This morning we're off to a family brunch in Kelvington and tonight I have to sing at a Christmas do in Kuroki, so there won't be much R&R here at home. This, though it's all about pleasure, is what I consider a work day, come to think of it. Hm. What am I saying. I'm a homebody, a hermit?

The moon was so bright it was like daylight when I looked through the window to the driveway last night.

The grocery list on the fridge is pretty short with the boys away. Their dad called last night to tell me he's purchased concert tickets to a Brooks and Dunn show in April; this is Emil's Christmas gift from Gord but I have to take him so he bought my ticket too. Because I will have to listen to Emil go on and on about it for the next five months, it's the least he could do, he said, chuckling maniacally. I'm not a B&D fan but I'm told they put on a good show.

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Alex Waterhouse-Hayward is a photographer, originally from Argentina, who lives and works in Vancouver. I enjoy his musings whenever I get the opportunity to spend time catching up on favourite blogs.

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I'm up earlier than usual for a weekend morning, 7 o'clock. Because I went to bed earlier than usual for a Friday night, 9:30. With Emil and Everett away, every day feels like a weekend; there is no routine, really, except for Scott's usual breakfast before he bolts out the door. The moment he gets up, he has to eat. I can't stuff anything down for at least an hour. He sometimes offers to cook for me as well as himself, but I usually decline. Not only because of the hour, but sometimes because of what he is making; I cannot stomach meat and potatoes first thing in the morning, and even if he has eggs, he will put meat and potatoes in with them if it's handy.

By 8:00 he was on his way to town to pick up the gent who will help him install the new furnace over at Golden Grain Farm. I said I'd make something for their dinner and went over to the inlaws' for ground beef, which is in their deep freeze. My little stroll over there is when I took the photo above. Beautiful morning, but cold; 20 below.

Turns out the boys won't have lunch here anyway, as they have to make another trip to town within the hour and will grab a sandwich in a café. I have washed last night's supper dishes and started frying chopped onions, garlic, and meat; will throw something together for the evening meal instead.

Speaking of food, it's almost 10:30 and I haven't eaten yet. Must do that before I forget.

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Legal title to the property we are buying is now handed over to us, so we can start our renos or, as Scott would put it, start spending money and working our asses off. After the new furnace, there will be insulating to do, some walls coming out to enlarge the kitchen, new flooring, and a bit of painting. He is now talking about doing even more extensive work in the kitchen than we've planned; if I didn't know better, I'd think he is finally getting his teeth into this project. Till recently there was nothing but complaining, but lately he's been tackling it with some vigour. Maybe that's because the jig is up; he has no choice.

He has disconnected the woodstove over there because the insurance premiums when heating with wood are so high it doesn't make the money saved worthwhile. I will miss the wood heat, I say, and would rather pay the extra insurance premiums. I think of the ice storms and power outages that have wreaked so much havoc on the continent over recent years, and would prefer not to rely on the electrical grid in an emergency. But Scott is tired of the work, he says, of getting wood in. He's been doing it for a lot of years (not without help, I might add, though he does all the chainsawing and most of the wood-chopping) and would like a break. And, he tells me, "You won't even notice the woodstove isn't there."

But I will. We'll have to come back over to this house once in a while, make a fire, and lay a bear rug on the floor in front of it. This can be our Love Shack.

Now Playing: gently sizzling frying pan

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On the way back from the vet's yesterday we stopped in at my niece's. Her little fella thought we should take him outside to play in the snow, and got ready.

I got out for a walk this afternoon:

But once out on the road the wind was daunting and I didn't go far before deciding this wasn't particularly pleasant. As soon as I turned around, Sara came barrelling back (she always runs on ahead) and grabbed the heels of my boots in her teeth, trying to change my mind about going back to the yard. Trying to herd me back in the other direction.

She just about pulls my feet out from under me, the little bugger. But I let her do it quite a few times before getting serious about making her stop.

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Now playing:
Joni Mitchell, Court and Spark, my favourite album; you know, the one I'd take to the desert island

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Supper tonight.
With tea and a banana.
Shh, it's better than almond rocha and tea alone, which I considered.

It feels like the weekend.

Scott's gone to Yorkton with his dad to do his Christmas shopping. Usually he goes with his buddy Rick, but since I made that crack about it secretly being their annual trip to the whorehouse, Rick's wife hasn't been too enthusiastic (right Faye?).

The vet had to put Buddy (the dog) down this morning. He's only been with us three months so I didn't expect to feel as badly as I do. Poor old boy.

Phone call. They are at the nursing home, looking for Floyd's building. Scott is delivering a tray of seasonal treats from me and after a visit with his high school friend they'll head home. It's already 7 o'clock so they'll be beat by the time they get here, the geezers.

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Wild animals I have seen today: coyotes, altogether three.

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How would you animal lovers like to work in Banff? My friend Diana lives there and sent this. "This was taken while looking out my office window one afternoon last week," she writes.

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Three Days

My favourite Christmas mug is back in use.

To make Almond Rocha:

Sing and dance while sipping white Sambuca (thanks to company who left the last two shots behind).

Lefse served with supper meant the sugar bowl came out of the china cabinet.

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The Yellowhead Highway now runs alongside the old Borden Bridge, which crosses the South Saskatchewan River west of Saskatoon. I dropped the boys off with their dad in North Battleford at noon on Friday and headed back in this direction for a Christmas concert in Margo that evening. Eight hours on the road made for a long day but the highway was good; just foggy in places.

Borden is a small town, now in mourning since a woman driving her 15-year-old son and five of his teammates attempted to cross a highway on their way to a basketball tournament on Thursday. The woman's son was killed and everyone else was in serious condition on the day I drove past the community. How quickly one's entire life can change. My heart aches for that mother.

Now Playing: Mary Margaret O'Hara, Year in Song, which makes me get up and dance Every Time (scuse me)

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When we moved to Legal, Alberta, we were soon fortunate enough to meet Helen and Joe, whose house was two doors over. They became family to us; Helen spoiled the boys with care and kindness and oh all right, she treated me and Gord like gold too.

Joe was retired and could fix and build most anything, so we often went to him for advice or a hand with some small problem. He did several projects for me, actually: the first was to build a small ramp to make it easy for Emil to get up to the front door with his walker; the second was to build partitions in a silverware drawer; the third was to construct a framework for a system of lights over a bench in the basement, where I'd plant my flower seeds in late winter.

Helen looked after the boys for me every so often, fed them milk and cookies, and gave them her full attention while they were with her. She's still "Auntie Helen" to my kids.

They came originally from Larry's River, a francophone village in Nova Scotia, but although I could practise my French with them we soon slipped back into English. It was surprising how much of the language I could call up after 20 years without speaking or hearing it much. And even if we weren't speaking French, I was content to listen to their accent all day. They were the best neighbours I've ever had.

I'll never forget how Joe went into action when his help was needed. One day I'd told Everett we'd go downtown and had taken a phone call while he waited for me in the front entrance. By the time I got off the line, he was gone and I couldn't find him anywhere. He was only two years old, if that, and after searching everywhere I was getting pretty worried. I went over to Helen and Joe's in hopes he'd gone there, but no. Joe immediately got out his quad and started patrolling the neighbourhood; he went downtown and all over town; but Everett still hadn't been spotted. Helen and I were standing in their driveway and I was trying not to imagine the worst and wondering what to do next when I noticed, through the front windshield of my van (parked facing Joe and Helen's), Everett's head in the back seat. I have never been so relieved.

Apparently he had assumed we'd be driving, and had climbed into the van to wait and then been unable to open the latch to get out. The van's windows were dark so one couldn't see in, and it hadn't occurred to me that he'd get in there; when I'd said we'd go somewhere, I'd meant we'd walk. It was a very, very hot day and it is fortunate I saw him when I did, or things could have been much worse. As it was he was already weak and flushed from the heat. He and I went into our house and sat side by side on the step indoors until I gathered him into my lap and held him while we both cried.

By this time every year Joe had their house and yard decked out in its Christmas finery for weeks already. There would be at least two decorated trees indoors, lights galore, the whole shebang. So it only makes sense that I think of Joe every year during the holiday season.

Helen just called me; it's been a while since we've talked so we caught up on each other's news. This will be the second Christmas that Joe's been gone; that goddamn *@$%>!^# cancer took him, too.

I haven't seen Helen since before Joe got sick. But I intend to go visit her next summer when I either take the boys to Edmonton, where they will spend July with Gord, or go and pick them up. It will be a week to spend with my good friends who live out there and I'll drop in on my little brother, too, and find something to give him a hard time about.

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We needed wood so I took Everett to the new house around 5 o'clock and got him to load up Scott's truck with enough for a couple days. Normally I help but my upper right arm has been bothering me since September. Even hanging up winter coats in the closet, they seem inordinately heavy. Maybe I need to start lifting weights. At first I parked on the road (see above) at the end of the driveway for fear of getting stuck, as the yard has begun to blow in. But after walking as far as the wood shed I realized it was safe to drive in.

My big plans for the day were to go for a walk with the dogs and to make whipped shortbread. I managed the walk, but not the cookies. What a gorgeous day; if winter could always be like this, no one would ever complain. Only about 10C below, no wind, sun shining; what's not to love. I, of course, wear ski pants once the snow's here so I am usually warm outside. You people who complain about winter and don't wear ski pants shall get no sympathy from me. They are The Answer.

Everett stayed over there to play games on his computer and I came home to get supper on the go. Logical as ever, I carried in all the wood, toted it downstairs, and stacked it. So much for favouring the arm.

I'd put a chicken in the oven around 3 and now, after prepping the veggies and setting the table, I poured a glass of wine and sat down here at my desk to see if a little work might get done. I include this photo of my glass of wine just to demonstrate what a lightweight I have become. There's my wine, as you can see; by the time I'd drunk just enough to lower the level to what you see below, I was well on my way to making a sake post.

~ the old Mac is still on the desk behind the new; no place to put the thing, since the basement flooded in April ~

A sake post is what we call it on my favourite discussion list when one of us has enough to drink that we become ... shall I say ... embarrassingly forthcoming.

Now that we've finished eating, I've poured myself a second small glass but sorry folks, no sake post tonight.

Everett is downstairs quizzing Scott about where he can set up the Christmas tree. The kid is only going to be here four more days but he doesn't care; it's the decorating of the tree that he enjoys. Please lord let this continue forevermore. He also takes the thing down when the time comes, and lovingly packs away all the decorations. I have the best kids.

Scott has spent a second day on the couch in front of the TV, with a burning (?) sinus and, whenever he gets up, a pounding headache.

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Monday

Next week we'll sign the legal documents to purchase Golden Grain Farm. For now we traipse over there every day to make sure the furnace is running. This is snapped from behind the picture window in the living room, and the batteries must have been dying, and it was dusk.

Tuesday

Every year Everett and I make sugar cookies before Christmas. He is meticulous and especially loves the cutting and decorating.

Wednesday

Once in a while you can find a clean countertop in the kitchen.

Thursday

Sometimes we don't get to the new house till after dark. The green light is above the doors of the quonset, which is alongside the driveway.

Friday

Grandma turned 91 on Friday so I drove to town, bought candy, nuts and flowers, and went to see her. When I arrived she was in the common room doing exercises with a good-sized group of the residents. Here they are rolling a ball around on their bodies.

Afterward we went to Grandma's room.

The farmhouse in the painting behind her chair is the one where she and Grandpa raised their children. Karen and I spent many happy days there as children, ourselves. It's gone now but in my dreams and memory it remains a beloved place.

Saturday

My heinous plan was to be in Wadena at 10 a.m. when the farmers' market opened up so I could buy rosettes (mm, treat), were I lucky enough to find any. But last night Scott and I went to a party and were up later than usual, the end result being that I was still snoozing at 10:00. (Never mind; Scott slept most of the day and only got out of bed when I rousted him at 7:30 this evening, to make sure he was all right; and he's only made it as far as the couch even now. Here it is, almost 9:30, and I am in my pyjamas with my teeth brushed and ready to climb under the quilts and read a while. I doubt it will be long.)

This is the first time I've seen rosettes with mini-marshmallows stuck into their centres, but I bought two trays from the first table, before finding them at several others. Taking no chances, me. I curbed the instinct to buy flatbread and lefse, two other Scandinavian favourites that were also on offer. A girl can only eat so much. Besides, those I can make myself if I quit being so lazy any one of these days.

The rosettes I've never made. They are deep-fried and I think (Joanne?) made of flour and egg. And sugar of course.

Instead of the usual 6 or 8 tables at the market there were 40, so I picked up honey and perogies and several items made of llama's wool, for Christmas gifts.

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"Love is in the heart, not in the head."
(courtesy of Marya's webpage, thanks emdot)

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~ sundog at Wadena ~

At the supper table are Emil, Everett and myself.
The conversation is as follows.

Everett: Would you rather be blind or have no arms?

I have no answer for that. Emil doesn't even try.

Everett: Okay, would you rather have your eyes gouged out or your arms torn off?

At the horror of this I can only laugh and give up on my penne.

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