The last time I blogged I talked about how warm it was in November - I just read that through now and couldn't help but marvel at this crazy country; yesterday and today we have finally emerged from a bitter deep freeze. It was all the way up to minus 10 this afternoon and everyone was treating the day like it was spring. After 40 below with another 10 degrees in windchill for ten days, it's a wonder we all didn't freeze solid.
I think I have finished all my Christmas shopping. Even the wrapping is done - I think - who knows, I probably have things hidden around this place that I'll find in July.
The decorating is done too. It's not as extravagant as some years, but it's also better than others. Somehow, this year, there will be no little children coming, so it hardly seems worth the effort to put lights up outside; we live three miles off the highway so it's not like anyone but us or our guests will ever see them. The tree is up and the main rooms are sporting some finery. For 2009 it will have to do.
Where I have really failed this year is in the baking department. There just hasn't been time and heaven knows, we don't need the excess calories. There will still be way too much to eat, but it won't be butter tarts and shortbread cookies tempting us - just chocolates, nuts, and other snacks. Even without all the sugar-filled temptations my New Years resolution better be to join my friend, Janet, at the fitness club in town. But not until January 1st. No point in spoiling the pleasures of the table before then!
Glen has been enjoying a slow down at his work. He has had time to get things done with the cattle and finally, today, sorted the cows away from their 2009 calves for weaning. It should have been done ages ago, but first they had to have their fall inoculations and he didn't want to stress them right away, and then it got so cold and he didn't want to stress them more so it got put off again. We have the most un-stressed, coddled cattle in the country. Tonight, though, it's plenty loud out there - mamas on one side of a very stout wooden corral fence, and their 650 pound babies on the other side - all bawling at each other like it's the end of the world. Being able to see each other helps, though. Again, we do it that way to lower their stress level.
My work has been crazy. That's the deal when you work for the post office at this time of the year. Tired as I get, it's still my favorite time - delivering the things people want, sending off thousands of cards and good wishes, everyone is a giving and happy mood. It's just a fun time, all around. After tomorrow it should start to slow down a bit except for the leave-it-for-the-last-minute people who'll be Expressposting like crazy on Monday.
That being said, I had better get myself off to bed and re-charge my batteries for the morning.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
There's just over a week to go in November and it's absolutely gorgeous outside again today! My fingers did get a bit cold hanging laundry out on the line this morning, but not enough to go get gloves. I remember when the clothes line was all my mother had to dry clothes on year round - in the winter you froze your fingers hanging things out, and again when you brought them back in. Then they (the clothes) were strung out around our tiny little house so they could finish drying because freeze-drying didn't quite get the whole job done. The smell of damp cotton thawing out transports me back to those days in the blink of an eye, and it's a trip I love to make, frozen fingers and all.
But, as I said, that wasn't a problem today. There is a temperature of at least 10 degrees and a good stiff breeze from the south so my sheets and towels will be completely dry and be soft and fluffy when they come back in. And, being fully dry, will smell like heaven, to boot. I know. I know. I'm just a country bumpkin and the littlest things make me happy - sophistication is something that other people can strive for.
Glen is working yet another weekend. He says that once the freeze up starts the oilfield will slow down and he'll spend some time at home again. There is so much to do around here freeze up better happen pretty soon. We are still grain feeding 60 or so steers twice a day. They should have been shipped to market ages ago but there has been no time to make the trucking arrangements and sort them for the trip. He does the chores in the morning before he leaves for work, and I do them as soon as I get home from work at night. I really prefer to work with big animals like that in the daylight, but the sun goes down earlier every night. I have got it down to a science now - how long it takes me to carry 24 pails of chop , and fill them again for morning chores. It used to take me 45 minutes but I can do it in under 35 now. It's quite the workout, and by the end of this week those minutes I've managed to shave off my time won't make any difference anyway - it will be dark regardless. Maybe he'll have a few days off in a row this week and those animals will be gone by that time ... of course then we'll just turn around, bring the herd in, wean this year's calves, and start all over again.
Meanwhile, inside the house, I'm doing my regular Saturday thing. I have buns on the rise, laundry to fold, stew on the go for supper, and will next be sitting down with the Sears catalog to try and come up with some Christmas gift ideas. There was a big trade fair of local businesses and home party salespeople in town this morning so I went in for a bit. I didn't buy anything, but have placed an order or two so at least I can say I have started shopping. There's a long way to go though, I had better get on with it ...
But, as I said, that wasn't a problem today. There is a temperature of at least 10 degrees and a good stiff breeze from the south so my sheets and towels will be completely dry and be soft and fluffy when they come back in. And, being fully dry, will smell like heaven, to boot. I know. I know. I'm just a country bumpkin and the littlest things make me happy - sophistication is something that other people can strive for.
Glen is working yet another weekend. He says that once the freeze up starts the oilfield will slow down and he'll spend some time at home again. There is so much to do around here freeze up better happen pretty soon. We are still grain feeding 60 or so steers twice a day. They should have been shipped to market ages ago but there has been no time to make the trucking arrangements and sort them for the trip. He does the chores in the morning before he leaves for work, and I do them as soon as I get home from work at night. I really prefer to work with big animals like that in the daylight, but the sun goes down earlier every night. I have got it down to a science now - how long it takes me to carry 24 pails of chop , and fill them again for morning chores. It used to take me 45 minutes but I can do it in under 35 now. It's quite the workout, and by the end of this week those minutes I've managed to shave off my time won't make any difference anyway - it will be dark regardless. Maybe he'll have a few days off in a row this week and those animals will be gone by that time ... of course then we'll just turn around, bring the herd in, wean this year's calves, and start all over again.
Meanwhile, inside the house, I'm doing my regular Saturday thing. I have buns on the rise, laundry to fold, stew on the go for supper, and will next be sitting down with the Sears catalog to try and come up with some Christmas gift ideas. There was a big trade fair of local businesses and home party salespeople in town this morning so I went in for a bit. I didn't buy anything, but have placed an order or two so at least I can say I have started shopping. There's a long way to go though, I had better get on with it ...
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
BREAKING THE BREAD ... BARRIER
In families as big as the one I come from, hosting a holiday meal - or, as I like to call it, Staging the Feast - is a big deal. The sheer number of people, and where to put them all, especially if it happens to be really cold outside (like Christmas usually is), is a challenge even for the best of us. Scrounging up enough chairs is a quest in itself.
Depending on who all can be there, we have done everything from setting the tables out in a heated garage, to renting a hall. And, we share a traveling table that does the rotation through the hosting houses as the year’s feast days roll around. It’s always “the kids’ table” ; the grown up’s get to sit at the “real” table. There’s no right-of-passage quite like making it to “grown up’s table”.
But there are other stepping stones in the family meal tradition. The whole thing is one huge growing experience, really, when you think about it. And anyone who has just finished putting the last of her fancy dishes away from the latest family banquet, if she has any sense in her head at all, longs for the days when she got to sit at the little folding table in the living room and dodge doing dishes altogether.
I don’t know as any of us every knew what a lot of work Staging the Feast was, because Mom always made it look easy. Did any of us ever know when she stuffed that 25 pound turkey? Were we even out of bed yet when that job was done? I know I had to call her for thawing and stuffing directions the first time I was named “cooker of the bird”. And to be completely honest here, I have two kinds of “done” in my repertoire: not-quite-done, and way-overdone. The learning curve is a work in progress.
Luckily - for all family hostesses - another family tradition is that everyone contributes to the feast. As soon as the invitation is issued a reply of “What can I bring?” is offered back. The hostess usually provides all the hot dishes, and the guests furnish the more portable items. And, there is a hierarchy to this that I had never thought about until this past weekend when I was asked for ... (drum roll here) ... buns.
You see, when you are first considered grown up enough to contribute, your part of the meal is something that you can’t possibly mess up - a jar of pickles (store bought, of course) or a pound of butter (ditto). Once you make it past that first barrier, a jellied salad is suggested. If that makes the grade, maybe you’d like to bring some kind of a chilled dessert slice? By this time, quite possibly you’ve hosted a smaller gathering yourself, and have proven you can cook, so perhaps next time you’re asked for a ham or your own personal trophy salad. But, when my sister - my older sister - asked me ... for ... the ... buns ... last week, I was taken aback. If you think that moving up to the big people’s table is a big step, you haven’t been asked to provide the buns yet.
Is it because “the bread” at a meal is the symbol of the meal itself, as in the breaking of the bread? Is it because good bread is something only experience can provide? I don’t know about other families, but in ours, bread is the offering of only the top cooks. And I was being asked for this all important component! I was in awe of the responsibility.
It’s funny. It’s not that I can’t make buns, I do it all the time - for my own family, and nobody has died yet; that must count for something, but making THE BUNS for Thanksgiving, I tell you - this is big stuff.
It took me two batches, because the first batch was just mediocre, but my offering for Sunday dinner was the best I could do - and still a little steamy from the oven. Not a one survived the afternoon. I feel like I’m all grown up now. I wonder what’s next? Should I try my hand at Christmas Pudding?
Depending on who all can be there, we have done everything from setting the tables out in a heated garage, to renting a hall. And, we share a traveling table that does the rotation through the hosting houses as the year’s feast days roll around. It’s always “the kids’ table” ; the grown up’s get to sit at the “real” table. There’s no right-of-passage quite like making it to “grown up’s table”.
But there are other stepping stones in the family meal tradition. The whole thing is one huge growing experience, really, when you think about it. And anyone who has just finished putting the last of her fancy dishes away from the latest family banquet, if she has any sense in her head at all, longs for the days when she got to sit at the little folding table in the living room and dodge doing dishes altogether.
I don’t know as any of us every knew what a lot of work Staging the Feast was, because Mom always made it look easy. Did any of us ever know when she stuffed that 25 pound turkey? Were we even out of bed yet when that job was done? I know I had to call her for thawing and stuffing directions the first time I was named “cooker of the bird”. And to be completely honest here, I have two kinds of “done” in my repertoire: not-quite-done, and way-overdone. The learning curve is a work in progress.
Luckily - for all family hostesses - another family tradition is that everyone contributes to the feast. As soon as the invitation is issued a reply of “What can I bring?” is offered back. The hostess usually provides all the hot dishes, and the guests furnish the more portable items. And, there is a hierarchy to this that I had never thought about until this past weekend when I was asked for ... (drum roll here) ... buns.
You see, when you are first considered grown up enough to contribute, your part of the meal is something that you can’t possibly mess up - a jar of pickles (store bought, of course) or a pound of butter (ditto). Once you make it past that first barrier, a jellied salad is suggested. If that makes the grade, maybe you’d like to bring some kind of a chilled dessert slice? By this time, quite possibly you’ve hosted a smaller gathering yourself, and have proven you can cook, so perhaps next time you’re asked for a ham or your own personal trophy salad. But, when my sister - my older sister - asked me ... for ... the ... buns ... last week, I was taken aback. If you think that moving up to the big people’s table is a big step, you haven’t been asked to provide the buns yet.
Is it because “the bread” at a meal is the symbol of the meal itself, as in the breaking of the bread? Is it because good bread is something only experience can provide? I don’t know about other families, but in ours, bread is the offering of only the top cooks. And I was being asked for this all important component! I was in awe of the responsibility.
It’s funny. It’s not that I can’t make buns, I do it all the time - for my own family, and nobody has died yet; that must count for something, but making THE BUNS for Thanksgiving, I tell you - this is big stuff.
It took me two batches, because the first batch was just mediocre, but my offering for Sunday dinner was the best I could do - and still a little steamy from the oven. Not a one survived the afternoon. I feel like I’m all grown up now. I wonder what’s next? Should I try my hand at Christmas Pudding?
Monday, October 05, 2009
SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT
Supper was a quiet affair last night. Just as we were sitting down to eat the phone rang and I knew before I picked it up that this would be the unwelcome news I had been expecting all weekend. A friend and neighbor had given it her all, but cancer is a formidable foe and not everyone wins the battle. The hopes and wishes of so many people had been denied. She was gone.
I came back to the table but our appetites were no longer what they had been. Instead we sat in silence. Thinking. Remembering. Contemplating. Filled with empathy for those who would miss her the most.
Actually, I felt that I had spent most of the past few days with her. For sure, she had never been far from my thoughts. We had been high school classmates together. We had both married young and our first babies were born the same year, and grew up to go to school together too. We had done birthday parties and skating practices and hockey games and grad meetings together. There was a lot of history there. And yet, we had only reached our fifties, there should have been lots more history to come.
Nearly everything I had done over the weekend had brought my thoughts back to her. Our farm is halfway between where they live and land that they farm, so seeing them go around our corner was a common thing. As I worked in my garden I recalled talking about gardening with her. As I mowed my lawn I remembered us both vowing to have a dandelion free lawn some day. I certainly haven’t managed that goal yet, I wondered if she had ...
My thoughts were with her again while I was out doing the chores. She worked hard, and she was proud of this. She wasn’t a farm wife because she married a farmer; she was a farmer herself. She was a full partner on their farm: she knew every inch of land, could run the machinery, work with the cattle, and had a full understanding of the books. I understand completely how good it feels to earn the right to call yourself a farmer. Everyone who knew her knows that she had earned that right.
And yet, the farm would have meant nothing to her if she hadn’t shared it with her husband. In a world where the term “marriage” has become blurred and out of focus, theirs left no doubt, no gray areas. They loved each other, trusted each other, were devoted to each other. They were a team, a package deal. We should all be so lucky. I find myself hoping that having been a part of something so special will help carry him through the dark days ahead.
That, and their children, and grandchildren. And parents. And brothers and sisters. And neighbors and friends.
The only good that comes out of times like these is that we are forced to re-examine the miracle that life really is. If there is anything in this world that we take for granted, it is drawing our next breath: this is a good time to stop and acknowledge just how precious a gift that is. Discover, again, the sweet scent of rain on the wind, experience the bubbling laughter of a baby, witness how every sunset is prettier than the one the day before.
And speaking of sunsets ... our day was coming to an end and since supper wasn’t holding our interest we may as well go out and finish the day’s work ...
We started across the yard in silence, but then my farmer turned to me and held out his hand. I laughed, and teased him, a mushy gesture like that coming from such a macho man, but I took the hand he offered. Even through chore gloves the connection was warm and good.
I came back to the table but our appetites were no longer what they had been. Instead we sat in silence. Thinking. Remembering. Contemplating. Filled with empathy for those who would miss her the most.
Actually, I felt that I had spent most of the past few days with her. For sure, she had never been far from my thoughts. We had been high school classmates together. We had both married young and our first babies were born the same year, and grew up to go to school together too. We had done birthday parties and skating practices and hockey games and grad meetings together. There was a lot of history there. And yet, we had only reached our fifties, there should have been lots more history to come.
Nearly everything I had done over the weekend had brought my thoughts back to her. Our farm is halfway between where they live and land that they farm, so seeing them go around our corner was a common thing. As I worked in my garden I recalled talking about gardening with her. As I mowed my lawn I remembered us both vowing to have a dandelion free lawn some day. I certainly haven’t managed that goal yet, I wondered if she had ...
My thoughts were with her again while I was out doing the chores. She worked hard, and she was proud of this. She wasn’t a farm wife because she married a farmer; she was a farmer herself. She was a full partner on their farm: she knew every inch of land, could run the machinery, work with the cattle, and had a full understanding of the books. I understand completely how good it feels to earn the right to call yourself a farmer. Everyone who knew her knows that she had earned that right.
And yet, the farm would have meant nothing to her if she hadn’t shared it with her husband. In a world where the term “marriage” has become blurred and out of focus, theirs left no doubt, no gray areas. They loved each other, trusted each other, were devoted to each other. They were a team, a package deal. We should all be so lucky. I find myself hoping that having been a part of something so special will help carry him through the dark days ahead.
That, and their children, and grandchildren. And parents. And brothers and sisters. And neighbors and friends.
The only good that comes out of times like these is that we are forced to re-examine the miracle that life really is. If there is anything in this world that we take for granted, it is drawing our next breath: this is a good time to stop and acknowledge just how precious a gift that is. Discover, again, the sweet scent of rain on the wind, experience the bubbling laughter of a baby, witness how every sunset is prettier than the one the day before.
And speaking of sunsets ... our day was coming to an end and since supper wasn’t holding our interest we may as well go out and finish the day’s work ...
We started across the yard in silence, but then my farmer turned to me and held out his hand. I laughed, and teased him, a mushy gesture like that coming from such a macho man, but I took the hand he offered. Even through chore gloves the connection was warm and good.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
EQUINOX
It's been a brutal week for those of us who enjoy fall for its cooler temperatures. We've had day after day of above 30 degrees - almost unbelievable after the cold summer Canada has been dealt this year. The air conditioning has been running steady at work, and the farmers have been going hard at harvest. This hot weather has done a nice job of bringing on the crops, and somehow we have yet to have our first frost. It has been one weird year.
With Glen working off the farm so much, this spring we made an arrangement with his niece and her husband to lease them the farm for the next year. It took some thinking through to decide how it could be done. The crop land is pretty straight forward, but very little of the land we own is crop land anymore; the tricky part was the pasture and cattle. The bottom line - what Glen wanted out of the deal - was that we could keep our cattle herd, and feed them off our pasture and hay land, but that he would not have to do the work. Trying to bale in the summer, and feed bales in the winter, while working ten to twelve hours days in the oil patch is a little grueling for anyone, let alone for someone who is getting close to sixty years old.
It took a couple of sit-down sessions, with a lot of trying to think of any situations that may cause us to want to tweak the agreement, but I think both leasee and leasor are okay with what we came up with. Mind you, half way through seeding Steven hurt his back so badly that he is on a waiting list for surgery, and Glen has been pitching in on some of the work he wasn't supposed to have to do anymore. Who could have seen that happening? At least it happened when the oilfield work was slow, so it was no big deal.
As it is, it looks like the deal is going to go ahead. The bales have all been hauled up to their place for winter feeding and once we bring the cattle in off the pastures and wean the calves, they will be herded up to their farm for the winter. We will still have feeders to take care of in this yard until after the new year, but the plan is, by March we will be free of them, Glen's work will be all but shut down for road bans, and we will be off to Australia to visit the grandkids (and their parents, of course) for a month. This has been talked about for so long that I have a hard time believing that it's actually going to come true, but it's sure starting to look like it.
Glen is gone to work this morning. Oilfield work has been picking up steady in the past month and he's put in some serious hours. Today should only be a short day as it is a rig move. I'd really like to go along on one of those someday just to see what he talks about. Basically someone has to be there to run CAT while all the rig trucks and platforms are moved onto the well site. In the rain this can be quite the ordeal as the CAT ends up pulling every piece of equipment into place because the trucks don't have the power or traction to move their heavy loads in the mud, but even on a dry day like today the CAT operator is needed to push things around so they line up properly. It would be neat to see the whole performance, but since I don't have all the oilfield safety tickets, and I'm not required personell, I wouldn't be allowed on site anyway.
So, I guess I should get back to my own work. I have potatoes to dig and windows to wash. I just have to decide which job to start with ...
With Glen working off the farm so much, this spring we made an arrangement with his niece and her husband to lease them the farm for the next year. It took some thinking through to decide how it could be done. The crop land is pretty straight forward, but very little of the land we own is crop land anymore; the tricky part was the pasture and cattle. The bottom line - what Glen wanted out of the deal - was that we could keep our cattle herd, and feed them off our pasture and hay land, but that he would not have to do the work. Trying to bale in the summer, and feed bales in the winter, while working ten to twelve hours days in the oil patch is a little grueling for anyone, let alone for someone who is getting close to sixty years old.
It took a couple of sit-down sessions, with a lot of trying to think of any situations that may cause us to want to tweak the agreement, but I think both leasee and leasor are okay with what we came up with. Mind you, half way through seeding Steven hurt his back so badly that he is on a waiting list for surgery, and Glen has been pitching in on some of the work he wasn't supposed to have to do anymore. Who could have seen that happening? At least it happened when the oilfield work was slow, so it was no big deal.
As it is, it looks like the deal is going to go ahead. The bales have all been hauled up to their place for winter feeding and once we bring the cattle in off the pastures and wean the calves, they will be herded up to their farm for the winter. We will still have feeders to take care of in this yard until after the new year, but the plan is, by March we will be free of them, Glen's work will be all but shut down for road bans, and we will be off to Australia to visit the grandkids (and their parents, of course) for a month. This has been talked about for so long that I have a hard time believing that it's actually going to come true, but it's sure starting to look like it.
Glen is gone to work this morning. Oilfield work has been picking up steady in the past month and he's put in some serious hours. Today should only be a short day as it is a rig move. I'd really like to go along on one of those someday just to see what he talks about. Basically someone has to be there to run CAT while all the rig trucks and platforms are moved onto the well site. In the rain this can be quite the ordeal as the CAT ends up pulling every piece of equipment into place because the trucks don't have the power or traction to move their heavy loads in the mud, but even on a dry day like today the CAT operator is needed to push things around so they line up properly. It would be neat to see the whole performance, but since I don't have all the oilfield safety tickets, and I'm not required personell, I wouldn't be allowed on site anyway.
So, I guess I should get back to my own work. I have potatoes to dig and windows to wash. I just have to decide which job to start with ...
Sunday, August 30, 2009
AS PERENNIAL AS THE GRASS
Where does that sentence come from? "as perennial as the grass" Seems to me that it's from a famous poem, or work of literature. That's the way my mind works - I remember bits and pieces like that, but next to nothing for reference points. At any rate, I've always loved the way it rolls off the tongue, and the reassurance it brings - that no matter what else goes on in this world, that the grass will always grow.
There was no doubt of this fact this past week. Two weeks ago, before the recent rains, our lawn was brown and brittle. It's a farm lawn, there are no pampering treatments to keep it weed free and lush here. On wet years it stays green throughout the whole summer, but give it a hot, dry season and the truth shows pretty fast. The grass quits growing and soon dries right off; the weeds take over. One would swear that all plant life would have to be started over from seed, but let it get a good drink and some sunshine and it's a nicer lawn now that it has been all summer long. I started cutting it yesterday and will finish as soon as the dew dries this morning. I love the scent of fresh cut grass.
The sky is September blue this morning. I don't know how to describe it, but it's a kinder, softer blue than the dazzling blue of summer skies. The crickets are chirping in the grasses (and in the basement - how DO they get in?) and the atmosphere takes on this air of completion. A lot of people see autumn as a sign of approaching winter, but it is by far my favorite season - and the leaves haven't even started to change colors yet!
Glen is spending his Sunday morning grinding grain for cattle feed and then plans to bale straw off the neighbor's rye field this afternoon. Right after the rains he wasn't doing much oilfield work because of the muddy conditions, but he put in a full week this week. Compared to last summer - when the price of oil was crazy - it has been pretty slow going this year. It is picking up now, but there are some rigs that have only called their crews back in the last two weeks. That's a long time between paychecks. I guess that's why we still have the cattle - it keeps an income flow for us no matter what the whim of the marketplace is doing.
There was no doubt of this fact this past week. Two weeks ago, before the recent rains, our lawn was brown and brittle. It's a farm lawn, there are no pampering treatments to keep it weed free and lush here. On wet years it stays green throughout the whole summer, but give it a hot, dry season and the truth shows pretty fast. The grass quits growing and soon dries right off; the weeds take over. One would swear that all plant life would have to be started over from seed, but let it get a good drink and some sunshine and it's a nicer lawn now that it has been all summer long. I started cutting it yesterday and will finish as soon as the dew dries this morning. I love the scent of fresh cut grass.
The sky is September blue this morning. I don't know how to describe it, but it's a kinder, softer blue than the dazzling blue of summer skies. The crickets are chirping in the grasses (and in the basement - how DO they get in?) and the atmosphere takes on this air of completion. A lot of people see autumn as a sign of approaching winter, but it is by far my favorite season - and the leaves haven't even started to change colors yet!
Glen is spending his Sunday morning grinding grain for cattle feed and then plans to bale straw off the neighbor's rye field this afternoon. Right after the rains he wasn't doing much oilfield work because of the muddy conditions, but he put in a full week this week. Compared to last summer - when the price of oil was crazy - it has been pretty slow going this year. It is picking up now, but there are some rigs that have only called their crews back in the last two weeks. That's a long time between paychecks. I guess that's why we still have the cattle - it keeps an income flow for us no matter what the whim of the marketplace is doing.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Halfway through August and very little summer to speak of. This has been a season for the record books.
My garden has been surprising me though. At first nothing seemed to be growing - that cold spring and old seed with questionable germination being what I blamed it on. There wasn't a single Swiss chard that came up and the beets and beans were few enough to count. The radishes - what did show up - went straight from seed to going to seed. I think we only had one picking of them. On the other hand, this was a good year for leaf lettuce and a spectacular one for peas and potatoes. I planted one double row of peas (half what I usually do and a quarter of what I took on when the kids were growing up) and I can't keep up to their production. I even had to freeze some last night; something I haven't done in years. It's crazy, but there will be at least one more picking just as large.
But impressive as they are, I cannot believe my potatoes. There are three rows planted what I thought was far enough apart for me to be able to till and hill between them no problem. Those plants are so lush and huge that trying to walk through them is a challenge and hilling them impossible. Potatoes are exploding out of the ground. At this rate, one row would have been plenty. I also seem to be enjoying year three of a miracle - not one single potato bug! I don't know if some unknown disease did them in three years ago (I had plenty before that), or, did the type of potato seed I planted three years ago have some kind of super resistance to the bugs? At any rate, I'm not taking any chances - I will again save seed from this year for next year. I doubt that saving it will be a problem, there will be enough to feed an army by the looks of things.
Things had been getting pretty dire moisture-wise in the past month, but Mother Nature finally came through for us on Friday night. In our area we got almost two inches and some places got more than double that. They say would could get even more in the next day or two and while anyone with cattle welcomes the idea the grain farmers aren't quite so happy about it. What this rain will do is promote new plant growth and keep things green. People with cattle to feed on pastures couldn't be happier with that scenario. Farmers who already know that their crops are a couple weeks behind in development and susceptible to frost just want dry heat to force the crops to ripen so they can be combined and stored in a bin, safe and sound. Just goes to show; you can't make everyone happy.
Today I would like to be out cutting grass but the lawn is too wet to try. It hasn't rained for 24 hours now, but there has been no sun or wind to dry things up. It feels like the whole weekend is being wasted because I can't be outside.
A couple weeks ago we spent Sunday afternoon decommissioning a well in our yard. We are very lucky in that our whole yard is a sand point - we can pretty much drop a well cribbing down anywhere and get very good drinking water. Over the 100 plus years that people have lived at this yard site there have been numerous wells dug. The older ones were built with wooden and then meatal cribbing which eventually cave in. That happened to us a few years ago and we dug a new one (concrete cribbing this time - it will last for a long time) but as yet we hadn't got around to filling in the old well. This spring the wellhouse covering this well took a wild lean to the west as the frost came out of the ground, meaning that the top of the cribbing was caving in too. Something had to be done as there was a place along the north side where an animal or a small child could have fallen in.
You would think that with everything falling to such pieces, that it would have been easy to pull out what was left and fill it all in, but it was a BIG project and took more than double the time we thought it would. The job still isn't really done because we still want to install the wellhouse back on top of the new cribbing but it needs some sort of a foundation first. The big plus for me, though, is that the new well isn't in the sight line to the barn. I can actually see across the yard from the deck - very handy when I want to know what the farmer is doing over there!
My garden has been surprising me though. At first nothing seemed to be growing - that cold spring and old seed with questionable germination being what I blamed it on. There wasn't a single Swiss chard that came up and the beets and beans were few enough to count. The radishes - what did show up - went straight from seed to going to seed. I think we only had one picking of them. On the other hand, this was a good year for leaf lettuce and a spectacular one for peas and potatoes. I planted one double row of peas (half what I usually do and a quarter of what I took on when the kids were growing up) and I can't keep up to their production. I even had to freeze some last night; something I haven't done in years. It's crazy, but there will be at least one more picking just as large.
But impressive as they are, I cannot believe my potatoes. There are three rows planted what I thought was far enough apart for me to be able to till and hill between them no problem. Those plants are so lush and huge that trying to walk through them is a challenge and hilling them impossible. Potatoes are exploding out of the ground. At this rate, one row would have been plenty. I also seem to be enjoying year three of a miracle - not one single potato bug! I don't know if some unknown disease did them in three years ago (I had plenty before that), or, did the type of potato seed I planted three years ago have some kind of super resistance to the bugs? At any rate, I'm not taking any chances - I will again save seed from this year for next year. I doubt that saving it will be a problem, there will be enough to feed an army by the looks of things.
Things had been getting pretty dire moisture-wise in the past month, but Mother Nature finally came through for us on Friday night. In our area we got almost two inches and some places got more than double that. They say would could get even more in the next day or two and while anyone with cattle welcomes the idea the grain farmers aren't quite so happy about it. What this rain will do is promote new plant growth and keep things green. People with cattle to feed on pastures couldn't be happier with that scenario. Farmers who already know that their crops are a couple weeks behind in development and susceptible to frost just want dry heat to force the crops to ripen so they can be combined and stored in a bin, safe and sound. Just goes to show; you can't make everyone happy.
Today I would like to be out cutting grass but the lawn is too wet to try. It hasn't rained for 24 hours now, but there has been no sun or wind to dry things up. It feels like the whole weekend is being wasted because I can't be outside.
A couple weeks ago we spent Sunday afternoon decommissioning a well in our yard. We are very lucky in that our whole yard is a sand point - we can pretty much drop a well cribbing down anywhere and get very good drinking water. Over the 100 plus years that people have lived at this yard site there have been numerous wells dug. The older ones were built with wooden and then meatal cribbing which eventually cave in. That happened to us a few years ago and we dug a new one (concrete cribbing this time - it will last for a long time) but as yet we hadn't got around to filling in the old well. This spring the wellhouse covering this well took a wild lean to the west as the frost came out of the ground, meaning that the top of the cribbing was caving in too. Something had to be done as there was a place along the north side where an animal or a small child could have fallen in.
You would think that with everything falling to such pieces, that it would have been easy to pull out what was left and fill it all in, but it was a BIG project and took more than double the time we thought it would. The job still isn't really done because we still want to install the wellhouse back on top of the new cribbing but it needs some sort of a foundation first. The big plus for me, though, is that the new well isn't in the sight line to the barn. I can actually see across the yard from the deck - very handy when I want to know what the farmer is doing over there!
Thursday, July 16, 2009
I am enjoying a week of being at home these days. I had taken this week for holidays long ago - before the impromptu trip to England in June - and even though all my holiday money was used I decided to go ahead and take this week off too. I'm not going to say that I wouldn't rather be out camping or traveling, but having spent a few days catching up on jobs that I've let slide way too long, I can't say that the time is being wasted.
This morning is a good example: all my original plan entailed was getting the recyclable cans and bottles into the SARCAN depot in town. My focus was rediscovering the floor in my utility room (where things like recycling seem to migrate to), but once I got started the work expanded to include the garage, as well. Not that the SARCAN project wasn't ambitious enough, but the garage job was one of those things that, if I had stopped to think about what a mess it really was, I would have cowered away from the whole works. As it happened, the task just kind of evolved and I was half way through before I realized how much I had taken on. By that time I was already sweaty and filthy, so why not just keep on until I was done? I wish I could actually see Glen's face when he pulls in tonight. I know I sure would be happy if he had cleaned it up while I was gone!
I spent Monday doing a full cut of the lawn. I knew my mower blades were past their prime, but I can't believe the difference since Glen put the new ones on. Once I started, I just wanted to see the whole yard neat and even. It was cold, though, and I was wearing a fleece jacket (in mid-July yet! We had frost on the quonset roof at 4:30 that morning!). By the time I was done mowing in and out of the evergreen shelterbelt I looked like a horror movie's idea of a candy floss cone. I don't know if this is just an exceptional year for spiders, or I 'm not usually wearing something their webs will stick too, but I was just coated in them. Let's just say I'm no fan of spider's webs - I'd rather deal with the actual bugs. I couln't lose that jacket fast enough. Thank goodness just washing it made them all go away.
This morning is a good example: all my original plan entailed was getting the recyclable cans and bottles into the SARCAN depot in town. My focus was rediscovering the floor in my utility room (where things like recycling seem to migrate to), but once I got started the work expanded to include the garage, as well. Not that the SARCAN project wasn't ambitious enough, but the garage job was one of those things that, if I had stopped to think about what a mess it really was, I would have cowered away from the whole works. As it happened, the task just kind of evolved and I was half way through before I realized how much I had taken on. By that time I was already sweaty and filthy, so why not just keep on until I was done? I wish I could actually see Glen's face when he pulls in tonight. I know I sure would be happy if he had cleaned it up while I was gone!
I spent Monday doing a full cut of the lawn. I knew my mower blades were past their prime, but I can't believe the difference since Glen put the new ones on. Once I started, I just wanted to see the whole yard neat and even. It was cold, though, and I was wearing a fleece jacket (in mid-July yet! We had frost on the quonset roof at 4:30 that morning!). By the time I was done mowing in and out of the evergreen shelterbelt I looked like a horror movie's idea of a candy floss cone. I don't know if this is just an exceptional year for spiders, or I 'm not usually wearing something their webs will stick too, but I was just coated in them. Let's just say I'm no fan of spider's webs - I'd rather deal with the actual bugs. I couln't lose that jacket fast enough. Thank goodness just washing it made them all go away.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
JUST FOR LAUGHS
SEE THE PRETTY GARDEN
By Jocelyn Hainsworth
See the pretty garden? I do confess, it is my pride and joy. Notice the rocks? Well, boulders, actually. How did so many of them happen to be in a farm yard? For those of you not
“in the know”, farmers do not like rocks. They tend to really hate them, in fact, but look at the multiple rocks in our yard. They don’t just happen to be there either, my Farmer hauled them in for me - ON PURPOSE. He really loves me.
Even in the winter you should see my pretty garden. There, in the pristine white snow is the stark blackness of a large maple tree ... and, you guessed it ... six or seven huge boulders hunkered down in the folds of a blanket of snow. Not many gardens get to be an artistic focal point even in the winter. It is a pretty garden.
But, there’s no denying it, come the growing season, my pretty garden gets prettier. Over the years I’ve been adding all kinds of perennials. As soon as the ground begins to warm up I’m out there looking for signs of life. The red sprigs of peonies, the green tufts of delphinium leaves, and columbine sprouts, carnations, sedum, shasta daisies, bleeding hearts, soapwort ... and a few things that my sister has given me that I don’t have a clue what they are. Every spring is like an Easter egg hunt as I wait for all my plants to show up. I always know when everything is there and accounted for - the hosta is always last.
Before I leave for work in the morning I go out and wander through my pretty garden. I pull a few weeds and plan what kinds of annuals I will put in this year. Soon you will see me out there tilling the earth up, nice and soft, ready for transplanting. You will also see two dogs laying on the lawn close by, all casual-like, biding their time. See them? Shifty characters!
I am gone to work now, and the Farmer is gone too. Now where are those dogs? Do you see them on the acres of lawn? Or out under the trees? Or patrolling the perimeters? No. You will not see them any of these places. You will see them in my rock garden. Chubby will have lumbered in under the maple and plunked himself down on as many columbines as he can possibly hit (which are quite a few, given his size), and Sam; well he’s more of a digger and has broken, bent, and up-rooted delphiniums like he had something personal against them.
Now, see me drive back into the yard. The dogs did, and they are nowhere near the pretty garden. But I know. I get out of my car and go over to inspect the day’s damage. Because this is a daily thing. Now, see me turn and look for the dogs who are trying their best to look nonchalant and are NOW making for the perimeter. See me go ballistic - again - ranting and raving and demonstrating my pitiful attempt to throw stones so they hit a target. The only thing I have ever been able to throw at a time like this is a fit. I’m getting pretty good at that.
What is Sam thinking when he stops and looks back at the lunatic jumping up and down in frustration? I think he’s a bit worried if I’ve had MY rabies shots, or not. He should worry. I haven’t.
See me, laying awake in the middle of the night, plotting different methods of ending dog damage in my pretty garden - and this time I’ve come up with a doozy. It was there all along; I just hadn’t seen the opportunity before.
See my pretty garden now. See the delphiniums, tall and straight? See the columbines delicately swaying in the breeze? See every single bedding plant exactly where I put it two weeks ago? Also, see Sam standing just outside the pretty white ribbon fence? See how that white ribbon runs over to the line of electric fence that goes around the pasture? See Sam realizing he needs a new hobby.
See my pretty garden?
By Jocelyn Hainsworth
See the pretty garden? I do confess, it is my pride and joy. Notice the rocks? Well, boulders, actually. How did so many of them happen to be in a farm yard? For those of you not
“in the know”, farmers do not like rocks. They tend to really hate them, in fact, but look at the multiple rocks in our yard. They don’t just happen to be there either, my Farmer hauled them in for me - ON PURPOSE. He really loves me.
Even in the winter you should see my pretty garden. There, in the pristine white snow is the stark blackness of a large maple tree ... and, you guessed it ... six or seven huge boulders hunkered down in the folds of a blanket of snow. Not many gardens get to be an artistic focal point even in the winter. It is a pretty garden.
But, there’s no denying it, come the growing season, my pretty garden gets prettier. Over the years I’ve been adding all kinds of perennials. As soon as the ground begins to warm up I’m out there looking for signs of life. The red sprigs of peonies, the green tufts of delphinium leaves, and columbine sprouts, carnations, sedum, shasta daisies, bleeding hearts, soapwort ... and a few things that my sister has given me that I don’t have a clue what they are. Every spring is like an Easter egg hunt as I wait for all my plants to show up. I always know when everything is there and accounted for - the hosta is always last.
Before I leave for work in the morning I go out and wander through my pretty garden. I pull a few weeds and plan what kinds of annuals I will put in this year. Soon you will see me out there tilling the earth up, nice and soft, ready for transplanting. You will also see two dogs laying on the lawn close by, all casual-like, biding their time. See them? Shifty characters!
I am gone to work now, and the Farmer is gone too. Now where are those dogs? Do you see them on the acres of lawn? Or out under the trees? Or patrolling the perimeters? No. You will not see them any of these places. You will see them in my rock garden. Chubby will have lumbered in under the maple and plunked himself down on as many columbines as he can possibly hit (which are quite a few, given his size), and Sam; well he’s more of a digger and has broken, bent, and up-rooted delphiniums like he had something personal against them.
Now, see me drive back into the yard. The dogs did, and they are nowhere near the pretty garden. But I know. I get out of my car and go over to inspect the day’s damage. Because this is a daily thing. Now, see me turn and look for the dogs who are trying their best to look nonchalant and are NOW making for the perimeter. See me go ballistic - again - ranting and raving and demonstrating my pitiful attempt to throw stones so they hit a target. The only thing I have ever been able to throw at a time like this is a fit. I’m getting pretty good at that.
What is Sam thinking when he stops and looks back at the lunatic jumping up and down in frustration? I think he’s a bit worried if I’ve had MY rabies shots, or not. He should worry. I haven’t.
See me, laying awake in the middle of the night, plotting different methods of ending dog damage in my pretty garden - and this time I’ve come up with a doozy. It was there all along; I just hadn’t seen the opportunity before.
See my pretty garden now. See the delphiniums, tall and straight? See the columbines delicately swaying in the breeze? See every single bedding plant exactly where I put it two weeks ago? Also, see Sam standing just outside the pretty white ribbon fence? See how that white ribbon runs over to the line of electric fence that goes around the pasture? See Sam realizing he needs a new hobby.
See my pretty garden?
Saturday, June 20, 2009
I'LL NEVER CATCH UP
Here I am again, way behind in my blog - but don't feel bad - I'm way behind in everything. there just aren't enough of me. I need at least two clones.
After a depressingly cold and slow spring, Mother Nature has suddenly turned up the heat. I have spent all day outside trying to get some yard work done and am paying the price for not reapplying sunscreen at some point in the afternoon. My face isn't the neon pink it usually goes with too much sun, but, boy do I have a farmer's tan! Well, make that a burn at the moment, but I'll keep slapping on the moisturizer and it will eventually turn brown. I was wearing a T-shirt and shorts so only some of my arms and legs are affected. I'm going to look ridiculous when I want to wear a sleeveless shirt.
The long cool spring has really effected the crops. Things were planted at the regular times but germination was slow because the ground just wasn't warm enough. With the recent heat fields are starting to green up and it wouldn't look bad - if it were the end of May.
We are more concerned with the state of the hay crop. It doesn't look like there will be much of that either. The timothy grass is heading out at eight inches high (it should be double that). We had almost two inches of rain last week and they are saying we should be getting some more tomorrow, but the plants are already stressed into maturing early so the bulk won't be coming to make winter feed for cattle. Glen is really having a struggle with this as he had quite a few replacement heifers that he wanted to keep, but can see that he will be reducing his herd, not expanding it with the feed situation as it is. He's typically the kind of guy who has hay kept over from one year to the next, but this spring had him using almost all his extra feeding the herd while he waited for the pastures to green up. I'm of two minds about this - on the one hand, I think it's ridiculous that we have a herd as big as we do - I thought we were aiming for semi-retirement. On the other hand, I can see some really lovely animals out there that it's going to hurt to have to sell. I understand how he feels.
The only thing that seems to be growing just as fast as ever is the dandelions out in our yard. I made a very quick trip over to England last week to see an aunt who had been hospitalized. My sister and I could only manage a week's worth of time, but we made the most of it, balancing visiting and sight-seeing. I arrived back here last Friday night and have been trying to catch up with yard and garden ever since. I'm beginning to think that the first full week of June is the wrong week to leave a garden and lawn. I was outside working all day long today and, although I've got a lot started, I have nothing done. It sounds like the Good Lord is going to see fit to water it all tomorrow. Part of me is cheering Him on, but the rest is just cringing at the thought of how big the weeds will be by the time I can get out in the garden again.
After a depressingly cold and slow spring, Mother Nature has suddenly turned up the heat. I have spent all day outside trying to get some yard work done and am paying the price for not reapplying sunscreen at some point in the afternoon. My face isn't the neon pink it usually goes with too much sun, but, boy do I have a farmer's tan! Well, make that a burn at the moment, but I'll keep slapping on the moisturizer and it will eventually turn brown. I was wearing a T-shirt and shorts so only some of my arms and legs are affected. I'm going to look ridiculous when I want to wear a sleeveless shirt.
The long cool spring has really effected the crops. Things were planted at the regular times but germination was slow because the ground just wasn't warm enough. With the recent heat fields are starting to green up and it wouldn't look bad - if it were the end of May.
We are more concerned with the state of the hay crop. It doesn't look like there will be much of that either. The timothy grass is heading out at eight inches high (it should be double that). We had almost two inches of rain last week and they are saying we should be getting some more tomorrow, but the plants are already stressed into maturing early so the bulk won't be coming to make winter feed for cattle. Glen is really having a struggle with this as he had quite a few replacement heifers that he wanted to keep, but can see that he will be reducing his herd, not expanding it with the feed situation as it is. He's typically the kind of guy who has hay kept over from one year to the next, but this spring had him using almost all his extra feeding the herd while he waited for the pastures to green up. I'm of two minds about this - on the one hand, I think it's ridiculous that we have a herd as big as we do - I thought we were aiming for semi-retirement. On the other hand, I can see some really lovely animals out there that it's going to hurt to have to sell. I understand how he feels.
The only thing that seems to be growing just as fast as ever is the dandelions out in our yard. I made a very quick trip over to England last week to see an aunt who had been hospitalized. My sister and I could only manage a week's worth of time, but we made the most of it, balancing visiting and sight-seeing. I arrived back here last Friday night and have been trying to catch up with yard and garden ever since. I'm beginning to think that the first full week of June is the wrong week to leave a garden and lawn. I was outside working all day long today and, although I've got a lot started, I have nothing done. It sounds like the Good Lord is going to see fit to water it all tomorrow. Part of me is cheering Him on, but the rest is just cringing at the thought of how big the weeds will be by the time I can get out in the garden again.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
BRINGING ON SPRING
Well, it’s spring 2009 (No, really, it is! The grass is green and there are wood ticks out there - that does NOT happen in January!) The date is past the middle of May and a few of the heartier dandelions have even stuck their little yellow faces out, looking for the sun. When they finally find it they will report back to the rest of their kind and lawns will turn yellow overnight.
There are certain rites of spring that I perform every year - like, on Saturday I mixed up a batch of humming bird juice (a whole month later than usual) and hung it out on the deck, hoping to heck that it won’t freeze and break the glass jar feeders. I haven’t seen a single humming bird yet and am holding out hope that they decided to stay in Mexico regardless of the H1N1 ‘flu, but just in case they did head north, they’ll need sustenance when they got here. By Tuesday we had a pair of oriels appreciating the free dinner.
I have also spent a day rambling around the yard with a wheel barrow, showing my lack of appreciation of how the dogs like to decorate the lawn over the winter. Anyone who has been past our place knows that the sign reads SKULL RANCH (don’t ask) but after five or six months of hauling in any carcass that those dogs have been able to find and move, “boneyard” would be a more fitting description. When I was done, the yard was safe to be mowed, and the dogs were already plotting how to get all their treasures back before sundown.
It took me a whole other day to clean up my rock garden. This, too, is an annual rite of spring. It begins with me buying a spray bottle of grass killer and doing my worst to the Mother of all Quack Grass - which, I should mention, constitutes wetting down the leaves and watching it continue to grow uninhibited throughout the summer. I think it’s immune. Still feels good to spray that skull and crossbones stuff on it, though.
Part Two of the rock garden experience is when I take leave of my senses and go out to manually till between the rocks and perennials. It takes a whole day, and I’m a bent and broken being for the better part of week afterwards. Plus, the dogs immediately take their revenge over my confiscating their bones by digging great holes in my soft, fluffy dirt, up-rooting my favorite plants in the process.
The next thing on my spring agenda is to mow grass, which follows the “ritual of raking”. To town folk this would mean raking last autumn’s leaves, but to us farm women it means leveling out the gravel and chunks of sod that mysteriously appear where the road cleaning tractor piled snow up during the winter. Good exercise that: raking gravel out of grass.
With the lawn all cut, the next step is to till the garden. All through the winter months it was such an eyesore with corn stalks and sunflower stems sticking up through the snow - I tilled it twice, and then went back to sit on the deck and admire it’s black, weedless beauty. When it looks that nice I hate to even put footprints in it.
But what would be the point of that? Gardens are to grow things in - my work was not yet done.
All through my other jobs I had been going through my annual debate ... north-to-south, or east-to-west? Which way would I put my garden rows in this year? It’s a big decision for me. I’m married to a man who just can’t abide a crooked row. He’s married to a woman who can’t create a straight row even with markers and twine - and who gave up caring ages ago. If I plant east-to-west he can see them from the barnyard, and north-to-south makes my short-comings obvious from the kitchen table.
It’s not REALLY spring until the potatoes come up crooked, folks, so give it another week. It won’t be long now.
There are certain rites of spring that I perform every year - like, on Saturday I mixed up a batch of humming bird juice (a whole month later than usual) and hung it out on the deck, hoping to heck that it won’t freeze and break the glass jar feeders. I haven’t seen a single humming bird yet and am holding out hope that they decided to stay in Mexico regardless of the H1N1 ‘flu, but just in case they did head north, they’ll need sustenance when they got here. By Tuesday we had a pair of oriels appreciating the free dinner.
I have also spent a day rambling around the yard with a wheel barrow, showing my lack of appreciation of how the dogs like to decorate the lawn over the winter. Anyone who has been past our place knows that the sign reads SKULL RANCH (don’t ask) but after five or six months of hauling in any carcass that those dogs have been able to find and move, “boneyard” would be a more fitting description. When I was done, the yard was safe to be mowed, and the dogs were already plotting how to get all their treasures back before sundown.
It took me a whole other day to clean up my rock garden. This, too, is an annual rite of spring. It begins with me buying a spray bottle of grass killer and doing my worst to the Mother of all Quack Grass - which, I should mention, constitutes wetting down the leaves and watching it continue to grow uninhibited throughout the summer. I think it’s immune. Still feels good to spray that skull and crossbones stuff on it, though.
Part Two of the rock garden experience is when I take leave of my senses and go out to manually till between the rocks and perennials. It takes a whole day, and I’m a bent and broken being for the better part of week afterwards. Plus, the dogs immediately take their revenge over my confiscating their bones by digging great holes in my soft, fluffy dirt, up-rooting my favorite plants in the process.
The next thing on my spring agenda is to mow grass, which follows the “ritual of raking”. To town folk this would mean raking last autumn’s leaves, but to us farm women it means leveling out the gravel and chunks of sod that mysteriously appear where the road cleaning tractor piled snow up during the winter. Good exercise that: raking gravel out of grass.
With the lawn all cut, the next step is to till the garden. All through the winter months it was such an eyesore with corn stalks and sunflower stems sticking up through the snow - I tilled it twice, and then went back to sit on the deck and admire it’s black, weedless beauty. When it looks that nice I hate to even put footprints in it.
But what would be the point of that? Gardens are to grow things in - my work was not yet done.
All through my other jobs I had been going through my annual debate ... north-to-south, or east-to-west? Which way would I put my garden rows in this year? It’s a big decision for me. I’m married to a man who just can’t abide a crooked row. He’s married to a woman who can’t create a straight row even with markers and twine - and who gave up caring ages ago. If I plant east-to-west he can see them from the barnyard, and north-to-south makes my short-comings obvious from the kitchen table.
It’s not REALLY spring until the potatoes come up crooked, folks, so give it another week. It won’t be long now.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
I LOVE WHERE I LIVE
Maybe it’s a good thing that I spend most of the daylight hours of the week in an office in town. There are plenty of days that I resent the time I have to spend indoors, knowing that the sun is shining, the roses are blooming, and the grass would be soft and lush under my feet ... if only I could be home to enjoy it. But, it occurs to me that if I had that kind of freedom every day, would these pleasures be as sweet as they were on this past holiday Monday? Would I become complacent about the sky and the wind and the sunshine if they were mine every day?
It’s spring on the prairies. Not only that, but it’s spring after an unusually long, bitterly cold, never-ending winter. We are all so very ready for days that don’t require jackets. Even with piles of filthy snow still lingering on our front lawns and mud and winter trash everywhere else, isn’t it glorious to be outside? When those first rays of warm sunshine hit your skin, didn’t it feel like being re-born? Isn’t it thrilling to find those first tiny sprigs of green grass? I can remember searching for them when I was just a little kid, and I have it on very good authority that the thrill of finding green is still there in your mid eighties. We never tire of spring.
It seemed that the unseen forces of the cosmos came together on Monday to give me a perfect day. First and foremost, my presence was not required anywhere else. My time was completely my own. Even the daily chore of meal making was taken care of with a fridge full of leftovers. I could spend the day as I pleased.
I walked the yard - well, as much of it as I could - at this time of the year, a river runs through it and fills a small lake that has been used as both skating arena and rafting venue over the years. I would have wandered farther, but I made a common springtime discovery - I seem to have a hole in my rubber boots! I sized up the repairs needed on my clothesline, and finally took down the Christmas lights. I saw my first robins: all was well with the world.
After dinner we toured the pasture, scouting out how many calves had been born since the last time he had checked, and tagging the babies. We even discovered one cow who was going to need help and I was there to be part of the action. It is seldom that I get to feel like I’m a contributing part of the farm so this was special ... and the outcome was the best it could have been - a healthy (big) calf, and a tired but dutiful mama whom we left to bond for the rest of the afternoon.
Back in the yard I decided that it was the perfect time to pump up the bike tires and take it out for a spin. I can hardly express how many levels of success this establishes. It has been at least 15 years since I rode a bike, so merely not falling off and breaking bones rates an award, but besides that I went a whole mile, wobbling down the road like a five year old just shed of her training wheels - it was magnificent!
The day came to a close with me firing up the barbeque for supper, the sun’s fading rays warming the deck so much that I could still be barefoot and sleeveless even as evening approached. The skies had been alive with geese heading north all day, and in the time it took to cook the steaks, at least another thousand went over ... and I thought to myself ... I love where I live.
It’s more than just the land location (although our own little piece of the prairie is a very important part of it for me), it’s the wide open skies, the wild storms, the native flowers, the endless fields of grain, the smell of damp, fertile earth, the yipping of fox kits playing puppy games after sundown. It’s feeling infinitesimally small standing under the canopy of the Milky Way ... well, you get what I mean.
And, maybe the job in town plays its own role in how I feel too. If I had all day, every day, to soak it all in, would one day of heaven mean as much?
It’s spring on the prairies. Not only that, but it’s spring after an unusually long, bitterly cold, never-ending winter. We are all so very ready for days that don’t require jackets. Even with piles of filthy snow still lingering on our front lawns and mud and winter trash everywhere else, isn’t it glorious to be outside? When those first rays of warm sunshine hit your skin, didn’t it feel like being re-born? Isn’t it thrilling to find those first tiny sprigs of green grass? I can remember searching for them when I was just a little kid, and I have it on very good authority that the thrill of finding green is still there in your mid eighties. We never tire of spring.
It seemed that the unseen forces of the cosmos came together on Monday to give me a perfect day. First and foremost, my presence was not required anywhere else. My time was completely my own. Even the daily chore of meal making was taken care of with a fridge full of leftovers. I could spend the day as I pleased.
I walked the yard - well, as much of it as I could - at this time of the year, a river runs through it and fills a small lake that has been used as both skating arena and rafting venue over the years. I would have wandered farther, but I made a common springtime discovery - I seem to have a hole in my rubber boots! I sized up the repairs needed on my clothesline, and finally took down the Christmas lights. I saw my first robins: all was well with the world.
After dinner we toured the pasture, scouting out how many calves had been born since the last time he had checked, and tagging the babies. We even discovered one cow who was going to need help and I was there to be part of the action. It is seldom that I get to feel like I’m a contributing part of the farm so this was special ... and the outcome was the best it could have been - a healthy (big) calf, and a tired but dutiful mama whom we left to bond for the rest of the afternoon.
Back in the yard I decided that it was the perfect time to pump up the bike tires and take it out for a spin. I can hardly express how many levels of success this establishes. It has been at least 15 years since I rode a bike, so merely not falling off and breaking bones rates an award, but besides that I went a whole mile, wobbling down the road like a five year old just shed of her training wheels - it was magnificent!
The day came to a close with me firing up the barbeque for supper, the sun’s fading rays warming the deck so much that I could still be barefoot and sleeveless even as evening approached. The skies had been alive with geese heading north all day, and in the time it took to cook the steaks, at least another thousand went over ... and I thought to myself ... I love where I live.
It’s more than just the land location (although our own little piece of the prairie is a very important part of it for me), it’s the wide open skies, the wild storms, the native flowers, the endless fields of grain, the smell of damp, fertile earth, the yipping of fox kits playing puppy games after sundown. It’s feeling infinitesimally small standing under the canopy of the Milky Way ... well, you get what I mean.
And, maybe the job in town plays its own role in how I feel too. If I had all day, every day, to soak it all in, would one day of heaven mean as much?
Saturday, March 14, 2009
just for laughs
FREEZER BURN
By Jocelyn Hainsworth
There seems to be something going wrong with 2009. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s got a lot of people talking. Well, more like complaining.
Oh, let’s be honest - they’re downright snarly these days.
The details of their unhappiness are a little fuzzy to me. I don’t know what it is ... I hear them talking, and even through three wraps of my scarf I can detect the anger and bitterness in their voices, but the topic they are going on about seems to be just beyond my grasp.
Just yesterday, as I was walking down the street, I came across a small huddle of people deep in conversation. Snippets and sound bites of what they were saying carried through my ear muffs and I caught “... can’t believe this cold ...” and “... when will this ever end?” Then someone else said “... record breaking cold ...” and then a foreign word “... spring ...”
I stopped to ponder where I had heard this word before. It seemed familiar - I would have to look it up when I got home - but was reminded to keep moving when one of the group asked another to give her a bit of a push as she had frozen down to the sidewalk during their visit and couldn’t get going again without a little help.
It occurred to me that this word “spring” might be a significant clue as to what folks were so upset about - I mean, just judging by the way it seems to be in every sentence uttered these days. It might even be considered a fixation, the way they go on and on about it. I felt I should have strong feelings about it too, but was having trouble working out the details. Is it possible to get frostbite on the brain? Freezer burn on your grey matter? And, if you did, would it affect your powers of concentration? I’ve been kind of worried about my shrinking attention span lately.
They say that the best thing you can do to stimulate your brain is to keep it active, so when I got home I decided to look “spring” up in the dictionary. If you want to believe this craziness, Mr. Webster says that spring is a warm season that starts in March, and that it comes every single year. This has made me pretty darned skeptical about anything else he has printed in that book, I can tell you, but that’s what it said.
I thought I would dig a little deeper so I pulled out the old scribbler I keep a bit of a diary in and looked back to other March entries. This is where it got really confusing - I accept that Mr. Webster might make stuff up, but the diary is in my own writing. Why would I lie?
Be darned if I didn’t mention spring too. Over and over again. Like it wasn’t a fantasy, or even anything out of the ordinary. If I am to be believed, spring is when the birds come back from the south, the snow melts, and trees get leaves on them. Amazing.
Mind you, it’s not all sweetness and roses, apparently there is something in March called “mud” that I seem to despise. Really. There are quite a few references, and I don’t sound happy about mud in any of them.
I thought really hard. If only my thinking wasn’t so fuzzy! Mud ... mud ... darn it! I wasn’t going to dig out the dictionary for this one! Mud ... yucky ... mess ... everywhere ... boots ... floors ... mess ... walls ... clothes ... dogs ... wet ... give up ... put broom away, bring in shovel ... okay, okay, it all came back to me. I do hate mud. And, if Mr. Webster is right, we should be having some right now.
Having solved that one with the few warm brain cells that I have operating, my next plan is to research the symptoms and treatment of Frozen Brain Syndrom on the Internet. I don’t know if I’ll learn anything, but the heater out in the office can really kick out the BTUs. It might not be the real thing, but in 2009 it might be the only March warmth I get.
By Jocelyn Hainsworth
There seems to be something going wrong with 2009. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s got a lot of people talking. Well, more like complaining.
Oh, let’s be honest - they’re downright snarly these days.
The details of their unhappiness are a little fuzzy to me. I don’t know what it is ... I hear them talking, and even through three wraps of my scarf I can detect the anger and bitterness in their voices, but the topic they are going on about seems to be just beyond my grasp.
Just yesterday, as I was walking down the street, I came across a small huddle of people deep in conversation. Snippets and sound bites of what they were saying carried through my ear muffs and I caught “... can’t believe this cold ...” and “... when will this ever end?” Then someone else said “... record breaking cold ...” and then a foreign word “... spring ...”
I stopped to ponder where I had heard this word before. It seemed familiar - I would have to look it up when I got home - but was reminded to keep moving when one of the group asked another to give her a bit of a push as she had frozen down to the sidewalk during their visit and couldn’t get going again without a little help.
It occurred to me that this word “spring” might be a significant clue as to what folks were so upset about - I mean, just judging by the way it seems to be in every sentence uttered these days. It might even be considered a fixation, the way they go on and on about it. I felt I should have strong feelings about it too, but was having trouble working out the details. Is it possible to get frostbite on the brain? Freezer burn on your grey matter? And, if you did, would it affect your powers of concentration? I’ve been kind of worried about my shrinking attention span lately.
They say that the best thing you can do to stimulate your brain is to keep it active, so when I got home I decided to look “spring” up in the dictionary. If you want to believe this craziness, Mr. Webster says that spring is a warm season that starts in March, and that it comes every single year. This has made me pretty darned skeptical about anything else he has printed in that book, I can tell you, but that’s what it said.
I thought I would dig a little deeper so I pulled out the old scribbler I keep a bit of a diary in and looked back to other March entries. This is where it got really confusing - I accept that Mr. Webster might make stuff up, but the diary is in my own writing. Why would I lie?
Be darned if I didn’t mention spring too. Over and over again. Like it wasn’t a fantasy, or even anything out of the ordinary. If I am to be believed, spring is when the birds come back from the south, the snow melts, and trees get leaves on them. Amazing.
Mind you, it’s not all sweetness and roses, apparently there is something in March called “mud” that I seem to despise. Really. There are quite a few references, and I don’t sound happy about mud in any of them.
I thought really hard. If only my thinking wasn’t so fuzzy! Mud ... mud ... darn it! I wasn’t going to dig out the dictionary for this one! Mud ... yucky ... mess ... everywhere ... boots ... floors ... mess ... walls ... clothes ... dogs ... wet ... give up ... put broom away, bring in shovel ... okay, okay, it all came back to me. I do hate mud. And, if Mr. Webster is right, we should be having some right now.
Having solved that one with the few warm brain cells that I have operating, my next plan is to research the symptoms and treatment of Frozen Brain Syndrom on the Internet. I don’t know if I’ll learn anything, but the heater out in the office can really kick out the BTUs. It might not be the real thing, but in 2009 it might be the only March warmth I get.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
SAUNA SUIT
It's been a lazy winter of it for me this year, and it's beginning to show around my waistline. There are a couple of contributing factors to this - besides the fact that I like food a little too much for my own good, that is.
For the past number of years I have had my own personal exercise routine. It's called feeding the steers their grain ration. Whether it's forty below in the winter, or forty above in the summer, we go out and fill up to thirty five gallon pails full of raw oats or ground grains (chop) and carry them all over to the feeder pen, then fight our way through big, pushy animals to dump the feed in the troughs. It strengthens back muscles, arm muscles, leg muscles, and it does a nice job of sucking in a flabby tummy too. I can never stick with a exercise workout that I have to set time aside for, but this is different - the animals have to be fed, it's useful work, and it has to be done.
Part of my trouble started last November when we shipped last years feeders. Down the road they went to market, and in came the 2008 calf crop. Only this time Glen decided he was going to try to finish these guys a little cheaper. Grain costs much more than hay, so he thought he'd just start them off on hay and baled green feed, and only use grain later on when they had already got some size to them. What this boiled down to was the end of my calorie-burning chores. Funny how, what with wearing bulky winter clothing, the creeping poundage didn't show itself immediately, but the photos we took in Cuba sure showed up where they settled!
The other major contributing factor in my weight gain is the economic down turn. No really! I know everyone wants to blame it for everything, but it really is affecting my activity levels on this farm! Any other winter I would have gone out after supper and helped Glen feed the bales because it was the only time we had to do it. We both worked all day long. But his job in the oil patch has pretty much come to a grinding halt, so he is home all day, and he gets to do the chores in the daylight. It's a much more civilized way of life, I'll grant you that, but it does nothing in the calorie burning department.
So it was with much relief that I was told he has started working a grain ration into the feeder's diet, and for the first time all winter I went out with him this morning to help him out and see which bins he was using. He's only up to twelve pails per day (for sixty head). Grain is too rich a diet for them to just have everything they can hold right off the bat. You can actually kill animals by giving them too much grain at once.
Being totally out of the loop as far as outdoor chores for the winter went, I dressed for January when I got ready to go out. There's no denying that it's still colder that it should be for March, but it's not THAT cold. Even carrying those few pails had me well warmed up in my old ski-doo suit, but we weren't done yet - next stop was a trip out to the dug out to chop a drinking hole in the ice.
For the past two winters Glen had let the cattle get their water from licking snow, but partly because he's decided that they do better on water, and partly because he's been home to do chores, this winter he has opened an ice hole almost every day. (On the days of forty below the cattle wouldn't leave their shelter for a drink anyway.) Because I had never seen this done and I was curious, I tagged along this morning to check it out. He has been asking me when I plan to take over this job for "my cattle", and I have informed him that April 1st is my day to start. (Surely the winter can't last THAT long!)
It was interesting to watch. He has a "trough" cut in the ice, about 8 inches wide and 2 feet long. The cattle have splashed enough water up and around it while drinking that it has built up a frozen lip of maybe 6 inches of ice framing the hole. Glen used his big ax to chop carefully around the inside of the hole, scooping out the ice chips after one circuit, and breaking through on the second one. He says that it's nothing to do these days with only 4 or 5 inches if ice - it was a half hour job in the dead of winter.
I just watched the action there, but when Glen got back on the tractor to go feed bales I said I'd walk the half mile home. It wasn't but a few hundred feet and I was peeling extra clothing off! There is no melting going on yet, but that March sun was strong on my back, the snow was deep, and I was wearing Glen's big boots. By the time I got back to the house I was wearing my own little personal sauna suit. Obviously I should take that trek on a regular basis.
For the past number of years I have had my own personal exercise routine. It's called feeding the steers their grain ration. Whether it's forty below in the winter, or forty above in the summer, we go out and fill up to thirty five gallon pails full of raw oats or ground grains (chop) and carry them all over to the feeder pen, then fight our way through big, pushy animals to dump the feed in the troughs. It strengthens back muscles, arm muscles, leg muscles, and it does a nice job of sucking in a flabby tummy too. I can never stick with a exercise workout that I have to set time aside for, but this is different - the animals have to be fed, it's useful work, and it has to be done.
Part of my trouble started last November when we shipped last years feeders. Down the road they went to market, and in came the 2008 calf crop. Only this time Glen decided he was going to try to finish these guys a little cheaper. Grain costs much more than hay, so he thought he'd just start them off on hay and baled green feed, and only use grain later on when they had already got some size to them. What this boiled down to was the end of my calorie-burning chores. Funny how, what with wearing bulky winter clothing, the creeping poundage didn't show itself immediately, but the photos we took in Cuba sure showed up where they settled!
The other major contributing factor in my weight gain is the economic down turn. No really! I know everyone wants to blame it for everything, but it really is affecting my activity levels on this farm! Any other winter I would have gone out after supper and helped Glen feed the bales because it was the only time we had to do it. We both worked all day long. But his job in the oil patch has pretty much come to a grinding halt, so he is home all day, and he gets to do the chores in the daylight. It's a much more civilized way of life, I'll grant you that, but it does nothing in the calorie burning department.
So it was with much relief that I was told he has started working a grain ration into the feeder's diet, and for the first time all winter I went out with him this morning to help him out and see which bins he was using. He's only up to twelve pails per day (for sixty head). Grain is too rich a diet for them to just have everything they can hold right off the bat. You can actually kill animals by giving them too much grain at once.
Being totally out of the loop as far as outdoor chores for the winter went, I dressed for January when I got ready to go out. There's no denying that it's still colder that it should be for March, but it's not THAT cold. Even carrying those few pails had me well warmed up in my old ski-doo suit, but we weren't done yet - next stop was a trip out to the dug out to chop a drinking hole in the ice.
For the past two winters Glen had let the cattle get their water from licking snow, but partly because he's decided that they do better on water, and partly because he's been home to do chores, this winter he has opened an ice hole almost every day. (On the days of forty below the cattle wouldn't leave their shelter for a drink anyway.) Because I had never seen this done and I was curious, I tagged along this morning to check it out. He has been asking me when I plan to take over this job for "my cattle", and I have informed him that April 1st is my day to start. (Surely the winter can't last THAT long!)
It was interesting to watch. He has a "trough" cut in the ice, about 8 inches wide and 2 feet long. The cattle have splashed enough water up and around it while drinking that it has built up a frozen lip of maybe 6 inches of ice framing the hole. Glen used his big ax to chop carefully around the inside of the hole, scooping out the ice chips after one circuit, and breaking through on the second one. He says that it's nothing to do these days with only 4 or 5 inches if ice - it was a half hour job in the dead of winter.
I just watched the action there, but when Glen got back on the tractor to go feed bales I said I'd walk the half mile home. It wasn't but a few hundred feet and I was peeling extra clothing off! There is no melting going on yet, but that March sun was strong on my back, the snow was deep, and I was wearing Glen's big boots. By the time I got back to the house I was wearing my own little personal sauna suit. Obviously I should take that trek on a regular basis.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
city dogs/ country dogs
WHO LET THE DOGS IN?
By Jocelyn Hainsworth
We live a peaceable existence out here on the farm. Just me and the Farmer rattling around in a house foolishly large for the two of us, but built back in the days of kids and toys, teenagers and stereos, tantrums and hormones, when lots of space was a very good thing. Oh sure, there are times when we miss the kids, but there’s no denying that we have become accustomed to our quiet, laid back routine; our uneventful days and our boring evenings. We’re not at the hearing- aid-and-rocking-chair stage yet, but it seems to be the general direction we’re headed in.
We don’t have the place completely to ourselves, though. Besides the two hay-burner horses, and the hundred or so head of cattle, we also harbour numerous fugitive barn cats (a.k.a. “The Shredders” because that’s what they would do to you if you ever managed to corner one), and a couple of free loading dogs, Chubby and Sam.
As is the case for most farm dogs, Chubby and Sam live the good life. In payment for their diligence in putting the run on various song birds, digging great holes in the lawn to catch gophers, and howling back at coyotes from right under our bedroom window in the middle of the night, we buy them a lot of dog food. Sam is still young enough to run the excess off; Chubby, not so much.
They understand, though, that they are farm dogs. In exchange for all the food and freedom that a dog could possibly dream of, they also know that pampering is not part of their lifestyle. A bath for them is a swim in the dugout, a de-oderizing is a warning to stay away from skunks, and grooming involves a flea and tick collar during the pertinent months of the year. When summer thunderstorms roll in they can hide out in the garage, and when the temperature drops to below freezing they can sleep on an old chunk of carpet in the porch. It’s the good life - or at least it used to be.
One of our kids has gotten married and had kids: all the rest of them so far just have pets.
First, there was Fred. Compared to the usual size of dog we have around here, Fred is somewhat of an ankle biter - built low to the ground, and born and bred to chase things. 80% attitude, 15% hair, 5% dog. In the spring, right after his annual trim, he looks like a dog with a big bushy moustache, four legs and a tail. By this time of the year a person is not too sure whether he is coming or going, if you get my meaning, but he makes a fine self-propelled mop. He has an amazing amount of hair, but at least he keeps it to himself.
Which brings us to Tugger, daughter #2's Blue Healer/Boxer cross. Tugger is a three year old perpetual puppy. His energy level makes me suspicious that his food is laced with speed - or steroids - or both. His tail is at least a foot long, never quits wagging, and is made of titanium. One whack and you have a bruise, two and your leg gives out on you, three and you may be crippled for life. But the most endearing thing about Tugger by far is his hair; it’s short, it’s white, and he’s not very attached to it. Oh sure, he grows it, but after that it’s on it own - everywhere he has been.
Which wouldn’t be so bad if he was a farm dog and stayed outside, but he’s not. Fred and Tugger are visiting dogs. They get to come inside. A few weeks ago they even brought along daughter #1's boyfriend’s room mate’s dog, Willie, and all three of them camped out all over the house on their sleeping pillows while Sam and Chubby looked on from their place in the porch, pondering just how good their “good life” really was, after all.
By Jocelyn Hainsworth
We live a peaceable existence out here on the farm. Just me and the Farmer rattling around in a house foolishly large for the two of us, but built back in the days of kids and toys, teenagers and stereos, tantrums and hormones, when lots of space was a very good thing. Oh sure, there are times when we miss the kids, but there’s no denying that we have become accustomed to our quiet, laid back routine; our uneventful days and our boring evenings. We’re not at the hearing- aid-and-rocking-chair stage yet, but it seems to be the general direction we’re headed in.
We don’t have the place completely to ourselves, though. Besides the two hay-burner horses, and the hundred or so head of cattle, we also harbour numerous fugitive barn cats (a.k.a. “The Shredders” because that’s what they would do to you if you ever managed to corner one), and a couple of free loading dogs, Chubby and Sam.
As is the case for most farm dogs, Chubby and Sam live the good life. In payment for their diligence in putting the run on various song birds, digging great holes in the lawn to catch gophers, and howling back at coyotes from right under our bedroom window in the middle of the night, we buy them a lot of dog food. Sam is still young enough to run the excess off; Chubby, not so much.
They understand, though, that they are farm dogs. In exchange for all the food and freedom that a dog could possibly dream of, they also know that pampering is not part of their lifestyle. A bath for them is a swim in the dugout, a de-oderizing is a warning to stay away from skunks, and grooming involves a flea and tick collar during the pertinent months of the year. When summer thunderstorms roll in they can hide out in the garage, and when the temperature drops to below freezing they can sleep on an old chunk of carpet in the porch. It’s the good life - or at least it used to be.
One of our kids has gotten married and had kids: all the rest of them so far just have pets.
First, there was Fred. Compared to the usual size of dog we have around here, Fred is somewhat of an ankle biter - built low to the ground, and born and bred to chase things. 80% attitude, 15% hair, 5% dog. In the spring, right after his annual trim, he looks like a dog with a big bushy moustache, four legs and a tail. By this time of the year a person is not too sure whether he is coming or going, if you get my meaning, but he makes a fine self-propelled mop. He has an amazing amount of hair, but at least he keeps it to himself.
Which brings us to Tugger, daughter #2's Blue Healer/Boxer cross. Tugger is a three year old perpetual puppy. His energy level makes me suspicious that his food is laced with speed - or steroids - or both. His tail is at least a foot long, never quits wagging, and is made of titanium. One whack and you have a bruise, two and your leg gives out on you, three and you may be crippled for life. But the most endearing thing about Tugger by far is his hair; it’s short, it’s white, and he’s not very attached to it. Oh sure, he grows it, but after that it’s on it own - everywhere he has been.
Which wouldn’t be so bad if he was a farm dog and stayed outside, but he’s not. Fred and Tugger are visiting dogs. They get to come inside. A few weeks ago they even brought along daughter #1's boyfriend’s room mate’s dog, Willie, and all three of them camped out all over the house on their sleeping pillows while Sam and Chubby looked on from their place in the porch, pondering just how good their “good life” really was, after all.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
WEATHERING WINTER
People are starting to talk about this winter. It's not that we aren't used to cold and snow, but the "cold snap" we usually get in January turned up in mid December and has yet to leave. It's been a long, cold time of it. Well, I guess we did get a short break this week when it warmed up enough for it to rain an inch and then cover that whole slippery mess up with about eight inches of snow. Not that we're going to complain about the extra moisture to fill dugouts in the spring, but it's still not safe to walk or drive anywhere out there! Now it's right back to being very cold. At these temperatures I don't know how long it's going to be before the highways melt off the ice. Getting to and from work this week was a challenge, to say the least.
There are encouraging signs of spring being on its way, though. The one that made me smile this afternoon was the sunbeams on the livingroom floor. Good warm spots to place the big bowl of bun dough I was rising. That's what I did for my Valentine today - a batch of cinnamon buns. Now there's a wonderful comfort food smell for you! And, they are already half gone - I did give some away, though, and made a mental note to self "we can't afford that kind of calorie intake on a regular basis!"
There is also a big pot of homemade soup brewing up on the stove tonight. Glen's dad is very ill with congestive heart disease and, although he is managing to stay out of the hospital, the wear of ill health is starting to show on both him and Glen's mother. We'll take in the soup and buns tomorrow and visit for a while - don't want to play them out even further. I wonder if I'll be that independent and matter-of-fact when I walk in their same shoes? They're tough as nails.
I've also been leafing through seed and nursery catalogues lately, dreaming of greens, pinks, blues ... any colour but white! It's called spring fever and I've got it bad! Too bad that the Weather Channel is predicting another two to three inches of snow tomorrow, and another potential system drifting in after that. Oh well! It means water for the cattle and moisture for the crops!
There are encouraging signs of spring being on its way, though. The one that made me smile this afternoon was the sunbeams on the livingroom floor. Good warm spots to place the big bowl of bun dough I was rising. That's what I did for my Valentine today - a batch of cinnamon buns. Now there's a wonderful comfort food smell for you! And, they are already half gone - I did give some away, though, and made a mental note to self "we can't afford that kind of calorie intake on a regular basis!"
There is also a big pot of homemade soup brewing up on the stove tonight. Glen's dad is very ill with congestive heart disease and, although he is managing to stay out of the hospital, the wear of ill health is starting to show on both him and Glen's mother. We'll take in the soup and buns tomorrow and visit for a while - don't want to play them out even further. I wonder if I'll be that independent and matter-of-fact when I walk in their same shoes? They're tough as nails.
I've also been leafing through seed and nursery catalogues lately, dreaming of greens, pinks, blues ... any colour but white! It's called spring fever and I've got it bad! Too bad that the Weather Channel is predicting another two to three inches of snow tomorrow, and another potential system drifting in after that. Oh well! It means water for the cattle and moisture for the crops!
Sunday, February 01, 2009
GROUNDHOG DAY
As ridiculous and unrealistic as the expectations of Groundhog Day are -that winter could possibly be over in another six weeks - even the most practical of western Canadians are cheering on this myth for 2009. It's nothing too unusual to have a cold snap or two per winter, but this never-ending 30 to 40 below grind has worn us all down. Although the sun is staying up longer, and today the temperature is a little bit better, the wind is howling across the prairies making the outside world a very inhospitable place to be. We really want some little rodent not to see his shadow tomorrow just for the hope it would give us that winter is on the wane.
Last fall we planned a great escape from the cold and booked a tropical holiday in Cuba for the middle of January. It was a great plan, and the money was spent, but we managed to be there for one of the coldest weeks they've ever had, I'm sure. We were there with some of my family and had a good time, and not every day was too cold for the beach because I did manage to get sun burned, but it was pretty darned cold considering how far south we had traveled. You always pack for one cool-ish day, just in case, but when half the week calls for long pants and warm jackets you start wondering whether someone moved Cuba when you weren't looking. Mind you, if we Canadians were cold, you should have seen the Cubans. They were nearly frozen.
The coldness of the winter has kept Glen busy feeding cattle. Food is their way of staying warm - their calorie intake is what keeps them alive so the calories have to keep coming. Other winters the routine is to feed bales maybe every second day - possible every third day when it really warms up - but I don't think that there's been a day that he hasn't had to feed in the last two months. If there's a bright side to the price of oil being so low which is causing the local oil industry to seriously bottom out, it's that he has not had to work all day on an CAT only to have to come home and feed cows in the dark. He is in the middle of a land-clearing job this week, but oilfield work is rare. I heard this week that out of 79 rigs in the area ( a lot of which were brought in from Alberta last summer) only twelve are drilling now. That's a lot of men off work. It makes me glad that Mitchell works in the agricultural retail field. His wages are not even close to what rig workers earn, but at least it's still coming in.
The town of Redvers was an interesting place to live this past week. Sunday evening a water main cracked because of the ground frost and the system lost over 60,000 gallons of water before it was detected and shut off. Then began the hunt for where the actual crack was. The water, of course, had taken the path of least resistance to the surface, leaving the site of the trouble pretty well concealed. Add to that the fact that it was 40 below and the ground was frozen solid six feet down, and you can see it was a painfully slow dig. The water went off at 11:00 on Sunday night, was briefly turned on Tuesday evening for people to stock up on "flushing" water, and for a few hours Wednesady night once they had uncovered the break and done a temporary fix while waiting for parts needed for the permanent repair, but we didn't get full water service again until Friday morning. Anyone who had farm connections left town, and those that didn't were looking pretty dishelveled by the end of the week. Now they are on a boil water advisory because dirt got into the system during the repair. What is it they say about a bit of adversity? Makes you stronger? Builds character? In Redvers this week, it sure made people smell stronger.
It is good to put January behind us though. A person doesn't want to be wishing their time away, but a little bit of warmth would be a welcome thing. The seed and nursery catalogues have started to arrive, and the girls and I were dreaming over them yesterday. Warm sunshine. Green grass. Even dealing with mosquitos doesn't sound like such a bad thing when the north wind is howling steady outside your door in January.
Last fall we planned a great escape from the cold and booked a tropical holiday in Cuba for the middle of January. It was a great plan, and the money was spent, but we managed to be there for one of the coldest weeks they've ever had, I'm sure. We were there with some of my family and had a good time, and not every day was too cold for the beach because I did manage to get sun burned, but it was pretty darned cold considering how far south we had traveled. You always pack for one cool-ish day, just in case, but when half the week calls for long pants and warm jackets you start wondering whether someone moved Cuba when you weren't looking. Mind you, if we Canadians were cold, you should have seen the Cubans. They were nearly frozen.
The coldness of the winter has kept Glen busy feeding cattle. Food is their way of staying warm - their calorie intake is what keeps them alive so the calories have to keep coming. Other winters the routine is to feed bales maybe every second day - possible every third day when it really warms up - but I don't think that there's been a day that he hasn't had to feed in the last two months. If there's a bright side to the price of oil being so low which is causing the local oil industry to seriously bottom out, it's that he has not had to work all day on an CAT only to have to come home and feed cows in the dark. He is in the middle of a land-clearing job this week, but oilfield work is rare. I heard this week that out of 79 rigs in the area ( a lot of which were brought in from Alberta last summer) only twelve are drilling now. That's a lot of men off work. It makes me glad that Mitchell works in the agricultural retail field. His wages are not even close to what rig workers earn, but at least it's still coming in.
The town of Redvers was an interesting place to live this past week. Sunday evening a water main cracked because of the ground frost and the system lost over 60,000 gallons of water before it was detected and shut off. Then began the hunt for where the actual crack was. The water, of course, had taken the path of least resistance to the surface, leaving the site of the trouble pretty well concealed. Add to that the fact that it was 40 below and the ground was frozen solid six feet down, and you can see it was a painfully slow dig. The water went off at 11:00 on Sunday night, was briefly turned on Tuesday evening for people to stock up on "flushing" water, and for a few hours Wednesady night once they had uncovered the break and done a temporary fix while waiting for parts needed for the permanent repair, but we didn't get full water service again until Friday morning. Anyone who had farm connections left town, and those that didn't were looking pretty dishelveled by the end of the week. Now they are on a boil water advisory because dirt got into the system during the repair. What is it they say about a bit of adversity? Makes you stronger? Builds character? In Redvers this week, it sure made people smell stronger.
It is good to put January behind us though. A person doesn't want to be wishing their time away, but a little bit of warmth would be a welcome thing. The seed and nursery catalogues have started to arrive, and the girls and I were dreaming over them yesterday. Warm sunshine. Green grass. Even dealing with mosquitos doesn't sound like such a bad thing when the north wind is howling steady outside your door in January.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
New Years day
Here we are, at the beginning of another year. It's like being on a merry-go-round that has lost it's brakes - it just keeps getting faster and faster. 2008 disappeared in the blink of an eye and I know of no way to make 2009 go any slower.
The month of December is always a marathon for me. Well, for any working woman who is trying to send cards, buy or make - and then wrap - Christmas gifts, and prepare the treats and other goodies for when the kids come home or neighbors drop over. With my job as postmaster of our small town, the workload builds steadily from mid November on. There are different waves of the season's mail - first the catalogues to order from, then the orders coming in, then the cards and parcels going out ... and then that last week when all the procrastinators come in and are willing to pay almost anything to get their gifts to loved ones in time for the big day. I see it year after year - paying the extra money for the extra speed sooths the guilt of not getting the job done when they should have.
Age must be catching up with me, though. I have always loved this time of the year. It's fun to work at the post office in all the hustle and bustle. Oh sure, I'm pretty worn out by the time the last truck pulls away from the loading dock, but it's a happy kind of tired. This year I was already feeling the drag by mid month. I felt like the Energizer Bunny who had been slipped a cheap store brand battery! And to think, the doctor put me on iron pills earlier this fall - what would have my energy levels been like if I hadn't had that extra fuel to go on?
Christmas 2008 was not my meal to make. We sisters all take turns and I did the feast last year. We all gather on Christmas Eve for a big meal and open certain gifts that night. The meal was great and the company fun. Christmas Day was a bit different with a visit with friends and no big meals at all - just nibbles and goodies all afternoon and a board game to keep things lively. the four day weekend was a lovely treat and the mail load has been light since then - a breather before we get back into the real world again ...
Glen has had most of the last month off. The oil patch work typically eases off over the holidays and with the price of a barrel of oil so low at the moment, everyone is waiting to see if, or how much, things pick up in the new year. Everyone has a theory about what will happen, but it's the same as the bigger economic world - no one knows and we're all just waiting to see.
Meanwhile, at least, Glen is getting some things done around the farm. When he's running CAT in the oil field he starts his day out with over an hour's chores at home before he goes to work, works a ten to twelve hour day, and comes home to feed bales for two more hours in the dark. Don't get the idea that this something that his wife approves of - she thinks he's nuts and will drop dead of exhaustion some day - but he ignores me and carries on. I think keeping only half as many cattle as we do would be a good thing. I could even be comfortable with getting rid of them all and taking life a little easier, but what do I know?
Oh well. Here we go with another year. Where will it take us? Will the markets and the economy straighten out? What will the price of oil do? I shake my head at what's liable to go on in Ottawa at the end of January - we do not need another election to pay for in the middle of all of this! Stephen Harper should never have opened this can of worms, but Jack Layton's dreams of a coalition government frighten and disgust me. Is there anyone in Ottawa who cares about Canada, and not just their own political carreer?
The month of December is always a marathon for me. Well, for any working woman who is trying to send cards, buy or make - and then wrap - Christmas gifts, and prepare the treats and other goodies for when the kids come home or neighbors drop over. With my job as postmaster of our small town, the workload builds steadily from mid November on. There are different waves of the season's mail - first the catalogues to order from, then the orders coming in, then the cards and parcels going out ... and then that last week when all the procrastinators come in and are willing to pay almost anything to get their gifts to loved ones in time for the big day. I see it year after year - paying the extra money for the extra speed sooths the guilt of not getting the job done when they should have.
Age must be catching up with me, though. I have always loved this time of the year. It's fun to work at the post office in all the hustle and bustle. Oh sure, I'm pretty worn out by the time the last truck pulls away from the loading dock, but it's a happy kind of tired. This year I was already feeling the drag by mid month. I felt like the Energizer Bunny who had been slipped a cheap store brand battery! And to think, the doctor put me on iron pills earlier this fall - what would have my energy levels been like if I hadn't had that extra fuel to go on?
Christmas 2008 was not my meal to make. We sisters all take turns and I did the feast last year. We all gather on Christmas Eve for a big meal and open certain gifts that night. The meal was great and the company fun. Christmas Day was a bit different with a visit with friends and no big meals at all - just nibbles and goodies all afternoon and a board game to keep things lively. the four day weekend was a lovely treat and the mail load has been light since then - a breather before we get back into the real world again ...
Glen has had most of the last month off. The oil patch work typically eases off over the holidays and with the price of a barrel of oil so low at the moment, everyone is waiting to see if, or how much, things pick up in the new year. Everyone has a theory about what will happen, but it's the same as the bigger economic world - no one knows and we're all just waiting to see.
Meanwhile, at least, Glen is getting some things done around the farm. When he's running CAT in the oil field he starts his day out with over an hour's chores at home before he goes to work, works a ten to twelve hour day, and comes home to feed bales for two more hours in the dark. Don't get the idea that this something that his wife approves of - she thinks he's nuts and will drop dead of exhaustion some day - but he ignores me and carries on. I think keeping only half as many cattle as we do would be a good thing. I could even be comfortable with getting rid of them all and taking life a little easier, but what do I know?
Oh well. Here we go with another year. Where will it take us? Will the markets and the economy straighten out? What will the price of oil do? I shake my head at what's liable to go on in Ottawa at the end of January - we do not need another election to pay for in the middle of all of this! Stephen Harper should never have opened this can of worms, but Jack Layton's dreams of a coalition government frighten and disgust me. Is there anyone in Ottawa who cares about Canada, and not just their own political carreer?
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