Can't You Take a Joke?

I married a guy whose humour was bitingly sarcastic and whose idea of fun when in company was to make me the butt of his "jokes." My friends didn't like it and I found it tiresome and it's one of the things that led to the end of our marriage: he wasn't my friend anymore and I didn't owe him my loyalty or devotion. He has since become aware of the tendency and has worked to discard it, and thinks he's been successful. I hope so. He deserves to be happy with his new sweetheart and she deserves — as did I — to be spoken to and about with consideration and respect.

Scott has a very different kind of wit but eventually he too crossed the line and I was constantly being teased. "Where's your sense of humour?" he'd say. "You used to like it." Indeed a little teasing is fun but too much falls flat and gets on my nerves. Often I'm not sure when he's serious and when he's trying to be funny. Apparently he needs to wear a grin when it's the latter, so I know.

I've observed other husbands whose conversations with or comments about their wives in my presence are almost pure teasing. I doubt they are conscious of what they are doing and how it may make their wives feel. I know the wives are not always entertained, though they try to be "good sports" about it. I hope those men wake up before they destroy some of the trust within their relationships.

I can't say it's always men who do this to women. I can only say that I haven't seen women do it to men as often, if at all. I wonder who the men are trying to impress. Other men? You tell me. I can tell you that what impresses other women is when a man speaks highly of his wife and treats her with affection in public as well as in private. Husbands like that are admired by women as much as men who are able and willing dancers.

A couple days of unseasonably warm weather are making us hopeful that the flax might yet come off the field this fall.

Dining with Dad

 Here's the guy whose air miles paid for my round-trip flights between Calgary and Kelowna while I was hiatusing (it's my blog, I can make up words if I want to). He picked me up at the airport and drove me there when I left too.

Me in 20 years. I might have more hair and a fluffier chest (I know: might). Note the toothpick; we've just finished our meal and moved into the living room.

One night he had me, sister Joan and her taller half Gary over for supper. The Jackson Triggs shiraz he poured into my glass tasted like heaven. I raved about it. I'd be sure to ask them to get it in at the liquor store in Wadena. And the surprising thing was that it's a cheaper wine; I think Dad said he paid $10 for the bottle. When I got home I pulled out the half-empty bottle I'd opened before leaving, and what do you think it was? The exact same wine. Hoo, Nellie. I should worry about my lack of observational skills or maybe my memory. But I don't think I will. It's only details.

Gary gave me a demonstration to show that wine poured through a small aerator tastes far better than wine that is straight poured. I couldn't tell the difference even after a second taste-test. Dad can't either (and doesn't remember how he poured the wine, but possibly the aerator is why I noticed the bright flavour at his place and not mine).

Dad had discovered that Costco sells a delicious chicken pot pie so he served up two of them along with a variety of fresh cut-up vegetables, followed by apple pie and maple walnut ice cream. I didn't cook one thing while I was "on the road," but ate like a queen.

Close Calls

Several times I almost lost Everett, or might have, or thought I had.

When he was just a toddler, he followed other children and their dad into a lake after my husband took him down to the shore, decided to visit an outhouse, and left Everett by himself. But the other dad wasn't aware of Everett; he was busy playing with his own children, walking deeper into the water. Fortunately I was watching from a distance, higher on the beach with Emil, who was slowly making his way with his walker across the hot sand. The moment I saw Gord abandon our baby I sprinted to the shore and waded into the water, catching up to him just as he stepped into a pothole and his head disappeared underwater. Thank God I was right there to reach in and pluck him out. Thank God Thank God Thank God.

Once we came out of the post office onto the sidewalk in Legal, Alberta, where we lived for seven years. I had a hold of Everett's little hand, but he pulled it out of mine and ran into the street so quickly I didn't have time to think. I froze as a big delivery truck screeched to a halt, with him right in front of it.

One sweltering hot day I told Everett, who was two or three, that we were going to the store. As we were getting ready, the phone rang and I answered it. After the conversation, Everett was nowhere in sight. I called in the house and around it, then began going to the neighbouring houses. Two doors down lived Joe and Helen (best neighbours ever ever ever). Joe hopped onto his quad and began searching the alleys and drove downtown; maybe Everett had set out without me. After his first reconnaissance of the town he came back with his report — no sighting yet — and went again. Helen stood with me in their driveway, and I stood beside her near tears — could someone have taken him? — until I saw a shadow through the front windshield of my van, parked in the street and facing Joe and Helen's driveway. I hadn't thought to look there! I'd planned to walk to the store, but Everett thought we'd be driving. And there he was, my boy, crying in the heat of the vehicle, unheard, unable to open the sliding door to get out. Oh what relief to find him there, oh how stupid I was for not looking there in the first place, oh how flushed and warm he was, oh what might have happened had I not been standing where I was and seen him! I carried him into the house and we sat on the step, him in my arms, both of us weeping with relief.

When Mom was sick and we moved to Kelowna to be with her and Dad, the boys were enrolled in schools there. I drove Everett to his on the first day and went in with him, and was told where to pick him up at the end of the day. When 3:30 came around, I drove to the bus stop and waited. The schoolbus came and went without Everett getting off. I followed it until it stopped again, and asked the driver where my little boy was. He had no idea. He radioed the school. They had no idea. Well, I got back into my vehicle and lost my mind. I drove to the school in tears; practically in hysterics. What if he'd gotten off somewhere else? He didn't know our phone number or address in Kelowna yet, and I pictured my lost little boy at the police station or picked up by someone else, someone who shouldn't be picking up children on the street. It was horrible — another taste of what parents of missing children experience — until the school finally located him. The teachers had put him onto the wrong bus, and finally he was brought back to the school after the bus dropped off all the other children along its route.

When I think of any of those times I still feel the sick horror in my belly, all these years later.

A favourite picture of my sweet Everett, the darlingest little boy, thrilled to pick berries from my garden.

I'm pretty sure I've written about all those close calls before, and if you've followed this blog for any length of time you're already aware of the stories above. The risk of repetition is strong here, and becoming stronger year after year. I no longer remember for sure what I've shared and what I haven't, and just plunge on in, hoping for the best. Thank you for your patience as I become a little old lady repeating herself!

Everett is 24 years old today. I went to town last night to get Emil for the weekend, stopped at the grocery store to buy a key lime cheesecake and then dropped it off at Everett's house. He doesn't celebrate birthdays, he says, doesn't want any fuss or gifts or extra attention. But I'm his mom. I can't help myself. I handed him two new pairs of thermal socks we figured would be good for him to wear at work, since he is in and out of the building all day, and he seemed glad to get those. In spite of not seeming to want company when I called a few minutes earlier to say I was coming over, we chatted enthusiastically before I said I had to go because Emil was waiting in the car.

Taking a Break

It's time for a little hiatus from blogging. The well's been a bit dry recently. See you back here late next week. 

The corner where you turn to drive up to our place. 

Moving Cattle

The gents decided to bring some of their herd back to the family farmyard before the weather gets worse. Me and Little Green, my wee Taurus, were called into service to head the cattle off at the pass should they decide to head north rather than following Scott's truck from one pasture to another. But they followed him, the Pied Piper of Cows, and I didn't even have to get out of the car.

Wandering Around in a Fog

Maybe today the fog will finally lift.

Taken from the back step.

It's so quiet. Although one night the train was so loud you'd swear it was less than a mile away. And there are no railway tracks within four miles of our place. 

Scott says a loud train means a change in weather.  

We fully expect at least a week of sun and warmth to get the flax crop off, and if we don't get it we'll be putting in a complaint with the powers that be. 

Down One Cat

I didn’t want to go to the barn again the next day for fear of finding KitKat dead out there. He had let me walk right up to him for the first time since he was brought here this summer. Usually he'd swiftly disappear whenever he heard or saw anyone. 

The lady who lived here before us said that skittish barn cats get friendly when the weather turns cold, and it’s true, but I was pretty sure something was wrong with KitKat. As I stroked his orange fur and talked to him, I wondered if he’d been injured, and was relieved when he got up and took a step closer so he could curl up right next to me. He looked fine but it took quite a bit of petting before he purred. 

He showed no interest in the fried egg I was delivering. I left it nearby and covered him with a blanket. That night I lay in bed worrying that I should have done something more for him, that maybe he was seriously ill and not just a little under the weather.   

It was foggy last night and again all day today, but not windy; perfect for a three-mile walk this afternoon.

The next day Scott came in and told me the cat was laying dead under the stairs leading to the loft.

Reply to Comments

Wisewebwoman has left a new comment on your post "Walking & Chewing Gum? No!": 

I miss the piano and singing - and I had some fun with a musical I wrote and directed. Gee I really miss the piano, don't have one now and I always did. Mainly for my own pleasure.....love the video. He's great!

Isn't he!
I do have a piano, which Scott would like me to move out of the living room because the room's too crowded and I never play it. Until I do, and then it's worth the wait (to me).

Joan McEwan has left a new comment on your post "Walking & Chewing Gum? No!": 

I ve been playing and singing with my neighbour, Mark, for a few months now. We practise every week if we can and it IS fun! He played guitar and piano and is very good musically..... A good way for me to get practising and force myself to do something a little out of my comfort zone..... 

A regular play date is the best practice motivation there is.

reta has left a new comment on your post "Food's the Thing": 

going to try to send response,did you never look at all the bartly men?they all had that round bald spot.at what age it started I don't no,maybe bev would.also mom could not smell.is that hereditary? 

I never noticed the Bartley men's hair (or lack of it), no!
I've read that anosmia can be hereditary. 

Food's the Thing

Emil has a weird oval bald spot on the back of his head. It looks like someone made a wild swipe with a razor while buzzing off his hair. I hope that's all it is, otherwise ... I'd be hornswoggled as to the cause.

Of course he doesn't give a rat's ass about it.

He's more interested in what's on the stove. Eatin' Emil, that should be his moniker. As soon as he arrives he checks out the fridge and the cupboards too, and remarks upon any foodstuff he likes.

"I see you bought some peaches."

"You bought three root beer."

"You bought ice cream!" Worth an exclamation mark, that one.

He likes these Spanish Beans, he tells me, having had them numerous times.

The recipe's been doubled so we'll have leftovers.

The recipe for Spanish Beans is HERE.
Now, what to do with that thing on the counter that I think is a marrow? Cook it like a spaghetti squash?

Walking & Chewing Gum? No!

A generous gift from my great-aunt, Aunt Jean, was used to purchase my Cort acoustic bass guitar a good long time ago. I've played the same three bass runs since I was about 24 years old! and never stuck with it or gotten any more skilled. I couldn't even sing and play at the same time! and that's saying something. Like: Give it up and do something that comes naturally.

I pick up the guitar for enough days in a row to get my fingers calloused and to the point where they know what they're doing and will play by themselves (it's the coolest thing!), then I forget about it for weeks at a time or months.

Since being at home full-time this past month I've made a point of playing those same old bass runs most days. I'm still a beginner but it is fun, and I'm all about having some fun every damn day. I've even started humming along sometimes, a major advance for this poor fumbler.

A song has been added to my brief list. The bass is simple and the words are worth learning too. Fun! I don't sing in public and don't want to, but offered to do my part with the following at the Engdahl family reunion a couple summers ago if my sister Karen would play the guitar. The Engdahls would've liked the humour in this one. Karen didn't take me up on the idea and I was just as glad when the time came. Knowing I am about to get up in front of everyone and sing is a horrible feeling. When Karen and our sister Joan's turn came to perform something for the gang, I was so relieved it wasn't me. What was I thinking! A lot of the Engdahls are natural entertainers, but I didn't get that particular gene.



Morgan was in Wadena doing a show with Doc MacLean some years ago.

The fourth bass run I always practise is this one from Desperado. It doesn't get "fun" to play till the chorus, so I jump to that a lot more quickly than they do here:



My sister once asked if playing the bass was boring and I said it isn't, but actually the real "fun" of it is when someone joins in on rhythm and/or lead guitar, which was the case when I had a guitar-playing beau, the one who showed me those first three bass runs. The guitars together is what makes the more sedate fingerwork of the bass so worthwhile. I never play with anyone else so I don't get that pleasure. Maybe someday. You can have a lot of fun playing bass when by yourself too, and I do.

Willing to Try

This morning a text came in from Bev:

“Are you home?”

My heart leapt. “Yes! Are you here?”

I always hope she’s come out to visit her mom and I’ll get to see her. We have been friends since high school in Margo. You may remember that some years ago her doctor diagnosed her with breast cancer and recommended an immediate mastectomy. Instead Bev went the alternative-treatment route in spite of the naysaying of many of her acquaintances, who insisted she would die if she didn’t follow her doctor’s orders. A p.e.t. scan later proved that no cancer remained. It was a success story that a lot of people find difficult to believe; the only explanation that seems logical to them is that the original diagnosis was wrong. (Read Bev's account HERE.)

Bev isn’t in the area, alas, but was texting from her home in southern Saskatchewan to share some good news. We got onto the telephone. She’d been out to Wadena over the Thanksgiving weekend, she said, and had called here but not gotten an answer. As it turned out she wouldn’t have had time to drop in anyway as she was busy helping a friend who’d flown in from Montana. The friend, Jan, had just been diagnosed with cancer throughout her body, bones and all, "everywhere," and all the doctor could offer her was palliative care. Basically she’d been sent home to die.

Bev convinced her to fly up to Saskatchewan and come out to see one of our local healers, who had helped Bev.

“What have you got to lose?” she said to Jan. “Either you’re dying now, or you try this.” 

Later Jan said that Bev had “ripped her a new asshole” when she felt like giving up because there seemed to be no options left.

When Jan came off the plane in Regina she was in a wheelchair. Bev was shocked at the sight of her, her legs so thin the skin seemed to hang from the bone. “She looked like hell,” Bev said. “I just about cried.”

They drove out here and Jan spent several hours being treated with a laser at the home of the healer, who told her the cancer was caused by formaldehyde that had leaked into her body from various dental work. The impact of the laser was felt immediately; Jan's nose ran, and so on. By the end of the session she was told the cancer was gone. She’s gone home to Montana now, feeling good, to rest and try to put some weight back on.

“I wish I could’ve seen her sister’s face when Jan walked off the plane in Montana by herself!” Bev said.

After a few hours of lasering, Jan automatically lifted up her foot and crossed it over the other knee, something she hadn't been able to do for months.

Through the Generations

When Aunt Reta came up from Phoenix this summer, she brought a necklace made of crystals from Czechoslovakia.

"You're still in touch with the oldest McLelland girl," she said, "and I'd like her to have it."

The oldest McLelland girl is Kim. I still remember one of our earliest meetings. We would have been about five years old and we were out in their farmyard, by something like a well, and I was trying to get Kim to do something and she was having none of my bossiness.

As teenagers, however, she liked my mischievous ideas and was always ready to act upon them. We had a lot of fun together. I spent many nights at her home, and she at mine. When my mother was sick and then died, Kim is the friend who called me, who wept as we talked, and who travelled many hours to attend the funeral of a woman she hadn't seen in years.

Our grandmothers had been neighbours on the farm north of Margo, our home town, and Reta reminded me of this.

"Mom and Mrs. Dreveny were good friends," she told me, "and when Mrs. Dreveny made a trip to the old country, she brought this necklace back and gave it to Mom. Crystal from Czechoslovakia is some of the best in the world, you know."

Kim phoned me the night she received the package in the mail and we had a lovely long conversation. Our grandmothers were friends, as were our own parents and now we too, still, after some 50 years. We don't see each other often, but it doesn't matter; the friendship remains.

Purse Talk

Almost any time I don't carry a purse, there will be an item I wish I had with me. It'll be something I couldn't (or forgot to) stuff into a jacket or jeans pocket, like a pen and paper or a tube of lip balm or a pill for migraine or a dental floss stick.

But good purses aren't easy to come by. The best one I own has numerous zippered compartments so that finding small items is conveniently quick. Unfortunately, even empty this purse is weighty because it's leather. It's unwise to hang it on a shoulder in order to free my hands, because it pulls on the muscles and voila, migraine.

Last time I popped in at Emil's place of employment, I moseyed through their secondhand store on my way out and found this dandy little canvas purse with lots of pockets and, being canvas, it's lightweight! as well as having straps that fit my shoulder comfortably when need be but are short enough that they're not flopping around in my way the rest of the time.

New canvas  purse, now in service.

Not an Artist

"Someone has too much time on their hands," was a comment made upon seeing my collection of saved images on the wall in the hallway.

For about three decades I kept greeting cards, magazine photos, illustrations and other types of pictures tucked into a briefcase or into my journals, unwilling to throw them away, not knowing what else to do with them. When I moved to Scott's house in 2002, there was a long, dark passageway that needed brightening up; a perfect spot to display them for my own pleasure. I bought a dozen large bristol board pieces, tacked them to the wall, glued on the images willynilly (no "artistic" placement, just fitting them together), and gave the final product a layer of decoupage or something (to make the surface wipeable). I added bits of poetry that spoke to me, bits of stories ... whatever appealed.

A couple years after buying Golden Grain Farm, I brought the whole thing over and pinned it to the long, dark wall in the hallway here.

There's nothing sophisticated about it.  There's no structure, no plan, no organization of colours or subjects. Moisture in the house makes the paper bulge out in places. Drywall is not meant to hold things with tacks and they are always popping out and onto the floor; I've replaced them with pushpins so no one gets a sharp poke in the foot.

I still love to stand here, brushing my teeth, remembering, seeing all these images yet again:

All images will enlarge if you click on them.

I'm pretty sure there are a lot of visitors who see this hodge-podge and think "I'd never do that in my house!" It's kind of — hm, how shall I say — tacky?

But then there are those who exclaim, "Wow!" and "Cool!" and love to look at it just as much as I do.

What kind of eyes do you have? Eyes that judge, or eyes that appreciate?

Reply to Comment

Lorna on "Water Report": 

I don't know which part of this I liked the best....maybe Anonymous's comment.

We're chuckling at Scott's expense, but he's absolutely right to want to keep that cheapo coffeepot in working order. It would be irresponsible to add a plastic coffee pot to the landfill any more often than necessary, right? Right!

Heavenly Moments

Emil is here this weekend and we have been sleeping beauties both mornings, in spite of our best intentions: to get up earlier so we have time to go somewhere in the afternoon without leaving it too late. But here it is, almost 12:30, and he's just having his morning bath and has yet to dress and eat. I'm no further ahead, still lounging around in my housecoat, reading, popping green grapes into my mouth like appetizers; I, too, need a proper breakfast/brunch/lunch/whatever. Scott's been gone nearly an hour, meaning to move cattle from one place to another, I believe he said, before taking the rest of the day off.

It's brrrrrrrcold. Already I wear a tuque to go out in the yard, and leggings under my jeans. All my flower garden chores aren't done.

Even with the weather disappointing, there are many walks overflowing with simple beauty.

The snow is slowly going, but we've begun to wonder if this is it for fall—if winter has arrived.

I walk down the road, thanking my lucky stars that I'm here.

Reply to Comment

Anonymous on "Water Report": 

He's a tight arsed bastard isn't he. Alex. 

Ha! Frugal, Alex -- FRUgal! "Waste not, want not."

Water Report

No more hauling water jugs for me!

Straight from our own faucet and into my belly or the cooking pot, from now on.

Scott says that a water-testing woman told him the minerals in our water might cause upset stomach, as it contains a lot of iron, magnesium, and (I believe) sulphur. But I've been drinking it, in moderation to be on the safe side, for several days without any problem.  

He still thinks we should continue using RO water to keep our $20 coffee pot from plugging up with minerals. He's welcome to maintain that cheap coffee-maker for another 10 years, but I won't be the one carrying any 10-litre jugs. Done with that, woo hoo!

Old-Fashioned Chocolate Cake

"So it turned out all right then?" I asked the man on the couch, who held a bowl filled with chocolate cake in his hand and was shovelling it into his mouth like he hadn't eaten all day. "It's the first time I've used this recipe."

"It's a bit undercooked, maybe," he said.

I'd just taken it out of the oven, so quickly put it back in and baked it for another 15 minutes. It's still fudgy though, and I wonder what to do differently if I use this recipe again. I'd like to; it's tasty and doesn't require butter or sour cream. Reduce the amount of oil?

What do you think?

Old-Fashioned Chocolate Cake

(from the Lutheran Ladies cookbook Grandma gave me in 1983)

2 c white sugar, 2 eggs, 2/3 oil, 2 tsp soda

Beat the above for four min.

In separate bowl, combine:

2and2/3c flour, 2 tsp baking powder, 1 tsp salt, 2/3c cocoa, 1 tsp baking soda

Add dry ingredients alternately with 2 cups boiling water. This may be mixed with electric mixer. 

Turn batter into well-greased 8x11 pan. Bake at 325F for 30-40 minutes. 

As soon as cake tests done, remove from oven. Stays fresh for many days.

*Recipe submitted by Barbara Johnson

Ole's Coffee Table

"A job isn't going to just fall into your lap, you know!"

I was taking classes one winter at the University of Saskatchewan, and Norma, a fellow student, was insisting I get out and apply for summer jobs. I never did get around to it before the phone rang one day and it was Norma, saying she'd been for a job interview with the manager of a hotel/bar/restaurant up in La Ronge and he'd asked if she had any friends looking for work.

A job fell right into my lap.
You know.

I waited tables there, in the coffee shop, in the dining room, and in the lounge. One of the cooks was a thin, bespectabled gent named Ole. He had carved this coffee table, which I purchased and have had with me ever since.

It's getting a bit dinged up and the cracks between the planks have to be cleaned out with a paring knife once in a while.

Quite often people don't at first see that there is the face of a person lying beneath a tree.

One at each end.

I wonder where Norma is now. She was from Hanley, a tiny village north of Saskatoon.
I do an internet search for Ole sometimes because I remember his last name, Kesler, and if I ever find him I'll send these photos. Maybe he'd be tickled to learn that his art has graced my living room, with only short durations in storage, for more than 30 years.

The WHAT-IFs and WHENs

Don't you hate those times, usually late on a sleepless night, when you think about the loss of youth and health and life that is to come, not only to you but to those you love? And then all those things that could happen, that might happen, that do happen, that have happened to others?

How about all those unfortunate things that almost happened to you or to someone you love? Oh yeah, those sneak in there too to ramp up your feelings of insecurity and anxiety; old memories can still turn your stomach when you're lying there unable to nod off.

Then there are all those horrors that are happening right now in other places in the world; murder and war are not only in the distant past. People are suffering right now, while you lie there cosy and safe in your bed and your family members are well and even your dog is living a better life than many children in this world.

As soon as there was snowfall, the boys put out hay for the cattle to eat and straw for them to bed down upon.

Here in the here and now, right here, all is well. This is what I tell myself so that I can settle down. Think about something else. Change my focus. Censor and direct my thoughts with awareness and intention. Consider all that is right in my world; how lucky and grateful I am to be here and to have this life till now. Worry is useless, wasted energy.

All snug on their bed of straw.

Reply to Comments

Joan McEwan on "The Little Stranger": 

Oh I love books like that- I read one just lately....maybe we can swap when you come in a couple weeks!! No snow yet here and I'm hoping it stays that way right until Christmas Eve:) 

Joan: With the excessive rain and early snow we've had this past week and no warm, sunny, drying weather in sight, Scott may have to be in the field on the dates my flights are booked from Calgary to Kelowna and back. I chose specific dates, once he committed to them, so that I could keep him company on his way to Calgary and back; it's such a long frigging drive. But the weather may well put the kibosh on it all. 

I've checked out connecting flights from and to Saskatoon, as that's an option, but the few available on my dates would leave me vulnerable to missing the Calgary to Kelowna flight, or the Calgary to Saskatoon flight; or I'd have to be at the airport by 4:30 in the morning and I don't want to do that either. It makes for too long a day. Been there, done that! (Approaching 60 I'm finally figuring out I should treat my body with more consideration, and my mind too.) 

Not sure yet what to do if the timing's against me; if I can't get away before winter conditions set in at the airports, I might wait and fly out in the spring instead.

The Little Stranger is borrowed from a book-collecting friend, so I have to return it.

Julie on "The Little Stranger": 

Hey girl, I love Sarah Waters' writing. Tipping the Velvet, Fingersmith, and some others are really excellent. She is such an accomplished writer, it is a joy to read her work. I didn't get to this one yet. 

Waters is a wonderful writer, no kidding! I can't wait to read something else from her.

The Little Stranger

Every book I read doesn't catch and keep me from start to finish, but this one did.

Told in a first-person narrative — my favourite not only because of its immediacy but because I know the narrator lives to tell the tale (so I can relax) — it is the story of a country doctor who becomes involved in the lives of a land-owning family in postwar England, and the mansion that is falling down around them in spite of their struggles to maintain it. There is a ghost, a nasty one ... or is there? You'll be wondering, as I was, right till the end.

When I read the last sentence late last night, turned off the lamp in the living room, and made my way in the shadowy glare of the yardlight shining through the front window and then down the hallway to our bed, it was with a little shiver and a gladness that I wasn't alone in the house.  Had I been, I wouldn't have dared read this book.

It's the kind that is so beautifully, masterfully written that it stays with you even after you've turned the last page. You lie in bed and think about it, or I did anyway. I bet it's one I'll never forget.

Here's a review in The Telegraph should you be interested in plot and themes.
Me, I'll be on the lookout for other books by this writer.

Reply to Comment

Lorna: I make six loaves, slice off a hot crust as soon as it's out of the oven and slather it with butter, and freeze the remaining five. Here's the recipe for the kind I make regularly: SUNFLOWER BREAD.

Like Winter

Through the north windows of the house, the day looked cold and unwelcoming. I almost didn't go for a walk. When finally I did, late in the afternoon, the air was still, there was water laying everywhere, it was beautiful out there, and I thought, "I almost missed this!"

Remember not to judge the day by appearances, I said to myself; get out here and find out for sure, no matter how things look. (Kind of like not judging people by their relatives ... or their friends ... or their shabby clothing ... or their houses without siding, like ours.)

It seemed as if, the moment I was back indoors, the wind picked up and started to beat against the house and blow the last of the leaves from the three oak trees edging the front lawn.

On Saturday I waited in the truck while Scott went into the post office, then held the door for an elderly gentleman and stood chatting for a few minutes. 

Today is another cool one, or so it appears, so I'm going to make a batch of bread. On Saturday while Scott attended a funeral I spent several hours with Everett, who is my regular customer. He can make it himself but prefers to buy it if I'll make it, so I try to keep both our households provided.

"How many loaves have you got left?" I asked, and he checked his deep freeze.

"Two," he said, "but I like to have some in reserve. I could use another batch."

And then we watched Sausage Party, which I'd expected to be a family film that could be viewed with Emil. NO. It wouldn't be good to hear Emil repeating some of that language; not that he would be likely to, but why put it into his head in the first place?