Wyser

Every good and true farm kid needs a furry companion.  I do not remember a time while growing up on the farm, where we did not have at least one or two cats (or ten) and at least one or two dogs following us around. We ALWAYS had a dog.  Cats, well, you see I love cats immensely, but they aren't the same type of pet as dogs are.  They don't show the compassion or the fierce loyalty that a dog will.  They don't tick you off, cower while you're angry at them, and come for love two minutes after they've been yelled at.  Cats are....aloof and enjoy holding grudges.  They do whatever THEY want.  Dogs will do everything and a little more for their "person".

We had some truly amazing dogs while I was growing up.  They are one reason why I am such an animal lover.  The oldest dog that I remember is my Dad's little blue heeler Smokey.  She was his pal, and his alone.  She went on the snowmobile with him while checking the trap-lines.  She rode on his motorbike with him.  She was his furry companion.  When my mom came into the picture, Smokey became her companion as well.  But when my sister was born-that was it.  Smokey wasn't too interested in this smelly, noisy little human, but her people said she had to be nice.  So she was.  And soon enough, there were TWO smelly, noisy little humans and Smokey was enamored.  We were her babies.  She protected us and followed us everywhere on the farm.  If the adults didn't know where my sister and I had toddled off to, all they had to do was look for the dog.  She was a beautiful dog, and smart and loyal too.  I remember when she died-I might have been 8 or 9 years old- and Smokey was an old dog by then.  She was deaf and crippled with arthritis but goodness did she love her people.  I'm certain she is the reason I hold a special place in my heart for dogs.

As the years passed, we attained more dogs on the farm.  We always tried to keep two dogs, so that they would have company.  In my time on the farm, we had a Smokey,Coco, Wolfie, and Dexter.  Dexter is another dog that makes an appearance in many of my memories on the farm.  He was an excellent herding dog, and was always keen to help put chickens to bed every night.  He helped put cattle into pens, and was such a friendly, fluffy guy, who was absolutely terrified of thunderstorms.  After I left home, my parents and brothers got a Buddy.  Now they have a Sarge (who loves to chase flying crows and spin in circles) and a Patches (who is a wanna-be house/couch dog).

I had only been married and living in Prud'homme for 3 months when I felt I needed an animal.  My farmer didn't have cattle- and didn't have any animals for that matter- and I was severely lonely without a dog or cat.  We had gone home for Christmas and I ended up bringing my cat Meeko (who had actually taken up residence at my parents' neighbours since I left the farm) back with us.  She was spoiled and totally soaked up all the lavish attention that was paid to her, as any typical cat will do.  Then I went and spoiled all her "catty" fun by bringing home a puppy two months later.  

My Grandpa found this puppy for me. 

His first night home with us.

Wyser and Meeko-love/hate relationship for life.

 

He knew I was looking for a dog, and he knew how important it was for me to have one in my life.  A man that he knew just happened to have a dog that had puppies.  They were Catahoula/German Shepherd crosses (basically mutts) and there happened to be a very different looking one in the litter.  He was black and white spotted, with ice-blue eyes.  My Grandpa told the man that was the one I'd be taking, even though I hadn't set eyes on him until the day my farmer and I picked him up.  It didn't matter though.  As soon as I saw the little girl carrying him over to our truck, I just wanted to squeeze him with happiness.

The ride home was where he decided to accept us.  We called him Wyser.  He sat in the back seat of the truck, and stared out the back window for an hour, only stealing a couple of glances my way.   Then he proceeded to be car-sick, and puked into the pocket of my farmer's bag.  I got out, cleaned out the puke, and we went on our way.  I sat with my arm hanging in the back seat so he would get used to me. Eventually, our new Wyser got tired of being shy, and lay his head down right on top of my hand and that was that.  We were going to be okay- I was his person.

Wyser became my best friend.  If you're from a small town, you'll understand that if you aren't born and raised in that particular town, you don't belong.  You'll never truly "belong".  But as a newly married "outsider", I can tell you that my only friend that first year in Prud'homme was, truthfully, Wyser.  I worked at that time, and I would tie him up outside the house before I left for work every morning, because I knew he'd follow my farmer to my in-laws.  Every day when I came back from work, he'd be SO happy, and I'd find new things destroyed.  He chewed everything in sight.  He even tore the bark from the cedar trees in front of the house.  We moved to a different house in the fall, and he proceeded to chew the siding off one corner of the house.  He chewed the doorway of his dog house.  He barked all night long.  He pestered the cat to no end, but only needed a couple of lickens from her before he realized he wasn't the boss of that one.  He was a true brat.  Then he grew older and he became such a well-behaved dog.  He never pooped in the yard (I trained him right from the start to go into the field for his business).  He barked whenever a strange vehicle came into the yard.  He kept the coyotes out of the yard.  He loved to go for walks & runs on his leash.  He loved going for rides in the van with my farmer, and had his very own seat.  He kept the muskrat population down as much as he could (he wasn't a very graceful hunter, but he loved stalking them).  When my farmer and I had our babies, he wasn't sure of them at first, but in the last four years, he protected them when strangers came over, always putting himself between the kids and the new person.  I felt safe when I had him at home with me, and whenever we went for walks or bike rides.

A month and a half ago, I had to put my best buddy Wyser down.  He was 9.  He had a tumour growing on his throat and one day out of the blue, it hemmoraghed.  (It's very ironic to me that I lost my grandfather-who chose this dog for me- this past spring in relatively the same manner-he was a stroke victim and never recovered).  All ironies aside, I took Wyser inside the house one last time, so the kids could say goodbye (they really didn't know it was the last time they'd be petting him, but I didn't want them to make a scene, I never would have made it through the ordeal to come).  Off we went to the vet. Wyser hopped in the back of the SUV,  and I made it 5 minutes from home when I decided he needed to sit in the front seat beside me if this was going to be his last ride.  I rolled the window down for him, he leaned over onto my shoulder, and we took an extra long time to get to the vet.  I had to fight back my tears as I explained to the vet what I thought had happened to him.  She was very understanding and went through all of the options that I could choose if I wanted to try and save him.  I knew, in my heart, that he wouldn't make it if he couldn't eat or drink.  So the vet went ahead with my decision to euthanize.  She asked if I wanted to stay for his end, and I said, "Of course! I have to!!!", and he crossed over as I held him and told him he was a good dog, petting him over and over.  It was very hard for me to say good bye to my friend and loyal companion. Even the vet was crying with me (she's known him for as long as I have, as she's been seeing him every spring for his yearly shots).  I'm glad that we didn't let him suffer, but I miss him every day.  Every other day, one of the kids will mention him, or ask "Where's Wyser, Mum?" and I have to tell them that he's in puppy heaven chasing muskrats and we'll see him again some day.

You're probably thinking, well, it WAS just a dog after all, but it really wasn't for me when you get right down to the bottom of it.  When I'm having a rough day, I miss having that interaction with him, especially when I talk to children all day long (stay at home mom's know what I mean!!!).  I miss my pigeon/skunk hunting buddy, my muskrat killer, my running buddy, my security alarm, my pain-in-the-butt bathroom trips outside so he could "mark" his territory at 3 a.m. 

October 2015

He never talked back, but he always knew exactly what I felt and he really did give the best hugs.  I hope we gave him the best life he could have had.  He'll be missed always and his place in my heart will never be replaced.  

"See you at home, pooch."

Raising children on the farm

Today's post is entirely my opinion (wait a minute....all of my posts are my opinion!!) and I apologize in advance if I offend anyone who's opinion shall differ from my own.

I read an article today in the Western Producer.  It was titled : "Kids and equipment don't mix" with a subtitle of "Children should have duties away from work zones: experts".  It was interesting and definitely came at a very opportune time in the farming community.

Earlier this week, a small farming family from rural Alberta sadly lost their 3 daughters-that's right, not just one, but THREE!!!- in a farming accident involving suffocation in a grain truck filled with canola.

My heart breaks for that poor family.  But do you know what their statement was to the wretched media (really??  why can't they just let the family grieve?)  This is from Global News: " Our kids died living life on the farm.  It is a family farm.  We do not regret raising and involving our kids Catie, aged 13, Dara, aged 11 and Jana, aged 11, on our farm.  It was our life."

Here are my thoughts on this whole thing.  The article I read this morning basically stated that children on farms should be kept away from any and all equipment and leave it to the adults. They should find child care. (do you have any idea how to find childcare in a rural area, because if you do, please share with me!!!)  There are "other ways of introducing children into the life of a farmer without endangering them" and "kids don't have a place there".

I'll fill you in on my upbringing, because some of my earliest memories, involve riding in/on farm machinery.

My mother worked as a registered nurse, most weekends, in the nearby town.  My grandmother also worked as a nurse at the same hospital, on the weekdays.  My dad and my grandfather were farmers.  When either of the women were not available to perform the "traditional farm-wife" role of raising the kids and making meals, my dad and my grandpa had to deal with it.  I can still recall, to the tiniest detail, the cultivator plowing through the dirt behind the tractor as my sister and I curled up on an old winter parka behind the tractor seat like little puppies.  The smell of the dirt.  The smell of the tractor fuel.  The smell of farmer's sweat. The smell of warm, milky tea in the thermos on the floor and the cookie crumbs on our fingers, mixed in with the dust.  If Grandpa got out of the tractor, we were not to TOUCH ANYTHING!!!  We were 3 and 4 years old, and understood. And yet, we were apparently too young to be there?

Some of my earliest memories were from behind the seat of my Dad's Deutz Allis

We didn't have a swather with a cab on our farm until 2 years ago.  Before that, if we wanted to bring my dad a thermos of water in the field, we would hop onto the swather beside him and hang on tight.  We would feed cattle in the winter with our Grandpa driving his little (again, cab-less) International tractor and we would ride on the wheel-wells.  And we knew to hang on tight and don't touch the levers.

I guess the point I'm trying to make, is that we were taught from a very young age, that you had to have common sense and USE IT around machinery and animals.  You have to realise that those machines are BIG, and those cattle are BIGGER THAN YOU.  Use caution to the utmost degree, even if you're so comfortable you could complete the task in your sleep.  You get out of the tractor, you shut that PTO (power take off) OFF!  You have a parking brake-USE IT.  You know that cow is an angry momma, you make sure you can jump that fence that you keep close to you.

I was 12 when my dad taught me to run his tractor and baler.  When I got home from school, I baled straw once I finished my milking chores.  I was 11 or 12 when I was told to drive the green Chevy across the field to get Grandpa and Dad for supper.  Of course it wasn't on the road, but a wide-open summer fallow field.  I learnt to milk a cow at 7.  We rode trikes, and motorbikes to chase cows when we were big and strong enough to drive them on our own.  (and when we weren't big enough, my sister and I would share the box on the back of the trike--you know those horribly dangerous 3- wheeled motorized bikes that flip on a dime and are now obsolete??)

You're probably thinking, yes, but sometimes common sense won't matter because things just happen--like the accident in Alberta this week.  And you are correct on that too, I know first-hand.  I lost my grandfather at age 7, to a farming accident.  He was run over by his own tractor.  Do you think, at 7 years old, I'd ever forget the way he looked in his casket at his funeral??  Because I haven't, and I think of him and all the tears that my family shed that day.  Every time seeding and harvest rolls around and my farmer gets into the "harvest panic-mode", I think of him and I remember.  Some things just aren't worth the risk.  Safety being first and foremost.

Raising your children to respect their environment-whether that be the land, the animals, or the machines- is what makes farm kids stand out amongst their peers.  And farm kids already know that farming is one of the top 5 most dangerous occupations.  In the WORLD.

I don't know the full details of what happened on that family farm in Alberta, but I really do wonder what possibly could have made 3 girls, aged 11 & 13, to be on the back of that truck filled with canola.  Were they playing up there? Did they know better?  Possibly?  Did their parents need them to shovel grain down or out of the box?  I hate to sound insensitive, but why would they be up there otherwise???  At 13, I know I would not have played on a truck box filled with grain.  I knew better.  Grain is dangerous -especially canola seed.  I shovelled bins with my sister when I was 13, I understand how it can suck you in and luckily, no one was ever hurt on our farm doing these things.  My mom worried, I know she did because all of a sudden we were forced to wear dust masks to protect our lungs. How can you not worry?? As a mother?? As a parent??

But....

I do not believe that children do not have a place in the work zone of a farm.  I believe they should be involved in all aspects of farm life, including the "work zones".  And they should be taught that FARMING IS DANGEROUS.   They need to be aware at all times when around running machinery.  When driving machinery.  When there are power lines overhead and you're at a bin yard with an auger.  When dealing with hormonal animals.  And if they are "too young", the adult needs to be responsible for that youngster's safety and his/her own.  I do not let my children go in the big machines without myself hopping in with them.  Because I get it.  My little farmer, he pushes buttons like they're going out of style.  My daughter can talk the ear off a donkey.  Kids can be distracting.  But they can also be TAUGHT.  My little farmer already knows that when a big machine starts up, he RUNS back to the house.  Just the other day, I had to start up our big 4 wheel-drive tractor because one of our machines got stuck in the field.  I quickly ran to the shed, with my little farmer somewhere 20 feet behind me.  I hopped in the tractor and fired the engine.  That's it, that's all.  My little farmer screamed bloody murder and booked it back to the house like his butt was on fire.  He's not even 2 and he understands the danger.  And I'm kind of proud of myself for teaching him those things.

I hope and pray that nothing tragic ever befalls my dearest family members.  I do not ever wish to bury my own children or my own farmer.  Being a farm kid and a farmer's wife, nothing in this world scares me more than that.

I pray that the family in Alberta finds the courage to continue on, in the face of tragedy and despair.  Because I'm sure they did the best they could, and that's all we ever can do in this world.  Keep on, keeping on, and be safe!

xo
Carrie

Farming = Animal Abuse. Did I miss something????

It's HARVEST TIME here on the Hounjet Farm!!!!  (And pretty much every other farm in the province right now)  Which means lots of trips to the fields, meals to prepare, lunches to pack, and in my case, pictures to take. :)

Just last night, I decided the kids and I needed to get out of the house for a bit.  We packed up my farmer's HOT supper (yep, he's spoiled big-time!!) and picked up my farmer's dad, farmer's brother, and the hired man's HOT suppers as well (yep, they're spoiled too!!!).  Off we went to the field!

After fighting off the mosquitoes while the farmers ate their suppers, the kids and I hopped in the combine with my farmer's dad.  The kids loved it.  Their Pepere loved it (I'm sure Elise's matter-of-fact stories will never get old) and I enjoyed the little break from the monotony of the day.  I, of course, took a few pictures!  I'm active on social media, and no, I don't mind posting photos of my farm kids doing typical farm things on the Internet.

I captured and posted this photo on my personal Twitter account, with the caption/hash tags:  "#harvest15 #fourthgenerationfarmer #farmlife #farm365 #westcdnag #takingoffthewheat"

I love it.  It epitomizes my life and theirs.  Now here's what I have to deal with following my totally innocent and beautiful #farmlife post; some crackpot, social media TROLL that goes by the Twitter name @jesusxanimals, commenting and telling me that what I'm doing is the culture of death, and it's ANIMAL ABUSE.  Excuse me? What? I'm so confused right now....

Here's our "conversation" up until I decided to block the TROLL and continue on enjoying my #farmlife.  Except I didn't continue on enjoying.  I wasted my entire lunch hour with my farm kids (who were eating home-grown vegetables and ethically-raised meat) pondering on what this total stranger had to say to me via social media.

First this comment... #animalabuse ????

Umm.....yep...damn straight I'm teaching farming to children....

I tried to keep it civil.  Which is how I ended this by blocking @Jesusxanimals before I got into it "publicly"

  They just don't get it.  There are so many ignorant people in this world, (like @jesusxanimals)  and they believe that by hiding behind a screen and typing  ignorant comments to random STRANGERS that this will somehow change THEIR world for the better.  I'm sorry.  I don't agree.

I eat.  You eat.  Everyone eats.  I gather this "person" was vegan (#govegan) and all the power to them for THEIR choice.  BUT---who feeds this person their vegan food?  That's right.....a farmer.  And how did #takingoffthewheat and #farm365 turn into a conversation about #animalabuse and akin to the holocaust?????  I'm just....blown away by the thought of this! 

Farming is not "the culture of death".  I absolutely, straight out LAUGHED at this comment.  

Maybe I'm the ignorant one, but I'd like to think otherwise.

Farmers-in MY OPINION- are the most important and CAPABLE people in this world.  They deal with death on a daily basis, whether that be their animals or their crops, but they also deal with LIFE.  That farmer that helped deliver that little calf, which in turn dies the next night for unknown causes, will help bring another ten little calves into the world the very next day.  You think he/she doesn't think about that one that lost the fight?  You are so wrong if you do.  That farmer who has to carry around the biggest conciencse of all other professions/lifestyles, who lost his entire crop to a late frost in the spring, or the random hail storm that blew through, will turn around and TRY to plant another, faster growing crop before the growing season is over, so that he can TRY to pay his bills and feed his family.  To feed YOU, the CONSUMER.  That farmer, who deals with so many uncontrollable factors in his/her line of work (Mother Nature, ignorant people, the price of oil/fertilizer/vaccinations,etc) will cry at night and get up the next day and will just keep going.  Because that's what farmers do- they are strong.  They have to be.  They are the BACKBONE of our province, our country, our WORLD.  And guess what, I'm SO PROUD to be a born & raised FARMER.  I'm SO PROUD of my ancestors, my parents, my in-laws,  MY FARMER.  They/we work hard to make a life for ourselves.  My kids will never, EVER confuse #farmlife with #animal abuse because that's just a ridiculous idea.  I was raised to know better than that and I refuse to associate or burden myself with anyone who follows what the above-mentioned TROLL believes.

C

ps.  You can follow me on Twitter @CarrieHounjet for cute harvest, farm life pictures. :)

Those apples better be worth it!

I'm not afraid of much.

I mean, I'm not really a "girly girl" in that, I don't scream when I see a mouse.  I don't really get overly upset about mud or getting my hands/body dirty.  I can butcher and cut up meat like any other good farm kid.  I can shoot animals, muck barns out, you name it.

BUT- I draw the line at moths and wasps.  I am a chicken sh*t when it comes to getting up close and personal with those particular...things.

You're probably thinking, "Moths?  Seriously??  What is so scary/awful/disgusting about moths???"

Moths are gross.  They're "fluttery" and clingy.  They've got big HAIRY legs.  Their "feelers" are all huge and googly-eyed looking.  I just don't like them.  They're nasty and if I ever get the chance to squash them, I do.  In fact, just the other morning I was sweeping out my garage and a BIG DISGUSTING HAIRY BROWN MOTH swooped all over my face, looking for somewhere to hide.  I took half a second to realise it was "just a moth" and swung my broom like a crazy-lady on crack-cocaine.  There wasn't much left of it after I was through.

Wasps on the other hand....are downright DANGEROUS.  I lived in Australia for 7 months-a LOT of their bugs are venomous and I came to fear the unknown.  The red-back spider bite can be fatal. The ants were an inch long and would GRAB a (small) TWIG from my hand.  Their snakes are venomous.  Their spiders are HUGE AND HAIRY.  Everything there seems like it COULD possibly kill me-with just one bite/sting.  Wasps are a lot like Australia's insects.  They are mean, vicious and might be able to kill me?  (I don't really know if they could kill me with their sting, because I've never been stung.  And I don't ever intend to be. *fingers crossed*)

I was away for about five days this past week.  In my absence, a small colony of wasps decided to BUILD THEIR NEST on MY apple tree.  The apple tree that has beautiful, delicious red apples that had just ripened perfectly for picking.

I was about ten feet away from my apple tree (picking beans) and took a break from my labor to glance at my delicious, ripe apples. (apple-picking was next on my "to-do" list)

Devastated.  Disappointed.  Scared.  Angry.

Those were all the emotions that flitted across my mind-and in that order too.  They all flew out the nearest exit when I heard a wasp buzz past me.  I finished my bean-picking and sat down to think about how I was going to dispose of those darn pests in order to pick my apples.

I posted my dilemma to Facebook for ideas.  Several people commented that they have wasp nests in particularly troublesome areas.  Some said they surrendered their produce to the wicked little beasts.  And then my cousin pipes up with this SOLID piece of advice: "Wait till late at night and take a BIG black garbage bag.  Put it over the nest and tie off.  CUT OFF THE BRANCH and BURN IT.  Only way to get rid of it.  Just sayin'..."

Thanks Daryl.  I totally did JUST THAT!  Sort of... (minus the whole put the garbage bag over the nest, tying off and burning it)

I definitely psyched myself up for this job.  I waited until 9:30 p.m. (Sun went down at 9ish, wasps sleep at night, right? That's what I hoped anyway...)  Then I got suited up.  Jeans, thick sweater, Carhartt overalls, thick bunnyhug (for all you non-Sasky people; that's a hooded sweatshirt), ball cap, gloves and my kids' stroller bug netting to finish off the ensemble.  I was rockin' my outfit. (and sweating bullets just thinking about having a nest full of angry wasps chasing me down for destroying their house)

See?  Clearly "bringing sexy back" for wasp destruction night.

I grabbed my giant garbage bag, a flashlight and a step-ladder and faced my fears like a good farm girl does.  

First I checked the nest- yep, the wasps were "sleeping" aka not flying like jet fighters at my face.  Then I set up my little step ladder just underneath the nest (actually it was more like 4 feet too far away...)  I grabbed my tree branch cutters and my bag, checked my "netting" one last time, and sidled up nice and close. (is 3 feet too far???)  Then, I see that I won't be able to get the bag over the nest due to another branch being in the way.  So I slowly attempt to remove the first offending branch.  Obviously I need to speak to my farmer about sharpening my shears, because that half-inch branch took FOREVER to cut through!!!!  To top it all off, I then proceeded to BUMP the nest getting the branch out.  *BLEEP!!!!*  My heart leaped into my throat as I heard the swarm buzz to life.  There were wasps performing reconnaissance missions immediately following "the slight bump" to the colony.  I grabbed my heart and my supper, shoved it back in, and ran/stumbled in the dark back to my house.

Shit.

Soooooooo, I undress from my suit of armor, head up the stairs and hear from my brave farmer (yeah, yeah, you're wondering why HE isn't out there performing wasp destruction!?!?!  I am too actually......)  "Did you get them?"

"No.  No I didn't," was my response.  Then...LIGHT-BULB!  Daryl said to burn it.  I went directly back downstairs and suited up again.  Only this time, I had a weapon.  FIRE.

EXTREME DANGER-yep, just what the doctor ordered.

Back out I go, with my trusty flammables in my gloved hand.  I shine the flashlight at the nest again to see if the reconnaissance missionaries were back at home.  All looked quiet again.  I tried my best to sneak nice and close, and pulled the trigger. 

Nothing.  

Obviously I was not close enough.  Sidled another 2 feet and felt two wasps buzz past my head.  OH.  MY.  GOD.  Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.  I pulled the trigger again, and......SUCCESS!!!  The base of that nest lit up!  I stumbled/ran back about ten feet into the darkness to watch.  I could hear the swarm of them getting louder. And then...the flames died.  I hoped to the high heavens the initial flame had got most of the nest, and then I headed back into the house away from any stray dive-bombers.

The next day it was a blustery, rainy day.  I went to see the damage when I had a spare minute.  Sadly, it was minimal.  Only the bottom third of the back half of the nest was charred.  And boy were those wasps busy!!!  I was disappointed with my results.  My farmer tells me that if I had used a "tiger-torch" those nasty little buggers would be TOASTED.  However, I had another LIGHT-BULB. 

I suited up again, but because this time my mission was taking place during daylight, I put on an extra denim jacket, over the bunnyhug and Carhartts.  

I grabbed the smallest pail I could find, and set out.  The wasps were very busy repairing the damage to their nest.  The wind picked up and was moving the branches quite vigorously.

And I?  

I was picking all the apples on THIS side of the apple tree.  I think I'll be able to manage a couple apple pies and maybe an apple crumble or two.

You win, you nasty, waspy, evil little creatures.  You win.  (Please don't sting me-or my babies-in retaliation.)  

Now just you wait until the snow comes....

My sad little pail of apples that I stole from the wasps.

The roots go deep...

Time is a lot of the things people say that God is.  There's the always preexisting, and having no end.  There's the notion of being all powerful-because nothing can stand against time, can it?  Not mountains, not armies.  And time is, of course, all-healing.  Give anything enough time, and everything is taken care of: all pain encompassed, all hardship erased, all loss subsumed.  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  Remember, man, that thou art dust; and dust thou shalt return.

And if Time is anything akin to God, I suppose that Memory must be the Devil.

                          ~Diana Gabaldon (prologue from her book A Breath of Snow and Ashes)

First I need to apologize for not writing or posting much of anything for the past 3 months.  I am thinking that I may just be a horrible blogger.  But, since my last post, a LOT has happened to me-emotionally- and I just couldn't bear to write.  I've decided I need to get it off my chest before I collapse in a heap of tears every time I see a certain flower or see a certain bird, or hear an expression that brings all the memories back.

Two days after my last post, one of the most important men in my life suffered a life-altering stroke.  My grandpa Ervin spent 10 days following his stroke, in the Intensive Care Unit at the hospital in Saskatoon. He passed away peacefully, with his wife of 56 years by his side, on April 20, 2015.

If you know me, you'll know just how close my grandpa and I were.  He was special to his entire family, but to me in a way that I don't think anyone could really understand.  I valued his opinion almost more than my own parents'.  My siblings and I consider ourselves blessed with the fact that we lived a mere 100 yards from our paternal grandparents.  Not many children these days get to see their grandparents every single day.

Some of the fondest memories I have of my childhood include my grandparents.  Especially my grandpa.  The earliest memory I have of him, is whenever my mom was working, my grandma would make us lunch.  After each lunch, we would lay down on the carpet in the living room for a little "snooze".  I remember laying my head on his big chest and watching the pictures on the walls rise up and down, steadily putting me asleep.  And I would always wake up when Coronation Street came on the TV, and he'd be gone back outside, working in the shop or hauling hay, or doing some other farm job.

There are other snippets of memories:

Auction saling and bull saling and parts runs to Meadow Lake.  We always had to buy those delicious Econo brand chocolate covered wafer cookies.

Chasing cows out to pasture in the spring, with Grandpa driving the tractor in the front like a crazy old drunk, attempting to keep the more eager cows from passing him and turning into the wrong gate.
Snowmobiling in the winter and ice fishing at Sandy Lake, with Grandpa on his little Citation sled following his brother Harry (my great uncle) into beaver wallows.

Speaking of beavers, he used to come with us when we weren't old enough to drive yet, and we would head out to the wild hay meadow and break beaver dams.  He wouldn't usually even get in the water, but stood up at the top of the dam splashing us with every muddy wet willow stick he'd pull out.  The only time I've ever seen the man swim (or maybe you can't really call it a "swim" per say...hahaha!) was when he was swept into the creek with the rest of the beaver pond. After each day of beaver-dam breaking, we would all head back at dusk to dispose of the thrifty rodents once and for all.  Many times, when my sister and I would get back late at night from one of our hunting forays, Grandpa would be poking his head out his bedroom window and if we happened to be walking past his house, he'd say, " Hey Annie!! How many did you get tonight?" (In case you're wondering, the "Annie" was a reference to "Shot-gun Annie" which is always what he called me at beaver-dam breaking time).

Grandpa also liked to take us for ice cream in Chitek Lake during the summer, after an afternoon spent at the beach.

We went for hundreds of wiener roasts in the pasture, whether it was winter or summer, it didn't matter.  It was one of his favourite things to do.

We went to the North Battleford Fair every August since we were just little kids, and Grandpa & Grandma always came along.  They would buy us lunch at the Bonanza Restaurant and Grandpa always got his own dish of chocolate mousse to eat & share with me.

When I was in high school, I was a decent track and field athlete and every night before I would leave for the provincial track meet, Grandpa would always say, "Give 'em hell & make 'em remember who you are!"  I don't think many of them remember me, but I always did my best.  Grandpa was a VERY good athlete and loved track & field.  He was always proud of his track accomplishments, and any time one of us grand kids came home from a meet, with red ribbons to wave at him, he always had a big, proud smile.

When I graduated from high school, I made a bet with Grandpa (he was always such a tease!!) at the beginning of the school year that if I graduated as Valedictorian of my class, he would give me $500.  We put it in writing, and Grandpa was $500 poorer come June.

When I moved away from the farm, I (of course!!!) went to say good-bye to both Grandpa and Grandma, and that's the first time I ever saw Grandpa with tears in his eyes.

I left for a 7 month agricultural exchange to Australia a year later, and when I came back, I remember him standing in the middle of the yard holding his arms out, and I just hollered at him and ran into his arms and gave him a huge bear hug just like we did when I was 3.  I missed my family immensely while I was gone, but none more than Grandpa.

When I first brought my farmer home to meet my parents, I wanted my mom and dad to like him.  But I really wanted to know what Grandpa thought of him.  He approved. (obviously, or I wouldn't have married him!)  Grandpa, of course, shocked my farmer at first, with his uncensored talk of Indians and the bush and all that fun stuff that Grandpa always talked about. ;)  And later on, he told my farmer all sorts of mortifying stories about me as a child.  He also told my farmer just how much I reminded him of his mother, Sarah.  I am flattered.  She was a strong woman.

I miss my Grandpa more than I can tell you.  More than the memories, I will always be grateful for his knowledge that he has passed on to us.  No, INGRAINED in us.  Almost everything that I know about the bush, I owe to my grandpa.  He made it a point to teach his grand-kids all that he could about nature and the way of life in the bush.  We knew the difference between a crow and a raven before we could even talk.  The moss always grows higher on the north faces of the trees, so if you know which way is North, you will never get lost.  He would take us squirrel hunting when we were younger and point out "whiskey jacks" and blue jays, different looking nests in the trees, signs of bear or coyote or wolf.  Just little things like tracking an animal and what that animal might be and where it may be heading.  He got a real kick out of my little girl. I asked her "What do we do to magpies?" She always replies, "We SHOOT them!"  That's my girl!

I was asked to write my Grandpa's eulogy for his funeral, since Grandma always read my blog and let Grandpa read it too.  I agreed to, but I told my grandma that if I was to write it, I had to be the one to tell it as well.  She, along with most of my family, didn't think that I could read it in front of a congregation.  It's a hard thing to write about a person that you know so well, but know that you'll never see them again, or hear their voice again.  You want to make sure that the people you are telling it to, understand who that person was in life.  But I had told my Grandpa when I saw him for the last time, that I wouldn't let him down, that I'd be strong-like him.  I would be able to do it just fine.  And I did.  My sister joined me at the microphone, but it was really more for moral support.  In case I couldn't get through it, and at one point, I thought I might not, but she was there for me, and quietly said I could do it. So, Sister, thank you for believing in me.

Last weekend, we laid Grandpa in his final resting place.  There is a tangible emptiness when I go home to the farm now.  My Dad is alone, without his right-hand man, his auction-sale accomplice, his shop buddy, his go-to-man, his best friend, his Dad.  My grandma is without her love of over half a century, her best friend, her antagonist, her farmer.  And we grand-kids, we have lost an important root in our family tree, but we will persevere.  We will be strong and we will not forget.  We will speak his name with pride and smile and laugh through all the tears that we weep.  Because we loved him, and we love him still.  His twinkling blue eyes, his smile, his ready laugh.  His curses, and his humour. His hugs.  His unconditional love. You don't ever forget someone who gave you so much to remember & so much to be thankful for.

I saw a hawk a few days before my grandpa would have turned 80.  It was flying over my garden here at home, and it hovered there, just coasting on a breeze, for (I kid you not!!!) over a minute.  I finally went out onto my deck and it looked at me, hovered for a few more seconds, screeched, and then slowly glided away.  Call me crazy, but I'm convinced it was my Grandpa.

R.I.P. Grandpa~1935-2015

Gone home.

Two weekends ago, we finally headed back to my parents' farm for our first visit since Christmas.  There comes a time when I absolutely NEED to  go home.  The incessant wind, the dismal water-logged situation that our own home is threatened by, and just the bleak spring days make me truly yearn for the busyness of spring on the farm where I grew up.  My littles were excited and couldn't wait to go and visit Grandma and Grandpa.

The 3 hour trip wasn't too terrible.  My littles both get car-sick, and so they were given sufficient pills to get them through the trip-thankfully no vomit happened.  Around the 2 1/2 hour mark, my heart starts to feel lighter as I watch the fields & pastures between stands of trees get to be more and more a regular sight.  Then, without fail, we turn the corner (we call it Halko's corner-as that's the name of the farmer that's closest to it) and I can see my dad's grain bins and shed in the faint distance and I instantly feel better.  We drive past "Orange's lake", which in reality is just a big slough with the road passing through the middle.  Then I see the details- the bales stacked with my dad's anal neatness, the barnyard, the cows walking through the muddy corrals, the shop, my grandparent's house, and my parent's house and I'm HOME.  There is no better feeling.

Every time I go home, I get out and take a deep breath.  Spring is not exactly a lovely smelling time on the farm, but I take a deep breath anyway.  THIS is a farm to me-the smells of the barnyard, of the sickly-sweet silage, the cattle, the wet dogs peeing on my vehicle's tires, the swampy smell of the fields.  I'm not exactly keen on the grain dust smells of my farmer's coveralls, but for better or for worse, I'll forgive him his dusty-smelling clothes. :)

During our stay, we checked on the little calves that were playing on the mounds of manure and straw in the feed-ground.  We went for little quad rides around the yard, washing the cow poop off of our boots and the quads.  We visited with MY paternal grandparents, who, at 78 & almost 80, are still living and working (albeit doing much less, and at a much slower pace than when I was a kid) on the farm as well.

We only stayed for 2 full days, but my kids really enjoyed spending time outside with the cows, and the chickens, and of course, their grandparents & great-grandparents too!  The last day we were there, my dad happened to bring in a sick calf who had stopped feeding from it's mother.  He had given it some electrolytes & put it in the calf box inside the warm shop to help it get healthier.  We happened to go into the shop, and I promptly put my girl in the box with the calf & took a picture so that she will have these memories.  My boy didn't want to be that close, but he was very happy to watch the calf from the outside of the box.

It makes my heart happy to see that my littles will get to experience SOME of what I was able to grow up with, some of which I had taken for granted until having children of my own.  I don't want them to grow up and be the kind of people that are ignorant & have no idea that farmers really do feed the world, whether it's through the actual food chain, or it's something much deeper-something to do with feeding the soul.


C

Calving time is... hot-tubbing time????

Last week, I read an article posted on social media.  It was about a farmer who "rescued a baby cow" from a snowbank and hopped in a hot tub with the baby cow to warm it up.  They named it Leroy.

I'm sorry if I sound like a "Debbie Downer", but I'm going to burst that happy, bubbly little thought for all.

First off, it's not a "baby cow".  It's a calf.  (And in this case, a bull calf since they decided to name it Leroy.)  Get it straight you crazy terrible journalists.

Secondly, that farmer was doing more than just rescuing the retarded calf that decided NOT to follow it's mother to the warm straw bed. He was protecting his investment.  The article went on to say how the farmer has 100 head or so of cattle calving out this spring, and that he just decided to jump into his hot tub, shitty coveralls and all, with his half frozen investment that he found left behind in a snowbank.

The fact that this story made news, tells me that it must have been a pretty slow day at the office for the journalist.  Every day, especially in the spring months, cattle farmers are incredibly busy with calving season.  On the terribly cold mornings, yes, you will probably find a calf or two that decided a cold snow bank was a better place to lay down than the straw spread out for it 10 feet away.  EVERY cattleman has dealt with this issue.  Some have warming huts, some bring the poor little beasts into their porches or their kitchens or their heated garages/shops.  Some wrap their tender little ears with duct-tape, or they have special ear coverings for them.  And some decide it's necessary to jump into a hot tub.  Fully dressed.  I don't know about you, but I can tell you right now that if I had a hot tub on the farm, I sure as heck would not jump in with disgusting coveralls/clothing that is covered in calf slime, straw, mud and cow manure.  (I mean, can you imagine the floaties in there once you got out??!?!?! Not to mention it would completely ruin the filter???)

Thirdly, the comments that some people posted on this article....were, to say the least.....nothing short of ridiculous!!!  Comments such as: "awwww, now there's a keeper!" or "that poor baby cow, now he's part of the family though" and "see, cows are just like dogs, they're loyal and they are part of the family. he can't sell the little guy now".  Some people actually had the nerve (or the stupidity if you want me to be blunt) to say that "he'll never be sold now, he'll be too attached" and "not all cows are used for meat". You know what?  I call bullshit on you poor, uniformed "city slickers".  ALL cattle will be sold for meat some day.  They might be yearlings, or they might be a tough, fourteen year old milk cows like ours were, but they all eventually end up on the butcher's block, or the dog-food factory.  And if they don't, then  I suppose they had the pleasure of dying peacefully, or painfully, on the farm/or out in the pasture.

I was involved in a Beef 4-H Club for (5 years?).  One year, we had four calves to show at the local & district achievement days.  We had 3 calves that were just picked randomly from the herd, and the fourth was "our baby".  He was a long, lanky, (totally unsuitable 4-H material) steer, named Dopey.  I still smile & tear up a bit thinking about this wonderful, docile beast.  He was orphaned-his mother died shortly after his birth-and because we had milk cows in the barn that had just freshened, we took him in.  He was fed from a special milk pail fitted with a rubber teat, that we hung from the corral planks.  My sister, my brothers and I were his Momma.  We actually had two calves that we played "Mom" to that summer, there was Dopey, and a sweet, tiny little heifer calf named Millie.  They would see us coming from the house and would be there waiting at the fence for their pets and their milk.  Anyway, we decided when it was time to pick our calves for the upcoming 4-H year, that we would halter-break Dopey as well. (I think my Dad just couldn't say no to our request?)

Dopey followed us around the barn yard all the time.  We really didn't even need to put a rope on him, but he had to be treated the same as the rest of the 4-H steers.  The first day we put a halter on them, and tied them to the corral posts, Dopey promptly flipped himself onto his back and laid down.  I do believe we had to cut his halter rope so that he didn't strangle himself within the first few minutes of their "training".  It took three more days before Dopey realized that it didn't pay for him to flip himself over.  Then one day, he just decided that if he had to stand tied to a fence all day and be scratched every half an hour or so, and he got special attention from us, well, it probably wasn't so bad.

By the time our 4-H steers were ready for the achievement days, we could ride Dopey like a horse.  At the district show & sale, he stole all the young kids' hearts.  There was rarely a moment that a kid wasn't sitting beside or on him.  He was so quiet, anyone could lead him or ride him.  But if you know anything about 4-H (or cattle farming), at the end of the season, there's a sale.  That's where all your hard work and your learning comes to a head in the nice, tidy, sometimes generous paycheck that you receive from the stockyards.  Where we sold our steers, we all lined up with our steers, waiting to head into the ring and show off our animals to the best of our abilities.  There are usually tears shed, because of course, you've just spent a LOT of time grooming these animals and training them to do as you bid, and they TRUST YOU.  That was the kicker with Dopey.  He wasn't just any animal.  He had been our baby and he trusted us.  And yes, we sold him.  He was sold for meat, just like all the others.  Someone out there got a terribly lean, skinny steak out of that well-mannered pet of ours.  None of us could even lead him into the ring, but my youngest brother and I did.  I remember not being able to look up at the buyers for fear they'd see the tears streaming down my face.  Everyone, and I mean ALL of the kids that were a part of our 4-H club (and even some that weren't), shed tears when Dopey went into the ring.  After the sale was over, we went to the back pens where the animals were kept once sold, and we just made sure that he was doing OK.  I know that sounds absolutely cruel & heartless to go through all the trouble of raising him and then just sell him for meat *gasp*, but I know I needed that last good-bye.  And so did he, because yes, he was a part of our family.  And for me, that was the hardest part.

Dopey, littlest brother and I

Dopey all shined up

 BUT....here comes that wonderful thing called REALITY.

That's not only what 4-H is about but what farming is about.  It's about the amount of time, the blood, the sweat, the TEARS, and the dedication that go into every single day of our lives.  So you see, if we decided to get attached to every animal that decided to lay down in a snow bank after it's born, and then think we should probably keep it because it's "part of the family now", well, we probably wouldn't be very successful farmers.  We do what's needed at that specific time, for the best of the animal and for what's best for our families.

So to all of those ignorant people that decided to voice their opinion about how that little baby cow was "a keeper" and "he won't be sent to market now"- you're right, of course he's a keeper.  Until sale day.  Then you can thank that farmer for jumping into-and probably ruining-his hot tub with a half frozen calf, raising and feeding that calf, along with 99 of it's peers. Then go ahead and thank the "baby cow" for growing into a nice, well-marbled steer a year from now so that you can eat your delicious steak supper.

C
(For someone who, as a kid, begged her Dad not to kill and eat the milk cow's enormous Holstein yearling calf named Bud, because if he did, I wouldn't eat it, I've had a few years experience and grown more tolerant to reality and practical cattle farming practices)

Did I really sign myself up for this?

Five years ago, my farmer and I were struggling to produce little farmers.  We were told it would be highly unlikely that we would ever have children, with no particular reason of why.  I was crushed, as I really enjoyed children and I knew that what other purpose did I have on this Earth but to give love to my own babies.  Four years ago, I had resigned myself to "just get another dog and call it a day".  Lo and behold, I finally became pregnant with our first little farmer.

During the past 3 1/2 years, there has never been a "quiet" day in our house.  My farmer and I often remark how quiet and boring our lives must have been before kids-did we even speak???  I know the days & nights were not filled with giggles, laughing, singing & dancing, temper tantrums (okaaaaay, maybe that one a few times), fighting, crying, Treehouse TV, crayons and markers everywhere, snuggles, boogers, tears.  Or poop.

That's right, kid's surprisingly come with a HUGE amount of crap.  I mean that figuratively as well as literally.  Kids are expensive little animals, but the money just gets thrown to the back burner when they bump their head on the millionth toy they were told to pick up, and all they want is a snuggle and a kiss from Mom to make it feel "all better now".  In this day and age, yes, we do spend a TRAGIC amount of money on STUFF.  Jammies, clothes (I rarely buy "new" as we have an excellent children's consignment shop in Saskatoon), toys, snacks, diapers, wipes, and the list goes on and on.  I'm positive that we could probably "get by" on more than half of what we actually use.  Instead of buying a $35 case of Pampers disposable diapers every two weeks (for the past 3 1/2 years), I probably should be using cloth diapers- but I was always (and still am, to some extent) the type of person that cannot STAND dealing with human wastes. 

Growing up on the farm, I dealt with a lot of disgusting things.  But they were ANIMAL things.  I have helped my dad at calving time-if you aren't from a farm, you probably don't have a clue what kinds of disgusting things can happen at calving time.  I distinctly recall an incident where a cow had a still-born calf, but it stayed inside her uterus.  The fetus started rotting inside this poor cow, so we had to pull it out before it poisoned the animal.  My dad and my grandpa and I (and maybe even one of my younger brothers??) chased this cow into the maternity pens, locked her into a chute and proceeded to help her get rid the stinking, rotting corpse of her still-born calf.  My grandpa hung his head over the corral and (rather loudly) said good-bye to his breakfast.  My dad must have zero sense of smell as he was right up close to the action.  Or perhaps he knew my trick of "closing" the nostrils from the inside.  I won't lie, the smell was absolutely dreadful, but it didn't really bother me.  The worst part of that entire morning was listening to and watching my grandpa vomit his oatmeal over the fence.  I still gag just thinking about it.

So, the first time my gorgeous, sweet little girl shit herself all the way up to her neck, I was unprepared.  She laughed.  I gagged.  I had to "close my nostrils".  I had to look away, which is not easy to do with a squirming, month-old baby.  There was shit EVERYWHERE.  I was so mortified that MY girl had done this to me, I just couldn't deal.  Then she did it again.  And again.  I finally became accustomed to pulling a poop-covered onesie over her head and just plopping her and the offending onesie into the bathtub.  I didn't even gag anymore.  Almost a year went by.  All of a sudden, my girl was constipated (we put her on regular cow's milk at 11 months old).  The only way she would poop, was when I put her in a bath tub full of warm water.  The first time I found "floaters" in the tub, I screamed and whipped that baby out of the tub in 2 seconds.  I scooped the turds out of the tub and into the toilet using her little fishing net, then proceeded to bleach and scrub the entire bathroom.  She proceeded to laugh and run naked around the house.  In the end, we went through about a month of her being constipated and crapping in the tub, and by the end, I just scooped the turds out with my gloved hands and disinfected everything without batting an eyelid.  Potty training was fun too.  My girl's first time pooping on her little potty- "Mom, look at all that CHOCOLATE!!!!" Followed by "BAH!  Don't touch it!!!  That's not CHOCOLATE!!!!"

When my girl was 18 months old, she somehow developed motion sickness.  I was 2 months pregnant and in the throes of some serious morning sickness, and here I was- on the side of the road- gagging and trying my best to help this poor little girl get the barf off of her shirt, pants, and her car-seat.  By the time my boy was born, I was able to turn around and catch the barf in my hands, and then comfort the poor little vomit-covered child afterward.  Boy, do things change when you've got little people!

It turns out my boy gets car-sick too.  So now I've got a barf-pail in the car, wipes, and plenty of "drive-thru" napkins in the glove-box.  It's not fun, and it's definitely not fair for the little people to feel so yucky just going for a grocery run to the city, but that's our life and I've acclimatized to human vomit.  And the stuff from the other end too, apparently.

Last night, I had to deal with poop in the tub.  Again.  I had just got my girl's jammies on, and had pulled the tub's plug.  I usually leave my boy in there to play with the water as it goes down the drain.  I left the bathroom to grab something, and when I came back into the room, the water was gone, but my boy was squatting there in the tub, poking something.  Something that looked remarkably like a pile of shit.  Oh yes, it WAS.  Bah!  Not again!?!?!?!  There I was, grabbing my boy- yelling "No!!!!  Don't touch that!!!!  Yuck!!!"- and washing his disgusting little hands in the sink 5 times.  (The fun part is that I quickly checked him over to make sure there were no turds stuck to his little bum or in his hair before I grabbed him out of the tub)  I quickly got him dressed in his pyjamas, gave him his sippy cup of milk and a snack, and sent him to watch cartoons with his sister.  Then I proceeded to clean up the pile of poop.  Sadly, some went down the drain.  I could not save it.  However, there were a couple turds just on the verge of falling through the holes of the drain, so I ran to the kitchen-yes, the kitchen- and grabbed my rubber gloves.  And a teaspoon.  The turds were saved and thrown in the toilet with the rest of the pile.  The bleach came out and everything that was in the tub, got it.  For the hundredth time.  All of this happened and was dealt with, within 10 minutes. (A far cry from the first hour spent doing-yay me!)  And I'm sure it won't be the last time either.  Potty training could be interesting with my boy, if not down-right, disgustingly hilarious.  I promptly poured myself a glass of wine, and devoured a Nutella & peanut butter-covered rice cake. (no, I did not notice the irony of the similarities in what I ate afterwards to what I had just cleaned up, until just now, please don't judge...)

The offending pile of poop.

The bleach working it's magic.

My reward.

To all of the readers out there that haven't had children yet, just wait.  It's coming for you.  You might be just like me, and won't know what you hit you.  Or maybe you'll have it all figured out (highly unlikely, just sayin'....)  And to those of you that do have kids, or are seasoned grandparents, I'm sure almost all of you have some kind of puke or shit story that we can relate to.

I have to ask myself, sometimes daily, why I "signed up for this".  But I'll tell you, and I'm sure other moms will tell you the same- we do it for love.  And for the memories.  Because there is absolutely no humility or shame left when you become a mom, but there is just so much love to give, and to receive.  And someday, I know that my little people will have little people of their own, and they'll just have to deal with it.  And when that day comes, I will laugh at the little piles of poop in THEIR tub.

C

Like mother, like......Grandpa???

A few days ago, I was bathing my little people and getting myself ready for bedtime while they played in the bath tub, and then something happened that brought me back 26 years.

My girl is nearly 3 1/2 years old, and my boy, 16 months.  NO ONE kids around when they say "boys will be boys".  My boy is a rough & rumble kind of kid, who I tend to think also loves his mom very much-almost too much some days (and ALL nights!!)..  He enjoys doing naughty things and feels greatly encouraged to continue by that little "n" word - "NO!". He is, quite simply, a BOY.  My girl is very different-she's afraid to try new things, doesn't enjoy getting dirty (she could hardly stand to walk on our grass until just this past summer), and is COMPLETELY ANAL retentive about EVERYTHING. (this is partially her parents' fault, but I refuse to take the blame for all of it!).  My boy hasn't really started talking yet (it's brewing, but still sounds like very adamant gibberish for the most part) .  My girl, however; my girl can TALK!  She wakes up in the morning, and the talk button is flipped on instantly.  She talks and sings and talks and dances and sings and talks, talks, talks.  It's probably my fault, as a stay-at-home mom I talk to my kids all day-who else do I talk to??  The best part is that I have learned to tune most of this nattering out.  However, on above previously mentioned night of bathing, I happened to NOT tune out what she said to her little brother as he stole "her" toy (for the fifth time!!) in the bath.

"F*@# off (my boy's name)!"

It was said quite softly (for her voice anyway) and I could hardly believe I had heard her correctly.  So I asked her to say it again.  She looked at me with those beautiful blue eyes of hers, astonished that I wasn't angry at her.  She knew.  She knew it was a bad thing to say.  She's 3 and a half and she knew.  She repeated it, even more softly, and I had to tell her, 
"You don't say that.  That's an awful, horrible bad word and don't you ever say that again, ok?"  "Ok, Mom, I won't ever again.  I pinky-swear!"  So we shook on it, and I haven't heard her repeat it again.

Now you're probably wondering why in the dickens didn't I get mad at her.  I honestly don't care if words like "shit" are spoken-she has quite frankly used that one for a while now. "MOOOOMMMM!!!!  (my boy's name) IS SHITTING HIS PANTS AGAIN!!!!" (to me that's not a swear-word and I will adamantly refuse to budge on my view)
The "F" word, however, should never come out of a little person's mouth, especially in context like that!  It really shouldn't even be uttered by an adult.  But here's the thing:

I'm a bush kid.  A farm kid.  And I have a "potty-mouth".  I am not ashamed that I do, but I am more than a little ashamed that I have chosen to speak in such a way that my kids hear, know and understand swear words, at such an impressionable young age.

When my girl uttered that word, I was transported back in time to a spring morning when I was roughly 4 years old.  My mom had just finished doing my sister's hair, and she was then braiding mine.  I hated it.  It felt like my mom pulled every little hair out of my head when she braided it so tightly.  (She probably did pull a few out, on purpose, because I know when I braid my girl's hair and she starts whining, all I want to do is just pull one or two really stuck ones to give her something "real" to whine about...)  And so it usually took quite a while to do my hair.  My sister and I were apparently going outside to play after our hair was brushed and braided.  However, my sister decided she wasn't going to wait for me, and proceeded to open the front door.  I don't remember exactly if my mom told her to wait, or if she told her to just get out of the house, but I DO remember realizing I was going to be left behind (AGAIN!!) and screaming from the bathroom, "Wait for meeeeee you little B!@#%!" (insert word for female dog).

 My mom promptly dragged my four year old self back into the bathroom and washed my mouth out with a bar of blue, Zest soap.  (By the way, she didn't get any in my mouth, as if I was opening it for THAT!!!)  I may have received a slap on the butt with the fly-swatter as well, but I don't remember that.  The swearing/soap-eating attempt took precedence in my young memory.

I don't believe I ever uttered a swear word at any of my siblings after that. (at least not in front of my parents) But to be fair, you can't really blame ME!  I was four, and I quite obviously heard that word from SOMEONE else.  I'm about 99% certain it was uttered by my dad.  I spent a lot of time with my dad at that age.  My sister was in school, and my younger brother was just a baby, so of course I was outside with my dad and my grandpa.

My dad has a problem containing his potty mouth too, ESPECIALLY when working with cattle. So does my grandpa.  I don't think I could even tell you NOW some of the things uttered from their mouths in the barn yard.  If you don't want to hear a constant stream of cuss-words, don't help them with cattle.  I mean it.  Or wear ear plugs.  Wait, maybe don't do that-they might direct their cussing at you if you can't hear what they want you to do.  Over the years, I have learned to just accept it.  Cows bring out THE worst in my dad, and I will make sure to shield my little people's ears if they are nearby when a cow decides to turn back in the alley, or when she flicks her klinker-encrusted tail in my dad's face.  There are just some words in this world that little people shouldn't be hearing and absorbing in their little sponge-like brains.

So I willingly take the blame for my girl's terrible, shameful word.  But I won't wash her mouth out with soap (unless she tries it out again, of course), and I sure as heck am not going to put soap in mine.  And I "pinky-swear" I will try my best to censor my potty mouth in the future.

Have a beautiful f-ing day!

(see???  I already censored myself!!!)

C

Nearly naked PETA protesters brought up a few good points...

Earlier this week, our nearby city of Saskatoon's downtown was graced with the presence of two beautiful, nearly naked P.E.T.A.  (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) protesters.  In minus 30 degrees Celsius. They wore some flimsy, nude underpants, and "vegan leather" cowboy boots.

Photo credit to Gord Waldner of the Star Phoenix

Don't get me wrong, I am all for being ethical in EVERYTHING that I do. But you can NOT realistically tell me that stripping naked in -30 weather will make people think twice about donning their favourite pair of boots or shoes.  Literally the moment that I saw this picture pop up online, I heard my dad's voice in my head; "What the h*ll is wrong with those stupid women! They've got rocks for brains.."  And then in the background, I heard my grandpa's voice too, "Sure hope nothing freezes and falls off out there...".  And so I laughed out loud.  How ridiculous and pathetic do they look though???  Never mind the ethical treatment of animals, what about the ethical treatment of these young women???

You can't tell me that they are getting "good publicity" for PETA.  All they are really getting are frostbitten nipples, quite a few long looks from passersby, and a wicked head cold after that stint on the street corner.  The only people that stop to talk to them are the media, older ladies that are sympathetic and want them to cover themselves, or the random "gentleman" that is hoping to catch a glimpse of previously mentioned frozen nipples.

These girls have absolutely no clue.  No. Clue.

I'm going to assume that about 95% of mainstream clothing, priced in our affordable range, has ZERO animal skin or fur.  The sad part of these protests are that PETA wants everyone to stop buying REAL leather products-products that last for ages and when worn beyond their lifetime, can be disposed of and are naturally biodegradable- and to buy man-made synthetic products.  Or "vegan" leather.  I'm sorry....what in God's creation is vegan leather?  (Never mind, I just googled it-it's not really leather, go figure...)

When I was younger, we butchered our own cattle, chickens & pigs.  Our own deer, moose, or elk.  No, we didn't use the hides.  But you know what, that doesn't mean that we treated those animals "unethically" before we killed them.  Not even close.  (okay, maybe I kicked a pig or two in the snout as it poked it's head through the fence rails and tried to eat my precious rubber boots)  But those animals were, and still are, treated with respect.  They keep us ALIVE & HEALTHY!!!  I have never in my life treated an animal poorly, or unethically.  (My dad may or may not have strategically placed a fence post or two in the way of a certain stubborn cow's head, but it wasn't unethical-it was frustration after the 5th time trying to run her through the cattle chute.  Don't judge please, working with cattle doesn't exactly bring out the best in him)  I'm also lucky enough that I know exactly where all the meat products that I feed my family come from- the family farm.  Unfortunately a lot of people in this world haven't a clue of where their food or clothing comes from. 

I wonder if either of these girls was raised even close to a farm.  I wonder if they have fancy leather purses or $250 heels?  I also wonder how much those "vegan leather" cowboy boots cost them-and the industry to make- and the environmental impact of said boots after they've been made up until they're thrown away.

I also wonder if any of these PETA protesters have any actual morals.  What happened to loving yourself and respecting yourself enough not to show off your entire body for publicity's sake.  Do you think it really helps your cause of treating animals ethically when you can't even treat yourselves that way?

Now that I'm done my rant, I'm going to snuggle up with a cup of tea- in my yoga pants, woolen sweater, and REAL LEATHER-bottomed, woolen Padraig booties.  But they're probably not PETA approved.  Oh darn.

Cheers PETA!

C

My undercover life as a cat lady.

The "official" description of a cat is: 

a small domesticated carnivorous mammal with soft fur, a short snout, and retractile claws. It is widely kept as a pet or for catching mice, and many breeds have been developed.

synonyms: feline, tomcat, tom, kitten, mouser;alley cat,puss, kitty, fur ball; archaic: grimalkin.

There you have it.  Soft, furry, probably cute (at least for the first 6 months of it's life), and a silent killer.  When I lived at home, we ALWAYS had cats.  My mom has pictures of my sister and I, not even 2 and 3 years old, hauling kittens by their necks out of cardboard boxes.  I, of course, do not remember those kittens.  I do, however, recall my first encounters with one particular old "tom".  

His name was Sprocket.  He was a grey, grizzled old puss that definitely sharpened his claws hourly.  We could pet him, as long as an adult held him.  He was your typical farm cat.  He had vicious battle scars, and from what I remember, half of his one ear may have been torn off.  He probably wasn't that great of a mouser (anyone that knows cats, knows that the males are good for only two things: peeing on everything and anything, and impregnating the females) and I know he didn't really care for the over abundant affections of young humans.  I don't remember where or when Sprocket left us for "kitty heaven", but I'm almost certain he didn't get there.  Thus far in my life, my first impression of farm cats was a little jaded.

Our neighbours decided one day that "the girls need a nice kitty".  So we were given a beautiful, gray, long-haired "China", along with a sleek black tom, who we named "Blackie".  They were, indeed, nice kitties.  We loved them.  They didn't scratch us when we wanted to pet them.  They were clean & stayed in the barn.  They kept the mouse population down.  China even had a litter of kittens for us to play with!!! And then my grandma's chicken population started declining.  Now known as a chicken-killer, China's days were numbered.  Blackie was spared, due to the fact that he hadn't been caught red-handed I suppose.  We were left with 4 of China's litter, all female.  

Did you know, that cats have quite the capabilities in reproduction?  Most females come into heat once the days start getting longer. (January-September)  They will come into heat every 2-3 weeks until they are bred, and are able to stay in heat anywhere from 3 to 16 days!  Once bred, the female cat will pop those adorable little furballs out within 60 days, give or take.  Most litters have 4-6 kittens, and the average mother cat is quite capable of bearing 3 litters per year.

At one point on the farm, we had a count of 27 cats.  Astonishing and absolutely terrible, isn't it?  But they were strictly barn cats, and had free reign of the barnyard and the entire farm (so to those of you animal activist readers who think you need to get your knickers in a twist, these cats were well taken care of).  My sister and I would dress them up in doll clothes and place them, quite willingly, in the baskets of our pedal bikes for long rides up & down the driveway.  The cats loved it.  I think.  When it was milking time, the feline chorus in the barn was exceptional.  Some of them even danced on their hind legs, and were rewarded with squirts of milk shot across the centre lane of the barn.  One tom, Stripes, was exceptionally good at this dance.

However; when the population gets as large as it inevitably did, my practical farmer dad cut back the population.  I don't know for certain how he did it, but it doesn't matter anymore.  Disease had overtaken some of the poor animals, and on a farm, disease of any kind is not welcome.  I strongly believe that this is why most farm kids don't tend to argue with life & death circumstances.  Some things are done the way they are done, and some things happen for the better of everything on the farm.  However; it doesn't mean we are immune to the emotions that surface when your favourite pet gets sick and needs to be put down.  I know that I cried about the cats that were suddenly gone, and I may have even been angry with my dad for a while, but I got over it.  Such is life.  In the end we ended up with only 3 cats, 2 males and one that was feral.  This was the way it continued on the farm.

Until my sister left her half-siamese beast with us after a move to Fort McMurray, AB.  

This little spit-fire "grimalkin" was CRAZY.  The only person that could touch her was my mom.  When walking past, we would make a wide berth around her.  She would hiss and liked to attack people.  Ankles and legs were free scratching posts for this little beast.  Eventually, she ended up having ONE kitten with the host farm tomcat.  This kitten was a beautiful, sleek & shiny, all black, female.  And boy was she was a killer!  She would sit beneath the bird feeders, and jump 4 feet into the air to deftly kill the fat grosbeaks that (stupidly) kept returning for birdseed.  I named her Meeko (after the silly but cute raccoon in Pocahontas) and she was probably one of the best cats I ever had.

After my farmer and I were married, I managed to retain my beautiful Meeko.  She came home to my house that very winter.  She was a skilled cat.  She killed birds, prairie dogs, mice, rats, you name it.  She even helped train our new puppy (by training, I mean that she reminded him hourly of who exactly ran the place).  She was loving (as much as smug cats can be), smart, and had amazing killer instincts.  But she tended to have 2 litters of 4-5 kittens every year.  Usually I managed to give away all of her kittens.  I kept two from the first litter she ever had.  After a few years, my Meeko disappeared one winter after my farmer and I took a week-long holiday (she was roughly 15 years old) and never returned.

To this day, I still have one of Meeko's first babies born here at our place.  Her name is Minou and she is just your average, tabby farm cat.  Totally unassuming- until you find a random JACK RABBIT in her cat house for you to be surprised by when you lift the lid. 

 proof of Minou's jack-rabbit catch

 Or the million and one mice she keeps bringing as peace offerings to me on the front step. The birds keep their perches high on the trees at our place.  But she isn't very scary, I promise.  She actually believes that my babies are HER babies, and she even loves to hop in the stroller or the wagon for rides sometimes too.

Minou with my baby girl

  

She never sets her claws into anyone, other than my farmer. (they have a love/hate relationship).  She is even kind of a "guard-cat".  If the dog is gone to the in-laws with my farmer, she will sit near the kitchen window, or the front door. If a car happens to slow down past the drive-way, she'll stand up with her tail raised and "point" with her head.  If a car drives in, she's there in a minute or two, investigating the new-comer.  I think the protective Siamese bloodlines have come out in this totally unassuming farm cat. 

Or... maybe I'm just a crazy cat lady after all?