Kids. Why do they (mine, anyway) crack up when I say in mock horror "What are you taking pictures of my big fat butt for?"

Everett thinks he's being a real clown when he gets out the digital camera and snaps photos of my behind when I'm working in the kitchen. And if I act a little shocked, he is really thrilled then.

Well, it's 8:52 a.m. and I have a funeral to attend at 10:00 for the father of a family of girls who grew up on a farm outside my home town. I haven't seen any of the daughters for many years but want to be there anyway. So it is time to go gussy up.

xoxo
etc

When I moved to Alberta some 14 years ago, one happy consequence was the close proximity to several old friends I hadn’t seen in many years. One of these was a woman I’d met at Luther College when I was in Grade 10. She was now a law professor living in the city, and we renewed our acquaintance in person, replacing postcards and letters with visits and telephone calls.

One summer, a weekend gathering of gal pals from my old friend’s social circle was convened. I was part of the Luther College contingent; there was representation from the law division; and several members of her choir were included. We met at a lakefront cabin well outside the city limits and spent two or three nights there. No kids, no men, just six to twelve of us (depending on how many brought sleeping bags) for a fabulous sharing of food and laughter. There was time to sit around and read novels. We shared bottles of wine. There were walks along the beach, and there were campfires and singalongs. One of the choir gals, Diana, sculpted a voluptuous woman in the heat and sand.

She could be found, first person up, each morning around six. I am sure she spent the first couple hours alone, cigarette in hand, out by the fire pit. I remember tanned legs in faded denim cutoffs, a pale bluejean shirt, a deep voice, and six feet of height.

Last year, Diana was offered a job in Banff. Dream come true, off she went. That’s when the Mild Women became the lucky recipients of newsletters from Diana’s Paradise. Recently she started posting the newsletters online, so go visit Diana’s Newsletter Thingy and see what regular life is like in Banff, one of the world’s winter vacation capitals.

feb25-04

Water is dripping from the tip of an icicle hanging from every spout coming off the roof. We need a fire only at suppertime, to warm up the basement. Upstairs, where the kitchen and office keep Everett and I during the day, it is warm without the natural gas heater kicking in.

The two of us have been to town this afternoon, where we exchanged our green garbage bag full of refundable containers for $4.60. Into my jeans pocket that went, to be added to our little ‘refunds’ account. I think we have about $90 in there now. The plan is to spend it on something frivolous or expensive that the four of us rarely do, like going to a theatre.

Maybe I should suggest we use part of it to buy concert tickets in future. (Yeah, yeah!) The boys enjoyed themselves quite a bit at the Fjellgaard/Valdy concert the other night, sitting in the front row. Emil, from the gymnasium floor, spoke to the red-running-shoed Valdy as the man was setting up onstage.

“What’s your name?”
“Valdy.”
“Valdy?”
“Valdy. I’m playing here tonight.”

I was busy helping set up chairs, so didn’t hear what else was said. But I imagine Emil put Valdy through the usual questionaire.

After the recycling depot, Everett and I stopped at the bakery on main street to inhale a long john and a hot drink. We should do that more often. Then it was time for the grocery haul, which we polished off in less than half an hour.

The four or five bags of grub await my transportative services yet, from the high ground of the kitchen table. Then, it's on to heating one of those apple pies (I ordered 10, frozen, from the care home) and throwing some supper together.

Yesterday I decided to finish off the remainder of a bottle of red wine sitting on the cupboard. It was barely half a goblet, and when it was gone, I wished for more. I wished I could phone Scott in town and ask him to pick up another bottle on the way home. I couldn't though, so I wished he'd receive and act upon the telepathic message I sent instead. Then I forgot about it, until he walked in the door and put a bottle of red wine into my lap.

What a good boy is he.

The trees are covered with a heavy hoarfrost, and around noon I remember the sun is bound to melt it any moment and a walk would be just the ticket. I grab the fanny pack with the camera, snap its buckle shut around my waist, and step out into the blue sky. At the end of the driveway, I turn and glance toward our little house.

Soon I am beyond the shelter of the trees, and realize the heavy sweater I’d thought it was safe to wear will never do. I come back indoors to put on a jacket. That’s when Scott stops in for lunch, and Everett asks for a ski-doo ride. Scott suggests I take him.

So away we go, around the north side of the yard, then south across the road onto Monte’s field, where the wind is cold enough to freeze my ears and the exposed skin of my neck.

Everett seems content to quit after that. Me, I'm glad to shut off the noisy motor and go for a walk, which is where I’d been headed when he sidetracked me for a ski-doo ride.

He goes straight to the ice hill at the end of our driveway.

I banged myself up pretty good on that thing the other day. The slide is extremely steep, and I fell off the carpet every time I attempted it. Whacked my elbow, my lower back a couple times, and was feeling somewhat beat up after only about five slides.

I leave Everett to his seasonal passion and carry on out to the road.

Jester is thrilled to come along and I can’t resist letting him off the leash once we are down the road a-ways. What a glittering day it is, blue-skied and only slightly crisp.

We have fattened Jester up over the past half-year or so. He looks healthy and robust, and he means business. You’d think he was on the job or something, the way he takes off at a steady clip. He doesn’t stay beside me, but scouts ahead and then runs past me and checks out the scents and sights behind. I keep walking west, toward town.

Some people are enamoured of clotheslines.
I am snagged on fencelines.

Here is my corner; I turn and walk straight north.

The dog is concentrating on whatever his shnozz has turned up, and I am well down the road before he decides to catch up.

When he does, he buzzes right on past me to see what’s ahead.

I am taken with the snowdrifts in the ditch, where the wind has whipped them into still white waves.
 

The next farm is about a mile down the road, but I can’t go that far with the dog, especially if he is not on the leash. He might fight with the neighbours’ dog or chase their cattle. I stop short of their yard, far enough back that the dog, hurrying on ahead, hasn’t reached their driveway yet.

The field to my left, under its light cover of snow, seems to listen silently.
 

I turn around and begin my trek home. The biting pre-spring breeze is remembered only when I must, now, face into it. I’m getting tired, too. It’s been a long time since I walked this far, and I’ve gotten out of shape.

I do not manage to collar the dog until we are at ‘the hill’ ahead.

Fortunately he lets me corner him next to several rows of hay bales. I quickly slip the chokechain over his head.  Whew. That’s a relief. I am always afraid I will have to circle the yard at a distance until he deigns to check in with me. Not that a sit-down in a sheltered spot of sunshine would be so bad, especially if I’d brought a little flask of liqueur along. The thought reminds me of hiking with some brew, my trusty hounds, and a pad of writing paper, through the bush north of Sandy Bay, Saskatchewan, to a quiet spot on the high bank of a river on a mild winter day. There I sat for several hours writing a long, long letter to a friend. Lovely afternoon, as I recall.

But here we are, home again.

Contrary to my expectations, the hoarfrost still clings to the bare branches and twigs. As do the Christmas lights strung down one side of our driveway.

Here are a few photos scanned from Westworld magazine for Saskatchewan CAA members.

This province has a reputation for being 'flat and empty,' as a described by a visitor, and not that there is anything wrong with that, but Saskatchewan landscape has a lot of variation from north to south.

 

So I am just trying to straighten the record a bit by posting some photos to contradict the 'flat and empty' idea.

A ski-doo trail crosses our road on the way to town. This little short stop sign seemed worth a second glance. Everett stood beside it so you’d get a better idea of its height.

It was cold enough out to bite my hands when I handled the camera, but other than that perhaps the worst of winter is over. There won’t be many more ski-dooing days left. Yes, it’s another month till the first official day of spring, but hey — a month is only four weeks. We don’t have much snow, and a few melty days can get rid of it pretty fast.

I am making brown sugar fudge. Three batches of it: two for the Valdy/Fjellgard concert tomorrow night in town, and one batch for home. Otherwise Everett gives me hell. “You’re always making stuff to give away and we don’t get to eat any of it!” How’s that for a direct hint.

As soon as this last batch is done, I’m going to go out and test his sliding hill. One of the men has pushed snow into a mound off the driveway and Everett has groomed it carefully to have a flat spot on top, where he can get onto his slide-y thing. It’s pathetically low but he’s been at it a good hour now and is already soaking wet.

We intended to go to Grandma’s today but when I called her she had laid down for a short nap and was just about to fall asleep. She’d thought we might show up, but I wanted to get this fudge made. Waiting till tomorrow to do it is not a smart option, in case I turn up with a migraine.

I asked if she’d like me to pick her up and bring her here for the afternoon and supper, but she said no. She’d been to church this morning, of course, and was glad to be home.

“You won’t be lonely?” I said.

“Oh no, no, I won’t be lonely today. I’m a little tired, I don’t know why.”

“Have you had anyone check your blood sugar lately?” I asked.

“No, I guess I should do that.”

We made arrangements to go on Thursday instead. I have the most exciting life. I feel almost sorry for the rest of you.

xoxo
etc

Indeed, it started with sorting the recycling and loading it into the back of the van for the next trip to town. Then it got worse when I tackled the storeroom under the porch. At this point I've been at it for a couple hours and have another hour to go and then will give it up for today. My back is starting to hurt.

We've just had Scott's son Gunnar home for a quick overnight visit. Emil and Everett were beside themselves with excitement. Gunnar doesn't get out here very often and can't stay long when he does, but they think he is a real hero. It helps that he likes to play with kids and is willing to give them a little of his attention.

All right, back on my head.

(you have heard that joke, right? guy gets to hell, the devil's showing him around to see where he prefers to stay. they look into a room where everyone's knee-deep in shit, shovelling. they look through another window the same but where everyone is sitting drinking coffee and having a smoke. guy says 'i'll take this one!' and the devil opens the door for him and hollers to the others 'coffee break's over — back on your heads!')

xoxo
etc

The needle is hovering around the freezing point these days, so we have been leaving the woodstove unlit until early evening. Our woodpile, which Manful spent an entire day procuring from a seller up north, turned out to be a disappointment. It is not seasoned as we thought, so has to be mixed with properly seasoned wood, and even then ... well, maybe by next fall it will be worth the $400 we paid for it.

I am home with my boys. We’ve got the kitchen almost licked and will go to my sister's this afternoon. Had a nice breakfast together at my insistence, while Manful stopped in, ravenous, on his way from one job to another.

Before we can go to my home town, there are errands to run. Our recycling collection is overflowing badly. There is a parcel at Sears; I ordered new jeans for the boys, and for myself a black sweater and three pairs of sandals. Manful will give me a hard time about those. Especially since when we were in the city this weekend I bought two new pairs of boots!

One is a tall black boot that adds two inches to my height — what a different view from only two inches higher — and the other is a black hiking boot. I wear my steel-toed workboots often when there's no snow on the ground, so these two pairs of boots for $15 could not be passed up. A deal is a deal, man.

Mine (man, that is) will just have to build me another closet, for my shoes overfloweth.

When I was a kid, our family gatherings on my mother’s side always included music. Uncle Bob, Grandma’s brother, played old-time guitar or sometimes his fiddle, and Mom played the accordion or piano. Songs were sung in the kitchen or living room while rye and coke were drank at the kitchen table.

Emil would have had something in common with Uncle Bob. As a child, Uncle Bob had polio, which left him with one leg shorter than the other. He had to wear a brace and was apparently unable to participate in the hockey and other sports or games the kids played, so he sang and played instead.

Uncle Bob died not long before Emil was born, and family gatherings have never been the same. I feel fortunate now that Scott’s family functions on his mother’s side also include music and singing. I always think oh, how Mom would love this if she was here. She’d be in there like a dirty shirt, knowing the words to all the old songs.

When I see this photograph taken from our kitchen window, I think of Marya in San Luis Obispo and how, since she can barely imagine the chill in our air, she will now wonder if the snow really is blue.

Everett has taken to throwing a handful of sunflower seeds onto the ground beneath the bird feeder, and this small flock of redpolls partakes of it. The picture was taken while the west side of the house was in shadow, I guess — thus the appearance of blue snow.

Or -- is it really blue, and my mind interprets it as dark grey because that is the colour I think of as shadow?

I didn't fiddle with camera settings, which normally seem accurate enough as far as colour goes. So maybe it really is blue and I will have to develop a painter's eye to see it.