Crow and Raven

Marya was wondering some years ago how to tell the difference between a crow and a raven when they aren't side by side, where one is obviously bigger than the other.

Click image to enlarge; from Saskatchewan Birds.

***

During the night I woke up and put the radio on and heard someone talking about using progressive (?) meditations to deal with health conditions.
Or that's what I think I heard.
While searching the CBC website to find it, this came across my path:

http://www.cbc.ca/radio/dnto/what-makes-you-happy-1.3402687/want-to-boost-your-mood-talk-to-a-stranger-1.3406575

Out here everyone talks to everyone, strangers or no.

The MIdnight Fire

To all readers who call Margo their home town:

Can anyone tell me who is the author of this rather fine poem?
It is on two typewritten sheets of paper that are tucked between the pages of my History of Margo book.

The poem may have been among Aunt Jean's things (that's my great-aunt Jean Bartley, for anyone who doesn't know my family well), or it may have been among Grandma's (Doris Bartley Benson) and came my way after she moved out of her house in Margo.

I'll have to take another look through the history book, which probably gives accounts of the (apparently) three lumber yards that burnt, back in the day.

But if anyone can shed light on the identity of the poet, please do!

If you click on the images below, they'll enlarge for easier reading.

It does contain one politically incorrect reference to a person of Chinese descent. 

In these small Prairie villages, there was often one Chinese family who owned and operated a café. It was commonly that way when I was growing up in the 1960s and '70s too and from what I can see, it's not that much changed now. All the restaurants in Wadena, for example, are presently operated by relatively recent (judging by their accents) immigrants.

Let's remember that back when this poem was written (what year? I wonder; I bet it's in the book, which I may not get back to, today), everyone who wasn't First Nations was either an immigrant or the child of immigrants, just as we remain today.  

Many of those early immigrants came with nothing but what they could haul, and it was a hard life for sure. What some did have on their side, however, were friendly, helpful, welcoming neighbours who could make all the difference between survival and failure. Those who came before that met with friendly, helpful, welcoming First Nations people. If they hadn't, Canadian history would be a lot different.

THIS JUST IN:

Dad read my post on FB and phoned. Who wrote the poem? He doesn't know, but suggests I contact Elsie Peters, whose father took an interest in local history and maybe told some stories. 

Dad told me that the fire would have had to be in the 1930s or '40s after Emil Gohl moved to town from the farm, after his wife passed away. Mr. Gohl had a shoe repair shop across the street from Kulcheski's Garage on Main Street. The shop flooded every spring and when you went there you had to wear your rubber boots.

He also remembers a retired schoolteacher who lived in a railway car (right where Olga Daviduk's house stands now) next to the lumber yard. She was pretty smart and could've written such a poem, but after her husband died she no longer spoke to anyone except the Daviduks, even when you spoke to her. McCrae was her surname and she would go around town collecting bottles.

Another clever schoolteacher he remembers was Mr. Harbridge, who also would have been capable of writing such a poem and contributed a lot to the Margo history book. He lived next door to where Dad lived with his own parents when the moved from the farm to town. 

Thanks, Pop!

Charita: It could be Harbridge. However, I know that John Grand did a bit of writing as well as the 2 Fairburn bros. Jack and Ed. The Mrs Mcrae that lived by Daviduks was Tina McRae. She used to go around town with her wagon, collecting beer bottles.

Wide Sargasso Sea

It was a case of the preface being more interesting than the novel itself.

The preface described the life of the author Jean Rhys and explained that she invented a life for the Rochester's mad wife, the woman locked in the attic in Jane Eyre. What a concept! Loved it. But the novel itself ... I didn't find believable. Stuff happened that had no logical cause and made no sense to me.

Yet the book is very highly thought of.
So there you go. What do I know?
Only what I like and don't like.
Only what inspires and thrills me, and what doesn't.
Only what satisfies me, and what doesn't.

Ray Mears

Thanks to Scott's "Cousin Al" over there in Eng Land for sending along a link to this short film about Arctic survival.



And it's a doubly good thing you sent this, Alex, because I didn't get home till 8 o'clock tonight and can hardly think straight, let alone write an entry here. Bedtime for Bonzo!

Brendonn Holdings Cap

Okay fellas, which one of you left your hat here?

We don't get a lot of company, so you'd think it would be easy to track down the owner of a left-behind cap, but no.

Scott likes to tease me by saying that one of my lovers left it behind after a secret tryst while he was at work during my days off.

Other items he finds that aren't his are gauch, socks and the occasional T-shirt. You can see why he wonders! But usually we can trace these things back to Emil, whose stuff has somehow gotten into our laundry basket when he's been out for a weekend.

The cap was in the porch, so whoever left it must have taken it off before coming into the kitchen and forgotten to put it back on when leaving.

Uncle Andy? Rick? 

Travelling Journal

A few years ago — actually, more than 10 years ago, I think — I went out and bought a blank-paged, hardcover journal. 

I wrote (and drew, and embellished with a little pasted-in flat paper vase and cut-out paper flowers) an entry in it, explaining that it was to be added to in whatever way chosen by the next person who agreed to receive it, keep it for only two weeks, and then put it into the mail for the next participant. 

Eventually it was to come back to me. I wrote my address on the back page and tucked in a few dollars to cover the cost of postage for the next person who would have the book. 

As they received it, friends wrote to tell me how fascinating and even beautiful it had become. They were thrilled by it, happy to add their words and art to it. Apparently there was even becoming a nice little stash of currency in it, so postage need never be a hindrance to anyone when the time came to pass it along. 

The reputation of such travelling journals was that not one, ever, had been completed and returned to its original owner. So I kept track of who had it, their address, their phone number, and so on, hopeful that if the book got set aside and forgotten, I would be able to contact someone and give them a nudge to get it on its way. 

And still the book disappeared without a trace. The last person it was sent to disappeared, no longer at her address or phone number, and yet the book did not get sent to the return address or to me. 

What a disappointment. I would love to see that book again, and still in my heart of hearts I wonder if it might show up, if someone might find it forgotten on a shelf all these years later and flip through it and see my address in the back and do the right thing: put it into the mail.

If I were to try it again, would you join me? 
If so, email me at katiekate@gmail.com. Put "travelling journal" in the subject line and give me your mailing address and phone number, please.
If I already have your contact info, just leave a comment.

As before, my promise is that when (always the optimist!) the journal is returned to me, full to bursting, with the permission of each entrant I will scan and post all the pages here. 

Who's up for it?



Part Blog, Part Homepage

Oh hell no! I don't read all the blogs listed here every day, that is for sure.  What you are seeing are simply lists of webpages I will revisit. They are here for my own convenience, like "Bookmarks" or "Favourites" on your own computer. I am not recommending them though needless to say if they didn't interest me, they wouldn't be listed here.

In some ways this blog is used as my homepage.  Others may open their browsers and go directly to Yahoo or MSN, for example. Not me. I get news headlines and links in daily digest emails that I've signed up for. Blogs I choose to remember are listed on this page because when their owners post a new entry, the title of the webpage rises to the top. It's handy.

There are many times when I don't go read a blog's latest entry. I lose interest in certain "places" (people? their subjects?) for a while, or am not in the mood for what the writer offers, or I'm just plain elsewhere and will catch up with multiple entries at some later date. I may see that there's been an update but that doesn't mean an automatic visit.

If your blog isn't in one of the lists at all, it could be because you rarely update.
If your blog is there but always at or near the bottom of the list, you haven't updated recently and/or you need to activate your blog's RSS feed.

Among the pages I am likely to read immediately when noticing an update is SUCH FRIENDS, which publishes slice-of-life tidbits from the lives of writers, artists, and others in history. I'm glad to bring it to your attention, but I have no expectation that you will find it as fascinating as I do. We're all so different! Many of my blogging friends are wonderful writers with good minds, and often they recommend others, yet when I follow up, I wonder what the attraction is. My friends and I have many tastes in common, and just as many not. And that's exactly as it should be.

Meetups in Meditations

Would you care to have a gander at my two beloved sisters and their hubbies in Maui?
Joan posted photos to our SISTER LINES blog.
It just warmed the cockles o' me 'eart, it did!

*************************************

I promised to tell you about my "intellectual self," and so I shall.
There may be no more dull reading than someone else's meditations, however, so I'll try to keep it brief.

I was reading a book called Huna. It's about a way of relating to the self, I guess, and originates in Hawaii. Anyway, there is nothing unusual about the advice to get yourself into a deeply relaxed state and then imagine yourself going to certain places — for instance, to your favourite beach, which is one of the places I commonly go in my mind to meet up with ... man, how to explain this so it doesn't sound too flaky? — in order to have a conversation with various parts of oneself or even with your dog or another person or someone who has passed or your spiritual guides or fairies. Shamans do this all the time; they go within to get where they need to go.
Hm.
Anyway.
I'm trying. If you don't do visualizations yourself, this may seem too intangible. If you do, you have no trouble recognizing what I'm talking about and knowing the value of it.
It's communication on a whole different level, and although it takes place entirely in your imagination, there is a quality of truth to it that can (and has, at times) take my breath away. I have even been brought to tears of joy by such an experience, once.

According to Huna, there are aspects of ourselves that we need to relate to consciously, and we can do this by reaching a meditative state (just some deep, slow breathing for a couple minutes) and then imagining ourselves going to the place where these aspects of ourselves can be spoken with.

*************************************

"... emotionally withholding people ..."
 "... there's an elaborate caste system out there ..."
Joni Mitchell talking about Saskatchewan.
And more:
MUCH MUSIC INTIMATE AND INTERACTIVE

*************************************

As I was saying ...

Huna advises us to make intimate contact with our inner self, our emotional self, our mental or intellectual self, and so on. Each serves a different function, though they are all part of each person.

I decided to not just read the book, but to put its suggestions into practice. The first time I did one of these meditations, there were interesting and moving results.

My inner self appeared as me at age three or four, and she was thrilled to see me in the particular landscape where I imagined meeting her. We joined hands and danced around and hugged each other with pure delight. And then there was conversation. And over time she has changed appearance; sometimes she looks like that exuberant little girl, and at others she is a very large and powerful being, and at still others she is a long-haired woman wearing glowing robes, and sometimes she is a type of nature who cannot be seen, is only felt.

I made the trip to meet my emotional self. She was more difficult to find. While my inner, child self had rushed forward to greet me, my emotional self had to be sought through a dark tropical forest. When she did show herself, she was cautious, shy, reticent, as if she didn't trust me. This surprised me, as I think of my emotional self as being obvious, visible. Ha! I had to think again. This emotional self was elusive.

My intellectual self had a room just across the hall from my emotional self. She was quick to call "Come in!" and when I entered, she had risen from her desk near an airy screen door and was advancing across the floor to meet me.  She had hair like Andy Warhol, like Haystack Calhoun (not the wrestler, but the children's book character whose hair looked like, well, a haystack). She was thin and bony, wearing a brightly coloured striped sweater. She told me I had an "Irish intellect." I didn't know what that was, so in the days to follow I asked a few friends and put the keywords in quotation marks into the Google search engine. No luck. It wasn't till a couple years later, when I put the question to WISE WEB WOMAN, who happens to come originally from Ireland, that I got my answer: it's intuition.

Since then I've come to know these "parts" of myself as individuals. All in my head, of course ... and yet it seems to me that each encounter has been absolutely truthful and more than a little enlightening.

A Mild Heat

Tonight is the first time I've come home with aching hands from a day at the office. I've put in longer hours at the keyboard before. So what could be up? Maybe just that after two weeks off, my hands have decided to complain about going back to work? They didn't complain Wednesday or yesterday.

I've got the hot water bottle out.

What I'd like, next to a kind and gentle friend to rub my hands, is a nice mild lotion to put on them, one that would give a little heat without burning the skin. Tiger Balm burns; can't use it.

Any suggestions?

Will I Ever Get There?

Back at work I am since Wednesday, with office hours yesterday that extended to 8 p.m. because I took myself off for a lunch meeting with Alison (my friend and employer, who also bought the meal) and later for an hour's shiatsu treatment with Charlene (my friend and co-worker, who also writes for the Wadena News), and so I stayed late to make sure what needs to be done is done. It was still less than an eight-hour day of actual work.

We have a second man in the office now, in the new year, and also his dog. More male energy! The two men are still outnumbered two to one.

This has been a headachy nauseated week for me so far — fun fun fun. I have had these "neck migraine" bullshit things since I was 28 years old. I have had my eyes checked, my jaw checked. I have seen doctors and alternative healers and even psychics. I've had regular chiropractic treatments, regular therapeutic massage. I've tried cutting out every kind of thing — various foods, drinks — to see if it made any difference, whether the neck thing could be traced to an allergy. I've done yoga, walked, lifted light weights, worked on my posture. I've tried to eat three regular meals a day and snacks in between, and more protein. I'm not very good at that kind of routine and don't like eating when I don't feel hungry, but I try. I try to make sure I drink enough water.  I try to relax, to release tension in my neck and shoulders, where I do tend to hold it without even realizing.

Once I even requested of my inner self a dream answer, and just the moment before I woke up, was in a room with a doctor in a white lab coat, who asked me if I was getting enough sleep.  At the time I probably wasn't, as Emil was still a nursing baby who woke several times a night, and boy was I cranky about that and sometimes even not very nice, and thank goodness Gord was a prince who often got up with the kid and got him something to eat or drink.

I've also worked on my thoughts, my beliefs and expectations about my physical health, trying to make sure I'm not sabotaging myself somehow. I'm healthy and fit, I insist. I deserve good health and physical comfort. And so on.

Nothing has made a damn bit of difference, except that the chiropractic treatments I got every week for a year helped me recognize the beginnings of the neck thing so I could sometimes head it off at the pass rather than waking up in the morning with it full blown and impossible to manage.

Anyway, all this old-person talk about my physical malady in order to tell you that yesterday I made an appointment with a retired physiotherapist who is now doing alternative therapies using both her old skills and some new ones. She is very good at what she does, I think, and last year (or was it the year before? or even the year before that?), she is the one whose ministrations helped me when my back had gone out so ridiculously that I couldn't even wipe my bum in the ordinary way, and this had gone on for such a long time. As always, I am hopeful that someday I won't have to take a frigging anti-inflammatory eight times a month — one that sometimes works and sometimes doesn't, and when it doesn't, I spend the day puking.

For years I thought that because Grandma had had migraines that stopped after she had a hysterectomy, it was hormonal and once past menopause my migraines and my sister Karen's (she gets the same ones, only hers sometimes last three days) would stop. I haven't had a period for about three years (yay! so over and done with that shit! don't miss it a bit) but the frequency of migraines hasn't changed.

So wish me luck. Next week Elaine will show me exercises to strengthen my upper back and shoulders, I presume, and I will do them faithfully and have no more migraines. Yep, that's the plan!

Oh, and I want to bring to your attention this perfect expression from a blogging friend, Maggie:
"The happily ever after is, after all, full of ups and downs and all arounds." Is that ever true! You can visit Maggie's blog HERE.

Winterson

I'm only 54 pages in, but I love this book so far.
First, I read Jeanette Winterson's novel Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit. Apparently she received many accolades because it is considered a unique and modern style of writing.
I don't know about any of that. I only know that before the end, I was skimming through large tracts of it.

But then, from this library stack here in my home office, I picked up Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? Winterson has written an autobiographical book filled with clear truths and simple explanations about her own life. Her observations are straightforward; her explanations are simple; her writing is powerful and alive. I don't want to put the book down. I want to quote her three dozen times for you already, just because she is saying things so goddamn well.

It's great when a book has that effect, isn't it! And for me, most autobiographies do.

Dragonfly and Snakeskin

It does look as if I collect bags, but that's not the case. Or maybe it is; I can't throw out a perfectly nice, usable bag. They've become a collection without my intention.
What I use them for is to hold rose petals and other items for making amulets and such.
I found a dried, shed snakeskin once; it's in a mesh bag hanging here in the office.
A dragonfly got into the house and was dead before I could put it outside.
Neither have yet been used. But what's the rush?

Hits the Nail on the Head, She Does

Nevertheless, life is pleasant, life is tolerable.  Tuesday follows Monday; then comes Wednesday.  The mind grows rings; the identity becomes robust; pain is absorbed in growth.  Opening and shutting, shutting and opening, with increasing hum and sturdiness, the haste and fever of youth are drawn into service until the whole being seems to expand in and out like the mainspring of a clock. How fast the stream flows from January to December!  We are swept on by the torrent of things grown so familiar that they cast no shadow.  We float, we float . . .

The Waves, by Virginia Woolf, from the Woolf in Bloom blog at http://woolfbloom.blogspot.ca/.

Emil Donny Donny Donndo

Oh sure, he may look happy as we leave Uncle Neil's place, but guaranteed he is not.  So what has got him so giggly? Darned if I know. Most of the time he doesn't either. Something's just tickling his funny bone, that's all.

You can kinda see where he's lost a tooth, if you know where to look.

A New Year's Jaunt

New Year's Day, Kathy style, meant picking up Emil in Wadena and driving out to my uncle and aunt's north of Margo.

But first, a leisurely morning and a short walk.

Down the road

My cousin Leanne is spending a few days there, having come in with her three kids from Edmonton, so I took the opportunity for a visit.

When Emil and I arrived, Leanne's kids were outside with her sisters' kids, taking advantage of the crisp, bright, sparkly winter day.

The cousins through their grandparents' dining room window

They came in all pink-cheeked to find the rest of us at the table eating Christmas treats and sipping on wine. After a while my cousin Heather, as if we looked peckish, deep-fried what she calls "moose-balls" for a hot snack: marinated moose meat breaded with herbs and spices. Tasty!

When Emil and I waddled out to the car just as the sun touched the horizon, I was pretty sure neither of us would be needing supper.

Beyond, the field south of their farmyard

Bringin' in the New Year

Comings and goings, comings and goings.
Town: mail, lunch, groceries, hardware, Everett's to drop off his mail and pick up my clean quilts. (Our hard water stains fabric, so I enlist my son with his town water.)

Scott chatting with someone parked in front of the post office.

Home: wine, liqueur, ham, scalloped potatoes, which are always a treat to us.
This Hour Has 22 Minutes.
The outdoor timer should be switching on my coloured lights any moment.
Woo hoo!

What are you doing this New Year's Eve?

Here's to another year gone, another to come.

We Love Lefse

When Emil and I went to the Christmas craft and trade show in Margo, my sister Karen was there with a vendor's table. She was selling stained glass ornaments, and baking. All the baking was gone by the time we got there, but I put in an order for some lefse.

On Christmas day when I went to Karen's in the afternoon, she had a variety of delicious foods laid out on her kitchen island and on one of the side cupboards. I pulled some of the dinner leftovers out of the fridge and heated them in the microwave — not the turkey or ham, but the vegetables and the stuffing and the cabbage rolls and the perogies. I ate a couple pieces of lefse and when I was leaving, Karen handed me my order of lefse, which she'd frozen.

Yesterday two slices of it were my supper.

See Stubblejumpers Café - the recipe collection

Thanks, Karen!

Sista Swings By

Karen stopped in on her way home from Wadena after her first pedicure — a gift or a prize or something. She showed me her toes and what was I thinking? No picture! Tsk.

We had peppermint tea and ate some of Lynn's poppycock and yakked our faces off and she left wearing her bright red jacket.

I need to get out there too. Sunlight. Fresh air. Birds.

She just texted me. She saw a beautiful snowy owl on her way home.

*** Update:
I walked three miles and saw a swift red fox.

How Little Old Ladies Visit

Two afternoons, one night.

A colouring book and pencil crayons.

Wine. Supper.

Breakfast, caesars, three games of cribbage. 

More supper.

Bev's masterpiece

Me

New dishcloths made by Scott's sister Lynn doubled as handy coasters. 

My New Stained Glass

See it at SISTER LINES.

Cumpny

The list I haven’t checked twice, but only because I haven’t made it yet, is the one headed “Which friends don’t like flannel?” Damned if I can remember.

One friend can't stand flannel sheets against her skin.
Another loves flannel.
What does Bev like?
Flannel's just ducky. So flannel it is.

Bed made and ready for company:

Christmas Christmas Christmas

There was one year that I was obsessed with different performances of O Beautiful Star. Remember? It was after Eli Barsi had been here, performing it onstage at the hall in Wadena.

Well, this year it's The Holly and the Ivy. Here are the ones I like for one reason or another:










Yes I know it's from the film ... .

He Worries

The first thing I do every morning is, like all of us, head for the bathroom. On the way, my head is a-swivel. I'm looking out the windows. What kind of day is it? What colour is the sky? Are the treetops bending in the wind? Are the branches laden with heavy hoarfrost? These days, they are. Talk about living in a postcard.

Next I look to see if Scott's still home or has already gone on his merry way. Early riser that he is, if he's still here he may be tucked into the corner of the couch with the dog, looking at his laptop. Probably about 50% of the time, he's long gone. Nowadays they are putting out bales for and watering the cattle most mornings before they get on to their other work. Whether he's here and I join him in the living room to drink my coffee, or whether I've got the house to myself, it's all good.

Emil's here this morning and will be till Christmas Day, when his dad arrives from Edmonton. They'll spend the next few days together in town at Everett's.

Emil has two weeks off work now, the same two weeks that I have, but he didn't want to come and stay out here at all. Now that's saying something for the supervised group home, isn't it! He's more than happy there, and tells me he worries that I might make him move back here with me, when he wants to spend the rest of his life there.

I tell him not to worry, that he is always welcome wherever I am, but most mothers want their children to grow up and move out. We don't want to look after them forever.

"I love you, Mom. I would not be happy if you die on purpose." Because we lost a close friend of the family to suicide a few years ago, he worries. I assure him that it won't happen to me, though I will die sometime, and likely before he does. "I think I'll miss you then," he says. Yes, my darling; you will.

Joneski

Meanwhile, littlest sister Joan is in Maui with her kids, hubby, and his mom.
She is trying not to sound like she's stalking Steven Tyler but hm they do pick up their takeout each night at a place he frequents. So why not?

As Emil, at age six, said to Joni Mitchell as held her hand at the Mendel Art Gallery in Saskatoon:
"It's too bad we won't get a chance to get to know each other." Joni graciously agreed.

Joan's post today:
SISTER LINES

Joan and Steve:

Better Angels

The term "better angels" has come into my awareness at least three times in the last couple days, including in this blog entry by Regina author Kathleen Wall.

She starts out by writing about a book whose author claims there is far less violence and repression in the world than there ever was, as opposed to the common belief that "The world's gone crazy."

Maybe you'd like to go read her piece? CLICK HERE. Kathleen's blog entries are always meaty and every time I read one, I think, "Oh my, I am such a lightweight." I say this with a little smile and total acceptance of my place on the scale of intellect. Remind me to tell you about my visualized meetings with my "Intellectual Self" someday. They've been few and short, quite matter of fact, but enlightening too. (Note to Self: Remember.)

Late yesterday afternoon I went for the most exquisite walk, stopping several times just to turn completely around and be fully amazed. There was hoarfrost everywhere and my trusty little camera couldn't capture the peace and encompassing lushness of it.

heading down the road

coming back home

To My Mother-in-Law

I don't know about you, but I have never liked putting wet teabags in a dessert bowl or small plate. I've never had just the right one! Till now. 

The little paddle is even perfect, standing in for a spoon when there's no string on the bag.

Thanks again, Pat!

xoxo

Kathy

ps see attached photo

A treasure Pat brought back from the Maritimes this fall. It's actually meant for serving and spreading cream cheese.

Budai

He's here!

He's not my brother, but he's sure as hell heavy.

A Million Little Things Make Life Grand

Have I really not posted this video before now? If I have: sorry. Longterm daily blogging means inevitably there will be repeats. However, this one is worthwhile either way.

Melissa, the gal singing lead here, is the daughter of a high school friend and is a really fine songwriter.



Farideh, the woman in blue, was among the group in a One Human Family choir workshop I participated in a few years ago in Saskatoon. It inspired her to form Rosie and the Riveters, who are destined for world domination. Farideh also is a strong songwriter, and so is Alexis Normand, the lady in gold. The fourth ... I can't say ... don't know ... but have no doubt she's got similar talents.

I'm just jealous I don't get to sing this kind of stuff with other people. How fun is it! Over the top fun, that's what!

Feels Like Sunday, but Isn't

It was another "necky" day, but I managed to keep moving till midafternoon, when I took a pill and lay down for an hour or so. Even that didn't fix me up, but by evening I was back to normal.

The sky was blue, too, so I went out and filled the birdfeeders before going for a good walk. It had snowed lightly in the morning, and huge flakes sparkled on top of the fresh snow. Just gorgeous. And on the road where there are trees alongside, snowflakes drifted oh so gently from branch to branch to branch. It was so beautiful I didn't want to come back in, but before walking two miles I was starting to feel tired and thought it would be smarter to turn around and come home.

Woke up with the bullshit again this morning and, before doing some yoga and pouring coffee, did some reading and found this wise little tidbit in the book I'm reading:

We Greeks get married in circles, to impress upon ourselves the essential matrimonial facts: that to be happy you have to find variety in repetition; that to go forward you have to come back to where you began. — Middlesex, by Jeffrey Eugenides

I made sure not to run out of reading material for the next two weeks. This sight is exciting to me:

So. It's Monday. I should start a batch of bread and make six loaves every day till Thursday. I can't buy clothing for Everett for Christmas because he's too fussy and prefers to buy his own. Christmas — bah, humbug, he says — and asks me not to give him any gifts at all. I can't do that. No one should wake up Christmas morning and have not even one gift to open; I've been there more than once. I know that is the case for many people; among them, those who don't have mothers. How do I respect his stated wish while still respecting my desire to give? Why, a batch of bread, of course; that, he welcomes at any time and for any reason.

Also, his dad is coming to spend Christmas with the boys. I thought I'd bake a batch for Gord to take home, too, since he always raves about it and appreciates it so much. It's probably the one thing he misses about living with me. And I could bake a batch for my brother Cameron, who also likes good homemade bread; Gord could deliver it when he gets back to St. Albert, for the two of them live in the same building. Will I manage to live up to my best intentions? Right now the kitchen is spikkety-span, and the thought of messing it up with baking is quite unpleasant. Maybe I'll give myself a break; they can all live without homemade bread.

This morning I tackled the second bookshelf and stacked up another 23 books to move out of my domain.  Yesterday I plunked the first box of them onto the back seat of my car, Little Green. It's tough! The tiny library in town is always having book sales to make space for newer books, so it won't want them I'm sure. They end up being recycled — that is, the pages torn from their covers, which is done right in Wadena.  The thought of it turns my stomach, as it does to anyone who loves books. Surely someone would want them! Could use them! We need one of those little book-giving mailboxes somewhere. We need a secondhand bookstore! Hm ... maybe I could just haul them all out to my camper till someone needs one. I mean, there are so many titles of interest ... yeah I know, maybe just to me. But listen:

1. Teaching Arithmetic for Teachers in Training (1945). It was one of Mom's books, I see from her name written on the flyleaf. Sure it teaches the "old" math, but wouldn't that be helpful for anyone tutoring someone in math now, anyway? Julie? Or maybe the local elementary school would find it useful to try a different approach with kids who are struggling?
2. Spanish for Dummies. Yeah. I didn't get far with that. Someday...I always thought.
3 and 4. There is Nothing Wrong with You, and The Key and the Name of the Key is Willingness, by Cheri Huber.
5. The Invisible Partners, by John A. Sanford.
6. The Dance of Anger, by Harriet, Goldhor Lerner.
... and on it goes.
Actually I think I'm going to read through #4 again.
These are all books I think I'll read again one day or give them to someone who might benefit from them ... but it hasn't happened in at least 15 years and probably never will. So ... out they must go. Even The Indian Tipi is already in Little Green. I got as far as sourcing canvas to build one, once, 30 years ago. It's never going to happen. See what I mean?

A Moment in the Night

You know those hours when you're trying to fall asleep but can't seem to? Or maybe you have been dozing, in and out, but you're not sure? Well, Thursday, the night before I woke up sick, was one of those times, and at one point there in the quiet half-asleep dark I thought of Mom's death, of her being gone forever and never seeing her again, and felt this huge rush of deep grief and said to myself "Don't go there, I don't want to go there." It's unbearable is what it is, though of course we all bear it some way, don't we. I'm not alone in that.

Christmas card from Charlene

I've done dishes twice this morning, and made breakfast for the two of us. I've put laundry in, changed the sheets on the bed, swept the kitchen floor, started cleaning out the office closet, wiped out the fridge a bit, put the dried rosehips into a jar, and sorted through the overstuffed linen closet, putting a garbage bag full of unmatched sheets aside for Scott to cover his tomatoes when he finally gets his garden made and planted.

Now I'm starting on my books, going to see which ones I will never likely read again and can part with. I happened — quel co-ink-ee-dink — to open to this page in one of them:

In a study of diaries written over many years' time, Paul C. Rosenblatt, Ph.D., found that people may recover from the worst of their soul-grief in the first year or two after a tragedy, depending on a person's support systems and so forth. But afterward, the person continues to experience periods of active grieving. Although the episodes become farther and farther apart in time and shorter in duration, each recurrence carries close to the same intensity of gut-staggering grief as the first occasion. - Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Ph.D, from Women Who Run with the Wolves

Being Sick Sucks

Now that was a day ... and a night ... and this morning is no hell, either.
I've made it home and am sitting up, waiting for coffee to brew, in hopes it will ease my neck.
Maybe I should back up.

Fridays are always busy at our office, as they are the day we have to get the paper together and send it off to the press. No dilly-dallying around on Fridays! All hands on deck!

And this Friday we were putting out the last issue of the year, which includes an extra 24-page Christmas supplement. So twice the pressure, you'd think, although we'd been working ahead on the supplement so were sitting pretty. Fridays are actually my favourite day at the office; I seem to like that little bit of pressure, or maybe I just like getting things wrapped up at the end of the week.

I was at my desk by 8:30. There, but not feeling good, and hoping that by getting my mind off the discomfort, it might go away on its own. Sometimes it does. Yesterday it didn't. By 10 I had taken a pill and was throwing up as unobtrusively as possible in the bathroom, and by 10:30 Alison was asking if I was all right (I must've looked bad) and suggesting I go home. I took her advice and went back to Everett's, where I'd spent the usual Thursday night after watching Torchwood and Doctor Who with my boy.

My expectations were that I'd lie down after taking that pill and in an hour or two I'd be able to go back to the office and do my part. It wasn't the day to be sick. But no. Even taking another pill a few hours later didn't do the trick. I was disappointed, and pissed off that I couldn't be at work. It was a long day of nausea and vomiting, and a long night of an aching neck. The nausea was over last night by 10:30, thank goodness, but the neck still hasn't settled down.

The thing is, when it feels this way, I just want to sleep, to escape the pain of it. But after being in bed so many hours, that is even worse for the neck. It's quite the dilemma! You're between the proverbial rock and hard place.

So what to do? I'm sitting here trying to keep my mind off my neck by clickety-clacking on the keyboard here. I'm sipping the coffee now. I'm hoping for a day free of discomfort. I'm feeling positive that will be the case. And if it isn't, at least I'm home.

Not that Everett didn't take care of me when he got home from work yesterday. He went to the store and bought crackers and gingerale, at my request. The crackers didn't stay down but eventually the gingerale did, so I'm not dehydrated. I should be starving, but am not.

What a way to start the Christmas holiday!

Update, two hours later:
Coffee and toast didn't work the wonders I'd hoped for yesterday, but coffee and a little oatmeal this morning have put me right back to normal. Why? You tell me. I have no idea.  (Scott says I don't eat enough, or the right things.)

I'm just thankful. Exhausted (how can that be, after 22 hours in bed?), but otherwise feeling fine. Think I'll take a bath and head to town later, as I left a stack of new library books at the office, assuming I'd be back in a couple hours, and there's a poinsettia on my desk that needs to come home with me. Before leaving town this morning I drove past the office, thinking I'd go in and get them, but just couldn't do it... feeling that crappy.

Bodies. Who can figure them out? I sure can't. I'm glad mine is usually feeling fine, and the occasional off day? Well ... what can you do. I'm better off than many, and my heart goes out to them. Being sick sucks.

Tooth Talk

"This time I'll take a painkiller as soon as I leave the dental office," I say.

Do I do it? Of course not. I feel fine, just frozen, that's all. I do a bit of Christmas shopping, pay a bill for Emil at the drug store, pick up the mail and stop in at the office first, and then head for home.

I bring in my packages and jack up the heat and then remember my promise to myself. Hm. What to take? There's Anacin, Advil, Tylenol and Aspirin. I take one Aspirin. That should do it; there's no pain.

An hour later there's more ache so I take another Aspirin. It doesn't help. Or maybe it's helping; who knows what shape I'd be in without it? I keep reminding myself that this is not suffering. Suffering would have been living in the days before modern dentistry. In comparison, anything that is done now is a breeze. A simple filling for sure is nothing to whine about.

Men visibly missing a tooth have always meant heartache for me.  I learned to steer clear of them as dates! Emil had to have a tooth pulled on Monday because it was cracked all the way through. It's one of his incisors, or next to one, so I hoped it could be replaced but am told he might not be able to manage sitting through all that would require. I'm not looking forward to seeing that gap in his lovely face. And I'll have to rewire my attitude toward menfolk missing a tooth.

This just in: my nephew and his little family.

Cards of Joy and Peace

It's been years since I took the trouble to send out Christmas cards. No longer does it even cross my mind, except when I receive one and remember what a pleasure it is to receive a personal note in the mail.

This came from Holly, whose wee babe I looked after, near Edmonton, 1989-90. 

This is a postcard from Maggie in Ontario. We were Katimavikers together in 1978-79. Our group was in Kedgwick, New Brunswick; Carlyle, Saskatchewan; and Gold Bridge, British Columbia. Those were the days. 

And this from the Parkinson's Society; no personal note, of course, but a pastoral scene.

Unofficial Bird of Ottawa

Lorna, clearly you must go outside more often!

According to the CBC, the black-capped chickadee is the unofficial bird of Ottawa.

CLICK HERE for that story.

"It is a passerine bird in the tit family Paridae."

These little guys are plucky. When I fill the feeders, I often just stand there, thrilled, as they flutter in, around and onto the branches very near me and don't seem terribly worried about my presence. If you stand still long enough, with your hand out and some seed on it, they will land there. I have never had the patience to do that, but Everett has.

We are not the only people who have had them tap on a window to inform homeowners that the feeders need filling.

And one year in late August, I would have sworn that a chickadee was letting me know (not in English, of course) that it was time to start feeding the birds again.

For more information about this tough little bird, CLICK HERE.

Hungry Birds

"I heard tapping on the window this morning," he told us on Saturday night, when Faye and Rick were over for drinks, "and it was a chickadee sitting there, pecking at the glass. It was as if it was telling me the feeder was empty and would I come out and fill it."

They'll do this, chickadees.

I'd filled the feeders Thursday before leaving for work, and as usual the chickadees and their little friends the woodpeckers and redpolls would have emptied them during the day. It was dark when I came home Friday after spending the night before at Everett's, and apparently by the next morning the birds were getting impatient.

Today I spotted Scott holding seed in his hands and chickadees landing there to take a seed and fly off.

Click to enlarge and see Scott's happy grin.

Are They Really Gonna Take Them All?*

From the yard I could hear machinery working in the south, so when I went for a walk last weekend, it was in the opposite direction. They'll be cleaning up the mess they left a year or two ago when they knocked down a bunch of trees, I thought; that's good.

But the next day on my way to work, my heart sank when I saw that the machinery had been knocking down another long swath of trees along the road: trees that the birds and mammals need for habitat, trees that the planet needs for oxygen, trees that help keep the soil from blowing away in the powerful winds we get.

This is not uncommon around here. Farmers are always knocking down trees as if they are a worthless resource and, I guess to some farmers, they are just a weed on land they need to make a dollar off of. When I asked a farmer why they destroy trees, knowing what we now know about the importance of preserving them, his reply (with a smile and "You must be one of those tree-huggers, eh?") was that farmers like to keep their fields "tidy" and that the farm machinery they use nowadays is so large that they need wide open areas in order to turn around and such. I've also heard mention that trees catch snow and cause the roads to block up too often in winter.

When I saw those trees down along my route to town the other day, my guts churned, as they always do when I see this kind of carnage — which I do, all too often. People should know better! I think. Why don't they? But while these thoughts whirl about, I'm not unaware that the reason I'm here is that the trees were cleared from this entire district around 100 years ago so that our great-great grandparents could homestead. Had it not been, this whole area would all be solid bush. Instead there are lovely landscapes, a perfect blend of trees and open fields, and we've all made a living for many decades and been proud of our agricultural heritage. Generations of my family on both sides have benefited by the cutting down of trees, so I have no business being holier-than-thou.

On my way home in the dark last night, I almost missed my corner because the trees that stood nearby are no longer there as a landmark.

*From the song Trees, by Dennis Lakusta

I can't find a video of Dennis singing Trees, but here's another pretty song he wrote:

About Goldfish

Every day you can learn something new and totally different from what you've always been told.
I saw this on Today I Found Out, one of the websites in my list of favourites.



I wonder if this is also true of koi. In the café where I had a burger for supper after work, there is a three-year-old koi alone in a fish tank. I may have to tell Than and Thuy about this video!

History's People

If you have an interest in history and in people who made history, then Margaret MacMillan's History's People would be a good read for you.

I didn't know the extent of Joseph Stalin's craziness, or why so many refugees from Ukraine and nearby countries came to Canada as settlers. It was that or be enslaved or murdered, apparently. Like many of today's refugees, they were running for their lives. They weren't always welcomed with open arms, either, and there was plenty of prejudice here at that time too, just as there is now.

I didn't realize that Germany is actually four years younger than Canada.

There was a lot more to learn, and MacMillan's book is a pleasurable way to learn it.



CLICK HERE to find out more about the book and its author.

Things That Bug

An exchange with Shelly included her statement that the question "How did s/he die?" is unwelcome when the way a person died isn't an essential element of the story.

My reply was that such unnecessary questions are common in many areas. A baby is born. Boy or girl? How much did it weigh? Two questions that aren't all that important in the short term, particularly when you don't know the family well, but the first one at the very least is asked every time.

And we can get beyond questions to statements. A woman's body is found in a ditch, and the media report invariably includes the adjective "Caucasian" or Aboriginal." Why? A dead woman is a dead woman.

Or there are the 1200 missing and murdered Aboriginal women, a shocking number whether they are Aboriginal women or not. In this case they are, and that points to something terrible in our society, but I can't help wondering if the RCMP and the federal government would have moved sooner to try to prevent the situation and/or catch the killers if the word "Aboriginal" hadn't been there to describe the victims. You know if they hadn't been Aboriginal women, the entire population would have been freaking out and we'd have seen some kind of action a lot sooner than this.

I'm neither a Conservative nor a Liberal voter, but am enjoying watching Trudeau make his moves. So far so good, mister, or as I am wont to say, "You go, boy!"

Another of Shelly's Christmas creations, on the step.

Deep Grooves

It's not easy to change one's habits of thinking!
They are powerful things, those deep grooves of habit.
I can make up my mind to change certain habits of thought, but it doesn't seem to matter. I am still compelled down paths of mental routine I don't want to take anymore. I see myself taking the steps, unable to stop.

Well of course I can stop. Dammit. And I will. I will!

These stained glass ornaments are among my favourites. I stuck them onto the two shades of the lamps purchased secondhand from my niece's grandmother's house.

Tis the Season

Shelly's enthusiasm about Christmas decorating made me dig out my favourites.
No tree; it's downstairs in a box.
But my antique tree bulbs and my stained glass decorations and so on and so forth.
This is as far as I'm going.
I wonder if Everett would like to have the tree.

Shelly brought the bough/bulb arrangement.

Wee Thing

Going somewhere?

"This floral-fruity mist is a great way to refresh tired senses on
plane trips, long car rides or anytime you need a fragrant boost.
Add 9 drops of lavender and 7 drops of orange essential oil to 1-2/3
ounces of distilled water. Place in a spray bottle or atomizer.
Shake the bottle vigorously, then close your eyes and lightly mist
your face or personal space. 

   This Daily Aromatherapy Tip is brought to you by AromaThyme.com."

I've also added it to my own page HERE under Letter of Comfort: Aromatherapy, listed under the header above, where you can easily find it again later.

Ahhhh ... just a few short months ago on my step ...

If you haven't already signed up for KATE'S 5THINGS, you have missed my fabulously entertaining and enlightening monthly email, which I just sent out to my dozen admiring fans. Get on that list! It's as easy as emailing me at katiekate@gmail.com. What's holding you back? Had enough of me and my ramblings already? Hee! 

Not a Stay-at-Home Day

Since Shelly left on Wednesday morning, I have cooked nothing but leftovers and done no dishes whatsoever but for rinsing out a mug this morning to pour my coffee into.

I guess today's the day. But there are better things to do! Emil's going with his group home folks to the Christmas bazaar in Margo (my home town)(have I told you that before? only 1000 times), where Karen has a table selling lefse and cheese buns (she is famous for her baking) and stained glass. I'll meet him there and we plan to drive out to the farm to see Uncle Neil, as Emil reminds me that we haven't seen him since August. How that can be, I don't know. It's a time thing that is beyond me.  Where it goes, nobody knows.

Last weekend when we dropped in on Everett, Shelly took an interest in the videogame he was playing when we got there. He was pleased to give her a crack at it.

Tracks in the Snow

I think a white-tail deer made this track, but hoofprints weren't clear. What's your guess? Anyone?

We also saw, Shelly and I upon a walk, the furry foot and bony foreleg of a beast that I believe belong to a badger. I won't show you the pictures I took (because I wanted another opinion regarding the animal's identity). It had paw pads like those of a dog, but claws more than an inch long and slightly curved. There was some fur left on the foot. I didn't think there were predators for badgers, but am told coyotes can kill them.

I'm going to go look on Google images, see what's what.

And there was a large owl in the trees by the yard, but I couldn't get a good photo.