No Arithmetic

One thing about the work I do: the time flies by. Eight hours, 10, 12 ... nose to the grindstone and they're gone in a flash.
My friends say "Perfect job for you, Kathy." They're right. I'm all about reading and writing; this is play, for me. There are challenges, but they're right up my alley. They're the kind of problems I like to wrestle with.

I'm tired at the end of the day; I won't lie.
Also, I don't like being stuck inside on a sunny warm day.
I don't like having to hustle to go somewhere in the morning, any morning.
But reading and writing, and getting paid for it?
Seriously. Perfect.

Friends also tell me from time to time, "You've got a book in you."
I'm not so sure.
I tell them I don't have anything to say.
To write a book, you need something to say.

Someone You Love has Dementia

My "mother-in-law from heaven" has written an article that has been published in the WADENA NEWS this week. It's about her experience from the time of my father-in-law's diagnosis of dementia until now, when he is in a nursing home. Here it is: SOMEONE YOU LOVE HAS DEMENTIA.

As for the more mundane aspects of daily life, after carrying on about the recycling yesterday I cleaned up that cluttered corner of the porch and changed the system at our house. This laundry hamper was brought from the bedroom to the kitchen and will collect all the recycling until it's full. Then the garbage bag inside will be carried to the basement, where I will sort its contents into separate bags that are now lined up against a bare wall. When they are overflowing, then off to the recycling depot they will go.

Why didn't I think of this sooner?
It's because, when it comes to many household details, I don't dwell on them long enough at any one time to take action. I usually have a thought and then carry on to something else. It's why the Christmas tree was only taken down yesterday. For the past month, I just walked on by!

Polite and Gentle Bodies

My body speaks gently to me. First I think I'm hungry. I do nothing about it. After a while I know I'm hungry. Still I do nothing about it. I'm in bed, reading Alison Pick's memoir Between Gods about her reach for Judaism. I've eaten lots of granola lately — it's quick and easy, but I had a bowlful before bed last night and don't want it again just yet.

My body is patient. And then it is not. I start to burp; that's a message I've come to recognize as "Eat." I keep reading.

Then I feel nauseated. Belly is empty. Put something in!

It reminds me of Emil, newborn. How first thing in the morning he would be in his basket by the bed and I'd hear his sweet, patient ch-ch-ch-ch for some time, but I wouldn't hear it as a call. Loving my sleep, I wouldn't get up and feed him till finally he'd let out a wail and I'd realize he'd been asking politely, all along, till my unresponsiveness demanded something more forceful.

I go to the kitchen, not wanting to spend any time making toast, eggs, or oatmeal, preferring to read some more. Scott brought bananas home from Kelvington yesterday. One of those will do.

Recycling would be a whole lot more convenient if the depot would take everything in one large bag, unsorted. When you have to keep it all separate, you have half a dozen separate bags and containers to fill with glass, plastic, tin, cardboard, newspaper and refundables before  you lug them out to your car. I still haven't figured out a system that doesn't look like a frigging pile of clutter all the time, or else requires numerous trips to the basement each day. Not that I've put my mind to a solution; meanwhile this mess in the porch makes me crazy. 

Starting Starter

In recent weeks I've started baking bread again. Funny how you go from doing it week after week to not doing it for months. But that's me. I never stick to a routine forever — except the coffee-in-the-morning one.

Yesterday I mixed up a sourdough starter. It will sit on the kitchen counter for six days, stirred once a day, and then go into the fridge to be used once a week. One cup of the starter goes into each batch of bread; one cup of flour and one cup of water is added back into it. If the starter is not used weekly, you still have to discard one cup of it and add the flour and water. My disinclination toward wastefulness will help me stick to the baking routine. For a while.

Starter gives the bread an extra little flavour kick as well as boosting its superbread abilities; don't ask me what they are. Rising, I suppose.

Gord (if you're reading), you'll be happy. I know you like the sourdough bread best. Cross your fingers I keep up with the plan till next time you're out here. (And if you can lay hands on some soy grits, please do. Sourdough and soy grits in your bread cannot be beat.)

Lately I've found the bread itself bland. Sure it's 100% whole wheat flour so has plenty of heft; sure it's got sesame and sunflower seeds and is always toasted; sure the dough's been sweetened with molasses. And sure, I always eat it with real butter. But I miss the tang of sourdough.

Interested in trying starter yourself? You'll find the recipe here: CLICK.

Sweet-Scented Treasures

From our visit to Cathy and Roger in Oakburn, we returned with many beeswax treasures.

One of the beauties of these items is the sweet scent, even when they are not burning.
Once in a while you get a whiff when you walk by.

Making Granola

Yesterday I made granola.
It's the first time in ages, since I haven't been to visit the "honey man" in some time.
But when Shelly and I went to see Cathy, we did some shopping in their warehouse.
They raise bees, harvest honey, sell it, and also make a wide variety of pure beeswax candles.

What I want to know is, what is the trick to getting the lid tightly onto these pails?
I put a hand on the middle and threw my entire weight onto it, like a Ukrainian dancer, and still the lid was loose.
I had to leave it till Scott came home with his superior strength.

Here's the granola recipe: CLICK HERE.
It came from Cathy (whose wax arts I wax on about in the next entry) about 30 years ago.

Talking to Lars

Saturday was Pat and Ivan's 57th wedding anniversary.
We went to the lodge where Ivan lives and made ourselves at home around the kitchen table in the activity room.
Scott brought his laptop to connect up with Ivan's cousin Lars in Sweden for a chitchat.

Pat, on the left, is standing behind Ivan's chair. Scott is in the hat, and his brother Bruce is far right. 

I always like to mention that Pat is my mother-in-law "from heaven."
She laughs at my wisecracks; only one of many reasons to love her.

Kitchen Table

Is there anything as pleasing as a library haul?
I think not.

Unless it's red wine, or a handwritten letter in the mail, or fresh flowers, or lotus candles made by friends.

Or a text from your sister, telling you she's finally repaired your broken stained glass:

Heeeeeeere Moosie Moosie

We’ve been calling Jenna Doodle into the porch before we go to bed, because we’re in deep cold: 30-below, at night. She is accustomed to being outside and has an electrical heating pad in her insulated doghouse, but still — 30 below is 30 below.

Yeah, sorry: A moose comes to visit and all you get are these lousy tracks.

And so, without the old dog barking her fool head off out there at night, a moose has been tripping right past our back step! We haven’t seen it; only its tracks and scat.

Who needs a dark doghouse when you can lie in the sun?

I put a dozen apple cores on the step for the moose before I went to bed last night but they didn’t turn its eye, apparently.

"Ain't no damn moose gettin' in here while I'm on watch!" Jenna's keeping a sharp eye on the back driveway where the moose comes in.

I keep looking out the window, too.

Road Trip

I was just about to step out Everett's door on my way to work last Friday morning, when my "texting machine" beeped.

"Are you home this weekend?"

Yep.

"I'm leaving by noon. See you tonight!"

It was my old KATIMAVIK pal SHELLY, who lives north of Edmonton, giving me a weekend to look forward to.

The next morning as we sipped our coffee and nibbled on toast, she said, "Should we?"

Indeed we should, so after a quick phone call to make sure our other Katimavik "sista" Cathy near Oakburn was home and up for company, we hit the road. It was a snowy day and the pavement had crusty ice on it, but that didn't stop us. It takes more than that to keep gals from the prairie provinces at home.

Four hours after leaving my driveway, we pulled into Cathy's place, where we spent the next two days yakking, drinking wine, eating like queens, being serenaded by talented people who can play guitars, mandolins and clarinets, and feeling spoiled rotten.

Cathy and her husband Roger have four kids, and it happens that the two boys were there, which was a real pleasure since we hadn't seen any of them for about 12 years. They've changed a bit! The boys, that is.

Michaud, Joel, Cathy

Michaud and Roger made crepes one morning for breakfast.

Now Shelly, she likes to keep busy, so was pleased when she figured out a sewing project she could work on.

Cathy and Shelly at the sewing machine in an upstairs bedroom.

On Sunday afternoon we took a drive to the one-horse town where Cathy and Roger have purchased on old church that is no longer in service.

They were good sports and made prayer hands for me.

Unfortunately, my photos of the interior turned out blurry — I was probably shivering, as they don't keep the building heated —but Shelly and I were wowed by its beauty.

And then Monday morning came. It was a glorious sunny day and we hated to leave, as Cathy is family to us after our Katimavik experience so many years ago — 1978-79 — but it was great to be together again. Maybe we won't wait 12 years to repeat the performance.

Magpies

Scott hates magpies.
But I can't.

Oh, I don't like their noise. We have a half-dozen of them in the yard over winter, and they nest in our spruce trees and make a hell of a racket when they are young.

They steal the old dog Jenna's food if she doesn't eat it all immediately, and they hang on the suet feeders I put out for the smaller birds, and devour it. They are often seen beneath the niger seed feeders, searching the ground for anything the smaller birds might have dropped, because their own larger beaks can't get the seed out of the feeders hung on tree branches.

Scott looks out the window, sees them there and curses them. He threatens to get a gun and ping them off.

But I think: magpies have to eat in winter too.

From the library I've ordered a book called Bird Brains, by Candace Savage.

The RM grader (I assume) creates these ridges in the field along the grid road, to catch drifting snow.

Personal Religion

The Dalai Lama's religion, he says, is "kindness."

That's a good religion to have.

Mine is "fairness," though I do believe "It's better to be kind than to be right."
Easier said than done, but worth remembering.

Teeny Tiny Tracks

Here's a public alert for all you whole-wheat bread bakers out there:

You can add eight cups of liquid ingredients instead of 10, and your bread will still turn out fine!

Apparently I am not as good at multi-tasking as I thought. Tsk. Wondered why the dough was so stiff, but didn't twig into the reason till it was rising already. That's when I noticed the two cups of liquid still in the measuring cup on the window sill, where I had set it to settle "all the better to eyeball the water level" while doing something else. And forgetting all about it.

Just one more example of why I never leave the room when there is a tap running.

Note added next morning: Normally to toast my bread, you have to put it down twice if you want it nicely browned. Not when you've shorted the liquid, though! One time does the trick.

Lazy Sunday Morning

Email to Dad:

http://www.thelocal.se/20150114/the-five-strangest-habits-of-the-swedes

Kind of an interesting article.

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Never did get outside yesterday! but by cracky, I got all those goddamn dishes done. 

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From my handwritten journal 

Sunday May 22 2005

Mom didn't eat today. She couldn't lift a glass of water to her lips. She told Reta (When? Not sure, but Reta told me today) she dreamed that her friend Mary Jo was going through the clothes in Mom's closet and Mom told her not to worry, that her three girls could wear her tops and that Karen had the same size bum as her and would be able to wear her pants.

I told Reta that's funny, Mom always said Karen and Joan have no bums and I am the one with a big bum like hers. 

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Another page in the same journal:

Depression. An Allergic Reaction to Life?

On The Current this morning there was discussion of a new idea about what causes depression. You can listen to the podcast and read an article by clicking HERE.

"Hamlet is one of literature's iconic depressives."

The Old becomes New

In Newsweek, there is an article about wall panels painted by Duncan Grant; they were recently found behind wallpaper in a building in London.

The article provides considerably more information about people he was associated with and their influence on the world at the time, and the world today.

Here's the article; click here: BURIED BLOOMSBURY BOUNTY

F#!K Poachers and the Horse They Rode in On

This is the stop sign at the highway north of Kuroki.

We all abhor poachers.

Sometimes people — we don't call them hunters; hunters behave responsibly (if eating animals is responsible, and that's a whole other subject) shoot large quantities of migrating geese and leave them in a pile, rotting in a field. We never seem to catch these guys, which is too bad. They are the kind of people who deserve 1000 lashes in public; not people like the guy in Saudi Arabia who's being whipped because the government doesn't like what he published on his website/blog.

Okay; not really. But the consequences should be severe.

I was probably on my way to Margo. There are various routes to see the "rellies."

It was fall, I think. Or could it have been spring? Looks like stubble so let's say fall.

The Onceler

It's my regular Thursday overnight in town with The Once-ler.

My baby

The Once-ler

We shall be chatting our heads off, probably snacking, and watching Doctor Who.
See you back here on the weekend. Have a good couple of days.

-Kathy

Sensitive Stew

And then my ex gave me this book for Christmas. It's a collection of interviews with Joni Mitchell, and she says “Sensitivity is a good thing in that you notice a lot of details, especially in nature. One of the bad things about it is that you tend to tread [in place] because sensitivity lacks clarity. You’ll get a problem you don’t know the answer to and you’ll go over and over it, spin your wheels, tread it to death. However, by treading over and over and over, there is a deepening process so in that way you do come to, hopefully, occasionally, some hidden truths, because … sensitivity is the setting sun, it’s the gateway to the look-within place, it’s the deepening place. It’s what depression is for. It’s to drive you in to face yourself and correct yourself… if you take a medicine and you don’t get to the ‘why,’ you’re gonna remain an asshole on drugs. You’re never gonna get to the bottom or the turning point or the revelation… You can’t be deep without sensitivity… even though I’m ultra-sensitive, it doesn’t mean that I’m just always wounded and bleeding but that I’m perceiving things that other people might not.”

So that’s a slightly different perspective. The going over and over it, spinning your wheels, treading it to death … while one way to think of it is that you are deepening the ruts of habit — getting nowhere except entrenching them so that you get more of the same in your life — another possibility is that it’s how you eventually come to an understanding, a revelation, a turning point.

I often understand, yet there is no turning point.

You can listen to some of the interviews online! I never knew that. They were broadcast on CBC in 1973 and 1979:

http://www.cbc.ca/books/2014/09/joni-mitchell-in-her-own-words.html

Unknown, Unremembered

After driving Emil down to Lake Manitou to attend Camp Easter Seal one summer, I browsed through an antiques store in the resort village of Manitou Beach. For a few cents I purchased a small rectangular wooden picture frame that I was sure I could find a use for.

Behind its glass were these two photos:

The young man on the top right seems to be the young boy on the lower left, a little older. You think?

I have removed them from the frame and turned the cardboard backing around; it reveals a poem called The Daisies Won't Tell, and I've posted a photo of it, in the frame, on this blog before. It hangs in the bathroom now.

But I can't throw these photographs away.
Sure, their relatives couldn't — for whatever reason — keep them. Maybe everyone in the family already had a copy. Maybe they didn't have time to go through everything when their grandmother passed away, and just had to box up her house and let them go. There are many possibilities. It seems a shame, as one would think photos like these would be precious to their family members. But life gets in the way of sentimental attachments to material things, doesn't it.

Still, this is how bad it is:
Not only can I not part with photos of my own ancestors; now I can't part with photos of someone else's!

In my family collection there are photos containing people I can't identify. These most surely have a relation to my family, to my ancestors and extended family, but no one now knows who they were or what the relation was.

These, one might think, would be photos I would not need to keep for posterity.
And yet ... I am quite fond of some of them and of the people in them.
Is that weird? Well then, it's weird.
And weirder yet is that I have started to create casual identities for these people, as if eventually they will tell me who they are (were). It's kind of fun.

I have no clue who these people are, or where, but:

This I do know was at the nurses' residence at Mayo, Yukon, and was either a coworker of my great-great Aunt Alma's OR it is Aunt Alma herself as a very young woman. (Reta, could that be?)

Could these be some of Grandpa Benson's mother's siblings in the midwestern States?

Isn't this a fabulous photo? But who were these two?

On the back it says "Mary Ward on right." Who was Mary, and who is the other lady? Taken Feb '59.

The cardboard frame is embossed ECRossi, Regina, Sask; a photography business there?

And finally this young woman with her lilies on her parched land. 

I can't make myself throw these in the garbage. Someday someone might know something. In the meantime, I think: Back in those days, people weren't snapping pictures left and right. You were fortunate to get photos of your loved ones, and that's why you kept them. That's why they were in Aunt Alma's collection, and Grandma's, and Aunt Jean's. And so I keep them.