They're curious, but wary.

~still trying to catch that sparkle on snow, and failing~

I helped my mother-in-law learn how to create a pansy on paper that looked like it popped right out of the page. This was years ago before her crossing over. She had a stamp set and was creating greeting cards to send to friends. But no matter what she did to color in the pansy stamp, it continued to look flat and unappealing. So she asked me what I would do with it, considering that I am an artist.

The first thing I told her was that she needed to see the pansy with a new set of eyes. Too often we overlook the simple beauty that is right there in front of us. Then we needed to sharpen the pencil crayons she was using to a fine point. We cannot use a "broad brush" when we are trying to create detail. Then we began the lesson on blending colors.

The colors of a pansy are not just black center, then colored petal, then green leaf. They smoothly blend into one another, like lovers and very good friends blend into each others' lives. And in that blend there is a mixture of color that is created. Not just one or the other, but both. We then need to allow the light to shine from a particular direction, and indicate this with highlights on the petals and leaves. We always need to know the source of our light.

Then we need to shadow the colors where the light is not so strong and the dark is able to exist. We always need to be conscious of our dark aspects, otherwise it will all still turn out flat.

And, last but not least, we need to recognize that no matter how shaded something is, there is still light shining through, thus the leaves have to have some of the colors of the upper petals on them, indicating the light shining through the umbrella of petals and cascading a new tone onto the leaves below.

"Where did you learn this?" she asked me. Well, I have a mother and two sisters who are also artists, so some of the technical stuff comes from that. But the essence of it, the ability to see what I am looking at....that comes from my own spirit and my own desire to know and to observe and understand. My soul is fed with compassion and understanding, and the soul of all things, whether elaborate or simple, is also fed with compassion and understanding. This is the shaman's way.

~From Reflections from the Shaman's Hut, Trent Deerhorn's webpage.

Trent came out here one weekend several years ago to lead a workshop in meditative drumming, which he called "journeying." I mentioned it here at the time but never got around to telling you anything about it. The workshop was held at the country home of one of the "Likeminded Ladies," all of whom have become dear to me.

There were maybe a half-dozen of us there, and we drummed together, focusing on the sound. For one exercise we all reclined in Leithe's spacious living room while Trent drummed and chanted for us. I could hear a woman's voice chanting alongside his in a kind of harmony, but this seemed to be inside my own head and not that unusual, since I do sometimes hear harmonies that way while listening to music. But afterward when we talked about it, I discovered that others had also heard her. Yeah. Never have figured that one out; one of those things where you look at each other, go "whoa" and always wonder.

The farm has been having water troubles lately, and a path to the dugout, a quarter-mile from the yard, was plowed so that it can be reached more easily for repairs. I discovered the path several days ago and was delighted because it gives me an easy route across the field and away from the grid road where there are sometimes passing vehicles.

Yesterday afternoon I went out there and discovered Scott and his Dad working on the water problem. Scott was chopping a hole in the ice and Ivan was disentangling cords. I asked if there was anything I could do but other than holding the end of a cord for less than a minute, there wasn't. I stood in the crisp sunshine for a while and then carried on my merry way.

When I got back to our yard it was still too nice to come in, so I wandered over to the farmyard, had a look at the lonely stallion, followed a second plowed road as far as it went, turned and came back, and ran into Everett in the barnyard. He climbed up to the loft in an attempt to show me a new cat that has turned up.

The one sitting on his shoulder loves him, but he can't figure out why. I can, I tell him.

Casper uses her snout for a snow shovel. Why? No one knows.

And finally I came in, but only because it would soon be time to think about supper.

As Everett and I rounded a slippery corner on our way out of town, a vehicle approaching at right angles was unable to stop, and caught the back driver’s-side tire. The small car was carrying a load of giddy teenagers who stood awed by the drama of it all as I called police and the tow-truck driver, and arranged alternate transportation home. One look at the back wheel announced that the van was going nowhere. Considering the other driver couldn’t have been going very fast, it is surprising how much damage was done.

The wheel, torn off the axel, remained attached by wires. The tow-truck driver didn’t want to drag the tire or cut the wires, unsure whether the vehicle would be written off or repaired. He tried several methods of securing the tire, all unsuccessful, and eventually Everett and I climbed into the warm cab of his truck to wait. In the rearview mirror on the passenger door I could see the driver mouthing his frustration. Then Scott and his cousin pulled up at the corner, on their way home from work.

Scott walked across the rinky road toward the van, and I said to Everett, “Scott’ll tell him what to do.” Everett and I looked at each other and broke up in grinning guffaws; we both knew it was so. Immediately I saw Scott point toward the wheel well and moments later the tire was lifted and secured by a heavy chain and we were on our way to the body shop.

It's not looking good for my van. Might be time to break out the horse and buggy.

Everett is out in the driveway watching the lunar eclipse. It is to take 45 minutes and turn orange or red during the event. I went out to the road with him but came in after 15 minutes, cold. My “extreme cold” rated jacket (yeah, right) was exchanged disgustedly for Aunt Jean’s long mink, and the temperature wasn't an issue any longer.

It's a gorgeous evening; there is only a slight breeze outside the treed yard. However, I can see the whole show from the window in the porch.

Behind the church in town where Everett is being tutored in Grade 10 math.

Everett’s session was at 1 o’clock. I dropped him off and then thought about what to do. Get the errands done first, then visit Grandma, or vice versa? How about get the errands (five stops) over with, sit in the church parking lot with a cup of coffee and a chicken wrap, and listen to the radio for an hour? That's it.

Cleaned and organized my shoulder bag while at it. When Everett came out, we went to see Grandma. Old-time music was coming from the lounge, and knowing she’d be there and not want to come away, I acquiesced to Everett's request to make a u-turn in the hallway and come home.

He’s just come in, excited. “There’s a deer in the yard and it is not intimidated by Sara.” He girded his loins to fight off the wild creature (in spite of my assurance it would not attack), heading back out with a shovel over his shoulder to do double duty for a weapon and the “turd tour.” Casper the dog’s bad habit is she shits where we walk.

The boys are off with their dad tonight till Tuesday.

Too many clothes.
Nothing to wear.
I hate shopping.
-story of my life

“Never wrestle with pigs. You both get dirty and the pigs love it.” - recounted by Gordon Pinsent, regarding critics

This little witch jumped into my hand while Cathy and I were strolling through the Fringe market in Saskatoon in August. I bought it without hesitation and wear it often. If I have any "religion," it is a combination of them, Wicca being one that makes a lot of sense to me. This woman, in touch with the changing moon above (which changes colour according to the heat of my body), lives in harmony with the forces of nature and knows how to work with them.

On the ground outside our kitchen window, one of the barn cats waits hopefully for the perfect moment to pounce on chickadees, redpolls, sparrows and woodpeckers that frequent the two feeders hung on the tree branches.

Cuddles is the most affectionate cat ever, aptly named. She has a tiny high tremulous polite voice with a question mark at the end of every utterance.

A fresh stack of library books came home with me yesterday, and Once Upon a Tomb, Stories from Canadian Graveyards was begun last night. It is easy to lose myself for an hour perusing tombstones in cemeteries, so I understand Nancy Millar's fascination with them.

As it happens, my tarot card for today is 13, Death. I am using the Legend Arthurian deck at the moment, so after reading the story of Gwyn ab Nudd & the Wild Hunt that is presented on the card, I looked into its symbology. Though I don't use reversed cards in my readings, one of its reversed aspects was this:

“Avoiding the inevitable brings boredom and depression.”

Does it apply to my life today? Not noticeably, but it points a flaming arrow toward a cause of depression and boredom, and I'll remember this.

He got me again. The old kitten-in-the-fridge trick.
I don't know how the rest of you would react, but I jump back in shock and horror every time, and Everett giggles.

A home care aide called to say the doctor had visited the lodge on Friday and that Grandma needed to go to the hospital lab this morning for tests.

What for? No idea. But off to town I went this morning around 8 and surprised Grandma, who also had no idea. Here she sits, waiting her turn to have blood drawn and all the rest.

***

Beautiful afternoon, not even 10C below, sun shining out of a clear blue sky. Out I go.

Shelly, your dog not only runs ahead of me now, unlike the early days, but has been seen bounding about like a puppy while playing with the smaller dog.

***

Had tea at three and bundled up in ski pants and long mink coat for a walk. Headed for the road in order to get out of the trees and be able to see across the fields, but turned around immediately when the wind cut into the uncovered skin of my face and neck. It is only about 8C below, though, so instead of coming into the house I went north through the inlaws' yard, which is well treed. Once past the horse's corral I decided to circle the north perimeter of the yard, which you see above. One very deep snowdrift had me panting for air and at the west end of the circle the wind got through my tuque and scarf, biting my throat cruelly. It was a short walk, maybe 10 minutes, but refreshing.

Everett is taking a home ec class, and does two cooking labs per week at home. This is to my advantage, as not only must I taste and approve the end result, but he sets the table and serves me. Last week he made fudge one morning and these "Blackbottom Muffins," filled with cream cheese, the next day. This week it will be taco salad and lemonade cookies.

We have not one inch of extra counter space in the kitchen, but there sits a small fraction of my cookbooks anyway, the ones most often used. My culinary training started around age nine when I joined the Margo 4-H club and took its cooking classes for two years. Throughout high school I often baked and Mom made sure to encourage me by admiring my cakes, which rose light and high. However, when I moved away from home, all I could cook were eggs and fried potatoes. The only argument I can remember ever having with Cathy when we were roommates (or ever) was over the correct way to cut them for frying; each of our mothers did it differently. We still chuckle over that down-and-dirty fight. Pfft. Now that I think of it, there must have been a few more because I remember how they always ended — and soon — by one or both of us opening our arms to the other for a hug. No disagreement was worth shutting each other out.

It was not until I moved into a one-room log cabin in the woods with a beau in northern New Brunswick that I began taking an interest in making meals. He was a francophone, but had a cookbook that had belonged to an English aunt. It was The Joy of Cooking, and I put it to good use. It's where I learned how to cook a roast, among other things; the book tells you not only what to do, but why, and I read it from front to back with my feet tucked up on an overstuffed chair near the fireplace. Many contented hours were spent in that little cabin.

The Joy of Cooking remains on the cookbook shortlist.

~ steam off the South Saskatchewan River in S'toon on Sunday ~

In spite of the weather advisory for Saskatchewan on Friday, I picked Scott up in Wynyard, where he was drywalling a new grouphome, and we drove to Saskatoon to take Cathy out for supper on her birthday. On Saturday we picked up a DVD that had been ordered for Emil (Brooks and Dunn Greatest Hits videos, a Christmas gift from Grandpa), browsed through flooring samples at one place, and hit the highway for home. The day was clear but the thermometer was reading around 30C below, before wind chill. We were glad to get home before dark.

While in the music store I bought the new Robert Plant and Alison Krauss CD and have been playing it every day.

~ Floyd Young's mural ~

Taken from the door of the optometrist's office in Wadena, where I took Grandma to have an eye checked. She has had a retinal hemorrhage, he says. Nothing to be done but let it clear up a bit before sending her to a specialist.

I've been in town three days this week, and have to go tomorrow again because Everett left his Math books at the Baptist church after he was tutored there this afternoon. D'uh.

If you take the fork to the left, you'll get to our house. The one on the right leads to the inlaws'.

We're off to Saskatoon sometime tomorrow. Cathy turns 50 and we're taking her out for supper. I also plan to see the Bartley girls— Mom's cousins, which makes 'em mine too. First cousins once removed, then, are they?