Jiggidy Jig

I've been on the road alot lately. So it is every spring and fall. Maybe I secretly want to be a goose, I dunno.

Sometimes it's nice to get away, even if it is for work. A hotel room all to myself is almost better than an empty house. I don't have to clean it. The quiet and privacy are as good as chocolates on a pillow. I have no one to answer to but myself. The miserably difficult decision of what to cook for supper isn't mine to make. Ahhhhh.

But then the conference is over and I go home.

I walked in the door the other evening, and was greeted by Reiley and a long, real hug. Which is surprising since Reiley, at 13 is too cool for such things and my hugs have been slowly reduced to one arm awkward pats on the shoulder. The hug lasted for like 5 minutes, and with my boots and coat still on was a bit long, but I wasn't missing the opportunity to hug my boy/man.

Shady, my only girl, even if she's a dog, trots up all excited to see me and actually speaks. Rooowwwwllll she says with her whole butt wagging in delight. Then trots off to fetch her new bone to show me. She carries it with pride. Tickled pink with herself.

Owen comes scrambling from where ever he was playing, leaps into my arms and tells me all about what I've missed in sentences without periods. He played with bouncy balls in gym and had pizza for lunch but not from the cafeteria, from home, cuz Dad made it last night and why didn't I pack his hat because it was cold and he's playing with his bionicles and do I know where his lost toy is....I wish I was six again some days.

Martin stands back and watches, I see his smiles. He waits his turn. His face is fresh shaven and kisses deliciously soft. His hugs are like batteries and recharge me. Ahhhh. I love coming home.

The art of being grumpy if there is such thing.

It's ugly. I can't picture anything uglier. It feels ugly and I have no control. My sugar drops and like a full moon rising this thing builds inside me and I change right before your very eyes into a beast. Werewolves would be kinder I think.

I snarl and spew venom at anyone within range. The kids run and hide. The oldest son, teaching the youngest to just stay away. Martin treads carefully testing the degree of grumpiness, and asks what's for supper. I snarl, growl, show fangs. Wolves come out of the woods hearing my howls. If it's full blown he ducks. If it's not he guides me and I grumble and growl as I prepare the meat for the meal. Some days he tries to make the meal but ROAR, I don't want to eat that! So he doesn't.

When he's brave, Martin puts on his armour, yields his sword and tries to tame the beast. Deflects my bites and gets close enough to shove some food down my throat. Beer works. Or wine. Sometimes even a cookie. Then as quickly as it came, the murderous tendencies fade and I purr like a kitten. The beast is sedated. He gives me a scratch behind the ear and I change back into myself.

Some people in my family like to tease the beast (not naming names brothers) and poke me to see just how enraged I can get. A game to them. I snarl, they laugh. Which is why when I was a kid and kicked my oldest brother square in the nose, my mother told him he deserved it and I got away scott free.

It would be nice if I never got grumpy at all, but it's genetic. A characteristic of my father and I that the family has decided is within limits to tease us about. (no they did not consult us when that was decided) My father and I growl at each other and as life would have it, understand each other quite well.

At least my kids are like Martin. Slayers of dragons and not dragons themselves. My oldest brother has the kids with the grumpy gene. Who said nature doesn't have a sense of humour?

Raven Hill

I woke up to the singing of a cheeseburger bird the other morning. Laying in the coziness of my bed, eyes still shut, but mind gracefully awakened. I smiled.

Cheeeeseburger. Cheeeeeeseburger.

Well, that's what it sounds like anyway. They're actually Chickadees. The morning call sounds like cheesesburger and the evening call sounds like chicka dee deee deeee. Either way, I was happy to hear it. Spring.

Funny hearing spring from outside my bedroom window. I guess that's why I left my eyes closed. So I could imagine the heat of the sun and green grass. I let myself lay in the daydream for a while, rather than crawl out to the reality of 2 feet of snow. No harm in it, it was Sunday.

I love where we live. One reason is the birds.

I first met them while standing in the field. The ravens' stealthy flight betrayed by the swoosh of wind over their wingspan. Six of them came flying over from the south. Hanging so low I could reach up and touch them. They coo to each other and speak in series of click clacks that sound alien. Without understanding the meaning I still found it oddly comforting. Kind. A conversation. The six veer off in pairs. Each to their own nest. Neighbours in a community. One pair nests in the woods just out of sight from the house. Their coos and click clacks could be heard all summer and soon the pair was joined in flight by two more. A family of four.

Last spring the ravens prepared their nest. In the same clump of trees on the east side of the house. Hidden from our prying eyes. But then something changed from the year before. A murder of crows, strictly forbidden by the ravens from entering the airspace above our fields, gathered across the road. The meeting could be heard for miles. Apparently crows don't take turns when talking.

The next day the ravens were gone and a dozen crows sat in our yard, on the fence post, in the pasture. The ravens had been dethroned. Their nest was empty. No young were born. The pair stayed, but did not defend their territory against the crows. I guess there was no reason. No young to protect. Ravens mate for life. In their marriage they share the successful seasons as well as those of loss. I felt bad for the pair.

After climbing from bed the other morning, with the chickadees song still in my mind, I looked out the window to see if I could catch a glimpse of the bird that brought me spring. Instead, I see the pair of ravens, perched in the old dead birch that we call the raven tree. Not a crow to be seen.

To Haiti with Love

It's old news the disaster in Haiti. The images no longer flash on the television screen during our dinner hour. But the kids are still there. Still dusting themselves off. Still struggling for what comes so easy to us. I turn the tap and water magically comes out. Clean. Cold. Good. My children go to bed each night swathed in warm blankets with loving kisses on their forheads. Their bellies fed and full. Knowing only a world of love, warmth and peace. We are lucky.

Today an auction opened up called To Haiti with Love. An auction which was organized and executed within days by people with hearts bigger than the whole world. Artists of all kinds offered gifts to auction from all over everywhere.



I've never sold any of my carvings. They are a hobby of mine that I enjoy fiddling away with. I never really imagined anyone would enjoy them as much as I do. But before I really even knew what I'd done, I had donated an owl to the cause. It is the only time I've ever revealed to the world a peice of my art. For all to see and possibly criticize. But it is all I have to give. I'll trade my owl, and put my work out for the world to see, this fragile rarely seen side of me, for Haiti. For the kids who don't even have anything to pull out of the rubble.

All of my carvings, all the art in the world, is such a luxury. Hopefully this week it will all be put to practical use and raise much needed money for kids who have so little. So please visit the auction and bid. You'll take home some wonderful art and help Haiti all in the click of a mouse.

Super Genius

Owen and Dad had a sliding party to attend Sunday afternoon with the beavers.

Dad: It's going to be a nice day. Minus 2 and sunny. A perfect day for sliding.
Owen: Yup, but not for haying.

I sometimes forget he pays attention to EVERYTHING and forgets nothing.


I've really got to stop letting him watch discovery channel. Sometimes kids can know too much. On the drive home I get this little lesson.

Owen: Do you know how to drift mom? Because to drift you go around the corner and turn the wheel a bit then back real fast then back again hard and then you're drifting. You have to do it fast. And you have to drive around the corner faster mom if you want to do it. They do it on Cars (meaning the movie) but that's not the real way because they only turn the wheel once and really they have to do it a bit one way then again the other way fast.

Me: OK, but do I have to try it today?

Owen: No because you probably don't know how but when I get big and I can drive I'll show you.

One of his favorite shows is Canada's Worst Driver. I never understood the appeal it had to a 5 year old, but it didn't bother me that he watched it. It's censored, it's on when I need him out of my hair while cooking supper and it's better than those crappy cartoons. I didn't realize that he was actually paying attention to the lessons. That he was actually learning how to drive!

Dognapper?

Her name is Lucy. Or was Lucy. I'm never sure what tense to use. She has tan fur with a black back and looks a lot like a compact german shepherd. She's been missing since before Christmas, so I figure she must be dead. The only other logical reason for her to still be missing is that someone took her. I almost prefer the idea that she's dead. The thought of her being stolen just doesn't make sense in my head. Death is part of life, especially with pets, so for her to die is more acceptable for me. For her to be lost by no natural means, by a malicious human act, I just can't get my head around.

Maybe we'll find our neighbours dog once the snow melts, in the ditch. The victim of a hit and run. She often ran up and down the road and it wouldn't surprise me if that were her fate. There are many blind crests and turns on our road. I just wish we knew.

Yesterday our neighbour across the road, who just got a 1 year old yellow lab named Nova came to visit. Nova is missing. The last time we saw her was Sunday.

This neighbour had a dog Ben, who he let roam free. Ben, an intact male, made himself into a very bad pest. We feared causing a rift but had to tell the man to keep his dog home. Actually we didn't care if he stayed home, we just didn't want him on our property anymore. Shady couldn't go outside to pee without him humping her. (No she wasn't in heat) We offered advice (get him fixed, get an invisible fence) but the man is a stubborn backwards minded sort and his response was "I'm not getting him fixed, he'll get fat, and them there fences don't work worth a damn and I'm not putting a penny more into this dog". So he traded Ben for his sister. He's had her since the new year and has kept a closer eye on her. She's only been in our yard twice that I've noticed. Nova couldn't help her puppy self on Sunday when Shady and the kids went out to play and bounded across the road to join in. Mart and I worried that the problem would begin again, but she hasn't been back. So we've been pleased. The problem now is where is she?

There are sick twisted people who smile politely, do a good job in pretending and are careful in not saying anything that would reveal their true selves. But in our neighbourhood? Really? Most families on our road have dogs. People don't use our road unless you live on it or near it. Who would just happen to drive by, while Lucy and Nova just happened to be out, and take them? And why?

I really wish I knew where these dogs have gone. I'd like to know if they were shot, or trapped or hit. That would give closure to their families, and make me feel a lot more safe about my dog. If some sicko is out stealing dogs, how can I protect my dog from that? An odd thing to have to choose, an accident or a sicko, death or kidnapping.

Float like a butterfly

It seems fitting that I'm here during the time of year full of resolutions and weight loss. And since it's not February yet, those resolutions haven't even been broken yet.

I woke up to 2010 amongst four piles stacked high of files, each in a different state of completion, and working every waking hour. Feeling swamped and stressed and similar to a pile of shit, I decided to do something different.

I chopped off my hair. Well, that's not all that different, but it's been in a pony tail for a long time. I even highlighted it. Which to all the ladies out there wouldn't give cause for a cheer, but it did for me, as I've never ever had anything put in my hair. So I felt much the same as I did when I was 7 and was allowed to get my ears pierced. Finally taking the step long after it was considered cool. But still, my own token of whatever to show that I'm not so different from all of you. I just wanted to feel pretty.

I also checked off another item from my life list. If I were to actually write one it would contain things such as: husband (check), kids (check), farm (getting there), career (check), Africa, learn Italian, dog sled, learn violin and on and on. But the one I checked off has been nagging at me for a bit. So I'm super excited to have joined boxing.

If I had to identify myself in two words I'd say farm girl. That's probably the best fit. Being a farm kid, strength was always considered an asset. Growing up in, and working in agriculture, I've always been a little girl, largely under estimated, in a big man world. But, secretly I know that I can hold my own. Pound for pound I may even have some guys beat. This is something I've always taken pride in. So this boxing fits perfectly with me. It's full of heavy metal, sweat, swearing, grunting, ugly gym pants and workouts from hell. These girls are tough and there will be no gentle. When I leave, I am exhausted and satisfied I have given every ounce of effort. I can't lift my coffee mug the next day, but it feels so good. I float like a butterfly, heart and soul.

So this year has begun fresh and strong. What is good for the muscles is good for the mind. Twice per week I climb out from under my piles of work and give a heavy bag hell. At this pace, 2010 is going to be a great year.