The Wind she blew the Snow about

And that's when you want to stay indoors where it's warm and comfortable and watch the snowbanks form on the other side of your window.

We are eating the most fabulous cabbage dish. And the easiest. I am in love.

•
Classic Stewed Cabbage
1/4 cup butter
2 onions, chopped
1 stalk celery, chopped
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1 medium head cabbage, cut into squares
1 (14.5 ounce) can stewed tomatoes, with liquid
salt and pepper to taste
Directions
1. Melt butter in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add onion, celery, and garlic and saute for 3 to 5 minutes, or until translucent. Stir in cabbage, reduce heat to low, and simmer for 15 minutes.
2. Pour in tomatoes and season with salt and pepper to taste. Cover pan and cook over medium heat for 30 to 40 minutes, or until cabbage is tender.

Tonight we had this in the fridge for leftovers, so I added a cup of water, a large tin of diced tomatoes, and half a cup of brown rice and let it simmer covered till the rice was cooked.
Mm Mm Mm.

Lovin' Winter

Some people, when they come in the door after a hard day's work, crack open a beer and sit on the couch in front of the TV with their laptop on.

Some wash and dry dishes while starting supper.

Which do you think I am?

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One of these years I'm going to get ahead of the game, as upon occasion I do, and have the breakfast dishes done before leaving in the morning, and supper prepared in advance so it only needs to be warmed up.

But it won't be today.

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Yesterday I walked as far as the end of the driveway and turned back. It was friggin' cold out there, and windy. Over the weekend I watched snowbanks form around the yard. Pretty things. So pretty I took pictures—through the window.

Friends are returning from Mexico, and friends are flying off to warmer climes, and I feel no envy whatsoever. Winter is nearly over and I don't want to miss a moment of it.

Last Day Age 54

We stopped at the store to pick up a cake before leaving town after work on Friday. Emil was coming out for the weekend and was disappointed that he wouldn't be here Monday for birthday cake, assuming we'd be having one. We wouldn't have bothered, but for Emil's sake I bought a chocolate cheesecake and insisted we start celebrating my birthday early. So we had some last night and will have some again today, before he goes back to his home in town.

Friday was a mild day but for the wind, and I figured flowers would make it safely between building and vehicle, so grabbed a bright bouquet on my way to the frozen deli section. I didn't need cheering up, but they really do make me smile and feel good each time I walk past them on the kitchen table. It's the big yellow ones that do it.

Flin Flon

I lived and worked in and near Flin Flon in the '80s.

Emil

V

Emil likes to lie on a bed in the evening and relax.

Another week’s work well done.

Morning at Everett's

Since Tuesdays are a long day at the office, when we are often there till 7 o'clock (when the digital files get sent to the press; the paper comes out today), I have been coming over to Everett's to spend the night. He made cheese tortilla wraps for supper last night and had bought Dad's goodie rings to nibble on while watching Doctor Who. We generally take in two episodes; I have an entire season, or more, to catch up on.

Everett gets exasperated with me. I don't like the cybermen, the daleks, or any threatening space creature. I prefer, he says, shows with no conflict. I should watch Teletubbies, he says, rolling his eyes.

Kid's got me pegged.

I was enjoying the Downton Abbey period drama series until they introduced violence and rape to the storyline. It turned my stomach. I don't watch TV to have my stomach turned. I  watch it for entertainment, relaxation. I don't want to get my adrenalin pumping, thanks very much. It's fine in its everyday state, there when it's needed, not artificially stimulated by a little square box in my living room.

That said, I love it when the evildoers get what's coming to them. And that only happens on TV.

Evening at Home ~ north of driveway ~ looking south ~

Mr Doodle

Ducky Doodle, age 7

Poor little sweetness now spends his weekdays alone in the house, snoozing.
So he makes sure to get his snuggling quota in the evenings, when he is never far from a lap, wherever one may be.

I know someone will ask, so here it is: deer-faced chihuahua.

Wind Damage

Those wicked winds last week tore a good chunk of the house wrap off. Apparently it's of little concern*, as Scott found other things to do on the weekend rather than tack it back up. He even seriously considered driving to Humboldt to do some sales shopping and, had I agreed to go along, would've.

It was the last thing I felt like doing with a day off. I baked bread instead. Got the dishes done. Had a nice relaxing bath. Running around when I don't have to, even to please someone looking for a companion, seems unwise to me. All I wanted to do was stay home.

An old beau once translated this philosophy from French to English: "I like to please others, but not at my own displeasure." These are still words to live by, more than 30 years later. Maybe they allow me to be selfish or self-serving. I hope not. Maybe they remind me to respect and care for my own needs as much as those of others. I think so.

My sales shopping consisted of flipping through a Sears catalogue, circling the things I wanted to buy, underlining the order numbers, sizes and colours, and then throwing the catalogue onto a pile of recyclable papers in the porch. I don't need any of that stuff and won't be making any phone call to order it.

I do covet a good pair of pull-on walking boots though, and have my eye on a pair of Blundstones. I have shared this information with my spouse, who did not give me a Christmas present and feels sheepish—as well he should. My birthday is coming up so he can kill two birds with one stone, if he wishes. And if not, I shall buy them for myself. I'll be 55. Fifty-friggin-five! Still alive! Let's jive! I can't drive ... 55!

* As is often the case, there is method to Scott's madness. The torn house wrap is wrecked and has to be replaced with new.

Weekend Life

Two animals have been butchered and Scott divides up the packages of beef for private buyers.

It's 5:30 through a southwest window when I come inside.

The World comes to Me

Friends travel and bring back gifts.
Shelly knew I'd appreciate these colourful warm socks from Peru.
Cathy knew a wide-strapped bag from Myanmar would get good use from me.

Calm after Storm

A walk with Jenna Doodle and Sara Doodle on the weekend

Wow, that was some wind. Wasn't it!

We spent part of our evening standing back, watching the picture window in the living room bend in and out, wondering whether it was going to break or what.

The ride home last night was a bit scary, what with the wind blowing snow so hard across the road that at times visibility was zero. Walking from vehicle to house, I thought it really could be possible for the wind to pick up someone and send them flying. I don't want to see what the house wrap looks like today. It won't be good. Still, at least our roof didn't get torn off, as I've heard happened to a building in Lloydminster.

I am all ready to go to work; just waiting, now, for Scott to finish with his cattle and pick me up before driving to a job in town.

We've started working on a website for the newspaper. See it here: http://wadenanews.ca./.
So far just a few pics from this week's edition, which came out yesterday.

Little Grace

When I was in Regina, the creative and kindly Jo Ann got inspired to finish the cloth doll she was making for me. At my request it was patterned on Mom, and when Jo handed it to me my heart filled. The print blouse, the gap between the front teeth, the blue eyes ... oh, what a lovely reminder Little Grace is, right down to the black leather shoes Jo made for her to wear.

For comparison:

Home from late afternoon walk

Talk before Sleep

Lately the books coming home from the library have been less than stellar. I’ll see their authors interviewed on TV "mystery writer" or radio "author-interview" shows and they’ll seem interesting, or friends may recommend titles, and I'll order the books in.

To my surprise, even when they are well written they are still not engaging. You might think mysteries could never be that dull, but yes, they can. There are some mystery novels where things happen so slowly — if ever — that I lose interest in the story altogether. I don't care what happens to the characters, and return the book to the library, unfinished.

I like reading memoirs, but have been having the same problem with them. They are not holding my attention. They are not taking me out of my world and into theirs. 

Yesterday afternoon called for a break from work in the newsroom and I strolled over to the library to try again. Ignoring the mystery section and passing quickly over the biographies, I instead browsed through the shelf with books whose authors' surnames start with B and signed out three hardcover novels. 

Talk before Sleep, by Elizabeth Berg, was published 20 years ago, and is about friendship between women, one of whom is dying from breast cancer that has metastasized. 

Not only does the book address the feelings of helplessness and grief when a woman you love is dying, but it evokes the way your own everyday life goes into limbo as you focus on this huge event — watching someone suffer a death by degrees. There is some examination of the characters’ marriages and how they cope with disappointment and anger in various ways. But mostly it is about how women are so comfortable and caring with each other when they are really needed.

I started reading the book in the evening after getting into bed, and only put it down when my eyes wouldn’t stay open any longer. Ding! Points for Elizabeth Berg and Talk before Sleep. The novel articulates many of the emotions one navigates during times of crisis and loss, including the examination of how one has been living and whether new actions and change are required. I'd recommend it if you have a loved one who is ill or has died. 

After Mom passed away, I read Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking, her memoir about what she went through after her husband's death from cardiac arrest. There was little in it that I could relate to, possibly because Didion was dealing with the sudden death of an intimate daily-life partner while I had time to say goodbye to Mom, take care of her, and build our mother-daughter relationship into something deeply profound. Perhaps mine and Didion's are two very different experiences; Didion's did not help me understand mine. But Talk before Sleep feels, in some ways, as if I could have written it myself.

Fifty Below. What's That When It's at Home?

With the wind chill it's minus-50C today, I'm told. Those poor animals out there. How do they manage? I suppose many of them don't.
Maybe I'll stay in, good parka or not. Skin will freeze in minutes and I'm not sure where my balaclava is.
I've spent the day vacuuming, sweeping, doing laundry, changing bedding, moving living room furniture (poor Scott, it will mess him up when he gets back from his afternoon's occupations —feeding, watering and putting straw on the ground for the herd of cattle to bed down in tonight, driving Emil back to town for his work week that starts tomorrow after two weeks off, and going to a neighbour lady's to see what's what with her frozen water pipes —  but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do), washing dishes, talking on the phone to my aunt Shirley in Margo and my brother Cameron in St Albert, and sipping on a big bottle of Bailey's I picked up for the household as a Christmas treat.
Next: make pepperoni pizza for supper.
I'm looking forward to the new season of Downton Abbey, which starts tonight. There is something about the construction in conversation of proper English sentences that I love, whether in film or books. And of course, the period costumes and sets are fabulous. As are Dame Maggie Smith and the lady who plays her nemesis, Isobel Somebody. And Shirley MacLaine too, when she appears on the show.
It could be a good TV night, as Sundays often are. Doc Martin will be on, and there is a new Canadian series called The Best-Laid Plans that is a must-see. If I can just manage not to be put off by the frequency and repetitiveness of commercials on the ordinary (as opposed to public television) channels. Often I get up to do something during commercials, and never come back.
Last night I watched Django Unchained. The violence of Quentin Tarantino's films is not to my taste, but he does have a bizarre sense of humour and I do like those endings where the main characters ride off into the sunset alive and well, so I put up with the blood and guts and keep my fingers crossed all the way through.
I used to watch Boardwalk Empire too, liking the period sets and so on, till the bloody murdering got to be too much. Such shocking visuals tend to stay with me afterward; something I do not need to do to myself.

Parka and Plough

the new parka

My swanky new parka has a large, loose, pointy hood. When it is up, Scott says, if I had a green face I would look like a certain character in The Wizard of Oz.

That's my Scottie.

I think the old plough at the end of our driveway is an eyesore. He likes it and ignores my request to move it, saying, “If you had your way, the marker for our driveway would be a bookshelf.”

I hadn't thought of that, but now that he mentions it ... .

Another Year Begins

Late afternoon light on slightly orangey-pink treetops south of our yard

This afternoon I went for a walk wearing my ski pants and brand-new handy-dandy parka (thanks to a generous aunt and uncle for whom I would edit for nothing but they insist on paying me when it is absolutely not necessary; I will be blessing them for the next 20 years as this parka keeps me toasty warm). It was 28-below, according to the thermometer on the half-ton, but the day was virtually windless and the sky was blue and the sun was sparkling on the snow and I thought, Why, this is not cold at all; it's a beautiful day and I could keep walking forever!

I had locked the old dog in the porch so she wouldn't be with me when Scott stopped to pick me up on his way into town, and I set out down the road 20 or 25 minutes before my ride came along, and was almost sorry to see the truck coming up behind me. Before he got there a gorgeous coyote crossed the road and trotted across a snowy field, stopping several times to keep an eye on me. Naturally my eyeglasses had been left at home so I didn't get the best view of the beast, darn it. Every time! I should never leave those things behind.

Scott visited his dad, who is in the hospital for respite until tomorrow or thereabouts, and I visited my youngest, ate the Triscuits he doesn't like (which were on top of his fridge) and got half a rum cooler (his dad left them at Xmas and Everett doesn't allow alcohol to touch his lips) down my neck before Scott picked me up and we headed home again. It was a short but sweet visit, as the conversation was non-stop. Topics included Dr Who, Nazi propaganda, social niceties, a possibly stray old dog that he's seen several times that, by the look of it, was unsteady on its feet and may need a home and some help, poor thing, especially in this frigid weather, and more. We squeezed a lot into a brief time. Always leave 'em wanting more, I always say.

Weekend in the Queen City

Just home from a couple days spent in Regina with Cathy (left) at the Ramada Inn. We visited with Jo Ann (right), another Luther "dormie," and were fortunate enough to be invited to her place for brunch one morning. Besides her fine cooking, I particularly appreciated this cow pitcher containing, of course, cream for our coffee:

We also went out for meals and coffee, and spent one evening at the Freehouse restaurant, which had a restful atmosphere and great food at good prices:

To my disappointment, no one played the piano.
I sat at the "fish" table:

Every time I go to Regina, I like it more.
One pictures it as a low-to-the-ground, square-shaped city, and perhaps it is, but it has a vibrant feel to it and a lot of very pretty architecture.

Also, the Freehouse has truly fabulous food and makes the best caesars I have ever tasted.

Days before Christmas

Leftovers from Wednesday night "supper"

Alison and I have been running into each other in stores and on the street for years, saying "Let's get together and crack a bottle of wine!"

Finally, we did. Two of them.

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The news office is closed now till Jan. 2nd.
Emil is home for a few days. I've got him busy in the kitchen, de-greening a couple packs of rinsed strawberries for me to make freezer jam.
Otherwise I intend to be completely lazy.
No sugar cookies, no whipped shortbread, no caramel corn (I've OD'd on the making of it), no almond rocha, no nuts 'n' bolts, no lefse.
No Christmas tree, no lights, no ornaments brought from storage, though my Wise Men beeswax candles are within easy reach in the china cabinet. Maybe I'll find a place to set them out. It's the least I could do as a nod to the season.

Unlike last year at this time, when I dug for YouTube videos of the earworm I had, O Beautiful Star, and collected them.

Here you go; there's a buttload to listen to (and watch) on this page:

http://goldengrainfarm.blogspot.ca/search?updated-max=2013-03-05T10:36:00-06:00&max-results=100&reverse-paginate=true

As a matter of fact, I may give them a spin myself; maybe some Christmas spirit will rub off on me.

I did hear, thanks to my friend Julie who posted the video on the Stubblejumpers Café webpage, Andrea Bocelli singing I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas. It made me cry and miss my mother.

Workaday World

Dark office. Light outside in hallway. Scott frying something on the stove, talking to dog, talking on phone; TV on. Coffee mug beside me on table, almost empty. Wet hair; housecoat; complainy neck. Gotta go out the door in a half-hour and put in a long day at work.

Went for lunch with my sister Karen yesterday, and my aunt Shirley.
"How do you like getting up early and heading off to town?" Karen asked me.
And I, surprising myself, replied, "I like it!"

All those mornings getting up to drive Everett to his job in town must have been paving the way.

And now: Butter toast. Dress. Move!

Resting Up

Always so satisfying to see the Wadena News pages laid out at the end of production day. 

It's my mid-week day off.
It's 11:22 a.m.
I'm still in my housecoat.

This is the life.

Home for the Weekend

A cast-iron moose has been erected alongside the road between here and Kelvington. Of course some asshole has already taken shots at it. D'uh. Brainless idiots abound.

Whoa! That was what I said when I first caught sight of this moose, while reaching for my camera. It looked huge and real. Up close, it's only half the height of a real moose. But from a wee distance it had me fooled.

More than a week has zipped by. Zip zip zip. Oh well. Isn't that life after 40?

I got a lift into town Monday morning with Scott, and then spent the week at Everett's. Just six blocks to walk to or from work, and the freedom to arrive and leave the office when I choose. Clearly it's time to order new tires for my old car so I don't have to rely on someone else or adjust to their schedule. Or we could just put a set of bunk-beds into the office for us die-hards.

I am wondering ... if I'm in town most of the day, what's the point of living out here? Except for non-winter evenings and weekends, I'll be indoors anyway. If you're between four walls a lot, what does it matter where they are?

Hm.

Got another 10 episodes of Dr Who under my belt. Everett laughs when some sudden surprise onscreen makes me jump. Little bugger.

Friday night was Moonlight Madness shopping in Wadena. I got a couple gifts purchased and stopped at the drugstore to pick up a new prescription for my neck migraines. There was a migraine coming on; I had only brought a couple pills to town with me Monday and had used them. It was 30- or 40-below, and I had no plans to go home before the next day. The doctor had not returned the pharmacist's afternoon call to request an extension of the prescription, so I was shit out of luck.

Scott would have driven into town to bring the pills, but I didn't want him out on the road so I gambled on being okay for the night. By morning I wasn't, and by the time he got in with the pills, it took the medication a while to catch up to the discomfort. So yesterday was a fairly wasted day. As was this morning.

However, while begging the pharmacist unsuccessfully to advance me a couple pills to get me through till the next day, I learned that if my condition was marked "chronic" I wouldn't have to keep running back to the doc's office to get the prescription renewed. After 25 years of the same symptoms, wouldn't you call that chronic? I don't see why not.

Why go to the doctor when all you need is a prescription renewal? Well, we shall see what can be arranged. Wish me luck. I'm always very careful not to run out of my medication, but this time had mistaken some empty packages for actual pills. I hate to think what shape I'd've been in all weekend if I hadn't still had some at home. Oof. It's been a while since I've experienced that kind of suffering, which I hope never to deal with again.

By the way, the T and T Café makes the best burgers in town. And they serve Pilsner beer.

Last Day of November

The annual Noel Bazaar was held in Kelvington today so I drove north this morning to join my brother-out-law Walter at his table, where he was selling my sister-in-law's wild rice and wild rice products (dried soup mixes, flour, pancake mix).

There are only two farmers' markets left in Wadena this year so I will make sure there is "jimikrakcorn" there for those who look for it. But I am definitely getting lazy, and not feeling much like baking during the evenings or weekends. (I hear all my friends and relatives: "getting" lazy?)

Last Saturday, Scott and I drove cross-country to Faye and Rick's for supper. As always, we ate a stellar meal and enjoyed their fine company. Today they were taking Faye's mom to the bazaar and then out for lunch at the Kelvington bar. I was fortunate enough to be invited along. Here's Faye with her mom:

Back at the bazaar afterward, I had planned to do some Christmas shopping. But somehow I'd run out of steam. I did grab my wallet and make a perfunctory tour of the tables, but only picked up some of Aunt Marj's lefse and one of her apple pies. She threw in a bag of cookies (she is a generous lady and always good to me and everyone else).

I had a cookie when I got home. Delicious! Thanks, Marj! I'm having lefse for supper and apple pie for dessert. And wine for the beverage portion. I've been unable to entice Alison (my walking companion at work as well as my newspaper-mind mentor and employer; when I ran into her this afternoon she was heading to the office) over for wine and grub, alas, so am imbibing on my lonesome own. 

Scott's on top of a roof north of town, I hear. He will be cold and starving when he gets home and so I've browned some meaty ribs and thrown them into a pot on the stove with onions, cabbage and tomatoes. Not for me! No thank you. But he'll be happy. Maybe.

If not ... he knows where the lefse and apple pie are. 

Pyjama Day

Towing the truck 

Days! It's been days since I've posted an entry! The time, she flies.

See that red and white half-ton? It's been sat in the middle of our farmyard for the past year. Finally yesterday Mr Man decided to move it out of sight, probably so he doesn't have to move snow around it all winter. Now it can go kill the grass underneath it, somewhere else.

That was yesterday. You know, Sunday, when many people in this country take the day off and laze about. Not farmboys though. Mine was out with his little brother taking care of cattle for several hours, then in town shovelling snow at the current construction site, before cleaning up in the late afternoon and heading to his sister's in Kelvington to watch the Grey Cup game. (Does anyone in Saskatchewan not know that the Roughriders won? Didn't think so.)

I stayed home for what our friend Faye aptly described as a "pyjama day." After Friday night and most of Saturday at Everett's, watching Dr Who (two more seasons to watch before the new season begins, and a number of Christmas and other specials; but now that the kid doesn't live in the same house as me, it's not so convenient), I stood looking out the windows late yesterday afternoon and had to talk myself into going for a walk. It was melty out and so I definitely should've (I'd been a lazyass since my last day off, Wednesday), and nearly let myself off the hook yet again. But I took an inward listen after asking my body the question: What do you want to do? The answer was a firm Get Out and Walk.

So I left the kitchen-cleaning and halted the baking of caramel corn, and cooperated. The way I see it, if I want my body to be healthy and fit (i.e., to do what I want and expect it to do), I have to do my part. I can't keep making demands of it, and not keep up my end of the bargain. And out I went.

In the good news department: Aunt Shirley phoned yesterday and said Joanne B will be moving back to the lodge in Invermay. This will put her back in home territory, where she will be happier and it will be easier for family and friends to go see her.

Oh, and my son prepared for my overnight visit by stocking up on a variety of treats (damn pretzels! I may have OD'ed on them) and making something delicious for supper Friday night. I couldn't eat the half of it but did taste everything he served up, at least.

Uff Da

For years I've been purchasing shampoos from health food stores in the hope that they have fewer harmful chemical additives than the products that come off grocery- or drug-store shelves. I've perused their ingredients lists and thought, Hm ... this doesn't look much better. What am I actually buying, here? What am I absorbing through my scalp over and over again? Just because the manufacturer claims this stuff is free of poisons,  and I'm paying a premium price for it, doesn't mean I'm getting the natural product that I want.

At the Christmas market in town several weeks ago there was a lady from Norquay, Sask., with a table selling her homemade personal care products. I bought all her shampoo bars the moment I read their ingredients list:

- olive oil
- water
- coconut oil
- sunflower oil
- sweet almond oil
- soybean oil
- castor oils

Excuse me? No disodium sulfosuccinates? No olefin sulfonate? No decyl polyglucose? No sodium lauroyl sarcosinate? No sodium benzoate? No — ?

Well, you get the drift.

Just plain ingredients whose names I actually recognize. Woo hoo!

The shampoo suds up and does a great job. And it's inexpensive, too, compared to the big-batch commercial so-called healthy shampoos I've been using till now.

Check it out for yourself at her website: Uff da.

I will be ordering more when these are gone, and trying her other products, too.

Imperfection

a nice white wine for your evening glass

Not too dry, not too sweet. So perfect, it's hard to stop at one glass.
But yay, me! I have been doing it.

Thank you to the clerk at the Wadena liquor store for recommending this wine to Scott. He has been spoiling me with it.

Speaking of perfection brings to mind the discomfort of imperfection. 

Newspapers have what we call "production day," and on that long busy day I read most every printed page, determined to catch errors of spelling, punctuation, phrasing, design … anything that may have been missed during the first proofreading or inadvertently changed during the transfer of a file's content to the page.

On "publication day," which follows, I scour the issue that has been mailed out to subscribers, almost holding my breath in dread of spotting an error.

And usually I do find at least one imperfection, and shake my head, and grit my teeth. How could I have looked right at this and not seen it? My “eagle eye” is not perfect. Sigh.

Readers "out there" are every bit as critical; no matter how minuscule the oversight, they note it with some measure of glee or annoyance.

They don't know how many imperfections were corrected before the text ever got into print, and how much rewriting was done, and how much factchecking there was, and how much headscratching, and how many small decisions had to be made. They would be surprised and perhaps even impressed, if they knew, at the level of attention to detail in the news office. Instead, some hold any mistake up to the light and almost seem to scoff; they have caught us falling short of perfection!

They have no way of knowing how much sifting, sorting and repair has been done before the newspaper went to press. They see a finished product that has been sweated over behind the scenes, under the pressure of a looming weekly deadline. They never see the work in progress or realize how much fine-tuning was required. 

Maybe that’s because, like successful recording artists, we make it look effortless. “I could do that!” the audience thinks. "That's easy!"

I wonder if I will ever accept errors and oversights with a glad heart, or at least a balanced one. Mistakes are a cost of living, and they are to be expected; we have to continue doing our best in spite of them. That’s what human fortitude is all about: not letting failure, or imperfection, get you down or keep you there. If you learn something every time, your game should only improve.

Besides, if we were perfect our heads would swell and we would become top-heavy and tip over. It never hurts to stay humble.

The Red Dress Project

There are some 600 missing and murdered women in Canada.

Oh wait. Six hundred missing and murdered First Nations and Metis women. Their numbers are by far the highest, when it comes to counting up missing and murdered women in this country.

It's hard to believe, when you don't know any of them or their families personally. It's all too easy to think "These things don't happen to me or the women I know." Consider yourself fortunate, then, that you haven't lost a friend or a sister this way, or your mother or daughter.

The Red Dress Project attempts to make the public aware of the extremely high incidence of violence against Aboriginal women here. The artist collects donated red dresses and hangs them in public places.

Right now the project is at the University of Regina.

Read more: http://www.ammsa.com/publications/windspeaker/red-dresses-there-just-not-there

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ReginawelcomesREDressProject

Only Able to Imagine

Left on the kitchen table with carnations and napkins

Darn! Guess this means there will be no cellphone call late this afternoon, saying "Is there anything you need from town?" to which I might reply "I am craving potato chips. How 'bout it?"

The sun is shining and the snow is sparkling. I went to bed last night and snuggled into my pillow, aware how fortunate I was to be tucked up all safe and warm in my own bed, with all my family and friends safe, while people in the Philippines are cold, hungry, grief-stricken, fearful and in shock.

It's Remembrance Day here in Canada, and I'm thinking of my great-great uncle, who died when the SS Caribou was torpedoed by a German submarine off the coast of Newfoundland in 1942. I'm thinking of my great-great aunt Alma, who was a nurse overseas during one of the world wars and must have seen some terrible suffering. I'm also imagining what it must have been like to be mothers and sisters and wives in those days when so many men and boys left for the battlefields. How sick at heart they all must have been as they watched their loved ones go, then waited at home, praying for good news, which all too often never came. I can't bear thinking much about it, or the fact that war and killing and rape and violence are still common around the planet.

So I focus on my own little life, reminded how lucky I am to have it where it is, how it is. I can spend the morning in my fluffy green housecoat (first time in 10 years I've had a paid holiday, by the way; that alone is something to do a jig about), worrying about no one dear to me. I can spend an hour getting the Wadena News (follow @wadenanewsed) set up on Twitter; I can plunge my hands into warm sudsy water in the kitchen sink, and look out the window at the birds flitting to and from the feeders in the trees. I can slide a roaster into the oven with a homegrown chicken, for supper. I can pour chilled white wine into a crystal goblet, and make brownies for dessert tonight. My sons haven't had to go to war.

Life is good.
I wish it was this good for everybody.

Inside My Head

Stolen from somewhere online

What's the matter with you? It's Winter

It's another cool and snowy day, but I have ski pants so you'll hear no complaints from me if I get out there before dark.

I'm not one of those who whines about the cold, then goes out dressed like a teenager or a fashion plate. I've learned my lessons: frozen ears, fingers, toes; misery in vehicles that hadn't been warmed up yet; impatient while my son Emil, on crutches or with walker, took longer getting into a building than is necessary for the more able-bodied.

And why?

When I was a teenager, looking unstylish mattered to me. Meh. To hell with that. Now I value comfort more than appearance. It took long enough. Some of us learn everything the hard way.

And when I was a bit older, it was only that I didn't know about the magic of ski pants. For warmth, they beat long underwear, hands down. And they aren't worn indoors, so your jeans don't feel tight (thus convincing you of weight gain or the need to slim down) like they do with long underwear beneath.

Sure ski pants are a pain in the butt to pull on every time you step out the door, and to peel off each time you come in again. That's also the case with the jacket, the lined boots, the scarf, the tuque and/or hood, the mitts. You feel buried alive sometimes. But these essentials are the cost of living in a country where cold weather is the norm for a good part of the year. Quit bitching, and dress for it. It's the only way to enjoy winter instead of suffering it. Because when you're warm, winter is beautiful.

This has been my annual holier-than-thou public health announcement. 

It Was a Rodeo

Darkness was beginning to fill the cool, moist air, and these three young calves couldn't figure out where the boys wanted them to go. It's not that they wouldn't comply. It's that they were confused; their mothers had already been herded to a pasture closer to home, and these three had gotten separated from the rest.

Here Bruce and Scott are trying to get them to step between the fenceposts to cross through the ditch, over the road, and to a stubble field on the other side. Half the battle was that the calves are accustomed to an electric wire between those posts, and they weren't too anxious to take a chance of getting shocked. You could almost hear their brains: "What? What? Why are they trying to get us to touch the fence? I'm not doing it!"

I was enlisted to help, but am not too adept at chasing cattle so the most I could really do was bring the truck up to where the boys had had to gallop on foot after the beasts, which can run pretty darn fast when they decide to throw their heads up and bolt.

In other news, we got snow during the night. About 15 miles north of us, they got six to eight inches of it. I wore my ski pants and Sorels to work today.

No Alice

It  happens to everyone, they say, sooner or later.
I got this book home and, before even cracking the cover, remembered I'd tried reading it before and not gotten very far. I was bored with it.

That's not to say it isn't a good book; it may be. Just that it didn't speak to me then, and it didn't speak to me last night, and it's going back to the library without my giving it another thought.

Too many books, too little time, that's what I say. Too many books that do speak to me, to waste my time ploughing through books that don't, just for the sake of saying I gave them every chance to engage me.

One book that did engage me, though it didn't satisfy, was the memoir Joan Didion wrote about coping with the sudden death of her husband. I read it in the year following Mom's passing. The loss of a husband is surely a different thing than bereavement after a mother's dying, but also Didion's husband's death came as a sudden shock, while Mom's — although the diagnosis of terminal illness was earthshaking — was a death that gave us time to say our goodbyes and express our depth of caring for each other. There wasn't unfinished business, unless a sense of being robbed counts as that.

Didion's book was a disappointment only because it didn't help me put anything into perspective or give me ideas for coping, as I'd hoped it might. Her struggle to balance again wasn't similar to mine in any way I could see. Didion wasn't "wrong" by any means; she just wasn't speaking to me at the time.

And that's what it's all about with books, isn't it? One day a book seems so dull you have to force yourself to turn to the next page; a couple years later it moves you like a dance tune. It all depends on where the reader is, in her own story.

Too Many Sweets

We devour the caramel corn byproduct; waste not, want not! 

Caramel corn is still baking in the oven, so I can't go to bed yet, or I would. Not that I'd sleep before 10 or 11, but I'd give it a college try. Have to be up around 5 tomorrow to leave here at 7 for a trip into the city. Alison (our "fearless leader" at the Wadena News) and I are attending a website seminar at the Sheraton Hotel in Saskatoon, and it starts at 10, so we've got to be on the road early.

Did someone say Halloween? It has practically passed me unawares, this year. A few costumed kidlets stopped into the office today for treats, but I heard rather than saw them. The librarian, when I walked over to pick up some books, was sporting bright orange hair. Someone at Canada Post was selling fancy Halloween-themed frosted cupcakes for a fundraiser. We had a bag of miniature chocolate-candy boxes in the office. Oh all right, I knew it was Halloween. I'm sugared right up to the tits.

Happy Birthday, Gord! You monster, you.
Happy Belated Birthday, Luanne! You missed being a monster, by one day.

What am I talking about? Of course I can go to bed. I just can't go to sleep. And who'd want to? I have two new books from the library: Still Alice, and The Teleportation Accident. Best brush the sugarbugs off my teeth and stretch out under the covers.

He Is a Letter - Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks

Someone who goes with half a loaf of bread

to a small place that fits like a nest around him,

someone who wants no more,

who is not himself longed for

by anyone else.

He is a letter to everyone. You open it.

It says, Live.

Doc Makes a House Call

This morning Scott made a man-sized breakfast and Doc was digging in.

Tuesday already, wow.
I thought time was flying when I worked 30 hours a week, and even 20.
These few extra hours would seem crazier, except that I've had Wednesdays off, which gives me a day in the middle of the week to catch up and get ahead, both. Then Tuesday feels like Friday (Already???), and when the weekend actually does arrive on Friday, it's as if — Already??? !!! Feels like hardly working at all.
To be honest, the work doesn't seem like work. Right now, it's play.

Before starting at the news office, I committed to filling half a table at the Xmas farmers' market this weekend. So I'm making caramel corn every night this week in order to be ready. But just tonight I realized that I don't want to run myself ragged by always having something I have to do. I'll prepare for and attend the market this weekend, and that's the end of it for me. I need my down time.

And now, off to bed for some reading. You'd think I'd've had enough reading for one day, wouldn't you? after another production day at the newspaper. But no. There is never too much reading. As a matter of fact, I'm looking forward to reading about newspaper-making, tonight: how to edit for smalltown newspapers, write good headlines, come up with catchy leads, that sort of thing. Lots to learn, and all interesting.

At the office itself I've got my head down, getting things done; but I'm also listening to my co-workers as they talk, immersing myself in the existing sensibilities of the place. How do they decide what goes into the paper? How do they approach local events? How do they respond to questions from the public? I'm all ears, all eyes. Conversations in the office aren't a distraction for me, as they sometimes are for others; I thrive on the buzz of activity; it's warm and it helps me focus.

You might think that makes me a successful multi-tasker, but alas no.  Emil phoned while I was stirring sauce for caramel corn on top of the stove, and apparently I can't think and talk at the same time because when normally I'd set the timer for a five-minute boil, tonight I set it for 15 and nearly burnt the stuff before realizing my mistake. Cooking and visiting don't go together for me. You win some, you lose some, I guess.

Livin' for These Lazy Weekends

Little Green has to warm up in the mornings before I head into town for work.

Not today, though. It is past noon and I'm still sitting around in my pyjamas, not moving one iota faster than I absolutely have to. And I don't have to, so won't.

 Emil would like to be picked up and brought out to the farm sometime today so I will have to get dressed eventually. He and his comrades from Mallard Industries went to a Halloween party in Porcupine Plain last night, so he didn't want to come home with me yesterday.

He is excited about receiving a reply to his letter to Dennis Lakusta (a travelling minstrel who has stayed with us a couple times), so insisted on coming out today; he will phone me after he gets up, he said. We offered to take the letter to him as soon as it arrived in the mailbox more than a week ago, but he didn't want that. Is that not strange, when Emil has talked about his hopes for a letter ever since the day he wrote to Dennis? But that is Emil for you. We don't always understand his reasoning, and he can't always explain it; we just try to respect it whenever possible.

Tomorrow and Monday nights our house guest will be another travelling minstrel, Doc MacLean. He is performing in Kelvington on Monday night and we are putting him up in our spare room. It's no fancy hotel, but there are none around here, although Wadena does have a brand new bed and breakfast opening soon (watch your Wadena News) and I'm betting guests there will be spoiled rotten. I might be tempted to go spend a night there myself sometime.

Bedtime for Bonzo

Here's a glimpse of part of this week's front page;  I've planted myself in the editor's chair at our community newspaper. Local readers of course are well acquainted with it, so this picture is for those of you who have never lived around here.

I left the office at 5:30, made a five-minute stop at a residence, went to the Co-op and picked up $45 worth of groceries, drove home to GGFarm, made two trips to the house to carry bags in, took a pail of water for the barn cats out to the heated bowl at the tractor shed, came in and washed dishes (had yesterday off but it came with a migraine, so to hell with dishes; I pulled off a miracle just getting a batch of raisin rye bread made), threw a pot of chili con carne on the stove, and finally sat down to eat supper at 8:15. Since I aim to have my head on my feather pillow at 9, this entry will be short and sweet. I tell you all this just to point out that outside of work, there is no life!

That's how it feels, and I suppose will until I get used to a more demanding routine. This is not a complaint, as I'm enjoying being at the office. It's nice to have other people around.

And now hippity-hop to bed ...

One Week Down

Whole Wheat Pancakes

We didn't have pancakes for supper here at home, but if I don't get groceries soon ...

 The news staff sent this weeks' issue of the paper off to the printer tonight after a good long day's work, and tomorrow is going to be a day of "rest" for me. You know — bake bread, go to town for grub, and so on. Some serious organization is called for if we are going to eat decently instead of last-minute and late all the time.

Also required tomorrow:

• a nice long bath.
• a walk on the country road with my "Little Doggie Friends" (said like Al Pacino might say it, as if they are dangerous).

I have seen enough words for one day.