Look for me to be a gardening fool this summer. Above is only a part of the space available behind our house.

In another area we will plant a bit of wheat so I can grind my own flour — it’s crazy-expensive to buy organic flour.

The wheat will be the easy part. It’s hoeing and harvesting that I don’t want to get tied down to in a big vegetable garden. And yet ... strawberries, anyone? Corn on the cob? Baby carrots? New potatoes? How can I not?

I haven’t planted a vegetable garden in over 10 years. I’m a flower fanatic.

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On Thursday I took a drive out to the cabin to see how it came through the winter. And for something to do to avoid work.

In spring, I could drive and drive.

I picked up the Sheikh to ride along. He needs to get out of the house.

As half-expected, the key to the cabin was not on my keyring. So instead of going indoors, we sat at the now-paintless picnic table in a thawed patch of dead weeds surrounded by a circle of snow, and had a Boh.

Bohemian, that is. Boh. Saskatchewan beer.

Sheikh was delighted to find they don’t make it in stubby bottles anymore. Tsk. As if.

Anyway. The outside looks good.

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I tried to describe Don to the Sheikh, who hasn’t seen him for a few years. Concepts a seven-year-old wouldnt even question, need explaining to Don. Very simple things. I said he’s not like other kids his age; he’s developmentally delayed.

“If you want to believe that, Kate,” he said, “go ahead. But Don’s smart.”

“Yes, he is. He doesn’t miss much. But ... he fixates on things long after they should be clearly understood and put in place in his mind. He has no artifice, he — oh I don’t know how to explain. You’ll see.”

“Kate, he’s a good kid, a nice kid.”

No argument from me. “Oh, for sure. No question. I’m very proud of him.”

“Well, he’s a great kid. Hey -- look who he came from.”

I patted my hair and made a vain face. “Thanks,” I said, and smiled, before rolling up the window and driving out of his yard.

It’s good to have a fan.

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I brought home his mother’s kneading machine to try. If it saves me 15 minutes standing at the kitchen table every time I bake our daily bread, I’m going to buy it from him. His mom doesn’t need it where she’s gone, and he’ll never use it. I’ve always wanted one, and he needs the money.

His mom made her living by selling her baking at farmers’ markets around the area. Once I asked her to fill half a table with me at the local market (I sold a variety of fudge, and lots of it), and the rest is history. She made her living at it after that.

She’d been a camp cook for years and could turn out tasty pies and a variety of other goodies — peroghies, chiffon cakes, lefse. She stood at the stove with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, and her hands were so arthritic it was not always easy for her. But everything tasted good.

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“I can give you the simplest of all possible rules of thumb:

Any time voice is talking to you
that is not talking with love and compassion,
DON’T BELIEVE IT.

Even if it’s talking about someone else,
DON’T BELIEVE IT.

If the voice is not loving,
Don’t listen to it,
Don’t follow it,
Don’t believe it.

NO EXCEPTIONS.”

- Cheri Huber