The Little Things

If there’s an obituary written about me, it won’t say “She was a hard worker.” Around here, you’re only considered a hard worker if you grow a big garden, do lots of canning and cooking and yard work, perhaps run a farm, and so on. Physical labour. But repetitive physical labour bores me silly, so it’s not something I sign up for very often.

Mental labour is more interesting to me and I’m willing to put in long hours getting a job done that requires thinking, writing, planning, etc. However, that never counts toward making you a “hard worker,” at least not that I know of. Also, I value my free time and guard it. I avoid busyness; I want time to enjoy life outside of earning money and, of course, to get through the daily chores required to live in relative order and comfort. But I don't want those chores taking up one more moment of my day than is absolutely necessary.

Another word that will never describe me is “longsuffering.” Nosiree. If I don’t like something and have to cope with it repeatedly or for long, I’ll be doing or saying something about it. Some would call that “bitching” or “complaining” but I prefer to describe it as “telling it like it is.”

It's the little things.

So if I am irked with my spouse, for instance, he hears about it. On the flip side, I believe it's important to acknowledge people when they are good at something or have done something kind or thoughtful or generous or smart. 

One morning last week I got into the truck to drive to work and found a sprig of wild rose Scott had put there for me. It’s late for wild roses to be blooming and I appreciated his small gesture of gallantry, of knowing this would please me.

Yesterday he asked if I need to get anything to wear to Gunnar’s wedding. Maybe he was going to suggest we take a shopping trip, or offer to buy me a dress. A lot of men wouldn’t think of that. I don’t need anything, really, so the conversation didn’t go much further except that he gets a few extra “sweetie” points for the question.

Current Reading

When we met for lunch in town a couple weeks ago, Scott's cousin Bev brought me four books to read. I started Girl on a Train and remembered, on the first page, that I’d read it not long ago. Actually I didn’t read it all. I read the first few chapters and then skipped to the end to see what happened. Some books are like that; you don’t enjoy the reading of them, you just want to know what happens. Some books seem to plod on and on, taking forever to get where they’re going. Bev said she often, lately, finds herself reading a bit of a book before remembering she’s already read it. I just did the exact same thing.

I got A Beauty, by Connie Gault, from the library. Read the first 120 pages and then skipped to the end, finding myself uninvolved with the characters, not wanting to accompany them on their journey from start to finish. Sometimes I just don't give a hoot. What're ya gonna do?

The stack Bev lent me contains the latest Flavia de Luce mystery by Alan Bradley. Thanks to Bev and her book collection, I’ve read the entire series till now. Little Miss Flavia is a quirky child sleuth and she's funny (without knowing it, poor kid), but instead of picking up this book first, I’m saving it till last. It's nice to have a good book — one that I know won't disappoint — to look forward to.

The Cuckoo’s Calling, by Robert Galbraith, is on the bedside table right now and it's one I've just begun and know I'll finish. Some just are. What is it that makes some books can-hardly-put-downs and others set-asides? Is it the state of being of the reader at the time, or is it the quality or style of the writing, or the uniqueness of the story, or what?

On the weekend I started Benediction, by Kent Haruf. Instantly I was drawn in. The writing is plain and clear yet forcefully alive, and immediately I cared about the many characters. It was all I could do to stay out of bed and wait till the evenings to get back to reading it.

In the magazine rack in the bathroom is another book that just came from the library. It’s called Difficult Conversations, and is about communication, about how we all think we are right and that those who don't see it our way are wrong, and how we won't enjoy satisfactory results of communication till we understand that we aren't more right than others and learn to seek solutions that make sense to those on all sides of an issue. 

Out to Lunch

The newspaper goes to press on Fridays, so I usually eat at my desk.
But last week my aunt and uncle were going to be in town and they invited me out for lunch.

Neil and Reta, Mom's brother and sister

We still managed to get the paper out by five o'clock, so there was no harm done!

September Party in August

We were invited to Faye and Rick's farm for a potluck supper last night to celebrate Faye's upcoming 50th birthday. She is facing a serious surgery in the very near future and won't be up to a party on the actual date in September.

When we arrived, Faye and Rick along with other friends were out in the yard playing some kind of game; I have no idea what it's called. Lawn chairs were scattered about; bottles of booze and mix were set out on a table in their relatively new and still-under-construction garage; food was in the house and a pork roast was on the barbecue.  When everything was ready, we filled our plates buffet-style and carried them out to the garage, where we sat around two tables and chowed down.

Then there was birthday cake:

Almost 50 and still younger than the rest of us.

Afterward, Rick made a bonfire on the gravel driveway and, while several guests stayed behind to tend to it (i.e. relax in their lawn chairs), the rest of us went for a short walk.

Two of the gals were a little speedier than the rest of us, and when they turned around, one of them said we reminded her of a famous photo of the Beatles — something about the way we were spread out across the road. She borrowed my camera, which was hooked onto a belt loop on my jeans, to try to get a picture of it. The end result was not what she was aiming for, but here's the pic anyway:

Left to right: me, Faye, Carol, Scott, Rick posing as walker. 

You may notice I was not wearing my fabulous new Blundstones! I knew I would be going in and out of the house and wanted footwear easy to slip off. I'm not quite yet at that point with the boots, which still require sitting in a chair and some focused attention.

Advertising Works

The marketing wisdom I've heard is that potential customers need to see your advertisement at least eight times before they'll decide it's time to purchase your product.

I, however, only read about Schmutzie's Blundstone boots once, and knew they were the boots for me.

My steel-toed workboots were 30 years old and the soles had cracked and let in water any time I stepped in anything even a tiny bit wet. I wanted high-topped boots to support my ankles so I can walk on uneven terrain without having to pick my way carefully over it. I wanted boots without laces to futz with or zippers to break. They had to be comfortable for walking several miles and they had to be able to breathe so my feet weren't hot and sweaty. Schmutzie's description of her Blundstone boots sounded like just the thing.

I went online and looked at the various styles and learned where they could be purchased. They are manufactured in Australia and only select retailers sell them. I didn't want to buy them without trying them on, and when Cathy and I were leaving the Broadway Café in Saskatoon, I remembered that the shoe repair shop down the street sells them. We meandered north a block or two and found the place. I tried them on, paid for them, and that was that. It was too hot to wear them except for one evening last week, when me and my new boots went for an evening walk.

New Blundstone boots, thanks to a generous cash gift from Scott at Christmastime.

Last night and this morning we had lightning and rain, and today it's grey and cool, so I'm able to wear them again. One more reason to eschew those hot summer days we've been having!

To read the original blog entry that introduced me to Blundstone boots, CLICK HERE.

At the Eye Clinic

Here's the view from my chair in the waiting room at the Wadena Hospital.
I had an appointment on Tuesday with the optometrists' clinic there.

About 10 years ago I got bifocals that I never used because I never got used to them. Instead I switch between reading glasses and distance glasses, and lately find that I see the television better without the distance glasses than with them. I figure my eyes have been changing and the eye test is a year overdue. The lenses on both sets of my glasses both seem a bit scratched. I'm sick and tired of carrying two pairs around, even though I can see without glasses; but noticeably read better with than without.

Most people I talk to who have gotten glasses at this particular clinic say they have not been satisfied with the glasses they got there or the way they were treated by the staff. But it is right in town and it is convenient to go there rather than drive an hour or more to another place, and I prefer to make my own judgments. My experience could be quite different.

Take this as an example of my not having the sense to take advice from those who have "been there." Or take it as an example of independent thinking. Probably it's a bit of both.

I found the staff perfectly pleasant, picked out a pair of frames as quickly as I could (because really they all start looking the same to me after I've tried on five pairs), and felt sick for two days at the cost of it all ($764). I had better be happy with these glasses when they arrive in two weeks.

You enter the building through the door on the right.

You go down the hall to the left to visit patients, and to the right to get lab tests done.

New Tarot Page on Facebook

How are you at keeping up your chosen routines?
I don't mean the easy ones, like drinking a cup of hot coffee every morning. I mean the ones that are easy to forget, like (in my case) drawing and reading a tarot card every day and posting the interpretation on my TAROT PAGE here on the blog.
My intentions are good and I stick to my routines for a while, sometimes for weeks or even months, but then as soon as my routine gets interrupted by some small thing, I just forget, plain and simple, to pick it up again.

So I thought maybe if I hung out my shingle on Facebook it would be a better motivator for me, and I set up a page there.

If you use FB and also have an interest in the tarot, click below to find the page:

Non-Traditional Tarot

Please "like" and "share."

Charleston

Life in Squares is a TV series being broadcast on BBC, but it hasn't aired in Canada yet. I'm looking forward to it; it's about the Bloomsbury Group, among whose members were Virginia Woolf and her sister Vanessa Bell.

Bell was a painter and she decorated the house she lived in, Charleston. Time has been doing its ruinous work, though, and so there is a fundraising effort being made to conserve the art.

Placement

Other folks may do it differently, but I do it the way that works best for me.
Some people put all their favourite photos and paintings in the living room or some place that visitors will be sure to see them.
Me, I put my favourite stuff somewhere that I will see it as often as possible.

In the bedroom, there's a small quilted tablecloth Mom made, and a set of quilted place-mats, and a framed needlepoint Aunt Reta made and gave me. I like to see all three of these every morning while I'm dressing and every time I walk into the room.

If you've been reading here for any length of time, you've already seen most of these. Probably more than once.

In the hallway between the bedroom and the office is a collection of family photos. Sometimes, seeing pictures of those who have passed away, I get heart pangs. This happens often. But I'd still rather be reminded than not. (I still miss my mother something terrible at times. You would think that this grief would be processed and no longer upsetting, but that is not the case even after 10 years. Anyway I'm sure it's normal. Right? It's not as if it keeps me awake at night or anything. It's just that the intensity of the impact — even now, occasionally — surprises me.)

An unwelcome thought is that someday, if nature takes its course, it won't just be Mom I'm missing when I see this photograph.

In the office is Mom's first palette painting; I love this one, as it really does look like poplar trees with a breeze rustling them.

And there is one of my sister Joan's early pastels, with colours that I adore. They appear a bit washed-out here, unfortunately.

And in the living room is a new one that Aunt Reta brought with her from Saskatoon. Her (and Mom's) cousin Judy is moving from her house into a condo and no longer has a place for this, and apparently neither do her children or nieces or nephews, because it came my way and I was quick to say "I'd love to have this!"

Reta's husband Carl painted it from a photograph of Grandpa Jack, my great-grandfather, who was a telephone linesman well into his seventies. I remember him as a moustached old man, always sitting and with a cane nearby. I think I was about nine when he passed away.

We still have to pick up the "thingies" required so that they lay flat, for the three flowers Joan painted for me. I've got the canvases leaning against the wall and am looking forward to getting them up; they're going to pull the room together beautifully and brighten every day.

Tires

Scott knows there is nothing I like better than a country drive on a Sunday afternoon, so he invited me to ride along when he and his brother were hauling used tires to Kelvington to be collected for recycling.

I stuffed my camera, cellphone and a book into a bag and hopped into the truck with Scott. He had the back of his half-ton loaded up, plus a trailer behind.


We waited at a corner for his brother Bruce, who was also hauling a trailer full, and followed him.

The boys unloaded tires and placed them in the correct "lines" while I entertained myself by texting a few friends and taking pictures rather than getting dirty. Besides, I hadn't taken any gloves along.

 I'd just opened my book (A BEAUTY, by Connie Gault) to start reading when Scott got into the truck and away we went home again.

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Check out today's TAROT DRAW.

Cat Stalks Deer

Charlene Wirtz writes for the Wadena News and gave us this video she shot at her farm home, where her house cat was seen stalking a deer:

Both Sides

In the fall, a book of interviews with JONI MITCHELL was published by her friend, singer, musician and journalist Malka Marom. My former husband Gord said "Don't run out and buy it! I'm getting it for you for Christmas."

Last month at Lincoln University in England, there was a symposium held for those studying Mitchell's music.
If you're an admirer of Joni's artistry, as I most definitely am, you may enjoy this exchange with the charming Ms Marom:



Thanks to Alex, who, although trying to comment on the blog was such a pain in the ass that he gave up and sent me an email, pointed out that I had located Lincoln University in the wrong city. 

Way Back to Perfect Health

Some of you may remember my friend Bev, who was diagnosed with breast cancer, didn't take the recommended allopathic treatments but followed the beat of a different drummer against all advice to the contrary, and is now cancer-free.

She's been in town this week and came out for a visit last night. 

Bev takes a call from her brother while I make myself a grilled cheese sandwich for supper.

I'm not always on the ball enough to remember to get out the camera. Did I post a pic when Dad was here? Oh yeah, I think so. Good for me! Alison was out for tea last week and I didn't think of taking a picture. Yesterday I went for lunch with another Bev and forgot to get a photo. Sandy was out one day with her hubby and the camera was the furthest thing from my mind. I met up with my sister Karen at a flea market and got pics but never posted them. When I think about how much goes on ... and all the people and things ... that are never even mentioned on this blog ... tsk tsk tsk. It is what it is, of course, but there is a lot of life going on outside of it.

Now to find the webpage where Bev chronicled her successful alternative treatment of cancer. We need to update it; there must be people who are surely wondering if she's still healthy.

Here it is: HERE'S TO ... PERFECT HEALTH!

Good Friends Among the Best Things in Life

A lovely afternoon with Ms Bell, who had flown to Regina to attend a Nitty Gritty Dirt Band concert in Raymore, Sask., with a girlfriend and then drove out here to spend the afternoon with me yesterday. We had a leisurely lunch and then when Aunt Reta went for a nap, Cathy and I took a nice long walk in the hot sun and much-appreciated wind.

Isn't she a doll? And then there's me; I make all my pals look good. Of course, Cathy is a young chick compared to me. We were roommates at Luther College when she was in Grade 8 and I was in Grade 10. She is the most professionally accomplished person I know and very hardworking, and also has her life priorities straight and is kindhearted and a straight-shooter. I count myself fortunate to have the most wonderful friends, caring and true. 

That crooked tooth of mine seems to be getting worse. Is it worth doing anything about it, I wonder, at my age?

When I was in my early thirties, a dentist told me I should have my upper wisdom teeth pulled because there was so little space in my mouth that they were already crooked and would push my teeth out of alignment. I ignored his advice and now regret it. (As the founding editor, former editor-in-chief, and my employer at the Canadian Encyclopedia for 10 years once said, what is the sense of asking for input from an expert and then ignoring it? Live and learn.)

 I did have the wisdom teeth pulled within the past couple years but it doesn't make any difference now, as at my age (56) the teeth are firmly set in bone and will not be likely to move on their own even when given more space.  I would probably have to get braces and wear them for at least a year. Do I care enough about straight teeth to do that? Not just the expense of it, but the discomfort. I don't think so. But I can't say as I'm pleased when I see photos of myself with the crooked tooth. Not that I ever have liked photos of myself, so let's be realistic; it doesn't really matter what I do or don't do. I'll be self-critical anyway, as women often are.

Aunt Reta dropped me off at work this morning and went to my Aunt Shirley's at Margo to spend a few days. I just called her to say I've gotten used to her presence and now I miss her. It's true.

And here's Joni Mitchell's video and song "Good Friends." Sometimes change comes at you like a broadside accident. There is chaos to the order; random things you can't prevent. Michael McDonald's voice (he's joined her in this endeavour) makes me lustful. No nerves of steel, no hearts of gold. No blame for what we can and can't control. It doesn't take much, mind you. Watching two people kiss on television will do it! And that's a good thing as far as I'm concerned.

Visiting Galore

 Businesses are open this morning after the long weekend so Scott has pumped up the tire and Reta and I are off to town. I'll drop her at the seniors' residence to do some visiting while I take the tire to the repair shop. Once the car's road-ready again we'll scurry home, where I'll be making my MEXICAN SOUP and waiting for Cathy B to arrive in time for lunch.

But at the moment, Reta is washing breakfast dishes and I'm about to pour my second cup of coffee. Rain has been forecast for two or three days but none has materialized, so I've set the sprinkler on the flower garden for now, till we leave for town.

Aunt Reta prepares to take some pictures to take home to Phoenix.

Ducky has found a new cuddler.

The handles for the kitchen cabinets are supposed to be delivered to Wynyard at the end of the week. We're looking forward to getting those on. The tabs Scott made with masking tape tend to tear off and he insists it has something to do with the way I pull on them. I think if he opened those doors and drawers as many times in a day as I do, they'd rip off for him, too, so Back Off! I say, and carry on my merry way.

Half Gone

Emil will go back to town tonight; Reta will be on her way to her next family visit as soon as that flat tire is repaired; Bev S. is coming for tea this afternoon, as she's been out for a niece's wedding; Cathy B. and her friend Susan are coming for lunch tomorrow, driving out from Regina; and I go back to work on Wednesday.

Summer is half over but still beautiful. There have been crazy storms and there are more to come but aside from wind and rain knocking down some of my tall flowers and hail tearing up a few blossoms, our yard and crops have been untouched for the most part.

An unexpected calf was born in the pasture yesterday; Scott can't figure out how the bull managed to get to its mother, as they were in separate fields at the time the calf would have been conceived. I guess they find a way! Fences never stop cattle if they want to go somewhere, I'm told, and this calf is proof of it.

Sloths

A flat tire on my car Little Green and no place open before Tuesday to repair it, an unwillingness to go anywhere without a usable spare, Scott needing the tools in his work truck when he's on a job or in the field, and the new truck being difficult to get in and out of for both Reta and Emil because it's so high: all have conspired to keep us home for the last two days. But since we have nowhere pressing to go, no one is complaining.

Busy Visiting

Lazy days of chatting with Aunt Reta ...

Still at war with the little flies ...

Stay tuned ... .

Broadway Café

I hadn't seen Cathy's eldest daughter Caitlin, except for photos on Facebook, for several years. So while I was in the city, getting a close-up glimpse of her was my one request when asked if there was anything in particular I'd like to do. She waits on tables at the ever popular Broadway Café, so Cathy and I went in, split a plate of fries and gravy, and waited till Cait managed to join us for a few minutes when there was a slow-down in the action.

Cait, hard at work

Cathy and Caitlin

It's good to see our kids all grown up and smiling.

Tree Swallows

"Are you up, Kathy?" he calls from near the picture window where he sits in the mornings with his coffee and his laptop, perusing the farm machinery, truck, and vintage-car ads on Kijiji. From his corner on the couch he has a good view of the yard and sees quite a lot of activity: sometimes a rabbit, sometimes the prairie chicken, sometimes a deer; the timid beasts are brave in the early hours. "Come and see these birds!"

So out I go to the living room and join him to watch at least four or five dozen TREE SWALLOWS swooping through the air and reconnoitring at the tops of our tall spruce trees. It's quite a show, as these fancy flyers are catching insects on the wing for their breakfast.

They've also been smacking into the windows the last few days, since I washed the insides. The outsides are still dirty as I haven't found a ladder or a long-handled squeegee (nor have I poked around the quonset looking for these things; it's hot in there during the day, which is when I think of it), and I'm reluctant to clean the windows properly for fear of even more collisions. So far they hit the glass and manage to fly off; I haven't found a dead or injured bird on the grass yet this summer. Knock on wood.

Most years we have had an abundance of tree swallows only right before a big rainstorm. This year they've obviously moved in around our yard so we see them more often, and they are very welcome.

I'm out walking, and the driver of this truck is probably a farmer coming home for supper.