Saturday 22 Oct 2005
10:13 a.m.

On my walks nowadays I stroll past many badger holes, which are about a foot in diameter. I’m only a little nervous, since reading in Farley Mowat’s book Never Cry Wolf that wolves can hear the footsteps of people miles away and can even tell, by the sound, how heavy the person is. I figure the badger underground must be able to hear mine and knows to keep out of sight.

There has been such an explosion of gophers around here that it was inevitable the badgers would move in to clean them out, and they are very welcome. I wondered how they catch the gophers, as surely the rodents can escape down one hole and exit through another at some distance. Pat (Scott’s mom) said that at this time of year the gophers are already hibernating underground, so the badger just digs down to them and “feasts.”

***

On Wednesday I took Grandma to Saskatoon for a medical appointment and while she was in the lab for her echocardiogram I walked to the hospital mall and browsed through the gift store. It displayed many items meant for the universally beloved “Mother,” as does every gift shop, and the sight of these tears sharp, bloody rips in the flesh of my heart. It’s the same when I go into a clothing store. I have always looked at the racks with my sisters and mom in mind, and still do, but now when I see something Mom might like ... I remember that she has “vanished” (as guest Vicki Gabereau put it, repeating the term used by an acquaintance of hers, in an interview with Shelah Rogers on CBC Radio that morning).

~ collecting kindling outside our kitchen window,
a job the kids seemed to enjoy considerably ~

On Thursday night Everett took part in his first piano recital, after taking only seven lessons. The teacher and her students put on a little show at the old folks home. I sat in a chair behind two long rows of carefully styled white heads. Afterward the teacher exclaimed, “He certainly plays with confidence!”

Several ladies thanked and encouraged him when we chatted with them before leaving. Three who live there are lifetime acquaintances of mine, from my home town; one said, “Your mother was like a daughter to me, you know; I’ll never take her picture down” and “Your dad is like one of my own sons.” Another, who moved there less than a month ago and doesn’t like it, said “I just want to go home.” I told her to give it a little longer, give herself a chance to get used to it. “Besides,” I said, “Grandma will be moving in here as soon as she can, and you will both be happier if you are here then.”

After visiting that night, I think Grandma will like it there. There is always something going on, always someone around to talk to or do things with. She’s got her name on the waiting list; now must simply wait for an opening. We are more anxious now for that time to come soon, as Grandma’s memory seems worse than ever. And I think she might be a bit lonely. Yes, the boys and I visit her almost every weekend. Yes, she walks down to the seniors centre two afternoons a week to socialize. Yes, my uncle drives in to see her every few days. But this is a woman who spent most of her life with a lot of family coming and going constantly, and now, but for her cat, which she loves, she is alone most of the time, with little to do but watch game shows on TV and do Word Searches.

Or maybe she is enjoying solitude for the first time in her life. She doesn’t seem to mind terribly, except to remark, as if she can’t quite understand it, that “No one comes to visit, like they used to.” Maybe they do, and she doesn’t remember.

I asked Everett why he is so comfortable playing for the old folks and not shy at all to talk with them, while he has difficulty making friends his own age. He said “The old people treat me way nicer.” That they do. They are so appreciative, so encouraging, so gracious.

***

I can work at the computer with a Ricki Lee Jones CD in the player on my desk, but not 24 Country Favorites, which distracts me.

***

“My neighbor Howard says his mother saved everything the way Lizzie does. His mother made little cloth bags to hold pieces of string, each bag carefully labeled as to the length of the pieces. After her death they found one small bag of string labeled ‘Too short to save.’ “ -from Along Came the Witch, a diary or journal by Helen Bevington.