Tues 29 Nov 2005

Two young women had a run-in with a deer — but not the vehicular kind we usually hear about in these parts. My nieces Cara, age 20, and her sister Danielle, 14, were walking on the gravel road near their parents’ farm when they came upon a buck deer. It attempted to leave the area by crossing over an elk enclosure alongside, but after snagging its horns in the high fence, the deer fell backwards into the ditch before trying again.

Following its third failed attempt the deer stumbled and went down, and the two large dogs accompanying the girls attacked it. Cara ran forward to chase them off. The buck then leapt up from the ground and charged directly at her. The five-foot-two Wonder Woman responded by grabbing the animal's three-point antlers and flipping it onto its back.

The deer lay still, feet in the air and head oddly tucked under its shoulder, appearing to have a broken neck. When the girls’ uncle arrived a moment later and took hold of its front leg, the deer jumped up and made a hasty exit from the scene.

For several days Cara was left with a small bruise under her rib cage, where one of the deer’s antlers had made contact. Fortunately this freak encounter did not have the serious consequences it might have. I think Cara should probably buy lottery tickets regularly.

Monday 28 Nov 2005

Yesterday marked six months since I have not seen my mother. Hmph. So last night with many longings for her I watched (the Cole Porter story) De-Lovely when we got back from taking frozen pizzas to Grandma's for supper. While I sang along through the absdelovely music — oh man, great singable songs — I cannot say I felt her with me, though I will always think of watching it together in the spring as we worked side by side on my quilt.

Thus it was a fitting day for me to unpack the quilt and start the needlework, so I stitched as I watched, stitched as I sang, stitched as I cursed my sorry ineptitude with the needle and the bulky fabric that has to be wrestled with so that I don't accidentally sew the thing to itself. Got two squares done, have numerous holes in the skin of my fingertip, and can hardly wait to get at it again.

Dad went to our little Joanie's for supper and picked up a roasted chicken from the IGA along the way. "Beats my cooking," he said when we spoke on the phone.

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Helen Bevington was a university professor in the States. Following are excerpts from a diary she kept. These were written after her husband's death:

“With him I came first in his life, as he came first in mine. Now I'm not first with anyone at all. And can never be. The panic comes from the realization." - two months after her husband’s death, from Along Came the Witch, by Helen Bevington

Nov 1965
"I ask people who have tried it how to live alone. I asked a professor's wife at Duke, a widow these three years. She burst into sobs. 'It can't be done,' she said."

May 1965, the month her husband died:
"We've lived on the edge of a volcano that finally erupted, the same hot volcano for five years. It came to have the air and semblance of home. For five years I've known he must die of cancer. The only question was, how soon? I love him and thank him for surviving so long.

I think he did not know. He had no reason not to hope after the first operation, for as far as he was told the prognosis was good. But the time was always too late. I write it down now because he cannot read it, can never read again.

Princess, it is as if one take away
Green woods from forests, and sunshine from the day."

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A note that Emil, age 17, wrote me at school, and a magazine photo of a woman who loves to knit, with some of her creations — a bike sweater, snakes, a tv and table cover. This is part of the collage covering our hallway wall.

The following is a wasps' nest that was made in the vent from a kitchen stove fan, up on a roof Scott was shingling this fall.

I have been at the computer much of the day, but did get out for a walk under a dark grey sky. Damn, it's cold out there. Not under my ski pants and warm jacket, but where the wind hit my skin -- ow.

Friday 18 Nov 2005
8:47am

On nights when I take Everett into town for his piano lesson, we often go out for supper together afterward. It’s a sort of “date night” for the two of us, and he loves it.

In the photo above, while we wait for our food, he is filling out the envelope for the 50/50 draw the ladies hospital auxiliary puts on every month as a fundraiser. You put your dollar in the envelope — a stack of them is left in small wooden boxes set atop the napkin dispensers on each table in the restaurants around town — and the ladies collect them at the end of the month, draw a name, and split the proceeds with the winner. I always buy at least one if I have any change in my wallet. Last night I gave one to Everett to fill out, and did one for Emil.

Everett’s usual order is a grilled cheese sandwich and fries. He carefully bites off the ends of fries that are too long to fit, and arranges them on or in his sandwich. This seems to please him considerably.

Don’t ask me. Kids. What are you gonna do.

This morning, the parent-teacher interviews are going on in town and I have to confer with several teachers about Everett’s low marks in their classes. Scott’s going to come along, and we hope to come up with some sort of strategy to help the boy complete his assignments. Not doing so has caused a failing mark in one class, and a near-fail in another, English, that it would make more sense for him to be doing well in.

So the boys are home today, another long weekend for them. Everett's sitting beside me here, annoying the hell out of me with the "music" that accompanies his Gameboy. The playstation has been packed away until his next report card a couple months from now, where we hope to find improvements. Getting it back will be a motivation for him, we hope; it's not as if it's the cause of his few academic failures, since he is only permitted to play with it for a couple hours on weekends.

Best go get some breakfast down my neck.

~ My great-aunt, Jean Bartley ~

Tues 15 Nov 2005
9:54am

Oh, Aunt Jean.

I see you greeting
(no, being greeted by)
Mom and your parents
and brothers and your friends
Mazel and Ivy
and can’t imagine anything
other than a joyous reunion

How can I be sad for you?
You wanted to be done with it
— your ailing body,
Half blind, half deaf,
Bowels not “working” right

And your sister Margaret! and Angus Drummond!
and Grandpa Benson too!

How can I not be happy for you?

+ If it’s true +

Aunt Jean had a long and good life. She was 91. She was ready to go; she told me herself, several times lately, that she hoped she wouldn’t live much longer in the state she was in. On Friday she went into the hospital with low blood pressure and high potassium. They did tests, gave her fluids, and sent her home the next day, weak but apparently on the mend. I phoned her that night; she was feeling fine, she said, and thanked me for calling, as she always did.

She never married, and as I lay in the tub yesterday morning before receiving the phone call from my cousin Judy, with the news that Aunt Jean had suffered a fatal heart attack, I was planning to ask her about it. Was there never anyone special? Not that I’ve ever heard of. Maybe that was fortunate for the rest of us, because Aunt Jean gave us her attention instead — not only her own nieces (my mom among them) and nephews, but all 30 of her great nieces and nephews. She remembered our birthdays, she knew what all of our kids were doing, she kept in touch, she sent cards and birthday cheques sometimes, she even gave us each $1000 a few years ago, saying she might as well enjoy seeing us spend it while she was still here. I bought my acoustic bass guitar with the unexpected windfall.

On her 80th birthday, and again on her 90th, she put on big parties complete with banquets, dances, and hotel rooms for those who needed financial assistance in order to attend. These were family reunions and she spent months in their planning, with help from Judy and certain other family members who live in Saskatoon. These events must have cost her plenty, and they came complete with extra touches like welcome notes and chocolate candy kisses to greet us when we arrived in our hotel rooms.

Aunt Jean was a generous woman; she worked many years, first at the phone office in our home town, and then for Revenue Canada when she moved to the city. She took care of her own father, my great-grandfather, until he died, and then she kept a friendly eye on the rest of us. I remember her from the time I was a tiny girl, back when she had a little white house with red trim.

When I visited her lately, with Grandma, I received a call on my cellphone. It was one of Everett’s schoolteachers. Everett wasn’t cooperating, and would I speak to him? When I got off the phone after giving my boy a talking to, Aunt Jean wanted to know what the problem was. I explained, and Aunt Jean was quite concerned. Maybe he’d need to go to a special school, maybe he is a gifted child, maybe that is why he has such trouble fitting into regular school society. “He’s very smart, you know,” she added. She was interested in every one of us, Mom always said, and that seemed rare in a single career woman who could have spent all her time doing for and thinking only of herself.

This year will be the first time I purchase my own subscription to the local newspaper. Aunt Jean has been buying it for me on my birthday for many years, and it was mailed to me whenever I lived out of province. I will be thinking of her every January from now on, when I go into the news office to pay for the coming year’s weekly. I won’t even get started on all the kindnesses she’s done for me over the years, not the least of which was lending me several thousand dollars, interest-free, to buy her late brother’s car when I was in my twenties. I paid her $100 a month for about three years, and when it came time to make the last payment, she said “Never mind, keep it!”

Last night I called Judy to say that I’d drive into the city if she needs me to do anything. Judy’s been handling Aunt Jean’s business affairs because of Jean’s poor eyesight, and helping her with everything else — shopping, doctor appointments, not to mention all the effort that went into those fancy birthday parties, and lately moving from one seniors' residence to another. It sounds like she’s got it all in hand now, too. How fortunate Aunt Jean was to have Judy to lean on, and how fortunate we all were to have Aunt Jean.

A glass of water was set on the kitchen window for her last night, and will be refilled with fresh water every day until Dec. 23rd.

Monday 14 Nov 2005
8:52am

We live just a couple miles away from a little country hall. In the spring the hall committee puts on a fling; in the fall, a windup; in the summer, a barbecue and horseshoe tournament. Attendance has been dwindling over the years, so that they barely manage to pay the costs of the entertainment they hire for these occasions. But they soldier on.

I had never been to one of these dances, so on Saturday night we went with another couple even though we’d have been just as happy, probably moreso, just to put our feet up on the coffee table and share some conversation and a few drinks. The hall is in very good condition, considering that it sits unused most of the time; it wasn’t dusty, but shiny clean. Even the bathrooms — the old-fashioned outhouse moved indoors — were spotless. In the one stall in the women’s restroom was a little corner shelf with a basin of water, a bar of soap, and next to it a paper-towel dispenser.

The music, though good (a one-man band), was so loud that I woke up the next morning with a sore throat from doing so much shouting across the table where we sat with our beer and highballs. We all complained about the volume but someone pointed out that even when the music stopped it was hard to hear each other above the din of other voices, and it was true.

It was two in the morning by the time we got home. Faye and Rick came in for one last drink, and after they left Scott and I did some more dancing in the privacy of our living room before going off to bed. We were both pretty tired the next day, not used to such late nights any more.

 
~ Emil first day out of hospital, 5 weeks old ~

Sat 12 Nov 2005
9:01 a.m.

Had a scare when I went to post yesterday’s entry and the computer froze up so completely that even with about six reboots, it appeared to be dead to the world. Just this week I had saved my most important work files to disks, so they at least would not be lost. But my overflowing address book, and my most recent photos, which I intend to have printed, would have been lost. Pictures of Mom are in that folder. I spent yesterday steeling myself for the possibility that the computer would not cooperate — ever again. It’s bound to happen sooner or later, even with a Mac, right? And I should have been prepared.

It was another beautiful day out there. Scott tore the deck off on Wednesday evening and had the new floor on by suppertime yesterday. I helped him a little, but mostly stood around with nothing to do when I was out there, so the kitchen cupboards got tackled instead. Except for the doors and the outside of the drawers, which can be done out in the shop, I got them sanded and washed so that this morning I can prime and this afternoon I can paint.

As busy as we were yesterday, I took the time to go for a walk. Often I stand out in the field and turn in every direction, seeing not one building, awed by the vastness of the land and sky, breathing in the fresh clear air, overwhelmed by the beauty and so grateful to be in the midst of it.

***

I dreamed that I was caring for Mom, who was having difficulty with pain and discomfort. Several times throughout the dream I remembered that Mom is gone and so she is not suffering, and that was a relief. In this dream, Mom had an infant, and I was lovingly caring for it.

When I got up an hour ago, the computer was running just fine. Don’t ask me what the problem was. Finicky damn machines. Now, to get my address book to save to a disk. And to buy a CD-burner or an external hard drive, or something, next time I get to the city. There is always so much shopping and running around to do when we go to Saskatoon that computer stuff gets shuffled to the bottom of the list and doesn’t get done. No more. Let me never be caught with my pants down again.

~ At five weeks, he weighed 4 and 1/2 lbs ~

Sign at the local bar:
Cold beer
Cheaper than
LBS

I have been wondering for weeks what sense that makes: "Cold beer, cheaper than pounds" — Huh? Mentioned it to Scott last night when we went to town for supper. He looked at me sideways (well, wouldn't you?) and said "liquor board store."

Seriously, I'm not even a quarter as intelligent as I look.

Fri 11 Nov 2005
9:16 a.m.

One day earlier this week, the snow came down purposefully all morning and by mid-afternoon the trees, ground, and everything on it were thickly laden with vanilla icing. I went for a walk in the falling snow, and then again later after it had settled. We live in a winter postcard.

Scott, who had to work with cattle this week, thought it was horrible weather. So I did not say too loudly, or more than once, how lovely it was. I found it glorious and daydreamed about having cross-country skis, sliding over snow-covered fields. Of the two of us, I am the one with the easy life.

The boys have been gone with their dad since Wednesday night. They’re renting a cabin at our local lake until Sunday. So I have the top kitchen cupboards emptied, ready to sand and prime today, and perhaps paint. With luck I’ll get to the bottom ones too.

Scott’s made a start on the deck, and though it looks like winter out there, it is pleasant to work in — mild. I even made myself available to help for a while, though ended up back indoors to act on my other agenda: work that pays, and these cupboards.

The minute Everett got off the schoolbus he picked up the shovel and started clearing the sidewalk for Emil to get by with his walker. I thought that was conscientious for a boy just turned 13 to think of doing without being asked. It is more likely that he enjoyed playing with the snow and the shovel. But he does look out for Emil quite a bit, and more so as he gets older. It’s good to see. I think a lot about who Emil will have to rely on when his parents are gone, and it’s easy to believe that Everett will always be there for him.

On this Remembrance Day, I’ll leave you with a few pictures taken on my walking tour around the farm here in Canada, where we have the good fortune to live in peace and prosperity, unlike so many others in this world. Most of us have never been to war, or had to survive the brutality and terror of it; the experiences of so many of these people seem impossible to fully heal from. .

Around the yard:

~ didn't get bikes put away ~

~ his rodliness made me a star ~

By the garden:

Garden path:

Sun 6 Nov 2005
12:37pm

I am SO overdue for a haircut that I wear my glasses on top of my head to keep my bangs out of my eyes. My appointment yesterday, which Karen had to remind me of anyway, was cancelled when my stylist’s son broke a limb and she had to take him to the city to be doctored.

Everett and I then went to town instead and spent about three hours shopping. He needed new winter boots; I bought him a lined, hooded jacket (plaid of course; he loves plaid, just like my mom did). Then we picked up wieners, buns, frozen french fries and the ice cream cake he’d requested for his birthday (alas, the camera batteries needed recharging when we went to take a picture of him with the cake’s “Oh no! You’re a teenager!” emblazoned in icing across the top, and 13 lit candles), and came home to have the kids next door, and their parents, over for a little party.

I had to open up the trunk in the porch to find the journal containing 1992’s entries, before I could post that birth excerpt yesterday. Seeing that trunk full of old diaries, I wondered once more what is the point of hanging onto them all, especially when we are so space-challenged in this house and who is ever going to take an interest in them anyway and not only that, but there are things in there that I’m sure my sons would really rather not read about! These are personal journals, highly graphic at times; I don’t mince words when I talk to myself. And there are bitchinesses and fleetingly negative judgments of people I love, who, if they were to read such things after I was dead and gone, might be hurt. They might feel those were my final and most deeply felt thoughts about them, when that is definitely not the case. I tend to write out my frustrations, not my admirations. That has changed considerably over the years, but still, I don’t usually write when I’m enraptured about my life and the people in it. That’s when I just sit and bask!

But I asked Everett if he’d like to read his birth story and he did, and much more, and was delighted. He enjoyed it enough to read many excerpts aloud. One of them was this, written while I was in the hospital hostel after his birth in order to remain near him, and after Mom had offered to come from BC and stay with Emil at home:

“Gord’s comment to his friends: ‘I can’t wait till Kathy’s mom gets here. She cooks so good, and she doesn’t nag or bitch at me!’ ”

Sat 5 Nov 2005
9:05am

Everett’s birthday. My baby is 13!

Thirteen years ago I was in a hospital bed, where I’d been for several days, hooked up to an IV for nourishment and medication, unable to walk across the room to empty my bladder every hour. I knew what it felt like to be totally helpless; a button had to be pressed to have two nurses come and carry me to the bathroom, and stand beside me as I sat on the toilet, in case I fell over.

At the end of three days of it, I said “Tell the doctor to take me off this drug [a muscle relaxant to stop the contractions, as my labour was eight weeks early] and let this baby be born, come what may.”

It was the second time I’d been disappointed by my plans, for a homebirth with a midwife, going awry. Emil had been born 10 weeks early, by emergency caesarian. Everett too was in a hurry to see the world, and my midwife advised going to the hospital in case he needed medical help when he made his entry. So I climbed out of the bathtub at home, where I’d gotten my first taste of trying to breathe through labour pain — oh my god, this is BAD! can it possibly get worse? — and off to Edmonton we went.

From my journal in November 1992:

... I thought I’d died and gone to hell. The contractions hurt like hell and yet there seemed to be no progress. The Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) team had come into the room and left again. [My midwife] Barb was at my left leg, guiding my breathing, encouraging me with “You’re doing good Kathy” and “Relax between contractions” and “It won’t be long now” and then “Do you feel a pressure in your rectum?” I felt a pressure all right, but kept waiting for an “urge to push” that never came. I couldn’t believe this whole scene was happening to me, and kept thinking When this is over I’m going on a speaking tour to warn women how horrible childbirth is.

When a contraction would come, I’d be beside myself with wanting out of my body. There was something everyone kept urging me to do but I couldn’t really grasp it, and kept waiting for this urge to push, all the while feeling like there was this massive bowling ball up my ass. At some point the attending nurse said “It’s like you haven’t had a shit in 10 days and you’re really constipated and you have to work really hard to get it out.” That’s when I clicked in — Ah, I’m supposed to push this bowling ball out. I don’t feel like it, it hurts like hell, but that’s the only way to get this pain over with. So during contractions I began to push. “Atta girl, now you’ve got it!” I kept hearing. “No one can do this but you, Kathy!”

“It’s for your baby, Kathy,” Barb said, “for your baby ... soon he’ll be in your arms, you’ll be holding him ....” I looked into her eyes, taking strength from her. Finally I said, “It seems like something’s holding him back,” and Barb, the doctor, and the nurse all looked at each other. “If she’s saying that, it’s okay to break the water.” With my permission, the doctor did, and called back the NICU team. He put on his greens. Barb told me through contractions to keep my chin down and my voice low, to direct the energy downward to the pushing and the baby. It was hell — all I could think of was getting him OUT. Gord was getting cramped legs in his position behind me on the bed, and if he’d move during a contraction it added to my pain.

In my mind’s eye I saw a dark tunnel with a light at its centre as I pushed. Everyone cheered me on — “That’s it! You’re doing it! It won’t be long now!” Finally they said “There’s his head!” and got a small mirror to show Gord, and I thought Finally this torture is about to end and Barb put my hand in my vagina to touch the baby’s head, which was a great comfort to me, stoned as I felt in the unreal too-real horror-movie atmosphere I felt myself to be in.

Then the pain became constant. The head was there, and I did not want to let it slip back in; now that I knew how I’d got it there, I blew and panted and pushed to keep it there. More of his head showed; the nurse put her fingers in my vagina and told me to direct my pushing there; all of a sudden the pain was gone and I heard “There’s your baby!” and “Look at that — sunny side up!” and I looked and there was this little purple creature laying crying between my thighs.

The doctor laid the baby on my tummy, I put my hands on him, and vaguely recall Gord saying “Me? Sure,” about cutting the cord, and then I had the little sticky guy up at my face, mashed right on as I told him not to worry, everything is fine, and he calmed right down. Then the NICU team took him to a table near the foot of the bed to make sure he could breathe okay and he got upset and they said he was having a little trouble and I said “Give him to me, he’s just scared” so they did and I put him to my face and talked to him, told him everything was fine and they would be taking him to another room but they would take good care of him and I would come and see him in a short while. He calmed down; he believed me; he knew who I was. Later on Barb said “That was really beautiful, the way you did that, that connection between you.” The NICU person had been holding the oxygen mask at the ready but the baby no longer needed it. Then I let them take him, and I breathed a big sigh of relief: IT WAS OVER.