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.

Shelly Comes Calling

Out come the Christmas decorations! Christmas carols on the radio!

And what a nice visit we had. We didn't go anywhere but to town to see Emil and Everett. I put the brakes on for some of Shelly's schemes (Let's clean the porch. No!), and she lit a fire under my ass for doing a few things (Let's start decorating for Christmas. Okay!).

We chewed celery and sipped on vodka caesars one evening. Shelly's internet at home is expensive while here it's pretty much unlimited, so she indulged her addiction to Pinterest.  Lots of great arts and craft ideas there, to be sure.

Between the two of us, the dishes were handled (four hands, light work). Yippee!

Shelly's hands were free when she wasn't working on her fabric project, making Christmas decorations or doing a crossword, so I unfolded my quilt and got out the sewing kit and she was content for many hours and so was I; help was here.

Emil at his new job, sanding recycled flooring to make art.

Organize handwritten recipe cards in a digital format and have them made into fabric for dishtowels. Shelly plans to make aprons with copies of recipes written out by her sister, nieces, daughters, herself, and friends.

It's our jaws that should be tired, as there weren't too many hours when we weren't talking. But I am tired tonight. Shelly left for Edmonton this morning when I left for the office in town, and I've been yawning for hours. It's been late nights and lovely sleep-ins though; no complaining here.

'Bless her heart' is all I can say.

I've Got Company

And what do you do when you get company? I put them right to work.

Shelly arrived at 6 p.m. Friday, when we still had two hours ahead of us at the office.

Finally going to use that mix you gave me, Cathy. 

She arrived with a project that has to be done using photos, so we have been diddling around with the computers, among other things. (More on that later; I'll have to show you the project.)

I think it's pretty good! Shelly doesn't want a second glass though. 

And then since 8 o'clock that night ...
We have been doing exactly as we darn well please.

The pussywillows think it's spring.

Journal 1980

Can you relate to this, Everett?
"It may be silly but sometimes the future looks so bleak when you have no money and no goal-oriented dreams, and everyone's asking you "What are you going to do next?"

In 1980 I was 21.
This must've been an argument with Dad:
"It's not that the situation is bad; we had a good scream tonight; I did anyway, yelling and crying and stomping my feet. Don't think we got anywhere but got some hostile feelings out into the open; should've tromped more on them than each other. I think tonight was the first time I did more yelling than he did."

I set up a tent at the campgrounds:
"Sitting with legs stretched out to the fire, this book on the ground beside me; a frog hops onto the page and sits there a few moments, taking in the heat of the flames. Surprising. When a mouse darted out from behind the log on my other side I raised my voice and told it to get the hell away. It did."

One Friday:
"Looks like it'll be a good afternoon. Out on top of my picnic table, nude already in the sun. I intend to enjoy it thoroughly."
...
"Hmph. All my hopes for an afternoon of naked solitude — dashed. Strangers pulling up, Dad bringing my mail (big hug — how I needed that). Cameron rips in on his motorcycle as I'm taking off my T-shirt again — he backs up and drives off. Comes back and hollers from a distance "You decent?" before he'll come over.

Grandpa Johnson died on July 5, and in August I was living in Yorkton with a job helping Vietnamese refugees get settled.
"I hate being downtown, feeling so alone on the streets and feeling a plastic mask forming on my own face, and losing the battle to keep it off."

Oh my god. Things really do not change all that much:
Sept 1980
"Have to remind myself throughout the day to stay slow, take my time, there is no fire anywhere.
The golden rule: Do One Thing After The Other."

...

"Saturday morning; the phone rings - who's calling me on Saturday morning? It's Mom, just to talk - that feels good, there is love between us somewhere. I was surprised ... 'I guess she does like me!' "

Wed, Dec. 10:
"Got into M.S.'s car yesterday morning to go to Regina and soon found out that some kook has shot John Lennon ... Murdering a Beatle! What f'ing next?"