Family Visit

My aunt and uncle arrived from Phoenix on Wednesday evening. They'd flown into Saskatoon at 1:30 a.m. Tuesday, stayed with friends in the city, then hopped a bus to Wadena. 

Scott and I both had to work the next day, but before he left he went out to the deep freeze and brought in a beef roast, some ground beef, and some other piece of dead animal to thaw. When we arrived home at suppertime, Aunt Reta had prepared meatballs and gravy. Upon request I'd stopped at the store to buy white rice, so Reta got that cooking while Uncle Carl and I drove over to my mother-in-law's to pick some salad greens from her garden. 

They'd spent the day recuperating from the travel and the late night in Saskatoon, where their friends are night owls — awake and working (he builds Fury electric guitars in his workshop behind their house) through the wee hours and sleeping part of the day. 

Yesterday I left my car at home so Reta and Carl wouldn't be stuck here, but they stayed put anyway, having baths, reading, and making a supper of roast beef, boiled potatoes, carrots, beets and tossed salad.

 I was late getting home (press day for the newspaper, another 10-hour stint) and missed the meal, but was reminded about leftover meatballs in the fridge and did a happy dance before warming them up with a bit of leftover rice. Woo hoo! Love meatballs.  

This morning Scott, Reta and Carl were drinking coffee at the kitchen table when I woke up. One of the nice things about this kind of company is that they aren't bored by simply "being." They seem content to ... well ... have a look:

Doing a crossword puzzle

Copying out a recipe for homemade chocolates

Reta says I should post this picture so people can see what curlers look like, since hardly anyone uses them anymore. 

We have a family wiener roast at Karen's this afternoon but right now I am still in my housecoat, Scott is snoozing, and Emil is brushing his teeth in the bathroom. Carl and I did the breakfast dishes already and I ground coffee beans to do for the next few days; Scott doesn't like to make noise since Carl sleeps a little bit later than he and Reta.

This weekend my brother Cameron is expected from Edmonton and my sister Joan from Kelowna with her hubby and two kids. I hear one of Scott's nephews is coming down from the Flin Flon area. Should be lots of visiting.

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Annette Erickson has left a new comment on your post "Soon to Bolt": 

Can't say I blame him either. Not that I like golf but after a while it's always nice to go back home. Your dad and Emil look good! 

Plus he's visited all his friends out here at least once ... he's made his rounds!

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Maggie Turner has left a new comment on your post "Solving the Problems of the World": 

Maybe being on early in the morning is something related to growing up on a farm? I do it, my sister does it, my brothers do it, we are all guilty of swinging our feet from the bed to the floor every morning in full gear, ready to discuss anything, and looking for anyone awake enough to engage. 

That could be it. He probably was up doing chores every morning before school; they had dairy cows.

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Soon to Bolt

"I might head back to Kelowna a little earlier than I planned," he said.

It hasn't been ideal golfing weather here — it's been windy and rainy — and since that's Dad's only hobby, life lacks a little something when he can't go for a round or two several times a week.

He organized a wee family reunion for this weekend and figures after that, he'll make his way back to his home in B.C., rather than staying two more weeks to attend the "homecoming" in Quill Lake that was his original intention.

He will have done damn well, I figure, to be here for six weeks! Who wouldn't miss their own nest, no matter how pleasant the place you're visiting?

On Sunday, Emil and I took a drive out to the farm where he's been housesitting.

Emil and his Gramps

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Maggie Turner has left a new comment on your post "Stormin' Stormin' Stormin'": 

I like storms, but there is a point where I cease to enjoy them, when they hit the line between spectacular and the wrath of nature. I envy that you can see them coming from such a distance! My view is such that they are pretty much on top of me before I know they are there. 

They can be breathtakingly beautiful, can't they?

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Solving the Problems of the World

"They want to take away their pensions," he says, talking about the looming Canada Post lockout. "What bugs me is they've just given themselves huge pension raises."

It's not yet 6:30 in the morning and I've just opened my ears to hear Uncle Carl moseying back to bed after a trip to the bathroom. I get up and do the same, then close the bedroom door on these two — Scott and Aunt Reta — who have the wherewithal to discuss the problems of the world first thing in the morning when I can barely squeeze out a civil word. (My nimble fingers work, though, don't they!)

I decided to get to the office earlier than usual so I can be home earlier, since I have to pick up groceries and think about supper at a proper time, what with guests in the house. I've had coffee, washed last night's plates and cups, and made a pot of oatmeal. One more cup of coffee and I should be good to go. Just gotta brush my teeth.

And they are still talking. 

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Maggie Turner has left a new comment on your post "Stormin' Stormin' Stormin'": 

I like storms, but there is a point where I cease to enjoy them, when they hit the line between spectacular and the wrath of nature. I envy that you can see them coming from such a distance! My view is such that they are pretty much on top of me before I know they are there. 

We've had some pretty scary clouds lately, and a lot of wind. Might be a new Tornado Alley up here.

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Stormin' Stormin' Stormin'

They come up in dark of night ... huge, frighteningly loud winds that make me wonder if I should wake Scott and head for the basement. Ducky is up, trembling, usually giving us warning long before we hear anything. Then the rain hits the house, hard, and I fear hail. I hope for the best and fall asleep again. 

In the morning I go out bare-legged, in a long T-shirt I've slept in, to see what the air's like. My Korean lilac cuttings have been knocked out of their pot of water, where I've set them to root. Eight flower pots and the glass table are still on the step, but the two chairs — even the heavy wooden Adirondack — have been blown off. The plants in the large perennial bed are standing tall, but the peppers and tomatoes in the vegetable garden south of the house have taken a beating. The hanging tomato plant is still swinging on the swing. 

And another storm is coming ...

From the back step

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Lorna has left a new comment on your post "Wee Wrens": 

It took me a long time to realize there was a bird in that picture. Live and learn.

What!? There is???

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Lorna has left a new comment on your post "Goings and Comings": 

Mr. Never in a Hurry lives here. I have tactics, mostly formed around access to my books and a comfy place to sit. 

Ha! Yes, one figures out a way to live with the way things are. 

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If there are more comments below, I will reprint and respond to them beneath a future entry.

Goings and Comings

"You sweet thing!" I say to Scott, though he can't hear me. I'm looking through the kitchen window and the half-ton has just passed behind the caragana trees. The back of it is filled with old appliances and junk that was left out in the pasture by the former owners of this property, and I have been reminding Scott for several years that it needs to be hauled away. I've even been willing to hire someone to do it, but he put the kibosh on that because of some trench he'd made out there last year, or because there was electric fence for the cattle, or because ... well, always some reason on top of the fact that he is The Busiest Man in the World.

We bought this acreage in 2009, so it was well past time this job got done and I was thrilled to see it happening, and most grateful.

But then I realized he had loaded all that crap (including a fridge and two stoves) onto the truck by himself. Help was on the way, apparently, as his sister Laurel and her hubby Brett are down from Denare Beach and were on their way over, and Brett's back and muscles had been enlisted. They just weren't quick enough for Mr. Always In A Hurry. He could've come in and got me, but no ... he'd've had to wait for me to get out of my housecoat! Or maybe he thought I'd say Sorry, I'm not going to try lifting that heavy stuff, which would've been the intelligent thing to say. But wait for reinforcements to arrive? Hell no! Silly fella. Strong like ox, yes, but ... lacks patience and a strong sense of self-preservation.

Bye Bye, Garbage!

Laurel and Brett caught me in my housecoat again ("That's nothing new," they said), as Scott hadn't mentioned they were coming over. He'd gone out the door while I was still asleep, so how could he? This is often the case, so it's fortunate that such things don't embarrass me. (Maybe they would if it was 3 p.m.)(But not likely.)

I was sitting out on the step with my coffee, as is my wont on summer mornings when it's warm enough, and he was filling the wheelbarrow with leafy branches pruned from around the house the day before, when he said "There they are" and nodded toward the driveway.

A fresh pot of the black stuff was brewed and we had a visit around the kitchen table before going out to transfer Laurel's wild rice and pork/beef/turkey/spinach/feta (she makes quite a variety) sausages from their coolers to our deep freeze out in the quonset. Then we stood around outside the trucks for another half hour or more, chatting, before they took off down the road.

Scott's sister Laurel and her hubby Brett

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Ralph Goff has left a new comment on your post "Wee Wrens": 

That is a nice birdhouse. When we were kids my grandmother always called those birds "jenny wrens". We grew up thinking that was the correct name. 

And I was eyeballed yesterday by a "jenny wren" looking out from the birdhouse in the oak beside it, too!
Just saw the barn cat in the maple tree — it must be getting curious, now, to come this close — hope it doesn't get the baby birds. They should be safe as long as they're in their homes. We shall see what kind of hunter the cat is. There are all kinds of birds' nests around the yard: robins, catbirds, merlins, red-winged blackbirds, ducks, coots, etc. I'll tell the cat to hunt only rodents, but have alas no faith that it will obey. 

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Wisewebwoman has left a new comment on your post "Wee Wrens": 

Sweet birdhouse.

XO

Our kids Gunnar and Melissa gave it to us one year at Christmas. If it was bigger, it looks like the kind of house I'd like to live in!

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and there may be more comments below ... which I will reprint beneath my next entry, and reply to.

Wee Wrens

"Pst! Pst! Pst! Pst! Pst! Pst!"
I try to interest the baby wrens so they'll show themselves, but have no luck. I get only one glimpse of a tiny beak before they've pulled back out of sight.
One of their parents isn't far away though, and is making a different noise than its usual chattering. Perhaps this one is a warning to the chicks that there is danger nearby.

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Lorna has left a new comment on your post "Feverfewer": 

I thought when I saw "Feverfewer" that I was seeing a missed typo, but then, as I read, I could see how cleverly you'd drawn me in. I really, really hope that feverfew can help you with your migraines. I've never had a migraine, but I have had headaches that made me lie down on the backseat of my car and cry instead of going home for medication that works. I love it when it turns out that the natural relief is the one that works best. My natural cure for headaches was retirement.

I'm also going to pick wild raspberry leaves and make a daily cup of tea with them, see if balancing my hormones makes a difference. Guess it's time to get out there and do it. But there are still wood ticks ...

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Comments below will be answered following my next entry ...

Feverfewer

"Why do you think that is?" he asked, when I mentioned having fewer "neck migraines" in June than in previous months.

"I dunno," I said. "There usually are a couple months every year when they're less frequent; summer months, come to think of it."

And that was it. We dropped the subject. 

Then I went outside and, while inspecting the flower beds, picked and ate several leaves of feverfew. Most days I do. Maybe that has something to do with it? Maybe I'll start eating more of that particular herb. It is known for alleviating migraine, after all. 

Flowering feverfew. Click to enlarge. A friend in the Okanagan gave me a handful of the dried flowers to seed with, and the feverfew has reseeded itself every year. Lovely plant. 

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Wisewebwoman has left a new comment on your post "Silver You Say": 

Embrace it all. Every part of aging. Those cosmetic corporations pimp "anti-aging" nonsense to the tune of 1/2 trillion dollars every year. And hair dye penatrates through to the brain cells.

I've been au natural for years now. Lived the mixed bag of my hair. And I positively despise blonde jokes. Daughter and grandaughter are natural blondes and their IQs are through the roof. Replace negros for blondes and you'll see what I mean.

XO

WWW 

Blond jokes don't upset me, though I often say "Speak for yourself" when another blondie makes such a remark, and when I make a gaffe, I myself sometimes say "Damn, I hate being blond!" To me it's all in fun. But you are right, it is thoughtlessness on my part to do so, because while it may not offend me, it certainly does perpetuate a foolish stereotype.

Definitely with you on accepting the changes that come with aging. It's not always easy, that's for sure, but as far as I can tell, it's either embrace them or you will suffer more than need be.

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and there may be more comments below ... which I will reprint beneath my next entry, and reply to.

Silver You Say

"You just keep telling yourself that," said my mother-in-law with a grin.
Perhaps she didn't quite believe that I don't mind the silver in my hair, not one bit.
There's so much silver, it seems, that the other day when I jokingly chided someone about a "blond" quip he made, he said "You're not blond!"
I'm not?
Hm; maybe not anymore. Been blond long enough anyway — white-haired child, ash-blond adult — boring already.
There's a shock of silver at the front that my hairdresser says women pay to have put into their hair; my sister Joan couldn't believe I hadn't dyed it. It blends in so well with my natural colour (former natural colour?) that I see hardly any difference when looking into the mirror.
But I bet when a certain light shines on it, that silver positively glitters throughout.

After a couple Father's Day drinks with Dad

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Lorna has left a new comment on your post "The Coos": 

I love cooing things: babies. That's the only one I ever hear these days, but I've had my share...in the day

Me too. Glad I no longer have to take care of a cooing thing in diapers, mind you! But sure enjoy holding a contented one.

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Ralph Goff has left a new comment on your post "Not an Earworm": 

I do that all the time, some tune gets into my head for reasons unknown to me and no significance to what I am doing at the time either. Just more complexities of the human mind I guess. 

Exactly. We're full of surprises.

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Wisewebwoman has left a new comment on your post "Not an Earworm": 

Funny how these songs strike out of ghetto blue and then don't leave even with a good last of the Fifth or so mm at. 

Love photo. 

XO

WWW 

Should you happen to know what that wildflower is really called, please tell me!

Not an Earworm

It makes perfect sense if you hear a song that it may stick in your head for hours or for the day. What is curious is when you find yourself singing a song and are surprised, wondering where out of the blue it came from. 

One morning before work I took a short walk with Ducky Doodle so he'd have a chance to "do his business" before being stuck in the house all day. The sun was shining as I jaunted down the road, the air was sweet and sparkling, the birds were calling, and suddenly I noticed I was singing "Little Arrows." 

What the hell?

One of the wildflowers abundant in the ditches along our road. I call it candytuft, as it has the same sweet scent.

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Maggie Turner has left a new comment on your post "The Coos": 

I like cows. We had only one cow on our farm when was growing up, a milk cow. She liked to roam and was an expert at deciphering weaknesses in fence structure. We kids loved that cow, I don't think the adults responsible for her did though. 

I like them too, in an affectionate sort of way, but don't want the duty of looking after them or cleaning up after them. If I had to do that, I'd do without cattle. They get through fences, you have to freeze your fingers in 30-below when the water bowl quits working ... on it goes. No thanks. Like much of farm life, it looks peaceful and appealing from the outside, but it's actually a heavy load of work and care that you don't often get to relax and enjoy. 

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Wisewebwoman has left a new comment on your post "The Coos": 

Was it the mooers who were cooing or did you sort out some other critters who have this ability. I've never forgotten my mourning doves beneath my bedroom window back in Ontario who would coo softly through the night. So comforting.

This was a long, drawn-out and quite loud sound; not bovine in any way I've ever heard. 

I'll have to accept that I may never know. 

Last night I went outside with Ducky Doodle and heard a bird I've never heard before. It wasn't an owl. It was dark. The call, a very loud two-part almost-whistle, came from one side of the house, then high in a tree on the other side, as if it had flown from the trees on one side of the house to the other, and then a minute later it was coming from west of the yard. 

Not a dove. 

What kinds of birds fly around at night, if not owls? 

Hornswoggled, here. Still learning. Life full of mysteries small and large. 

The Coos

"What the hell was that?" I wondered, lying there listening in the wee hours, hoping to hear it again. It was a long drawn-out low-voiced howl coming from a little distance but not far beyond the bedroom window, which I keep open all night long in order to hear the birds and breathe in that fresh, scented, cool air.

It was not a sound I'd heard before. Not a coyote; not a wolf, which I've only heard on TV or radio. Later that day when I got home from work, I did a search for cougar vocalizations and didn't recognize it there either.

"I'm going to have a look at my buddies across the road," said Scott. "I haven't seen them yet today." There's a lot of space over there and they can graze back behind the bush or lie in the shade of the trees.

The small herd that was pasturing around our yard has been moved over the road to Scott's parents' land, for fresh eating. The moment they hear him start up the riding mower, they come at a gallop and wait impatiently for the grass clippings to be thrown over the fence:

The "coos," as my Scottish brother-in-law would call them.