Wildflower Identification for Shelly

Prairie Coneflower

Man, it is difficult to get to the computer these days.

I haven't worked all month, and don't miss it. Why— how did I ever find the time? I wonder.

Wild Sunflower

And Shelly, they're no longer blooming along my road, but it looks like the ones we were calling blanketflowers really were blanketflowers; it "literally blankets the environment when it is left to live peacefully undisturbed" (from The Standing People, by Kahlee Keane and Dave Howarth). So if yours "take...."

In other news, the magical cure for waking up with a migrainy neck is:

• Eat two bran muffins
• Go outside and deadhead your peonies, nicotiana and calendula
• Walk to the end of the driveway and see that the flowers out there aren't dry
• Begin the brewing of two cups of Kicking Horse Grizzly Claw coffee
• Water your flowerbeds with the handheld hose, even though the forecast is for rain today
• Write out a cheque for a man on the west coast who will send an ignition part for a motorbike, which you will ship to Scott's cousin in England when it arrives
• Carry your mug of coffee with you to your inlaws' who will put the cheque into the mail this morning when they go to town
• Sip it while pulling weeds and chatting with your mother-in-law in her garden

Voila!! No prescription drugs required!

The last thing one feels like doing is any of the above; I am a wuss, I just want to crawl into bed until it's over. And sometimes, the above actions don't do the trick. But this morning they did. Woo hoo! I love it when that happens.

Summer Days are Long and Hot

Ryan and his Uncle Scott tackle the basement

That was Monday and again Wednesday; me, I didn't get much done this week besides weeding the flowerbed, giving it a good soaking — we've had horridly hot and humid weather — and one night we watched funnel clouds forming just north of our yard. Quite the thing. Tornados were seen and at least one touched down just a few miles from us.

I've just returned from my first 45-minute walk in several weeks; the soles of my feet aren't happy.

Time to take Emil to town so this is me, waving ....

The Ashes

Dale's ashes have been put inside the pillar of this sundial, which Shelly set up in a raised flowerbed near a small pond overlooking their yard. While I was there she bought some round exposed-aggregate stones to make a path and a big square one to set the pillar on; the memorial is in progress and not yet complete, but I love this way of symbolically and literally keeping him close to the family.

Their kids chose the engraving:

Floaters

Shelly & Kate on the water

Every time someone said "floaters" I couldn't help thinking of the ones you might spot in the toilet. Sorry, it's just me.

Got home Sunday night after two weeks of togetherness, the longest we've been in each other's constant company for more than 25 years. It was a lovely time, in spite of the reason for it, and I miss her already. She went back to work on Monday.

Here, Scott kept my flowers alive through the intense heat and, though they're weedy, I'm glad he didn't tackle that part of the job because surely he'd've pulled up something he shouldn't have. He trimmed up every tree in the yard, he says, so must've been on a roll. 

I was out in my housecoat this morning, weeding with a mug of coffee in one hand, but had to come in when the mosquitoes noticed me. At the moment Scott and his nephew Ryan, here from Calgary, are in the basement tackling the plumbing; there will be no water or sewer for much of the day. Before they turned the water off I ran a bowlful for washing hands and another for washing fruit and vegetables. Hope making lunch for the fellas won't be too much of a challenge.

There is still a lot to do here to deal with the water seeping into the basement and foundation. While I was away, Scott and his crew knocked out walls and hauled up wet and mouldy material to help dry out the basement, but the house still smelled musty when I first walked through the door. Probably one doesn't notice it so much when here all the time. It can't be healthy, and fixing it is a huge and costly job. 

From Out Edmonton Way

It's early morning, relatively, and Shelly's run into the city to pick up one of her daughters. We are going to float on the Pembina River today for a couple hours -- a new experience for both Shelly and me, though her daughters Becky and Sarah went on the weekend and say it was FABULOUS. We've had scorching hot weather and today promises to be just as intense. We're packing up sunscreen, an umbrella, hats, water ... and of course a lifejacket for me, who will take no chances even though the water for much of the way is only waist-deep. I can barely dogpaddle and haven't done so for a hundred years.

We have been pretty much constant companions since I arrived the day before Dale's funeral on Wednesday. It was a bit of an ordeal, as they often are, especially when a Catholic priest is officiating and ignoring the family's request to keep the service short and sweet. I think I may hate Catholic priests. Who do they think they are? Oh, messengers from God. I forgot. Pfft. This one may have managed to put me off churches of all denominations, forever. Not that I wasn't put off already.

There has been pretty much constant coming and going here at the house, mixed in with a few slow and quiet times. Shelly has been going through the motions required after a death -- phone calls, paperwork, restructuring of everyday arrangements -- and her family, and Dale's, and their friends, have all been checking in regularly and doing everything they can to support her and the kids. It's been quite impressive, not to mention heartwarming. The three kids themselves, ranging in age from 20 to 24, are looking out for each other and their mom; it's tough on them all, but they are displaying incredible strength. I don't need to worry about any of them not being okay, though naturally the coming year will be hard on them.

After a week here, it still doesn't seem real that Dale has gone from us. It feels as if he is present sometimes. His ashes have been put into a pillar topped with a beautiful sundial and engraved with "Dad" and it is standing out in a flowerbed. Yesterday I bought a rose bush that will be planted next to it, in his memory.

I had best get my ass in gear and get ready, if I don't want to be left behind.

A Job in Town

Cement Work on a Hot Day

Rick pitches in to help on his day off

Staking, Weeding, Watering, Packing, Leaving

I'm off to a funeral and Emil's off to his dad's for a two-week holiday.

This Year's Kittenfish

I moved a batch of 4 kittens from the brooderhouse (green) into the tractor shed (red) on a day when it was super hot.

There, I introduced them to their older, orange cousins. The two mothers (who are last year's sisters) took an instant liking to their nieces and nephews, and it's been one big happy family ever since.

Bit of a free-for-all at the milk trough

Storm Time

We've had quite a storm here. The wind was scary. I should have had my delphiniums staked. There was no power most of the day; I turned my pages toward windows and sat reading. The night before, it was candlelight reading; we had no electricity for about three hours.

Today I'm gearing up for the 7- or 8-hr drive to Shelly's place north of Edmonton. Yesterday it seemed that since an old friend had died, it was fine to take the day off and move somewhat zombie-like about the house. I couldn't finish up computer work before leaving, or do laundry and pack my bags, anyway, without power. I sure as sam hill couldn't go out and prepare my garden for a week without me. The wind howled and rattled the house all day and half the night. We lost two tall spruces directly outside our bedroom window; hate to see that. There was a row of 17.

At my inlaws' down the road there is much more damage; trees down all over the place.
At the lake, a new two-story house Scott has worked on for many months had part of its roof torn off.
Boats and docks are swamped and smashed.

Today the sun is shining and people are out cleaning up their yards.

So I'm getting ready, but seem to be moving slowly. I've work to wrap up before I go, and need to tie up some flowers, run through with my trusty stirrup hoe, and call Shelly again this afternoon to see how she's faring. Her phone's ringing off the hook, friends and family are coming and going, bringing food and helping her go through the motions. I want to be with her, but know she is being looked after and may even not have had much opportunity to be alone yet. It's hard to know what to do and when, or even to rely on her to tell me what she needs, because she hasn't been here before, either. I am just going, as soon as I'm ready and she' s ready for me.

Many fond memories of Dale have been coming. It is Shelly who has been like a sister for almost 35 years, but Dale mattered too. He was always good to me, except maybe that one time at a dance when, mad at Shelly for something and at me for supposedly colluding with her (I was innocent and didn't know what the hell he was carrying on about), he hurled my shoes from the entry to the black field beyond the parking lot one muddy night and I had to be carried to the car when this was discovered at my leave-taking. It's funny, now. Happily for me, my memories of Dale are pleasant ones.

Rough Sailing

Before hailstorm

The husband of a close friend has died unexpectedly.

I received her call early this morning.
Will phone back this afternoon and see what she needs me to do — if she knows, poor thing.
I think I can safely start packing, but I also don't want to be in the way, so am giving her a few hours to ponder my question: "Do you want me to come?"

After hailstorm

Poor Drowning Trees

You may recall last October when we came home from a drive out to Kelowna and I was disturbed to find the trees lining the west side of the road where I walk had been knocked down and scraped away.

Well, here is what's happening to the trees that remain on the east side of the road, where the land belongs to Scott's family (big supporters of trees; only one of the things I like about them). The trees are drowning. That's water you see lying in the ditch.

All around us are trees drowning from the excessive runoff we've had this spring, and last year too. We have already lost a number of trees in the bush between our yard and the road; last summer, ducks nested in the middle of them.

I look at this with some sadness, and comfort myself with the thought that Nature Knows What It's Doing. Hope it's true.

Saw a moose on Sunday's walk.

That Vincent

Tree Trunks in Grass, by Van Gogh

It is far too gorgeous a day to be indoors one moment longer than necessary.

Scott makes a better hamburger than I do, any day of the week.

All my reading is Virginia Woolf: her diary, her biography, and her novel Orlando.

With her brother-in-law, Clive

As a  young gal

With her husband Leonard & dog

I am an Arteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeest

and this is my studio ... on the first day

The table is now covered with more clippings and I've carried two briefcases full of cards and papers out there along with a hardcover scrapbook I started for Emil years ago. It's been collecting odds 'n' ends for ages; time to tidy things up and fasten 'em down.

That orange ceramic thing is the ugliest ashtray I've ever seen. But it fits the existing decor close enough, doesn't it? I washed the caked-on ashes from it the other day in the rainbarrel, but haven't yet been able to part with it. It's probably been in the camper since the original owners.

It's a lovely little outdoor room to work in, where I can leave everything as it is when I move on to other activities through the day. The weather's been mild so I sit out there with the windows open and listen to the birds while I cut and paste.

This morning I went through cards given to Grandma on her 90th birthday; those with handwritten notes will go into Emil's scrapbook, and I kept a stack for "useable parts." There were also cards given to her and Grandpa on their 50th anniversary; some of those, too, will go in.

And so on. I'm having fun.
Am I easy to please, or what?

***

I hope to get a picture of the new flowerbed for you, but so far the colour doesn't show up well in my snapshots. There are pink painted daisies in profusion right now, and many of the annuals are bright and bravely doing their thing. The display is pretty, but not dazzling. With luck we'll see dazzling before the summer is over.

Fine Day

Number One Son Turns 24

gazania

Sure there are many flowers in bloom around the yard, but we need some sunshine around here if we're to see any serious action. I've arranged a weather swap with a work acquaintance in Ontario, where they're in the middle of a heat wave, so tomorrow we should see the mercury go up a little here in the parkland.

Two things it is risky for me to do:

* Leave the room while running water into the kitchen sink or the bathtub (for fear I’ll get distracted and flood the place; been there, done that).

* Fill the glass top of the blender while it sits on the motor base (for fear I’ll turn it on without the lid & make a hell of a mess); I take it off the base to be on the safe side.

You live, you learn.

Today is Emil's 24th birthday. He is permitted to take the day off from work, he says; I wonder if he will. His household will celebrate after supper with a cake from the bakery, and we here at home will take him for lunch at my niece's restaurant at Margo on Saturday. After which, he insists, we must drive by the Old Bartley Place (where he and I spent the summer he was three years old) and, he hopes, the new owner may invite us inside to see how it looks since it has been renovated. I've told him not to get his hopes up, as we are not acquainted with the owner. However, I do have a photograph of the Old Bartley Place, built brand new by my great-grandparents in 1916, and wonder if the new owner would be interested in having a copy of it.

This morning I pulled out old journals to see if I could put my hands on the one written when Emil was born. I did manage to find the right one and do a little reading. I was certainly smitten by this newborn baby who, I always say and absolutely mean, was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Da Boyds

My first impression, before taking a second and closer look, was that the yellow pansies had suddenly and miraculously spread into the grass. My little friends here, American goldfinches, are regulars at the birdfeeders in the spring but we see a lot less of them in that particular spot lately, so this bunch was a surprise. Usually you just see a flash of bright yellow whizzing past, although one summer a little male (the brighter ones; the females are the muted yellow) followed me around the yard, chatting. Apparently I was in his territory and had best watch my step.

A pair of hairy woodpeckers have been feeding their little one out here. It clings to the tree trunk and the parent (the male and female take turns with it) deposits a sunflower seed into a small hole in the trunk, smashes the shell, then puts the seed into the baby's beak. The baby is bigger than the parent, or perhaps it just looks that way because it's fluffier. After a while you can see the baby start to think that maybe he should give it a try himself, though I haven't seen it actually take action, yet. I guess when something's working for you as it is, why change?

Beasts at Home and Afar

It was a mild evening with the sunlight slanting across the land, and Scott and I took a rare walk together. Afterward we stopped to have a look at the cattle (the two bulls have been moved to another pasture, and now there are about 10 calves and cows roaming about our acres and chewing down the grass), which were a long ways away until Scott called them. Then they came on the gallop, like he was the Pied Piper. For their trouble they get a few affectionate words and, if they're brave enough, their bony brows scratched.

They are curious, like all animals methinks (that's how trappers get them; they put something that moves and flashes, like a foil streamer, near their traps, and the mink -- for example -- will come to see what it is.)

Last night I watched a short documentary about abandoned, abused, lost, sheltered, rescued and euthanized dogs. It made me both tearful and furious, as I suppose it was meant to. Here's a story about the film: click HERE.

One strong lesson I took from it: Never, ever buy a puppy from a pet store. Their supply mostly comes from puppy mills, where dogs are horribly neglected and mistreated.

Back here at home, we've found two litters of kittens, which probably means there are two more litters yet to be found.

Dogs We Have Had

First Zinnia Bloom

It may be wet out there, but the flowers and birds are happy. It's not cold, though the sky's grey-white today. I stand on the back step in my housecoat and breathe it all in as long and as deeply as I can. I love having this privacy and solitude in a place where traffic noise is minimal to non-existent and no other houses are in sight, though the neighbours' yard is within earshot.

In the inlaws' farmyard a mile south, standing outside under the stars on a frigid winter night, I remember hearing the dog from here barking. We inherited him when we took possession of this place; and overnight he became fearless and friendly, when always before he'd been standoffish and timid. Unfortunately he didn't live long; one morning Scott went outside and found him with part of his intestine swollen and bloody on the outside of his body. The vet pronounced it impossible to repair, and advised putting Buddy out of his misery.

Sometimes, walking around the yard, I think of Buddy living here many years; I also think of Chloe, the year-old pup we had to euthanize, and still feel bad about it; and old Casper, who is buried near the crabapple trees. If dogs can live on in spirit, I fancy they still accompany me on a ramble and traipse over "their" territory, warning off the foxes and coyotes.

De Lovely Lovely Lilac Tree

Uber-fragrant lilac bush

The scent of this lilac bush is so powerful it can almost knock you off the step. Is there such a thing as too much? Hard to imagine, when it comes to lilac, which I love. But such has been the case in recent days; I'm thinking we'll have to prune it ruthlessly so there will be fewer blooms next year.

The Porch

Do you think it's possible my Scottie has good reason to complain about me having "too many" shoes?

Someday this porch will be bright and shiny. The old wood panelling will be replaced by gyprock and paint; the indoor-outdoor carpet will be torn out and we'll put lino down; if I get my "druthers," there will be a closet for the recycling, and a space for the washer and dryer. I've been making sure Scott has to do his own laundry, just to be sure he gets the message: it's a pain in the behind, going up and down those basement stairs too many times. At this point he still thinks the laundry equipment belongs in the basement.

See those little brown sandals there, in the front? Those were Mom's, and I still see her feet in them.
One of the red pairs are rubber; we've had a lot of rain this week.
The other red pair are a hand-me-down from Cathy and I've been meaning to tell you, Cath, that they make great walking shoes. The leather does allow my feet to breathe (a question we've discussed about shoes), and the soles are thin enough that I can feel the pebbles on the road, which is, to my way of thinking, okay, because they stimulate the healing spots on the bottom of my feet.