As The Crow Flies

LAUGHTER IS THE SUN THAT DRIVES WINTER FROM THE HUMAN FACE – Victor Hugo

2012-02-09T11:04:00.002-06:00

Our well is dry. The last of the water in our taps oozed an alarming thick orange matter. First glance, I suspected the filtering system wasn't working. We've been rationing water since the day in January I washed too many loads of laundry depleting the well. I never suspected this time water would not filter in from the ground table. It seemed incomprehensible that water was scarce. Fields, roads and our basement flooded in the spring. Our water often gets low in March and April but coping with a dry well is something we've never encountered. That day we purchased a plastic water tank the size of our service pickup truck box, and with some fittings, hose attachments and adjustments, off we sped to town to fill the new tank. It is a short-term fix that has our home on water rationing. There is a bright side - the water is reverse osmosis and the taps now run with clean, clear water. Summer and fall 2011 arrived with minimum rainfall so we should have seen this coming and prepared for it. But on the farm, after the crops are in the bins and the fields are bare, something ever and always needs repairing, servicing, or replacing. Winter can arrive suddenly on the prairies. And today I have renewed appreciation for the simple pleasure of turning a tap then running my hands under the warm, wonderful stream.

As I was thinking of the things that I inadvertently disregard, like switching on a light, the television and radio by remote, enjoying heat at the touch of a thermostat, it occurred to me that perhaps our well isn't the only thing sapped. My attitude was flat and my joy dehydrated. (I am prone to SAD: Seasonal Affective Disorder.) I have found this often sneaks up on me wearing camouflage of busyness, stress, tediousness and distress. I call them joy pilfers. Like silent intruders, bit by bit they creep unnoticed into my life shadowing and embezzling joy. What oozes out instead is not pretty: annoyance, impatience, self-pity – everything that joy is NOT.

Weather permitting, I like to walk every night before suppertime. With camera in hand last night, I stood in somber wonderment at the diffusion of brilliant, incredible colour in the western sky. Falling to my knees, then flat on my belly in the soft snow, I wanted my camera to grasp the radiance. The white ground transformed into an inferno of shimmering amber and orange. When I stood - I marveled the pink and lavender hues hurled across the eastern horizon. And then I got it – thankfulness. I realized again the human spirit is beautifully resilient. In my parka, snow pants and big warm, clunky boots, I felt like I was on hallowed ground. Gratitude and joy, clear and clean welled up till I thought I would burst from all the blazing colors above, around and under me.

Gremlins banished, spirit replenished, I walked home under a radiant luminous canopy, snow still clinging to the knees of my snow pants. I thought of the two funerals Fred and I attended the past two weeks and I wondered the beauty, the sheer glory and view of this sunset - on heaven's side.

Winter with its meager ration of sunlight, darts in and out darkening the human spirit and I fight it, often camera in hand, on my knees. Though the well runs dry, it can also run over because I believe in the Artist of the seasons. Winter weary, not me. Everywhere I look – a sparkling white beach and I am excused from wearing a bathing suit, which would most certainly spoil everything.

Though the well runs dry, I know it will also run over because I believe in spring.

In all seasons for reasons and things unseen, my camera is abnormal; now and then and time again it snags the paranormal.

2012-02-02T11:28:00.006-06:00

I have been involved in photography for many years. Long before the world went digital, I was in the darkroom developing pictures, excited to see what all I had captured. I tend to view the world through the lens of my camera, most times my heavy Canon PowerShot dangles around my lapel like a large necklace. All camera buffs know when the camera is sitting at home, it is then, with shattering disappointment we stumble on that one coveted photographer's dream shot.

Fall is my favourite season to photograph, winter is a close second. Driving the back roads during the harvest season, I am "carefully' all over the road checking the big beautiful skies, the fields for coyotes and deer, anything that would make a colourful and interesting photo. I stop often, get out, and whether standing in the truck box or crouching on the dusty road – I do what it takes to get the best shot. In light of that, as I was swaying over the gravel road past combines, grain trucks and pickups, although most everybody 'as the crow flies' knows our white Chevy, this past September I felt compelled to put the following notice on Face book. "A note to neighbors: When you see my white Chevy weaving all over the back roads, it's ok. I am not driving drunk, I am driving through my camera lens and everything is under control. And if you see me in the truck box, I am not looking for something. If you see me squatting on the road, well - it's not what you think. But, you might want to smile - you're on Candid Camera!"

I have had many surprises when my pictures download into my computer; things I didn't see on my LCD screen, or through the lens if I was using my zoom. Some are exciting – like a Fish hawk resting on a distant hay bale, or an owl or animal I didn't notice. And then some are comical like catching a cat yawning or leaping and others, are chilling. I haven't mentioned the latter to many for the simple reason most people have an off the cuff response: it's just the light; it's only a reflection, raindrops, a snowflake, or dust in the camera. In thirty-five years of handling camera and film, I know its none of those things.

It happened again last week. Facing the west as the sun was just beginning its descent; I noticed the beautiful rainbow of colors splashing across the huge prairie horizon. I clicked the trigger over a dozen consecutive times. Later, when I looked at the photos on my two computer screens, foggy mists streaked in odd shapes across two photos. It was not my breath in the icy early evening because I am careful of that. I am not a smoker, it was not snowing and like previous pictures, this phenomenon occurred only on two photos. Even last night as Fred drove into the yard with Stephan's Trucking gravel truck, I snapped pictures of him and was surprised at the array of misty figures in the fifth frame.

As I have said before, everyone has a theory on eerie. Someone who knows more about this suggested I do a web image search with the words "ghost mist." Startlingly the pictures could have been mine - though I have some that contain even more defined creepy misty faces and bodies. Ghost hunters call them 'Ectoplasm' and have debunked many that were caused by cigarette smoke, steam, vehicle exhaust, smoke, photographers breath on a cold night and other elements. Studying the original photos and their sequences separates the phony from the mysterious.

I am not up for discussion about what others believe because that isn't my point. I know on nights when I am waiting in a dark field for the combines or grain trucks a mile across the field, I have taken pictures and blurry yellow skyward lights that I did not see at the time, appear on photos. Or when I am walking in our yard and snap a beautiful sky, cloud formations or cats climbing trees, strange invisible and unnatural things have appeared on picture frames.

Whatever it is - I think its amazing. When they appear, I often lighten the photos for a better visual. That and zooming in and cropping are the only modifications I make because I need the pictures to be integral and intact.

In reflection, I have been given a glimpse into something that I don't understand, nor do I need to. Unlike some who think only in the realm of 'black and white' I am content not knowing. My physical eyesight has limitations but I am equipped with everything I need to get through this era of my journey.

With all that being said (though I could say and report much more on my theory of eerie) if you see our white Chevy weaving all over, its ok. I am not driving drunk, I am driving through my camera lens and everything is under control.

More of my Ectoplasm photos:

(There are others and when I have time, I will go through my back-up files to locate them.)

Last night's moon

. . . five thousand years have now elapsed since the creation of the world, and still it is undecided whether or not there has ever been an instance of the spirit of any person appearing after death. All argument is against it; but all belief is for it. -SAMUEL JOHNSON, The Life of Samuel Johnson

DogZ & CatZ in Za winter

2012-01-28T09:23:00.003-06:00

FurB, our kitty kat with kidney cancer. He's doing pretty good despite taking a real bad spell a while ago. We love our 9-year old Maine Coon. He's as soft as silk to hold..

Tikka, our neighbour stopped in for a visit. I look like I have a choke-hold on her, but it was a hug. This 'puppy' (yes, she is still a puppy) - loves her hugs! She is beautiful.

Yes. She is SO smiling.

Fred works SO hard and when he collapses at end of day, he becomes a cat magnet. They all love him.

New kittie on the block. Wild as the wind but Babyface is so pretty.

Those wolf tracks AGAIN!!!

Patchie following me as I follow the wolf tracks . . .

In the center window of the old building behind us, Junie is watching us. She didn't want to come out and play and can't blame her. Afterall, it is winter.

Sun down. My favourite part of the day!

This big guy loves hugs... Now, does he look comfortable or what?

I added fireworks to match Patchies glow-in-the-dark eyes!!

At the end of our play time, he gets a good comb out. Patches loves this part of our visit.

Bennie.

Patchie enjoying a good comb-out!

And that's all for now. Adios from our piece of the prairie.

Snow On Martin Creek

2012-01-28T08:45:00.000-06:00

" The cat came back, we thought he was a goner, but the cat came back . ."

2012-01-26T05:43:00.003-06:00

I was sitting at my HP Notebook catching up with several computer tasks when I noticed Benny, our three-year-old brown and golden short hair cat outside the garden doors. I forgot he had been out, though I wasn't concerned because he visits the outdoor cats in their cozy winter shelter. As I picked up my Notebook to continue what I was doing, Benny jumped in my lap. This was curious because when he comes indoors, his first stop is always the food station. I placed my laptop to the side, then cuddled Benny, feeling something wet on my arm. Benny's ear was covered with, and oozing blood. I also noticed he had a long scratch on his brick-colour nose. Now I knew why he wanted to sit in my lap. Benny is not aggressive, he has a gentle spirit, so his altercation with an outdoor cat left him traumatized and he ran to the place where he knew he'd find comfort and first aid.
Benny is the friendliest of all our cats. He is not scared of strangers, comes when called, and enjoys hugs. He let me carry him to the bathroom where I cleaned his wounds. He sat with me for about twenty minutes before he realized he was hungry, then injures forgotten, off he sprinted for a snack.
We feel like we have stolen or 'cat-napped' Benny. Originally, he belonged to our neighbour, Deanna. She said the others picked on him and one day, alas – like so many cats, he simply disappeared. She thought predators got him, and months later when I included a recent picture to all my neighbours 'as the crow flies' (or as the cat prowls) – trying to find his owners, Deanna responded. When she arrived, we knew the little guy belonged to her. He came running when he saw her, bounding straight into her arms.

Benny being Benny.

At the time, our pretty neighbour said she had a pile of cats in her care and laughed, saying Benny had found cat-heaven in our home and deserved to remain with us. So that is Benny's story.

I have felt bogged down emotionally lately. My heart is sad for many of my friends and family are going through heartbreaking, hard and unhappy situations. I want to fix it for them, ease their agony, lift the weight from their shoulders, and return normal to their lives. Often I awake in the night induced by the reality they are hurting - and I am helpless. Like Benny, I get lost and optimism easily disappears in the dark. But a quick reality check reminds me I am not defenseless and without garrison. I have a place where I find comfort and first aid for my sleepless wounded spirit. It is large enough to cradle those near and dear me and I take them all with me when I jump in it's lap. It has a voice louder than my fears and is called 'faith.' It springs into action on wings of prayer and exposes fear for what it really is – a big bully.
I feel undeserving of all the friends in my heart and when one is wounded, I carry them, wishing them to know what I have found to be true: fear is a phantom that rambles the night, but faith is the sentry spreading sheltering light.
Faith, like our happy little Benny, always finds a way back.
And that, for what it's worth - is my story.

Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky. –Rabindranth Tagore*

2012-01-19T14:23:00.001-06:00

When I was in the publishing business so very long ago, I enjoyed attending the graphic arts seminars and workshops. It was there my younger self learned the techniques of advertisement assembling. The rule that impressed me most was how the media experts stressed, "Don't be afraid of white spaces." It has stayed with me and I have included it at the top of my 'life lessons' list. The 'white spaces' they were referring to, of course, were the white areas on the advertisement document - those unnoticed bare and empty spots. The rule was simple, "Don't crowd the ad with unnecessary graphics and words, or as it is often said, "KISS" – "Keep It Short and Sweet" or "Keep It Simple, Stupid."

This is hard to do because time has shown me human nature likes to jam and cram as much 'stuff' as possible into documents, spaces, conversations, shelving, basements, reports and life itself. Just as some find delight in removing that perfectly baked masterpiece from the oven, my niche, my 'calling' (for lack of a better word) is in making a graphic arts caricature or image and catching the perfect shot in my camera lens. I don't like too much 'stuff' in my graphics and photos - 'stuff' is distracting. The bane of my publishing days was the thousand-word-ad that arrived with a ten-dollar bill.

As days and years have sped and fled from that time, the white spaces have taken a deeper life meaning. When I am angry, I think of 'white space' as a cooling down time, time to subdue the flaming color 'red' with calming white. When that green-eye monster creeps into my thinking, I try banishing the 'jaded' envy with pure white joy for others. When I am upset, a quiet time or outdoor walk helps fade my blues to peaceful pale hues. If I am taking myself too seriously – the white space becomes clouded, and crowded by self pity, which I have discovered can be erased and replaced with the beautiful colour of laughter. When I am in a dark mood, it means I have allowed the white spaces to become dim with gloom and doom. White space helps me focus on what is important.

Silence is also the white space of two friends side by side, not jumbled with gossip or niter natter; simply the enjoyment of being together in that moment of time. I have friends I don't see for days and months. The quiet is not a threat, it develops into the 'white space' of the time it takes to grow an old friend.

Through the years I have done graphic work for others, it has become interesting to observe the reaction to white space. It seems to me, those wanting more color and addition of things are searching for something deep in their essence, something they can't identify but are trying to fill. With no racist connotation intended, the color white represents not the absence of color, I simply look at what it is not, and that's black and dark; the things and places I never want to be stuck in. It is mental clarity, for the perception of white appears always to depend on contrast.

Shirley Erena Murray penned the words to a beautiful song that begins: "Come and find the quiet centre in the crowded life we lead, find the room for hope to enter, find the frame where we are free. Clear the chaos and the clutter, clear our eyes that we may see – all the things that really matter, be at peace and simply be."

I don't know if publishers and media are still advised to not be afraid of white spaces because since my editorial days, I move slower and the world spins faster and has more 'stuff' in it. Personally I have come to cherish the pale – those wonderful white spaces that make the colors of important things in my life really pop.

(*Rabindranth Tagore became the first non-European Nobel laureate by earning the 1913 Prize in Literature. In translation his poetry was viewed as spiritual and mercurial. His "elegant prose and magical poetry" remain largely unknown.)

Clouds at sunset over our farm.

The human spirit is stronger than anything that can happen to it. - C.C. Scott

2012-01-12T11:49:00.002-06:00

The following isa letter I received from my friend. I have published her before because she isso incredibly positive about life. Her oldest son was diagnosed with Leukemia only daysbefore his 25^th birthday. Although I had something elseprepared for 'this spot' today - this letter kept returning to my mind. I knowit is meant to be *shared because there is a special blessing in these wordsthat comes straight from my friend's beautiful spirit.

"This Christmas has been a quiet one for us. Wemanaged to have a hospital free one and that meant so much. *Rick is stillgoing through treatment (chemo) andcontending with all the side effects of that so he has been feeling kind ofrough. He's having some problems with his kidneys right now the meds he takesall the time are making sure the cancer stays away but they really wreak havocon the rest of his body. It's hard to see him feeling so awful a lot of thetime but I keep reminding myself and him that its due to the miracle ofmedicine has doing as well as he is. Sometimes you have to go through a wholelot of hard times to get back to the good times. I don't think I would ever saythat cancer is a blessing but some of the things that have come from my boyhaving it are. It changes how you see life and people and how you live themoments you are given. Driving to and from the hospital in the city I've beentouched so deeply by the sparkling of the water in the fields, by the goldenfields in the autumn and by the pristine white hills this winter. I see theworld with new eyes now it's like my eyes were half closed before and they havebeen opened. And as you said happened after the passing of your dear mom, myboys and I are closer. We say I love you more, hug more we're all morevulnerable and more appreciative of each other. I still miss the days beforecancer, that's how I see my life alot of the time now, I miss the naivety I hadthen and the belief that nothing bad would ever touch my family. But I've foundin its place a deeper appreciation for the gift that they are and the gift thatmy time with them is - so I really can't complain, can I? This Christmas wassimpler and quieter. The boys and I opened our gifts and then spent the daytogether. By nighttime we had our traditional game of street hockey where youngand old members of my family get together and everyone plays. Rick even playedfor a little. I loved that he didn't miss out on it. We had my little *grandbabyon Dec. 21 and 22 and as I thought it would, our time with her went too fast. I know my sons love her a lot and seeing them shoppingtogether - the men that they are, in the Barbie section of the storedeliberating on which Barbie was best, really was a Kodak moment.

Rick had a friend help him build her a new bed. It's pinkwith her name at the top and princess on the bottom and lovely littlebutterflies decorating it too. It was so cute she wanted to stay in her bed sheloved it so much. I told him he wouldn't have trouble getting her in to bed -he would have trouble getting her to come out and that's what happened. Webuilt a gingerbread house together and she opened her gifts and the boys spentthe evening playing Barbie and assembling toys. It really was a wonderful dayand night it just went by too fast.

. . Thanks for always being there Arlene forunderstanding and for listening.

Mygram always used to say that no matter how hard things are for you - there'salways someone who has it harder. Every day I count my blessings and every day I count you and yourfriendship as one of my dear blessings. Warm hugs."

Recently while I was walking our farm on a sunny wintryday, I noticed large wolf tracks in the freshly fallen snow. What alarmed memost, was not my distress of the wolf, but rather how quickly I allowed fear toinvade my spirit.

My friend and so many others gallantly fight the 'wolf'every day invading their home, heart and lives. Living on the Canadian prairie,I have learned to keep looking up. When the sky is the darkest, it is then, itbecomes mesmerizingly illuminated and beautiful with vibrant countless glowing stars.

I also feel the same about my friends, the real stars inmy life.

*With permission; *Name changed; *Rick's daughter

Crying "WOLF!"
My boot is a size 9 - just for comparison's sake.

Mommy Not In Mood For Kissing Santa Claus

2012-01-05T11:48:00.002-06:00

It was the morningof Christmas Eve. Guests were coming to our home for Christmas dinner and Idecided to cook the turkey and a ham the day before so I could concentrate on, andprepare all the other trimmings Christmas day.

Earlierin the week, Fred and I debated the right time to remove the turkey from thefreezer so it would be thawed perfectly when it was time for roasting. Wecouldn't agree but I won the noisy argument and a very disgruntled Fred fervidlycomplained that's just not right. So Saturday morning, though there was not alot of merit in him being right – the big bird was like a huge heavy, ice-ladenrock. I had the large roaster ready and two big cooking bags doubled togetherwaiting to slide dinner inside, but I couldn't remove the inner contents fromthe bird's frozen cavity. I had no choice but to enlist the help of my farmer'sbig strong hands. And that's how the morning found us wrestling with a veryfrozen Christmas dinner. Fred doesn't do anything silently. It doesn't matterif he has an audience or not. I believe it comes from years of being a mechanicand grappling with contrary automotive parts, gears and engines.
"HOLYSMOKES – OH CRAPPERS! GEEZE!" – were just some of the words coming fromhis lips. I knew soon he'd be reminding me about our earlier discussion, andbefore the thought completed he started in. "I told you - but you NEVERlisten to me. YOU didn't take it out soon enough! Oh cripes!! Hang on to it andhelp me here, my hands are frozen." So there I was, bad case ofbed-head-hair, standing in my pink over-size cat-print flannel pajamas holding tightlyto a frozen turkey, Fred spread-eagle on the kitchen floor trying to pry thelegs apart, loudly lambasting me for not listening to him in the first place.
"OHBROTHER – I'm going to have to go out to the shop and get the power saw! Maybeeven the drill! Can't you hang on any tighter?" Fred was down on one knee,his big hands wrestling with the frozen bird, face red with expletives andsweat. Finally a turkey leg budged enough that we could reach in and grab the gibletsand neck tucked deep inside. As he stood up, we noticed a calico cat on theperch in the kitchen window, ears alert, watching something very intensely. Thewindow next to the front door over looks our kitchen. We both stood in silenceas a nicely dressed woman quickly closed the door on the passenger side of avan. We watched the taillights exit our drive and Fred said, "TheJehovah's Witnesses were here."
Ispoke first. "Oh crap."
"Theydidn't knock," Fred said.
"Well,you were yelling at me so loud, why would they?" I accused. "They wouldhave been scared hearing you go at it!"Fredopened the front door and grabbed the AWAKE and WATCHTOWER pamphlets wedged insidethe door. As he walked back, he looked at me, "It was you who chased themaway. You'd scare anybody in those big pajamas."
Thelook on his face was so solemn. Already in defense mode, I had yet anotherinsult to hurl back. Instead, I started laughing. The scenario rewinding in myhead struck me as incredibly amusing. I saw a smile lighting his face too, andbefore we could help it – standing in that very messy kitchen, huge semi-frozenturkey balancing precariously on the counter, we both were laughing hysterically.This time a calico cat inquisitively watched the scene on the inside of thatkitchen window.
Aftera few minutes it occurred to me rather odd they would come to our place on December24^th. I mentioned this to Fred. He was quick with the answer,"Well it's quite obvious – look at you. They've been trying to save youfor years. I guess they figured no better time than Christmas."

Personally,I think if anything needed saving, it was the turkey.

The question of whether computers can think is just like the question of whether submarines can swim. ~Edsger W. Dijkstra

2011-12-29T13:56:00.000-06:00

The following is a story Iread long ago. I keep it in my heart when agonizing things happen that justdefy explanation. This is for Ken, Sheldon, Lee, Tracy and family, Brenda, Helga,Janie, Juanita, oh – the list is long of people who are in my heart and prayers.(Although I didn't mention all, YOU know who you are and you also know I loveyou to pieces.) I hope I don't damage the original story too much with myreconstruction. But you get the point. And a personal big hug. It goes somethinglike this:

"The smartest man in the world formulated and built the most up-to-date, intellectual, intelligent computer EVER. (NOT Bill Gates!) He invited his friend to come see it, try it out, to prove it was beyond brilliant and nothing like the world has seen before.
When he arrived the inventor introduced him verbally, and was surprised when the computer responded by sound, saying he was pleased to meet him. The inventor encouraged his friend to ask him any question he could think of and his machine would hear him and with the touch of a button, he set it up that his computer would print the answer. The visitor thought for the longest time what to ask, then posed the question, "Tell me why is there so much sorrow in the world - why do horrible things happen to good people?"
The computer flashed a few lights and rumbled. Both men stared at the printer, waiting. Suddenly the printer chugged out a message, and when they reached for the page, to their surprise it was blank. It was also wet.
The man asked what was wrong with the computer, what was that all about.
The inventor stood silent, awestruck, and slowly replied, "What looks to you like just a soggy 8" x 10" paper, is the computer's answer to your question. You're looking at its tears."

So, hang in there dear friends going through deep, sad life - and death trials. Know you are loved and though things defy definition and explanation, your life has meaning and great value.

And, here - one more quote, not to make light of suffering, but just because I think it's a dandy and seems spiritually and inspirationally appropriate, "Jesus saves! The rest of us better make backups."

Christmas At Martins

2011-12-27T01:52:00.000-06:00

I really struggled this year trying to get into the Christmas 'spirit' - but these rooms finally received some festivity.. I am going to really enjoy them now, (always looking for a good excuse to wear my party pants,) as I was especially busy prior to the big day. Our little home is small and I love it. Always will. |It dates back to early 1900's and I 'feel' it's happy spirit from those who have walked it's floors before our journey led us here. It is also just the right size for my Fred the farmer and myself. I will take cozy and happy to a big mausoleum any day! We had yet another blessed Christmas within these walls and halls.
Our son did the flooring throughout, and when we tried to pay him for materials and his labor of love, he argued and said to consider it his gift. I can't say it enough how very blessed we are. We have happy hearts living, and growing old together for whatever days that lay ahead - in our little house on the prairie.

That's right - there is no Christmas tree - our furry little felines would think they were given an exciting perch. It is okay - my friends are the lights in my heart and they sparkle and twinkle joy into my life all year round. Madge, our good friend was a guest in our little home on Christmas day.

The J - O - Y decoration was 'made for me' last year by my friend, Liz, in Ottawa.

Can't ever have too many candles, especially at Christmas. Since the Christmas in another house, another time - when a candle sparked a fire in our home, these battery operated candles still give a pretty amazing glow. A reminder that I have to let my light shine, shine - shine!

Yes, I do so love 'elephants' and someday hope to lay my hands on one of these gentle, beautiful creatures.

Oh DEER! . . even 'skipped to the loo' with a few trimmings . . .


This bathroom towel rack has pictures from a long time ago. I love the feeling they radiate when I look at them.

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.

And like I said about skipping to the loo.

Welcoming wreath in the window that faves our driveway.

My sister, Janice and her husband,the Reverend Linsell enjoying a laugh Christmas afternoon..

Hubby, yours-truly and Madge.
Though some may not understand, my farmer and I don't exchange gifts at Christmas. Whatever we would spend on one another, we discuss and decide who could better 'use' a gift. This exchange truly makes our Martin moments and hearts sparkle.

In the air there's a feeling of Christmas

2011-12-22T01:33:00.000-06:00


Marcia and Bill sent a big stocking of goodies for our fur-kids.

Martin Moments, 2011

2011-12-22T00:30:00.001-06:00

The following is the letter I wrote and included with the Christmas card we sent to family and friends on our annual mailing list. Because you have been so faithful in reading what this old girl has to say week after week, I feel that you are also part of the big circle who make me happy simply by sticking with us. You share our joys and sorrows, our highs and lows - scrawled on this big old page for as long as I've been posting our "Martin Moments." Randy, (aka: Fred) and yours-so-truly, thank you for your time spent with us. Although most of you are 'faceless' it doesn't matter - your presence is a gift - and I thank you sincerely. Where ever you are, may this season sprinkle a miracle or two or a hundred on you and those you love. And please continue to respond to my articles, I really also want to know you. So, friend, this letter was written with you in mind, too:

Well, we don't havechestnuts roasting on an open fire – and so far this winter Jack Frost hasn'tbeen in the nipping mode. Our weather has unseasonably mostly been in the minussingle digits. And it's all mostly good too: health, home, kids, cats. Our Chevy had a few electrical/computerproblems and though my farmer didn't mind driving it without a heater orfunctioning 'reverse' – I didn't dare. I knew I'd forget and get myself into anasty tight spot, so for a spell, I drove the old Chevy pickup and enjoyedbeing warm with the delightful option of backing up.

As I type this, yuletide carols are being sung not by a choir, butby the ol' telly on the Yuletide Fireplace channel, and to the wonder offriends and others, we have no tiny tots (grandkids) with eyes all glow. Forthe most part we can say with all sincerity that it's a wonderful life. Randyhas been unbelievably busy since harvest's end working for Stephan's Trucking,Lanigan. Interesting that back in the day, (way back) - he also worked for them,though today the orders come from James, the second generation at the helm. Butmy farmer has been working on the trucks/trailers, servicing them, taking themto repair shops and also attending safety/organizational meetings. He was busyfor three weeks hauling gravel to the Colonsay potash mine, and soon wheneverything is in place, he will be busy hauling to the BHP Potash near Jansen.

We decided the summer of 2011 wouldn't slip away without a trip.We drove to Wisconsin, met our dear friends, Marcia and Bill who live inArizona, true Green Bay Packer fans originally from Wisconsin. After happytimes with them, we went on to Sarnia, Ontario and stayed at the beautiful home/manorof Shirley Kent. We have waited and wanted to meet her, the "other"Croma Design" mom. Ryan and Rodney met us there as well as Amy (Kent) andher hubby, Chris, and Rodney's dad, Wayne and Anne. Shirley was an incrediblehost and we will never forget our time spent with her. We continued to Torontofor a few days enjoying glowing times with our boys, and I saw Croma's officesthe first time. Ryan & Rodney treated us to a stay in a dazzling downtownhotel just walking distance from their condo. They pulled out all the stops andgave us a terrific holiday. We came home the scenic route touring the GreatLakes and we both have a heart full of warm wonderful memories from that trip.

The weather was amazing for our grain harvest. Without incident,which has to be a first! It was actually fun and thanks to brother-in-law'sVern and Rahn, driving the old twin Massey's, and also Ross, we got the fieldsof grain into the bins in record time. But, one good harvest does not make fora handful of bad ones. The paper work isn't complete and we haven't signed onthe dotted lines, but it's likely our last year farming.

We know that reindeer really don't know how to fly, but from ourhome on the range, we know that the deer, and the buffalo really do 'play.' Ialso have pictures taken on a hot fall day of a family of moose: mother, big dad and twins cooling off in aslough in our field. Also I enjoyed the Sandhill Cranes enjoying 'our' creekthis summer. (Pictures of these and more posted here this summer.)

I still am 'merrily' busy with computer jobs, and also submitting weekly articles to the Lanigan Advisor. We are not familiar with the word, "Bored." Life's moments are all scrumptiously full and never dull.
And so in keeping with this wonderful season as that old song goes - I’m offering this simple phrase to kids from one to ninety-two -although it’s been said many times, many ways, Merry Christmas, to you. We sincerely hope the Star of Bethlehem that has been our guiding light for over 43 years, is also with you every moment of 2012. Hope wherever the season finds you - you truly enjoy a turkey and some mistletoe!

. . . Christmas love from Randy & Arlene!

From our heart and home - to yours:

And In the Winter

2011-12-18T11:04:00.000-06:00

It wasn't just a nighttime star that God hung out at will; it beamed a starlight message that never will be stilled. – Loise Pinkerton Fritz, "The Star of Hope."

2011-12-15T12:19:00.001-06:00

Duringthe early hours of Christmas morning, 1974, I was awakened by the dreadedgasping, seal-like choking/barking sounds coming from our oldest son's bedroom.He suffered from Croup. That particular night was worse than previous attacks.I remember frantically carrying him down the hallway and into the bathroom.Fred ran both shower and sink taps to the hottest setting so our bathroom couldbe transformed into a sauna that the steam could permeate and soothe our 4-yearolds lungs. Usually in ten minutes, this was effective. But that night thesteam did not help and being deprived of oxygen, our son's mouth took on asickening bluish tinge. I remember how frightened I was as I felt the skincovering his small ribs retract, knowing his lungs were fighting for air. Fredtook him from me telling me to grab the baby sleeping through this commotion inhis crib nearby, then, wrapping both babies tight in blankets; quickly we fledto the garage and into our car. I tried to not let this slender young boy seeor sense my fear as we drove to the hospital, still, despite all my efforts tocalm him, his crying made breathing even more difficult and the sounds he madeduring that drive, still haunt me today.
Onthe short distance to the hospital, I remember how garish the Christmas lightsseemed, though just the previous night, I had admired them.

Itwas a glimpse for me what spending Christmas day in a hospital was like. Istayed with him as the medication and oxygen began to take effect, and soon he wasbreathing normally. Though pale, his colouring lost that scary azure tinge. Itwas not the first time our young son was hospitalized for Croup, but it was thefirst time he spent Christmas morning in the hospital. By his small bed I watched himsleep, listening as the occasional sob escaped, wondering his dream. My head and heart pondered many things – who and what will he be when hegrows up? Will he be healthy and strong? Will he leave home and move far away, will I have given him the toolsfor survival in a scary world? A mother's heart can hold many things.

Inthe morning, he opened several gifts in his hospital bed, still connected to anoxygen tube. We tried to muster up enthusiasm, but even though it was so longago, I discovered one thing. Opening Christmas gifts from a hospital bed in astark sterile environment is not the same as opening them in one's living roomlaughing with family around the tree.

Tothose who will see Christmas Eve and Day in this environment, my heart reachesout to you with love and compassion. Although it was 'only' croup that broughtus to the hospital almost forty years ago, the curtain lifted and I have neverforgot the sights, sounds and smells from that experience.

Icannot find the original or the source of the poem that always comes to mind when I think ofsick babies and children at Christmas. It has faded in memory, so bear with meas I reconstruct it today. It reminds me of another mother's heart from the *Christmasstory that we chose to celebrate today.

"Oh mother,hold me near your heart

And sing alullaby,

Do bless me withyour precious love

To still thetears I'll cry.

These preciousdays I'll have with you

Too swift willhurry by,

And on thathill, a wild tree grows –

The Cross - onwhich I'll die.

. . Oh mother,hold me near your heart

And sing a lullaby."

'Mary'CHRISTmas from this old mother's heart to all mothers - everywhere. I pray theCHRISTmas Star will shine brightly on you - tossing soft rays of peace and hopeif you are reading this in a hospital. Hold your little ones tight and cram asmuch laughter into that hug as you can. Make beautiful memories. Tomorrow isreally not that far away...

(*Christianscelebrate the birth of Jesus to the Virgin Mary as a fulfillment of the Bible'sOld Testament's Messianic prophecy. However, today, whether or not the birthdate of Jesus is on December 25 is not considered to be an important issueamong mainstream Christian denominations; rather, celebrating the coming of God into the world in the form of manto atone for the sins of humanity is considered to be the primary meaning ofChristmas. - From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia)

(Photos and graphics are personally designed and created by myself. Please ask if you wish to copy.)

"It was only a brief written note, with a sentiment prayerfully spoken, yet not in vain, for it soothed the pain of a heart that was nearly broken." –Anonymous

2011-12-08T14:48:00.001-06:00

Twelvedays before his 25^th birthday, August 2011, my friend's son, *Rick, was diagnosed with Leukemia.

Weexchange emails and like you, dear friends, reading my words, she follows myblog. This is how she found me and we have become close, exchanging sentimentsand notes. I recently received the following from my gallant friend and I canthink of nothing more that embraces the epitome of the Season, than the ribbonsof joy, courage and hope within her letters. Cancer has removed the showiness,the commercial, the shiny wrappings of today's Christmas. It has stripped itdown to two things in her life: Cancer and CHRISTmas. Worlds and words apart,like 'devastate and triumph,' my friend chooses to draw a big red triumphant heartaround "CHRISTmas." With her permission, she writes:

"DearArlene It's the wee hours of the morning and I'm lyinghere awake. Todays been another hard day and as so often happens lately I'mhaving trouble sleeping. Tonight reading your letters makes me feel like I'mnot alone like you're here too. So thanks for helping me scare away the oldbully "fear" tonight.

This past weekhas been another tough one for us. I had a minor surgery on Monday and the sameday *Rick was in the same hospital in excruciating pain. His joints from thechemo are like an old person's joints right now - stiff and painful. He spentmost of the day there and we ended up being discharged at the same time. It wasso sweet that even tho he was feeling awful he was worried about me. We leftthe hospital together arms around each other, me hunched over and him with hisstrange stiff legged rocking walk. We must have been a sight. He's havingproblems with low blood counts again and is sleeping a lot. His friends had alittle benefit supper for him last night and he was too tired to go. I went overand checked on him. He was curled up on the couch under a big blanket. Helooked so small, so ill - dark under the eyes and tired. The Christmas treelights were glowing softly in the dark room and all I could think and pray isthat he get well again and we can have lots more Christmases together.

I'm still notfeeling very strong and I think this Christmas will be a simpler, smallerChristmas but I don't feel the manic drive to get out to the stores and fightthe crowds. I know the greatest gifts and blessings of Christmas are not foundunder the tree but around the dinner table on Christmas day. I will be countingyou too among all my blessings this Christmas, Arlene. Thank you so much again for your letters. They are so full of love andunderstanding and encouragement every time I read them I feel so hugged. Iloved your little prayer for us at the end of your last letter. I cried when Iread it, it touched me so deeply. I know you were heaven sent and tonight youhelped me stave off another scary lonely night.

Rick's always been my socialbutterfly, the most outgoing gregarious of my boys – he's always lived his lifefull on. I have a lovely little granddaughter. She turned 4 in June. She's Rickslittle girl and his everything. Like her dad because she loves to talk and sheloves people. She has this well spring of curiosity in her. She looks so muchlike him – she is his 'mini me.'

I just thought of one of myfavorite quotes. It was by Arthur Ashe one of the best tennis players in theworld who got AIDS and later lost his battle with that awful disease. He saidif I say to God why me for the bad things in my life I must also ask why me forthe good things in my life. I have been blessed with so much good in my life,none of which I did anything remotely wonderful enough to be deserving of thosegifts. You are a gift I am grateful for. Iwas thinking the other day about an old hymn I haven't heard in forever but Ilove and it reminds me of you. It says you will know we are Christians by ourlove. Thank you for being such a wonderful God sent friend."

I do notdeserve my friend's accolades, for she is the one reassuring, reminding me whatCHRISTmas is. I am overwhelmed that it only takes a smile, wave, hug or a simplenote to reflect the hopeful glow of Bethlehem's Star.

*Name changed

I am the God of the stars.
They do not lose their way;
Not one do I mislay.
Their times are in My Hand;
They move at My command.

I am the God of the stars,
Today, as yesterday,
The God of thee and thine,
Less thine they are than Mine;
And shall Mine go astray?

I am the God of the stars.
Life up thine eyes and see
As far as mortal may
Into Eternity;
And stay thy heart on Me.

God of the Stars

-Amy Carmichael

Grandma's Silver Tree

2011-12-01T14:32:00.001-06:00

When I was young, our Christmas tree was a medium size pine tree, only aslarge as our small living room space could sacrifice. Unlike today, one didn'tdecorate the tree till at least ten days before December 25^th. Itwas a different time and even the Christmas holidays to me seemed far more enchanting.Most living rooms had real trees and when the big day arrived, if set up tooearly in December, dry pine needles would drop at the slightest touch.

Mother's tree today would be considered a beautiful 'oldfashioned' tree. It was draped with real glass ornaments, and because it wasjust coming onto the big world market, there was little, if anything plastic onthe Christmas trees of my earliest memory. Painstakingly, mother hung the silvertinsel strand by strand. When the tree was dismantled, the tinsel was meticulouslyremoved and wrapped around the original cardboard, then slid inside the slimbox to use again the next year. I grew up in a time when disposal was reservedfor only burnable trash.

My grandmother's tree was different and it caught my youngwonder. With money saved from selling cream and eggs, grandmother had a sparklysilver tree she ordered from Simpson's Sears. It consisted of aluminum branchesattached to a wooden central pole. This pole had holes drilled at angles, so when these branches wereattached, they formed a tree shape. The foil branches also had woven aluminum'needles.' Unlike the tree at our home, my grandmother could not put a stringof lights on her little tree. It arrived with firm instructions warning thatelectric lights on an aluminum tree would cause a short circuit.

Grandma's glittery, silver Christmas tree is one of mycherished memories. I know her tree caused some talk among the neighbours whoclaimed it wasn't 'natural' and made a mockery of Christmas. Grandma didn'tcare, she loved her little tree and she also loved me and I loved Christmas ather little farmhouse.

My brother, Brian and I would wake early, our house cold anddark, waiting for Christmas to begin. After opening the gifts under our tree,my sisters and I would put on our best dresses, while our parents packed upgifts and food and we would drive the few miles down the snowy road tograndma's house. I can still remember how wonderful it was, wedged between mysisters, on that drive, clutching close the new beautiful doll I had unwrapped fromSanta Claus.

Walking into grandmother's kitchen on Christmas day holdstender memories. Being embraced in grandma's arms, and smelling the big turkeycooking in her wood-stove oven as pumpkin and apple pies cooled on her table,makes me seven years old again. I couldn't wait to get out of my coat and bootsto scramble into the living room to see Grandma's shiny tree. I also knew therewas something special just for me from my grandma in the array of wrappedgifts.

My parents and grandparents homes weren't decorated likehomes are today and we only knew about receiving one gift each, not the lavish,assorted gifts per person recent Christmas has become. The garland I rememberwas an array of Christmas cards sagging heavily on string secured from one wallto another across the living room. The windows were decorated by the actualtouch of Winter's hand, creating a frosty lacy pattern on the cold panes. Ifelt secure and loved as Christmas day went on, gift wrapped in my family'slaughter and love.

Replaced bygiant, more life-like green artificial trees in the mid-1960's, grandmother'slittle aluminum tree today might only be found in dusty attics or dampbasements. The latest Sear's catalogs contain pages of pricey exquisite,ceiling-to-floor, pre-lit artificial Christmas trees. I don't know how longgrandmother saved to muster up twenty five bucks but I know at the time, it wasa fortune. Despite the criticisms, mostly from grandfather, begrudging the cost, it brought her joy. Asmemory flings glowing cozy moments from a time when Christmas was CHRISTmas andnot the fluff and flashy replica it seems today, my grandmother becomes aliveand I feel loved and special.

This windy, chilly December morning while the words from myheart fall onto the page, memory awakens the child in me and I am holding my brandnew doll as my heart stares in wonder at that little silver tree.

"I heard a bird sing in the dark of December, A magical thing and sweet to remember. 'We are nearer to Spring than we were in September,' I heard a bird sing In the dark of December." Oliver Herford

2011-11-24T10:53:00.001-06:00

Iam writing this the day before mother passed away nineteen years ago. There arecertain images that always come to mind in remarkable detail. Gathered aroundher bed, holding hands we watched her take her last breath – her arms suddenly extendingupwards, her eyes focused on something imperceptible to us.

Iremember how small, still and lifeless she was in the semi dark as I collectedher clothes from the hospital closet, and carrying her winter boots down thesleepy corridor, becoming suddenly overwhelmed with the realization she wouldnever wear them again.

Irecall the sea of faces at her funeral and greeting them all after; her teengrandkids with their chairs forming a circle as they huddled and sobbed, headsdown drawing strength from one another. These and other sights and sounds arewhat I carry in my heart from that time. In addition, as I near her age atpassing, it is a reminder again, that death is insensitive about seasons andtime, and it is reckless with the things that are important to the living. Shedied within days of her birthday, her and father's fiftieth wedding anniversaryand with Christmas but weeks away.

Thoughher passing was sudden and sad – in reflection, we were given the gift of sayinggoodbye and as a family; we became closer, tender and more affectionate.

Whilethese thoughts tumble from my heart to my computer keyboard, I am saving themore poignant and personal for the last. She heard music. We heard busy hospitalsounds, and doctors and staff being paged through the intercom, but we neverheard music. If we perceived anything, it was the silent thundering of Time'ssecond hand clangour in the distance. Sitting with her, thinking mother wasasleep, she would suddenly comment, "There, do you hear that? It's thatmusic again." I regret I didn't query her, ask her what kind, what itsounded like, instead I was thinking of other things, trying to compile a lifetimeof living into mere moments.

WhileI think of mother, these thoughts danced in my memory of her. The eveningslistening to her play her guitar and singing "Please Help Me I'mFalling" or dancing with father and my baby brother as an old 33-rpmrecord yowled: "Walking The Floor Over You." Clearly as though lastweek, I think about coming home from school, mother's back to me, while sheplayed the big old upright piano, her soprano voice performing her best, BlessedAssurance or Rock Of Ages, pausing briefly to tell me there were warm cinnamon bunsbut to not spoil my supper with too many.

Asthe nurses and her doctor came and left, whispering "soon" – I marveltoday how fitting that she could hear music. Mother was someone who packedexcitement and living into each day.

SoonI am going to travel the eight miles to stand by her and daddy's headstone andjust remember how blessed I was to be their daughter. I rarely go there becausecommon sense tells me she's not there. But it holds a memory that I want torevisit. Only eighteen when she married, mother never lost her youthful enthusiasm.She wore her party pants every day knowing that life is what one elects it tobe. Today as I reminisce, I aspire to hear music. Mother wouldn't want it anyother way.

Mother when she was first married.

Do You Believe In Magic?

2011-11-22T20:31:00.000-06:00

Brandy in basket, Polka Dot (Pokie) beside Brandy

Benny, upper; Pokie lower.

Benny, top; FurB, lower

Our neighbour's beautiful horses.

Betty


Rosie

2011-11-17T06:17:00.001-06:00

Invitation to see something really special. My friends have been sewing and stitching up just incredible, amazing things that I really encourage you to check out especially if you have a baby in your circle of family and friends. With Christmas looming, you won't be disappointed. Unique and wonderful gifts for the special bundle of joy!!

http://grannyjudssweatshop.blogspot.com/

"I just enjoyed the sweetest, juiciest, tastiest nectarine. It was delicious and a reminder that life is about the little things, the accumulation of subtle sweet surprises. Appreciating that each day will have a blessing or two in camouflage is what gets me out of bed in the morning." -Arlene L Martin, August 2011

2011-11-17T06:08:00.001-06:00

The following is the most recent letter I received fromone of my readers, in response to the above quote. If I think I am having a badday, I only have to think of this special lady and the anguish she has beendealing with. I tell her she has it all wrong – SHE is the encouraging, positiveone. Read on. You'll see what I mean and how your day, too will suddenly seem anotherday in paradise. Her poignant words are also a reminder to 'stay sweet' – one neverknows along the way who will benefit from a friendly wave and smile.

"Dear Arlene.

Thank you for replying to my little message.. I got yourreply on what was a really hard week – my son was hospitalized again for bloodclots and his spirits as well as mine were pretty low. So just as I saw yourlittle comment on nectarines when I really needed to remember that life isstill sweet your reply came at a time when I needed a hug and that's what itfelt like - a hug, so thank you for writing back. As you know, no one canreally prepare you for what life is like when cancer hits someone you love. Itsbeen a rollercoaster in soo many ways.

Rick*said a few weeks into his treatment that cancer may be the best thing that'sever happened to him because he sees life and everyone and everything aroundhim so much differently now. It has done that for both of us. But there arestill times when it's scary - when his spirits lag, when he's just tired ofbeing tired and sick and I lay awake at night wishing my boy was little againand I could tuck him in at night. And when he came in with a scraped knee Icould bandage it up and make it all better. This is so much bigger than ascraped knee but the need to make it better for him is still there. I guessit's hard to feel so helpless.

We have been blessed in so many ways since hewas diagnosed though so many family and friends and people we didn't even knowhave reached out to us and have helped us. I would be soo grateful for yourprayers for us. Thank you for being a light in what feels like such a dark timesometimes.

There is a little poster hanging on the wall in the cancer ward inRUH* that says, 'Those who bring sunshine into the lives of others cannot keepit from themselves.' When I read it I thought of you. Thank you for sharing yoursunshine with me. Bless you."

*Name changed.
*Royal University Hospital

Dear Cat, Please Take My Tongue

2011-11-09T09:55:00.001-06:00

I haven't beengetting much sleep lately. One of our indoor cats, Scout, was contagiously sickand before I could prevent it, it spread to the others. A week of giving medsand being feline nursemaid– complied with late night computer jobs for a couplefriends and myself - my mind was struggling for focus.

Iwas in town at the local grocers, my cart heavy with canned cat food and jarsof baby food. When my cats are sick, I feed them baby food pumpkin or squash,stirred in with their regular food. It is soothing and beneficial to theirdelicate digestion systems. I also had two boxes of rice baby Pabulum. Now thatwinter has arrived on the Canadian prairie, I blend the pabulum with hot waterand add a small amount of the mixture to their canned Whiskas for the outsidecats. It helps stretch the tins they consume every day. So late that afternoonfound me standing at checkout with tins of cat and jars of baby food. Two youngpretty clerks stood behind the counter - both students employed locally withafter school, part time jobs.

Asthe cash register blinked electronically with each item swipe, she looked fromme to the scanner and I knew like all other clerks before her at every storewhere we have bought cat food, she was wondering how many cats we were feedinganyway. I tossed an uneasy smile and thought this time I'm not saying anything.However when the baby food slid past, she tossed me a quick wary glance - bleep,bleep, bleep... I surprised myself whenI blurted, "We have sick cats." She didn't look up and the silencewas killing me. I felt compelled to give explanation. What I wanted to say, andthought I had been, "So we feed our cats' baby food." Not meeting myeyes, she uttered a hasty monotone, "Yeah." Behind me, the row of customerswas increasing, annoyed and watching. The young person packing my grocery bag lookedat me abruptly and as I scurried out the door, I thought to myself, "Thatwas awkward."

Onlyafter I buckled my seat belt did it hit me that I hadn't said, "Baby food," rather I hadblurted, "So we feed our cats catfood."

'Oh,how sage,' was my first reaction. I burst out laughing and chastised myself forbeing such an idiot! I pondered going back and correcting myself, but theline-up was busy and the moment had passed. Besides, I alleged I couldn't trustmyself and I'd already said too much. Laughing, I repeated it correctly thoughthere was no audience or redemption for the self-inflicted damage on my character- "We feed our cat's CAT food!"What innovation! I laughed all the twelve-miles home continually hearing the clerk's indifferent, 'yeah' response. Later mixing the smallbottle of squash with the Whiskas, while hungry ailing cats impatiently wrappedaround my ankles, I decided that another day in paradise sometimes is notwithout its flaws.

Seeing Shadows

2011-11-03T16:03:00.002-06:00

Did I hear somebody calling

in an old familiar way?

Caught the scent of lingering perfume

someone used to wear each day.

From somewhere came a melody,

I paused to listen in

The words came clear,

I turned to hear –

someone’s favourite hymn.

Did I hear familiar footstep

just outside the door?

I thought I heard my name the same

As someone said – before.

Perhaps the smell of fresh baked bread

and the sunshine through the pane,

Conned me into seeing

someone standing there, again.

Someone was so precious -

Mother - the star that guided me,

She was beauty, sunshine, Christmas Eve

And the robin’s melody.

Oh, but you were precious, mom

How I smile at thoughts of you,

And wish I’d held you closer then

Like those with priceless things should do.

How long a day, how long a year?

The silence speaks so well,

How oft’ does someone come to mind –

too many times to tell.

As years of stunning seasons lapse

their cycles spent and done,

A shadow shines in memory -

The one I once called mom.

-Arlene L Martin, SHADOWS, November 1993

To mother and all mothers present and gone.

Open Mic

2011-10-27T13:32:00.002-06:00

I am always surprised and humbled by the numbers and the oceans away readersare from my little home on the prairie. The majority "of you" areCanadian, secondly American, I did a quick check and noticed in the last twomonths, stats tell me "you" for example, are reading my blog in Germany, Philippines, Brazil, UnitedKingdom, India, Egypt, Poland, Saudi Arabia and Thailand. The range is so much farther than 'the crow actuallyflies' – so this is opportunity to say thanks to all my friends who take timeout of their busy lives to read what this old gal has to say. As I pulled up the 'Comments' blog file, I noted that many were dear friends who took the time to write anote. Thank you. The following are from total strangers fighting battles andjust trying to get through the day like the rest of us, reading my words fromplaces I will never see.

This is what some of you said:

"I'm sure you won't remember me - your mom used to bring avon to my mom. I remember her laugh like I heard it yesterday. . Anyway I found your As the Crow Flies blog . . . and ever since I've been reading it and now I've found you on facebook as well. All this to say that just as a visit from your mom always made my mom happy, reading what you have to say lifts me. I think you are the impersonation of a fountain of joy. My son was diagnosed with leukemia this week and just now I read what you said about the joy of a nectarine. It made me smile and reminded me that even when life is terrifying there are small joys and things u can always count on. Thanks."

"Thanx. I had forgot that miracles and rainbows and hope still exst. U made my day better."

"hey there - this is just fantastic! You are rich because you are alive, now that's a thought and how true. . .how refreshing . . you don't ramble about personal things. Here in Edmonton we have two dogs and three cats, all rescues with sad stories and happy endings. Which reminds me of something. Oh yes. As the Crow Flies! See you next Thursday."

". . I betyou will be remembered like you remember your old teacher. and not . . likemost so called-christians who look constipated all the time. Good story andgood because it's true. Do u teach your cats religion? ha. they know it fromthe love you give them and thats the best kind. Kris B."-*

"Idon't even know how to say where you are from, Saks something or other, but itsounds like the artic pole and far from Kentucky where I was born and raised.Been reading your blog for a long time, never took the time to tell you I likewhat you have to say and the way you say it. You manage to keep the happy comingdespite that dreadful climate."

"Absolutelylove it. You never fail to pull a heart string and tickle my funny bone. Neverknow what to expect and that's why I keep reading. I will try to be moresensitive to my few friends who are not grandparents. Thank you. I feel like Iknow you. I don't know how to say this but you have a Christian way of writing(and living)without knocking your readers out with Bible quotes. . Thanks awhole bunch. Rosie R from Nevada."

"Youlive in a county that I can only guess how to pronounce. I have heard of Ottawoand Ontario. They say your country is vast. It looks cold, too. Enjoy yourblog. Charles from Nebraska"

"I just lost my dog to a car accident. Hewas seven. He was hurt so bad I had to put him down. God I will never get overit and can't stop crying. I like all your animal stories. You are a goodrighter and person for loving and caring for God's special creatures.Bless youmuch. Karin, Vancouver"

"Ilove your blog because it teaches me many things about living good. How do youfind all this stuff and put it together is fantastic. Looking forward toreading more from you in future days. Harriet N. UK"

"It is sotrue. Christmas seems more like a flash in the commercial pan every year. Thankfor sharing your thoughts so openly. My friends and I read your articlesfaithfully and think you must come from a home where moral values were taughtby action. I hope you never stop writing becase you are able to say what othersare thinking. I feel like I know you and you are a friend."

"Iam trying very hard not to fall off my chair laughing. J.A."

"Never beenor seen the prairies, only city life, it sounds serene. It is hard for me tostand outside my condo and see the lights of home, but you have given meappreciation for what I have. You didn't have to say it, but it was hidden inyour blog that there are many who have no place to go home. Thanks for thereminder to be thankful . . My week isn't balanced until I read what you haveto say every Thursday. Rita, Vancouver."

And to all ofyou, thank you for grabbing the mic. You also remind me that miracles and rainbows still exist and Icouldn't say it any better – but all of you, new and old friends, thank you - YOU reallydo make MY day better. For the record, though it's not easy some days, but I dotry very hard to keep the fountain of joy from clogging up and my 'constipatedlook' in check!

More "Crow"Stats:
Pageviews by Operating Systems: Windows 69%, Macintosh 15%, iPhone 5%, Android 4%, iPad 4%and Linux 1%. Also, Firefox isthe leading internet browser 38%, Internet Explorer second 30%.
How about that,huh?

Truth is, I wouldn't know a gigabyte from a snakebite. ~Dolly Parton

2011-10-20T02:45:00.001-06:00

The following are from my personal collection of favouritecomputer quotes; a candid and clever reflection of life prior, and today's currentcomputer domination. Enjoy!

Thereis a world market for about five computers. ~Thomas J Watson, 1958 Chairman of IBM

Computersin the future may have only 1,000 vacuum tubes and weigh only 1.5 tons.
-Popular Mechanics, March 1949

There is no reason anyone would want a computer in their home. ~Ken Olson, president, chairmanand founder of Digital Equipment Corp. (DEC), maker of big business mainframecomputers, arguing against the PC in 1977

I have traveled the length andbreadth of this country and talked with the best people, and I can assure youthat data processing is a fadthat won't last out the year. ~The editor in charge of business books for PrenticeHall, 1957

But what... is it good for? ~IBM executive Robert Lloyd,speaking in 1968 microprocessor, the heart of today's computers

"Everything that can be invented has alreadybeen invented." ~Charles H.Duell, director of the U.S. Patent Office, 1899

I have traveledthe length and breadth of this country and talked with the best people, and Ican assure you that data processing is a fad that won't last out the year. ~The editor incharge of business books for Prentice Hall, 1957

Man is still themost extraordinary computer of all. ~John F. Kennedy

Computers makeit easier to do a lot of things, but most of the things they make it easier todo - don't need to be done. ~Andy Rooney

If computers gettoo powerful, we can organize them into committees. That'll do them in. ~AuthorUnknown

Treat yourpassword like your toothbrush. Don't let anybody else use it, and get anew one every six months. ~Clifford Stoll

I just wish mymouth had a backspace key. ~Author Unknown

Yesterday itworked. Today it is not working. Windows is like that. ~MargaretSegall, 1998

At least mypencil never crashes! ~Author Unknown

In a few minutesa computer can make a mistake so great that it would have taken many men manymonths to equal it. ~Author Unknown

In the old days,people robbed stagecoaches and knocked off armored trucks. Now they'reknocking off servers. ~Richard Power

Mac users swear by their computers. PC users swear at their computers. ~Author Unknown

Computers add anew aspect to my character. I cuss more. ~Ethel Farmer

Blimey - I am astubborn and slow learner although I like to think I am finally getting it.
Bit by bit. ~EthelFarmer

I closed the topof my laptop, laid my head on the shiny black surface, and wept. ~Ethel Farmer

Byte me. ~Ethel Farmer

Twilight Two

2011-10-17T08:07:00.000-06:00

Your Face Is Familiar – Your name, Not So Much

2011-10-13T13:04:00.000-06:00

In a place knownonly in memory, before computers could effortlessly print out receipts, theyhad to be hand written. This introduces the era of my working days - and in bothretail and the publishing business, legible, accurate receipts were king.

Iam not great remembering names, particularly last names and despite many techniquesto improve - I have given up. I am what I am and if the name comes out all wrong,or not at all -usually with a big grin, I can redeem myself. In a small rural community where Iwas once part of the work force, sometimes that face on the other side of thecounter could commandeer me. I knew the name, I knew it well - but as I stood there with pen inhand, the harder I tried to dredge it up, the more evasive it became. Itdanced intangibly back and forth from my memory to the tip of my tongue. I feltlike the village idiot as my mind attempted to locate it. In time, I came up with asolution and prided myself on its effectiveness. When stymied by someone's name, Iwould look at the person, with pen in hand and say, "Gosh, I'm sorry. Ican't remember how you spell your last name." This worked beautifully, andwhen I couldn't evoke even the first name, hearing the surname spelled out –often would bring it to mind.

Oneday it backfired and indeed, that day I not only wore the official dunce cap, it was mine for keeps. Ifound myself face to face with the new to town, bank manager. The receipt onthe counter between us, he watched and waited, expectedly, and though I knewhis name, it vaulted mischievously in my head. Finally, I said, "I'm verysorry. I am having trouble trying to remember how you spell your lastname."

Verypolitely and patiently he replied, "J." My mind was working overtimetrying to think of a J-name, the ink in my pen scratching out the letters as hedictated: "O" – "N" – "E" – "S," - "HerbJones."

I felt my face scorcha 100-watt blush that crept from forehead to chin; there was no recovery. MortifiedI handed him the white customer copy. What kind of writer doesn't know how tospell JONES? I could have told him I was unclear if there was an "A"in it – as in "Joans" but reckoned the word 'daft' was alreadytumbling around his head. Though it was many years ago, as I watched him walkout the door, I still remember thinking when he returned to the bank, he wouldsay to his co-workers, "No wonder that woman can't balance her chequebook."

Afterthat, I came up with a brilliant new strategy; one that resorted to purehonesty: "Golly, I'm sorry. I am so impressed that you remembered my name.I am sadly lacking that gift – can you jog my bad memory?

Sincethen, time has thrown me in many happy, but awkward encounters with nameless acquaintances.If you have been one of them, I apologize. And, Herb – though it's been over thirtyyears I might not recognize you, but I still remember how to correctly spellyour name.

I had rather be on my farm than be emperor of the world. ~George Washington

2011-10-06T10:47:00.003-06:00

It is no secretthat I love fall. It is such a fleeting season on the Canadian prairie, I savourevery day and with my Canon Power Shot Pro One dangling over my neck - go forlong walks under an incredible cloud-dappled sapphire canopy. The feel andsound of golden leaves under my feet is the best 'red' carpet in the world. I alwayscheck out the scene from my favourite lookout, the creek bed. If my timing isright, I watch the beavers swim and listen to, and love, the sky strewn with noisywild turkey and geese flying directly overhead. They are heading for fields tofeast on the tasty spilled over grain from the recent harvest.

Iusually follow the creek, and then walk around a large clump of trees that willlead me back to the yard as the sun is just beginning to set. Sometimes I havetwo white cats following me, though June often tires midway and scampers home.Patchie is excited for our private adventure and prances alongside like a happyspotted white puppy at my heels. He stops when I do and waits while I take apicture, pleased to be in my presence. When we return, June is waiting andPatchie runs ahead to be with her, knowing the best is yet to come; a brushing.I can sit for a long time in the stillness of the prairie quiet, brushing theseadmiring cats and listen to the sound of silence, broken only by geese orpassing traffic.

Oftenit is dark when I return to our home yard. The branch-canopied driveway ispleasant to walk under as leaves crunch under my feet snug and warm in pinkrubber boots.

Tonightmy homecoming seemed especially welcoming, the windows on our farm house gleamedcozy warm and golden. I could smell the barbeque in the patio entrance by the front door and sawthe moving silhouette of our grown son through the kitchen window. Working in the area, he was staying with us for afew days. I knew he was preparing supper. I also knew Fred would be dozing infront of the television blaring the six-o'clock news.

So,there I stood in the darkness outside our snug, though modest comfy farm home, watching. It is oneof my much-loved sights and as the burgers bubbled on the grill one of myfavourite sounds – and smell. Like a peeping tom, of sorts, only with an agendaof love and thankfulness, outdoor cats playing around my feet, I stood admiringand memorizing the view – the lights of home.

Patchie, (bottom of photo) enjoying a rest on the creek bed as I survey the surroundings through my camera's LCD screen. June is giving me close scrutiny.

2011-10-04T12:14:00.001-06:00

If I have offended anyone, I am so sorry. That was never, ever my intent. Friends - always!

Twilight

2011-10-04T11:02:00.001-06:00

2011-10-04T10:43:00.002-06:00

Fired Up

2011-09-29T12:53:00.000-06:00

There was a time in my life when'the bath' was a more frequent occurrence. A steamy tub heaped with shimmering scentedbubbles, a sparkling refreshing beverage on the tub's edge and the latest PhyllisA Whitney novel in the wait was perfect ending to a sometimes not so perfectday.

Inreflection, I don't know when the 'quick shower' replaced the traditional soak,but the more I think about it – the more I miss it. It was my sanctuary, aplace my family respected, but more often or not – the telephone did not.

Thereis one 'almost bath' from years past that always comes to mind when I thinkabout tub times. It was the conclusion of a hectic, dusty, long hot harvest daywhen – at last, my services were no longer required in the field. As I left forhome, the lights of both combines in my rear view mirror, slowly moving in thevast darkness reminded me of ships bobbing in a prairie ocean of canola.

Aboutten minutes later, I was relaxing in the soothing watery depths and may havebeen sleeping, when a loud commotion at the front door startled me. "MOM!MOM ARE YOU HERE," our son's voice yelled from the kitchen door."FIRE!MOM – my combines on fire and I can't find dad!"

Thatisn't how I prefer to end my bathtub session. In an adrenalin rush, I jumpedfrom the tub and slipped back into the dusty crumpled clothes laying on thefloor. He was long gone when I emerged into the kitchen, my mind racing what todo. On my way out, I grabbed a large blue, filled to the brim, drinking water jugand fled outside, climbing into the only vehicle in sight. Unfortunately, theheadlights didn't work in the old clunker but off I sped towards the field.

Inthe blackness, I missed the field's turn-off and the jug on the passenger seatof the old Chevy pickup toppled and bounced to the floor as I drove down intoand through the ditch, focussing on, and heading towards the gathering lightsin the distance. Anyone who has driven a field in the dark of night understands driving blind when all landmarks are obscured by darkness. It is easy to losedirection. The men were gathered around the big formerly silver Gleaner combine,headlights (not mine) and flashlights revealing a black and charred back end ofthe big prairie ship. I stood there; breathless - my hair wet and plastered with sudsyshampoo to my head staring silently, my arms clutching the blue jug.

Itwas an engine fire and before our son fled for help, he put out most of it withthe fire extinguisher. Then he ran the entire distance of the field in thedark, canola swaths and stocks slicing and scratching his ankles. Fred was inthe yard, unloading a grain truck, oblivious. My brother-in-law, operating oursecond combine at the direct opposite end of that field, wondered why and wherethe Gleaner had vanished.

Thatmay have been the beginning of the decline of my delicious bathtub soaks. Thinkingabout it today, I question my logic believing my water jug would smoulder a blazingcombine on fire. However, I do remember all of us returning from the field whenthe danger had passed and drinking coffee around our kitchen table discussingthe excitement in the wee small hours of that September morning. I remembermostly the laughter when I was suddenly noticed, disheveled, my shirtbackwards, my hair still gooey with shampoo, plastered like cement to my scalp.

I used to wonder how I'd react ina crisis and that night when my mind and hair were both in a lather, I discoveredthat, to the shout of 'FIRE' - I can quickly and easily carry a five-gallonwater jug, and drive a vehicle in the dark, down and up a ditch, through afield - without headlights.

Nowthat I am older and my energy level has substantially decreased, I notice thatI fall asleep in the tub and am prone to drowning Phyllis Whitney. I supposethat has a lot to do with the demise of the bubble bath. But that night, I learnedfirst-hand that superwoman glamour and garb is nothing but a myth.

2011-09-27T03:16:00.000-06:00

Daisy, a black short-hair, and Henry a black long-hair with white chest and feet, belong to my friend in Alberta. Circumstances sadly changed for her and she is desperate to place them in a loving home. With: Patchy, June, Taffy, Fuzby, Rosie, Princess, Betty (with her recently discovered FIVE kittens), recent un-named arrival long-hair grey & white young cat, Pokie, Stormy, Brandy, Scout and FurB and the ones that come but don't stay - we have a full house, otherwise I'd take them - and wouldn't be posting and pleading for help. Please help my friend - two cats are actually easier than one.. They entertain one another and when they're siblings, they are so much fun.. Please seriously think about it or pass this on if you know somebody who is lonesome and love cats..

Where War Planes Once Trained

2011-09-27T03:05:00.001-06:00

It is now all on private property. I took these photos when I picked up hubby stranded there, several days ago.

Though this is the Air Force Gunnery School, today a museum in Brandon Manitoba, the Dafoe Base, as all five were built identically. Trees, shrubs and flowers were planted and well cared for at the time.
The planes dropped their bombs over the salt waters of the nearby Quill Lakes.
When they were small, our sons played at the huge upright cement target slab, collecting casings and shells.. It still stands, as well as the small guard shack near the highway, south of the hangar.

"Worst is over now, future is glorious, Bennett confident. Greatest prosperity ever known lies ahead, says Premier." (On the first page of Globe and Mail on January 2, 1932)

2011-09-22T08:41:00.001-06:00

Indulgeme, please and walk back with me.

Time Span: 1929 To 1940

Farm on the prairies 1932

Canada's economycollapsed during the 1930s, creating a prolonged political and social crisis -over250,000 people left the prairie provinces. The Great Depression caused severe repercussionsfor each province but the conditions were the most disastrous in Saskatchewan: two-thirdsof the farm population of Saskatchewan was destitute. The price of grain alsodropped from $1.60 a bushel to $0.28 a bushel in 1932. Relief costs for theSaskatchewan government escalated to $62 million, which was higher than itstotal revenues. The federal and provincial governments struggled to address thedesperate conditions of poverty and unemployment in Saskatchewan. Meanwhile, an increasingly menacing internationalclimate saw the rise of fascism and mounting likelihood of another world war.When the war arrived, Canada found itself fighting virtually alone at Britain'sside.

R.B.Bennett was Canada’s eleventh prime minister and served the country during theGreat Depression. A fascinating Canadian, Bennett was born in 1870 in NewBrunswick, where he was raised, educated, and began his career. He practisedlaw briefly before heading west to Calgary in 1897. He was extraordinarilysuccessful in both business and law, and no other prime minister amassed aslarge a fortune before taking the office. Yet Bennett had the great misfortuneof being elected Prime Minister of Canada during the second year of the GreatDepression, which struck Canada harder than any other industrialized nation. Bennetts government failed to come up with any far-reaching policy toalleviate his badly wounded and dying country. Behind the thetough-talking bachelor, when the political mask lifted, Bennett had a far different private face. He was a kindlyand generous man and during the darkest days of the Depression, Bennettscompassion and humanity shone through. Alone in his seventeen-room suite at theChateau Laurier Hotel in Ottawa, Bennett worked through endless nights trying tokeep up with the surmounting personal letters citing heartbreak and despair. Bennett may have failed inpolitics, but he excelled as a generous man. Included ineach envelope was money from Bennett's own pocket.

I have severalof these letters in my computer files. I read them now and again to remind me, thatin comparison to these desperate Canadians during my country's darkest days -days thatstretched into the span of a decade, my life really is – another day inparadise.

Prime Minister R.B Bennett

The following areseveral of these letters Prime Minister Bennett received from prairie residents,answered by Bennett, with money tucked in each response. The first letter is flankedby Bennett's

response:

Sept.27,1933

DearSir,

Threelittle baby boys were born to Mr. and Mrs. Samuels in our vicinity. Likemany others they have had some very bad luck. Theparents are a very fine type, not the kind with the hand out for help. Wehope you will feel toward these unfortunate people the way we do.

Yourstruly,

ElizabethRatray

Dear Mr. and Mrs Samuels,

I am enclosing herewith a 20dollar bill, which I trust may be of some little service to you during theChristmas season. I learned the other day that one of the triplet boys hadpassed away and I extend to you my sincerest sympathy,

With best wishes, believe me I am

yours faithfully . . .

Dear Prime MinisterRB Bennett,
It is with a very humble heart that I take the opportunity of writing thisletter to ask you if you will please send for this underware for my husbandfrom the Eaton catalog. I can manage but my husband has arthritis very bad attimes in his arms and shoulders. I have patched and darned his old underwearfor the last two years, but they are completely done now. If you cant do this Ireally dont know what to do.
Mrs. Thomas Perkins
Kingdom, Saskatchewan

Dear Sir,
I am writing to see if their is any help I could get. As I have a baby thirteendays old that only weighs one pound and I havent money, if their is any help Icould get their will be two votes for you next election.
Hoping to hear from you soon
Yours Truly,
Mrs. Jack OHannen

Dear Sir
Please forgive me for asking you for help. Since I have not been able to getanything from the council after several requests I thought of contacting you,maybe you won’t say no.. I have been sick for the past 5 years, 4 years ago, Ispent 6 months in the hospital and since then I’ve always done what I could togive my family what they need today I can’t do anything at all. I need to goback to the hospital right away, the doctor told me that I can’t live muchlonger without care. I have 6 young children, I’m 42 years old I don’t havemoney, we don’t have any more food, no clothing all we are — think about it mydear Mr. R.B. Bennett a cold winter like we’re having. The children complainbecause they’re hungry and cold I can’t give them what they ask for to tell thetruth it’s very sad —
I hope my letter will be considered and to receive a reply soon
Respectfully
Arsene Gaudet

Dust storm, 1930 on Saskatchewan prairie

Thepeople who wrote those despairing letters were real people, trying to cope indire times with no safety net or help of any sort. I need to remember them whenI think Fred and I have 'nothing to eat' and our bank account is low. It remindsme to be grateful when I look in our refrigerator and around our home. And evenwhen Fred's 'intact' underwear comes tumbling out of the clothes dryer, thoseletters tell me to be appreciative and thankful for the daily wonderful thingsthat make our life – good!


Bennett died on June 26, 1947 and is buried at the village churchyard, Mickleham, Surrey, England. He was 77.

Bennett's Credits:

After his government was defeated, Bennett moved to England. He couldn't remain in the country that he felt he had failed. R.B. Bennett introduced the following to Canada:

* The relief Act, 1926

* The Canadian Radio Broadcasting Commission of 1932

* The Bank of Canada 1935

* The Canadian Wheat Board 1935

I Believe That God's Last Name Is Not "Dammit."

2011-09-15T13:58:00.008-06:00

It was a business conversation and only the second time I had spoken to Laurie. At the end of the phone chat, I wished her a nice day, one that unravels gentle and kind. I often say this and with sincerity. She surprised me nicely when she replied, "Thank you. It is shaping up to be wonderful. I saw God today." Not sure how to respond, after my mini silence she explained, "I look for him every day and I saw him this morning, outside my kitchen window. He sparkled in the beautiful sunshine."

I thought, how true. Yesterday had been gray, cold and stormy. The morning's sunshine was delightful. Laurie continued, "Sometimes I see God in the face of a stranger, or even in the eyes of my little dog. He can be in the smile of a child. God is always in my day, I just have to look for him and I do every day."

Her words lingered and I did not have to look hard or long after because I saw God's love in an email from a friend. Applying what she said, I realized I saw him days earlier. Sitting in the passenger seat of my truck, under an unusually hot sun in one of our distant fields, I saw him in a majestic family of moose romping and playing - cooling off in a slough; mama, papa and twin babies. As I watched closely through the zoom lens of my camera, I felt like I was intruding. I knew I had been given a rare and beautiful gift – a God moment. The next day on dusty back roads when Fred and I and our brother-in-law were bringing home the twin Massey's and grain trucks from a field that we'd just finished harvesting, we happened upon our neighbour's identical twin calves enjoying the tall green grass in a ditch by their yard. For several months Brian had been calling me to come with my camera because he said they were so cute. And he was right. Twins are also a pleasant rarity down home on the farm.

That was also how I felt a month ago when a pair of Sand Hill cranes flew overhead then landed almost in front of me and began meandering around the yard. It was a moment only Heaven could have arranged as I'd been trying for several months to get just that one close shot. That afternoon I was given a camera full!

In July when we were returning home from our long vacation, and still in Ontario, we parked beside a young couple from Alberta at a truck stop. They were moving to Kenora, Ontario. Enthusiastic and bubbly, the young woman struck up a conversation. She said she didn't know how life would turn out for them with their move, but she wasn't worried, with confidence she added that life always sorts itself out. Her eyes sparkling, she wished us a safe trip home and – a good life. There we were, two strangers, both on a journey that somehow intersected. Laurie would tell me I had seen God that day. Remembering the warmth and sparkle in those young blue friendly eyes, it was a special encounter.

Laurie, there is so much truth – I only have to look, sometimes through the eyes of my heart but God is there.

After watching several broadcasts honouring the Tenth Anniversary of 9/11, I wrote the following on a picture I'd taken of a lone tall pine tree, dark angry storm clouds swirling in the above massive threatening prairie sky: "Confused, I stand in the storm and question why Human Nature can be so evil. Nature answers with a soothing, stunning paramount showcase."

I have always thought God is everything evil is not. Today, as words fill this page, I also believe that God will read these words through the eyes of someone amazing I may never meet. Whoever *you are - I hope this day falls around you soft and gentle.

(* YOU: the one or ones being addressed —used as the pronoun of the second person singular or plural in any grammatical relation.)

Incidentally, the cute little fellow in the picture is of Foxy. He belongs to my neighbour and friend, Alma. It is also her picture.

It is not my intent to sermonize or disrespect the beliefs and faith of others. Please know I am sorry if the above comes across as doing so.

Beside Still Waters

2011-09-14T13:26:00.001-06:00

Fur Babies Come In All Sizes Downhome On the Farm

2011-09-13T22:13:00.002-06:00

Family of Four, Rare Field Visit

2011-09-13T21:44:00.001-06:00

We had one of those wonderful, rare gifts from nature with the visit of this family of moose. The day was extremely warm and the entire family was playing and cooling of in this slough on our field. I took these pictures with my camera's zoom, sitting in my truck, engine shut off and feeling like I was prying into a private family moment. It is rare to see a mama and papa moose together and even rarer to see twins!

Over the Edge

2011-09-08T11:14:00.003-06:00

It was to be just a quick trip. Fred was combining in a field only two miles from home and called asking if I could come right away. He needed a ride home to fetch something from our shop. Although several years ago, I recall the event vividly. It was early morning and I had been up for some time assembling and packaging sandwiches for the busy day ahead, I hadn't taken the time to get dressed. Mid-harvest, Fred and I were tired. Both combines had tirelessly churned in the field until three am, the cool temperature perfect for harvesting the ripe and brittle canola.

Knowing I likely wouldn't be meeting anyone on the rural back road, sensing the urgency in his voice, I deliberated whether to remain in my nightie or take the time to dress. Experience has taught me even in farming country there is not a lot of privacy, so I pulled on my Capri's and a top then dashed outside to our four-wheel drive extended cab diesel pickup. The tires spun a trail of dust on the dirt road and I knew that Fred would see me coming. As I turned at the approach I noticed a white three-quarter service truck approaching. The rural gravel road was narrow and to avoid a stone chip on the windshield, I backed up to the narrow grid road to let him go by. Suddenly I found the truck plummeting down and realized I'd missed the road and backed into the steep ditch. The rear of the truck wobbled as my foot stomped the brake pedal. The service truck suddenly stopped and a man I'd never seen before came running towards me. "I'm sorry, you backed up because I was coming and now you're in quite a predicament. I think there's a chain or rope in the truck." I watched him do a quick search and he returned shaking his head. "Sorry, there's not," he said explaining that only the driver side tire was actually touching ground. He then placed his hands on the truck's hood and began pushing – he said to see how stable it was. I could feel the truck teeter and said, "Please don't do that. My husband is just down the road by that Gleaner combine you just passed. Can you go for him please?"

"Sure thing," he answered. In disbelief, I listened to his truck whine and gasp for life. It wouldn't start. "You've got to be kidding!" I said aloud, hanging on tightly to the open diver's window, my weight shifted tight to the door. For the first time ever I remembered being glad I wasn't a mere stick-girl, thinking my weight close to the only tire not hanging in mid air, would help somewhat keep the truck from toppling. I could hear the sickening sound of a weak battery getting weaker with every touch on the gas pedal. Finally, it roared to life and he flashed me a grin as he turned and headed toward that Gleaner.

He returned in minutes and Fred came running to the truck - dangling precariously. "You might roll here," he said quietly looking at me with confidence, "it's not looking too good. But you'll be okay. Just hang on tight to the steering wheel when you start going over and you won't get hurt." Mustering courage, I nodded and told him to hurry.

I waited over twenty very impatient minutes growing more annoyed as the seconds ticked by. Sarcastically, I wondered if they decided to go to the house for a coffee and a snack. A big Co-op fuel truck sped by and as Fred also told me; the vibration caused the truck to quaver. I shifted my weight even tighter against the door. I knew it would be a gentle roll if I tipped. The thought of a banged up roof and busted windshield on the truck that Fred took to early morning coffee disturbed me most. In a small rural community, such an accident would not go unnoticed. I could live with the bantering and jokes because I'd be the one laughing first and loudest. I was conjecturing the snide sexist 'women driver' comments from his buddies. That kept me articulating some serious praying. Finally, I saw dust approaching in the rear view mirror. Fred returned with one of our sturdiest towropes, explaining, that once in our yard - 'our friend's' truck kept stalling then the battery failed completely. Fred was running around the buildings looking for booster cables. The good sets were in our grain trucks and service truck in another field. He found an aging rusty set hanging on a nail in the garage. With calm instructions to remove my foot from the brake that my foot had firmly been pressing for the last thirty minutes - and to steer left, he guided the truck towing me onto the road, and to safety. I was giddy with relief when all four tires touched the ground and when I got out of the truck, I shook the fellow's hand, and with laughter garnishing my voice, said a hearty thanks. Watching him disappear north into a cloud of dust – I threw my arms in the air and under a big sunny perfect azure-blue prairie sky - did an enthusiastic happy dance in the gravel of that road.

I pass that ditch often and every time I take a second look. I have learned that having a thankful heart 24/7 is essential; it takes one through many tight and unpleasant situations. Another important thing I realized from that incident - it's easier to face a stressful situation when I have my pants on.

Man is harder than iron, stronger than stone and more fragile than a rose. - Turkish Proverb

2011-08-30T14:17:00.009-06:00

Concerned about my friend I called hoping the news about her mother would and could be positive. She has been in my thoughts and prayers lately because I know she has been in that profound, unsettled place waiting for 'the call.' The call that will change life as she knows it. I have thought often about how busy we get, how chaotic the days spill out one after the other till suddenly death shows up and abruptly takes someone we love.

She explained with each visit, her mother is more jaundiced and less responsive. We have been friends for a very long time and I could hear that 'catch' in her voice. We talked about the brave woman her mother is and was - and the daily courage it took for her dealing with the unfair hand life dealt her – a life long battle with Multiple Sclerosis and later, diabetes. She faced so many challenges, taking each one head on. I remembered the sound of her mother's laughter; sweet and contagious. I knew the valour and strength it took for my friend to be her daughter and over time, how easily she made it look maneuvering the wheel chair, a skill she learnt in her early teens.

She told me she knows with each visit, a two-hour drive away, that it may be their last. She said her mother was always fond of red roses. On her last visit, she stopped first at a local florist shop and purchased a dozen of their finest red roses. The price was hefty, but it was irrelevant. It was one thing she could still do, knowing the fragrance would surround her mother, even if unconscious. She set them close beside the fragile figure, a tiny shadow barely making a ripple under the covers. Her mother briefly opened her eyes, though there was no recognition.

When a loved one is in the final stage - life-sustaining systems are beginning to shut down and time suddenly is measured in breaths and heartbeats. The unfamiliar and waiting unglues the family and drastically shifts the focus.

My friend talked about when they lived on their farm, the long ago days she recalls as being her mother's healthiest and happiest. With a touch of sadness, she mentioned a special peaceful place there - where her mother asked that her ashes be scattered.

Experts warn to be optimistic and upbeat around the comatose because the brain is still often alert, though the body is failing. I have been thinking about the wisdom of those roses and it reminded me of a quote by the Scottish author, J. M. Barrie: "God gave us our memories so that we might have roses in December."

I often allude to Fred that I love roses and hint how wonderful it would be should he surprise me with a bouquet now and again. Being the practical, hard working 'realist' farmer he is, I realize this will never happen so now and again I buy them myself. I find their scent and beauty both healing and refreshing. One can get on a treadmill that spins so fast it is easy to lose sight of "the call" that lies somewhere in almost everyone's tomorrow. However, as I think these thoughts, with the eyes of my heart, I am seeing someone dear revisiting a tranquil, comforting space where the scent of roses hangs in the air. It reinforces what I have always believed – give flowers to the living, don't waste them for casket decorations.

Still in the mood of roses, I think of something Eleanor Roosevelt said. "I once had a rose named after me and I was very flattered. But I was not pleased to read the description in the catalogue: no good in a bed, but fine up against a wall."

Indeed, I am concerned about my friend, however, there is one thing I know and admire about her. When 'against a wall' she has acquired her mother's inspirational coping abilities and she will be okay. Wisdom and humor top that long list.
After all - she is her mother's daughter.

If the words seem spoken nonchalant

with a sentiment or two,

And if they sound repetitive

when I tell you I love you,

I don't want to say it late

some things should never wait.

Let me tell you what you mean to me

and not wonder if you knew,

And not around a casket

Where they bring no delight to you.

What logic in a tongue so bound?

Laughter. Oh, that buoyant sound!

I don't want to say it late

and be sorry if I wait.

In my world – dear friend,

you are loved,

and you are precious!

I don't want to say it late

some things should never wait.

-Arlene L. Martin

Jan 94/ revised March 07

Our Last Hurrah

2011-08-28T10:41:00.001-06:00

FARMER: A Handyman with a Good Sense of Humus

2011-08-25T10:55:00.002-06:00

Fred is sleeping as I write this. He is exhausted. Our barley fields lie in swaths and this has taken him about a week. By trade, he is a heavy-duty mechanic, so it is always his strong hands doing the repairs and servicing of our big (and small) farm equipment. He also spent today getting both our Massey Combines field-ready and wondered this evening why his back ached. I reminded him of the huge heavy pails of oil he carried up and down the steps of those big metal grain-chewing giants. I often help with cleaning the cab windows. That alone tires me but he got those windows sparkling clean, previously lugging the large, heavy shop vac up tricky steep red steps. In jest, it is said the leading cause of death among farmers is old age. Being of retirement age and working alone and with older out-dated equipment, it seems more truth than tease.

I too am tired though it is just the beginning of our harvest. Today arrived with more than its share of sad and stressful moments and that is why tonight I looked into my computer at the documents inside a file I named, "Encouragement"

The following are excerpts from one of my favourite authors. Her life was punctuated with extreme sadness and dark days that she overcame by making a conscientious life decision to ever and always choose joy. Diagnosed with a brain tumor in early 2001, Barbara Johnson died July 2nd, 2007. During those six years, she stunned the publishing world and her readers with her contribution of four more titles to her long list of best sellers.

She reached across time as tonight I read:

1. Learn to tell a story! A well-told story is as welcome as a sunbeam in a sickroom.

2. Learn the art of saying kind and encouraging things.

3. Learn to avoid all ill-natured remarks and everything likely to cause friction.

4. Learn to keep your troubles to yourself. The world is too busy to care for your ills and sorrows.

5. Learn to stop grumbling. If you cannot see any good in the world, keep the bad to yourself.

6. Learn to hide your aches and pains under a pleasant smile. No one cares whether you have a headache or rheumatism.

7. Learn to greet your friends with a smile – they carry too many frowns in their own hearts to be burdened with yours.

8. Be a joy-collector – collect all things that are lifters, not sinkers.

9. You also need encouragement and lightness. Start looking for it.

I have read them over several times hoping they will root in my mind-set. Tomorrow I will practice these life lessons on Fred. It won't make the Massey's run any better or prevent the dust from grunging up the windows and radiators, but somehow an endeavoured dash of joy and adjusted attitude should make this, which we believe to be our last harvest – happier.

Just for the record those not familiar with farming, did you know if Fred drove one of our combines to a service station, moseyed up to the diesel fuel pump and told the attendant to fill it up - the bill on that would spin over $450! Of course, I am assuming the employee could locate the fuel cap!

And here's me, in conclusion hoping I made it past point number one on the above list.


Me, leaning against our former Gleaner Combine. It was traded in for another Massey so we have a set of 'Twins' in the field at harvest. This day, I was riding with Fred in the cab and this combine broke down at the far end of the field. This was taken shortly after walking about a mile across the rough field to the grain truck and home. I guess it's time to throw in the boots, huh?


And today, the Twins are ready and waiting for our last round-up.

Saddle Up! Harvest 2011 Begins. And Marks "The End" Of the Dusty Trail For Fred and Ethel

2011-08-25T04:56:00.003-06:00

Not The End, Just A Bend – A Love Story

2011-08-18T13:23:00.007-06:00

Attempting to suppress tears, we were told the details of the love of his life – and how every day, part of her crumbles into oblivion even more. Not yet fifty, (1)*Troy was describing his wife since *Beth, 45, was recently diagnosed with dementia.

We hadn't seen Troy since this occurred and he's been confronting the Saskatchewan/Canadian Health Care system with his concerns to establish a place, other than a level 4 senior's facility, where he may leave Beth and not worry about her day and night. He has much to be concerned about, so much resting on his shoulders, "Even if she was sixty," Troy explained, "It would be easier to accept." She was a brilliant nurse and happy to be married to Troy. This is how I remember Beth – laughing and very much in love.

He is so loyal visiting her and often brings Beth home for short stays. True to the nature of her disease, some days are better than others.

Beth's sudden dementia is caused by brain lesions; nerve cells that die and leave behind damaged areas of the brain causing decrease of brain function in those areas. Her memory consists of five minutes and Troy has to repeatedly answer the same questions. Sometimes Beth is in a mind-place where she chants and talks to herself; those days are particularly distressing for Troy. One morning, clutching her handbag tightly to her chest, Beth walked, unnoticed by staff, out of the facility. Troy was crushed when he received the call explaining, Beth - his (2)*legally insane wife was walking the city streets.

Fred and I listened while our friend, like a son to us, revealed the things weighing heavy and deep in his heart. He was describing her condition, the night he miraculously found Beth by the riverside, that day she was missing. Scared and screaming accusations, creating a nightmare scene and crowd, Troy was grateful an EMT just happened to be there. His uniform explained to the anxious onlookers that everything was all right and under control. I was remembering the day long ago we learned that Troy's mother died. He was the one who discovered she slipped away in her sleep. He was an amazing son and they were close, so I was thinking sadly, now he was losing his Beth.

Fred and I didn't know what to say, so we did what we do in those situations, we listened. It was clear to me how much he loved Beth, giving 'for better or worse, in sickness and in health' total new depth. Before Troy left, I hugged him for a long time.

Sometimes, Troy explained to us, though for extremely short intervals, Beth's mind is clear. Fighting composure, Troy told us about a night returning her to the facility - in her old familiar happy voice, looking at him, Beth smiled and said, "This day was so nice, I just want it to never end."

When he's not at work, Troy spends his free moments trying to find a quiet home for the love of his life, a place where she can spend the rest of her days happy and cared for. He has found several, but they are unaffordable. With a grin, he told us that he might as well move in with her if he's going to pay that much. She may have many years ahead, but her condition unfortunately, will never improve, and the disease struck her abruptly and with incredible clout. Sadly, he watches helplessly while she slips deeper and deeper into the darkness of Dementia.

I am typing this while listening to the sounds of the birds in our back yard, and the steady hum of traffic from the busy highway. I am sitting on our deck, a lovely breeze keeping the pesky August bugs from lighting and biting. Fred is busy spraying our fields, desiccating them for harvest and trying to wipe out the wild oats that somehow gained foothold in several fields. My thoughts and prayers are with Troy and this has been typed blinking away tears. Fred has wanted corned beef and fried cabbage for a long time and tonight, at suppertime, unknown to him, he is getting his wish. Life and love, I reckon - unfold in the small things.

In an attempt to grasp, if even slightly, what Troy and Beth are going through, I have been reading and studying the far-reaching scope of Dementia. There is a common thread the experts share in dealing with the patient through different stages of mental issues. It has stayed with me - for I believe it applies to all minds, scarred, scattered, sane or otherwise. They suggest to not get caught up in whether or not something makes sense. A person with Dementia cannot piece everything together, but their emotions are still real, still valid and their distress and disquiet is magnified when they are not understood.
One thing I know, Troy and Beth's love story is not diminished by this disease. Personally, since the time spent with Troy, I am trying to implement that life is easier with acceptance - and learning to let love rise above logic; endeavouring to toss the inconsequential. I hadn't realized that I waste days, I indiscriminately throw them away thinking a better one is somewhere down tomorrow's corridor.

We ate supper late and were both tired. The skies had a pink golden glow as the sun began its slide over our western fields. When Fred took his second huge helping of corned beef, saying again how good it tasted, I could hear my heart whispering, "This day was so nice, I just want it to never end."

*1. Names changed.

*2. Mental illness of such a severe nature that a person cannot distinguish fantasy from reality, cannot conduct her/his affairs due to psychosis.

Sun sets over our western field

Sandhills And Those Who Love Them

2011-08-17T12:55:00.001-06:00

Silence of a quiet evening

2011-08-16T11:30:00.001-06:00

In Perspective

2011-08-14T09:27:00.000-06:00