MEMORIES LIKE EARWORMS

Something that reminds me of Mom pretty much every time I do it is making the bed, because she told me to “Do it right.” None of this careless pulling-up-the-covers for my mother, oh no! Each sheet, each blanket, the whole kit’n’kaboodle must be lined up just so, nice and flat, tidy, pretty. I’ve come to appreciate this sentiment because now I too like to walk into a room with a nicely made bed. It’s more inviting.  Not that I do it "right." I just do it.

Another thing that makes me think of her is whenever I am working with bread dough. I don’t add flour to avoid stickiness in the loaf-shaping process; instead I dip my hands into lukewarm water and spread a layer of it on the countertop. 

“You can’t do that!” she said, watching me. 

But I do because it keeps the finished product as light as possible. 

Mom only ever made white bread, as I recall. If you tried the water trick with dough made of white flour, it would probably be a helluva mess.

If Scott dies before me, I’ll surely think of him whenever I run hot water into the kitchen sink. When preparing food, I rinse my hands often and wipe my workspace frequently and sometimes, while waiting for onion and other vegetables to sautée or for a pot to come to a boil, I’ll wash the dishes that have already been used. Sudsy water in the sink is quite handy then, and there is less mess to clean up later. Scott says this is inefficient and all the dishes should be washed at once, after the meal. I say keep schtum, buddy, or do it yourself. If he is dead first, this will probably be an amusing memory and I'll wish he were around to nag me about my heinous ways.

Then there is Grandma Benson, whenever I flatten a used plastic bag and turn it onto an empty cardboard roll for storage, then fasten an elastic around the outside. Can’t beat it for a way to keep bags for re-use.

When I wash the dishes and put them into the tray, and consider leaving them to drip dry, I hear Grandpa Benson telling me to “Finish them.” I’d had one of many meals with my grandparents and done dishes afterward, but not completely. He meant dry them too and put them away.

Anytime I play rummy, I think of Grandpa Johnson: “Be a deuce!” 

Hours upon hours did we spend at his kitchen table in Margo. We played cribbage too.

When sweeping off a step and sidewalk, I remember Grandma Johnson doing the same in front of their house in Margo. I was four years old and headed down the street in search of excitement. I could go to the café on the main street, she told me, “but don’t ask for candy.” Of course I did, and got it too: Smarties.

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I’m reading June’s blog entry, http://byebyepie.typepad.com/bye_bye_pie/2016/11/the-mother-and-childish-reunion.html, amused as ever, and as always there are many comments. I don’t usually read them, but this morning I’m still eating toast and drinking orange juice, so what’m I gonna do till they’re both gone? I decide to read the comments. And they’re hilarious! I’m laughing out loud.

Imagine what I’ve been missing all this time.

Then there is the lovely Stephen Fry:

http://kenlevine.blogspot.ca/2016/11/american-comedy-vs-british-comedy.html

VINDICTABLE ME

I like to think I’m not vindictive. I wouldn’t deliberately hurt another person to punish them or make my point. I see grudges held and figure that is a shame and thank goodness I’m more forgiving.

But is it true? Or do I, too, hold onto my anger?

People rarely do me a bad turn, so my evil traits don't frequently present themselves. But when they do? I can be a grim miserable cuss, and can continue hissing and spitting long enough to surprise myself.

Sure I may be civil, but will cross the street to avoid an irritant.

We are advised to imagine the “wrongdoer” as a small child, lonely, frightened and crying. This is to soften our anger, awaken our empathy. “Anything that isn’t an expression of love is a cry for help,” it is said. It's best for us, we're told, if we meet assholes with our compassion rather than bitterness or contempt.

When you're pissed off, though, it's difficult to bring yourself to do this visualization. Anyone else stubborn this way?

When anger fuels change, I tell myself, it's best to acknowledge it. Respect it. Be willing to let it go, and figure out how. Then do it.

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The rural municipality came out and installed a culvert under our south driveway. 

Looks like a hand shovel had to be used. 

We're hoping this will help get some of the water away from our property, as flooded-out trees have been dying for several years.

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WHAT'S THE STORY

We’re having some warm sun in recent days and if you’re out of the wind your ears won’t blow off. Cathy with a little chuckle called it Indigenous Summer.

What gives political correctness a bad reputation is that people usually just slip up, not even knowing we have or only suspicious we might’ve. We didn’t intend our words to be damaging to anyone, yet we are being corrected and we’re not sure what the reason is. It’s no wonder some think political correctness has gone too far. What are we supposed to say now? When did it change? Why?

Often people don’t even ask those questions. We aren’t particularly interested in the answers. We might have to practise empathy and respect in an unfamiliar way for someone whose experience we do not share or understand. We might have to admit that we didn’t already know everything about everything; that we weren’t, ourselves, above reproach. We might have to think about one more damn thing. Sheesh, don't we have enough on our plates already!

And then there’s cultural appropriation, a practice considered harmful and yes, politically incorrect: a fancy term for being pissed off over nothing, you big whiner. That’s the attitude.

Recently I could not adequately explain why it’s now politically incorrect to call a ball team, for example, the “Indians.” I only knew that many First Nations people found it offensive, and that was good enough for me. But why does it offend them?

I did a brief internet search for an explanation. HERE’S WHAT I FOUND. 

Let’s be open-minded. Let’s educate ourselves instead of insisting that demanding political correctness is little more than a platform for too-thin-skinned complainers. Let's listen and be willing to adjust our perspective.

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These youngsters stared me down at the gate while their elders hightailed it to the place where Scott was putting a fresh bale out. They're curious about anyone new. They're not hostile but I'm nervous anyway. 

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My day so far has consisted of reading while drinking my morning coffee, mixing up a batch of bread for our household (the last two batches were sold and we were down to half a loaf this morning), doing yoga in the living room once the dough was on its first rise, making marinated tomatoes (that's the last of Scott's garden produce dealt with) and the inevitable dishwashing which, by now, goes without saying so why do I keep saying it. Maybe because it takes up so much time. 

The wind on the step is nasty but I'll go out anyway as soon as the six loaves of bread come out of the oven. When I get back it will be time to think about supper. Oy. I don't want to. I might have food-prep overload.

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Doc MacLean is touring over in South Africa for the first time in his long career as a blues musician. He doesn't always have access to the internet but he's posted a good collection of photos at his blog: http://zuluskies.blogspot.ca/ .

WISE WORDS FROM TONY

When I was in Kelowna at Joan's we watched the documentary about Amy Winehouse, an incredible vocalist with serious addictions that killed her at age 23. So young and with so much life ahead of her! And what talent she had ... what she might've done with it ... what a sad ending.

She was thrilled to meet and sing with the legendary Tony Bennett, who remarked that she was the best jazz singer that ever was. Now that's saying something! He also said, wisely I thought, after her death, "Life will teach you how to live it, if you live long enough." So just hang in there, you young people contemplating suicide as an exit from the discomforts and dissatisfactions of life. Just hang in there, because nothing lasts forever. Everything changes.

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Cathy arrived from the city yesterday afternoon as I was returning home from a walk.

She had picked up some fresh herbs for me, as I couldn't get them at the store in Wadena, and also brought a jar of her home-made jam and pre-mixed caesars. We got right into those caesars. 

I made her work for her supper. The wild rice salad was already chilling in the fridge, and it was tasty and a nice change from the usual. I'll post the recipe at Stubblejumpers Café one of these days. Another part of my supper plan was stewed chicken with cinnamon. I've made it before and it was delicious, but I must've thrown the chicken whole into the stewing pot. This time I decided to follow the recipe more closely by cutting the chicken into pieces and removing the skin before stewing it. I knew, however, that I don't know the proper (if there is one) way to cut up a chicken. Cathy thought she did, as she'd watched her mother do it many times while growing up on the farm at Wilcox. So while I busied myself with other kitchen errands, Cathy attacked the chicken. The stew turned out beautifully and I'll post that recipe too. One of these days.

Cathy's just driven out of the yard and I'm on my way to town in a few minutes to pick up Emil from Everett's after his three-day weekend and ferry him over to his own place, which is too far for him to walk. It's not that he can't walk that far, it's that it takes him forever and he's exhausted afterward.

It's a gorgeous fall day, sunny but requiring a windbreaker, something warm beneath it, a scarf, and ear coverings if you're striking out to walk on my road. It rained during the night so Scott's harvest has halted again. On Thursday afternoon headed into town I met a convoy of eight combines on the road, on their way to do custom work for a local farmer.

The SODA CRACKERS recipe has been posted at Stubblejumpers Café.

A MOVEABLE FEAST

"Never take a trip with anyone you do not love," wrote Ernest Hemingway in his Paris memoir A Moveable Feast. How wise is that! 

He also advised F. Scott Fitzgerald, author of The Great Gatsby, that it's not the size of your equipment that is important, it's the angle in which it is employed. Fitzgerald's wife Zelda had told him he was small in the junk department. He asked his friend Hemingway's opinion. Hem assured him his size was normal, whatever that is.

Funny the things that grab your attention when you read. The things you remember.

Hemingway married four times. It seems he and his first wife Hadley were quite happy but he cheated on her anyway, destroying their marriage. He never lost his goodwill toward her. "I wished I had died before I ever loved anyone but her," he wrote, describing his feelings of guilt before Hadley became aware of what he'd done and was continuing to do: sleep with his next wife.

Many will say that if that first marriage was happy he wouldn't have cheated. It's one of those "popular wisdom" beliefs that isn't necessarily true even though everyone takes it for granted. Like the one about cheating spouses: "If he cheated on her, he'll cheat on you." If you believe that, you believe that people don't learn from their experiences. Do you really think a man or woman who has once hurt a spouse and their children will think another affair is worth embarking upon? A person who has "been there, done that" is more likely to avoid temptation, nipping opportunities for poor judgment in the bud. While there are those who view extramarital affairs and one-night-stands as mere recreation, most people learn as they live. They don't forget that along with following their "bliss" may come deep regret, and have learned to value discernment. They have realized (thank you, Julie, for putting this into words) that our emotions are "like the weather — they come and go" and are not always reliable factors upon which to base our actions.

Scott calls this overflowing dugout at the back of our yard a "shithole." I call it "wetland." It's teeming with bird life and frogs for three seasons of the year. There is a muskrat (family?) house across the water, and other animals come to drink.  

Scott and Bruce took their machinery out to the flax field, with high hopes. It's just across the road and south of our place.

I happened to be walking by.

There is a set of preachy people knocking at my door. Ducky Doodle barked and ran toward the porch. I began to make my way there until through the dining room window I spied the van that was here the other day, when I did the same thing upon seeing two women carrying pamphlets crossing the front yard: walk back into the office and let them think no one is home. I can't even be bothered to tell them no thanks, go away; I won't give them two seconds of my time.
I might put up a sign to deter them from continuing to come. I don't want it to be rude. What could it say? Taking suggestions if you have any.

How about "Not Taking Suggestions." 

Hee!

Reply to Comments

rea has left a new comment on your post "THE IMPORTANCE OF LITTLE THINGS": 

getting into a routine of doing things is the ticket,however I don't but in the long run it serves you better.still don't have our floors done so hope we get no visitors.what do you mean when you say I have written on you time line? 

You must be talking about Facebook. Your "timeline" is the page you get when you click on your name at the top on the right-hand side. Maybe you left a comment on something I posted, which would've appeared on my "timeline."