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.

Discovery at our farm. Rosie, Ruthy & Ruby desperately need a home!

These three little girls were just recently discovered.
Typical of farm cats, these little ones have infected eyes,
which I am treating with antibiotic.
We cannot keep them - we already have five kittens two weeks older
and we are looking for caring, loving homes for them.
It would be wonderful if these sisters could stay together.
They are really sweet.
We will deliver them (within Saskatchewan, Canada)
and if necessary, help with spaying costs, when it is time.

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!

This is what a custom built Schluter Kerdi drain and shower system looks like! Lots of muscle involved,

Summer Rocks On Our Unique Prairie Province

Lady Summer has been wearing her stunning yellow, green and blue flowing skirts as she walks our rectangular prairie province. A drive anywhere and the vast fabric of her skirts shimmer and sway in startling, spectacular colors.

We were at a family wedding in Edmonton on the weekend. The drive to and from was staggering as sapphire skies strewed with fluffy silver-white clouds above green and yellow fields sped by. Behind us, in the back seat of our suburban, a small tabby white and grey cat slept; the little fellow (on medications) oblivious to the splendor on the other side of our moving windows.
There were a lot of fields to gape and gaze at during our journey. According to Stats Canada incredibly, prairie farmers planted over 17 million acres of spring wheat and 15.7 million acres of canola. Barley fields nose-dived in all three provinces – the largest decline in our own handsome province since 1967. Canadian Brewsky lovers can hope it does not reflect on the demand and price of their favorite beverage!

Edmonton in summer green and brilliant blooming flowers was pretty, although we were involved with family most of our time and regrettably, I never did hit the aisles and show rooms of Ikea. I will pout over that for some time.

The summer prairie palette is spectacular and our fields are promising with the recent mix of July rain and sunshine. When we returned home the new kittens and resident cats gave us an unprecedented welcoming. Laughing, I watched the fuzzy little grey kitties tumble and scuttle while the words to Louis Armstrong's legendary song did the same in my head:

". . I see skies of blue, clouds of white,
Bright blessed days,
dark sacred nights
And I think to myself
what a wonderful world . . "

Not everyone sees the world as wonderful and beautiful and my heart was sad as I remembered picking up the King James Bible in the bedside drawer at our hotel. I had taken it in my hands, like I often do in hotels, just wondering the last person who had held it. It fell open to the Psalms and in dried bloodstained large lettering, the words, "LIES, LIES" were scrawled across the pages.

There are times when it's hard to rise above and carry summer in one's heart, for Lady Summer is shifty and all too soon she will be changing her sarong to the russet of Autumn, then to the stark of Winter white.
As a veteran of the fickle prairies it has been my experience that perpetual summer is an enigma solved by distinguishing and grasping the dissimilarity of: murky or perky; dour or flower; bitter or better; existing or exciting.
And that's the whole wind-blown, sun burnt, uncomplicated sweet prairie truth.

Though I still wish I had made it to Ikea.

First Dance . .

Watching the bride and groom with the first dance - thinking them a Prince & Princess

BunE, from his seat, enjoying the trip to Edmonton

Seagulls. Watch Your Head!

Mowing grass last week in the wide ditch along the busy highway bastioning our home, I noticed the steady traffic of trailers, campers and boats escaping to the allure of the north. It stirred memories of what seems another lifetime when we spent lazy, happy days camping with our young boys.
We all had heavy, unhappy hearts packing-up and leaving for home when it was time. That afternoon an incident came to mind while riding my mower under the same azure blue sky and dazzling warm sun of long ago. It made me smile. Those days are distant memory and tucked deep inside this mother's heart.
We gave in to the back seat little boy groans and moans begging for one more play - and told them they had half an hour, then that was it. We had to go home. It didn't take them long to scamper out of the back seat as tanned little brown legs started running, leaping and yelling in true, little boy style.
Thirty minutes at the beach can take wings and soon we were calling them to come. We had a long drive ahead of us. Enticing them with ice cream cones, contented they hopped into the backseat of our '75 Oldsmobile. Eager little hands reached for the treats.

While we were enjoying the indulgence, startled, we noticed a sizeable gooey white clump on a young oblivious bleached-blonde head. We struggled to stifle our laughter but a curious little boy voice asked what was so funny. Fred had to look away and I thought he'd choke on his strawberry ice cream.
"Nothing sweetie," I said, telling him to enjoy his cone. Later, with his little hand in mine, I took him inside a washroom and as best as I could, sponge-washed the crud from his soft summer blonde hair.

There is something incredibly peaceful hearing waves lap at the shore line, watching the sun set and reflect over a lake while overhead seagulls squawk and soar. We cherish those hiking, swimming, outdoor summer adventures with our little boys and as the years in front of them accumulate, we wonder how time can get so slippery.

It was a funny finale to that year's summer holiday so very long ago and our seven-year never saw the mushy bird terd dropping from heaven or knew what hit him. Still doesn't.
Until one day when he reads this.

Summer time 'out!'

The weekly newspaper that carries my column is on a two-week vacation.
And I haven't opened a Word document since the 'gone fishin' sign was hung on the door.

We had a two-day family reunion recently and also I have been kept rather busy attending to the new 'family' in our garage.

These little ones had a rough start because their eyes were infected, but after a week of antibiotic - they are healthy and happy and in true kitten fashion, very entertaining.

In three weeks, several are needing a special friend to give them a home and love.

There is no psychiatrist in the world like a puppy licking your face ~ Ben Williams

One sunny summer morning, I had to make another flying trip to the vet's office. The latest in our feline rescue family sat on the step with his comrades. The little grey Egyptian Mau's face was covered with blood and it looked like his eye was badly injured. With relief, the vet told me he was lucky, whatever tangled with him, missed his eye. Fred and I can only speculate what happened to him but think a 'visiting Tom' was lurking somewhere in our yard. His immune system is badly damaged because he was so near death almost a year ago when a neighbor spotted him and called me to quickly come. So this was not the little guy's first trip for medical help. And it likely won't be his last. They know me, and my animals well at the animal clinic.

Because of my affinity for animals, through the years friends have been kindly forwarding "A Pet's Ten Commandments" to my email address. It has been making its rounds in cyber-space for a long time and is so poignant it bears repeating. Author unknown, it is the silent, shouting voice deep within every animal's eyes.

1. My life is likely to last 10-15 years. Any separation from you is likely to be painful.
2. Give me time to understand what you want of me.
3. Place your trust in me. It is crucial for my well-being.
4. Don't be angry with me for long and don't lock me up as punishment. You have your work, your friends, your entertainment, but I have only you.
5. Talk to me. Even if I don't understand your words, I do understand your voice when speaking to me.
6. Be aware that however you treat me, I will never forget it.
7. Before you hit me, before you strike me, remember that I could hurt you, and yet, I choose not to bite you.
8. Before you scold me for being lazy or uncooperative, ask yourself if something might be bothering me. Perhaps I'm not getting the right food, I have been in the sun too long, or my heart might be getting old or weak.
9. Please take care of me when I grow old. You too, will grow old.
10. On the ultimate difficult journey, go with me please. Never say you can't bear to watch. Don't make me face this alone. Everything is easier for me if you are there, because I love you so. ALWAYS!

If I should luckily live to be a hundred and the world cynically deems me the crazy cat lady, I wear my title with honor. It was Abraham Lincoln who once said; "I care not for a man's religion whose dog and cat are not the better for it."

At night when a small grey cat softly jumps on our bed and I fall asleep listening to his peaceful breathing sounds, our little corner of the world just seems a better place.

(Top photo: Foxy, who belongs to our neighbor friends.)

That Really Sucks!

Fred came home from spending the day at a large auction sale. He was happy – they served his favorite lunch, smokies on a bun and he met and chatted with old friends and neighbors. An auction sale, in his line of thought, is an all day social event with no dress code.
Late that day he pulled into our drive with a huge rusty air compressor hitched with it's own rusty trailer behind our pickup. Grinning widely he was pleased as punch for getting it at a low bid.

He had lots of auction stories and the one I enjoyed most concerned a vacuum cleaner. After the auctioneer announced it as the next item for bid, his assistant brought it to the front and preceded with the usual demonstration to confirm that it was without a doubt, in working order. At this point in his story I was sorry I hadn't tagged along. It would have been worth the trip to see for myself that men indeed do know how to operate a vacuum cleaner.
As the fellow tripped the switch, the upright burst boisterously to life. I'm sure if he could relive the moment, he would have found a length of carpet for the presentation. With more power than he was prepared for, the noisy machine began chaotically pulling everything up into it's metal belly taking on a life source of it's own. Gripping the handle securely, it's exhaust hurled soil and gravel everywhere while he attempted to regain control of the machine. Hanging on tightly with one hand, his other fumbled for the power switch as the vacuum's exhaust loudly kicked up a cloud of dust and course gravel. To his and the auctioneer's dismay, the switch was defunct and as the machine roared in a cloud of dust, he continued to entertain a stunned, yet captivated audience. Eventually a quick-thinking soul followed the electrical cord and disconnected it at the power source. Fred's laughter punctuated his story.

He also bid on a 'still in the box' electric garage door opener. It sits in the garage beside another one he bought two years ago but hasn't found the time or energy to install.

Because we have indoor cats, I am familiar with upright vacuums and have two always on the ready in separate locations in our home. Acquainted with almost every brand on the market, I believe I could be an emissary for uprights. Our present main upright is specifically 'for pets' and has great suction and pet-hair gadgets. Still, I wonder should vacuum cleaner racing ever become a sport, mine would be left in the flying dust and debris competing with the high-power and velocity of the vacuum I'm so glad Fred didn't bid on the day he went to auction.

But as his story goes, that speeding vacuum was one heck of a deal. It sold for five bucks.