Farewell to a Grand lady

How many tears do you shed when you lose a grand old Lady?  I’ve been crying all day and I know the tears aren’t going to stop any time soon.

This Lady was amazing: faithful, loyal, intelligent, and brave.  She loved to play, she was always at my side the minute I stepped out of the house, and she would (and did several times) tackle a bear when necessary.   

Lady was our huge and beautiful German Shepherd and this morning we had to have her put down.  At age 12 and ½ her body was failing her, she couldn’t walk anymore, and vital systems were shutting down.  To keep her longer because we wanted to avoid the pain of losing her would have been cruel to her.

 Wasn't she beautiful?

Despite her arthritis, despite her deafness, and despite all the other age-related ailments that plagued her over the last year, her greatest joy in life was to be close to us.  And we loved her, even when she chewed the lattice off the brand new deck years ago, even when she pestered us for ear rubs by thrusting her big head into our laps when we were sitting outside, even when I couldn’t have flower pots on the patio because she was addicted to snapping up and eating wasps and bees.  We just loved her.

 This morning I got to hold her head one last time, gaze into her eyes, and give her one more ear rub while the vet did what she had to do.  Then it was just Lady and I in that cold, impersonal room.  Her heart had already stopped but I couldn’t bear to leave her right away, so I stayed and whispered over and over what a good dog she is and how much we love her until the final muscle twitches stopped.

Then I walked out of the clinic, alone, with her leash and collar dangling empty from my hand.

A DOG FOR JESUS

I wish someone had given Jesus a dog

As loyal and loving as mine

To sleep by His manger and gaze in His eyes

And adore Him for being divine.

As our Lord grew to manhood His faithful dog

Would have followed Him all through the day

While He preached to the crowds and made the sick well

And knelt in the garden to pray.

It is sad to remember that Christ went away

To face death alone and apart

With no tender dog following close behind

To comfort its Master's Heart.

And when Jesus rose on that Easter morn

How happy He would have been

As His dog kissed His hands and barked its delight

For The One who died for all men.

Well, the Lord has a dog now, I just sent Him mine

The old pal so dear to me

And I smile through my tears on this first day alone

Knowing they're in eternity.

(Written By: Rudyard Kipling)

I’ll see you again, my beautiful Lady-dog.  Bye for now.

Are You Ready for Christmas?

Are you ready for Christmas yet?  The people who ask me that on a regular basis lately are quite obviously referring to the shopping, wrapping, baking, decorating, and cleaning that seem to have become prerequisites for Christmas Day celebrations.

 

Of course, there's nothing wrong with lovely decor items like this one.  I'm actually rather fond of wreaths, centerpieces, decorated Christmas trees, and most especially giving gifts.

But I find myself thinking this year, that the best answer to the question would be, "Of course, I'm always ready for Christmas."  If Christmas is a celebration to acknowledge the coming of Christ to transform our lives and restore us to right relationship with God, then why wouldn't we always be ready, always be awaiting the arrival of the most special guest our homes and hearts will ever see?

In the midst of the hustle and bustle we call "getting ready for Christmas" let's leave a space for recognizing that, if we believe in the reason for the season, then we are already finished getting ready.  The only thing that needs to be done is to ready my heart and Jesus will do that, too, if we let Him.

Moonlight

 One of the few advantages to my periodic bouts of insomnia is the chance to experience the night hours in my forested yard.  Restless with unexplainable energy but also fatigue, and a longing for sleep, I often wander from window to window in the loneliest and darkest hours of the night.  I’m seeking solace and perhaps a little company from the denizens of the night to ease my loneliness, as all my human companions snuggle deeper into their pillows and indulge in delicious sleep.

Many nights the possessive, impenetrable darkness outside my windows stubbornly hides Nature’s midnight secrets away, greedily keeping them for its eyes only.  Then my aching eyes are brought up short against the inky blackness and I see nothing but my weary self, reflected in the windowpane by the lone lamp I turned on in the living room.

But some nights are a different story, when the rays of a full moon focused on the nighttime landscape handily defeat the jealous darkness.  A winter’s moonlit night, almost as bright as daytime, is pure and refreshing revelation. Nature’s nighttime loveliness is arrayed before me; I delight in its unique beauty and draw rest for my spirit from its quiet serenity. 

 Then I feel kinship even with the trees, who stand watching the progress of the night, tall and lonely sentinels guarding a frozen, isolated world, and I’m grateful for their protection.  Their long shadows stretch to encompass as much of the yard as possible and lie in poignant contrast to the new snow sparkling in the moonlight.  The trees reassure me that I’m not as alone as I feel in my sleeplessness and that all is as it should be, as well as it can be in the absence of sunlight.

On occasion the dark sweep of a huge wing crosses my silvery landscape and I know the Great Grey owl I heard earlier as I worked at my desk is now on the move, no doubt striking terror into the tiny hearts of nocturnal rodents scampering about under fallen trees and naked shrubs that offer scant protection against the sharp eyes of the predator.  But I welcome the owl and his nocturnal routine, for his activity normalizes my wakeful nights and makes me feel less of an aberration of Nature but merely another of God’s creatures, unable to sleep.

Isn't it Lovely?

Isn't it lovely, I often think lately, to have a retired husband?  He's done so many things we'd been meaning to get to for months already ... and he's only been retired since June.  A couple of weeks ago I arrived home from work to find he'd shampooed all the carpets in the house.  A few days ago he bathed both our house dogs and created a snug shelter in a corner of the garage for our German Shepherd who simply won't sleep in the house, no matter how cold the winter nights become.

I often arrive home from work to find the house smelling heavenly, warm cinnamon and sweet raisin scents from the raisin bread he baked in the bread maker.  He also makes a very tasty cinnamon pecan bread.  I'm beginning to wonder if there's a way to get him to do my Christmas baking.  Hmmm, I'll have to think about that; there must be a way.

 In the summer, after he'd had a little break to recuperate from the hectic pace of June, he built a little deck at the top of the new stairs he fashioned off our gazebo.  The replacement of the stairs was a necessity; the little deck area, just big enough for a bistro table and two chairs (although I've already had six ladies up there with me) was a little touch of luxury.  It's become my favourite place to sit and enjoy the sunshine or to "survey my kingdom," all six acres of it.

He takes my car in for service, tire changes, and oil changes and drives me to meetings in other places when I'm having a really busy week.  When I have meetings in Winnipeg, I really appreciate not having to find a parking place downtown or to walk the extra distance on Portage Avenue.  I think I'll be especially grateful for this in the wintertime when I'm always a little nervous walking on icy sidewalks.  I have enough trouble with mobility some days without adding ice to the equation.

I'm not feeling ready to retire yet myself and staying in the work force is much easier with the amazing support I'm getting from my retired husband.  Come to think of it, why should I retire and do all that hard work when he's got it all so well under control?

 

Fog Eyes

 Swirls of white mist surround and disorient me.  I could be on the highway, on one of my favourite country roads, or in the middle of a field; white walls press in on me so closely that I have no idea where I am or how far I’ve come.

It sounds like the setting for a nightmare or a horror movie but in reality it’s the description of my drive to work this past Thursday.  I had been driving at least ten minutes, I estimated, but had not seen a single landmark to verify my progress.  I thought I knew what I should be seeing at this point, if only as a ghostly shape looming briefly out of the mist, but I had seen nothing but a white wall.  Occasionally another vehicle loomed alarmingly close out of the mist and was gone before I could focus on its presence. 

 The fog was so thick and impenetrable that my perceptions were altered.  As my eyes strained for glimpse of the road’s edge, I had no idea of the speed at which I was traveling.  A glance at the speedometer shocked me; I was speeding blind at 110 km an hour, yet it felt much slower.

As I eased my foot off the gas pedal and resolved to keep a closer eye on the gauge, I searched for the road’s edge, convinced I should be nearing a major curve.  Was I in the curve… or had I navigated it moments ago and should now be in a long straight stretch?  I truly was disoriented in time and space.

Meteorologically speaking, fog is merely a very low stratus cloud that may even touch ground.  The cloud consists of tiny water droplets, light enough to remain suspended in the air.  The droplets cause any light present to be reflected in different directions, causing the impenetrable white vale that we call fog.

 

The scientific explanation, however, doesn’t remedy my disorientation as I glide through a dreamscape.  My eyes actually hurt from the continual collision of my gaze with the impenetrability of the wall immediately outside the windshield.  I have prairie eyes, used to gazing long distances towards the horizon, whereas seeing in fog requires mountain eyes, accustomed to being brought up short repeatedly against walls of rock.

My last eye exam confirmed that I am far-sighted; hence the irritation when I can’t see distance.  My eyes are most comfortable seeing well ahead, and I need corrective glasses to accommodate the times when I must look closely at something nearby.  Come to think of it, that’s not a bad metaphor for how to live well.  We need both the ability to look ahead at where we are going and to keep an eye on the place where we are right now.  We may have to correct one or the other as we move through life, to keep a healthy perspective.

Ah, the fog lifts for a second and my eyes revel in the ability to see at least a short distance ahead of the hood of my car.  I’m nearly at my destination and suddenly it’s time to emerge from my reflective fog and get on with the day’s work.

Evacuated!

Have you ever had a conversation with a friend or family member where you ask, "If a fire threatened your home, and you had only a few minutes to get out, what would you take with you?"  I recall conversations of that nature, usually after reading about an evacuation order in some other community or of a place where fire not only threatened but actually claimed many homes.  In conversations I've had about the topic, I've usually made a comment to the effect of, "I can't even imagine what would go through my mind if I were faced with that situation."

Well, now I no longer need to imagine; exactly that, an order to Evacuate, Now! is what we faced on the evening of Friday, October 7.   We'd had a busy day, preparing to celebrate Thanksgiving here with our children, grandchildren, and my mother-in-law on Saturday.  It was going to be very special because we were also planning to celebrate the October birthdays of my son, my grandson, my daughter-in-law, and my mother-in-law.  I was thawing a turkey, making coleslaw and veggie platters, and still needed to peel potatoes and prepare the stuffing for the bird the next morning.

All at once, just before 6:00 pm, the power went out.  We'd had some flickers earlier in the afternoon and I'd held my breath each time until it came back on and I knew I could continue cooking and preparing.  High winds for the last two days, gusting to over 90 kilometers an hour on Friday afternoon, combined with tinder dry conditions as a result of unseasonably hot weather in the week, over 30 degrees Celsius on Thursday, had set the stage for several serious fires burning in our corner of the province.  

I had read on Thursday about an evacuation of residents in Stuartburn and was relieved when I read on Friday morning that the fire there was now under control.  But that was before Friday's windstorm whipped things up again.  An hour or so after we lost power, we were hunting about for candles and my husband decided to set up the emergency generator so that, if we needed it later, he wouldn't have to fumble with it by flashlight.

So, when our local municipal councillor rode up our driveway on his quad, we were expecting him to comment on the power failure.  In stead he told us to evacuate, now!  He pointed out to us the eerie red-orange glow in the sky to the south of us, a glow that was not visible only moments earlier when I opened the bedroom curtains to get as much light as possible into the room so that I could return piles of recently folded laundry to the right dresser drawers.  In the few minutes between the time I opened the curtains and decided to set out some candles that fire was driven several kilometers closer to our community and was now threatening all our homes.

“We have to evacuate, now!” my husband burst in and ran straight to the basement for our biggest suitcase.  I went into “autopilot” mode.  Call Jenn, I thought, and ask if we can come with three adults and the dogs for … well, however long it might be.  Jenn didn’t answer; I left a message.  We’re coming, I thought, whether anyone’s ready or not!

Surprised that I was still thinking clearly, I scooped up much of the laundry I’d just returned to the dresser and tossed it into the suitcase.  Medications… toiletries… warm clothes… clothes for work, in case we weren’t back by Tuesday… extra shoes…. jackets.  I checked them off my mental list as my husband gathered leashes, collars, dog food, and hustled our nervous, whining dogs into my car.

Working by flashlight, tripping over bags, and nearly falling down the stairs, I hurried to Kate’s room to gather her diabetic supplies, work clothes, and other essentials.  I realized that Kate, at work a half hour away, didn’t know what was happening, didn't know that she shouldn’t come home.  Another phone call; Kate’s cell phone was off.  I hope someone stops her before she gets here, I thought, imagining roadblocks to prevent local residents from returning to their homes.

Then, all at once, it was time.  I didn’t want to get into my car and drive away.  Now came the thought that I was about to leave everything behind, possibly to be consumed by fire, that I might come back and find none of it here anymore.  The house I love so much; the beautiful artwork painted by my mother; my favourite blanket for snuggling on the couch; that special spot on the deck where I love to sit and overlook the forest; my journals; my Bible … how do I leave it, how do I decide what to save and what to abandon?

Suddenly everything was worth saving … and nothing was worth saving.  The turkey, thawed and ready to be stuffed; my wedding gift china and crystal; boxes of baby pictures; beloved books …how do I choose?  In the end, I grabbed only three more things: my Bible; my grandmother’s bracelet; and my e-reader, because I knew I’d need to read for distraction.  Then, into the car as my husband flung in the suitcase and some boxes and bags, and drive! Now!

Lord, it’s all yours, anyway, I thought, backing out of the garage and heading down the driveway without looking back.  Half of our village was in darkness but all was bright and confusing near the highway.  Emergency vehicles and flashing lights, vehicles parked at the side of the highway, leaves and small branches striking my car and swirling about, clouds of blowing dust so dense I thought it was smoke – we crept towards my daughter's home at only 60 kilometers an hour. 

 the view from the highway as I drove by

I saw a huge red, angry glow filling the sky to the south; it appeared to be just across the field next to the highway.  It’s that close, I thought; my whole life, everything familiar, really could go up in flames.  As my husband said later, it wasn’t the monetary value of what we might lose that was so hard to think about; it was the familiarity, the comfort.  It was this chair where I always work at the computer, or that old sweater I snuggle into in the evening; it was the million and one little things that define and shape a life. 

As the wind buffeted my car and flying debris slid periodically across its roof, the dogs whined uneasily in the backseat.  It was stifling inside with their hot, anxious panting and it reeked of smells that only nervous dogs can produce.  I opened all four windows a little and set the air conditioning on high.  Within seconds grit was in my eyes and between my teeth as the frenzied wind hurled dust and gravel into my car.  I strained to see where I drove, blinded by continual glare from opposing headlights.  I tried to pray, Lord, have mercy on us. Baxter, lie down! It’s okay, Lady, that’s a good girl. Lord, have… Baxter, no!

It was a long, slow trip to Jenn’s home.  I knew my husband would arrive later as he had to register in the nearest community to ours that our home was evacuated and where we had gone.  Now I know how refugees feel, I thought, arriving gratefully at Jenn’s and waiting for the others to arrive.  It's true; when it happens to others, you imagine you know what they must feel, but you can’t really know until it happens to you.

Our story ended happily; before morning we knew our home would be safe.  Because Hydro crews weren’t allowed in sooner, our power wasn’t restored in time for Thanksgiving dinner as planned.  Instead, we moved everything to Jenn’s, phoned all those who were coming, and had our Thanksgiving feast there.  We were exhausted, relieved, and truly thankful for how we had been blessed.  As my son-in-law said grace, I breathed a “thank you” of my own, caught Garry’s eye, and smiled, knowing that at the end of this day we were going home.

A Nice Round Number

 Sixty is a wonderful age.  At sixty you’re old enough to know yourself well, to be comfortable with the sum total of your faults, flaws, strengths and talents.  A sixty year-old person can say, “This is who I am”, with out having to apologize for it or explain why.  It used to be that people were old at sixty but that’s no longer true for most sixty year-olds.

But the number sixty does still imply many years lived, knowledge learned, and most importantly, wisdom gained.  Once you’ve lived sixty years, you can take pride in the contribution you’ve made to the world.  You have the right to choose to continue contributing through the workplace or to retire.  And retirement doesn’t have to be an ending.  These days it’s considered a beginning to other adventures, skills, and possibilities.

You’re old enough, at sixty, to live comfortably where you’re planted but young enough to dream of new roots and new challenges.  You’re old enough to know that making a living is not the most important thing; rather it’s how you lived the life you made that counts when you turn sixty.  And you know that there’s still enough time to change the things that didn’t work out the way you’d hoped.

At sixty you’ve loved and raised your children and fallen in love with your grandchildren, maybe even a great-grandchild or two.  You’re a person with memories of the “old days” to share and you have the right to start sentences with “when I was young”. 

You feel your body differently than before but your doctor assures you that change is desirable and still possible.  You can eat what you want but you’re smart enough to want what’s good for you.  You take an interest in your health while you can still enjoy it and you finally learn to discipline yourself. 

And all of that makes it possible to attain a certain level of comfort with yourself, just as you are, as well as with the idea of aging.  When you were young the idea of getting older was not attractive; when you turn sixty you understand that slowing down and aging are rewards for the hard work and dedication of the younger years. 

Now, you realize, you’re free to explore long neglected interests and choose dedication to something other than work and routine.   More of your time is your own and, while you want more than ever to spend it wisely, you finally understand that rest, self-care, and attention to family and friends really are wise and rewarding uses of your time.

This article sounds like I’ve just turned sixty.  No, I’m a few years away from that milestone yet and I really have no idea how I’ll feel when I get there.  These musings about that magical age were inspired by reflections when my husband turned sixty recently.  Maybe I’m preparing myself now so that when my turn comes it will be a smooth passage.

Chick-a dee-delight

The Black-Capped Chickadee is perhaps universally recognized and considered cute by almost everyone who enjoys birds.  It’s oversized head, tiny stocky body, and black cap and bib are distinctive and appealing to us country people, whether we actually live in the country or not.  This perky little bird’s curiousity about people, animals, and almost everything else in its territory, combined with its promptness in discovering bird feeders, make it one of the first birds most people learn to identify.

Watching chickadees about their business at my birdfeeder is great entertainment.  These darting little feathered creatures deserve top billing as the clowns of the bird world, as they flit to and fro, hang upside down from small branches, and generally amuse themselves and us with their acrobatic antics. 

 Because they tend to associate in flocks in the winter, we rarely see just one.  The sudden activity and flurry when a flock sweeps in is very distinctive, as are their feeding habits.  They seldom sit at the feeder longer than it takes to grab a morsel and then just as quickly transport it elsewhere to eat.  Frequently, we see one alight on a nearby branch, hold a sunflower seed against the wood with its feet, and then vigorously peck and chisel at it with its beak until the hull cracks and the inner seed is consumed.

Chickadees’ social order dictates that dominant birds get to eat first and then less dominant flock-members can dart to the feeder to select a seed.  Because of this we observe only a few of them at a time on or very near the feeder but a quick scan of the nearby trees reveals many more patiently waiting their turn.  Chickadees are also instinctively wise enough to hide food for later, disappearing from the feeder for a few minutes to deposit their treasures in cracks and crevices known only to them before they return to select more.

 It’s easy to attract them to our feeders in the winter.  We usually wait until the bears are hibernating to avoid having our feeders, fencing, and decorative lattice ripped apart, as these giant shaggy creatures will do whatever it takes to satisfy their appetites when fattening up in the fall.  But, once it’s safe to put out a feeder, it rarely takes more than an hour or so for the first chickadee to find it and within minutes the whole flock is in the vicinity.  Then what a flurry of activity there is, as they dart about the serious business of feeding and distinctive chick-a-dee-dee-dee calls fill the air.

  

And it certainly doesn’t take them long to get used to our presence.  Within a day or two they sit scolding furiously from a nearby branch when one of us has the audacity to approach their territory to refill the feeder.  They swoop in again to resume snatching seeds the moment we’re done.  On one occasion my husband finished pouring sunflower seeds into the feeder opening, bent over to retrieve the pail from beneath the feeder, and, as he straightened up, was almost hit in the head by a furiously scolding, dive-bombing, little feathered missile!

             

It seems to me that the mere presence of these delightful, mischievous little bird-clowns in our world, whether in town or on my country mile, is evidence a-plenty that God really does have a sense of humour.

Ten Years Ago Today

 Today it’s ten years since the bombing of the Twin Towers in New York.  As with other pivotal events in history, many of us remember exactly where we were or what we were doing when we first realized what was happening and became glued to the horrifying images on the nearest television screen.  I was in my first year of working as a counsellor, specifically as an Intern in the counselling program of the theological seminary where I studied for my Master’s degree in counselling psychology.

With such an impressive-sounding credential almost complete, you’d think I’d have known how to respond to the shock and horror expressed by the people I was counselling and the students I was supervising.  And I did try as hard as I could to be that balanced and stable presence that everyone was seeking that day.  But, whenever I had a break, even just a few minutes to myself, I closed my office door and cried.  I wanted to pray but had no idea what to pray.  Like everyone else that day, I was stunned, horrified, and afraid at the way the whole world had changed in just a few minutes of evil.

I think now that it was a good thing that I didn’t know how to respond anymore than my clients and students did.  This was an event that no one could have known the “right” response to.  Actually, in our shock and our grief, we all had the only response that made any sense at all.  By the end of the day I was telling my students exactly that; that tears, grief, horror, and incomprehension were the only appropriate responses and sharing our feelings was the only way to get a little comfort.

Ironically, the readings of the liturgical calendar for today are all about God’s forgiveness and graciousness.  In the first reading we heard that “anger and wrath … are abominations yet a sinner holds on to them.”  It’s easy for me to apply those words to the terrorists who crashed their planes into the Twin towers and the people who planned those cruel actions.  I am quite sure that God must hate the anger and wrath that fueled those evil, vengeful actions.  Certainly I still feel the hurt and the grief of that terrible day ten years ago.

Ah, does that mean that I am being angry and wrathful, that I am harbouring in my heart the bitterness and desire for vengeance?  If I’m honest, I must admit that I wanted those terrorists to be caught and punished for what they did to the world.  For a time I felt that the United States and the American people were justified in any response they chose over the next few months and years.  Even when I suspected that vengeance was the prime motivation, I found it hard to disagree with their choices.  Then how am I going to reconcile the words of today’s psalm,

            “[God] will not always accuse,

            nor will he keep his anger forever.

            He does not deal with us according to our sins,

            nor repay us according to our iniquities.”  (Ps 103)

with my hard heart that wants vengeance for the crimes of 911?

I most certainly like the lines that promise that God will be merciful to me and won’t treat me as I deserve for my pettiness, my anger, my lack of forgiveness, and my unfaithfulness to love.  I fear that I am too much like the steward of today’s Gospel reading who, when he was forgiven a great debt by his master, went out and refused forgiveness to another who owed him a smaller debt.

And all of these uncomfortable thoughts put me in mind of another parable of Christ’s in which several groups of workers were hired at different parts of the day to work in a landowner’s field but, at the end of the day, they were all paid the same wage, whether they had worked the whole day or only an hour.  The landowner basically tells the complainers (those who thought they deserved more for working the whole day) that it’s none of their business what he does with his money; they got what he had promised them, so they had nothing to complain about.

In the same way, it’s none of my business how God deals with the people responsible for 911.  It will be difficult at times to remember that I have no right to revenge and I’m only responsible for my attitudes and my sinfulness.  I deserve no greater reward in heaven than the terrorist who may have repented at the last minute before he crashed the plane into the wall of the tower.   Actually, it’s my job to hope that he did repent and to rejoice if I think he’s in heaven! 

            “For as the heavens are high above the earth,

            so great is his steadfast love

            toward those who fear him;

            as far as the east is from the west,

            so far he removes our transgressions from us.”  (Ps 103)

Many years ago, when I was probably only about ten or twelve years old, my mother was talking to me about God’s mercy, probably in response to one of my never-ending questions about things religious and philosophical.  “I wonder what we’ll do,” she said, “if we arrive in heaven and find that Hitler is there.”  I’ve never forgotten her wise words, words that gave me a real way to think about the immensity of God’s mercy and forgiveness and how God's ways really are very different from ours. 

Today, remembering 911, and hearing the challenge of the liturgical readings we might well say, “I wonder what we’ll do if we arrive in heaven and find those terrorists there?”  Do we get upset at the thought?   Maybe we think that if those terrorists could achieve eternal bliss with God, then we deserve an even greater reward because we’ve never done anything that bad, we’ve lived kinder and gentler lives.  If so, are we any different from the steward who was so blind to the gift he received he could think only of how to get more out of someone else?  Perhaps we’re a little more like those fieldworkers in the other parable than we realize.

And that's our challenge as Christians: to outgrow our human insistence on our own standards of fairness and justice and let God be God.  As long we keep God in a box of our own making we are actually taking over from God and deciding how things should be settled.  That's a responsibility that I don't want ... do you?

Now or Never?

 One of my favourite things to do, especially on a long weekend or a few days off work, is to read about writing and the writing life.  I subscribe to a couple of writing journals and I read every word in each one.  Recently one magazine has been sending me renewal notices and I’m tempted to … ignore them and let my subscription expire.

Why would I do that when I enjoy them so much, when I delight in every minute spent reading and getting excited about my own writing?  I’ve just spent most of my long weekend reading three magazines (one was long-delayed by the postal strike of a couple of months ago) and I’ve learned so much about effective writing, developing enthralling plots, and giving life to real-people characters.  Surely I should continue these informative and inspiring subscriptions to nurture my developing writing abilities.

There’s only one problem.  Apart from this post, which comes at the very tail end of my extra-long weekend, I haven’t written a word the whole weekend.  Nothing of what I learned in my hours of reading has been put into practice.  And, if there’s one thing I’ve learned over these many years of longing to write, reading about writing, talking about writing, and dreaming of the writing life, it’s that I need to write every day. 

           

As the title of one recently published book about writing puts it so succinctly, it’s time I “shut up and write.”  Even if it’s only half an hour, I need to park my bottom in the desk chair of my office, fire up the computer, and write something, anything.  I work elsewhere for my daily bread (with a little butter on the side) and I plan that when I can afford to retire I’ll write several hours a day and make up for lost time.

But will I?  Will I, at age 60 or 65, develop new habits and routines?  Or will I, like so many before me, retire to a life of more of the same habits I built up in my working years?  Will I continue reading and talking about writing and dreaming of “someday when I’ll have the time to write” but never write anything?”  Maybe now really is the time to “shut up and write.”  Hmm, I think I should buy that book … or perhaps not!

In the spirit of my new resolution, I’ll shut up now and go write.  I have to, as deadlines loom and I haven’t even started either of this week’s articles; I spent too much time reading!

Daytripping

One of my favourite things to do on a lovely summer's day is to take a day-trip to wherever happens to suit our fancy.  I appreciate my own country mile so much more after I've spent a few hours enjoying other country miles.

Our most recent excursion saw us heading into eastern Manitoba as far as West Hawk Lake and then northwest-ish through the Whiteshell Provincial Park's lake country.  Shimmering lakes named Brereton, Red Rock, Nutimik, Jessica, Dorothy, Betulah, and finally Otter Falls nestled in Canadian Shield rocky outcroppings, lay waiting to be discovered like jewels in a bracelet of hammered rock.

 Around each curve of the winding and hilly narrow highway a new vista unfolded before us and I drank in the beauty and the serenity of God's nature.  Wherever we stopped briefly were God's people at rest in God's creation: fellow nature-lovers camping, swimming, playing beach sports, and enjoying each other's company before heading back into cities and towns for another week's work in the pavement-melting heat forecast for the coming days.

I felt at one with them and with all God's creation, in a way that recognized that I was part of this and could draw strength for my own week of work ahead from the same source.  It was the trees and forests, water and beaches, rock formations and marsh plants that gave me rest and renewal in the country miles I travelled.  I arrived home later in the day with my eyes and my mind full of the beauty of God's creation and a strong desire to write about it, to share it with you.

Sometimes I'm almost glad for the chronic condition that limits my movements, causes me pain, and prevents me from sleeping well, glad because it often renders me into a state of fatigue and feeling overwhelmed, and thus in a perfect position to recognize and welcome rest and refreshment for the spirit when they appear.  In the photo above, I'm looking thoughtful, beginning to understand that this day my husband planned is turning out to be exactly what I needed.  I was exploring the beautiful courtyard garden as we were leaving the Falcon's Nest Restaurant in Falcon Lake where we had just enjoyed our favourite treat, toasted cinnamon buns  and hot coffee.

I'd say this day was all about food and drink for the body: warm cinnamon buns in the morning; then sandwiches I'd packed for our picnic lunch later in the day;  food for my soul in the beautiful scenes laid out before my eyes at every turn; and drink for my spirit in the peace and serenity with which I slaked my thirst for God.

Cousin!!

I apologize for not having posted for some time and thank you for your patience.  Life (with a capital "L") intervened in the form of a family crisis (now resolved), unexpected but delightful company, a brief holiday away, and a hectic work schedule that refuses to slow down.  My summer suddenly got very busy and the pace hasn't let up.  I feel like I've been scrambling to find time to breathe, let alone write!


So, why the exclamation points in the title, you may well ask.  What's the big deal about having a cousin?  Well, for me it really is a big deal.  For four days I had a cousin staying with me and it's only the second time in my entire life that I actually could say that I have a cousin in Canada.

My parents were the only ones from their families to travel all the way from Germany to Canada and, as a result, my siblings and I grew up without the presence of aunts, uncles, grandparents, or cousins.  No Christmas time family gatherings for us, nor family reunions to celebrate grandparents' special birthdays and anniversaries. Nevertheless, we had a great childhood and always looked forward to those special parcels from Germany that arrived at Christmas and Easter, bearing special gifts and unique fashions and accessories that weren't available in Canada.  

It was only when I was old enough to visit friends' homes that I realized there was an element missing from our lives.  My friends were often not available to play or visit for several days around Christmas time or Easter because they were involved with family gatherings and trips to grandparents' uncles and aunts' homes to celebrate the holidays.  I grew to envy my friends a little when I saw several cars in their driveways, noticed them having fun with children who must have been cousins, or saw their homes locked up tight because they were all away for a few days visiting relatives.

So what a treat it was for me when my cousin Regine, and her husband Werner Muenzel, came to stay a few days, right here on our our country mile!  I was surprised at how emotional I became when greeted her; I hadn't seen her for about 35 years (she's the same cousin who visited in Canada once before, shortly after I was married) and I really couldn't say I "knew" her.  At the same time, I knew her instantly; she looked like us siblings when we were younger and I could see her resemblance to my Dad and his brother, Regina's father.

And so, for four wonderful days, I spent time with my cousin; saw pictures of her family, and her mother, my aunt; and caught up on the lives of other cousins, especially her brother and sister.  Regina's father had passed away only a couple of years ago, so it was sad to realize there would be no shots of Uncle Herman and no new stories of him.  We did a little traveling, showed them parts of Manitoba and Ontario, bar-be-qued here in our country milieu when we arrived home each evening, and revelled in getting to know each other once again.

At the end of our short time together, I knew I had not only reacquainted myself with a cousin; I had also formed a new friendship and discovered a beautiful strong woman, who I'm proud to claim as family.  How quickly the visit neared its end, and when my two sisters came to pick up Regina and her husband and take them to the airport the next day, I was sad to have to say goodbye so soon.

Of course we took pictures, and I think the best ones are of the four of us: my two sisters, Regina, and me.  In those shots I'm surrounded by wise and generous women and proud to say that they are all a treasured part of my family.  From left to right in the photo above, there's my sister, Monika, Regina, me, and my sister, Mary.  I think it's a shot of a lifetime and I may never again be so lucky as to have my sisters and a cousin here all at the same time.

Family is precious, whether you live in a city, a town, a village, or on your own country mile.

Skunked!

 Small animals such as squirrels, porcupines, weasels, and raccoons abound on our country mile.  We often encountered squirrels in our previous life, in town that is, but out here in the forest small wildlife can pop up in some unexpected places.

After we had lived a year here in our rural paradise, it fell to us to host my family’s annual summer gathering.  We had a lovely day with our town and city dwelling relatives and took pride in showing off our acreage, from the tall pines in the front portion of our property to the marshy land and the creek at the rear.

 

Asked about the wildlife we had encountered in our first year, we were only too happy to recount tales of deer, raccoons, and even several visits from bears.  My Dad commented that we were lucky we hadn’t encountered a skunk yet and warned us that we were approaching the time of year when young skunks leave their parents and begin to roam the countryside in search of food before their winter hibernation.

“Oh,” I said confidently, “we haven’t even smelled a hint of skunk in this whole year we’ve lived here.  I don’t think there are any around this area.”  Dad only smiled.

By early evening everyone had left for their homes and within a few minutes my husband and I were relaxing in the sunroom.  All at once our German Shepherd set up an incredible din in the garage where we had shut her in to eat her supper.

“Maybe someone forgot something and came back for it,” said my husband, as he moved toward the front door.  Curious, I headed for the picture window which gave me a view of the driveway, as well as, if I looked to the side, our front steps.  “I don’t see a vehicle,” I remarked and turned to look at the front step, just as my husband opened the front door to look out.

 

“There’s a skunk at the door,” I shouted, at the same moment as my husband opened it, took one startled look at the top step, and slammed the door shut again.  From the garage Lady howled her frustration that she couldn’t chase the intruder away and I fully expected the now obviously panicked little creature to spray our steps, the front door, and all the house siding in the vicinity.

My husband joined me at the window and we held our breaths to see what the little animal would do next.  It turned to retreat, peered down over the top step, and backed away.  When it repeated the maneuver several times, we realized it was only a baby and didn’t know how to get back down the steps it must have scampered up hurriedly when Lady’s barking startled it.

It took that adorable baby (baby skunks really are cute) nearly an hour to make its way down the steps and amble away, so we had lots of time to watch and hope it didn’t get so irritated by Lady’s continuing vocal threats that it would decide to do something to stop her noise.  As soon as the skunk was finally gone, I just had to call my Dad.  “You knew we’d get a visit from a skunk sooner or later,” I told him, “but I’ll bet you didn’t expect it to come politely to the front door!”

TechnoAmbiguity

 I feel very modern and up-to-date technologically and electronically when I tell someone that for my last birthday I received an e-reader, onto which I can download hundreds, even thousands, of books.  You’d think that I must be technologically very savvy but, I’m sad to say, I’m the exact opposite.  The kindest and most accurate term for me would be “techno-dummy”.

 Mass Confusion!  

I received the e-reader with the same attitude I received my first cell-phone years ago and my first computer before that, extreme reluctance.  I have to confess that I have been dragged kicking, screaming, and protesting into the computer age.  I acknowledge only grudgingly that word processing beats typing or writing by hand and that cell phones really are very convenient.  And, until recently, I’ve successfully resisted opening a Facebook account and starting a blog, though I must admit I'm really enjoying the blogging now.

Since we moved out to our country paradise a few years ago, we have had a different provider for high-speed Internet service than we had in town.  In the first couple of years, service was not always reliable and breakdowns, involving days of sporadic or no high-speed Internet at all were extremely frustrating for my much-more-technologically-advanced husband.  I, too, was quite surprised to find that I missed my early morning news fixes, checking on my daughter’s latest addition to her blog, and Googling almost anything I wanted to know any time I felt like it.  As a matter of fact, I missed it much more than I cared to admit.

I concede, albeit very reluctantly, that being part of the computer age has opened many doors for me and offered opportunities to explore my favourite pursuit, writing, and to develop more markets for my work.  Doing those tasks the old-fashioned way would be very tedious, time-consuming, and costly, though the local post-office might love me.  Using the Internet to research markets, ideas, and see my work on sites like this one affords me much more of what I really want, more time to write.

And, while I have to admit that technology has its merits and that I would surely miss it if it were no longer available, I also hold that it’s a huge time-waster as I spend hours “surfing” when I should be writing, checking my email when I should be researching a topic, and reading blogs when I could be happily posting on my own.

My biggest complaint about technology, however, is how easily it breaks down, freezes up, or malfunctions when I need it most, usually just when a deadline looms.  I swear that there are some machines, particularly photocopiers, that must see me coming and breakdown or jam before I ever touch a button.  Perhaps my techno-anxiety precedes me and the tension just has to erupt somewhere.

I have recently decided that the phrase, user-friendly, apart from being an oxymoron, excludes me and any machine I might cautiously approach.  I actually feel sorry for a machine that has to endure my hesitant attempts to learn its functions or, worse yet, to attempt a job that I’ve never tried before.  All of a sudden all the buttons, switches, arrows, symbols, and icons look identical and equally foreign, as my heart starts to pound, my fingers tremble, and inevitably I choose the wrong key or button, the one that immediately brings all functioning to a halt and spawns hordes of error messages, trouble lights, or warnings of illegal actions.

I feel like a criminal as lights blink, beeping tones erupt; I look around furtively to see if anyone has witnessed my techno-awkwardness and its discouragingly familiar results.  And then I do what I always do; I turn to the one person who inevitably makes sense of the confusion I’ve once again caused, my long-suffering husband who can only shake his head and wonder how I manage to create such chaos. 

 

He even looks a little like my husband!

My attempts to explain only cause further confusion and I usually end up retreating to the opposite corner of the room, so the poor man and the doomed machine can relax and sort out the mess.  Of course, now the machine responds smoothly and fluidly to every stroke of a key or push of a button.  I glare at it accusingly as it quietly and efficiently confirms what I have suspected all along; technology is out to get me!