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.

The More We Stay the Same

My journals are snapshots of my mood when I wrote, and they make a misleading permanent record. They were a natural method of self-expression at the time, and now they are … kind of embarrassing. Oh there are little gems: descriptions of people and bits of conversations, letters and photos tucked in, sweet or funny things my children said or did when they were small. There are many valuable reminders safe in those books.

Everett came out Xmas Eve and set up and decorated the tree. Today I tried to convince him to come out again and take it all apart. Had no luck though. I may have to try sweetening the pot somehow. He's got the week off work and the water pipes beneath his bathtub have frozen and won't drain. 

 Yet a lot of it is stuff I don’t want or need to remember now, and in a way would like to wash my hands of, destroy, let go— as opposed to lugging it around or leaving it behind. But before burning the books, I want to go through them for anything worth keeping; for instance, the letters, the memories of my children, the times spent with loved ones who are gone now. There is a lot there; it’s not all bitching and wondering why, that is for sure. 

But quite often, as I read here and there in the journals, I don’t much like the writer. I want her to grow up and get over herself. I want her to rise above many things and be wiser and stronger than she was. I see that 30 years ago I was upset by the same things that upset me now. I fear I have failed to change and grow; I am experiencing the same frustrations. I see this and am disappointed and concerned.

After a couple days of stewing on this, it occurred to me that perhaps this is not a personal failing after all. The popular psychology is that we repeat patterns in our relationships with family, friends, and people in general, and that if these patterns make us unhappy we have to strive to free ourselves from them, from their hold over our lives. We do this by becoming aware of the patterns and making consistent, longterm efforts to change them. I had been thinking that, since the same things upset me now that pissed me off 30 years ago, somehow I am at fault, that I must have been too weak or lazy or foolish to make essential changes.

 It took me a few days to realize it makes perfect sense that the bullshit that bugged me at 20 would still bug me at 55. If someone is rude, selfish, inconsiderate— for example –  well, why wouldn’t I be affected by my surroundings, just like any human being is? Why would I become less sensitive to injustice, cruelty, foolishness, betrayal and so on? We do not become less sensitive as we live longer; we become more sensitive, more aware.

And sure, we learn to handle things better. Just maybe not in our journals, where we don't practise kindness or even diplomacy. 

Neil & Rose Stop In

Is it a natural thing to reach the age of 55 and start thinking about what’s going to happen to all your stuff after you die? Who will be stuck with disposing of it?

Lately I have these concerns about all the family photo albums that are in my care, and about all the old dishes and other heirloom-type things I have.

My uncle Neil suggests scanning all the photos and burning them to CD so everyone can have a copy. That’s a great idea; finding time to do it or working it into the routine is the challenge.

As for the old dishes and other things, I always think that the reason I am lucky enough to have them is that no one else particularly wanted them. Maybe that’s not true. Or maybe it was but things could change. People do value things differently as they mature, and maybe what they didn’t want 10 years ago, they’d like to have now. 

I hope that’s the case, so that there will always be someone to care for these things, know where or who they came from, and appreciate the treasure that they are.

Emil with my uncle and aunt, Neil and Rose, who stopped in one afternoon and had coffee with us. Emil insists we have not seen them since May 31, which seems ridiculous. They live less than a half-hour away. 

And he is correct, as a quick peek into the journal archive shows.

CLICK HERE.

And yes indeedy, Emil knows his dates:

We stopped at KYLEMORE on our way to Margo.

And Rose is correct, too— "You got pictures, didn't you?"

YES I DID. Click HERE.

Candles Old and New

Power went out here yesterday at noon due to the heavy hoarfrost we have had for days.
Sure reminds you how dependent you are on electricity, for what can you do indoors without it?
Read and sleep.
Can't do dishes, cook, bath, laundry.
No computer, no internet, no tv.

Estimated time of restoration was 8pm. By 9 o'clock I had added to my regular ensemble a pair of ski pants, two sweaters and a tuque.

Scott and his brother had gotten a generator going, heated up the big old house in the other farmyard (a mile down the road, where his mother lives, also his brother's family), then wired our furnace up to the generator long enough to heat up our house and once more return the generator to the other house to heat it again for the night.

Scott made a trip to town to bring Everett out here; the lad had left work at 2 o'clock when all the businesses shut down because none of the debit machines worked without power. He lives in an old storey-and-a-half and had been in bed to keep warm.

Emil complained all day: "I sure wish the power would come on."

It came on about midnight after being out all over the province, or at least in a very long list of places.

I was impressed watching Scott do all that re-wiring, or whatever it was he did with those plugs and wires in order to hook the furnace up to the generator. "Is there anything that man cannot do?" I was certainly thinking that, as I wondered how other people— those without Scotts, woodstoves, fireplaces, generators— were faring around the countryside and in the towns.

Candles were our heat for some 10 or 11 hours yesterday, until we all went to bed.

Walking Weather - Depending on Your Direction

Sure it's 30-below or so, but if you are walking into the sun it's actually warm on your face. When you turn back and walk into the little wind—that's a different ball game.

I went for a beautiful stroll yesterday afternoon. It was so bright and glittering I could've stayed out there forever.

There is still a lot of hoar frost and it is still causing power outages. We have been fortunate in that power's gone off several times and come back on within minutes.

Heading out the driveway...

Sign and machine that came with the place

The Kids

Emil

Gunnar & Melissa

Everett

Even Villains are Little Boys when it comes to Toys

The Great Toy Robbery by Jeff Hale, National Film Board of Canada

No Hoarfrost Photo Today

Our area is gorgeous; the trees have been laden with heavy hoarfrost that lasts all day. I can say it's gorgeous because my house has not been without electricity. Many others have been, due to the weight of the hoarfrost on power lines. We can be thankful it's not 30-below out there.

We are heading for town to do our last-minute shopping and pick up our two youngest boys, who will spend the night out here; the eldest, with his fiancée, arrives tomorrow afternoon. It will be a treat to have them all with us at the same time for a few hours.

And now I must take my credit card, and away!

Little Grace, patterned on my mother, moves around the house. Here she rides the flying pig, sidesaddle.

Just Some B.S.

On the afternoon of one of my days off, Scott asked “Have you looked in the mirror today?”
It’s the hair, you see.
I don’t always soak it down if I’m not going anywhere.
It gets rowdy during the night and is hungover all the next day.

Occasionally he will raise an eyebrow and grin at what I am wearing (my "get-up"), but say nothing. (He is slowly catching on to the "good husband" rules.)
That's usually when I'm wearing bright multi-coloured leggings with thick socks, a short polka-dotted skirt, and three layers of tops; something perfectly comfortable for home wear.

On the other hand, he still doesn't tell me if there is something green stuck in my teeth before we leave the house. Hee! So he has a way to go before he gets a Good Hubby Award.

Faye the Fantastic turned this into a nice little arrangement for me before Xmas last year. I can't make a goodlooking bouquet no-how. It's good to have friends with skills.

Digging Out the Christmas Decs

I only have two of the wise men. And Saint Nicholas. Oh well. These are made from pure beeswax and smell lovely; I don't want to burn them. As they are they give a very pleasant scent to the bathroom, just every once in a while. 

Window Tour

Mom used to say that she liked their house on the old Johnson farm because there was a window to look out in every direction.

I like to be able to walk up to a window. There's a single bed in front of the office window, so I have to climb up.

Scott can't figure out why the hinges and plate on the wooden toilet seat are loose. Perhaps it's because I stand on it to look out the window in the bathroom while brushing my teeth. 

Through the window of the guest room, home of the roomba. Note: Scott threw a pole lamp out onto the back step last week. We have a lamp shortage now, alas. It is not easy to find a good lamp.

Porch window

Window in porch door

Window at kitchen sink

Dining room window. Will these deer-demolished cedars ever fill back in? I am tired of waiting.

Window in front door.  Don't step out in the dark or you will break your chin on the concrete step, which was moved away from the door when weeping tile was placed around the foundation.

From the living room, which now has—TaDa!—curtains. It has taken about four years to get around to that.

And finally our bedroom window, and the circle is complete. 

There is a blind spot where there is no east window.
Mom would like their farmhouse better.
An east window would please me, too.

The World Before Us

The latest book I've brought home from the library: The World Before Us, by Aislinn Hunter.

Page 33, and I'm not drawn in yet, I'm even a little bored, and I'm wondering whether to read a bit further, give the author more of a chance to pique my interest.

I've been up since Scott brought me the last coffee in the pot before he left the house. But not really up, as I've been lying abed, reading. Still in my fluffy green housecoat, which needs a wash but that can't be done here, as our iron- and sulphur-soaked hard water will stain it rust.

Page 89, and yes, I'll carry on a bit further now that I've come this far.

For more information about the story, CLICK HERE.

O Christmas Tree

Our Christmas tree.

The tree was made by my friend Cathy's parents, who created the Strathcona Model & Toy Museum in Edmonton. 

Setting the tree out has inspired me to dig up the other Christmas decorations. It's fun to see them again. Shelly, your Christmas letter is on the table so Scott can read it too. 

Ms Steinem: What a Woman

If I hear one more woman say she is not a feminist because feminists want to take something away from men, make men less masculine, put men down, be less domestic themselves, be more manly themselves ... I am going to puke.
Where do people get these cockamamie ideas?
And why, if they don't know what they are talking about, do they open their mouths?

It is particularly pathetic that women who now take for granted the right to work outside the home, the right to own property, the right to vote, the right to custody of their own children, and many other legal rights that women did not have even 100 years ago, do not recognize that it was feminists who fought for these rights. It was not women who were satisfied with the status quo and were happy to be the legal property of their fathers, husbands, or even brothers. It was women who had the guts to stand up and take the crap that was flung at them for insisting on being treated as full human beings under the law and not just chattel or, basically, domestic servants.

"If you are not a feminist, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Off to Work. Then Overnight at Everett's. Talk among Yourselves.

You're tired, but do you go to bed before midnight?
Hell, no.
But it sure feels good when you do finally lie down.
And then you lie there awake, flipping from one side to the other, till it's five to one and you think, "Shit, I've already missed As It Happens," but you turn the radio on anyway and, right after the news—which is always horrible so why you bother listening to it is a good question—a show about cities comes on and puts you right to sleep.

These three photos were taken from the same spot (within five feet).

They were taken within minutes—no, seconds—of each other.

The snow looks sculpted, and sometimes it appears blue.

The Bohl girls are saying they can't believe their mother has been gone a month already. My immediate response—though I don't say it to them, as it is not a comfort—is "You will feel the same when she's been gone nine years."  Or, though I have yet to find out for myself, 20 or 30 years. You know your mom is not with you anymore, but it never will seem right or even really true.

Spring in December

News? You want news? I have none!
Talked to Aunt Shirley on the phone tonight. No new news from Margo.
Talked to Dad. Lots of Saskies down where he is near Palm Springs for the winter.

Tired, I think. Was working last night in my sleep. Knew better, too. Kept telling myself I could work all I wanted, but it wasn't actually getting done because I was home in bed, not at the office. Should've got up and had a pee, probably; might've had some restful sleep then. Those irritating stressy dreams are when my body is trying to tell me something. How about you?
Too much info?
Well YOU come up with something, then!

Sun shining on south windows as it sets, late afternoon walk yesterday.

Leaving for work at 9:30 this morning.

Letters from 1978 (When Ken Mitchell Came to Wadena Library)

There are leaning stacks of filled journals on my dresser.
What the hell am I going to do with them?
It's not as simple as "Burn'em."
Not when there are treasures inside.
This two-sided letter was sent to me when I lived in Saskatoon with Cathy as my roommate. I was 19, Karen was 17 and away at school, and Joan would have been 10. Mom was 36:

Things that Sparkle

Out the back door. 

Over to the dugout.

And down the road.

Fences I Have Known

If I want to be fit, I have to walk at least four times a week.

So what's with the slacker I've been lately?

Tsk.

Especially because it is beautiful out there.