Found on a discussion list:

"Who Knew Tea Did THIS?

Tea fights colds. Tea fights the flu. Tea fights cancer.

Maybe it's time to switch from coffee to tea. Drink five to six cups of tea a day--green or black, hot or iced--and you'll get a significant boost to your immune system that will allow you to better fight off diseases from viruses to tumors, according to a new research study presented to the American Chemical Society.

HealthDayNews reports that scientists from Harvard Medical School and Brigham and Women's Hospital have conducted the first study to link immunity with tea. A molecule that is in tea, as well as bacteria and parasites, activates certain components of the immune system called gamma delta T lymphocytes, which are very important as the first line of defense against infection and tumors.

The study:
Dr. Jack F. Bukowski and his team assembled a group of volunteers who did not drink tea or coffee. They were told to drink five to six cups of black tea infusion or instant coffee for either two weeks or four weeks. Blood samples were taken to test the activity of the immune system against bacteria.

The results: The blood samples of the tea drinkers were five times better able to react against bacteria than the coffee drinkers by making the protein interferon gamma, a molecule that fights bacteria, viruses, and tumors.

Bukowski's next study will go one step further and try to show how drinking tea can actually protect you from getting sick.

Bukowski cautions that tea can't be seen as a cure, but it could be viewed as a vitamin for the immune system."

This is where I am staying in Kelowna, at my sister Joan's while she and her hubby are living the high life in Vegas for four nights.

Over at Golden Grain Farm, Everett would have been willing to keep the previous owner's hens to earn a few dollars selling eggs. He likes birds, but since he's gone all of July and I am unwilling to deal with livestock, and Scott didn't want the extra work on top of his already full days, Violet sold her layers before she moved out.

For Scott, things changed somewhere between then and now, because 100 of the little critters have been purchased and put into the chicken coop. Apparently these will be split between our three families— us, his parents, and his brother's.

Everett was in there making friends with the homely creatures one day last week; I waited outside the door. It's not that I don't like chickens. It's just that I don't like them much. I don't like the smell of them. I don't like the look of this kind of chicken. And I couldn't care less if I never ate chicken again. I don't dislike the taste, but I can take it or leave it, and if there's a buffet full of salads alongside I'll usually leave it.

These won't lay eggs; in the fall or late summer they will be loaded up into a truck and taken to the most local Hutterite colony to be butchered. Poor buggers.

***

"Everett!" I call to him as I climb out of the tub.
He hollers back "What?" gruffly.
I towel off and come out in my housecoat and say "That is not the way to answer me! You should reply, in your best opera voice (and I demonstrate at full volume), "What can I do for you, my Sweet Little Mama?"

Imagining that, I break down in giggles; he rolls his eyes. I tell him he should try it when Scott's here, or Emil, or some company, and as we visualize their incredulous reactions we both start to cackle.

Ahhh... the fun we could have around here, if only that boy would play along.

This reminds me of how I had both Emil and Everett trained to address me as "Sweet-Scented One" when they were small. Those were the days, I tell you.

On the way to Saskatoon on Saturday, I made a flower delivery and caught my aunt and uncle visiting Grandma. They both turned away from the camera so I didn't get a decent photo, the brats. Grandma was all gussied up to go to the Mother's Day Tea in Margo, and then whoever was driving turned out not to have room. It was a good thing, or Neil and Rose would have missed her.

Everett and I carried on to the city and, the next day, went with Cathy and crew to see Phantom of the Opera. Here's my baby in front of the auditorium before the show; he looked more impressed afterward.

When the show was over the two of us went to a mall to have pictures developed and shop a little, then drove to a restaurant and had supper. I hope my eyes were not obviously glazed over due to the one-sided conversation about videogames and TV programs he likes. I try to look interested. You want your teenagers to talk to you... right? Right?

It's rare to get away with Everett to do something out of the ordinary, so we both enjoyed this trip. He's a great travelling companion. Also a good cart-pusher when we stopped at two greenhouses on the drive home this afternoon.

We went to two malls in the city. In one we ran into Danielle, my niece, who had gone in for a concert last night; and in the other I ran into (literally and on purpose) Shelly Pelican, who was in the same grade as me at school in Margo. These were both pleasant surprises and also reminders that I could never rendezvous with a paramour in Saskatoon because my secret would be out in a wink. Hmph.

A stubblefield west of Humboldt as our vehicle hurtled homeward. We've still had no rain; there are no leaves; it is dry, dry, dry.

There are several routes into town and often I take the one past the cemetery, on the eastern perimeter. I'm drawn to it but there is always some reason not to stop: it's too cold, there are too many other things to get done before going home again, the mosquitoes will be bad and I have no repellent along or am not dressed properly.

Yesterday I decided to just do it, and let everything else wait. I dropped Everett off at his piano lesson, went to a service station and bought a cup of hot coffee, then drove back to the graveyard, parked and began to stroll past the tombstones. What had looked like a beautiful day when I was out of the wind soon let me know that I'd regret leaving my warm jacket at home, so I didn't stay more than a half-hour. But I did, upon recognizing the odd name on a headstone, greet the person whose remains were underneath. I don't think there's anyone there, but ... this is what happened, anyway.

Three two-foot garter snakes sunning themselves in a pond of dry leaves among the graves just about made me jump out of my skin. It's not that they scare me, but the sound of them stirring (considering jumping out of their skins, I imagine) at my approach took me by surprise.

Last weekend while filling wall-washing pails at the kitchen sink, I was excited to gaze out the window and see one coasting hawk and several large flocks of geese flying past. This afternoon, I sat in front of the picture window at Golden Grain Farm and realized how much sky can be seen above the caragana hedge. Today there were three hawks, redtails probably, circling in the cloud-studded blue sky. One circled lazily right over the house, giving me a closeup view of his underfeathers.

I could have cried. We get to see this from our living room window! How lucky is that. A gal could forget about the hour, by cracky. However, the empty house echoes like a cathedral so I yodelled — hey, I would if I could — for a while and came home to start supper.

This is me, making supper.
It doesn't sound convincing, does it.

There is a pair of Canada geese on the slough (I should call it a "pond" so it sounds nicer, eh?) visible from the step, the porch and all the south windows. My fingers are crossed that they are nesting there. The other day I was watching them from the porch window when another pair flew in over the border of trees along the edge of the slough, dipped down to land in the water, and moseyed onto the small grassy island to make the acquaintance of the resident two. That didn't go over well. A kaffuffle ensued and the intruders (really though, who could tell which was which) soon left in a huff, honking their displeasure.

There are also numerous smaller waterfowl on the slough. As soon as we get a warm day I am going to steal an hour to sit nearby with my binoculars and admire them all.

I am proofreading a trapper's memoir these days and enjoying his stories of surviving in the bush many decades ago. He says, "You can't sneak up on a goose." Now I know. Not that I'd want to piss off one of those formidable birds by getting too close for comfort.

Everett reads in the swing next to the driveway, with two cats for company.

Emil tours the farmyard, making sure all is as it should be.

***

May 5th is the day I always expect the new leaves to pop out. None yet, though.

***

Just as I'm thinking I might as well disable the Comments function because no one ever uses it anyway, I come to the webpage and am pleasantly surprised:

Hi Leanne. You're welcome. Living this close to Grandma, I should be visiting her more often. Am thinking of doubling the frequency of my trips to town. Twice a week won't kill me.

Charlotte, what say we meet for lunch on the 14th? I'll be in Kelvington for a checkup with Doctor Audrey that morning. Congratulations on the new job. I imagine the Chronicle is a fun place to work.

***

A while ago I posted to a list about some physical ailments (cold sores) that have been frustrating me for years. A wise and wonderful friend responded that she believes everyone has in their lifetime some afflictions; there is always something to challenge each of us.

I realized this morning (weeks later!), upon waking up, why that didn't sit right with me, though I couldn't argue with the reality of it: I expect perfect health and happiness. In spite of all evidence to the contrary in my own life and the world around me, I still think perfect health and happiness are the natural state of things and that anything else is a mistake, a misstep.

Last week when Everett and I were in town, we were going to celebrate the completion of his school courses by stopping at the drive-thru dairy bar, which has recently reopened after being closed for the winter. We pulled up to the window, only to discover their soft ice cream machine wasn't working — I couldn't have a small chocolate milkshake and he couldn't have a large blizzard.

Tonight we are invited next door for a potluck so, since I didn't feel like cooking (I never do when the sun is shining), we drove to town to pick up ice cream and cones to take over for dessert. We tried the dairy bar again and were in luck.

Next summer I will be old enough to eat from the seniors' menu. Whoa!

At the grocery checkout counter I spotted some potted mums and grabbed one for Grandma. We dropped it off at the lodge just as the residents were finishing up their afternoon tea and coffee after some musical entertainment. Our visit was short, with ice cream in danger of melting in the van.

The phone rings as I'm washing and cutting up vegetables for supper, and I am glad of an excuse to flop my complaining back muscles onto the loveseat for a few minutes. It's Joanne, Mom's very close friend who, and I love her for it, so often helps me keep Mom's memory alive. She greets me with this:

"Hooray hooray, it's the first of May!"

"So it is," I say. It is, too — a nice, sunny day, warm if you're out of the wind, bird and frog song filling the air loudly from every direction.

"It''s a little late in the day," she goes on. "I should've called earlier. Your sister already beat me to it; she called me this morning."

"Eh?"

"Oh, don't you know the story?" I am so glad there are stories and Joanne is here to tell them. "Your mom always used to phone me on the first of May, and say

"Hooray hooray, it's the first of May —
Outdoor screwing starts today!"

Berry Me Not
by Jeanne Rhodes

Chokecherries, chokecherries, purple and round.
How pleasant to live where these gems can be found.

My soulmate will love whatever I make,
Poured on a biscuit, or drowning a cake.

So, leaving a houseful of things to be done,
I grabbed up my buckets and vowed to have fun.

Off to the riverbank hot in pursuit
Of chokecherry bushes heavy with fruit—

I wasn't alone in the choice that I made,
Our cows were there too seeking water and shade.

Of course they had fertilized well where they lay,
So insects were thick on that scorching hot day.

But, darn it, I wasn't about to be licked
So I picked and I swatted and swatted and picked.

Then, both of my buckets heavy with loot,
I stepped in the mud as deep as my boot;

I followed it down with a face-forward sprawl—
Both buckets of chokecherries joined in the fall.

They silently sank in the cowpies and mud;
I picked up a few, they were covered with crud.

So back to the bushes, the heat and the bugs,
I picked them again, refilling my lugs.

Rushing back home, I started to cook,
Got dinner on somehow, by hook or by crook.

Washed all my berries and strained them for use,
Emptied my sugar sack into the juice.

It boiled for hours before it was ready;
I sterilized jars, I was getting unsteady.

I put on some supper, I cleaned up the mess,
And collapsed in a chair too tired to undress.

This morning my husband beamed over his plate
Of sausage and pancakes, and said as he ate,

"The best thing about this syrup to me
Is that these nice berries are utterly free."

To show that I'm tolerant and kind and forgiving—
The man that I live with is still with the living.

Grandpa Walter keeps Baby Ruby happy on Saturday evening. We'd gone to Scott's sister Tanya's in Kelvington for supper but as my cold was on its last legs I didn't allow myself to pick up this little girl who wanted to be carried quite a bit. It was torture; I love 'em at that age.

***

While it's still pleasantly warm I take a load of laundry from the dryer, folding and stacking it in piles: the boys', Scott's, mine, and household stuff. I transfer a load of wet garments from the washing machine to the dryer and close the dryer door. I clean the lint filter, set the timer dial, press the start button.
Nothing.
I open and close the dryer door, re-set the timer dial, press the start button. Nothing.
After repeating this series of movements about five times in disbelief — after all, the thing had just been running — I put up the clothes rack and hang the wet laundry on it.
That night I tell Scott, my fix-it man, "The dryer isn't working. You can hear the timer clicking, but the machine won't start."
A day or two later I ask if he's had a chance to look at it. He says, "It works." I inquire what he had to do to it. He says, "Press the start button." He rolls his googly eyes; this sort of thing is not unusual when it comes to me.
I say, "I did that! Numerous times!"
"Did you open and close the door?"
"Yes. More than once." I'm puzzled now.
"Well, it works. I didn't do anything to it."
What the F.
I mean, Yay! The dryer works.
But what the F?