Hail to the Kings - the Saskatchewan Roughriders, November 30, 2009

For one moment, we celebrated the win, the victory and we saw you, in our minds-eye holding the beloved trophy you had fought SO hard to secure. You were at the top, you were on your game – you played like champs and by golly, you were ready. For 59+ minutes, you were the defenders, holding the winning count over the feared and feisty Montreal Alouettes. Yes, there were a few blunders – but the opposition dropped the ball and you had a running start.

We are the thirteenth man – the true thirteenth man and we stood beside you, cheering, celebrating. We were with you during the entire game and we were also the one on the field with you. And now we stand with you, support you when your legs and breath can't. We lift you high, we carry you and there is nothing to neither absolve nor forgive - for you were the giving ones at the cost of personal injury and a season of solid, hard work. Your leader is truly our hero, and you, every one of you are all winners. There is nothing to warrant sullen stares or slump shoulders. We wear our green pride with outstanding dignity.

It could have, should have turned out different, but there is nothing different in the way we see you now. It was a tainted cheap victory for the Montreal Alouettes scoring in the dying second and officially 'winning.' That's all. In sickening pomp and spectacle they rendered their speeches acknowledging self-proclaimed splendor, in a moment that was stolen from you, our beloved green team.

The prize was plucked from your hand, but that does not define whom you are.
You are the best; the most admirable and you are our finest – our family.
We loved you yesterday, the day before yesterday and nothing has changed.
Congratulations on a game well played and taking us with you to the top.
Enjoy your well-deserved break, your rest - and while we will miss you, we anticipate our 2010 reunion and season.

In honour:
The Desiderata
Max Ehrmann - 1927
Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant, they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is perennial as the grass.
Take kindly to the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Remembering Reggie

Reggie James Martin, Age 18

Killed in a car accident so close to home, November 21, 1967

The flowers we placed with love and care
Are gone, and a grave lies in snow.

Clouds pass over and shadow the ground

On the one we used to know.

And oh ~

He was loved. So much he was loved.

. . . We used to know those smiling eyes,

His laughter and spirit that glowed;

His youthful strength and gentle ways

When he was ours so long ago.

We've seen many seasons come and go,

The family has moved apart ~

His name marks the spot,

but there he is not

He lives on and walks in our heart.

And oh ~

He was loved, so much he was loved.

We have never forgot you, Reggie.
Never. As long as we have breath you are still part of our family and heart.
Your life was precious and you were loved.


-Arlene L. Martin, 11/82

Even Though It Was Short, It Was A Good Trip

I fell in a restaurant. Horrors. My friend and I were in the city having a delightful meal in a swanky bistro; our conversation punctuated with the comfortable, easy laughter generated between two dear life-long friends. When my friend stood up to put on her coat, I did the same, forgetting our table was on a raised floor.
Two women less than five feet away were also having a pleasant lunch. I took them by surprise when I fell and landed headfirst at their table, flat on my belly.

The thing about falling, one doesn't get to pick the location or time. If given the choice, I would be wrapped in football duds, shoulder pads, helmet and those shiny, skinny spandex knee-length bloomers. But that wasn't an option and down I went. Splat! I grazed the chair of one of the two women, their heads bent looking down at me in astonishment. As I write this and relive the humiliating experience, I wish that I had attempted a couple push ups with the explanation that's what I do after a big meal.

It has been my experience that several things happen when I take a tumble:
I see how quickly I can get back up.
I look around to see if I had an audience.
Even if I am bruised and battered, I try not to show pain or acknowledge injuries till I am alone to lick my wounds.
I get angry with myself for being so clumsy.
No matter how badly I injure myself, my pride is always wounded more.
I am relieved I am not dead.

It didn't take me long to pick myself up and as my friend fretted over me; the ladies were asking if I hurt myself. I told them just my pride and after I said that, an instant replay ran through my mind. I couldn't help it or stop it as laughter erupted from my boots straight up my funny bone, to my lungs and into my throat. The ladies were still wide-eyed and speechless as I zealously giggled like a schoolgirl. Dusting myself off, I followed my friend to the ladies facilities. I know and I am sorry I frightened the occupants because their glances couldn't hide their obvious thoughts; 'that old gal had one too many.' (The joke was on them – I don't drink!) Inside the little cubicle, my brain kept replaying a 30-second video of the bizarre thing that just happened. Wearing my new fancy soft leather crocodile-trimmed Naturalizer boots, my new purple Nina Leonard top from the Shopping Channel (both on a Clearance Sale at time of purchase) and enjoying the day away from the farm, I felt good about myself. Simply because I was a long way from my grey flannel plaid work shirt, lined worn-out wind-pants and my sloppy big slip-on work boots. And it felt so good that day to have my head between earrings. I was having a terrific day with an old friend. In a chic restaurant, pride may come before a fall, but it's nothing compared to the feeling of awkward gracelessness which always comes after!

Fred was in bed when I returned home late that night. I was tired from a day of shopping and talking and fell asleep instantly. The clock said 4:03AM when I awoke, the video of my descent playing in my head again – recalling the sudden startled look on everyone's face on my way down. I burst out laughing and couldn't stop. The little calico sleeping on my legs enjoyed the ride as I shook with laughter, waking Fred.

"Wha'? What," he said groggily, "What's so funny?" I couldn't tell him because I was belly-laughing and couldn't speak. The purpose of the trip into the city had been for medical reasons and the long drive to get there had been free therapy as we candidly chatted, delving deep into the hurting and hidden things of the heart. It just seemed right to me, that my fall had also been part of the therapy.

The best part of my topple, and it still makes me double over, was the reaction of my friend, who in animated jest placed her hands on her hips and said, "Well, I am just going to have to tell management to put running lights on that little step because my friend almost killed herself tonight."

And that's the whole truth and exactly the way I want to go.
Leave them - laughing.

What A Game!!! Yahoo!

You held the line!

Great job,
well disciplined, played smart!
Thanks Riders.

Terrific team work.
So proud of all of you.

Lighten Up!

Life Lessons I Learned From Barbara Johnson

Learn to tell a story! A well-told story is as welcome as a sunbeam in a sickroom.
Learn the art of saying kind and encouraging things.
Learn to avoid all ill-natured remarks and everything likely to cause friction.
Learn to keep your troubles to yourself. The world is too busy to care for your ills and sorrows.
Learn to stop grumbling. If you cannot see any good in the world, keep the bad to yourself.
Learn to hide your aches and pains under a pleasant smile. No one cares whether you have a headache or rheumatism.
Learn to greet your friends with a smile – they carry too many frowns in their own hearts to be burdened with yours.
Be a joy-collector –collect all things that are lifters, not sinkers.
You also need encouragement and lightness. Start looking for it.
(Barbara Johnson)

Saying thanks . .

To a terrific neighbour and friend for the recent gifts of kindness.
A while back he surprised us with a huge and heavy bag of good cat food, which has helped out more than words can say. More recently Dennis T showed up at our place with cash, paying for Benny's recent surgery and innoculations.
Also for his nice words spoken about our Personal S.P.C.A. operation have been just the encouragement needed.
We feel the love and so do the animals.
Thank you Dennis and Louise.
And also - congratulations on your latest little grandbaby.
You are so worthy and deserving.
You know when you come to the door, Dennis - Benny is the first one to greet you.
Thanks and thanks again.
This picture's for you - the flash woke Benny from one of his many catnaps. I know he thinks the world is quite a wonderful place.
With kind people like you and Louise, so do we!

The Other Side Of The Pane

We have been busy organizing the outdoor shelters with heating blankets, heating pads and soft clean cozy bedding for Stormy and his other playmates. Before the snow and frosty weather arrive. Stormy is looking in our patio window and likely wondering why he can't live in the 'castle' too! I go to bed each night knowing that our outdoor feline friends live better than many people - they have a roof over their head, warm beds, regular meals and medical care when needed.

Yesterday while waiting in line at a cashier, an old friend beside me told me she is thinking about getting a cat. A gal waiting in line ahead of us turned suddenly and snapped, "I HATE cats! Don't get a cat, they're awful." My friend looked alarmed, she was likely wondering my reaction. I smiled and told her that I take care of cats and the only awful cats are abused cats. I received no return smile and the woman continued. I knew she had more to say on the subject and I was an easy target for her to air pent up feline distain, "They get in my face and I can't breathe. They are awful things. I would NEVER have a cat in my house." I smiled back as she turned away. I knew Norrie waiting in line, also suffered migraine and I said, "I have two cats who always know when I am sick and they cuddle with me. I am soothed by their purrs." I received a glare from the anti-cat-person as she snatched her package and walked away.

Shortly after that encounter, I stopped at my vet's office to pick up a prescription for Benny. They know me well and I received a warm greeting. Before I left I was told they appreciate people like me, for I make their job easier. I figured heaven must have nudged her to say that. Thomas, the resident cat, was sleeping on the counter, in a ray of sunlight spilling in from the window. We laughed at him oblivious to our chatting and I was imagining the abuse and neglect and sad little and not so little furry patients she has seen and treated in her years of practise. Her words made me feel good because it is a known fact - animal caregivers do not receive a lot of encouragement. Or funds.

I can say this with conviction for I am a converted anti-cat-person. I used to stop dead in my tracks and scream uncontrollably when I saw a lone cat hair.

Today I see gratitude, love and appreciation in Stormy and all our other rescues eyes.

Alone, hungry and cold isn't a nice place to be whether one has four legs or two.

And a neat, tidy sparkly clean house can also be a lonely place.

Grateful, A Tribute To Mother

Every year since mother's passing, this week has always been moving for my family and myself. After being diagnosed with breast cancer her death was rather sudden. She was only eighteen when she married and remained young at heart, embracing life, deeming each new day an adventure. In her memory I penned all the things she cherished, realizing again that her life could be summarized with one word. Grateful.
These are the thoughts that came to mind.

Grateful, A Tribute
For work, for rest, for play, for break of day,
For sunsets, seasons, sunshine, smiles,
clouds,
For festive noisy crowds. And full moons.
Lazy wintry afternoons.
For happy-ever-after.
For birds, kind words and laughter.
For kittens, puppies, babies,
Daisies, birthdays, apple pie,
July and Christmas morning,
Happy without warning.
For hugs, for hope, for health, humanity;
Humility, family, farms, charm,
Warm bedding, getting
cheery greetings, happy meetings,
For little things . .
Baking and making feasts and cuisines -
Routine.
Holiday weekends, September evenings.
Coffee breaks, snowflakes, quiet times – nursery rhymes,
Music chimes, health.
Children, grandchildren and legacies.
For all of these . . .

For the relief and release of forgiveness.
Courage in the days of sorrow –
Tomorrow,
First snow, letting go, rainbows, gusto.
Harmony, comedy,
Company of friends, books and nature.

For good health,
good news, good weather, good jokes, good folks.
Handmade, homemade, wedding days, bouquets,
endings and beginnings.
For mothers, brothers and others
who inspire, instill and illustrate
great and an attitude of gratitude.
For work, for rest, for play, for break of day . . .

(Gratitude: a noun, a feeling of thankfulness and appreciation.)

Benny is having an adventure today.

He is at the Vet Clinic having his surgery.
We are hoping it will cool his jets and he will play 'nicer' with his house-mates.

Who Was The Soldier

I watched the Canadian National Remembrance Day service on television and something made me remember that long ago, I think about 1979, I had written a poem regarding war, "Who Was The Soldier." I dragged out my box of published clippings and past writings, and sure enough – I hadn't laid hand or eyes on it since. In my thinking, as our brave soldiers are fighting a war, that at the time of writing was years away, it doesn't take just a special day to honor them. This poem also took a few awards back in the day. I made several changes to bring it into today.

WHO WAS THE SOLDIER
Who was the soldier? What was the shore?
Did he feel like a hero in the midst of the war?
Was he scared as he bared his fear and his fright?
Did logic and motive make being there right?
Who was the soldier, what essence his life?
A number for the scorekeeper -
Despair for a wife.

Who was the enemy - where was his ground?
With the last blast of the cannon
Did the Beast plummet down?
Did the foe have a soul - and what of his losses?
Do poppies still grow between his crosses?

A horror so real to feel and uncover,
Wounded so deep - unlikely recover.
The things in his heart too appalling to say
Platoons and wounds that won't go away.
A uniform stored, weaponry gone,
A war long over though combat goes on.
A flashback – he's there engaging the grief;
The Beast resurrects as he places a wreath.

Afghanistan, Normandy, Iraq, Vietnam;
Who was the soldier and what of the man?
Tracks faded from jaded, worn combat boots –
Worthy of tribute and a thousand salutes.

Look Out, This Chair Is Loaded

Fred was late coming in for lunch so I kept chipping away at my laundry mountain one sunny, early November day. He was busy moving canola, or rather shifting it from bin to bin. Our big aeration fans have been going high speed for weeks inside those big hopper-bottom storage bins to prevent our grain from over-heating. Damp and/or unripe grain will combust and harvest conditions this fall were such to make that a possibility. So he has been fighting the cold weather; engines and batteries on grain augers and trucks for about the last three weeks. Evenings he wonders why he is so tired. I remind him that he is among the last of the Canadian prairie baby boomers still scratching in the dirt trying to make a living on the family farm. We had a semi load of canola rejected at the grain terminal because of a hot spot from heated grain so he has been especially busy and loses track of time.

When he did come in, I heard his call from the front door. "Are you around? I'm really hungry." I quickened my pace up the stairs lugging an over-flowing laundry basket. He stood in the front entrance as I quickly assembled things to make a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich. While I was doing this a horrendous crash behind me almost made me drop the electric grill. When I turned to see what happened, Fred was moving out of the way of a flying chair, as it landed, it struck the several cat food dishes and water bowl. The contents and dishes soared high in the air.

"What the heck?" I gasped watching in disbelief the scenario unfolding in front of me. Several cats scuttled like furry canon balls, "What did you do?" When the chair landed with a deafeningly crash, splattered cat food struck and stuck to the recently renovated textured kitchen walls, dripping down in thick gooey rivets. He picked up the chair, his big work boots making messy, mushy tracks in the spilled pet food, crunching under the dry morsels.

We stared at each other for a second. His face red and his hair, curling under his farm cap, wordlessly told me not only our canola was over-heating.

"I grabbed a chair to sit on out here in my work clothes and it got away on me."

That's all he said as he sat down on said chair waiting for his sandwich.

"Look what you just did?" I yelled.

"Yeah. Good thing you have a good vacuum! That's not a good place to leave the cat food."

Fighting words to me and rather than counting to ten before I went into battle mode, I hollered, "Their food station has always been there and how the Sam hill am I supposed to get that off the walls?"

He didn't answer and before I could stop, the grouchy lady in me took full command, "Look at that! Just look at it!"

He glanced at the wall and I could see his hair becoming even curlier. Removing his cap he wiped his hot, wet face and in a heated voice he asked: "Why is the furnace running? Don't you know it's a nice day out there? Why have you got the heat blasting on a sunny day? How come you didn't let the cats go outside today? It's one of the last nice November days."

I knew he was stifling inside insulated navy coveralls, wool socks and work boots. It didn't suppress the grumpy lady inside me; "It's not balmy in the basement where I am washing clothes, that's why."

I brusquely handed him his sandwich and fetched the vacuum. Surprisingly, the mess did come off the walls easily and without trace. A very quiet Fred ate his lunch, the vacuum roaring behind him. As he got up to leave without a thanks or apology, I yelled at his back, "Are you familiar with the word 'sorry?' It's in the dictionary, you know."

When the door closed behind him and I cleaned up the floor and lunch things, I decided for the moment I hated him. I recall something one of my favorite authors, Judith Viorst, had written about her husband, "Only when you truly love someone, can you also hate him."

Later, watching Dr. Oz as I took a coffee break from my chores, I decided it was time to rid the home and myself of the lingering negative energy. Even though he was only by the bins in our yard, I called Fred on his cell phone.

I think he was scared I was going to tear into him even more; his voice was quiet as he quickly said, "Thanks for lunch." I laughed and asked if he wanted to come in and play chair toss in the kitchen and have coffee with me.

I heard the grain auger running in the background as he solemnly replied,

"Don't think so. It's too much trouble."

You don't know soft till you hold fur!

"Triplets" When They Were Younger

FurB, Scout and Blink (take a second look, only little Blink's eyes are visible) when they were young and abandoned on our farm. Blink was the little 'fraidy cat of the trio and losing him was and still is a big heartache.

A long way from being left on their own and part of our home, years later the "Twins" are part of our clan.
It's not that we are mainly 'cat people' - not many (as in ANY) puppies or dogs get dropped off at our home.

If You Think You Have An Hour To Yourself Try taking A Bubble Bath

I thought late Sunday morning would be a great time for a long refreshing soak and bubble bath. I lit the scented candles, spread out the soft, fluffy towel and face cloth, poured a tall glass of orange juice and fetched my new book. Fred was in the field working up the spots along the creek and I could smell the back bacon and hash browns our son, spending the weekend with us, was cooking on the grill; perfect time for a good soak.

With thick sweet lavender-scent conditioner on my head, I reached for my glasses and my new book, Reflections Of the Heart and opened it to the bookmarked chapter eight, entitled, "The Bond." Thinking life just doesn't get any better, I settled deep in the warm bubbles and began reading. Suddenly I heard a hullabaloo on the other side of the door and a voice boomed "MU-UM! You'd better get out here! There's a pretty big cat fight going on."

As I reached for my gray terry robe hanging on the bathroom door, I guessed the culprit: Benny, our newcomer. Another rescue that showed up on our doorstep one busy harvest day in September. I was loading up the truck with a heavy cooler when the little guy mewed his arrival at my feet. I didn't have time to respond or pet him, but when I returned thirty minutes later he was crying unhappily on the roof of our home. I knew the scenario: our outdoor cats gave chase and he climbed the tall tree by our entrance. So that's where I found him stranded on the roof doing everything he could to get my attention. We put him on soft bedding in the shop and that's where he, a happy little fellow, spent the first two nights. It didn't take me long to recognize the symptoms of the same dreaded malady that had recently claimed one of our other little strays. Determined to stick around, despite the other cats picking on him, we brought him in, into the warmth of the 'castle.' So that Sunday morning found my bare feet making wet tracks down the hallway following the sound of antagonistic hissing and snarls. Sure enough, Benny, ears drawn and fur fluffed, was making low guttural come-any-closer-and-I'll-pounce warnings to the other cats trying to stare him down.
After securing him in the bedroom, referred to as the Feline Infirmary, I settled back into the fragrant bubbly froth in the tub. It took me a minute to get back to my earlier inner quiet zone, but opening my book, soon, I was there. Till the door opened five minutes later and Fred's face appeared, "I'm starving. Can you make me something to eat?"

I sighed and tossed my book to the floor groaning, "Give me a minute."
One last deep dunk in the wonderful water to remove the lavender gunk from my hair, and that familiar loud voice yelled, "Janice is here." I stepped out of the tub, wrapped my head in the big towel and in my robe and turban-head, walked out to greet my sister.
Alarmingly, on the other side of the kitchen window, a familiar face gave me a big smile and wave. Stunned, I waved back as I exclaimed, "Oh crap! He's seen me like this! I thought you said 'Janice was here." Our son was cracking up in laughter and pointing to the open window. I had recently cleaned my windows so spotless I couldn't tell that the pane was open. A quick glance out the window and I noted Fred at the front door in his sock clad feet, eating a dish of cereal talking to our neighbour, his best friend, Dennis. Even if I wasn't hearing impaired, I surmised the names 'Dennis' and 'Janice' sound alike through a closed door.
The mood was completely gone and before I walked down the hallway to get dressed, I murmured, "So much for my relaxing bath."
"Well you know mum," our son replied finishing his brunch, "Today just wasn't a good time to do that." I rearranged the towel on my head as I faced him. "It's Sunday morning! Or at least it was when I started out!"
He has a great laugh and it was contagious.
I pulled a green sweater from the closet as my heart said a silent prayer for my beloved *Saskatchewan Roughrider football team soon to face-off against the B.C. Lions.
The morning didn't turn out exactly like I had wished, but as the sun set over the chilly October prairie, all things considered - I had been right about one thing. Life just doesn't get any better.
For the moment and that's all that fits into my hand at one time anyway.

(*The football game went into overtime concluding in a nail biting Rider 30 – 33 defeat.)

Benny

Benny arrived at our front door almost a month ago.
Starved, skinny and with several health problems.
He has won his way into our heart and home
and we think the feelings mutual.

I Got My Cotton Flannel From The Shopping Channel

Late Wednesday morning Fred came home from town with two parcels from The Shopping Channel. It takes about a week for them to arrive from Toronto to our post office box. It feels like Christmas when I open the cartons and packages. I usually purchase more than one item and pride myself on being 'thrifty.' The Shopping Channel (or TSC) has a deal called 'multipacking' which means I get a bargain on postage and handling rates. I usually shop on-line and am becoming a real chump for their 'Daily Blockbusters.' I have bought: a vacuum cleaner, air purifier, soft throws and flannel bedding, jacket, pet things, handbags, great jewelry including Joan Rivers earrings and matching pendant, and various pretty things from the Ladies Fashion Department – all at unbelievable sale prices.

I am still waiting on an Aviva Soap Dispenser, several books: Organizing For Dummies, and Reflections Of The Heart by Sharon Callahan. Not to leave Fred out, I am also expecting 'the Ultimate Cleaning Cloth Set Of Two Bad Boys.' They will be useful for all the windows he has to clean on our farm equipment and our motley fleet of Chevy's.

If TSC had one fault, to me it would be that all items are shipped separately sometimes spilling into our post office on three or four consecutive days. The postal girls laugh when they explain the look on Fred's face each time he hands them another parcel card. They say he just rolls his eyes and waits for them to do the paper work.

My packages today were interesting: Van Houtte Extra Bold K-Cups for our Keurig Single Cup Brewer, and the "Ultimate Cloth Cleaning Kit." Right away I had to taste the coffee and examine the cleaning cloths. The rep demonstrating them on TSC had been so exuberant - with only several swipes she cleaned stainless steel appliances, chrome tire hubs and a host of other surfaces that had previously been smudged with Vaseline - a demonstration I concluded she couldn't fake. So that morning before I knew it - I had the kitchen windows shiny, inside and out, the glass stove-top, bathroom/kitchen facets and taps, patio doors, my camera and computer LCD screens and all mirrors glistening streak free. I felt like I had waved a magic wand – all that without one spritz of a cleanser or roll of paper towel and completed in notable time. Fred helped me remove several layered windowpanes and soon sparkle replaced grime that had bothered me all summer and fall. After all that cleaning, which I am not well known for, I had a little sit-down appreciating another cup of Extra Bold dark roast coffee.
Only this summer a friend told me, "Ethel, when you are eighty years old you are going to be known as the crazy cat lady who spends all her money on cats and the shopping channel." I thought about that for a minute, then looked at her and raised my glass, "Yeah, Gail you're right. Isn't that gonna' be great?"

Around our house, Fred is known as king of the TV remote. Even when he's sleeping soundly on the sofa, two cats spilled on him like flat purring furry beanbags, the satellite and television remotes are placed conveniently on his chest. He watches the Weather Channel. Religiously. When the reports for our district are wrong, he gets upset and seems to take it personally. He walks away complaining, "How is a guy supposed to farm this country when they can't even get the weather right?" And it's then I tell him that if he watched The TSC, he wouldn't have to worry about such things.

As we prepare for chilly wintry days and nights, I know the weather channel will lull Fred to sleep and it's then I can lift the remote from his chest and press the numbers 6-6-0 to see what is being featured on TSC. I think of the faces on that screen (and also those on the Weather Channel) and with twinges of lonesomeness, realize they are just a few doors down from our kids in that big city. When Fred stirs and glances at the TV, he is quick to say, "What the heck," and I laugh and return to his weather network. The evening hours we are entertained by Criminal Minds, CSI, 24, movies and whatever - so it's not all boring back home on the range.

Fred will continue to tell me that it doesn't cost him anything to watch his weather show and when he slides into bed at night I will remind him that the soft cozy mattress topper and comfy bedding were among the amazing block-busters on my show.

Paradise. Even facing another prairie winter it's within reach. I just have to tweak to my expectations.

1948: Car: $1,500; Postage Stamp: 2 cents; Minimum Wage: 44 cents per hour; Gasoline: 26 cents/gal; Bread: 14 cents/loaf

One cold, dismal afternoon found me browsing through the October 1948 pages of my grandfather's diary. His neat self-taught penmanship not only makes me feel closer to him, his words toss a cheery fresh coat of paint to my dingy attitude.

I did a quick study of the prairie backdrop. In 1948 only 1,500 farm homes were 'wired by the Saskatchewan Power Commission.' The "Regina" Roughriders became a provincially owned and operated club and made the name change to Saskatchewan Roughriders. Also in 1948 the Sask. government established the Saskatchewan Arts Board. Today it is the oldest arts support agency of its kind in North America.
The University of Saskatchewan began building a 25 million electron-volt betatron, Canada’s first. Tommy Douglas was the premier of our province and Louise S. St. Laurent, the Liberal Prime Minister of Canada. People were singing the popular song, "Red Roses For A Blue Lady."
By coal-oil lamp, every night he didn't write of any of that. I only know these gentle people from family stories and words in a diary. I profoundly regret they both passed away when I was an infant.

Passages from October 11 to Oct. 23, 1948 tell his story, which mirrors that of almost all rural folk from that era. (Roy was my father; Donald and Alice, his younger siblings. I do not correct grandfather's spelling.)
"Monday 11th:
A cool day. Roy finished floating this forenoon. We went and helped Jim to blast rocks this afternoon. Olsons was hear from the States this afternoon.
Tuesday 12th:
Not so cold today. Donald was discing (*disking) all day. Roy and I picked roots all day.
Wednesday, 13th:
A windy day. Roy and I picked roots all day.
Thursday 14th:
Donald floated (*leveled the soil surface by dragging a long, heavy weight) all day. Roy and I picked roots all day. We cleaned out the cistern tonight.
Friday, 15th:
A real bad day, it snowed some this afternoon. We picked roots this forenoon. Donald disced in the forenoon. We didn't do anything in afternoon.
Saturday, 16th:
It snowed some more this morning, the ground is all white. Donald and Alice went to the show tonight.
Sunday, 17th,
A good day. Roy went and bought a barn today from R. Wildeman. Paid $400 for it.
Monday, 18th:

Donald and Alice went to Humboldt today to fix teeth. Roy disced all day.
Tuesday 19th,
A good day. Roy and I got Jims and G. Graham's truck to move the barn he bought.
Wednesday, 20th:
A real good day. We loaded the barn on wagons today. Thompson and G. Graham helped.
Thursday, 21st:
A real good day. We got the barn home today. G. Graham hauled it for us with his cat. Thompson helped too.
Friday, 22nd:
We put rocks under the walls of the barn this forenoon. Roy helped G. Graham to burn brush. Donald and I worked on the barn this afternoon.
Saturday 23rd:
A good day. I helped Jim all day in LeRoy, then we went to the show and the fowl supper."

No telephone, electricity, indoor plumbing, television, or technology by today's standards and I have been told that my grandparents were happy, positive never complaining people. Though humbling it is good for me to read and reflect – an awesome reminder to promptly put the cork back on my 'whine' bottle.

"To be one with the trees is to know Life within your own spirit." ~ Chief Sequoia

At night I listen to the two big poplar trees (also called Aspen) beside our bedroom window. (Aspis, the aspen's Greek name, means shield; the Latin name of the aspen is Populus tremula, the trembling poplar.) I can tell if it's windy or stormy with the slightest breeze because these two old trees, talk quite loudly. Natives fittingly called them "noisy leaf," and the Greeks say "poplar leaves are like a women’s tongue, never still." In Christian lore, the quaking Aspen was used to construct Christ's cross, and the leaves of the tree quiver when they remember this fact.

The friction of the leaves on one another creates the rustling noise, as of a babbling brook. Aspen has a distinctive branching pattern; the topmost branches are often bent over horizontally creating an upper canopy. It is hard for me to accept that our splendid Aspens are shedding their foliage in preparation for winter.
Winter on the prairies lasts a long time.

I sadly noticed that two old Aspen trees had fallen down on a recent stormy, windy day. These trees were among others that began leaning and continued their slanted growth draping their picturesque branches over the gravel road we travel to our fields. The leafy awning was lovely to drive under during all seasons: shimmering frosty white in the winter, lively gold, orange and yellow in the fall and vibrant green during summer. Living near a creek, we have lost many of our Aspens to beaver. Because of its softness, beavers go to work on Aspens before any other tree. Ruffed grouse and other birds prize the aspen's buds in winter as a food source. I have learned to appreciate all trees, but the Aspen has many fascinating qualities. They can grow to a height of 90 feet or more; they protects its underlings, those newly seeded Aspen trees that are seeking to claim their place in the soil of life, and much like us humans, their life span is short-lived, between 50 – 100 years.

In attempts to access high-speed Internet on our farm, we tried many arduous things. We live close enough to see the signal tower to line our receiver with it, but something in between meddles with the strength. (Still does but only in the early evening hours of extreme hot sunny days.) We were told that something was interfering the line-of-sight. Fred drove our big 4-wheel drive Case tractor to the lovely old trees on the perimeter of our yard, and one by one, began pulling them down. I was in agony, questioning and lamenting 'progress' that required the removal and destruction of these elegant aged trees. As they creaked and groaned their last breaths, falling on one another I found myself repeating, "Sorry, so sorry. I am so sorry, trees." That night, I thought of something I'd once read, 'Suburbia is where the developer bulldozes out the trees, then names the streets after them.'

These early October days have been gloomy and grey but before it's time to fetch the snow suits and boots, I tell myself to get out now and see the Aspen in all its autumn glory. Walking under the whispering parasol of gold, flanked by our happy furry felines who also enjoy our daily walks, I speculated that autumn on the prairies would look quite different if there were no trees.

Many famous verses and lines have been written about trees. Some of my favorites include: "A tree never hits an automobile except in self defense," or, "Save a tree. Eat a beaver." But the 'tree-quote-of-the-day prize' should really go to Woody Allen: (no pun intended) for in true Woody fashion he alleged, "As the poet said, 'only God can make a tree' - probably because it's so hard to figure out how to get the bark on."

My Crying Bridge

There is an old bridge not far from our home
and I sometimes go there to de-stress and ponder and pray.
The amazing prairie skies change so quickly ~ I never feel alone.
Through the years, I have declared it my special, sacred spot.
I like to sit on the old cement and think about life, now and then.
I wonder if there were others when the bridge wasn't crumbling,
who would do the same.
Like I said, I never feel alone when I am sitting there.
I usually end up counting my many, many blessings.

Welcome to my bridge.

And In Watercolor:

Less Trouble Following Farmer Fred's Instructions If I Had Two Functioning Ears

"We're still here trying to get the word out that 330 farmers are quitting every week . . As long as there's a few farmers out there, we'll keep fighting for them." -Willie Nelson

It was a completely cold dark late September night as our two Massey Combines churned in the field. The moon was draped in clouds and the stars decided it wasn't worth the effort to break through.
My brother in law and our son were driving the twin Masseys. Fred was trying to keep up with emptying the grain truck as the combine hoppers, heavy with canola seed, emptied into the truck box for transporting to the grain bins about a mile away. We were down to one grain truck, the power steering hose had burst on the big Ford and it sat lifeless and useless somewhere in the canola stubble.
Driving our Chevy Suburban, I was on a supper run, the cooler loaded with sandwiches, cake, cookies, coffee and bottled water. Waiting on the second combine to come to the truck to discharge its hopper load, and call the driver over for supper, Fred was sitting in the passenger seat on his second cup of java. Watching the lights in the distance, I mentioned to him the driver's seat puts me at a disadvantage. My stone-deaf right ear faces the passenger and back seats and I am unable to hear conversations – especially with the noisy combine engines running. I knew Fred had other things on his mind and didn't really hear me or respond. When you're a farmer's wife during a late, drawn-out harvest – only two things about you and your arrival get him excited: the coffee pot and the portable cooler.
I heard Fred ask, "Drive me down the field to get the service truck."
That's the honest truth about what I heard, so away we went in the dark night. I had to ask him to point me to it, the night was black and Timbuktu in darkness has no helpful neon road signs. His hands waved directions and I dropped him off and watched him hop into the industrial old Chevy.
I made my way back following the lights of the combine and parked in the same spot beside the grain truck. I wondered what happened to Fred as I waited and watched for headlights, taillights – anything that suggested he was following.
Ten minutes later he parked beside me and opened the passenger door and yelled, "Where did you go? You were supposed to come and get me!" Apparently he wanted to leave the truck at the edge of the field, half a mile away. I hadn't heard that part.
When the combine emptied into the truck and the driver had his supper, Fred, sitting in the back seat, said to follow, then wait for him again. We would make a second attempt to park the service truck where he wanted it to be. Off I sped into the black night following his taillights. When he hopped back into the suburban for me to return him to the grain truck, I started driving back. The night was windy and the dust on the flat prairie field covered the lights of the combines. I had no idea I was headed in the opposite direction till Fred hollered, "Where the heck are you going?" My directions, which aren't all that great even in day light, had become totally twisted in the black night.
I turned the heavy suburban around as it noisily vibrated over and through the rough field. I wasn't sure if I was at the edge of the swamp in that field until again he hollered, "Get off the swath! You're driving right on the swath!"
His hands were animated; pointing the right way as I was telling him I had no idea where I was. For once I could hear him as he was telling me to just go back the same way I had come - useless advice to me attempting to navigate in a black, moonless field.

As I drove the dusty back roads towards the lights of home, I burst out laughing at the thought of Fred driving half a mile to park the truck. I pictured him impatiently waiting for me to pick him up, then driving the distance of the field back, wondering why I hadn't. Particularly after explaining my plight concerning my deaf ear.

Tuesday afternoon when the combines brought in the last of our grain, I grabbed a befuddled cat and did a celebratory dance. It had been a long September. When rain started to fall that evening, I felt troubled for neighboring farms with grain in wet fields.
I know those who have the love of the land deep in their heart, with true pioneer spirit, face the days ahead with inbred backbone and much needed humor.

I can never really get lost on our land for it is our existence, our essence - and Fred was agitated because that night the farm-clock was ticking. It is a life that continues to evaporate as farmers become corporate and new combines and tractors each have half a million dollar price tags.
For now it is what Fred and I do - which come to think of it, reminds me of something else Willie Nelson said, "All I do is play music and golf - which one do you want me to give up?"

Crying Grounds

"Man's heart away from nature becomes hard." ~Standing Bear
When Fred's eighteen-year-old brother was killed in an auto accident his parent's lives and hearts were inescapably, never the same. Though it happened a long time ago I remember it terribly clear. His brother and I were the same age and we were classmates. I spent a lot of time at their farm after helping my future mother-in-law and at suppertime I sat where there would have been a very empty chair.

Now that both my in-laws have passed on I think of them often. I walk the same yard and our equipment meanders the same fields. Where once she had an impressive sizeable weed-free vegetable garden that fed six growing children, it is over taken now with quack grass and weeds of all sorts and we mow the area. There are no strawberries or raspberries where she tended a patch larger than our home. Most of all I think of her when I see the aging, dying and last of her fruit trees she once proudly tended with love and care. It was her special place. Her orchard.

She had pear trees, plum trees and many varieties of apple trees. I would walk with her among the rows of apple trees and she would say, "This is the pie apple; this is the apple sauce apple; this is the jelly apple; this is the eating apple,' and on and on we would walk under the shady, leafy canopy as she explained her fruit trees to me.
The eating apple was my favourite. She had developed an apple that was crisp and berry-sweet. I couldn't stop eating them and she would always help me fill a pail to take home. They were delicious. She fought a constant mêlée with raccoons and deer because they loved her orchard as much as she did.

After her son died she told me numerous times that she did most of her crying and grieving in her orchard. I would picture her there in the spring when the trees were stunningly dressed in their dazzling seasonal pinks and white. Listening with my heart, I could see the trees embracing her with their splendor and solace. After all, it was her hands that had given them life.

Moving from the farm to town, she returned often to her beloved orchard. Today I pass it reverently; it was her special place where her sorrow could vent and tears freely flow. I listen with my heart as her sobs still catch the wind. When she was diagnosed with aggressive cancer, I know she returned there one autumn day to say goodbye, tears falling for the final time in her safe, special place.

After a long, cold winter Fred's mother slipped away one cold blustery day in March. Perfect gardener that she was and able to grow anything, spring was always her favorite time of the year. She had many unkind winters in her life and she would no longer shed tears in the seclusion of her protective green orchard.

One fall day months after her passing years before we moved to the country, Fred came home with a somber look, "I was just in mom's orchard," he said, "and what a strange thing. Not one apple on a tree. Just leaves, there's nothing in there at all!" He added it was the first time that ever happened.

Last Sunday, my sister and I picked what few apples we could find among the gangly, gnarled overgrown old trees in the vanishing orchard. For years I had entertained thoughts of preserving the orchard but time is like holding a slippery salmon and it never happened. The deer have made paths in the tall grass and we found only one tree with regular size fruit. Small green pears hang on an old pear tree; bitter replicas of what once was sweet and good.

In the country, I have amenably noted, there are no rooftops, antennas, buildings, satellites or receivers to block one's view and the backdrop is pure nature. My sister's granddaughter was with us that day and Coralie summed it up by asking, "Grandma, do you hear that?"
"What, honey," Barb responded.
"Nothing, grandma. Just quiet."

Just quiet where the tides, the tempo and time play like a silent spectacular symphony and seasons and all living things connect in a way the human mind is only beginning to realize. Nature in all its rich and countless facades is a gift. It is also patient and has a long memory.
It's easy to explain reasons an orchard would be fruitless and if the area had flooded or encountered insects or drought, we would join the ranks of cynicism.
But we saw what we saw - the trees withheld their fruit as nature mourned and honored an old friend.

Rounding up the wheat.

Losing Daylight

Star Light, Star Bright . . .

Our son and Fred were combining canola in our farthest field several years ago when I got the call from my farmer to bring out the coffee. He said the conditions were just right and they would likely run the combines straight through the night. Combine paddles can cause canola to 'shell out' and spill into the field if the pods are overripe and brittle, so that damp unclouded starry September night I found myself heading their direction with roast beef sandwiches, chocolate cake and very strong coffee.

The field is what I call 'way out in the boonies' and all back roads look the same under starlight. I passed long abandoned farmyards, the old crumbling, collapsing homes occupied only by shadows and hushed echoes of families who once lived, laughed and loved inside the frail, falling, forgotten structures.

The land we farm is exceptionally flat so I was guided by the lights of the combine and grain truck miles away. Fred told me that I might as well stay there rather than return home in case they needed an extra set of headlights or hands should something go wrong. I didn't mind. The night was unseasonably warm and magnificent. Watching the big red beasts churn and swallow the chubby grain swaths, and seeing and being part of what our small space of soil can create - satiates my spirit.

Gazing out the truck window I found myself spellbound by the encompassing galaxy of gleaming, glittering stars. In the distance the vivid lights of the combines were slowly and stridently going back and forth the length of the field.
I was thankful that all was good in my world, if only for that little slice of time.
Like the incredible stars that night around and above me, I concede that life consists of minutes and months unfolding in brief sporadic segments. Just as much as I wanted to reach out and grab a star, they are out of my reach and time also isn't mine to hold.
Literally star-struck I was grateful simply for being audience to the beauty of the star-studded prairie night cathedral. As the word "Thank you" escaped from my lungs and hung in the crisp autumn night air - a brilliant star suddenly blazed across the starry horizon as if tossed through the cosmos by a colossal, great arm.

Another day in paradise for me really becomes do-able simply by remembering the night Heaven gave a wink – just for me!

Backed Up!

Our fields have become a maze of downed swath as Fred is trying to make hay while the sun shines. Our little Versatile swather goes around and around the fields every day chopping down grain stalks. It is our heart's wish, like every other farmer, that the sunshine will hold so the combines can roll in the fields and pick up the grain after it has developed in the swath. Fred falls asleep much quicker when our grain bins are full this time of year. Navigating in and around these long clumpy rows of fallen grain, I find it quite testy to get to him. I know the combine header can't pick up swath up after tires have trampled it, so it is tricky maneuvering these mazes while bringing refreshing beverages, ham sandwiches and other things to my farmer.

Sometimes there will be another pick-up in the field and the equipment idles while a neighbour chats with Fred. There is much to talk about – yields, equipment and essentially - the weather. I watch in total awe as that same pick-up drives backward in an impressive straight line the entire length of the field at full throttle, cleanly between - and avoiding the fallen swaths. I struggle to do that. Fred teases me that I back up crooked. It is the truth. With twenty-something feet to navigate between the rows, I do find it tricky to back my way out of a field. Throw in a curve around a bush or the creek and my truck and I both look like we are driving while under the influence.

I can do it best if I look over my shoulder, straining my neck to see through the back window. Fred and his farm friends use their vehicle's side mirrors. I tried that once when backing off a main grid because a large service vehicle was roaring in my direction. I made the turn too soon and my truck hovered over a steep ditch, balanced only by the lone driver's tire still on secure ground. I blame that incident on my stupid bifocals. I can't back up wearing those silly glasses and have quit trying since that day I rocked and swayed hanging in the balance till Fred arrived with a towrope. Previously, wearing those same glasses while also backing up I rammed into another truck in the Peavey Mart parking lot. I don't wear bifocals anymore despite the claims that they are new and improved. A bifocal is a bifocal and backwards will always be backwards.

When I approach a field and Fred is in the middle of the maze, this can put me in a tailspin. Which row will bring me directly to him? If I don't get it right, I have to back up and find the correct swath row. As the days get later into the harvest round up I find that my backing up skills do improve. But only if I do it my way with my head turned 180 degrees piloting out the back window.

It is a busy time and the coffee pot never cools down. Yesterday I almost took coffee and cookies to a neighbour and not Fred. Fields and red swathers can look the same way out in the prairie boonies. When I realized I was not in our canola field and put the truck in reverse, I wondered if Roger laughed at my truck doing an ungraceful boogie-woogie between his rows of swath. Another week and I will become a better backer-upper.

Still it is a beautiful season and time and I absorb every detail for I find solace in autumn. It is awesome to watch and listen as thousands and thousands of geese fill the prairie skies and at night, the sound of coyotes calling one another brings a sense of peace that all is well with Nature. I may have bungled and bounced my way through the golden fields but eventually I reach the finish line.
Forward or backward the way I see it, it's simply about enjoying the ride.

Bunny Hugs

It is after three in the morning and Fred is sleeping soundly. He is exhausted. Our twin Masseys rolled in the field today in an attempt to pick up a field of peas. They weren't processed by the sun long enough and spewed out the combine augers in something resembling pea soup. So our three grain trucks and two combines roared disappointingly back into the yard.

I went through the motions today, like I did yesterday, and the day before - unlike previous years, my heart not really into the harvest. It was almost three weeks ago we took our youngest cat to the animal clinic to have him put to eternal rest. The furry little tyke sprung to life that day and the vet and I made the decision to treat him with TLC and fill him full of his supplements and hope for the best.

I called him BunE when I first saw him. Almost a year ago a neighbour came racing into our yard calling anxiously for me to come quick. A weak, emaciated young grey cat was shivering by the grain bins. With cat food Dennis keeps in his yard especially for our wandering ones, he quickly gave the little fellow a snack before fetching me.
My heart sank when I saw him and I didn't know if I could save him. He resembled a little grey rabbit, nothing but fur and bones, his nose crusted and his eyes sunken. He didn't mind me cradling him in my arms and setting him on the passenger seat as we drove back to our home. The name BunE stuck and he responded to it almost immediately.

Tonight that seems like a long time ago. It didn't take long after his rescue that he filled out and his fur and eyes glistened. He became the perfect pet, his eyes lighting up whenever we talked to him. Fred and I often said he was the happiest little cat we've ever seen. His immune system was severely damaged and he became a 'special needs' cat. Twice a day I pumped him full of supplements. At night, he slept on either of our pillows, often waking us up with his noisy breathing. We would get the giggles listening to him wondering how such a little creature could snore like a freight train.

An hour ago he died in my arms and he did not go gentle into the night. Fear clouded his eyes and with aching heart I sang 'our' song - though this time, with a cracking, fractured voice: "I bless the day I found you, I want to stay around you . ."
I have been singing that old Everly Brothers song to him for the past twelve months. He would recognize it and seemed to calm him when he was having a bad spell. I sang it to him many times as we waited in the little room for BunE's special "Dr. Paetsch."

The pain I feel is valid and it is piercing. His happy little presence now screams with his encompassing absence. Familiar with the routine, habits and people within our walls, BunE was part and parcel of our home. His favourite toys and blanket are in the living room. The basket he slept in near my computer is empty and the other cats will not go in it. They do not infringe one another's special space. I will pick up and pack up the remnants of the things that marked his brief and difficult existence.

My grief is a phenomenon fully realized by those with pets - nevertheless it opens a door to criticism. I make no apologies for I believe a heart that can lovingly and without restraint care for a helpless little creature, can wholly enfold and embrace a human being with equal or greater passion.

BunE battled a disease that was bigger than he was yet he fought it unruffled, expecting no special favours or treatment.
Daylight is replacing the storm that blew up during the night and I will be tired as I bury BunE under the big old sprawling maple tree in the back yard. Fred will check the canola to see how ready it is for the swather to knock down - and once again the twin combines will harvest the crops from our fields. Winter will replace autumn, and the night that BunE died will be marked by his little paw prints fixed forever in my heart. I told him repeatedly he was a special gift to our home; a gift of unexpected joy.

As the sunrise ruptures outside my window, I ponder the people and my furry animals that radiate shimmers of light inside my heart. They are gifts that continually unwrap and unpredictably bring joy. I have never felt so blessed. It is by walking through sorrow that I can truly appreciate the wonder of laughter and the dazzling blue of a September sky. It heightens the awareness of what it means to grab a day and celebrate.

We could never out-love BunE. His eyes and his loud purrs and BunE hugs constantly reflected gratitude.
Something we needed to be reminded of and selflessly emulate.
For BunE's sake.

(BunE suffered from Feline Herpes. He developed a severe respiratory infection with enlarged and inflamed lymph nodes. He managed to beat it but his already damaged immune system couldn't recover energy from the battle.)

Love Letters

Toronto seems a long way away from the Saskatchewan prairies and we don't seem to get there often enough to visit our sons. Thanks to email we are able to stay in touch and share photos and messages and whatever the day brings. I like to have fun and the following is a message I sent to them recently, in the guise of a talking-cat e-card, written from one of our house cat's perception during a busy week.. Their reply follows.
Despite the grey and black clouds that roll in and often hover, it has long been my theory that laughter and joy in life's minor day after day moments can chase the gloomies, even if just, briefly away!

Scout wrote:

Hello Rodney and Ryan
This is Scout,
Please I don't know whom else to call.
Your mother, the cat lady, keeps forgetting to change the litter boxes around here.
Little BunE crapped on the floor and I don't blame him
I have wanted to do that too because I hate a dirty bathroom.
Sometimes she takes our water dish and cleans it and then forgets to fill it again.
We have gone without water for half a day sometimes
Please help us.

Did she do things like that when you were little?
We love her but are desperate.
Thank you for your help
Love from Scoutie on behalf of all the others.


Ryan replied:

(Mom, do you think you could pass this email on to Scoutie? We don't seem to have her email address. Thanks.)

Dear Scoutie,
Thank you for your message, and for taking the time to describe the conditions over there. Deplorable. Has mange set in on any of the others yet?

When I was just a young one, The Cat Lady (TCL) often forgot to replace the water in our bowl. As for the litterbox situation, my older brother too had a similar situation as to BunE's, wherein he ended up having to do his business in a potted plant. You see, neglectfully, TCL decided to answer a knock at the door. She must have forgotten that kittens require 100% supervision, all day, all night.

I hear your plight.

Woefully, other symptoms of neglect began to emerge for us: some kids were sent to kindergarten on the wrong day, while others questioned: "what do I look like, your mother". Then there was the "frikken pie" incident, which is still far too tender to talk about.

So, Scoutie, TCL has a long history in this type of behaviour. I suggest you take matters into your own paws, like we did. Try driving the car onto the neighbours lawn, or cutting the patterns out of TCL's favourite outfit (I already did the wedding dress, so you'll have to find something else). Once, we knocked the head off of one of her statues - this managed to bring a pot of attention. If you try this last technique, you will find it most effective if done to one of her latest purchases - look for "Shopping Channel" tags.

Good luck to you Scoutie. I hope you try some of these techniques, and you find the one that works for you. Please do let us know if conditions do not improve over there!
Much love,
Rodney and Ryan

If My Computer Had Eyes At Any Given Time At Least One Would Be Black

For what my personal technical needs are, I think I know my way around a computer, or at least around my computer and some of my friends and family - for I often get computer distress calls from them. The blue screen of death doesn't scare me. Just makes me angry because it's an annoying set back and requires hours of fooling around to put ol' Humpty/Dumpty back together again.

Like me, my computers, have changed over the years. I have had the primeval Window's MS-DOS system, Windows 95, Windows 98, Windows Millennium and Windows XP. When I have more time to drive through the learning curve, this winter I am thinking of making the leap to Windows Vista.
Despite all the tidying and maintenance, yesterday my XP gave me the window telling me it is out of virtual memory. Though I have three hard drives, I admit I have too many graphic programs and pictures. It has been a good workhorse.

Our son, the Toronto banker, is the real computer maharishi and in comparison, my 'puter knowledge makes me feel like I am in still in computer kindergarten.
Every family needs a Rodney. When he comes home, my computer gets cleaned up, updated, new programs installed and he makes it runs like a brand new machine. He is very patient. Even when he spent hours fixing an infuriating problem and I came in and asked him a dumb question, he was polite. That's a real test of character. Fred has done that to me several times when my machine is requiring resuscitation. He stands and observes, often eating a banana or a cookie, casually offering basic fix-it suggestions – all of which I have tried. I use what little restraint I have left to not yell at him because it's not him I am angry with but he is an easy target. When my computer and printer are humming along serenely, the world is real fine. However when the gremlins get in and for no reason at all, hopelessly mess everything up, I am like the dog that goes at the porcupine and doesn't give up or walk away despite a face full of quills. A flaw in my character makes it become personal.

Of all the systems, I loved my little Windows 95. It was so fun. I learned almost all my computer skills on that little guy. It was easy to drive – easy to fix. I crashed it several times and it taught me to not be afraid because whatever goes awry can be mended. When it was brought down by a nasty virus and was too old for security updates and repairs, I felt like I had lost an old friend.

Several years later on a hot August afternoon, lightening stuck five feet from our house. The storm came so quickly; I hadn't shut off my Windows ME. When the lights came back on, my computer didn't. I was hoping at least for the blue screen of death but instead I got the black screen of annihilation. I couldn't call Rodney because our phones and phone lines were also torched. I rode the bumpy learning curve and eventually restored it though it took half a year till everything worked correctly.

December 2008 as I was singing about the midnight clear and my printer was chugging out our Christmas card, suddenly everything stopped. I thought it was a paper jam, but a closer look revealed that my printer was being uninstalled and the cursor was flying all over my monitor. A flaw that particular day in Microsoft Explorer allowed a hacker to get inside my computer. By the time I figured out what was going on and unplugged my modem, my faithful XP was considerably muddled up. It Came Upon The Midnight Clear received a new chorus that afternoon.

Years ago when my Windows 95 couldn't be revived and I was in the middle of a deadline-computer job (I do custom graphic work) – I switched to the MS-DOS to finish. Not a good idea. The ancient clunker was agonizing slow, inflexible and refused to cooperate. I did what I have always dreamed of doing in the heat of a computer conflict. I unplugged the tower and carried it outside. Pumped with adrenaline, holding it above my head, I tossed it as far as I was able. Then I picked it up and threw it again, and again and again. Likely not what an anger management course would advocate, but golly, it felt great. I walked back in the house and hugged my broken little '95.

Everyone with a computer has a frustrating story or two – it's part of the game and my PC and I have a love-hate relationship. The world as we know it has been commandeered by computers and sometimes I think it was more peaceful back in the day. I actually had to write with pen and paper, get up and walk to check the time, the temperature, and the news of the day or fetch a long forgotten book once called the dictionary. I also seemed to have more postage stamps on hand.

With a smile I remember the day Fred came home from town and discovered computer parts strewn all over our front yard. Very cautiously he remarked, "It finally crashed, huh?"

My Toronto kids are big Mac fans and are trying to sell me on that system. I am almost persuaded. They tell me Macs don't have the frustrating hitches and hiccups that IBM is proverbially known for. I think of my computer combat memoirs then reckon - well, where would be the fun in that?

Hunting Party

I was up in the night taking something for my heartburn. As I detonate into my so-called golden years, I am discovering, among many other things, popcorn before bedtime does not a good sleep make.
The patio lights were on and I caught movement on the deck. A big skunk was nosing around checking for remnants of the day's cat food. Finding none, I watched as he moseyed around the house to the front entrance looking for something appetizing that a cat or two may have left behind. This is the big skunk that has been raiding the cat shed all spring and summer eating every last morsel, plus messing/dirtying up and destroying the food stations within. Despite every attempt to block his entrance, even placing the dishes where we think he can't reach them, he defies all the rules concerning the mobility and climbing skills of these weasel-family critters. Last year a neighbor's grandbaby was bit by a rabid skunk so we quit rolling out the red carpet when they show up. Also, I recalled last year how we were kind to a family of skunks when their mother was killed on the highway and we relocated them to one of our sheds in a field about ten miles away. I called it our Witness Protection Program, telling them they were lucky to be born on our farm.
Since the rabies scare of last year, Fred told me if I ever see a skunk in the night and he is in bed, to wake him. I could hear that he was sleeping like a stump being attacked by a chain saw. As I watched the critter, I wondered should I wake him. I walked to our bedroom, "Fred."
"Zzzzz!!"
"FRED!"
"Zzzzzzz!"
"FRED WAKE UP! HURRY!!"
"Whaaa? What?? What time is it?"
"Fred! There's a skunk on the step!"
He burst out of bed, fetched the rifle and slid his feet into unlaced work boots then headed into the dark night. I followed with the Black & Decker flashlight. The skunk was scampering across the highway to our other yard. In hot pursuit, I fixed the light on him. He was running to an old bin with space to scoot under. Fred stopped, aimed and fired. The skunk suddenly leaped and I thought he was a goner. Not so as he decided to show us his warp speed and lobbed underneath the shed. We stood there figuring he'd soon come out again.
We waited silently under a semi-clouded night sky. The stars were amazing and it entered my mind there is nothing more delightfully incredible than standing in my pink pajamas under a star-filled August prairie sky at 3:30am. Fred told me to wait and not lose sight of our resident skunk. He was going back to the house for warmer clothes.
I listened to his footsteps grow faint then turned and lifted my light to the window lofts in the cat-shed. Brilliant, neon little pairs of beams blinked back at me like mini-monster eyes. They had a front-row seat. I returned my vigil to the foundation of the old shed. A coyote cried in the distance. Then another. Our neighbour's dog started barking. I hoped their new colt in the pasture was safe. Another neighbour's little dog, Foxy, recently suffered (and survived) a brazen coyote attack one afternoon in their yard. I heard another coyote's lonely wail. Fred was an approaching shadow in the moonlight as another coyote called, inciting a quartette of coyote song. Fred stood beside me just as the skunk decided it was safe to come out. I shone the light as Fred aimed and shot. The skunk stood still; confused illuminated eyes looked back at us. Fred fired again. This time the skunk darted back for cover, flanked by a third shot that got him under the shed even quicker.
We decided it was late - or early, depending which way you looked at it, and the striped stinker was unlikely to come out any time soon. As we walked back to the house in the moonlight, Fred commented that his rifle needed to be re-scoped. Call me crazy but it seemed to me for some reason Fred was a better marksman before he went back for his pants.

In hindsight we could have likely saved ourselves the hullabaloo and got a good night's sleep because Fred returned from town the next morning saying that our skunk was dead on the highway.
He dodged the bullet in the night and got sideswiped by a truck in the morning.
That's what I call a paradox and one of life's peculiar déjà vu phenomena's.

Logically Speaking

Fred took our Versatile 4750 swather out of storage and after a quick inspection, hopped in our pick-up for a quick trip to the local tire shop. The aging implement needed new rubber boots. (I told you we are among the last of the small prairie farmer.) We wished we could have just kept the old tires and got a new swather, but one day at a time we plug away at this career called farming. I see combines and swathers thundering down the highway and I know that neighbours are also servicing their equipment and preparing for the big grain round up. It is an exciting time and mostly, a simple time and I look forward to it every year. By simple, I mean that everything nonessential rides the back seat because the focus is getting the crops into the cleaned out and waiting bins before the advent of hail, frost, rain or snow
I got thinking about 'simpler' and remembered a couple email forwards I received about living life uncomplicated. They seemed analogous to the life my parents lived when common sense was their guiding star. I decided it's so true. There is sensibility in simplicity. After a reread of "Cowboy Logic" and "An Old Farmer's Advice" I made seventeen mental notes to self:
1. Life is simpler when you plow around the stump.

2. Words that soak into your ears are whispered...not yelled.

3. Meanness don't jes' happen overnight.

4. Do not corner something that you know is meaner than you.

5. It don't take a very big person to carry a grudge.

6. You cannot unsay a cruel word.
7. The quickest way to double your money is to fold it over and put it back in your pocket.

8. Most of the stuff people worry about ain't never gonna happen anyway.

9. Don't judge folks by their relatives.

10. You ain’t learnin’ nothing when you’re the one doin’ the talkin.
11. Remember that silence is sometimes the best answer.
12. Don't interfere with somethin' that ain't bothering you none.

13. If you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop diggin'.

14. The biggest troublemaker you'll probably ever have to deal with, watches you from the mirror every mornin'.

15. Good judgment comes from experience, and a lotta that comes from bad judgment.

16. Lettin' the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier than puttin' it back in.
17. Live a good, honorable life. Then when you get older and think back, you'll enjoy it a second time.

In light of number ten - now seems the right moment to mosey on to other matters.

And On the Flip Side Of Home Renovations: Complications, Decisions, Tribulations and Frustrations. Mostly Frustrations.

We passed up many invitations for supper and fun times with friends this entire last year because we were knee deep into home renovations. Since July 08, weekends at our home have resonated with the shrill racket of power tools. Often till 2am. Our able son has been our multi-task contractor supervising everything: carpentry, electrical, plumbing, cement work, laminate and porcelain tile flooring, sanding, painting (regular and texture,) demolition and rebuilding walls and bead board ceiling work. It has taken the entire year of evenings (when he was available) and weekends. We have done everything ourselves and, indeed, is quite an achievement: two hallways (with wainscoting and fresh paint,) our living room and kitchen, main bathroom and the transformation of our front entrance into an open space mudroom. From stem to stern, these rooms have been revamped. In our home dating back to 1924, we even discovered a secret sliding door within a wall.
We debated for several months whether to construct a shower in the mudroom half-bath finally deciding it would be very convenient. There are many things to consider in the construction and renovation of a bathroom. It is not for the faint of heart and after discussions that made me weary, we opted for a custom built Schluter Kerdi drain and shower system. It is as complicated as it sounds and has many layers of boards, cement board, waterproof wrappings, sealings and tile. It will also double as a safe place to go in the event of a tornado.

Working with walls that are far from straight and floors that are far from flat, many projects had to be done and re-done and the wait would begin all over again in our little corner of Prairie Timbuktu. The Home Depot and other hardware stores are not exactly around the corner.

Our home has been uprooted for the entire year and Fred who is challenged to locate every day household items, has been completely flummoxed. The renovations have been room by room, so furniture and other things had to be relocated. It isn't easy living with clutter and chaos and moods inside our little house on the prairie have been somewhat crusty.

Now that we are finally finished, it is an incredible feeling. Especially that we did it on somewhat of a shoestring budget, chasing sales. We are fortunate to have a son in Toronto who is an architect designer. He not only provided us with plans and advice, (especially for the mudroom) but also with much needed encouragement. Through all the seasons of 08 and to present, we have had saws and their big tables, plastic pails (for tile work,) boxes and large trash bins and rubble and muddle directly in front of our main entrance. I very often had to remind myself it was all for the better good. Although it didn't bother the guys, I often thought the toilet, perched mere feet from the front door, was total feng shui blasphemy.
SaskPower arrived a couple weeks back with their tree-trimming equipment to remove the treetops and branches converging on their lines. One of the fellows came to the door to announce the power outage, his look of surprise, evident. Gazing around, he muttered. "Holy smokes! It's beautiful in here. You sure can't tell from the outside!"

After12 months of muscle grease and stress it happies me up just to think about his compliment in camouflage. Sunday evening I tossed my kneepads after staining/sealing miles of grout and donned my dancing shoes and party pants.
I plan on wearing them for a long time.

Front Entrance Converted to Mudroom

Find the kitty bed in the kitchen!

Mudroom tiles (20") and kitchen laminate

Tiles in living room area

Main Bathroom, before and after!

Yeppers! That's cement in the hallway before. And the finished product!