Monday, near the end of November

It’s hard to believe, but this month is nearly at an end.  December is a mere 5 days away.

December.

Christmas.

The longest night of the year.

The beginning of the depths of winter.

It has been an exceptionally rough Fall this year.  For me, anyway.  I’ve had what I think is more than my fair share of trials and tribulations.  That may sound like whining, but I’m being honest when I say it’s been a helluva long haul.  And it ain’t over yet.

Oh, no.  There’s still plenty coming my way.  Only now, I’ve managed to gain a modicum of perspective and I think I’ll manage to get myself through without too much trouble.  (That’s my fervent hope, anyway.)

I’ve had help from those nearest and dearest who have listened, talked, calmed and helped me see that it isn’t as bleak as I sometimes paint, and when I’ve felt that I’ve painted myself into a corner they’ve been there with the rags and the thinner to help show me the way out.  I truly am blessed.

Sometimes, it’s easy to lose your perspective.  Easy to give into the dark thoughts and fears that wait for the times when you’re feeling weak and vulnerable.  But, with perseverance and love and kindness, eventually you’ll see that all the good, joyful, wonderful bits that make life bearable are still there and that they can overcome your fears and insecurities.

I don’t know why, really, it was so hard for me this year.  Usually, I’m pretty tough.  I can take just about anything and bounce back ready to fight.  But this time around. . .

. . .I don’t know.  The fight seemed to go out of me.  I’m tired of fighting, I guess.  And that confused the hell out of me.  Because if I’m not ready to fight, then what am I to do?

I know what I want to do — and that is simply just to be.  I want to relax in the evenings and bake cookies if I feel like it.  I want to go out for leisurely strolls in the cold winter evenings, even though I hate the cold.

I want to curl up on the couch and read.  Pick up the crochet book and the yarn I bought.  I want to rearrange my bedroom.  I want to wander over and see what my grandkids are up to and then wander back home and have a hot cup of tea and go to bed.

But right now I’m not capable of any of that.  Right now I’m simply rallying.  Rallying my defences — physical, mental and emotional.  And that is taking a lot out of me.  Slowly, slowly I’m beginning to feel strong again, a little bit of the fight in me is showing through again.  It won’t, I don’t think, ever come fully back.  And that, I believe, is because I won’t let it.

It’s time for me to take care of me.  There’s only so much of yourself that you can give away before something inside you gives way.  It’s been a tough lesson, one I would have thought I was too old to learn.

Apparently I was wrong.

I’m hoping that my mind is a little clearer a little more free again and that one of these days I’ll start writing something besides these angsty, self-analysis posts.  Until then, thanks to everyone who has continued to check in on my meagre and sporadic offerings.

The glass half full — with cranberries!
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Blizzard #2

A week went by.  We thawed.  We had plus 9’s.

Now we have a ton of snow again and minus 9’s.

Is nothing in this god-forsaken land ever ‘normal’?

Yesterday we got hit by another blizzard.  Terrible road conditions.  Over 200 accidents (that’s mostly due to yahoo’s who refuse to drive to the conditions, but that’s another rant), some highways closed, travellers told they could not proceed if they didn’t have snow tires.  Hotels were happy.

Really.

I get home and my driveway is full of snow again.  This time, though, I’m not shovelling it.  Tim can.  Sounds mean, but hear me out.  EVERY time there is a big snowfall, the man is never around.  I get to do all the shovelling.  This time, I knew he’d be home shortly after me (and I had a meeting across town, anyway, which I chose to walk to) so I figured:  let him do it this time.

I get home.  He shovelled around my car.

Really.

Winter.  It brings out the best in some of us.

I hate it.

Tuesday morning

We had a big snowfall last week — an early blizzard, actually.  And it appeared the snow was here to stay.

However, over the last couple of days the temps have soared — yesterday we reached plus 9.  So, we’ve got all this melting snow causing the roads and streets to be quite treacherous to walk on.

Heather and I ventured out yesterday morning and again today.  Yesterday was a trial; today was better.

As I walked home from her house down the crunchy, icy street in the dark it occurred to me that it wasn’t that the conditions were so much improved over yesterday as it was that I had got accustomed to walking on the ice and slippery snow.  I had gotten my ice-legs back.

Ice-legs, I thought.  Would that be like sea-legs?  And, yes, I suppose it would be.

Here on our in-bound prairie ocean we have to learn a different way of walking come winter time.  It gets forgotten in the halcyon days of summer and golden gleaming of fall, when we can walk with all confidence and sure-footedness of the flat-land creatures we are.  But, let there come a deep snow-fall followed by a chinook to melt that snow and turn it into a rutted, frozen coating of slippery muck and soon enough we re-discover that unique way of walking that makes us look like drunken penguins.

It’s a head down, eyes scanning the surface before us, teeny tiny steps on stilted legs, arms held slightly out to our sides with backs either ram-rod straight or hunched over at the shoulders kind of stance.  And this is how we make our way through winter.  Shoulders drawn up against the cold, living in constant fear that your foot is going to betray you as you place it gingerly down, hoping, hoping, hoping that the ice has enough of a frosting of snow or grit to give your step purchase.

It’s a precarious way to tread through 5 months of  a year, but, you get used to it.

Gotta love those ice-legs!

Hello?

It’s been an incredibly busy last week of NaNoWriMO.  But the end is in sight.

I posted 46,690 words tonight.  Tomorrow I will be finished.  I’m thinking I’m going to surpass the 50,000 word mark by just a little bit.

The ending of my book has been harder to write than I thought.  The beginning and middle were easy by comparison.  But, I like the way it’s turning out.

What I’m also liking is that my normal life is just there on the horizon, and after midnight tomorrow night it will be within my grasp.

There is much decorating to be done, and the possible painting of a bedroom.  As well as baking, as in Christmas baking.

Then, too, there is Christmas shopping to ponder.  Usually, I am all done, but for a few small things by this time.  This year, with all the upheaval and uncertainty that has been part of my existence for the last few months, I didn’t do any shopping.   So, over the next few weeks I’ll have to dig deep and get out there and brave the — dunh-dunh-dunh — malls.  I hate the malls during busy holiday times.

Enough whining!  I must go to bed.  My eyeballs feel like little balls of sand.

Here’s to 5oK!  and freedom!

The last days of my garden

Just thought I’d share these final photos of my garden.  I didn’t spend a lot of time in my garden this year — too much rain, not enough time, away for a good portion of the summer, many excuses, none of them particularly good, but she still rewarded me with some beautiful blooms and scenery.

These pictures were taken last week — before the really heavy frosts started hitting us.

The final bloom on my hardy shrub rose.

 

late-blooming monkshood

 

tenacious little johnny jump-ups

 

bergenia

November 22, 2010 How cold did you say it was going to be?

A picture from a couple of winters ago -- but that's pretty much what we've got right now.

Sunday was the official first day of winter here in North America.  And by North America I mean Canada.  It started getting cold last Wednesday.  Things got kicked off by a good old winter storm which brought us a bunch of snow.  Then on Thursday the tem

perature started to plummet.  We had -15’s (Celsius) through the weekend, and woke to -21 this morning.

The temp continued to drop throughout the day — we reached a balmy high of – 21.  By the time I left work it was – 25.  At 6:15 when I left for my yoga class it was -28.  By tomorrow morning we’re only going to get a couple of degrees colder.  It should be – 30 at 6 a.m., BUT the windchill will make it seem like – 42!!!

Is it any bleeping wonder that I hate winter!

I will do my best to be positive — but it would sure be a helluva lot easier if I didn’t have to face going out into that tomorrow.

Good night, sleep tight and dream of tropical breezes.

November 16 — Remembrance Day Weekend — Part III

Okay, so let’s see.  I left off at the Vauxhall Legion.  We sat around for a bit, talked to some of the ‘old folks’ who knew Wilf and Gerry from when they lived in Retlaw and then headed out to the homestead.

Not that there’s any homestead left.  The land was sold off long ago and all that remains of the old place is a small shed where they used to pump the water.  We found some bits of chain and remnants of old farm equipment, but really nothing left to tell that this is where my husband’s family originated.

It is hauntingly beautiful country, though.  As far as you can see:  gold prairie grasses sighing beneath a sky of palest blue  that’s been brushed ever so lightly with gossamer clouds.  Then, look out across to the south and you can see the Union United Church of Retlaw.  It’s just a plain, white church surrounded by more prairie and a few dilapidated houses.  Barb wire fence runs along the western edge and there’s a big rock sitting just north of the entrance that someone sandblasted with the name and date of establishment.  The rock looks strange, out-of-place.  But it shows that people care.

Enough people cared to renovate and rebuild the old church.  Tim’s, Rick’s and Rob’s parents were two of them.  The inside of the church is quaint.  Very plain.  But beautiful, just the same.  Like the prairies.  I’m not a religious person, though I would say that I am spiritual.  I like going in the church at Retlaw.  It’s comfortable, and I can easily imagine the sense of welcome and comfort that many of the pioneer families must have received when they gathered inside its rough country walls.

The ‘boys’ wandered about a bit, went out to the old graveyard where their great-grandmother is buried.  The graveyard is a couple of miles from the church in the middle of a bald patch of prairie.  There’s a gate to mark the entrance, but no road — you simply drive in across the field and stop an appropriate distance from the first weather-beaten headstone.

Once the tour was complete we headed back to Lethbridge.  We had another wreath to lay at the cemetary where Wilf and Gerry are buried.  By the time we got back to town, everyone was tired.  And hungry.  We decided a snack was in order.  So back to the house we go, where we gobble up a couple of buns, then it’s find some warmer coats because the ever-lovin’ wind has picked up.  The sun is going down and Connie is beginning to fret that we’ll be laying the wreath in the dark.

However. . .

. . . it is determined that we must make a beer run before we can go to the cemetary.  I’m no longer driving, so I don’t care.  Although, I’m with Connie as for laying a wreath in the dark in a cemetary with gale-force winds and the threat of snow in the air.  Eventually, we arrive at the gravesite and we all pile out and head over to where Wilf and Gerry lie.  It’s freezing, our teeth are chattering.  We apologize to Wilf for being so late and in such a hurry.  We know he’ll understand, though, because these are his boys, after all, and he grew up here in the south, where the wind never seems to stop.

Back at the house we make plans for dinner, but Connie and I decide we need a nap first.  We leave the boys to have a beer and play with Rick’s blood pressure machine.

Yes, you read that right.  Blood pressure machine.  They’d started playing with it the night before, right after Tim and I arrived.  They’d tell a joke, then check their blood pressure.  Have a beer, check the pressure.  Watch TV for ten minutes, check again.  Kids.  Connie said that come Saturday night, when there was a party for Rick and 3 of his friends who had all turned 60 that year, the blood pressure machine would have to be hidden away.  We could just imagine it becoming the most interesting ‘game’ of the night.

All that checking of blood pressure’s, however, bore some fruit.  Rick became so alarmed at how high my husband’s blood pressure was (I’ve been trying to get him to see a doctor about it for a couple of years) that he dragged him to his doctor on Friday morning and Tim got some medication.  Now the trick is for Tim to actually take it and get to his own doctor for a check-up.

They don’t like to admit that they’re not 20 or even 30 anymore.  Tim and Rob are in their 50’s while Rick is now 60.  Watching them goof around and play their silly tricks on one another, listening to them laugh I couldn’t help feeling a little wistful.  Where has the time gone?  My God, it seems like only yesterday when our kids were all small.  We were piling them into vehicles and taking them up to Beauvais to go fishing and spend a day at Connie’s parent’s cabin.  We, meaning Connie, Kelly and myself would be annoyed as hell with the guys for drinking too much, making too much noise and taking off for hours without letting us know where they were going or what they were doing.  They’d pile into the boat and take off and you could hear their laughter clear across the lake.

Through all the dramas over the years, the heartbreak, the joys, the arguments, all the little moments that have made and joined our lives — the sound of Larson boys laughing is one sound that binds us all.