Temporary title change
No musings from the farm today - there has been no time, and time is the one requirement for musings. In fact there will be no musings from the farm until the middle of January. Instead, there will be "musings away from the farm".
It is a strange feeling not to be home for Christmas; we have never done that, and it would not be my first choice. But cirumstances require it, and there will be so many things to do in the next while that we might not notice it too much.
Winter has returned for good now, and it could well be that the foot or so of snow will not melt before April. We, however, will escape it for awhile: tomorrow afternoon we will leave for Santiago, Chile.
What might it be like, this country of desert and wineyards, orchards and icebergs? What will stir my heart so that I need to write about it?
It is a strange feeling not to be home for Christmas; we have never done that, and it would not be my first choice. But cirumstances require it, and there will be so many things to do in the next while that we might not notice it too much.
Winter has returned for good now, and it could well be that the foot or so of snow will not melt before April. We, however, will escape it for awhile: tomorrow afternoon we will leave for Santiago, Chile.
What might it be like, this country of desert and wineyards, orchards and icebergs? What will stir my heart so that I need to write about it?
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Trees: more than just firewood
The fire crackling in the fireplace is suggesting warmth, and as long as I sit where I do, feet almost touching the fire screen, the promise is even fulfilled. I fell asleep in my favourite chair for a while, the beech-framed tan leather one from Ikea that has acquired the well-worn look of twenty years of use, no longer immaculate and supple, but a bit glossy along the contours of my body, bleached from the sun pouring in through the big window letting in the afternoon sun, bearing faint traces from spilled coffee to a baby's burp after nursing.
Watching the flames curl up around the big chunk of poplar I'm slowly shaking off sleepiness and inertia, two not unusual states of mind after a long day in the city.
Saturdays have been dedicated to Maya's track training lately, and today she had her first indoor meet. While we got to watch the sun rise in previous weeks, we left too early for that today. Instead, Venus, the morning star, hung huge and golden high in the eastern sky for much of the drive. The sky's faint red hue slowly intensified to a deep crimson, the silhouettes of trees intricately etched into this canvas.
I love trees in winter! No longer are their leaves the focus of our attention, from the first hint of tender green, no more than a promise, the coolness of their shade, the rustling when stirred by a breeze, to the dazzling display of gold against a deep blue sky. No longer is there simply "a row of trees": now, each one shows its true personality, be it young and straight or old, bent, gnarled, crowns half missing, not obeying any law of symmetry, leaning one way or the other, home to the untidy nests of magpie and crow and the perfect weavings of robin and gold finch. All this, hidden for the summer, is finally revealed, with the silhouette of a snowy owl on the top branch as the crowning glory.
Again hoar frost is making everything beautiful, even the old and the ugly. There is a myth that half a year after a hoar frost it will rain, giving hope to dwellers of a country often enough plagued by drought. Maybe it is a good thing to harbour that hope in the middle of winter, to imagine tidy green rows of newly emerged wheat and barley in June receiving the moisture they need to grow. We, if we are farmers or not, live on hope, after all.
Watching the flames curl up around the big chunk of poplar I'm slowly shaking off sleepiness and inertia, two not unusual states of mind after a long day in the city.
Saturdays have been dedicated to Maya's track training lately, and today she had her first indoor meet. While we got to watch the sun rise in previous weeks, we left too early for that today. Instead, Venus, the morning star, hung huge and golden high in the eastern sky for much of the drive. The sky's faint red hue slowly intensified to a deep crimson, the silhouettes of trees intricately etched into this canvas.
I love trees in winter! No longer are their leaves the focus of our attention, from the first hint of tender green, no more than a promise, the coolness of their shade, the rustling when stirred by a breeze, to the dazzling display of gold against a deep blue sky. No longer is there simply "a row of trees": now, each one shows its true personality, be it young and straight or old, bent, gnarled, crowns half missing, not obeying any law of symmetry, leaning one way or the other, home to the untidy nests of magpie and crow and the perfect weavings of robin and gold finch. All this, hidden for the summer, is finally revealed, with the silhouette of a snowy owl on the top branch as the crowning glory.
Again hoar frost is making everything beautiful, even the old and the ugly. There is a myth that half a year after a hoar frost it will rain, giving hope to dwellers of a country often enough plagued by drought. Maybe it is a good thing to harbour that hope in the middle of winter, to imagine tidy green rows of newly emerged wheat and barley in June receiving the moisture they need to grow. We, if we are farmers or not, live on hope, after all.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Getting unstuck
We get so stuck in our ways, so predictable. We grow up, find our place and become comfortable in it, follow behaviour patterns developed over time, and everybody knows what to expect from us, including ourselves.
While this is right and good, and the world functions on the principle of a certain order, it can also lead to monotony, rigidity, and, yes, in extreme cases to premature aging.
Our bodies, too, are not quite what they used to be anymore, and yesterday, during a visit to our cousins, one of us lamented that it was hard to touch her toes, something she had always been able to do. And you could do a headstand! I said, referring back to another Sunday in that same living room, probably twenty years earlier. A 'handstand person' myself, a headstand was something I had never been able to do; maybe it takes different personalities. I remember being so impressed by her ability then, by the process of unfolding into that position. Could she do it still?
We tried out other forgotten abilities : doing the splits, sitting double-double (an invaluable skill when playing jacks, because your legs are neatly out of the way), and undoubtedly would have moved on to tongue rolling and ear wiggling in time, including demonstrations of each.
It might be a little harder to touch our toes, but at least we still try!
While this is right and good, and the world functions on the principle of a certain order, it can also lead to monotony, rigidity, and, yes, in extreme cases to premature aging.
Our bodies, too, are not quite what they used to be anymore, and yesterday, during a visit to our cousins, one of us lamented that it was hard to touch her toes, something she had always been able to do. And you could do a headstand! I said, referring back to another Sunday in that same living room, probably twenty years earlier. A 'handstand person' myself, a headstand was something I had never been able to do; maybe it takes different personalities. I remember being so impressed by her ability then, by the process of unfolding into that position. Could she do it still?
Headstand
It’s a matter of finding your balance, she says,
getting down on her hands and knees,
carefully positioning her hands
before she bends her head to the floor
plants it firmly so that it touches
somewhere between forehead
and crown. I haven’t done this in a while.
We watch, fascinated; none of us
have done this in a while,
this strange thing: moving
in an unexpected way, foreign
to middle aged bodies, to minds
not used to deviating, or if so
not letting on.
She pauses, as if in prayer,
gathering calmness. Slowly
her feet leave the floor
inch by inch. Knees bent,
toes touching, she
is a Native carving,
frog or turtle, we
the circle of worshippers.
We tried out other forgotten abilities : doing the splits, sitting double-double (an invaluable skill when playing jacks, because your legs are neatly out of the way), and undoubtedly would have moved on to tongue rolling and ear wiggling in time, including demonstrations of each.
It might be a little harder to touch our toes, but at least we still try!
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Thank goodness for natural gas!
November Evening
As usual, the transition is the hardest. The first few days of temperatures around the freezing mark always seem so cold, no amount of clothing seems to be enough to ward off the cold. This is true for outside as well as inside, where the thermostat surely should guarantee that 20 degrees really is twenty degrees - still, it feels as if I'm going about my housework in a refrigerator, suddenly.
After a few days of this, however, the body adjusts. It must be the body, because it certainly isn't the weather that has changed. On the contrary, it has the tendency to get much colder rather than warm up. For three days now the temperature has not gone above -13 C, and it dipped to -27 overnight a couple of times. The aforementioned adjustment has already tricked me into believing that this is actually not so bad; it could, in fact, be a lot worse. There have been years, after all, when, at -30, a strong wind whipped flimsy Halloween costumes around kids' legs on the short way from their parents' running car to the welcoming doors of the neighbours.
This morning I took Maya to her track practice in the city. We started out at 8:30, the exhaust from the car a thick cloud, the steering wheel cold under my hands. We turned left onto the gravel road from the driveway, drove up the hill - and there it was: the sun, a promise only the moment before, breaking the glowing face of the south-eastern sky. Every aspen tree, every barb on the wire along the road, every blade of grass covered in a thin layer of hoar frost suddenly blushed, a high-flying plane drew a glowing line across the sky, disappearing while it was created - such a fragile, transient thing.
Yes, it is winter, and it is cold. But this is where I live, and winter is part of it - a part that could be a bit shorter, admittedly, but has its own beauty.
Now, where did I put those mittens .....
The days are short now, the moon
a smudge in the starless sky,
it smells like fall. Wet leaves
cling to my shoes,
a branch brushes my face
when I walk up to the house
from the shop, finding easily
my way in the dark: often
my feet have walked this path,
day or night, they know
where to go. No light necessary.
The cat, left alone for the day,
appears from between the trees,
his black form, tail raised
like a flagpole, barely visible,
calling softly
to make his presence known.
Soon he’ll be snoring
on his favorite chair.
I, however, will go out again
late at night, choosing
the dark, breathing deeply.
This is what I wrote only last Sunday after we came home from the Thanksgiving dinner at our friends'.
Now, however,winter is here - no doubt about it. For a few days it wasn't quite sure if it should really set up camp here, but it seems it has made up its mind for good now, at least for the foreseeable future, which means, in our area, about the next four months.
As usual, the transition is the hardest. The first few days of temperatures around the freezing mark always seem so cold, no amount of clothing seems to be enough to ward off the cold. This is true for outside as well as inside, where the thermostat surely should guarantee that 20 degrees really is twenty degrees - still, it feels as if I'm going about my housework in a refrigerator, suddenly.
After a few days of this, however, the body adjusts. It must be the body, because it certainly isn't the weather that has changed. On the contrary, it has the tendency to get much colder rather than warm up. For three days now the temperature has not gone above -13 C, and it dipped to -27 overnight a couple of times. The aforementioned adjustment has already tricked me into believing that this is actually not so bad; it could, in fact, be a lot worse. There have been years, after all, when, at -30, a strong wind whipped flimsy Halloween costumes around kids' legs on the short way from their parents' running car to the welcoming doors of the neighbours.
This morning I took Maya to her track practice in the city. We started out at 8:30, the exhaust from the car a thick cloud, the steering wheel cold under my hands. We turned left onto the gravel road from the driveway, drove up the hill - and there it was: the sun, a promise only the moment before, breaking the glowing face of the south-eastern sky. Every aspen tree, every barb on the wire along the road, every blade of grass covered in a thin layer of hoar frost suddenly blushed, a high-flying plane drew a glowing line across the sky, disappearing while it was created - such a fragile, transient thing.
Yes, it is winter, and it is cold. But this is where I live, and winter is part of it - a part that could be a bit shorter, admittedly, but has its own beauty.
Now, where did I put those mittens .....
Saturday, November 13, 2010
You asked for it!
And this one - the first - is for you, Andrea!
The clock has been set back, and evenings are suddenly so much longer, the ice on the pond hasn't melted for almost two weeks now, and the butter is as hard in the morning as if it had spent the night in the fridge - winter is definitely on its way. Still, fair weather has been lingering, and the little bit of snow we had on the ground when I left for Cortes Island is long gone. Even though it is only marginally above freezing the ever-present sun gives the illusion as if it were otherwise - especially from behind the window. Soon, however, this will change, we are told: next week will be the first snow week of the season. Then, Christmas lights won't seem quite as much out of place as they do now; I will never quite understand why some people feel the urge to put them up even before Halloween. Maybe it simply is the fact that it is easier to do it when the fingers are not numb with cold yet.
For us, getting ready for winter means things like getting hay for the three cows and their calves (for the last time; next summer they will be sold, and we will be without cows for the first time in fifteen years), putting away the high-pressure washer to prevent it from being damaged by the frost (a fact Maya obviously hasn't grasped yet; she took it out again yesterday when we weren't home to wash the pickup, couldn't get it going, and left it outside ...), and hauling a few loads of grain to the elevator.
Fall season also means visiting friends, taking in marketing courses, and attending agricultural exhibitions. Mostly, I leave the last two to Johann and the boys now, but yesterday I did come along to a farm show south of Edmonton, the biggest of its kind in the province. Oh, I believe I am turning into a dinosaur, or a nostalgic old fool: the accumulation of huge machines, the glistening metal, the amount of money tied up in even one of them leaves me more disgusted than enthused. It brings back memories of Johann's and my trips across Alberta and Saskatchewan in the fall of 1980, rental agreement for six quarters of land in hand, in search of our first tractor, cultivator, combine, seed drill, and trucks, from one used machinery dealer to the next, climbing up countless metal steps to sit in countless tractor cabs, the excitement of the choice, of the prospect to soon use this on our own farm. Where has it gone, this excitement? Now, I'm entirely content to leave machinery, marketing, and new purchases to someone else, helping out when needed, but otherwise rather occupied with other matters. Necessity has given way to choice, and finding the balance will result in a different scenario than it did thirty, twenty, or even ten years ago.
Huh, that's an excursion into the memoir that is still asking to be written, it seems. The funny thing is that, just now, a couple of those soon-to-be-sold cows were bawling very close by, so that I got up to see if they had invaded the front lawn under my window (they hadn't!). In the process I pulled the chord from the laptop and was left "powerless", afraid that I had lost all I had written so far (thankfully that turned out to be not the case). Call it "revenge of the beast".
Fall also means hunting season around here, and people dropping in to say hello after a late afternoon of driving around in search of prey. Much as I don't like that (even though I, too, will prepare and eat the meat), it is nice to welcome friends we don't see more than once a year, like tonight. No rack of deer tonight, however, but pork tenderloin. :o) Before that, however, there is a house to be cleaned after more time spent away than at home in the last two weeks, and a trip to the city with Maya for her track training. She just got a letter from Dalhousie University in Nova Scotia on the east coast, outlining their track program. It seems the recruiting process has begun, and, for me, the process of slowly letting go the youngest of my children.
Yes, the process of letting go ... children into the world, and now a piece of writing into the world of blogging. Scary, I tell you! :o)
The clock has been set back, and evenings are suddenly so much longer, the ice on the pond hasn't melted for almost two weeks now, and the butter is as hard in the morning as if it had spent the night in the fridge - winter is definitely on its way. Still, fair weather has been lingering, and the little bit of snow we had on the ground when I left for Cortes Island is long gone. Even though it is only marginally above freezing the ever-present sun gives the illusion as if it were otherwise - especially from behind the window. Soon, however, this will change, we are told: next week will be the first snow week of the season. Then, Christmas lights won't seem quite as much out of place as they do now; I will never quite understand why some people feel the urge to put them up even before Halloween. Maybe it simply is the fact that it is easier to do it when the fingers are not numb with cold yet.
For us, getting ready for winter means things like getting hay for the three cows and their calves (for the last time; next summer they will be sold, and we will be without cows for the first time in fifteen years), putting away the high-pressure washer to prevent it from being damaged by the frost (a fact Maya obviously hasn't grasped yet; she took it out again yesterday when we weren't home to wash the pickup, couldn't get it going, and left it outside ...), and hauling a few loads of grain to the elevator.
Fall season also means visiting friends, taking in marketing courses, and attending agricultural exhibitions. Mostly, I leave the last two to Johann and the boys now, but yesterday I did come along to a farm show south of Edmonton, the biggest of its kind in the province. Oh, I believe I am turning into a dinosaur, or a nostalgic old fool: the accumulation of huge machines, the glistening metal, the amount of money tied up in even one of them leaves me more disgusted than enthused. It brings back memories of Johann's and my trips across Alberta and Saskatchewan in the fall of 1980, rental agreement for six quarters of land in hand, in search of our first tractor, cultivator, combine, seed drill, and trucks, from one used machinery dealer to the next, climbing up countless metal steps to sit in countless tractor cabs, the excitement of the choice, of the prospect to soon use this on our own farm. Where has it gone, this excitement? Now, I'm entirely content to leave machinery, marketing, and new purchases to someone else, helping out when needed, but otherwise rather occupied with other matters. Necessity has given way to choice, and finding the balance will result in a different scenario than it did thirty, twenty, or even ten years ago.
Huh, that's an excursion into the memoir that is still asking to be written, it seems. The funny thing is that, just now, a couple of those soon-to-be-sold cows were bawling very close by, so that I got up to see if they had invaded the front lawn under my window (they hadn't!). In the process I pulled the chord from the laptop and was left "powerless", afraid that I had lost all I had written so far (thankfully that turned out to be not the case). Call it "revenge of the beast".
Fall also means hunting season around here, and people dropping in to say hello after a late afternoon of driving around in search of prey. Much as I don't like that (even though I, too, will prepare and eat the meat), it is nice to welcome friends we don't see more than once a year, like tonight. No rack of deer tonight, however, but pork tenderloin. :o) Before that, however, there is a house to be cleaned after more time spent away than at home in the last two weeks, and a trip to the city with Maya for her track training. She just got a letter from Dalhousie University in Nova Scotia on the east coast, outlining their track program. It seems the recruiting process has begun, and, for me, the process of slowly letting go the youngest of my children.
Yes, the process of letting go ... children into the world, and now a piece of writing into the world of blogging. Scary, I tell you! :o)
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