Monday, Feb. 10

I dozed this morning, listening to the radio, not worried about getting the boys out the door at 8:00 because L was up and would take care of it.

At a quarter to, Don came down to tell me Barney wasn’t dressed and hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. With a pained groan, I got out of bed and came upstairs to see what the holdup was.

He was dressing and had made toast for himself but it was “not YOUR bread, Mom!” so he left it on the table with one bite out of it. L had gone outside to check on cattle when he saw Barney sit down with his toast, and no one remembered that there was a bowlful of leftover banana pancakes in the fridge. So Barney has gone to school with no breakfast, bearing a piece of fruit to eat on the bus, and I will be baking bread today.

A friend’s mother died this morning. I tried to phone him when I heard she was in the hospital, but he has been staying in the city with her. He has lost his two closest family members -- his mother and grandmother -- within the past six months.

On the highway to my hometown since we moved here, I have driven right on past their house every weekend, each time thinking “I must stop in there soon, but not today.”

He didn’t get along with his mother, so I have no idea how he has been faring with her so ill. I’m not even sure if he was still living with her; he may have moved into his grandmother’s house in town.

Out wood collecting this afternoon with my sweetie and his dad. It's 20 below today -- 40 below with the wind chill -- but fortunately we were in a well-treed yard so only exposed skin stiffened in the cold.

We drove the few miles to cut the wood, past islands of bare bush in a frozen white ocean of rippled waves.

Meanwhile, Loverboy was up in trees, wielding a chainsaw, and generally being all sexy in that sweat-and-muscle kind of way. Couldn't help but notice.

Alone again, for the day. Loverboy was up before the alarm went, so he turned it off and let me sleep while he made breakfast for the boys and surfed the Internet for construction information. I awoke at a quarter to eight, just as Don was in the porch starting to put his shoes on.

It was a groggy first few minutes, wherein I scrounged up money to send with Don for a peroghy-lunch sale at school, and descended into the storeroom to open a new bag of dry catfood and refill the one-gallon ice-cream pail Barney keeps in the shed to feed them from.

Loverboy’s had a simple but very good idea: start feeding the felines at the barn so they’ll congregate there and we won’t have to blockade our door every time one of us goes in or out. I hate having to guard the door with my feet, L does too, and both boys holler and freak whenever a cat bolts into the porch, as if it’s an emergency. Don especially is unable to coordinate an effective defence of the entry.

Their food is kept in the shed and that’s where they’re fed. None of them have ever been allowed in the house. Yet they know that is the good place to be and seem determined to get in whenever possible.

We started by feeding and caring for one orphaned kitten. Then another joined him at the trough, and the wild mother started putting our yard on her daily rounds so her four wild kittens would know where to find us. Then one indoor-priveleged cat got itself kicked out of South Forks and relocated, and another cat appeared out of the ether.

Last week, a big grey tom was here humping all the little girls. We’re having kittens, yay!

Living out here is a treat, one reason being the animals. Which I talk to. All of them. They are curious, some affectionate. The cattle stink like cattle, the pigs stink like pigs, the chickens like chickens, and I have been known to cover my nose in the barn and thank the gods I don’t have to spend time in there every day.

xoxo
Kate

My dad’s first job as a highschool teacher was in a small town not far from home. I was five years old when they rented a tiny little house, with an upstairs, on Main Street.

Memories:

— Seeing Dad come through the livingroom with a box held over his head, and on that box, pictures of Barbie. He was attempting to sneak my Christmas present past me! I must have put up quite a fuss, because it seems to me I got not only Barbie a month before Christmas, but her sidekick, freckled brunette Midge, as well.

— Convincing the nextdoor neighbour’s grandson to accompany me into the outhouse in the park that bordered our back yard, promising I’d show him mine if he’d show me his. When he did, I laughed and pointed and ran away. He never did get to see mine.

— My younger sister and I spent a lot of time with the United Church minister’s kids, across the street.

We were kept busy doing crafts at their kitchen table, or digging snow tunnels in the deep drifts in their side yard. Once when Jill and I were chasing each other around a rectangular coffee table in their livingroom, she fell and cracked her head on the corner of it and needed to go for stitches. When my parents came back to get me, I was hiding under a bed as if afraid I’d been responsible.

— Dad had a black leather strap that was about 18 inches long, tapered at one end. When we moved into a larger house the second year in that town,

across the street from the high school, I buried that strap in the back yard of the house we left behind. I was six years old.

If my mother ever struck me, her blows were ineffectual. Her way of disciplining and punishing was to threaten to tell Dad what we’d done. He’d apply the strap or, after it mysteriously went missing, he’d take off his belt. Perhaps it wasn’t often or even overly severe, but we were terrified of that belt.

— When I walked to school in Grade One, I carried a flat, square tin lunchkit with cowboys on the sides. One day it disappeared between school and home, and was never found. To this day I don’t understand that. It was only a few blocks, after all.

— In the winter, the elementary schoolchildren would pile hard blocks of snow into a high, angled pile. Water would be poured over it to create an icy surface, and it would be used to toboggan on in the schoolyard. I have never seen this done again.

We lived in that little town for only two years, but it remains a warm memory. Mom and Dad have retained many of Dad’s colleagues from those years as friends, and as a teenager I often spent summer weeks there with a galpal. As an adult, I imagined it the perfect small town to live in.

To this day, I sometimes dream of the minister’s house. I dream that it is mine, with a perfect windowed veranda along its front.

We drive past this little town on our way to the city. It has a new landmark, as this entire area is a popular fall destination for bird hunters from the States, as well as for killers of white-tail deer.

Thursday

A tub of Saskatchewan water is waiting, steaming, for my flesh and bones.

The water in this area has a lot of minerals in it, often iron. When we came here this summer and the water hadn’t been run for many months, it was almost black and literally stunk from laying in the pipes and waterlines. Once they were flushed out, the water became normal again.

If the water around here is normal, that is. I always enjoyed staying in hotels in the city because the water was so clear, and I thought of that as clean. Now I know better, of course -- that the water there is so full of chlorine and crap that it’s probably suffocating skin cells as I lay in it.

After being here for four months, I don’t notice the water anymore. But the other day I got a whiff, and it took me right back to the summer days when we were here on vacation and being in this house was new to me. It’s the way water smelled when I was growing up -- the way water looked -- it had a reddish-brown tinge and an earthy smell.

Unfortunately the sparkles in the snow did not show up when I took this picture. It’s just where our driveway joins into the main driveway that goes over to the big house.

Monday

As of the seventh hour this morning, I’ve been on this earth in this body for 44 years.

Forty-four is a number of great strength and power. How shall I celebrate?

Some remember. Two birthday cards have been sent on the Internet, one by my mom’s good friend and the other by my highschool buddy who always remembers.

Petra and Inez both phoned over the weekend to extend best wishes, and it would be unusual if Mom doesn’t call tonight.

My aunt phoned yesterday from Phoenix, but not to wish me a happy birthday. She wanted to tell me that my cousin is getting married in Ireland in May and Grandma wants to go and needs someone to accompany her. Can I think of anyone who might be able to go?

Well, I could, and that’s what she’s been hoping.

I’d love to be in Ireland, but I don’t want to do the travelling required to get there.

Surely if I wait another 44 years, we’ll come up with something faster and safer than airplanes and ships.

/&\~~~~~~~//&\\~~~~~~~/&\

I pull a card from the Legend deck, for today and what the year holds; for what it means to be 44.

11 Justice
(Lady of the Lake)

When reading for myself, it is sometimes easier to get the straight dope by reading the definitions rather than using intuition to glean the message of the card. It’s more objective, less conducive to wishful thinking or wilful blindness.

From the book, The Keeper of Words:

“Justice delivers total honesty and reveals the consequences of past actions. It represents receiving one’s just rewards. Achieving balance and harmony after toils and tribulations. Responsible conduct. Reaching a state of equilibrium with one’s self. Peace of mind. Making a well-balanced choice. Entering into an equal partnership. Being able to see both sides of a situation. Integrity and contracts. Reaching an agreement. The favourable outcome of a judicial matter.”

Paraphrased and quoted:

The Lady of the Lake represents cosmic law and is a reminder that there is a mightier court than the king’s justice. She weighs the virtues of sword and scabbard; the determination and decisive actions of the sword are in equilibrium with the mercy and protection of the scabbard. This represents a well-balanced person who can be entrusted to carry out responsibilities in an honourable manner.
The appearance of the Lady of the Lake signifies the workings of destiny and karma. For this reason, a sense of order and peace accompany this card’s presence.
Arthur represents a person who has matured and followed both his destiny and conscience and now receives recognition.

7 a.m.

I walked up the stairs half-an-hour ago to see Barney already up, and happy about it. A little unusual, but oh he is sweet when he’s in a good mood.

There were only two eggs, so Don asked if he could have liver sausage on crackers. I said sure and got them out for him, with a plate and knife, then took off the plastic wrap, cut a couple slices of meat, and told him to carry on.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” he said.
“You can. Go ahead.”

A few minutes later, as Barney was about to wash the grapes, his scrambled eggs came out of the pan and I told him to sit down and eat.

“Don,” I said, “You wash these and put them on the table for you and your brother please.”

He came over to the sink and turned on the water, then said “I can’t do it; the water is not getting on them.”

I leaned across him and demonstrated how it needs to be done, turning the strainer under the stream of water so they would be rinsed. Then I backed off and let him take over.

The simplest things -- the no-brainers for the rest of us -- are challenges to Don. Too often we do things ourselves or ask Barney to do them, rather than be slowed down by Don. It’s obvious he needs to do more things to acquire more confidence in himself.

When the boys got back here after Christmas and opened their gifts, I took pictures. Don has always loved a small-child’s computer game called Putt Putt, so when he opened the new CD-rom and was excited, I said “Hold it up so I can get a picture of you with it.”

So what does he do? He holds it up in front of his face, he holds it turned sideways in front of the lense, he manages every contortion possible but the one that will allow me a clear photo. Even a simple pose does not come naturally.

But oh, the acne is responding beautifully to the soap, astringent and medicated ointment I bought him, after only a week and a half. Thank God.

See how the crocheted angel sits like a blob on top of the tree, as if it doesn’t really belong there?

The door you see to the right of the picture leads to our bedroom. You can see how I’ve covered the ugly furniture with blankets. I can hardly wait till the antique couch and chair comes back from the upholsterer! The only thing I hate as much as ugly furniture is constantly folding and straightening the blankets used to cover it up.

While I’m at it I might as well post a picture of the other end of the room.

I still don’t feel properly moved into it -- it is still a bit bare and cold-looking -- but the woodstove makes all the difference and warms up the atmosphere. Until we get the furniture back, and rid of the old stuff, we can’t really put things on the walls or add curtains.

I live with a man who is fanatical about taking care of his carpets. He vacuums in front of the woodstove constantly and bitches because I do not do it enough. He forbid me to put plants in the room because when I water them I’m too sloppy and somehow spill. I’ve only put three plants so far.

A room without plants is a dead room. I live here, there will be always-more plants.

On the way to Grandma’s on Sunday, we spotted this coyote on the road. Too smart to stick around, it ran into the field when we drove up.

It’s about a 20-minute drive to my home town from here.

The village itself has a curved gravel road that crosses the railroad tracks as it leads off the highway at one end, and a short, straight road you can use when you enter at the other highway end.

There used to be three or four grain elevators, but the sad truth is that grain elevators are an endangered part of the prairie landscape, just as the small towns are since the elevators have begun closing up and getting torn down.

On the corner across from the elevator is the bar. How it gets enough business to stay open, I don’t know. I think it’s up for sale, and that doesn’t surprise me. I worked in that bar for a few weeks when I rented a house in town, before I got pregnant with Don. I hated it. I have no patience for drunk people. They bore the hell out of me, and irritate it back in.

Coming soon ... the main drag, the old school, and Grandpa J’s house.

xoxo
(etc)
Kate

Response to a list post about lovers:

After a number of relatively long-term relationships following starstruck early love, I must weigh in on the side of the good feelings not lasting.

In case anyone is interested, there is an excellent book about why this happens -- why people are originally so lovestruck, and why they become critical and disapproving of their spouse after time.

It's called The Invisible Partners, and it's by John A. Sanford.

In a nutshell, Sanford (a student of Jung) believes that inside of each man is a woman (the animus), and inside of each woman is a man (the anima). Consciously we express our maleness or femaleness, but over the course of our lives we will be more well-rounded and psychologically healthy as we learn to integrate our inner "archetype" more fully, to give that inner person his/her "say" in how we live. Repressing the inner man or inner woman causes all kinds of problems.

When we first fall in love with someone, we project our inner archetype onto that person. We see them as perfect because they are reflecting back to us our own inner man or woman, who can do no wrong.

Inevitably, though, we begin to see all the "imperfections" -- which exist in our own selves, but are projected onto our partners because we are unable to admit to them in ourselves.

(As Sondra Ray says in her book, 'Loving Relationships': your partner is your mirror and teacher who will show you what you need to deal with in your own self. "Love brings up anything unlike itself.")

I highly recommend this book for insight into relationship dynamics. It hasn’t made me a pro -- I still suffer on the declining arc of loving acceptance -- but it has helped me understand.

Kate

10:38 a.m.
Saturday, Jan. 11

Chester has been in training with me for the past three days. Before taking him off his chain, I make sure the lead is attached and one end securely in my hand so he doesn’t get away from me. Then we start walking, with him learning to heel beside me, and to sit.

He’s already catching on, as they do. Dogs are smart, and eager to please -- even this one, who doesn’t listen worth shit.

The second day, the kids were getting off the bus as I put Chester on the chain, and Barney had put his favourite cat on his shoulder and was walking around the yard with it and following me. When the cat hit the ground, Chester lunged for the cat and damn near pulled me off my feet. Without Barney also grabbing the chain, the cat would’ve been caught.

The first day, when I gave Chester shit for lunging at the horses, he cowered away from me as if afraid I would hit or kick him. In a way, though I felt bad about it, I was relieved that he fears me a little. Before that, I was afraid he might turn on me if I was too forceful with him.

The only collar Chester has is a chokechain, and using one is the only way I know how to teach obedience. When we lived on the acreage in Alberta, a neighbour was taking his dog to obedience classes, and he’d come over and show me what he’d learned so that I could teach it to our dog.

She learned surprisingly quickly too, and seemed to love the lessons and be proud of herself when following the commands. We moved into a town and she wouldn’t stay in the yard, and I didn’t want to keep her chained, so gave her away to someone in the country. I sometimes wonder what happened to her; I phoned once about a year later, and was told she wouldn’t stay home there, either. That does not bode well for a dog.

She was part Shepherd too, so I am reminded of her when I look into the golden-brown part of Chester’s face.