But first . . . .
Thanks to Scott, I was awake around 8 because he brought coffee to the bedside table before leaving for the field. It's been a lovely few hours of reading and writing. Eating buttered toast, drinking chilled orange juice. Hauling my bedding plants out to the deck, hardening 'em up before they go into pots a few days from now.
Life is good. The only thing I lack is a friend to sip margaritas on the deck with. Considering that I have no tequila to make margaritas, perhaps that's not such a bad thing.
|Northern shoveller female, left, and American coot (what we call a mudhen)|
Yesterday, for the first time since I began working at the WADENA NEWS a year-and-a-half ago, we had the paper off to press and I was out of the office at 5 o'clock. It was a lovely warm day and so nice to get outside. I went straight to the liquor store to pick up beer for Scott, as I figured he'd be in the field all day and not have a chance to get to town. While I was there I might as well nab another bottle of wine; ended up with two more. I'm set for the next week or two when it comes to booze, for sure.
After stopping at the two garage sales in town and spending a whopping $3, I dropped off a $1 shirt at Everett's and came home, where I found Scott on his garden tractor mowing the lawn. He'd already been to town, wouldntchaknow, and had put beer into the fridge. I lugged my bedding plants to the step and took a cold beer out to him before starting on the dishes I hadn't done the night before.
By the time those were done and Scott was in the house, dreaming about supper and no doubt disappointed, I was ready to crack a beer for myself and sit down for a few minutes. We enjoyed the peacefulness of our living room until my beer mug was nearly empty, and then he leapt up.
"I'm going for a drive," he said. "You coming?"
You bet. I love going for a drive cross-country. I downed the last swallow of bitter and followed him out the door.
There had been a farmyard fire on Victoria Day when a lawnmower blade struck a rock, igniting a flame, and Scott wanted to know whose place it was at. (Sheila B., it's your old place! I think the barn burned down.)
From there we putzed along, noting farmhouses for sale and fields of burnt stubble, wondering why at this time with so many fire hazards out there and the restrictions the Province is advertising on the radio, farmers are still lighting those fires. It doesn't make sense. Maybe they don't listen to the radio or watch the news? Or maybe everyone thinks it couldn't happen to them.
Finally I said, stomach rejoicing, "Let's go to the Hendon bar. I'll buy you a burger."
It turns out the bar is for sale and its last day of operation will be May 30. Hate to see another small business go under, but it's the way of things with drinking establishments, especially in communities with a population of only dozens. It's not like rural dwellers can have a few drinks and then drive home, and even when you do have a designated driver, many people can't afford to socialize in bars too often when one drink costs five or six bucks.
We ordered our burgers and beer — Pilsner, once made in Saskatchewan and purchased by us last night only because the only beer made in this province now is Great Western and the bar doesn't stock it. Scott drank three-quarters of my beer after inhaling his own, and we both made pretty good dints in our plates of burgers and fries, and were home just before the stars began peeking out. Jupiter and Venus shone in the western sky next to the quarter-moon. The frogs sang. The sora called. I was sorry to come indoors and, now that I think of it, wonder why I did.
It was a beautiful day when I began this entry. But this is Saskatchewan, where the weather can change in an instant. I heard a sudden wind come up, and bolted out to the deck to move my bedding plants out of it. There were some hard raindrops, and then a big scary noisy wind, and now it's quiet again. Hm.