~ Cuddles, the aptly named ~

One afternoon this week I hurried out to my van 10 minutes before I was due in town (it takes 10 minutes to drive there without speeding on the gravel road) for a haircut. My purse was slung over a shoulder and my arms were full ... two jugs for drinking water, a bag with two fall jackets to return to the store because the sleeves would shrink to become too short for the ape-armed Scott and Everett, and several books to take back to the library. I stepped up to the driver's door and saw ... a brown and white mouse sunning itself against the door window. The inside of the door window.

It would have made a cute picture, but I did not have the presence of mind to hurry quietly back into the house for the camera. Instead I registered my horror with a shocked EEEEEEEEE and yanked the door open in hopes the rodent would fall out, but it disappeared somewhere into my vehicle.

I came back indoors, got the keys to Scott's truck (he was home with an earache and numb scalp) and took that to town instead, leaving Everett with orders to clean everything out of my van and put Cuddles inside it for a while. He did that; I don't know if the mouse was caught or not, so I still get the heebie-jeebies when I get into my van. I shudder, and then tell myself for heaven's sake, it's not going to hurt me. Now that the van is clean, it will probably starve to death, poor thing.

Xanderboy, our nephew, was excited to hear about the mouse and ran to set up a catch-and-release trap like his dad uses to catch rodents that get into the farm vehicles; but no creature was apprehended.

The common grey fieldmouse is usually what's found around here; this looks like it could be someone's pet, although I can't imagine anyone putting it in there for a joke. Ha ha.

Everett and I go walking with three dogs nowadays; there is Casper (a.k.a. Fat Girl, but now slimmed down somewhat and keeping up with us easier), then Sara the blue heeler, and Buddy, the import from the new place which was, by the way, owned in the 1930s and used as a summer home by the children's bedtime-story writer and amateur naturalist, Thornton W. Burgess. He gave the farm its name, Golden Grain Farm, and stayed there in a very large old house that burned down and was replaced by the one that is there now.

The two fast dogs (Casper stays close to us) like to run into the pasture and bait the five horses that roam there. The two above are the geldings that get territorial and chase the dogs back through the fence. This time they were still feeling rambunctious afterward so had a little horse wrestle.

The other day I opened the van door to check the catch-and-release trap (alas, still empty; or does it mean Cuddles consumed the little creature?) and Casper hopped up and over the driver's seat and onto the passenger's seat, expecting to go for a drive I guess. First time I've seen her do that:

I called her out and we walked over to the new place, as usual. There are seven cats over there and we go straight to the barn to fill their food bowls and so that Everett can cuddle the tiny kitten that, no longer throwing a literal hissy fit at humans, is making a pet of itself. Looking out the barn window as we approach is one of the wild cats —

and here is Everett with the very active and wiggly kitten he calls Dini:

~ look at those dimples ~

We have what seems like two tons of green tomatoes beginning to ripen, so last weekend I put together a batch of tomato-pepper salsa.

So much for an organized entry. Below are sights from our walks to and from Golden Grain Farm.

I don't take much interest in the cattle, but this black-nosed one stands out from the crowd

A flock of sandhill cranes circled over us one morning; they don't fly like Canada geese, which organize themselves into a loose V and mosey on like they mean to get where they're going. Cranes fly in horizontal circles high, high above our heads. You wonder how they can ever get anywhere, until you try to keep up with them, which Everett and I did. They left us in the dust, though we could still plainly hear them all the way home.

Everett, it turns out, can quite impressively imitate birds and animals as well as people's laughs. I laugh my ass off (till I cry, usually, which really cracks Everett up) when he mimics my brother; if I close my eyes, it's like Cameron is in the same room with us.

Now Playing: Joni Mitchell, Shine
I love the first song, One Week Last Summer, an instrumental, but have not warmed to the rest of them on the new CD ... yet. Joni's music sometimes takes several listens before it gets under my skin. I'm listening to it on Emil's walkman so can hear all the instruments so much better than on the computer, and that has already made a huge difference to my attitude.

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~ the chicken coop ~

~ the red shed, with brooder house ~

No we are not getting chickens.

Everett and I walked to the new place this morning, as we do most weekdays now. Their dog now stays at our place, but there are cats to feed in the barn; several wildish ones that won't let themselves be touched, and one very young kitten that Everett has already turned into a people-lover.

We were on the main grid road close to home again when one of the dogs flushed a nice buck deer out of the bush on the far side of the ditch. It leapt toward us before bounding in the other direction, three dogs in a state of high excitement in hot pursuit. They were left in the dust in moments and Everett and I were left wondering why the camera is never ready to go when you need it. But "Wow!" he said.

We made our weekly trip into town for his piano lesson. I waited for him at the public library, where I settled into a table in a back corner to look through one of the PostSecrets books.

It's fowl-hunting season in the area again. Huge flocks of snow geese and Canada geese fly over our heads, and rifles take hundreds of them out when they land in pre-dawn or dusk fields. These birds we had time to get a picture of; they appeared to be made of paper and filled a back yard along the highway going into town.

Now Playing: Deep Forest (1992)

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This was taken during my walk last night after supper. This morning we awoke to frost on the step—

— and a skin of ice on the water barrell—

Even the flowers must be finished, after that. Later today I'll go out and collect flower heads and seed pods from the poppies, the feverfew, the calendula, the hollyhocks, and the cosmos to take along for sowing at the new house next spring.

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Tried to get a photo of the big Belgian rolling around, but we were too far away for it to turn out well.

"Yet there was little flamboyancy in either attitude; indeed, the house of their hostility was modestly furnished with affection ..." - Summer Crossing, Truman Capote's first novel

" ... the sun, shooting summer-tipped arrows, jingled the new-penny colour of Grady's chopped hair ..." - same as above

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The poppies are the bloomingest things in my flowerbeds these days.

In the morning, my doggy friends wait excitedly for me to go for a walk with them. The people who lived at the new house left us their dog, and although we went over to feed and visit with him every day, he must have been lonely because he followed us home. He's gone from being the slinking-away, fearful creature he was every time I went over there to buy eggs over the past five years, to a beastie boy that whines and barks for my attention.

Like Fat Girl, the white dog who recently came to us, Buddy is another oldster. That's him on the right, at the back.

I am now a (thank you Peter for the term, which I get a kick out of) geriatric canine caregiver. Though the little sweetheart at the front left is only two years old. We'll be leaving her here when we move though; she belongs here, and I'm told she is helpful with the cattle so she has an important job. She'll sit at the gate when Scott's dad drives the tractor through to feed them, so that the cattle don't come out, and Ivan doesn't have to get off the tractor to close the gate until he's driven out again.

And finally, here sits Ralph the cat with Everett, who seems to love homeschooling.

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Sunday 16 Sept 2007

Our nephew Xander (age 10), who lives next door in the farmyard, came over this morning to show off three baby garter snakes he caught out in the garden. I did not have the courage to hold them, though was proud of myself the other day when I actually caught a moth in my bare hand without having to come upstairs for the insect trap (a glass and a piece of thin cardboard) kept on top of the fridge for catch-and-release missions. Fluttering moths have always given me the heebie-jeebies, before. This time my compassion actually extended to feeling friendly towards the fool thing that found itself drawn to the light in my bedroom, and I did not get the willies whatsoever! Will wonders never cease? Maybe one day ... a snake. Can't see it; but you never know.

Scott turns 48 today; now he's my age, the youngster. I've just taken a chocolate chip cake out of the oven and put in a chicken to roast for supper.

Will Scott make it home for supper? That is the question. He took Everett with him this morning to help lay out some steel girders (if I correctly understood what he was telling me) and then hoped to go pick up a truckload of wood we bought last fall. If there was time, he planned to go to a house under construction and haul sheets of gyprock indoors in preparation for starting the drywalling job this week.

It's his birthday; shouldn't he be taking the day off?
Silly fellow. I have never known anyone who lives to work, the way he does. Wait a minute, yes I have — my sister is married to a guy like that. Okay, I know two.

Scott seems to be over the West Nile thing. He's been back at work (practically double-time) for the past three weeks and is feeling fine. Full of piss and vinegar as usual.

After a week or two of cold weather, today it's hot. Shorts weather.

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You guys asked for photos of the new place, so here you go.

This—

— is one reason why we don't want to move in yet. I'd like to get these cupboards painted first. Not that I'm a fan of painting over wood— I prefer wood to paint— but I have to face it: I guess I don't much like mahogany. And this particular mahogany is long overdue for some kind of health treatment, as you can see. They're a lot darker than the photo shows, too.

The big hurdle, though, is the flooring. Scott wants to remove all the old carpeting and change the old lino, and we'd rather do this before we have furniture sitting on it that has to be moved out of the way.

I will keep you photographically apprised of our progress.

***

"Both brothers went to France in 1914 with their own horses, but they didn't meet for 14 months until, on a lane near Ypres, their horses neighed to each other before they came into sight." - Elizabeth Jane Howard's memoir, Slipstream, writing about her father as a young man

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~ my first walk at the new place ~

Hm, I guess there is someone who notices when I don't get around to posting here. I received a phone call yesterday from Joanne, just making sure I was still kicking. I am; there are just not enough hours in the day, I tell you.

I usually get up at 8 o'clock, or just before, in time to give Emil a goodbye kiss before he walks out the door to catch the schoolbus. I spend the first hour of my day washing and dressing, drinking my black coffee, and eating breakfast -- the latter two often done while either working or playing at the computer.

Then it's time to go with Everett for a half-hour walk or bike ride. Part of his Grade 10 Wellness class requirement is one hour of physical activity each school day; we go again at 3 p.m. This has been great. All the years I've tried to get him to go with me for walks and bike rides and have had to twist his arm; now he's gung ho to go. Seems like his favourite part is coming home to log his time in a file to be sent to the phys ed teacher at the end of each month. That's my boy: give him something to record, and he's in heaven. He logs it all so carefully, down to the exact minute -- far more detail I'm sure than the teacher needs or wants. However -- whatever floats the kid's boat.

At 10 o'clock Everett sits down to begin his paperwork, which arrived in the mail on Wednesday. Until then I'd been making him adhere to a schedule, even without lessons, just to help him get into the habit of it. I got him to do dishes or bake cookies or vacuum out my van. He couldn't wait for the books to arrive! When they did, he attacked the sealed cardboard box voraciously and has been hard at it ever since. Yesterday he spent all this "school" time on the first Math assignment; today he's working on English.

While he's doing schoolwork, I do my computer work; except from 11 to 12, when he needs the computer. That's when I do my yoga.

Our working day is done between 3:30 and 4 o'clock, after the second half-hour walk or ride. That's when Emil gets home from school and I get into the kitchen to start supper, cleaning and wiping as I go. After supper I generally do a little more computer work to make sure I've put in my four-hour day. Many times I have to put in an hour or two because I've had to do other things in the afternoon; maybe go for groceries or massage or a medical appointment. Whatever; there's always something. Last night after supper Everett and I went over to the new place to pick tomatoes and cucumbers the owners left in the garden, and the last few cobs of corn. It rained all day yesterday but I figured it could still freeze any one of these nights and it would be a shame to see all those vegetables worthless.

On Monday, my sister Karen and I drove to Humboldt to meet Dad and his girlfriend for lunch. Yes, Dad has finally met a woman who's made him sit up and take notice! She — her name is Grace (same as Mom's), how's that for a coincidence — seems like a real sweetheart and it's good to see Dad enjoying himself again; Karen and I gave the thumbs up. Not that it was asked for; it wasn't. We joked as we drove up to the restaurant that it wasn't Grace who should be nervous about the meeting, but Karen and I, because if we didn't like her, it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference to what Dad would do! Which is the way it should be.

So anyway, here I am, trying to explain how my life is so full I don't have time to write. How women do it and work 40 hours a week, I don't know and can't remember. I used to do it, and my kids were younger than they are now. Oh well; I suppose I didn't get the walks in that I do these days, or the yoga; and we had a dishwasher. The grocery shopping would have been done in the evenings, and Grandma wasn't around to be visited or taken to appointments. As I recall, I felt like I inhaled on Sunday night and didn't exhale till Friday after work; I was sick at heart, afraid I might have to spend the rest of my life like that.

So now, I'm busy, but ... it's self-imposed busyness, at least.

After supper I try to just be around without having a bunch of things I have to do ... there are phone calls to friends and family that I may make, or they may call me; there are baths to be had; a sunset walk is also common. I might whip up some fudge or a puffed wheat cake for a treat; but I try to climb into bed around 9 to read before sleep, and/or listen to the radio. Last night I turned the light out around 10 and slept right through to 7:30 this morning.

All this week Everett and I have been going over to the new place to feed the old dog they have left there for us. The owners have moved out and left us a key to the house, and their permission to move in whenever we like, even though the paperwork has not been done and we are not yet the legal owners. Our 35 acres is being subdivided from a quarter-section; that is the delay. I used to think we'd move in immediately after they left; now I am not gung ho to do so, at all. Should anything in the sale go awry, it would be a lot of packing, hauling, and unpacking time spent for nothing, only to be repeated. Not that anything's likely to go wrong, but anything's possible. Also, there are a few renovations we'd like to do while the house remains empty, but we can't do them until we take legal possession. For now it is enough to stroll through the vacant rooms every day and get a feel for the place, and spend some time with the old dog, Buddy, who must be feeling a little abandoned since his people left, on Sunday, for the last time.

***

Have any of you ever had this happen? Numerous times in my life I have had the experience of hearing Dad's voice state my name — sometimes in a somewhat urgent manner, others in a matter-of-fact way — when I am at the other end of the country from where he is. This has happened maybe once every few years. I never gave it much thought other than it being interesting; there was never anything obvious going on at the time, such as Dad calling out to me in a time of trouble or anything like that. All I could figure was that maybe he was thinking about me and I knew, telepathically. I could only guess.

Recently I visited my sister Joan in Kelowna one month after she had a baby. He was very colicky at night and I was helping look after him for a week while my brother-in-law went away on a company fishing trip up in the Queen Charlotte Islands. One night I was awakened by his voice calling my name. I lifted my head up in bed to see what he wanted, remembered that he wasn't there, but got up anyway to check on the baby and everyone else. All was well.

It occurred to me after this that yes, I can honestly say I have heard voices in my head! My brother-in-law's came as I slept, so I could say I dreamed it. But Dad's always came when I was wide awake, so I can't use that excuse.

So there you go, Joanne and all ... I am doing fine; thanks for asking. Unless ...

Dad: "You know what they say about people who hear voices in their heads! They're crazy!"

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~ another Saskatchewan sunset ~

Yes, Scott has West Nile.
He is home again today, resting. Not that he'd stay home and rest when I told him to, for the past few weeks. Hell no, there was work to be done, man! But the public health nurse called last night after he'd had a relapse yesterday, and that was her advice. Take it easy, she said, in order to get over it. He then got busy and passed on some of his jobs and stayed home, sleepy and achy, today. And, like most men when they're not feeling well, he is looking for some extra attention. Hugs and kisses at the very least. I am keeping his water glass full and taking his afternoon tea to where he is stretched out on the couch in front of the TV in the basement. But since he ignored me before and didn't rest when I told him to, but instead went to work and got himself run down and now is paying for it ... how much sympathy do you think I feel for him? Nada, that's how much. Oh, I am a hard one.