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?

Pass the cream, please!

A little life moment happened Sunday morning, which reminded of why I do some of the things that I do.  My farmer laughed at me and shook his head, but I adamantly refuse to give some things up from my past.  I have to share.

My life as a kid consisted of a great many things.  Living on the farm, we had every-day chores to keep ourselves entertained if we wanted to avoid homework. My brothers were 4 & 6 years younger than I was. My sister was a year and half older.  The brothers were safe from most chores for much longer than my sister and I had been.  We girls chose to take turns completing the daily after-school chores (in reality, it was probably my parents that forced the turn-taking to avoid the inevitable squabbles that occurred on a daily basis, over silly things).

All of my grandpa's life, all of my dad's life, and all of my life, milk cows were a necessity on the farm (this may be due to my paternal Mennonite great-grandparents). As were chickens.  These two "chores", were just ingrained portions of our every day life.  One of us girls would feed the chickens and gather the eggs. The other would round up the one or two milk cows, bring them home from the pasture, feed them their grain, and then we'd milk them. By hand.  Just as my dad had done, and still did.  Just as my great-grandmother did (the difference being that she milked as many as 13, twice a day).

When I started milking cows and gathering eggs, I believe I was around 7 years old.  Some extremists might say that this is MUCH too young to be dealing with farm animals. Well, sorry to break it to you, but that's how us farm kids learnt a little thing called respect. There's a reason most kids from the farm are so much more mature, responsible and respectful than their peers.

I recall crawling up onto the platform where the chicken nests were in order to reach the eggs.  I also know that I learnt at an early age to watch out for the "old clucks" that thought they had chicks under them. (small sticks worked well for holding their heads and sharp beaks away from my little girl hands)  I also recall that I did not enjoy the chicken chores.  I know that I did enjoy the milking chores.

My "first" milk cow was a Simmental/Hereford X cow named Toots. (laugh all you want, I still giggle every time I say it)  I was seven, just a wee little kid when you think about it, and this great big beast was the most gentle thing in the barn yard.  We would get her into the stanchion, set up our little pink milking stool (that had a bad list to the left), place the galvanised milk pail under her udder (when we advanced in skill, we held the pail between the knees), and we'd milk.  Toots was a dancer, constantly weaving from side to side.  She was also a gaseous beast.  If you've ever been in a barn, you know the smells-and bodily wastes-that can emanate from these docile beasts.  We always had a poop shovel handy.  Toots was also one of a few well-mannered milk cows that graced our old barn.  She never hurt us, other than the random instances where we mistakenly placed one of our feet beneath her dancing toes.

Over the years, there were many milk cows, some just chosen from my dad's beef herd, and some bought from the neighbouring dairy farm.  The dairy cows (Holsteins in this case) always were a little more work.  They needed more grain to hide their bony hips and rib cages, they had a tendency to develop milk fever after freshening (after they had their calf and their milk came in), they were occasionally a little higher strung (we had one Holstein cow who promptly jumped three, 5 ft high corral fences the day we brought her home. She was also a mean kicker.  We named her "Idiot" but I'm sure my dad had a better name for her personally), but they produced almost twice as much milk as the regular beef cow.  And the CREAM!!!

After we finished milking, we would bring the milk to the house and my mom or my grandma would run the milk through the milk separator.  For those not familiar with this contraption, it is a pretty amazing tool for the small farmer. You pour the milk into the top bowl, and then open the little lever, and because cream is more dense and heavier than milk, it would separate the two liquids.  Here is a photo of a cream separator that I found on the internet.

 My mom and grandma rarely had a shortage of milk, cream or butter-only when the milk cow hadn't freshened for almost a year.  Then it was a few long months of buying *gasp!* milk.  And cream.

I'll let you all in on a little secret, okay?  Cream is fat. Healthy fat!  I never think twice about pouring a healthy dollop of cream all over my cereal.  My bowl of fresh strawberries, raspberries, or saskatoon berries (all from our very own personal orchard). Or my giant piece of chocolate cake with chocolate icing.  That's right.  You can judge alllllll you want.  There is NOTHING better than fresh cream, direct from the source, poured all over a decadent slice of birthday cake. Or anything really.

These days, the farm no longer has any milk cows.  My dad quit milking cows when us kids all finally flew the coop.  The last one is still wandering around the corrals with the rest of the herd.  She will hopefully die peacefully on the farm-she is roughly 13-14 years old now.  However; just because there is no longer the option of having fresh cream, does not mean that old habits are thrown out the window.  No no no.  It just means I go to the dairy aisle of the grocery store and buy the biggest "whipping cream" carton I can find.  And I still, to this day, pour heavy cream into anything where milk or "creamer" would suffice.

Sunday morning, I made an awesome oatmeal breakfast casserole.  (You can find the recipe here: http://loveoffamilyandhome.net/2014/07/oatmeal-casserole-recipe.html )  It was so delicious-berries, oatmeal, banana, cinnamon!  My farmer decided he would have some along with his morning cup of coffee.  I took out the whipping cream (that's right, half and half does not make the cut in this house) and set it on the counter.  Not for his coffee of course-which is what he was thinking-but for me.  So that I could have a refreshing splash of cream with my healthy oatmeal breakfast casserole. :)

Cheers!

C

Bush Kid Intro....oh wait!!! That's me we're talking about....

Hello!  Welcome to my blog!  So I've jumped into this whole blogging world with NO IDEA what exactly I'm doing, but hey, I'm jumping in headfirst because that's how I roll.

I'm Carrie. Carrie Ann to be legally correct.  29ish years ago (just kidding, it's been 30!!!) I was second-born, into a family of 4 kids. My dad is a mixed farmer (meaning he grows crops and cattle) and my mom recently retired from her 33(?) year career as a nurse.  I am an avid reader, amateur photographer, wife, mum, farmer, wannabe gardener, animal lover, and a bit of a rambler. (blame my Dad on those last two!)

I was born in Northern Saskatchewan, Canada.  I won't be specific of where, but it was north. Contrary to international popular belief, Saskatchewan is not entirely flat & full of wheat fields & never-ending horizons. (That starts around Saskatoon and includes mostly everything south)  Far from it.  I feel like we have one of the most diverse landscapes in Canada.  I grew up on the edge of the boreal forest.  Some will say "hillbilly/redneck/backwoods/Indian country" but that's just degrading.  Don't get me wrong, there are "those kinds" around there too, but my family was-fortunately-not. We were "bush kids".  Raised to respect our environment, respect the animals that live there, but not to let it deter you from living a life well-lived.

My paternal great-grandparents came to the farm in the late 30's.  They originally came from the Saskatoon, SK area- Osler & Vonda, to be precise.  They moved around the western provinces, looking for work after they were married.  My paternal grandpa was born in BC, and he came with his parents & two younger brothers to the farm owned by William Cowland, of the Edward Lake district.  The country was so very different from the land around Saskatoon.  It was fertile land and it wasn't a dust bowl.  It was bush. They purchased the farm and cleared most of the land with heavy-horses, as most pioneers did.  In case you are wondering what all this background info has to do with me....well....I'm getting to the point eventually here.  The farm is situated just east of a little creek that runs into Chitek Lake- Robinson Creek is the name.  Behind that, is roughly 5 miles of swamp.  In all of those dry years in the 30's & 40's, I'm sure that creek & swamp was a welcome adjustment. Here's the kicker: I'm also positive that my forebears had at least one pair of rubber boots-after all, they were pioneers in a rugged land.

Growing up, we always had rubber boots.  I mean, some years you wore them for about 4 months of the year (the other 8 months were winter boots, ha ha!). At high-school track meets or during gym class, you knew who the bush/farm kids were because they had that distinguished ring around their calves from the tops of their rubber boots chafing constantly.  I was one of those poor souls at said track meets & gym classes.

 Living where we lived, between the swamp and the bush, we had plenty of work to occupy our time.  My dad and my grandpa will say that we didn't work hard at all.  If you want to compare what our chores were to those of other kids from town or the reserve nearby, even other farm kids, you bet we worked hard! We milked cows & fed cattle. We had chickens and turkeys & even a couple geese that liked to hiss & chase us. We had wooden grain bins to sweep out. We also had a wood furnace in our house.  My grandparents live in the same yard and their house was heated with wood too.  Everything was heated using wood-even the water trough for the cattle.  We spent most winters sawing logs and stacking them. Even now, my dad will wait for "the kids" to come home, so that he & my 80 year old grandpa have help to gather fire-wood to fuel the wood-boiler. However; time was  equally spent having fun too.  Snowmobiling, ice-fishing, and skating in the winters.  Boating, swimming, fishing, quadding in the summers.

I left the farm (and the bush) after graduating from the nearby small town's high-school.  I'll admit, at that point in my life, I hated it there.  We were so far from everything-the big cities, town, the population in general.  I wanted to get as far away from it as possible.  So one day as I was perusing The Western Producer, I found an ad in the classifieds section that intrigued me.  The hook: International Agriculture Exchange.  I was definitely hooked-INTERNATIONAL!!!!!  PEOPLE!!!!  I went on our dial-up internet (that's all you could get in the rural areas 15 years ago) and contacted the exchange association.  I wanted to get away from the stinkin' bush-I picked pretty much the farthest spot in the world from our little farm-Australia.  I moved to Saskatoon to make some money for my trip.  Not surprisingly, I chose to work at a farm equipment manufacturer.  There, surprisingly, I met MY farmer. (of course I just had to find a farmer to fall in love with)  Even though we met at an awkward time in my life, we hit it off and started dating. However, I had booked my plane tickets and wasn't about to back away from a once in a lifetime opportunity.  I left on a plane for Australia 8 months later, and he grudgingly accepted that I had to go.

After spending my 7 month stint on a cattle property in Queensland-which I loved every second of-I missed home.  I missed my family, I missed my boyfriend, and I missed the bush and my rubber boots.  I arrived back home in Canada in spring, just in time to catch the end of our farm's calving season.  Rubber boot time!!!! Bush time!!!  Lucky me. :)  I soon moved to Saskatoon for work again, and was engaged to my farmer that November.  We married the following October(after harvest wrapped up, of course).

I have been married to my farmer for 8 1/2 years now.  We have two beautiful children who keep me entirely engrossed in day-to-day life.  They are my life. I am a stay at home mom, and the wife of a grain farmer.  The winters are long, and the summer's much too short. We have been lucky with our crops in the past 10 years, and I'm glad that I am able to stay home and raise my kids.  I chose this crazy life.  It's fun, challenging, and nothing I expected it to be, and I'm grateful for all the blessings in it.

But, it's missing one thing. The Bush.  My roots will always be north, buried deep in that beautiful, rich soil, beneath the evergreens, next to the swamp & the sand hills.  When life gets a little too hectic, and I tell myself I need to slow down & breathe, or the weather starts making everyone a little crazy (our home is located in a flood zone, so any little snowflake or raindrop makes us cringe) I just remember that I need two things to make me, ME again: the bush and my rubber boots.


So now you know the reasons behind my choice for a blog title, and you learned a little about my bush roots...and my rubber boots.

C