head, that they clearly had no idea that a rural road is a perfectly safe place for an off-leash dog and were being over-cautious city folk.

So judgy.

Now I have learned of at least three good reasons why you might walk your dog on a leash, even on a rural road:

1. It doesn't always keep up with you as it explores the ditches, and if it's a small dog like Ducky, a coyote or maybe even a fox could dash out from somewhere and carry it off. That's what Scott's afraid of, and bids me keep Ducky close. I'm not good at that, as I tend to forget about him and by the time I remember, he's a quarter-mile behind, sussing out something in the grass beside the road.

2. Your dog spots some wild animal and takes after it, and doesn't listen when you call him back for his own safety. That wild animal could turn on him or lead him far enough away that he could get lost, and you, running behind, will never catch up in time.

3. A vehicle is coming so you call your dog to your side and he trots along next to you until the moment when the vehicle reaches you, when the fool animal dashes out in front of it. My dogs have done that a thousand times. We are fortunate in that most everyone who drives along our road slows down to a crawl to make sure they don't run over the dogs, but sometimes it's someone who doesn't.

So, while it feels silly to walk on our road with Ducky Doodle on a leash, those are my reasons. He makes it easy and he's safe; I don't have to worry about where he is. Win-win.

It's another perfect fall day and Mr. Doodle and I are about to head down the road to take advantage of it.

Little Coyote Moves In

“I’d be using my rifle,” the vet said. “Once a coyote gets comfortable in your yard … the next thing you know, your chihuahua will disappear.”

A young coyote has been frequenting our yard so it is apparently time to get a territorial dog to warn it off. The search has extended to Facebook, animal shelters and veterinary clinics. 

Ducky Doodle doesn’t get out of our sight, but things could happen fast. We’d also like our barn cat not to become coyote food. We’re fond of the rabbit that appears in the yard too.

Still, there is part of me that is thrilled to spot the coyote when I step outside, or to see it heading away from me, down the driveway. I've been concerned that it isn't much more than a pup, just a half-pint, and maybe it is orphaned or lost. One night it sat crying just beyond our living room window, sounding alone and lonely. I did some internet research and found that coyote pups often leave their mothers in August, so maybe this is normal. 

Ducky did chase it off one day and it ran, but one day it might not, and it did no good for me to run after the two of them, calling for Ducky to come back. He ignored me in his excitement. 

There is a mature row of tall lilacs right off our step, and behind them are a couple crabapple trees and then another row of elms and poplars. We think the coyote is eating the crabapples that have fallen on the ground, as it seems to come and go from that area. The other day it must have heard me come out the door, and I saw it leave the yard by going along one side of the barn and toward the pasture.

I followed to see how far it would go.

Not far. It was laying just west of the barn, watching me, and the cattle were unconcerned. Obviously they're used to this little one. 

I advanced with my camera and the young coyote got up and made its way slowly down the fenceline, stopping every few feet to look back at me.

No doubt I'm being foolish, but I'm friendly toward the little beast and pleased every time I see it. If it's necessary, I'd far rather a dog push it out of the yard than to kill it "just in case."

From Wikipedia:

"Coyotes may occasionally form mutualistic relationships with American badgers, assisting each other in digging up rodent prey. The relationship between the two species may occasionally border on apparent friendship, as some coyotes have been observed laying their heads on their badger companions or licking their faces without protest. The amicable interactions between coyotes and badgers were known to pre-Columbian civilizations, as shown on a Mexican jar dated to 1250–1300 CE depicting the relationship between the two."

Believe it, or not? Not sure I do. Wikipedia is famous for its misinformation. 

Building Ivan's Coffin

Scott's dad passed away last Wednesday in the nursing home where, due to health issues and dementia requiring 24-hour supervision, he lived for the past three years. While Ivan adjusted well to his new environment, he never stopped wanting to come home with whoever was visiting. In his mind, he had always put in a hard day's toil on the farm and would describe his labours in some detail. "If only other people worked as hard as me!" he said recently.

He left in a manner most people would like to make their exits, we figure: one minute in his chair pulled up to a table; the aide turns away to set something on the counter, turns back, and he is gone.

Ivan was all about farming: he loved the hardworking farmers' life, the land, the crops, the horses, the cattle, all of it. There'd be no suit worn on the day of his funeral; instead, he'd be duded up in blue jeans and a plaid shirt, which surely he would have chosen himself — the same outfit he wore every day to work on the farm.

With his family's approval, Scott decided to build his dad's coffin for the "western" funeral they were planning. On Sunday morning he got to work in front of the Quonset in our yard with his son Gunnar:

Scott's dear friend Rick (left) came to help; Scott is at the far right with Gunnar.  

In keeping with the western theme, siding from one of the old granaries on the farm provided the covering for the casket:

Installing the eight handles, because Ivan was a large man and the coffin too was weighty.

Scott's sister Lynn pitched in*, as did her son Ryan:

On Monday the coffin was taken over to Scott's mother's (and brother's) for final touches. Of course, plaid flannel:

Gunnar and Scott's brother Bruce place the pillow for Ivan's head. 

This little decoration was added, a tribute to Ivan's life as a farmer:

The coffin was then loaded up and taken to the funeral home. A little later it came back in a hearse, carrying Ivan's body. The top was removed out in the farmyard for one last viewing of a very beloved man by his grieving family, including nieces and nephews who live in the area. Some of Ivan's favourite things were tucked in beside him, among them the mitts he was always, still, looking for so he could go outside and get to work. 

These sombre, painful, disbelieving moments were followed by the sealing of the casket and then one last drive past the land where Ivan grew up and spent most of his adult life. The hearse led the procession of vehicles, which made a six-mile loop on the gravel roads before Ivan took his last trip to town. 

*Not everyone who helped construct and finish the coffin is shown in these photographs.  There was quite a large group working side-by-side, doing the one last thing they could do for their loved one, and doing it together.

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Maggie Turner has left a new comment on your post "Birthday in the Field": 

A cold and harvest season, what a birthday! Wishing a Happy Birthday to Scott, or is it a... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iL2Wm-PcfPo 

Ha! I wish Scott had time for a tea party! Instead he's out in the field this morning (Saturday), coughing and hacking. 

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Maggie Turner has left a new comment on your post "Just Because": 

The comments here are very insightful and have me thinking. I would call myself "sensitive" to what others say, as well as being "sensitive" to having upset others. But when I trust someone that they would care about how I feel, it is far easier to bear hearing words I don't care for; when that trust exists my reaction, immediate, or late, is welcomed in return. The flip side for me is when people feel free to impose their world view on a sitation, I often adopt the "do unto others" stance and impose a quite different world view into their universe... those conversations don't tend to last very long, and they seldom recurr between myself and the given individual. One person on Facebook told me she didn't want know what I thought, she only wanted to hear from people who agreed with her; and I found that kind of refreshing, because it was an honest statement, even if I didn't respect her approach. 

People don't seem to listen, that's true, let alone understand or change their minds very often. 

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Lorna has left a new comment on your post "Birthday in the Field": 

Best wishes to Scott on his chocolate-cakeless birthday 

He didn't even eat the ice cream or a piece of fudge when he came in after dark last night! That's when you know he's feeling crappy. 

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