Our Prairie

I came into the world on the icy winter wind. A prairie blizzard - one you can't know unless you have lived here.

I was prairie raised and think some of my strength isn't me.

It comes from those prairie roots that are all knotted up with my own tangled faith. A faith that is bolstered by the streaks of colour across the big sky on the bleakest winter days.

Strength comes from the special bond that ties families who live on these plains - our lives ebb and flow together to create a larger family.

That my own mother and father who have this soil on their hands, the chinook wind howling through their hair and love of the land in their heart raised me. I will raise my own here and they will know that this is our prairie.

Harsh climates grow deep roots.

And It Snowed

Four months and six days after the last time - it snowed.

 

But, who's counting? Right?

 

 

 

 

 

While the girls have spent a lot of time outside mucking around, Hoss sits inside and does this:

 

This boy can eat. Period. 

 

 

"Who you makin' fun of?"

 

Big Boy has life figured out and can pretty much run this show from his high chair. We all just work for him, anyway.

 

 

 

Notice the grey hue in all these photos? It's a color we know too well.

 

After three days of snow, wet, and muck my girls have been singing Christmas carols at the top of their lungs and I quietly weep into my coffee.

 

Truly though, Alberta is a fine place to live and our summer is quite lovely. It generally falls mid week - between a Monday and a Thursday.We love those three gentle days. 

 

She ain't for the faint of heart. 

 



One of Our Last

While the sunlight has enveloped that beautiful hue, combines are circling the fields, and apples are being processed, us northern folks are shakin' in our boots.

There are big, fat flakes in the near forecast. While temperatures are warm now, we know what's coming. Bare legs today, possible snow boots this week.

You would think the earth is near extinction, though, as you hear bits of conversation around these parts.

"Get outside and play! It's going to snow soon and you won't be able to ride your bike so easily!"

"Do you want to come over for a campfire? We should enjoy one of our last nice days."

"We went out to Sheerness to let the kids muck in the water, you know it's all going to be over soon."

Oh, you goofs! Sure, it'll snow, but it will warm up again.  Don't let Environment Canada's potty mouth bring you down. Enjoy what's here today. Get outside! Soak in the rays and don't let it get away.

Big Cloud Country

Yoo hoo! I am still here.

I bet you think I have great stories of the all the things I have been up to this summer. You know the typical blog stuff: do-it-yourself projects, tutorials, and recipes. A little bit of wow all typed up onto one page.  Maybe even a post about a holly-day or two.

Alas, read on, Sisters.  

I have been busy doing perfectly normal things, like laying in the middle of a pasture taking photos of giant storm clouds rolling through.

Do you find it at all odd, that I might run down the lane with a camera, in the wind and impending doom? No one nearby but my dear old hound dog? Do you see a hint of crazy in these photos? Remember, this is Alberta, we do like to talk weather here.

 

I looked around while the smell of rain settled in my nose and thought about the bales out east that caught fire because of lightning striking out of the sky. I realized I was probably the tallest thing out in that prairie grass and thought it might be best if I hit the ground.  No, these pictures weren't taken at a different angle for dramatic effect, they were taken with survival in mind.

Thank you to those of you who sent a note my way to check in on me. I hope to be back to my irregular posting soon.

Miss you, sweet friends.

For a Sweet Friend - The Tiniest Horrors

****This is being reposted from last year. It is for a friend who is waging a war right now in her home. 

Friend, so many of us relate and can tell the story of using duct tape to tape our pants to our boots while cleaning out the grain bins. Don't worry, these days will come and go and somehow they will make a good story - it just might not be one you want to repeat. 

The Tiniest Horrors

Sometimes it's the tiny things in life that are our biggest nightmares. Things that make grown men turn as white as the snow covered prairies in the dead of winter and ladies full of maturity shriek like a two year old. Kids growing up amidst the wheat fields in cheerful, tidy old houses and worn trailers know of these nightmares and know how to watch for the signs of them. 

At a young age, I remember opening the drawer in my Auntie's beautiful old farmhouse to my delight to see a plastic mouse -  I thought that it was a great thing she kept toys in her kitchen. My Auntie was working hard to overcome her fear of mice and thought that by becoming so used to seeing this dreaded creature in her cutlery drawer, it might fill her with the strength to stay on the home place when, yes folks, a mouse was found in the house. 

I suppose my Aunts' came by their fear of mice honestly. Engraved in my mind is my red headed Irish Grandma going after a tiny grey creature, with the strength of ten men, in the aged farmhouse with a straw broom in hand. Our Grandpa, a hulk of a man and hero in our eyes, perched atop his chair, face bleached white too full of fear to holler. Luckily in our house, our Dad took care of these lil' "problems" and when I heard a rustling in my closet one night, and came out to let my folks know, Dad emerged from the bedroom in a short time, after some thumping abounded, and let me know it was fine to go back to bed, it was only a "big moth."

We were carefully trained as children to take a peek in our boots before we'd pull them on to head outside, so strong are the memories of my mom's of pulling on her chore boots only for her foot to meet a wriggling mouse. I am not sure what it is that makes us shriek, holler, and claim them as some of the nastiest creatures to endure out here in the wild west. Those little field mice, out there destroying crops, carrying disease and seeming to pop out of nowhere like some sort of terrible Halloween prank make so many plumb near lose their minds. 

So many of these stringy tailed creatures meet their fate nowadays in a bale buster, but in days gone by when  everyone set out bedding with small square bales, a much more fearsome blow was found - not so much for the mouse, but for the one who came across them. Family members love to tell the stories on my dad while bedding the cattle, when all of a sudden the giant man was doing the hippy hippy shake, ripping clothes off, as a mouse ran up his leg - the memory of it scurrying around his skin making him shudder now. Similar things happened to others, like my Uncle, but both men are quick to mention the neighbor lady who had a similar experience putting her hand in her pocket and screeching like a banshee. As she hopped around hollering, ripping at her coat, she somehow lodged that balled up wad of Kleenex in her pocket to realize that the "mouse" was just remnants of a cold.

Now, I know all those outside of the Alberta border, who don't know about the Alberta rat patrol, are probably scoffing at our arch nemesis and you'd like to tell your rat stories, but for now let me revel in my mice stories. Come Fall, when we are all crying and fighting the battle with any of these dreaded creatures, we'll commiserate, laugh, and curse the dickens out of them. We'll also know in our heart of hearts that along with the Red Tailed Hawk, the swift Pronghorns, and the old mother Badger, that the bitsy Deer Mice are more a part of these prairies than us grizzled old folks who have taken up residence here. It still doesn't mean we have to like them.

Canadian Farms

Information sourced from here.

Breathing Cold

When the wind howls loudly and you can't see very far in front of yourself  - I pray that somehow deep inside an inner quietness is your strength. 

Winter for KA

I think that there should be special cameras made for folks who reside in the north. Where is the setting you turn it to when you look out and let a holler rip because you are blinded by white? My two year old informed me today that her "eyes were breaking" as the sunlight glinted off the snow and knocked her one straight in the peepers. Next to the big 'A' for auto, 'M' for manual, I wish there was a 'C' for cold. I don't think any kind of photo can convey the cold in a proper manner. Unless you feel yourself reaching for a hot cup of coffee, to pour on your toes, then you aren't catching what I'm laying down.

A friend wanted me to send pictures of the blizzard that reigned down on Saturday. Oy veh! Don't you know I can't see across the yard for the swirling snow? How does the rule of thirds apply to an entire canvas painted in white? 

"Let's drive around and see how much snow they got at such & such place," said every farmer in the country. "A drift? It's minus twenty five? I drive a dodge! We haven't been out for a month, but today is a great day to visit neighbours!'

The best bet is to wait until the day after the onslaught. Sure, what's a bit of ice fog to slow a picture taker down? What, you can't see half a mile down the road?  Neither can I! Let's hope that the neighbour doesn't hit the crazy momma standing out in the middle of the road snapping photos to let you in on the beauty of the great white north. This is why I wear neon pink muck boots, gentle readers.

We have had snow on the ground for awhile now.  I hadn't put much thought into it until I saw various photos of places south of the border showing off brilliant colours of leaves on the ground, or people talking about wearing chunky sweaters and boots, all this pumpkin latte blah, blah. Yes, I like the chunky sweaters too, just please give me a winter parka over top and I think there might be some leaves under the drifts that dollop the landscape like whipped cream. Pumpkin lattes? Puh-lease. Black coffee and maple syrup (straight from the tree.)

Despite my arms burning with chillblains, I better open them wide and welcome winter in. Eight months of the year is too long to be grumpy about something, so today I'll choose to look out the window and remark how the sight of sparkling white is about the prettiest one I've seen. Heaven knows the Littles will mimic whatever dear ol' ma says, and cuss words don't appeal to me much from the mouth of a child. 

Come on in, Winter! We won't fuss and whine like a two year old.

( Or at least until March. )

Home Folks

My friend Carmen and I camped in these coulees, mucked in that creek and shot gophers in the pasture. We've ridden horseback, quads, and even an old skidoo around that yard. We've slurped black coffee, sat in the warmth of the wood burning stove in the kitchen and listened to stories at the table. It is in these moments, I am so grateful for 'home folks' and to have grown up in a place where neighbours are the truest sense of community - they are like family. 

Alberta Beef

Beautiful Day

It's a beautiful day! Don't let it get away!

-Bono

Cookbook Cookin'

Falling apart and full of vintage charm, the happiest part of a girl's kitchen are those old cookbooks cheerfully lining a shelf.

My heart had a tiny tear inside it seeing the stack of cookbooks a girl had piled high that were to be passed along to charity.  Her tiny computer, lacking any room to write notes in the margins or carry the character of a dog eared page, would sit on top of the counter blasting out directions to create supper. Realizing I might still have one foot stuck in the boot of 'things from the past' I can't help but want to hang onto my dear cookbooks.

In any small town freckling the map of our western provinces, you are sure to find a ladies club who have tirelessly hounded members of the community to put a book of recipes together. In these books you can find recipes from the grandmother, mother, and daughter, with maiden names in brackets and the food reminding you of the history of generations before us. Such common shower gifts are these cookbooks, along with the 4-H cookbook and possibly one that one of the local families have put together.

Some of my favorite books are the ones from the Grandmas or even Great Grandmas before us. With recipes that hold instructions for feeding a crowd of 100 at a fall supper or some secret nugget of wisdom on how much snow to use as replacement if you don't have the right amount of fresh eggs in store - these are a treasure. The best recipes are often found on the grimiest pages and the worst have your cousin's writing across the top saying "forget it!" in bold letters.

The only con that comes along with these kitchen bibles that make their way into our homes, wrapped in tea towels and given with love in a church basement, is the enormous amount of pressure that comes along with them. When Aunt Annie, the famed cook in the family, hands you her family recipes, you can bet she is sure to expect you to cook them - and cook them with the expertise that her hands hold. You can pray the housewife's prayer when Aunt Annie is coming for supper, because she was raised up right on the plains of Alberta. She will expect a meal that will meet the quantities of feeding fifteen after a branding, and the quality of something made for the queen. The strain of your meal will mount when you see her car pull into the drive half hour early and it looks like your kitchen has had fourteen toddlers helping out. Although tears might nearly be in your eyes by this point, I don't think any recipe found on the internet or some sort of starter mix found in Wal-Mart will ever meet the satisfaction of pulling one of those old fashioned meals together that the kin before us have chowed down at their supper tables.

So, for those of you out there who have left your cookbooks dusty on the shelf, pick one up and peruse through it. Chuckle at the tips, be grateful you aren't eating that jellied salad tonight and best of all, give one of those recipes a shot. I double dog dare ya. I'll pop over and share in your delight and we can leave the mess of our kitchens for the next day.

Tried and true, this smell greeted us so many days after trekking up the lane after school.

Banana Drop Cookies

2 1/4 cup flour
2 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp baking soda
3/4 tsp salt
2/3 cup margarine
1 cup sugar
2 eggs 
1 tsp vanilla
1 cup mashed ripe banana (about 2 medium)

sugar & cinnamon

Sift flour, baking powder, salt and baking soda. Cream margarine, add sugar gradually, beating until light & fluffy. Add eggs one at a time beating each addition. Stir in vanilla. Add flour mixture alternating with bananas, beating after each addition until smooth. Drop by teaspoonful on lightly greased cookie sheet. Sprinkle with sugar and cinnamon mixture. Bake at 350F for 12-15 minutes. Remove from pan at once. Makes 2 1/2 - 3 dozen. 

The Tiniest Horrors

Sometimes it's the tiny things in life that are our biggest nightmares. Things that make grown men turn as white as the snow covered prairies in the dead of winter and ladies full of maturity shriek like a two year old. Kids growing up amidst the wheat fields in cheerful, tidy old houses and worn trailers know of these nightmares and know how to watch for the signs of them. 

At a young age, I remember opening the drawer in my Auntie's beautiful old farmhouse to my delight to see a plastic mouse - some great thing I thought that she kept toys in her kitchen. My Auntie was working hard to overcome her fear of mice and thought that by becoming so used to seeing this dreaded creature in her cutlery drawer, it might fill her with the strength to stay on the home place when, yes folks, a mouse was found in the house. 

I suppose my Aunts' came by their fear of mice honestly. Engraved in my mind is my red headed Irish Grandma going after a tiny grey creature, with the strength of ten men, in the aged farmhouse with a straw broom in hand. Our Grandpa, a hulk of a man and hero in our eyes, perched atop his chair, face bleached white too full of fear to holler. Luckily in our house, our Dad took care of these lil' "problems" and when I heard a rustling in my closet one night, and came out to let my folks know, Dad emerged from the bedroom in a short time, after some thumping abounded, and let me know it was fine to go back to bed, it was only a "big moth."

We were carefully trained as children to take a peek in our boots before we'd pull them on to head outside, so strong are the memories of my mom's of pulling on her chore boots only for her foot to meet a wriggling mouse. I am not sure what it is that makes us shriek, holler, and claim them as some of the nastiest creatures to endure out here in the wild west. Those little field mice, out there destroying crops, carrying disease and seeming to pop out of nowhere like some sort of terrible Halloween prank make so many plumb near lose their minds. 

So many of these stringy tailed creatures meet their fate nowadays in a bale buster, but in days gone by when  everyone set out bedding with small square bales, a much more fearsome blow was found - not so much for the mouse, but for the one who came across them. Family members love to tell the stories on my dad while bedding the cattle, when all of a sudden the giant man was doing the hippy hippy shake, ripping clothes off, as a mouse ran up his leg - the memory of it scurrying around his skin making him shudder now. Similar things happened to others, like my Uncle, but both men are quick to mention the neighbor lady who had a similar experience putting her hand in her pocket and screeching like a banshee. As she hopped around hollering, ripping at her coat, she somehow lodged that balled up wad of Kleenex in her pocket to realize that the "mouse" was just remnants of a cold.

Now, I know all those outside of the Alberta border, who don't know about the Alberta rat patrol, are probably scoffing at our arch nemesis and you'd like to tell your rat stories, but for now let me revel in my mice stories. Come Fall, when we are all crying and fighting the battle with any of these dreaded creatures, we'll commiserate, laugh, and curse the dickens out of them. We'll also know in our heart of hearts that along with the Red Tailed Hawk, the swift Pronghorns, and the old mother Badger, that the bitsy Deer Mice are more a part of these prairies than us grizzled old folks who have taken up residence here. It still doesn't mean we have to like them.

Gravel Road Christmas Lights

I will try and video the thirty five strings Grandpa Larry has hanging off the cable, it's rigged up to his computer so the lights will dance to music. We have a song we sing about Grandpa Larry, the chorus goes a little something like, "I'm an inventor!" 

Not many people can capture the Christmas spirit in thousands of tiny, sparkling bulbs quite like my Grandpa Larry. The man makes the most elaborate homes out of Christmas movies look like an amateur job.  Winter Solstice in south central Alberta is probably too many hours of daylight for his liking. When 4:30 rolls around and the sun is tucking itself in for the night, Grandpa is just pulling out his sunglasses. The man has a zillion watts of lights strategically placed around his farm to make your eyes burn and the sun going down is the pinnacle in his day, simply because it's time to plug in a bit of a Christmas show.

Grandpa's immaculate home place is enveloped by crop land and is happily invisible from any main highway. The fact that it's a back road beauty doesn't deter Grandpa from putting on the best light show around. As a little girl, I can remember the wonder of a giant star on top of Grandpa's shop, pumping out music and lights rhythmically dancing to the beat - long before the time anyone else would have done this sort of thing. As an adult, I can now fully appreciate the work that Grandpa puts into his festivities, and can also see a bit of the madness in his ways.

Years ago, when one of the local hardware stores had a deal on where you could exchange your old Christmas lights and get a deal on a string of LED lights, I could tell Grandma was getting mildy annoyed with the hoards of lights that kept coming home from town. Grandpa soon quit making excuses to head into town, he just did, it was another trip for lights and no one asked any questions. Although, just to be clear, Grandpa's Christmas lights aren't just about quantity, but to this perfectionist, quality reigns. Months before Christmas, Grandpa Larry starts to pull out the boards that are all numbered, to know which one to hang between what column on the deck of their home. You wouldn't just hang lights all willy nilly, you know, but they must be neatly strung on a board so they aren't all floppy like. No amount of effort is spared. If it takes the gas powered cherry picker (with not a cherry to be found for hundreds of miles, unless you call the twenty five thousand light bulbs cherries) to deck the tractor out, or reach the top of the shop, then so be it. I think when you ask us grandchildren about Grandpa's occupation, we won't say much about grain farming, but we'd shout "Christmas light magician! "

Last year we all were concerned when Grandpa fell off the ladder when stringing his infamous Christmas display. The only thing Grandpa Larry was concerned about was getting the rest of the lights up.  When he realized Grandma was fit as a fiddle and his instructional voice wasn't the least bit impaired - Christmas light fixing continued. This year, when telephone poles were pushed into the ground between the garden and the trees north of the house, to hang huge cables on, our family didn't even bat an eye. We almost felt like daring Grandpa, "What? You're just doing a row of little old light's there? Come on!"

I come by my love of Christmas lights honestly and always appreciate those that spend the time to decorate with such fervor.   Every year we'd drive into the local small town to look at lights. It didn't hurt our feelings that there were only three streets and only a hand full of houses had lights up, it was the merriment of it all really, and possibly the hot chocolate after.

A few years ago the token John Deere salesmen, a favorite man in the area, put the most effort in of us all. He may or may not have taken every single blue bulb off the New Holland dealership's tractor that was all lit up in town, and replaced each bulb - with a bright green bulb of course! This is the kind of effort I'm talking about! The effort I applaud! I am thinking my grandpa and the John Deere salesman should get together, with Grandpa's vision and tenacity, and the John Deere salesman's jokester ways they could nearly make the coffee shop sing with stories.

As you contemplate your Christmas lights for the upcoming years, remember the wonder in the children's eyes. As much as Grandpa Larry would beg to differ, they don't have to be perfect, they just have to be bright.

Black Friday---Cross Border Shopping

For my friend T- may your travels be merry, your children patient, and the best deals to be had. Have fun this week. 

Road trips are exhausting!

Some grain farmers from Alberta head to the deep south in winter, to see a little sunshine and experience warmth in their Canadian winter bones. My grandparents and their friends head south too, only not quite as far across the border as others. Great Falls, Montana seems to scream their names, and the deals on Black Friday have been no exception to this calling.

We have travelled with neighbours in the past to hit up Great Falls, and some might scoff heading to a 'smaller' city to shop. Alas,  Albertans love a good deal as much as they love their beef. Young ones burn down in two tone trucks- different shades of dust-all gussied up with teased  hair and made up ivory skin for a cheap vacation and to haul back el cheapo Wranglers.  Throw fifteen years on their lives and they will be buying cheap shampoo and Shasta, with car seats pinched in the back of the 'burb'.  Momma's buy snow suits, carefully planned Christmas gifts, and stock up on brands of baby gear you can't find at home. A mighty whoop whoop would be hollered at the Big R and a small hallelujah at Target.  Cross border shopping is no stranger to some and Albertan's know which hotel has the nicest pool, which will squirrel up the most packages ordered in, and hands down which facility has the finest continental breakfast. For the rural Prarieites who don't get to town a lot, gracing the streets of Great Falls is as much as holiday as heading to Cancun, only the souvenirs brought home aren't little trinket shells. Border guards are used to trucks full of Ivomec, cheap fabric, and Carhartt's stacked to the hilt. I'm always just a little afraid that they think we are hauling stuff home for a 125 person mixed farming operation, and that they are a bit confused that my name isn't Dorothy and my husband's isn't Jake on our passports.

Now, although I have never experienced Black Friday in the US, the stories of people roaming the streets at the oddest hours have always struck me as a little wild. The day following a calendar day that is supposed to honour gratitude for what you have, people seem to just plumb lose their minds and race into the cities to haul more. stuff. home.

I had heard stories of people getting trampled in these American cities, all pushing and shoving for the best deals that might be pinched in the back of the store. When my Grandma came home from a trip to the US on this blessed day, she was sporting a big, black shiner and glasses that were taped together and our concern hit a high note. Learning that she took a tumble on the curb at the border lessened our worries of Grandma shopping in the States.

Really, I don't know why we should ever worry about this Grandma. She is able to carry more bags than my sister and I combined and is generally referred to as our mom, not our Grandmother. She would never wake up like those "crazy people who line up at 0300" but at 0400 she had said the lines were thinning as she sidled up to get the best deal on boots in town.  Energy flows in this lady's blood and sometimes I wish that it had somehow flowed down to me.

Grandma and her posse stay in the same hotel year after year on this weekend and would book far in advance, looking for that deal that was out there. Coolers were packed in their trucks alongside their suitcases, to bring back grated cheese, blocks of cheese and basically any kind of cheese that was cheap as chips. It wasn't uncommon for there to be ten cake mixes tucked in the vehicle, and it was then that I realized that some things might be coming home that wouldn't always get used, but the fact that they were basement bargain's placed them at home in Grandma's pantry.

Now, these folks who would travel down together were bargain savvy. After a full day of shopping for ingredients to make the finest Christmas crackers around (that of course couldn't be found in Canada), these gals would make their own meals in the evening. They wouldn't just cook to save cash,   but because you could bet your bottom dollar that they could cook better than most restaurants in town. Cards were played in the evenings and the clock would tick until it was time to get up and hit repeat  on their day.

The woman who put on miles with Grandma, that have a few decades on me, make me long for a small fraction of their energy. I wish for their incredible deal shopping ways and hey, if we're making wishes that aren't worth a plugged nickel, you might as well throw me some cooking skills too.

For Black Friday next year, Montana watch out! Grandma is coming for you and I might just be along in her shadow, puffing away to try and keep up. We'll eat you out of your deals and drink up your southern hospitality--feel free to head north for Boxing Day to probably pay twice what you do for your jeans in the south, but you'd be welcome just the same.