The Barn's on Fire, The Horses Are Out, and Someone Has a StinkyBum

What You do When You Live in The Sticks and Don't Have a Babysitter

2009-08-28T23:17:00.000-07:00

What we usually do is wait until the kids are asleep, and then have my mother-in-law come over to watch them, hurrying to get back before anyone wakes up (not easy, because they sleep like seniors do, after midnight). However, Olemaun has just had major surgery. She's doing great, even walked over today to give me a picture the publisher asked for, but not up to wrangling the three little inspirations. So, what to do when the bales need to be brought out of the field?

Cowboy ran the tractor, which left me with his truck and a trailer that would fit five round bales. I promise I'll post a pic for this post soon. Anyway, he had levers to work and what not, so I got the kids, all three of them. All three under six. But, we had a strategy. We waited until dark (which comes much sooner than it did just a month ago when we never had full on dark), I grabbed some blankets, snacks, and (I don't care what you say about the man, he's a mom's hero) some Disney. Whoever invented the portable DVD player deserves a Nobel Peace Prize.

I'll spare you the gory details of the pre-sleep era, but let's just say, I made it through and only lost about four bales in two nights, between our field and our hay stack. We worked well into the night, but we got the job done. Actually, after the first night, the kids said they couldn't wait to go farming again.

It felt great to clear the last bale out. I damn near jumped out of the truck and hollered when cowboy pulled the last bale off the deck. And then, I remembered, we still have the neighbours field (which Cowboy hayed) to clear. Except, he sold these bales to a neighbour who is 20 mins away. Ouch. However, fate decided I need a break. Cowboy had to go to work today, and I can't drive the truck, operate the tractor and babysit all at once.

I woner what the kids will think, looking back. I remember being an angry six or seven year-old, because my fatherwas making me drive the team, or steer the tractor while he lifted square bales out of the field, and it terrified me. It was scared to take the reins, or the wheel, but I look back on it all so fondly. It is such a part of who I am.

Ok, I am off for another quick round of revisoins on my ms. I told the editor I'd have something by the end of the weekend. AGHHH! No, I am sure I will (I think).

2009-08-20T19:50:00.000-07:00

I'm back, I think, but I'm not sure if any of you are still out there. Well. a quick recap.

Cowboy made an honest woman of me on July 4th. It was an amazing ceremony and Sergio Leoni would have loved it. I'm sure I will recount and post pics soon.

My picture book is now a fairly lengthy hybrid of sorts, ad a contract is on the table. The publisher called me today to apologize, because the artist I had suggested wasn't working for them. Hey, I was surprised they took my suggestion seriously, and she wasn't that dedicated to the project. Best of luck to her, and I'm glad to have such a great publisher behind me.

The kids are now 6, 31/2, and 2. Middle one still not potty trained. Youngest well on her way. I've inherited a teenager. The first time she got an inch of rope, sh spent all night out with her boyfriend. So, a better name for this blog might be The Barns on Fire, the Horses are Out, Someone has a Stinky Bum, and the Teenager is Missing in Action.

The ms is coming along and I've submitted a bunch of stories to the lit mags. Oh, and I defended my title at the fair in Cowboy (cowgirl) Poetry.

Sorry to be so brief, but I'm off to help Cowboy with an infected horse, then it is down to more revisions on the same ole ms. I'm not sure how long I will be on this blog. I feel like I've out grown this one, but I'll keep you posted (if you're still out there) and let you know when I move.

A Vampire Sucked the Shelf Space out of my Favourite Cynical Jew

2009-03-11T12:46:00.000-07:00

Sorry. I know. I'm never here anymore. All I can say is I'm undertaking a DIY wedding, looking after three little ones, writinga novel, Cowboy's been away working and I had a major section of fence fell down the other day.

Anyway, I just need a tiny rant. Today I went to the local chain bookstore. What happened? No Annie Proulx. No Mordecai Richler (hello! Canadian icon). No W.O. Mitchell (Who Has Seen the Wind- who has seen any good lit fiction in a chain store lately?). Two books of Robertson Davies. After that I just got depressed and quit looking. I did notice however that several varieties of classics were on sale for under $5. I also couldn't help but be struck by the fact that there was an entire shelf row devoted to Anne Rice, Stephanie Meyers ... oh never mind, you guys know, and there were more kinds of Chicken Soup than Campbell's has. Chicken Soup for the Hemroid Sufferer? No thanks I'm a down home family gal. Running Your Own Craig's List Companionship Agency for Dummies? Um, I'll take a pass.

Anyone miss when bookstores had variety and taste? I remember just a few years ago where the very same store stalked about 5-7 of Richler's titles, and the complete Depford Trilogy. Now it is vampires and "feel good" books galore.

Just a Quick Thought

2009-01-21T19:52:00.000-08:00

Sitting here tonight, watching my son cuddle (or huggle as we call it) with his dad, it hit me. Our children have never been a day without a good cuddle in their lives. If only we could all live our lives that way.

When Things Aren't OK at the Corral

2009-01-12T20:07:00.001-08:00

So, I haven't been around for awhile. I know I still owe you all a review of Crabwise to the Hounds, which is amazing! I've been very bogged down. Writing a novel has been kicking my rear. And, I decided to share with you all afterall. It's called, Gypsy Hunting Tomorrow. Warning: not a children's book, at all.

I wouldn't even know where to begin with everything that has happened while I've been away. Ukluk broke his collar bone, our furnace broke the same day, then our pipes froze and broke. It was -30 C, oh, and a couple of days before Christmas. We hung a few ornaments on a fake tree on Christmas Eve. That's just the tip of the iceberg. But, everyone is muddling through with a sense of humour- even the kids.

We thought we were out of the woodwork. However, the worst came today. Cowboy had to put his father's horse down. It was the last living link that the family had to his father who passed away some years ago. No one took it well. I've always believed that a good horse should outlive their owner. Sadly, this rarely happens.

Salty was a great horse. One of the gentlest tempers I have ever seen a stud horse posess. He had a rough start to life. He was owned by a man who had a severe drinking problem, and neglected him. It was a family friend who rescued the foal, having to hoist him up several times a day to aid his circulation, until at last Salty was able to fight back himself and stand. He grew into a fine looking horse with a terrific temperment.

Cowboy's dad acquired him from the family friend. Together, he and Cowboy began to train Salty. Cowboy's dad was not well at this time. He would lean against the corral as he passed on his knowledge of horses to his son.

Cowboy was away working when he found out that his father had died. It was devastating, because they were very close and Cowboy felt like he still had so much to learn from his father.

Salty went to pasture as a stud horse. There just never seemed to be enough time to work with him properly, though he was very loved. He gave us a good many foals. One of which has grown to be quite a horse, sarcastically named Little Guy. He's Cowboy's main saddle horse and carries a perfect heart between his eyes.

The cold has been unreal here and for some reason Salty got hung up in our barbed wire fence. We check the horses quite frequently, especially as we are feeding them bales right now. But, for some reason we never noticed. Then, yesterday Cowboy went to check on him, only to discover teh injury. The cut was not bad as far as barbed wire goes, but it was the wrong time of year to get such an injury. The lack of blood and exposure of the skin caused the area to freeze.

There was nothing to be done. Cowboy washed the wound and warmed it with water. I rounded up some old wool socks and we wrapped his injury. As his pain became evident we knew it was hopeless. The vet said to wait to bring him in, only confirming our fears.

Today, Cowboy took Salty to the vet. The verdict was certain. His lower limb would eventually fall off.

Living on a farm isn't all Sunnybrooke and Green Acres. Cowboy had to put his father's horse down tonight. My heart thudded with dread as I watched him take Salty away. I am sure it was nothing compared to the agony felt by Cowboy.

If you've never loved a horse, I am not sure I can explain it. The house is sombre tonight. It was not just the passing of a horse,but a good horse, a part of the family, and a man's legacy to his son.

Crustaceans and Canines

2008-11-20T22:11:00.000-08:00

So, I promised a review of Crabwise to the Hounds. I am happy to report, I have at long last received the copy I ordered a few weeks before the release date. It would seem this is one hot item. I always knew that Jeramy had an artist's soul, but I didn't realize what a genius he was. I can tell you this, he has written a Canadian classic. I need (selfishly) much more time to mull it over. It is brilliant (well, beyond brilliant, but I can't thnk of a more apt word). I will provide a review shortly.

Girl Captured by Aliens!!!!!

2008-10-25T20:07:00.000-07:00

Not really. I've had my nose stuck in Authonomy. It is an absolute thrill to find a group of people in the same boat as me, struggling to chanel a voice. And, I'm finally getting that novel written. I feel so encouraged. In fact, I jumped over 800 points in less than 48 hours, and am sitting at 67 (last I checked) after only 36 hours!

I'd suggest the site to anyone, not because of the remote chance that you might beat the slush and be published by Harper Collins, but because of the education it provides. There are some wonderful forum threads, everyone is eager to give comments (I already have about 52), and you can experiment with your pitch. Each writer is asked to write a 25 word pitch (what you'd put in a query) and a 200 word pitch (what you'd read on a backcover). Luring people to your ms is highly dependant on it, and readers love commenting on them.

While you're really just getting feedback from the rest of the slush, I'd have to quote Bob Dylan and say, "you don't have to be a weatherman to know which way the wind blows". I like to think of my fellow slush peers, as being representative of the book buying public (with a lot more understanding of the craft).

Anyway, I have a million suggestions to digest and put to work. I'll be back.

Fossil Falls, Crying Girl Prairie and the Climbing Tree

2008-10-07T20:59:00.000-07:00

Well, this past weekend, Cowboy treated us to a weekend in the mountains. He finally had some time off. He took us to a little known place called Fossil Falls. It was a bit of a steep hike so, I strapped Bunikpuk to my back and Cowboy Koogiook and Ukluk (who were great little troopers).

The falls were amazing. There were millions of fossils everywhere. The steep gully is also the home to many interesting bugs, and plants, as well as a wolf family. The smell of wolf urine was quite pungent and we found some droppings.

After visiting Fossil Falls, we went to a place called Crying Girl Prairie. It was named that becuase it is the burial place of a girl who was the last remaining member of her tribe. They were wiped out by disease. It is said that she crawled up on top of a ridge and died there crying. The story is quite likely, as the area did not see much settlement by Europeans. until post WWII. (Things tend to get distorted over time).

Crying Girl Prairie is amazingly scenic. It is flanked on one side by the Graham River, and is dotted with rustic old cabins. I would love to do some more exploring of the area.

That night we drove a couple of hours to Hudson's Hope, where Cowboy is from, and spent the night in a hotel. I had wanted to pack a cooler and bedding, but Cowboy disagreed. No rustic cabin for us that night.

We were up early the next morning and back on the road. Cowboy took the kids out to his old family farm. The kids had a blast playing in the tree he used to climb as a kid. Then, it was off to the mountains again.

Cowboy has worked in the area a fair ammount and knew of a breath taking ridge, that overlooked a deep valley. I'm sure it is also a little known place an we were lucky that he shared it with us.

Of course, the kids begged us to go back to Fossil Falls, which we did, where Koogiook picked what had to have been the very, very last wild strawberry of the year. The ones in our pasture have been gone since July. Bunikpuk couldn't stop touching everything in sight. Her senses were in overload. Ukluk just had a blast throwing rocks. That kid is going to be a ballplayer, because he is obsessed with throwing things.
We headed back to Crying Girl Prairie, once our ppockets were sagging with another load of fossils. We had talked about taking the caretaker for a ride (he has a herd of horses out there, but doesn't know his way around them). However, a hunter (they were everywhere that weekend) had given him a moose. He and another guy were busy dressing it out. As always, the kids found this very interesting.

We decided to take the kids for a hike and tire them out before we headed home, hoping they would sleep. They didn't. And, it was a good thing they didn't because just past the Halfway First Nations Reserve we came upon a cattle drive. Sorry, I don't have any pictures. I was so busy getting nostalgic, I completely forgot to take any. There was a little guy on a great big horse, and it reminded me of freezing to death, but not wanting anyone to know, because then I'd have to sit in the truck. And, while the warm coffee was awful welcome, I didn't want to look un-grown-up. My hormones are still a wreck and it actually made me tear up a little.

The Federal Ranch, is located up in the parts we were exploring over the weekend. A long time back, a bunch of cowboys drove a herd of 150 head of cattle up there from Southern, Alberta. A harsh winter followed a dry summer and they lost the entire herd. Cowboy learned about it in school. Anyway, it happens to be up for sale. We talked and talked about it, but with the kids the age they are, it just isn't viable for us to be 2 1/2 hours from town. Though, again I'm wondering if the dance lessons and gymnastics and birthday party circuit are really giving them something more than what clean mountain ranch life could? I guess having joint custody of Koogiook really tips the scales.

Well, it's time to start the day. This is where I sign off. But stay tuned for an update on the "battle" to gain the approval of the Grand Pooba. The serf has made some progress.

CAPITAList LETTERS

2008-10-02T13:27:00.000-07:00

These days, in the writing world, there is a climate of fear and hostility, coupled with excitement and optimism. We are on the verge of a major shift, just as Western civilization was changed with the discovery of the New World. Between the phenomena of blogging, innovative new sites like authonomy, POD and epublishing sites, our frontiers as writers have been expanded. What will come of it? Will high quality literature die?

If I may be so arrogant, I would like to lay out a prediction. Literature is not going to die. In fact, it will be poised for new and exciting experimental forms, and be empowered with more potential than has been realized up and to this point.

I believe that we will see a world where publishers are merged with advertising agencies and marketing firms (if you know anything about the big 5, that’s not too much of a prediction). Editors will still remain a backbone, and in fact quality will take the front seat once again. Sound contradictory? Well, keep reading.

A publishing house will be free to take on more writers, because they will need very little capital to publish a book. Books will be produced for websites and available for free. Yes. I said for free. That takes care of all of everyone’s download and piracy fears. Readers will be able to read these on handheld screens (they’ve actually had different versions for about 15 years), or their computers. Unfortunately, the text will undoubtedly be framed by advertising. See, there was a catch. Many blogs and websites have been doing it for years.

Writers will be paid by advertisers based on hits to their particular book. The choice of success will largely be put back in the hands of the readers, and not investors and market analysts. Sure, these will still play a major part, but a small unpublicized book could really turn a profit if it was brilliant enough to gain a strong following. A skilled writer could compete with a celeb book, or one heavily backed by a publisher. Indie books would battle it out in a literary gladiator’s ring. The best would be picked up by a publisher and given editorial and marketing aid. As it improved and gained more readership, it could pick up more and more powerful sponsors.

This probably means that many books will be more vulnerable to fads, and may be easily lost in the sea of overload. I’m not sure. But, I do know an author’s book need never go out of print (though the checks may stop rolling in). Writers can be free to update their books, without a major expense. Agents will be hashing out contracts with Coca-Cola and Reebok. Publishing houses will still exist, because readers will need a way to navigate through all of the crap and find something that they can rely on to have been properly edited. Advertizing will be invading us on yet another front, but the possibilities are amazing (links to other resources placed in the text, interactive features that allow you to connect with characters, maps and charts for nonfiction, animated illustrations for picture books, etc.).

Will a lot of crap be put out there? There already is a lot of crap out there. Are people reading it? There are a lot of books I am happily skipping over at authonomy with my lightening fast mouse. I wish I could say the same for some of my book store purchases. I believe that poorly edited books will sink to the bottom, because who wants to waste their time reading them?

I’m not sure how I feel about all of it. I am just certain this model is pretty close to what will happen. If you’re a writer and you’re not yet web savvy, now is the time to learn (as I stumble through, myself), because in the next ten years, or less, it will be a reality. I know, we think, but I love to have a book I can hold in my hand. But, does the next generation? Or do they like to hold Black Berries and cell phones to text message with?

I welcome all comments, as I too am struggling to figure out what will happen.

Half a Loonie- that's Canuck for 50 cent

2008-09-29T21:53:00.000-07:00

So, if you haven't heard, Wylie-Merrick is not taking any new submissions. The reason- they're receiving too much crap. But, there is a way in. Over at the Wylie-Merrick blog they have suggested that if you can establsih a site for your work, and posting it there can generate 10 000 hits, they'll look at you. Oh, the horror! I know there are a few complications with this, and it raises the obvious question of, will my work still be saleable? (Iwon't get into all of that now, you can visit there site to discuss it).

However, I have to say I largely agree, despite the points raised by some of the belly aching commentators over there. When I decided it was time to go for broke, as a writer, I read everything on the business I could immediatley get my hands on. No sense wasting time chasing my tail, right? I read a few articles that spoke of blogging as the way of the future for a writer. So, taking the advice to heart, I started two blogs- a book blog (I figured I had to read and study the books anyway, why not put it out there and connect with others in the industry) and a blog about me (where I can explore my thoughts and practice my skills as a writer).

Guess what? A few months later I was on the phone with the cofounder of my dream publishing house (which happens to be my dream publisher), discussing the potential for a book. Here we are several months later, and I am learning so much, on the fly so to speak, but I have at least put a few toes in the door. Not to mention all of the terrific advice and encouragement I have received from the blog community.

So, back to those belly achers. It seems there are quite a few writers who are pissed that 50 Cent has a book deal, while they're being forced to swim in the slush (I guess he was born with a silver pen in his mouth, or something). Apparently, he doesn't qualify as a writer. I am hoping to hear some feedback on this one, but here's what I have to say:

Now, take it from me, I'm a cowgirl, and one who believes in a lawabiding life without the degredation of women, but my man 50 Cent is a writer. If you can put words into sentences (or partial sentences as is the case here) and articulate thoughts that connect with the emotional being of another human being- you're a writer. If you can create a brand for yourself out of that writing, you're probably a professional writer. If millions of kids recognize your face and can recite your compositions word for word, your giving old Will a run for his money ...no, really. Do you think that high school kids are going to be running around reciting anything I ever wrote? Not likely.

If 50 Cent isn't a writer, I'd have to say that neither was Woody Guthrie. He only wrote about common experiences, like poverty. And Jack Kirouac? Give me a break. He wasn't exactly the master of grammar. How about old Will? Well, anyone who knows a thing or two about history knows he wasn't exactly high brow entertainment in his day. And, I do believe that 50 Cent had to battle it out to rise to the top, too.

If we were talking about Paris Hilton, well, I'd be stepping into the bathtub with my laptop in hand, or strangling myself with the cord.

Back to putting it out there for free, I agree (It worked for 50 Cent- but, I guess it helps when you have a lucrative business, legal or otherwise, to support you). You can't write in a bubble. Take a chance, especially if you aren't having success in the slush. You do after all, want to connect with an audience, and you're chances of finding a home for your work is much more likely than if you self-publish.

I know I've skipped over several issues here, but why not find a place to post something and see what happens? I know a great one, and it is fairly safe. Harper-Collins has established a site called Authonomy. The premise? You dive into the slush pile and claw it out with your fellow slushees. First, you post a profile, then you can upload your book (complete with a cover), a 25 word short pitch, and a 200 word full pitch. As other readers add your book to their bookshelf, you go up in the rankings. Anyone who belongs to the site can offer you a critique. The top five from each month are guaranteed a read from a Harper-Collins editor. I'd rather that than spending my life trying to write the perfect query. My passions are children's stories and literary fiction, even a little humour and some poetry, but definitely not query.

So, I started my profile today. And as soon as I have my novel polished to the point where it is ready for an outside read, I'm posting it. But, don't expect a plug here. This blog is connected too closely to my children's writing and I would like to keep my other writing seperate (no, I don`t write erotica or anything creepy). Yes, I've established yet another alter-ego (watch out Max Brand). I am also toying with the idea of blogging as my main character. Maybe a journal that follows her through the story.

Yup! I'm putting my money where my mouth is. Maybe I'm a little more than half loonie, but what can it hurt? So, who'll pledge to give me a run for my money over there? Come on, I know at least one of you is dying to.

Fancy Fandagled Shoes and Chicken Coop Poop

2008-09-28T09:16:00.000-07:00

Things have been hectic around here, like usual. Now that the little tykes are back in the full swing of preschool, kindergarten, dance lessons, and gymnastics, I really don't know whether I am coming or going. Take for example, the other night. It was "open house" night at Koogiook's school.

The other moms (the urban ones that have time to have their hair and nails done) usually see me in Wranglers and a ponytail (usually a ball cap, too). I know they don't think I'm very cool, because I've had a few things happen that have clearly left me with the message. Like the time I picked Koogiook up from preschool. One of her little friends asked if she could have a playdate with her. I was game. Her mother looked me up and down (quite obviously) and said, "I don't think so." I felt bad for Koogiook. But really, there was nothing wrong with the way I was dressed. I just wasn't coiffed and manicured. I don't know what she thought was so wrong with me, but seriously, I'm a children's writer. I'm not some Goth with piercing where piercings shouldn't be, and an S&M chamber in the basement (we don't even have a basement).

I digress. Ok, so I put on some lipstick. I didn't have time for more, but a little colour on the lips can go a long way. I put on my new jeans (my ok-I-surrender-and-accept-my-new-weight-so-my-wardrobe-might-as-well-reflect-it-jeans). I'd been making due with my maternity jeans, hoping to zip back down to my old pants size anyday. I put on a nice sweater, and actually ran a brush through my hair. I completed my look with a new (to me, at least) pair of shoes. They are these chic little (well, not that little- they fit over my feet) denim high heeled booties. I've been dying to wear them for ages, but they are not appropriate for backing a nearly 30 lb baby or chasing a todller and a preschooler. They aren't appropriate for too much in my life, I discovered.

So, I was racing out the door. I'd packed the kids in the SUV (yes, I drive one. If you had to hall chicken feed, water bottles, a stroller, groceries for two households, dogfood, and three carseats over 20 minutes of gravel roads in a Canadian winter, you would, too- no appologies there). I grabbed some clothes for Cowboy, being sure to douse his shirt in cologne. Then it hit me, I'd forgotten to feed the chickens. And no, it couldn't wait.

I drove down to the coop, lest I trip and break an ankle. I tip toed inside, slipping on some fresh hen excrement, and nearly landed on the seat of those new jeans. I couldn't get the grain bag open. You have to unwind the thread at the top to open them, sort of like pulling stitches. I busted a nail off and was thankful I hadn't bothered to do them. I gave up and ran back to the SUV for a pair of scissors. I'm not sure why I have a pair in there, but I do. I made it through feeding the grain alright, but then I had to water the chooks, which meant walking to the pump house to turn on the water. I rolled my ankle a few times, but I was in the infantry- I could take it. I accidentally sprayed myself with the hose, a couple of times. The water pails are a little tricky to fill sometimes. Thankfully, I appeared dry by the time I got to town. However, the other mom's kept staring at me. I wasn't sure if it was because they'd never seen me halfways done up, or becuase my shoes stunk like chicken poop.

Here's a poem inspired my the evenings events:

Fancy Fandangled High Fashion Shoes

We’d been invited to one of them high toned type dues.
Finally, a place to wear my new fancy fan dangled high fashion shoes.
I’d bought em on ebay, for what I thought was a steal-
At just fifty bucks per stiletto high heel.
Gettin all pertyed- why that’d be real great.
The hubby and I were due for a date.
I shaved both my legs, which were long over do.
I used an old combine, and a harvester, too.
I curled up my hair like that chic Bradshaw chick-
With less sex and no city and my friends are all hicks.
I tinted my nails with paint left from the barn,
And weed whacked the hair from under my arms.
I darkened my lashes with some gunk from a tube,
And put on a push-up for two over-nursed boobs.
I slipped on a dress all clingy and tight.
Heck, I was gunnin for action that night.
But wouldn’t you know it? It took most the day
To get gussied up and lookin that way.
I neglected a chore ...the hubby could do.
Nothing too big, just the old chicken coop.
Ah, but the oil patch- they needed him, much more than I.
Oh, if only I’d paid more attention to time.
You see, I’d finished my look with them sexy stiletto like shoes.
Not quite like them gumboots I normally choose,
When the hubby called me up on the phone,
“Bring fresh clothes and plenty cologne,
Maybe a razor and a packet of gum.
I’ll see you in town, now hurry up hun.”
There was no time to slip on some old farmin clothes.
I’d just be real careful. No one’d know.
I opened the door and tip toed right in,
Carefully, avoiding the waist of a hen.
Well, the dog thought he’d join me to stir it all up.
He nipped at a rooster he intended to pluck.
That flea bitten varmint got him caught by the tail.
The whole coop exploded and started to flail.
The claws of a hen dug into my curls.
I grabbed the mutt by the collar, but he give me a whirl.
There was feathers and fur from hither to fro.
As I skittered straight back, and my footing let go.
First I slid this way and then I slid that.
I cleared about four hens but, squished three more flat.
The grain bucket had capsized and the water jugs, too.
And that sleek clingy dress was now covered in poo.
My pride busted up, I limped back to the house
To find a new outfit that I could wear out.
I plucked out the feathers from my tussled up hair.
And vacuumed cracked wheat from them silk underwear.
I washed the egg from off of my face,
Slipped on an old dress of denim and lace.
I put on more lipstick and raced out the door
Looking less glamorous than I had before.
I entered the shindig a little dis-shelved
But all things considered, I thought I looked swell.
I strutted and pranced like I were the queen,
Or some Hollywood actress, and this was my scene.
Everyone was watching, why sure, I looked hot.
So, I didn’t give that fiasco more thought.
Until someone sniffed, “now what is that smell?”
My face went all red and my jaw simply fell.
I wanted to cry, but what could I do.
My fancy fan dangled stiletto like shoes
Were one-hundred dollars of fashion dipped in the finest of chicken fresh poo.

Crabwise to the Hounds

2008-09-23T22:09:00.000-07:00

ISBN: 1552452050
Price: CDN $16.95
Pages: 96
Format: Paperback
Published: Fall, 2008

Well, I wasn't going to write tonight. I've had a few sleepless nights, but as I was checking my Facebook account, which has been sorely neglected these days, I came across something very interesting- an invitation to a book launch.

What makes this paticular invitation so interesting is that it was from Jeramy Dodds (that alone is interesting) whom I haven't seen in about 13 years. He dated one of my friends and thus was a part of our circle. We, along with a few others, seemed to have a lot of classes together and even had spares at the same time, which meant some of the goofiest, yet intellectual spare-conversations a group of teenagers ever had. Many of our teachers generally thought we were a group of "burnouts", and were likely horrified everytime our group linked up for another group project. The best had to have been the time the academic decathalon team were all away and we got sent by default. We nearly gave the elitist coach an aneurism- especially when Jeramy showed up in his trademark bell bottoms. We gave our economics teacher real heck too, because none of our paticular group were in that class to learn the theories of "The Wealthy Barber". We wanted to know more about the state of the South American economy, and what was happening in the world, at large (ok, a couple of the guys just wanted to know if the Leafs would win their next game). Our poor teacher thought he was going to do us a favour and make us all rich. We really didn't care. We had more important things to worry about- like Tibet, and playing hide-and-seek on our friend Rob, in the library.

If there is one thing Facebook has made me realize, it is how little of an impression most people really made on me (and it pains me with guilt). I have an incredible memory for people, and yet find that I have forgotten so many people from High School. But definitely not Jeramy. I doubt anyone ever forgot him. I remember once when he had his hair done into dred locks. Unfortunatley, it was the night that Sideshow Bob premiered on the Simpsons. We went to a rural High School (as in it wasn't even in a town) and so, the nickname stuck. Jeramy let it roll off his back. In the end, I think he just proved how provincial most of our peers were. He was the kid that everyone knew was going to do something and get the heck out. Like when you watch Biography and they interview people who knew the stars back when, and they all say, "we always knew he'd be something. He was just different."

I'm not shocked he found success. He was an inspiration in High school (I guess you could add him to my list of influences), because I wasn't exactly a perfect fit there either (I could be wrong, but I think we were the only ones swapping Joni Mitchell cds).

Intellegent, reflective, idealistic, and deviously humorous (am I right, Sin?) last I remember. So, you'll have to join me in checking his book out. If for nothing else than the fact that Crabwise to the Hounds proves that poetry is not dead and publishers will still handle it (but, only if people buy it).

Congrats Jeramy!

By the way, here's what the CBC Literary Awards Jury had to say about it:

'Strange, densely layered, ruthless and funny by turns, these poems ... force us to go slow at their sudden ingrown turns. They are full of creature music surprises.'

If my ramblings about HS don't have you convinced, he's the winner of the CBC Literary Award and the Bronwen Wallace Award.

Three Heart Breakers and Three Joy Makers

2008-09-22T16:09:00.000-07:00

Things that break my heart:

I see beavers everywhere, lately. Big deal right? I mean, I am living in Canada. Well, it is a big deal because I never seem to see them near water. I am frequently encountering them in the middle of roads, with no water in sight. What makes this so heart breaking is that it means their water supplies have been drying up from the drought we've been having. Cowboy assures me that beavers came to populate this majority of this vast nation as the result of moving from one area to another, and not to worry. But, I do worry. The weather is changing and habitats are being swallowed. I saw a beaver on the road the other day, right before I met a stream of oil patch trafic. I flashed them my lights, but I'm not sure it helped. The next day I saw roadkill spatter in roughly the same area. Warning: Postnatal/ Premenapausal moment- they are so visible this summer, I feel like it is nature trying to tell us that soemthing is very wrong with this planet right now. Yeah, you're probably right- I'm being awfully sissy about it all. But, I am one Canadian who is happy we have a beaver instead of a more majestic national animal. Still, I wish Gordon Campbell (premier of BC) could come and see them in search of a new home. I'll plaster their tails with little "Say No to Site C" bumper stickers.

I watch the media everyday and wait to hear the story of the mass residential school graves break wide open. It doesn't. I think of the mother's and father's who were never told what happened to their children not just because no one cared, but also because many stories could not be repeated. When my mother-in-law atteneded the Imaculatta school in Aklavik, three small boys ran away. Only two were ever found. Taking the youthful sense of invincibility into account, I still question what makes three small boys set out across the tundra alone. Last night I discovered a new story. Currently, there are pictures of native children from the Charles Camsell Hospital on diplay at the Royal Alexandra Hospital. The Charles Camsell hospital is where doctors performed medical experiments on aboriginal children, to include sterilization. Those who died were carried away and burried by their peers (that part happened everywhere- kids burrying kids). They were then subjected to elctro-shock therapy to forget the trauma. The pictures bare no mention of these atrocities. My mother-in-law was forced to work in a hospital, from the age of eight, and through many epidemics. Any wonder so many children died of disease at residential schools? Something needs to be done to commemorate the children found in the many mass graves across Canada. I'd like to see a monument errected, somewhat likew the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. I'd also like to see a museum built. If we can have a holocaust museum, why not a museum to honour our country's very first citizens and how cruelly they have been treated? My heart bleeds to know that so many children were raised without mothers. They represent a significant part of our population and I'd like to see Harper table discussions about what really happened, and provide something greater than a political appology and a settlement cheque (that is nothing more than a catalyst for many of its unwell recipients). But, I guess he's to busy computer animating puffins that poop on Dion's head, to bother discussing something as petty as genocide.

Speaking of politics, looking South of the border, and North, as well- regardless of wether or not you are a Republican mom, or a Democrat mom, there are bound to be some mixed emotions over Palin. Part of me says Rock on girl...You show them boys what a mother is capable of. The other part of me says You better be wearing spanks under that Jackie Kennedy suit, and I hope you complain about your vericose veins tonight when you take those stilettos off. I wish I could just be happy for her, as a woman (though I am still in denial over Gore), but honestly, here is a woman with great hair, a body Oprah would kill for (and after five kids- one fairly recently), fired the governor's cook, took the world by storm after starting a career as a mayor, has a special needs child ... I could go on. Everytime I hear her speak I can just picture her speaking to a girlfriend. "Oh, come on. Suck it up princess. Of course you should be able to fit breastfeeding the triplets in with your corporate law career, yor parapalegic husband, and ailing mother-in-law. How can you tell me you can't make it to the PTA this Thursday? And your flower beds are a stinkin mess." I only wish we had to live up to June Cleaver, these days. Sorry gals, these days its Carry Bradshaw, Martha Stewart, and Sara Palin. Are you serious? The bar has been raised yet again. If I were to take my tongue from my cheek, I would have to say, it really is us women who put all this self-loathing on our selves, and envy onto those over achiever moms. Really, does anyone out there know a man who wants to be married to the first female VP? Apart from Bill, because we all know he could use the time to interview interns. Guess I'm stuck between a feminist and a hard place.

Things that make my heart burst with joy:

Ukluk is now attending preschool. That part is hard, but I am proud of how he is growing. He now says things to me like, "Mommy, I want a cheese sandwich in a 'tainer, like my friends." It is so cute and grown up. Or when I kiss him goodnight, he reminds me, "and a hug, Mommy." Bunikpuk insists on sleeping with a doll lately. However, I believe she thinks of her baby more as a little sister because she is forever wanting me to nurse her toy. She holds her up to the appropriate area and makes sucking sounds. She's also turned into an enthusiastic little tooth brusher. Koogiook is catching on to French at a rapid pace, which only confirms what I have known all along- she's a genius!

Planning the wedding is going quite smoothly (right now, anyway). Cowboy and I see eye to eye on almost everything, the rest I force him to say "Uncle". My crazy concept seems to be fitting together perfectly, and there's no sign of Bridezilla on the horizon. I think it is gong to be the perfect expression of our family and the love we have for each other, though the Farmer's Almanac is predicting a wet summer. Ok, there might be some serious Bride rage then.

My new jeans seem to be pretty loose today, my house is creeping slowly toward being clean, the ms is at a place I am finally 100% confident in, and I haven't even received the sage's critique, yet. The river hills are on fire with amber, yellow and red. I'm not sick anymore, though I am getting hot flashes. I have dance class tonight. I made cabbage rolls, for the first time, last night, and I hope my mom and aunt aren't reading, because I think mine are better. Cowboy is off work in an hour. And, I could go on.

Making Good on a Couple of Promises

2008-09-21T17:08:00.000-07:00

This is the Cowboy I kiss goodnight- every night! Oh, and the little Dumplin (Bunikpuk) I snuggle.

Redneck Saint

2008-09-21T09:03:00.000-07:00

Marty Simon always wanted to be a cowboy from the Wild West. He grew up in NJ, playing cowboys and Indians, and lusting for adventure.

Like so many youngster who reached tha age of majority as the war in Vietnam started, he thought he'd found his chance to be a hero in South East Asia. He enlisted. He served his country and witnessed things that I am sure he would never share with another living soul.

He thought he was coming home to a hero's welcome when he stepped off the plane in NY. What a shock it must have been to pass through the gates in uniform, and be greeted by your fellow citizens screaming, "baby killer" at you- no ticky tape here folks. Things were just about to get worse.

Marty couldn't find a taxi outside of the terminal. Not because no one would give him a ride, but because there were no taxis at all. Marty arrived home on in the middle of the Detroit Riot of 67. Taxi cabs were forbidden to operate. So, Marty began a very long walk home in a foreign country that looked like the United States (the country that sent him halfway around the world), but was definitely not like anywhere he had ever lived before.

Luckily, for Marty, a non-operating cab did stop for him, although it was illegal, and drove him all the way home. By the time he reached his front doorstep, he was already having thoughts of going back.

What makes someon willing go back to the horrors of a place like Vietnam? From the veterans I have talked to (and I've known many), it was a combination of guilt for having left guys behind, and an inability to understand their own homes. The men were not only changed, the entire landscape of America changed, rapidly. Therefore, they no longer understood their home, or were understood there. However, Vietnam was full of men that understood them, and they understood the jungle, much better than they could comprehend a backyard barbeque with their former HS classmates. Vietnam became the home they longed for.

Marty went back, and became a lifer (a career soldier). After retiring from the army, he went on to work as a corrections officer- a job that also filled him with the horrors of humanity. But, do you know how I met that man? He was subcontracting for Jobs Corps teaching a wilderness survival/ leadership challenge course for troubled youth. He and his dog Shadow broke through to kids that seemed unreachable. Perhaps, because many of them had grown up in battle zones themselves (in crack houses and on the streets). His compassion is unparalleled by any human being I have ever met.

Many of the vets I have known, frequently attend the church of the forgetful liguid, where they pay alms until they are nearly broke, confessing their sins to honkey tonk angels, or they drive themselves with a fury to be better and batter and better (all fueled on rage and anger). Marty is neither. He is a sage filled with wisodm who has gleaned a better way of living from it all, and freely shares his knowledge.

He has spent a great deal of time volunteering at veteran's hospitals, as a counselor, and has worked for the Red Cross. He has taught the value of indigenous plants to the aboriginal elders who have forgotten them, and helped many troubled kids find their inner strengths.

Marty owns a chunk of reclaimed farm land, in Upstate New York, along the Canadian border. It is very special place. It is the home of the Wilderness Learning Center. A place I definitely recommend you check out, because Marty is right at the top when it comes to survivalists. He once spent a winter on his land, living entirely from it- food, shelter, everything. He said that he went through a period where he didn't want to be around people, so, he went for a walk one Fall and didn't come back until Spring. Hard to believe from a man that is absolutely adored by everyone who meets him. Marty without people around- strange, because people flock to him.

Marty allows no hunting on his property- having lost the "taste for killing" in Vietnam. It makes it the perfect sanctuary for even the animals to get away from the crazy world. He has created a complete haven. There are so many more things I could write about him, like how he buit a house with no running water and electricity, because he did not want to lose his ability to function without them. Or, that he did found the love of his life a few years ago and married her on a peaceful lakeshore.

If it isn't obvious, I admire this man, immensely. Please drop over to hs website and check out what he is doing with his Wilderness Learning Center. From a warrior to a sage- a renaissance man, or maybe just a redneck Saint?

Threshing Bee, Not a Trashing Bee

2008-09-18T17:54:00.000-07:00

Yup! That’s right. I said threshing bee. Does anyone out there know what I am talking about? Well, it’s a way of separating oats from the stalk and chaff, used before they invented combines. We’re lucky enough to have a friend who has a fully operational threshing machine. So, we spent our Saturday at his annual threshing bee.

The first time we went was a few years back, when I was about seven months pregnant with Ukluk. In preparation for the threshing, the bundles of oats had to be stooked (piled). We have some great pictures of me standing barefoot in the stubble, a pair of overalls on, with a bundle of oats under each arm (unfortunately not digital or I’d share). Ukluk should get a kick out of it when he’s older.

Koogiook loved the wagon rides, especially the trips back because we had to sit perched on enormous mounds of oats.

This year was every bit as fun, though we arrived a little late to get in on any of the labour (not intentional). There were children running about everywhere, to the delight of my three little ones. We couldn’t have pried them off the teeter totter (which at any given time had six kids on it) with a crow bar. The potlatch was scrumptious. The bonfire bordered on excessive. The conversation was genuine and enriching. The entertainment was grade “A”.

For the first time, in a very long time, I found myself at a function where I didn’t feel the heavy hand of “mommy ostracism”. There was not one mention of who did the best nails in town, or what kind of figures the old man brought in last year. I was surrounded by good farm folk and I can’t remember when I have ever felt more at home at any sort of function with Cowboy.
Bunikpuk was the first of the children to nod off. She contentedly slept in her stroller while men picked away at mandolins and guitars and blew harmonicas. We made a bed for Ukluk and Koogiook near the campfire (but, at a safe distance) and they dozed off under the stars.

I spent a long time talking to famous cowboy poet, Brian Solomond (he’s going to officiate our wild west wedding), about what else? Cowboy poetry. He said that it is an art form that is in decline, because no young people are writing and performing it, anymore. The reason? No one is living the life. “You can’t write about it, if you haven’t done it,” he said. And in this case, imagination really isn’t enough. It is a definite component, but you can’t make the sort of stuff he writes about up.

The whole evening left me wanting more. More potlatches. More farm wives expressing concern over the old man’s arthritis. More reverence for our past. More bonfires. More children piling on teeter totters.

When I was a kid, it seemed there were pig roasts going on all the time, or brandings, or bees. I told one guy how we used to fight for the pig’s nose and wear it around for fun. He said they used to fight for the tail. We should have been at the same pig roasts because we could have really exploited the left over swine bits. My children have yet to do that. What a shame. My father used to hitch up the team, grab a bottle and cruise the neighbourhood, picking up the other farm families for a night of drunken hayrides. The kids would bundle in the middle and nod off to sleep, while the adults forgot about how early they would need to rise the next morning for chores. Where have those days gone?

I have such a craving to simplify. Are the dance lessons and gymnastics really so beneficial to the children, or would they benefit from more hayrides and pig roasts? I’m not sure the answer to that. I do know we have too many toys and too few hours for our horses. I want less MP3s and more guitar picking. Less microwavable dinners and more home baked bread. I want that for my children, too.

I’m not sure where how to do it, but I know it begins by making a commitment to examine one’s life- each miniscule part, and weed out the busyness and clutter to make room for some grass roots time. If our access to energy ended tomorrow, many people would be unable to cope. I don’t want my children to be among them. And I do feel that it will end, likely in our lifetime, because humanity is actually crying out for it. We were never meant to live on pills and preservatives to help us rush break neck through our day.

Tonight, I think it will be a walk instead of TV. We live in God’s country and we don’t pay them crazy property taxes not to enjoy the view.

I Was at Job Corps, Vergennes, Vt: Where were you?

2008-09-11T22:54:00.000-07:00

Seven years ago I hung up the phone, after booking a flight to South Africa. I had not yet removed my hand from the receiver, when the phone rang. I picked it up and heard my friend John, a fellow survival instructor. His voice was shaky. He said, "This is not a joke. You need to get over here. A plane has just crashed into the one of the Twin Towers." I raced to the supply room of the Job Corps I was working at, in time to see the second plane hit.

Many of those psychic gurus say that a long period of unhappiness fell across the entire planet that day. They predicted ill fortune for many. For me, that exact day was the beginning of a four year downward spiral. When the Towers crumbled and fell, it was like something in me fell, too- my youthful idealism- my belief that I could do anything.

It wasn't because of the horrible tragedy, that day. It just seemed to coincide with it. I sat between John and Marty (a Vietnam vet and survivalist). Tori Amos's Not the Red Baron kept playing in my head. "And are there devils with halos and beautiful capes, taking them into the flames? Taking them into the flames ...not anyone I really know. Just another pilot down. Maybe I'll just sing him one last little song."

School was let out and we all gathered the students into the gymnasium to watch a symbol of America crumble. I kept thinking, this is our generations JFK. The whole world will mourn this.

Driving home was eerie. The two men I commuted with were silent. I stared at row after row of corn fields. Already, flags were appearing anywhere one could be hung. As we drove across the bridge to New York state, I looked down into the waters of Lake Champlain, and thought of all that the nation had been through since the space between Vt and NY was a battleground for the Civil War.

That night, my roommate and I drank beer and watched CNN, until we were too exhausted to endure anymore.

Six days later, I flew from JFK International to Cape Town. Wandering JFK was surreal. It was not the USA that I had been living in for some 5 years. It was a militraized place, where the National Guard and Reserves wandered about with their M-16s, randomnly stopping people and searching them. Instead of the usual magazines and chewing gum, I travelled with matches, I camouflaged in a container on my key chain, tin foil for a cooking implement or cup, water purification tabs, a magnesium fire starter, and a medical kit. It was a terrifying place to be, but I, like the rest of the world, made a choice that I would continue on with my life.

I sat next to a woman from SA, on the plane. She had flown over to have a meeting, in one of the Twin Towers. She had left the building, just before the impact. As we lifted into the air and circled past the famous skyline, the entire plane wept. It didn't matter where we called home.

That one incident came closer to this Canadian, than you would think. It took one of my friends five days to find her father. He was hurt by fallout and she was unable to locate which hospital he was in. The Australian embassy was housed in one of the Towers. My Australian rugby coach and boss had dealt with them many times. He placed a flag at ground zero, the first day it was safe to do so. One of the students at the Job Corps I worked at, had taken leave to go on vaccation with her mother. Her mother worked in one of the buildings, and missed a horrible fate. I think nearly every American has a story, or knows someone who does.

And the suffering continues for many. I think of all of the firemen I saw in JFK, returning home to places like California and Washington state. Statistics would suggest that many of those same heroic men, are ill from the side effects of inhilation. The bodies we watched fall from the flames, are absent from the seats they should fill at graduations and weddings.

Here I sit, eight years on, and still, I value the many Muslim friends that I have made in my life. It is part of my vow to carry on with life. I refuse to let extremists divide us, forcing us each to an extreme side. I saw many muslims cry on that plane to SA.

I also pray for my dear friends who are serving overseas. Please, come home safe.

Tonight, all I have left to say, is that a great sadness spread across the planet, that day. But, as we carry on, we don't forget, we simply prevail. From the ashes rose the Pheonix.

I Learned to Stall Tonight- and that doesn't mean procrastinate

2008-09-10T21:37:00.000-07:00

I learned to stall tonight. If you're my age or older, you better ask a younster about it. I definitely do not suggest you try this one at home, or anywhere for that matter.

I am so disgusted with my body (three ab surgeries in 2 1/2 years and a busted thyroid), that I decided my adult tap class was not going to cut it. I forgot that I have had a few kids and joined the teen hip hop class. Oh yeah, that was brilliant. Instead of feeling better, I feel like a slightly more athletic Jabba the Hut. When did my arms start moving after I stopped? Push ups tonight were depressing. There was a time I could max the PT test to the male standard on push ups and sit ups. I couldn't do one proper military push up, though I'm leaps and bounds ahead of most of the other girls in the calss, which depressed me even more. I thought it was all about the Wii these days. I feel like telling these girls, "If you can't get your butt outside for a walk, can't you at least bitch and moan for a Wii, and make sure you ask for those games that make you get up off the couch). Do kids have dogs anymore? If so, I'd hate to see how fat the dogs are.

Anyway, I was depressed about my own level of fitness, but I am 31, not 13. I know I said that I would blog about Marty, and I haven't yet, so, when I gat the chance, I'll post the picture of Cowboy. Unfortunatley, we have dial up, so it may take a bit. I will get to that post, though. And, without making any promises, I will get to a whole lot more posts about the influences in my life. For now, I am stalling. However, this stall does not involve me standing on my head and contorting my body (rolls and all) into pretzel shapes. I am so glad that Shane Sparks is not my teacher. I'd be to embarrassed to wear anything other than a tent.

Well, I must run. I've got a writing assignment to finish up, because I stalled and it is due tomorrow. And speaking of writing, if you're wondering why I haven't been doing much of it lately, I can only hang my head pittifully and say that my energy is blotto right now, and I am getting my behind kicked by the ms. Though, a valiant lady, my new writing friend, the magician- Kate Messner has been so kind as to offer up her powers, and I have alsobefirended a kind sage, David Bouchard (you'll be reading a lot about him, in the near future at the Sanctuary- yes, I'll be posting there again before the week is out) who is working his charms, right now. I am confident that the gate keeper will be pleased. The Grand Pooba on the other hand, well, there is a reason why his court is so highly honoured, and why I have dreamed of a place in it. He demands only the best. I could still use a Knight, but I have a plan there, too. I am thinking about going out on a limb an enlisting a woman I know woulld be very passionate about the quest.

Finally, Kim, I am extremely honoured that you chose to pass your award on to me. I'll blog about it tomorrow. Wow! That makes two in one day! One here and a completely differnt one from Annick over at the Sanctuary. So, I guess I learned how to stall, and that all the stalling I do, instead of working on projects, really does count. I was also given a warm email hug, recently. I'd like to pass that warm cyber space hug to everyone out there who actually enjoys my postnatal, not-so-premenopausal insanity.

P.S.
OMG I can't believe I nearly forgot. I am completely losing my mind. I had a major ball session earlier today. Koogiook went to her first day of kindergarten- and French imersion at that. I was so proud when the children went around the circle announcing who they were and she just blurted out, Je m'appelle Emma (that is probably spelled all wrong, but my french is very rusty). We rehearsed it a bit. I thought she could use a leg up on the first day. But, I still cried.

And, tonight I went to the Fall Fair meeting and booked the date. It's official. Cowboy and I are getting hitched on the 4th of July. What better day for a Spaghetti Western wedding?

P.S.S. I just wanted to point out that I am proud of the girls in my class for finally making the decision to get out and get fit. I don't think that every teen girl should have only 2% body fat or anything. I don't care what size you are, though, inactivity is in some cases as harmful as diseases like anorexia. Parents worry about their children having heart attacks, when they are anorexic. Maybe they should pay equal attention when their children are lazy- it's a lot easier to cure. A kick in the butt usually does the trick. If you question my comments at all, be sure to check out what Sin is saying, or just read it because it is a great post.

John Wayne Wished He Were as Cool as Mr. Dewey

2008-09-04T20:39:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty sure that if John Wayne were still alive, his vehicle would be sporting a bumper sticker that read "I wish I were as cool as Mr.Dewey", because Gordon "Duke" Dewey is the type of man that a person is lucky to meet at least once in their life.

I met him at Norwich University, where he was the armouror. Being smart enough to know where to court your friends, I headed straight to army supply to seek out my campus employment. Sitting behind a big old desk was a man who was larger than life, rougher than sand paper and kinder than a Care Bear. I'm not sure why, but he took me under his wing, in an instant, and there are times that I don't think I would have survived without him.

Mr. Dewey was a former Green Berret. He was in Vietnam before the Americans were techinically in Vietnam, and spent nearly the entire war there. He once showed me his walk on water pass. Likely many of you do not know what that is, unless you've been reading "Soldier of Fortune". It is a card that is issued to very important governemnt agents that give them access to anything they want. Until I actually saw one, I though they were just a myth. He also had a box full of Montngard bracelets. They were a gift given by the mountain dwelling natives of Vietnam, and were a symbol of respect for a good deed. They regarded these bracelets as rank. If everyone in the world walked around handing them out, Mr. Dewey would not have been able to house his collection within twenty stadiums.

He was my mentor, and I thought of him as though he were my grandfather. He was full of stories. He knew so much about the world, and politics in particular. Not big politics, but the little politics we have to play in our lives. He sat perched on my shoulder like my conscience in one of those cartoons, and I never went wrong, as long as I listened to him. There were however times when I thought that I was invincible and went against his advice. That man could predict an outcome in a military setting, like no one I have ever met before. He told me that I needed to aim for cadet SGT Major, if I wanted a shot at being cadet Col. I wanted the challenge of being a Drill Sgt- a position closely guarded by the male establishment. I ended up being ousted through conspiracy and set up. He stood by me, in what felt like the worst point in my life and fought for me. He went head to head with the powers to be, like any great NCO would, but in the end, he was just that, and no offence to the brass, but officers aren't put in place to worry about the troops.

To give you a picture of this man, he had to have been in his 70s, had had open heart surgerey, and often went for cordozone shots so that he could go skiing in the alps. He was responsible for helping found the prestigous Mountain Cold Weather Rescue Team at Norwich, which has been responsible, not only for saving lives, but also for giving its members a sense of accomplishment and training that at one time (I couldn't comment now) was some of the best in the States.

I remember when I was a freshman andhave to give a class to my platoon on any topic of my choosing. Mr. Dewet leant me his 45, even gained permission from security for me to have it on campus. I didn't give a class on dress and deportment or the history of the flag. I got to instruct my rook buddies on the assembly and disassembly of the Colt 45. Little things like that made me feel so special. My cadre all had immense respect for Mr. Dewey- he was a major legend around campus, and the fact that I got to pack his very own personal piece into the mess hall, was over the top.

I often chose to stay on campus for holidays, and work. Mr. Dewey and his extremely amazing wife, always opened their home to me. He was a Rotarian, and helped me obtain the scholarsip I received to study abroad in Australia. I think he worked harder for it than I did and likely wanted it more (though I wanted it pretty badly).

I could go on and tell you more stories that wouldn't mean as much to you as they do to me, but I won't. I just wanted to point out that somewhere in the fine state of VT is a man who has seen more horror and cruelty than one hundred men would ever see in their lifetimes, and yet his compassion extended to everyone he came into contact with. I truly hope that there is more beyond this life, here, because I am not sure that I will ever see him again in this one, and I cannot bare the thought of never being reunited with him, again. I love him beyond words- if there are soul mates, he is my soul grandfather. Not a day goes by that I don't think of him and wonder what he would think of what I am doing with my life. I haven't talked to him in years, but he is still a very strong influence in my life.

I'll have to tell you about my soul dad tomorrow. He's another great man who has continued to serve the people of the United States, after having served a lifetime of military service. If you have an interest in survivalism, you'll want to catch that post.

The Kids Are in Bed!!!

2008-09-03T22:00:00.000-07:00

The kids are in bed!!! Unfortunately, Cowboy is still working. However, I am now afforded the opportunity to catch up with the rest of the world. It has been two weeks of sick kids, followed by four days of my own sickness ...and now, Cowboy thinks he's coming down with something. I am wondering if there is some room for me in the barn.

I'd like to wish Laurie the very best of luck. She was kind enough to nominate me for Book Blogger Appreciation Week. I had sincerely wanted to nominate her, as well. Unfortunatley, I missed the train. Things have been hectic. So here's my little appreciation post, to the gals who make me cry with laughter, and sob with empathy. Sorry, again. And, I know, I am so lazy, but I'll put you all in my side bar, sometime soon.

First, because she is the funniest redneck I know (without really knowing). Kathi over at I Think We're All Bozos on this Bus. Someone, please, get this woman a book contract. I guarantee that you'll wet yourself while cruising her posts.

Next, would be Kim at Bugs and Bunnies. It is, hands down, the best "Mommy Blog" I know of. And I love a woman who admits to having a messy house, loves a little potty humour with her kids, but wouldn't stand out out at a PTA meeting.

Then, there's Sin, at Write About Here. I would have nominated her, not only because she has been my friend since I was in grade 9, but because she is a talented writer who still asks those questions that we asked back then. She makes you think about all of those everyday struggles you have become so used to, you no longer acknowledge- from SA, to volunteering, and her struggles with "mommy guilt".

I would have nominated Laurie at Writing on the Edge. Not because she nominated me, but because she has an eclectic blog that is both entertaining and passionate. I also love that she used to be a policewoman. I love other gals who tackle predominantly male occupations.

I would have had to mention Stella Lisa, over at Tea Time at Annick for all the hardwork she does, in an effort to connect a great publishing house and its authors/illustrators, with the general public. I should also mention Rick Wilks and all of the other great people of Annick. It is a terriffic blog to visit.

Of course, what would my life be without the infamous EA at Editorial Anonymous. If you're a writer with a question, EA has the answers. Her topics are engaging and the comments board is always afire. I check her blog about as often as I check my email.

Finally, the ever sympathetic Moonrat at Editorial Ass. She's that big sister, or wiser girlfriend who has the answere, becasue she's been there and done that. She's good for the soul, and definitely worth checking out.

Sorry, if I forgot anyone. It's been a long day. Anyway, Cowboy is home, now. So, maybe I better take advantage of the time. Never mind. He's already fallen asleep on the couch. Shoot! Well, I guess I could use the quiet to get to work on polishing my novel (I've concluded that it is my only way to find an agent, and it is definitely time to just let the damn thing go forth into the wolrd). I promise to deliver the goods on my two alltime favourite NCOs tomorrow, or I'll post a half naked picture of Cowboy on here.

SOS from Grasshopper Grove

2008-08-29T09:59:00.000-07:00

The house is a mess. I need a shower. I am sore from hauling bags of chicken feed and slinging bales over the fence (the op has really kicked my behind). The cornish game hens look like emus.The kids are cranky and we are nearing the second week of sickness, in this house. Cowboy leaves the house at 0630 and isn't home until well after dark. I'm not sure when the birds are going to make it to the freezer. Part II of "The Men Who Lifted Me Up by Making Me Drop" will have to wait.

Oh, and I received another rejection. I didn't even make it past the query phase. I'm surprised how few people are actually willing to read a story that is already on the radar with a publishing house. I hope the latest draft of ms is better than my last query. Anyway, if anyone has advice, I'm all eyes. In the meantime, I am going to tell myself, that the average New Yorker just isn't interested in representing a quirky cowgirl and a story about her Inuit mother-in-law, yeh, that's gotta be it. Maybe, I should be looking to California. Are there any agents in Alaska? They'd love me in Alaska ...right?

Well, it's time for the main event around here, today- wrangling toddlers and shoving 2 tsps of pink crap down their throats (honestly, I wouldn't take it myself)- it'll be easier said than done- much easier. It's a heck of a lot more complicated than deworming a horse. Somehow I just can't bring myself to pull my kids' tongues out of their mouths to keep them open. Though I may farmer rig the squeeze. If anyone has advice for administering medicine, I'm all eyes for that, too. I've tried everything!

My Secret Identity

2008-08-27T10:29:00.000-07:00

For those of you who don't konw it, I have a secret identity. Yes, I am Supermom! (Well, maybe not to my kids). I have been called away to battle the evil Tonsillitis as it rampages the young citizens of Grasshopper Grove. Armed with only Amozxicllan, a bulk supply of juice boxes, a hord of Dora and Disney movies, a bottle ot Tylenol, and a mother's love, I will set forth to save the tiny victims from the wrath of this villain's sidekicks- Fever, Crankiness, and Mr. I. Needmom. See you when it passes, or the kids get some sleep.

Tag! You're It

2008-08-23T08:20:00.000-07:00

Well, it would seem that Kim has tagged me. So, here it goes. Though I'm cheating, too. I only know about three people I can comfortably tag. But don't worry. They know plenty of people to tag. So, Cinnamon Gurl, Kathi and Laurie .... TAG! You're It!

Here are the rules:
1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. List 6 unspectacular quirks you have.
4. Tag 6 bloggers by linking them.
5. Leave a comment on each taggee's blog to let them know they've been tagged.

The Quirk on Mommy C

1. I've been dancing (tap especially) for about 26 years or so.

2. I was in the Canadian Infantry and went to a military school in the States - Norwich University. Oh, and taught wilderness survival.

3. I rode bucking horses (bareback, mostly) in the rodeo, and used to be obsessive about playing rugby (and anything rugby related- union and league, though I was definitely a RARA)

4. I've lived in BC (I'm up the Alaska Highway, currently), Alberta, Ontario, Vermont, Upstate New York, Bribane, and Cape Town.

5. I've read every book by Mordecai Richler (except Hunting Tigers Under Glass because I can't find it). I'm also obsessive about Clint Eastwood and Adam Beach (how awesome that they made a movie together- I would have spontaneously combusted on that set), but for very different reasons than I love Richler. Though I have had a crush on Daniel Richler since I was 14.

6. My children are referred to on this blog as Koogiook, Ukluk, and Bunikpuk because that is there Inuvialuit names. My mother-in-law is Inuit. Koogiook means "swan"- my oldest never stops dancing. Ukluk means "bear"- my son has the temperment of a bear, and used to make sounds like a grizzly cub when he was little. Bunikpuk means "Big Daughter"- my littlest is very big for her age. She was named for a woman who carried on her husband's trap lines after he died.

(I know many of you have read some of these things before, but if you're new, you just learned something about me)

MS Update: The Serf Does Battle With the Evil 1st Person

2008-08-21T20:16:00.000-07:00

I know that some of you are curious how the MS is going. So, here's a quick update.

The Grand Pooba was not appeased my last offering. I now stand humbly before the Gate Keeper, once again. I must now do battle with my arch enemy, 1st Person. If the outcome of this battle satisfies the Gate Keeper, I will again have the great honour of placing my offering before the Grand Pooba. In the meantime, I am still in search of a Knight or Knightette (PB 4-8 yrs. Hey- I gotta try) to represent my future dealings with the Grand Pooba of the Land Where Publishing Dreams Come True.

I have actually just emerged from a skirmish with that pesky 1st Person, and feel confident that I have whipped him good. However, it is my fear that the Gate Keeper will now require me to offer her the MS's head.

A Few School Marms Who Made a Difference

2008-08-19T17:39:00.000-07:00

Well, I don't think any of them were really the school marm type, but they did make a difference.

First, would be Christine Hedges. She was the assistant teacher for my kindergarten class, as well as my defender. My teacher was a city gal who really could have done without my redneck mouth. For example, the time she told us that white chickens lay white eggs and brown chickens lay brown eggs. I was quick to point out that this was not true. I was an old chicken wrangler by the age of five, and I had seen the not so strange nor miraculous event of white chickens laying brown eggs and brown chickens laying white eggs (these were a few generations on from te chicks we had bought at the Co-op, and it would seem that white roosters do not only breed white hens and vive versa). I was called a liar and a few other not so nice words, in front of the whole class., and those cowardly five year olds, I mean really, none of them had biracial chickens? We're talking about 1983 in Rimbey, Alberta. Anyway, Mrs. Hedges did her best to difuse the situation and promptly told my mom all about it when she came for me. My mom is a little over 6 feet and I am glad I wasn't in that skinny city slickers shoes the day my mother educated her in the ways of the hen house (especially the part about not messing with another hen's chick). I'd hate to see what that teacher would have said if we'd had Americana's back then. They lay green eggs. Mrs. Hedges was a sweethart. She sent me a postcard while on vaccation (she likely sent one to everyone, but it made me feel special), she wrote me a beautiful letter the first year I was in university, and she let me do those Humpty Dumpty workbooks even though the other teacher said I was too stupid. Note: I didn't leave the other teacher's name out to protect her. I honestly can't remember it. If you're an educator, let that be a lesson to you.

Then there was Mrs.Dakin, in grade3. Thank you for reading "Jacob Two-Two Meets the Hooded Fang". Little did you know that it would lead to a life-long obsession with a cranky middle-aged Jewish man. As a result, my walls were filled with pictures (torn from Saturday Night and MacClean's) of a whiskey soaked, cigar smoking satyrist. But, also for being my first elemebtary teacher that did not want me to held back another year. She helped me to get into a program that challenged me, nd helped me meet Martin Godfrey. That one act played a major role in helping me graduate. Oh, and for the talk she gave to me about reputations.

Next on the list, Mrs. Delaney and the principal of Oriole Park Scool (can't remember his name). Mrs. Delaney allowed me to stray from the creative writing curriculum to work on a novel. The principal met with me every Wednesday for revisions. They helped me form a positive self-image, as a writer.

My favourite all time teacher was Penny Howe. If you ever meet her, you can tell her, I say "THANKS". She was absolutely cool. She wore leather mini skirts and mix matched dangly earings. But, that's not why she was my favourite. She had such enormous impact on my dreams for the future. I knew that my home life did not match that of my peers (actually, some of their's did, but I didn't know, until much later). I thought, how will I ever be anything? Then she shared with the class that she had grown up in a home filled with alcoholism and abuse. I don't think she knew just how much it influenced some of us. She taught me "Power Writing" which is one of the greatest systems I have ever known a teacher to use. She was there for me when I had a painful break-up with my first love. And, she even accused me of plagerism, once. I was extremely hurt that she could think such a thing of me. But, after her apologies, I felt honoured that she thought the poem was that good. After that, she watched me like a hawk, and was sure to butt her nose into my writing, whenever she could. It embarassed me, but it turned out to be a classic example of a teacher going that extra mile. And I could not go without mentioning Mr. Rolland, her side kick and the Vice Principal. He went the extra mile for me, too.

There was Mr. Renus, Mrs. Andrews, Mrs. P, and Miss Clancy, all of whom were extremely patient with me, and helped to foster my creativity. And, of course, Mr. Brasch and his wife, who loyaly supported my poetic efforts. Not to mention that day off of school I got for the Harbourfront Festival of Authors, thanks to Mr. Brasch. I met Mordecai Rchler, that day! And as the ultimate bonus, I was lucky enough to meet Daniel Rchler, too. I almost passed out.

That's just a few of the teachers who had a hand in forming the ever quirky Mommy C.

Not Your Average Fall Fair and Wedding Blog

2008-08-18T16:10:00.000-07:00

This weekend was like Christamas for me. It was the weekend of our Fall Fair. Cotton candy and cattle, snow cones and a sand pile treasure hunts- I love it all. Though the heat was a bit much this year- 35 C on Sunday.

Of course, I entered more than a few categories. My mother-in-law, Olemaun, led me to believe that she would not be entering any beadwork this year (her beading is unreal), so, I entered the rifle scabbord I beaded for Cowboy. But considering the many talented bead work artists that entered, Olemaun among them, I wasn't surprised to walk away without a ribbon. For the book that I entered in the miscillaneous category, I walked away with a 3rd. It wasn't really a handicraft, so I was just pleased to have the exposure. I don't even want to talk about the photos I entered. Ahhh, the heartbreak. Guess I better stick to the writing.

I did walk away with a first, though. My second annual, as a matter of fact, for Cowboy poetry (that's just what they call it. I really am a Cowgirl). I do an act that Loretta Lynn could get a kick out of, and truthfully it's the kids that make the show. They definitely did mama proud this year. Bunikpuk wrestled me for the microphone, from her seat on my hip, while Ukluk spanked my bum and Koogiook whined about a blister. I managed to make it through five poems while conducting this three ring circus, which I think impressed everyone (myself included). We did the act again on the second day, and to everyone's delight there was a bit of a freezie fiasco. Bunikpuk had to be carried away by her father. Koogiook ran off stage, Ukluk nearly fell from it, and spent the rest of his time in the spotlight throwing things off.

The band was brave to allow my act to go on, especially since it was not the first time they have seen it. I would like to thank Jack Jackson, his band and his wonderful wife for sharing the spotlight again this year. My family are huge fans and appreciate it, as always. We'll see you again next year.

Anyway, the fair was a great time and I am already dying to attend the next one. The fair grounds are beautiful. We will bevisiting agin early next summer for a wedding. Mommy C and Cowboy, actually. Yes, it is embarassing that we are not yet hitched, but it will be official next July, or we will have to renovate the dog house. We're having a campout ho down shindig, and can't think of a better place for it.

And while we're on the subject of wedding plans, let me share a few (no doves or crystal involved here, so, please, keep reading). We're doing a spaghetti western theme (Cowboy is part bewildered, part horrified). Some girls dreamed of being a princess, but my father exposed me to too much Clint Eastwood (ok, there is no such thing as too much) and not enough Disney. We are saying our vows in a beautiful meadow in a river coolie. First, cowboy will ride down a slope, stop and whistle. That is when the groomsmen will ride up over the river bank. Next, two wagons will carry in our mothers, children and bridesmaids. Cowboy strongly disagrees, but I think we need to hire some comancheros to ride in and circle the wagons so that Cowboy and his posse can drive them away. What do you think? It would be the greatest thing ever (heck, I'd settle for some drunk trappers). Cowboy says it is a wedding, not a western movie, but anyone who knows me would expect nothing less. Well, I don't think I'm getting my way on this one, but I will be riding in on the antique side saddle that Cowboy bought for me. So, if anyone has some ideas on how to make this wedding a little more Calamity Jane, and a lot less Cinderella (I just don't have the figure for the princess thing), I'm all ears (or eyes, in this case).

Well, hopefully that was a little more interesting than the average blog about a fall fair or a wedding.

This week I will be randomly writing blurbs about some of the people who have influenced my life, in no specific order. If you're wondering how I got to be this way, be sure to tune in.

Two Rivers Farm Girl Competes in China

2008-08-15T22:02:00.000-07:00

I'm not really much for the Olympics. I'm more of a doer than a watcher, though I love rugby (which is not an Olympic sport). However, there is one event I would kill (not a person, maybe an insect, possibly a rodent) to see- our very own Laura Jensen in her Paralympic debut. She's a great girl and has worked very hard for this oportunity. I can't think of a better person to represent us to the world. So Go Laura Go!!!! Show'em what a Two Rivers Farm girl can do!

Mail Order Bride

2008-08-11T22:01:00.000-07:00

Don't you think this terrorist thing has done got outta hand? I mean really. Life liberty and the pursuit of happiness has caved to martial law. As if it isn't bad enough that my luggage is "randomly" selected to be searched everytime I fly in the US (once I had four connections and was moving overseas with everything, including the kitchen sink), that I need a passport to go shopping for the day, and that we are constantly put down for not providing enough troop support when our entire army is in Afgahnistan (did you know that the Canadian army has less tanks than the Vermont National guard?), but now USPS has to treat us like we're Canadastan.

As if life as a writer isn't hard enough, I am a Canadian writer (and not one of the 5000 that live in LA and write scripts for movie stars). What with this global age? Where's the collundrum? When you send off a query (which a writer is obligated to spend more time doing than actually writing) you are usually required to include an SASE. That means American postage. Now, I've found my dream agent. He has been suggested by one lady who really knows her way around the children's lit world. But, it clearly states in his submission guidelines that queries that do not include a SASE will be recycled upon receipt. No biggie. I go on line to USPS. I sign in to my account. I fill my shopping cart with the correct postage and proceed to the check out. What the ... I'd like to tie Bush's shoe laces to Bin Laden's and throw them over a clothes line. USPS is no longer shipping american stamps internationally.

So what now? Am I to give up the blog to spend my time in chat rooms, where (if I use a picture from 10 years ago) I may be able to find some lonely old american man? After hours of compromising myself with my web cam, perhaps he will agree to be my Stamp Daddy. If I'm lucky, he'll be the Heff of philatelists (fancy name for people who are really into stamps). All for one 72 cent stamp that I need because it will change my life.

And to think, all those years of living in the states. If only I had taken up stamp collecting instead of running around the Green Mountains with an M-16 and a knife ( my life was kinda like a South Park episode), I would have an albumn to pillage instead of just a tattoo of army boots on my back (honest truth) and a university ring so big I could wear it like a tiara.

Please, my dear readers, I am begging you. Spread the word. And to every agent and editor, from coast to coast, please, know that us Canadians have not been hit with a dose of rude overnight. As always, we are apologetic (we are repentant about that little victory in 1812, and if you don't believe that, just take a gander at our PM, he has been working very hard to rectify our wrongs and sell us out, for his entire term). Please, excuse the "Please, recycle if rejected" sticky notes, but what are we poor terrorism suspects to do? (We all know how you feel abou those coupon thingies). Just imagine if Dr. Suess had been Canadian and writing in our time. Oh, the places you'll go ...likely Guantanamo if you try too hard to get a little sticky square.

In the meantitme, Iwill be trolling for a Stamp Daddy on MSN chat. Perhaps I will give new meaning to the term mail order bride.

To my American friends, please note: my maple syrup covered tongue is planted quite nicley inside my Limey coloured Canuck cheek.

Get Ready for a Comeback!

2008-08-10T00:09:00.000-07:00

Yes, yes, I'm still alive. Just haven't been to up to blogging lately. I've been slightly (ok wildly) hormonal- like Liza after a good night of pills and vodka. You see, the ovaries work as a pair. When they take one, it takes the other a while to catch up to producing double duty. This means that I have had the fortune of being post-natal and not so pre-menopausal, all at the same time. If you love watching movies that make you cry, and have secretly relished fantasies of being a merciless bitch, well, wouldn't you be envious?

I am actually carrying a timer around the house with me. That way, if the children get out of line, I can press a few buttons and magically make a time-out appear, without even opening my mouth. Trust me, it's best that way. Now if only I could find a solution for all those sappy moments I get. Lucky for me, Ukluk is a complete mama's boy, and Bunikpuk is going through some sort of crazy open-mouthed slobbery kissy phase.

But seriously, I've been trying to recover, after being sliced open three times in 2 1/2 years (I wish one of those had been a tummy tuck), have had two birthday parties (Bunikpuk 1 and Kogiook 5), and have worked through it all to get past the gate keeper (editor). Now I must wait in agony for the Grand Pooba (publisher) to accept my offering (manuscript) while being careful not to wake the dragon (ok, that was harsh, my mother-in-law doesn't actually have scales and it is afterall a story from her life). Now I just need a knight, or knightette in shining armour (agent) to rescue me from the boggs of despair (self doubt).

Well, just wanted to let you know I am still here. I've got a foot in the stirrup and will be back in the saddle soon.

The Patient Awakes

2008-07-04T11:59:00.000-07:00

I am slow in posting this, but I think I worte it the day after my surgery, while I was still a little whacked on morphine.

Well, I am sure you are all dying with anticipation. Did the patient recover? Was there a handsome man waiting by her bedside to profess his love? Yes and yes. I am recovering nicely, minus one ovary, a uterus and a cervix (I got to keep righty because it did not look like cancer after all WOOOOHOOO!). And cowboy was by my side when I opened my eyes- though I was no Morgan Fairchild. All I remember I was experiencing the most intense pain I have ever felt and I could not stop groaning. I remember thinking this is so uncowgirl-like. Stop groaning, but I couldn’t. If I’d had the energy, I would have screamed at the nurses to hook that morphine up a little faster.

The entire first day I was out of it ...even more so than the Rolling Stones in the 70s. Cowboy brought Bunikpuk to me that night (he and the nurses decided it would not be good for the other children to see me doing a Keith Richards impersonation –complete with eye rolling). Cowboy set her on the bed beside me, then gently woke me up. It was like waking to see the smiling face of an angel. I swear my pain cut in half at that moment. She knew her mother wasn’t well, and instead of bouncing on me like she is so fond of, she laid her head on the pillow beside me and placed her arm around me. Children can amaze you with their wisdom.

The next morning, cowboy brought Koogiook and Ukluk to see me. Ukluk has grown up a lot in the past few days. He didn’t even want to sit on the bed with me. Koogiook has been through this a few times (two c-sections) and couldn’t wait to see my “big owie”. I am certain she is going to be a doctor or a vet.

I am still in some pain, but glad to be fibroid and growth free. I must also say that as much as I miss South Africa some days, I am very thankful to be here, because their finest GP, obstetrician, and anaesthetist are all in the Peace River region.

And one last note of triumph. While, my days of pregnancy have come to an end (a bit of mixed feelings about that) I am happy to report that I am still producing like a trusty old Jersey cow, much to Bunikpuk’s relief. I must sign off now, as it is a little hard to type with an iv in your hand (be thankful I skipped the iv horror story because it would make the Cohen brothers faint). I suspect I will be back to my quirky self in no time at all. As for Cowboy, he looks like he needs a very long vacation (and he had his mother and sister helping him.

Thanks to Kim, Kathy and Cinnamon Gurl for all the warm wishes.

Use Your Time Here, There

2008-06-29T11:42:00.000-07:00

Since I will have nothing to post for you, for awhile, please use the time you would have spent reading my insanity to check out here or here .The Sun and the Star are not reporting it, but they are reporting this . Is it enough? How about looking here.

Interrupted by a Jail Break

2008-06-29T08:21:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's true. I am still alive. I have just been exhausted and haven't felt a whole lot like writing lately. I have so many things I want to write about, but those posts will have to wait until I am recovering and bored to tears.

I will give you a quick catch up, though. First, I finaly received some good news. The publisher sent my manuscript on to an editor! No contract, but I am not worried. Some say no changes before a contract, but it will be my first publication (I hope) and the publisher is highly reputable (in a good way). In fact, it is my dream publisher and I know that they are interested in children's stories of strong literary quality. So far, I completely agree with the editor's suggestions and welcome them. I feel a lot of pressure over this one, though. First, it is my mother-in-law's story. She doesn't understand anything about publishing and can be a little impatient. Nothing I can do, but my best. Second, this is my big break because it is my dream publisher. Finaly, the subject matter is enduring, but sales could be really bossted if it can be put out soon because it is goping to be a hot topic for the next couple of years. Well, I have the summer to work at it.

Next up, more soap opera (kinda like Dallas, without the money or glamour, not as many horses, and the head of the family helps get the black gold outta the ground- from way lower down the food chain). Anyway, when I was a young grade school girl, I had a stepfather. He was a really great guy ... when he wasn't drinking. He took us fishing, hiking, camping and a lot of other things. He was actually a pretty big influence on me. After he and my mother split, his exwife asked my mother if she wanted his two children. My mother agreed without hesitation. We had the little boy for only about three or four months before his mother took him back. His older sister we had for six or seven months. She was in kindergarten. Then one day, her mother took her back, too. It broke my heart. I always wondered what happened to them. They had been a part of my life the entire time their father was with my mother, and even more so after. Well, thanks to Facebook, on a whim I typed in their last name. It is a Cree name and not very common. Press of a button and I found the little boy! So, I worte him and asked if he was who I thought he was, and he was. As I have a lot of half sibblings (my dad was a busy man), I know these things don't always work out so great, but I am relieved to at last know where he is (though it is not the best place) and to be connected with him again. I can't help but wonder what Facebook can mean to adoptees and their birth parents as well as split sibblings.

I go in for surgery tomorrow. So far, I am most depressed by the fact that my children are growing so quickly (Bunikpuk will be walking soon) and I won't be able to pick them up. Now, I could see if I were going in for a much needed boob lift (I've been breast feeding for over 2 1/2 years- not the same child). Alas, I can take comfort in the fact that never again will I menstrate. Woohoo! Sorry, to any male readers I have. Am I nervous? I think I'm just overwhelmned.

Last night we went to the river for a weener roast. Unfortunately, our seedier farmer-drunk neighbours were down there, too. Cowboy, not wanting to offend anyone, opted to stay. I've spent enough time around drunks, as a child, to not want my children subjected to rednosed men carrying on about how precious they are and trying to win them over. Drunks always think that children are oblivious to the fact that they are in a state of retardation. I think children are far less tolerant to those things than adults. If my children did not learn some new words, it will be a miracle. I am sure I will find out when we are in the company of clergy or at a preschool interview. We hurriedly threw a few hotdogs down the children's throats and took off for a hike. (If we didn't get out of there, there was going to be a show down. The mother-in-law and I, against the derilct tractor jockeys.

Koogiook amazed me with her animal knowledge. She pointed out moose tracks, elk tracks and deer tracks (she wasn't sure about the geese, but knew they were birds). She even knew which way they were going. We brought our plaster, but didn't make any molds this time because none of them were good enough to use.

Well, wouldn't you know it. Please, check my post "The Value of a Good Fence". I've gotta run, because, yes, the horses are out! No joke.

My Brother is Cinderella

2008-06-20T20:04:00.000-07:00

My brother is Cinderella, except he didn't have any evil stepsisters, just a lot of bullies at school. He did have an evil stepmother and a dad who should have pulled his head out of his but and spent a little time with his son. He didn't marry the prince (thank heavens), but he did get a really hot and very intellegent girlfriend. He didn't get a pretty ballgown (thank heavens for that, too). He did get a kick ass computer job (doing what I don't know, I'm still in dial-up here). He isn't rolling in a carriage, either ...nope .... little bro got himself a (pumpkin orange) Lotus Elise!

If you are the parent of a child who gets picked on often, if you are the parent of a bully, or if you just like to know that the universe has a great sense of humour, this is a story for you.

Let's call my brother Bill. When Bill was young, he was not reared in an environment that promoted healthy self-esteem. He started life very sickly because he had PKU (couldn't digest many enzimes, such as those found in milk). He was a mama's boy from the start. That was pretty rough for him, as he had a father who thought he was running to replace John Wayne. When he was very young, he was kicked by a horse, and ended up in the hospital for a fairly long stay for a little guy. He was bow legged and shy, and by the age of five, he had been largely replaced in his dad's life, by his dad's 17 year old girlfriend (who is better know as the daughter of Satan- that's not bitterness, it's a fact, honest). A couple of alcoholics tried their hand at filling in as a dad, but they were clumsy (well, intentioned), but very pathetic attempts. When Bill was twelve, his best friend (that's me, I think) moved away and escaped the chaos, unfortunately leaving him in it.

Before Bill even hit school, he'd had a pretty rough go of things. School just offered more. He was frost bitten, badly, more than once, because rather than take the school bus, he walked. If you are an educator, or the parent of a bully, don't think that all playground tiffs sort themselves out. The authority figures in Bill's life did nothing to help him. He was tough and he didn't let on how bad it was, but when you are walking to school in -20 C, and leaving home an hour early to do it, it's bad. I chased a few kids home, more than once for picking on him.

Through it all, he was stoic, though. And talented. He could draw, he could write, do math (was I ever envious), whip the pants off of any video game, and was resiliant enough not to fall in with the wrong crowd. He worked hard to get through university and excelled at one job after another.

I don't know what kind of figures he's pulling, but his car cost 62 grand (CAD), and that is just the one he drives on the weekends. He's been with his girlfriend since HS and she's an absolute hoot. Bill is on top of the world and climbing steadily. And, of course, I am very, very, very, very, very, very (I could go on, but I'll stop there) proud of him.

I have a fantasy.

Performance Car..................62, 000.oo CAD

Gas to home town.......................232.oo

Having the school bully pump gas into your Lotus while your hot girlfriend watches........................................Priceless!

Bill seems to think just having the car is enough, but we come from a tourist town with a heavy cruising strip. I'd pay the gas, myself. Anyway, I suddenly feel so much cheerier. And actually, it is much more like a contemporary Dickens novel, really, and not so much Cinderella, but it got your attention. Did I mention he's only 29?

School bullying is a major problem, but in this family it didn't bring us down, it pushed us up (kind of like the way crap helps flowers grow). And well, just look at blooming Bill. Ok, it was cheesey, but it's my blog. Alright, after school special done.

I Have a Date

2008-06-18T23:46:00.000-07:00

There are so many ideas I have for posts that I want to write, like my brother's Cinderell story (it is so amazing, I'll try to post it tomorrow), but tonight, I really just feel a bit like babbling. I am exhausted, but can't sleep. I am short with the four people that make up my whole world, when all I want to do is hug them.

Tomorrow, I will be travelling down the Alaska Highway for my pre op appointment. Yes, I finally have a date, which I totally owe to Cowboy. When I tried to find out what the hold up was, I ended having a meltdown when I couldn't get anywhere. He put my doctor's Afrikaans wife on it, and an Afrikaans woman confronting incompetence is something to see. I used to get a real kick out of ity when I lived in South Africa. Anyway, I went from upset because I didn't have a date, to freaking out because it is less than two weeks away... the 30th to be exact.

Anyway, Bunikpuk has just woken up and cowboy will be home soon. I think I'll just enjoy a nice cuddle with them. I'm hoping to have a good ole quirky cowgirl post for you, tomorrow.

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2008-06-16T00:25:00.000-07:00

Letter to Ukluk

2008-06-16T00:16:00.000-07:00

Dear Ukluk,

My recent struggles with my health have forced me to realize that we are on borrowed time from the moment of conception. Any day could be our last, and there is so much that I have left to tell you and your sisters. A friend of mine, from HS, writes frequent letters to her son, and it seems like a good idea. So, I have decided to write these letters to you, from time to time. I am not sure why I chose to write the first letter to you, but perhaps it is because I feel that we have known each other the longest (your mom might be a redneck, but she is wise enough to know that life and death are more complicated than our current scientific knowledge will allow for).

I knew who you were from the time you were in my tummy. I knew the moment you were conceived, I knew you would be a boy, and I knew you would be someone who I had known long before this time. When you were born, it was like, oh there you are. I missed you. You’ll read this when you’re older and think I’m a crack pot, but when I saw you, I really did feel an intense sense of relief that I was right. It was you. Like being at a party where you hardly know anyone, and then a long lost friend arrives.

You are just 2 ½, but I admire you. I admire your sensitivity- you cry when you feel like you have disappointed us. I admire your sense of humour, though being in the middle of the terrible twos your idea of funny is often in conflict with mine. I admire you perseverance- you want to do everything by yourself. This often leads to a meltdown, but even then, I admire your passion. You sound angelic when you exclaim “I can do it, all by myself”. It isn’t said with impatience, but is slow and pronounced in a declaration of pride. The impatience usually follows quickly, but your pride in yourself melts my heart.

I admire the love you have for your family. You do it so often, but I never tire of it when you look up into my eyes and say, “Mommy ... I love you”. It is said with feeling that seems beyond your years, though love is an emotion that children are likely more in touch with. And, no matter how rotten your big sister has been to you, you always cry, at least once, while your sister is at her mother’s. Or, how you tugged at your grandma’s sleeve after dinner and asked her what about your kiss, before she left. Then, when no one was looking, you put on your shoes and ran over to her house, before she had even left ours. Tonight, you asked to hold your baby sister. She hugged you back and kissed you over and over. You beamed with so much joy. When your “Dolly” as you call her (you thought of that one on your own) grew tired of cuddling and wanted her mom, you grew so angry with me, like I were standing in the way of your love.

I worry that you will be scared when I am in the hospital. You are far more perceptive than we give you credit for. When you see that I am worried or sad, you say, “be good, Mommy”, by which you mean, “be happy”. Sometimes, you get a tissue to wipe my tears, even though there are none. What amazes me is that you often do this, even when I am smiling, or reading you a book. You always seem to know how I feel. I worry because I do not know how to tell you that everything will be just fine, when you know what is in my heart.

You want to protect me, and you want to still be my baby. You are at a very special age. We like to pretend that the bed is your baby sister’s evil castle and that if we are not very still, a dragon will fly out of the closet. Tonight, you put your arm around me to keep me safe, but minutes later I noticed that you were hugging my arm as though it were an anchor that would keep you from floating away.

Just a minute ago, you woke from a bad dream, and I comforted you. I held your little body in my arms, and felt sad because one day, you will be a man, and I will not be able to hold you like that anymore, though you always tell me, when we read “Love You Forever” that you will hold me when I am old, like the man in the story.

Ukluk, I could gush on forever about my love for you, but tonight I am very tired, so I will end by saying, my love for you transcends all of the ideas we have about this world. You have changed my life in countless ways, and I am so glad that you chose me to be your mommy. I take that honour seriously, and I hope that my love is enough to guide you through your journey. I will always love you.

Love,
Your Mommy

Happy Father's Day

2008-06-15T23:02:00.000-07:00

As you lie sleeping with our sick little ... I mean "big" girl, Koogiook, I cannot help but feel amazingly thankful that you are the father of our children. You spent 45 min, with your guts turning inside out, trying to put Bunikpuk to sleep last night(practice for my hospital stay), and patiently allowed our little man to help with the chores tonight, though a rain storm was coming. You are the children's hero- the man to which all others will be held in comparison. I know you think that I am only saying these things because it is Father's Day, but I am truly thankful that I have you as a fellow ring master in this three ring circus.

Happy Father's Day Cowboy!

An Artist's Debut

2008-06-14T00:28:00.000-07:00

My little Koogiook is quite an artistic powerhouse. Yes, I know that every parent thinks this of heir child, but she really is. She will study a subject, just so, and create an image that will blow your mind, and she's still only 4 (if only for another month).

The other day, she drew a picture of my horse, Claude (his real name). She drew his blaze, and every detail of his head, in proportion. She drew stars and a moon, and the mountains in the distance. I was amazed by the picture, not just because of the aparent skill, but because she drew it with a red Magic Marker, which meant that there had been no room for sketching, erasing, and resketching. She did it on the first try.

The next day, I saw a poster advertising a children's art contest at our local gallerey. So, the wheels turned and I went home to mount Koogiook's picture. A few days later, after preschool, we marched up the stairs to the gallerey and entered her picture. Tonight was the opening night. I was not about to miss that. We hijacked Koogiook from the birthday party her mom had taken her to, and took her to her debut as an artist.

It didn't take long to find. There was her spectacular red horse, amid the 22 other entrants in the kindergarten category. And guess what? As I predicted, she won 1st place. I was incredibly proud of her, and just a tad relieved that I was validated in my admiration for her artistic abilities. She won a packet of crayons and a sketch pad, and spent the next half an hour playing with her brother and eating cookies. Not a typical gallerey debut.

There was another parent and child there, as well. The other child had won a prize in her category. We all strolled around admiring the other children's art, but after an hour had passed, there were still no other parents. Is it just me or is that sad? 200 entries, and 198 sets of parents had something better to do than go to the gallerey for the opening.

Forgive me, if I rant for a second. We buy our kids every gizmo, gadget and piece of designer junk, they advertise of MTV, and work like slaves to do it. What the hell people? Our kids don't need more crap made by exploited Chinese workers. They need self-esteem. You can't buy it in a store, or order it on line. Don't even think about trying to bid on it on eBay. It isn't for sale. It is organic and growing all around us, in the seat of a swing, or the mitt of a ball glove, or for instance, on an art gallery wall in red marker. If people are treated the way they expect to be treated, isn't it the most valuabe gift we could gve our children? The gift of being treated well? Out of 198, I would venture to guess that at least 1 will not try so hard next time, because it went without any ceremony at all.

I am never going to be up for a parentig award, I can assure you of that. I mess up on an average of 567 times a day, but I'm trying. When did life get to complicated to try? We all held our babies in our hands and said, I am going to teach this little person to be everything- that the sky is the limit. Then they hit an age where they could more or less entertain themselves and we put a tv in their room, filled the fridge with Pizza Pops, and plopped our fat behinds down on the couch to watch some pathetic life style show where a pompous jerk with an accent told us how to fix our lives in a day. We sat for half an hour and imagined doing it and felt so much better, though we did nothing. It is time to get off the couch and be a role model (not that I would necessarily advise any child to aspire for my foot steps).

Ok, enough ranting. All I wanted to say was that I have a little blossom of creative energy, right here in my own home. I was proud to roll as part of her entourage, tonight. I still believe in dreams, and that a red marker drawing can bloom into endless possibilities. And yes, I will be sure to post the award winning masterpiece, just as soon as it is returned.

And thank you, Koogiook, for the inspiration you gave your father and I tonight.

Horrorscope: The Sun is Rising on Cancer

2008-06-11T10:15:00.000-07:00

So, yesterday, it was off to the doctor for another one of those ultrasounds that make Cowboy jealous, but just make me uncomfortable. It was a rainy day, so you could predict that the news wouldn't be great. Turns out that the pill may have helped Loretta stop adding to her kin, but it didn't do diddly squat to shrink that growth thingy on my ovary. That means....

The doctor sat a cross his desk from me and asked me would I like to lose the cyst, the cyst and the ovary, the cyst the ovary and the uterus, or the cyst the ovary, the uterus, the and the other ovary and would I like fries with that? It felt like being on one of those game shows where they ask, would you like to take the money and run, or gamble on the next question. I can't afford to gamble. So, I told him that I was pretty sure that my kids would be ok with a mom who had a mustache and brittle bones, as opposed to no mom at all. I opted for the full meal deal, hold the other ovary if at all possible, which I may have to go back in for down the road. But, if everything looks dodgey, it is definitely the full meal. I have an insane appertite for life.

Three to four weeks. That is all I have to try and prepare my kids to be without a mom for a week, and line up a relative to hlp out andcome to terms with losing the very special thing called a uterus. I don't care about it identifying me as a woman, I am just sentimental about the fact that it is the place where the spirits of Banikpuk and Ukluk entered the world.

The thing that scares me the most, is being without my children for that time. Banikpuk is not even 11 months yet. I am hoping not to wean her, which the doctor says is a possibility, but that will be hard when I only have little visits with her in the hospital. She is never without me, and I am scared that at her age she will have no way to understand. And I worry that I will be lonely beyond belief because I always sleep with a bed full of kids, and love it that way.

Then there is the fact that I am being cut open for the third time in 2 1/2 years, and may still need one more surgery shortly after that. What about my horse, and chickens, and boating, not to mention just playing with my children? Banikpuk isn't walking, yet. She weighs 25 lbs. I won't be able to lift anything over 10 lbs.

Sorry, if I sound whiny, but seriously, cancer shouldn't happen to mothers with three children under 5. It shouldn't happen to mothers at all. It shouldn't happen to anyone. But at least, it could have been kind enough to wait, at least until my kids could pour their own cereal, preferrably, when they could vaccuum and do dishes.

Was the choice hard for me to make? Not really. Is it hard to come to terms with? You bet.

So, today it feels like the barn really is on fire, the horses are really out, and every on needs a bum change ... in other words, I am simply overwhelmned. My modest blog has become a soap opera.

I think when Cowboy comes home from taking some of our chicks to Koogiooks class, I will ask him if we can take the children to the river, for awhile. Looks like I will have all summer for writing. Right now, I just want to play!

2008-06-05T19:43:00.000-07:00

Flash Back Friday

2008-06-05T17:55:00.000-07:00

The power went out the night before we were due to receive or 100+ head of chickens and turkeys. Cowboy asked, "what will we do if the pwoer doesn't come back on before they arrive?" Without hesitation I answere, "stick 'em in the bath tub". Then it hit me. Oh my, I am just like my father. I say this because at various points in my childhood, we had everything in our bathroom but camels, llamas, and buffalo.

There was the time the sheep lambed in the middle of a blizzard. So, the lambs warmed their wool in our bathroom, which was also our laundry room, so I am sure my mother was pleased. Turns out our cows couldn't pick more convenient times to calve, either, because I fondly remember waking up to be greeted by big moon eyes. At three or four the potty can still be a bit of a challenge, try taking a twinkle with a calf licking your knee. I can recall the odd foal, and even a yearling or two.

Then there were the indiginous critters, my brother and I were so fond of. A salamander lived in our bathroom sink, until my mother caught wind of it. A few frogs, and even a clam from the Blindman River called this sink home, as well.

However, we did not confine our menagerie to just the bathroom. There was the time that my father found a lawn toad the size of a baseball, or better. Being devious, I devised a ruthless plant to plant it one of the kitchen cupboards. With an amazingly straight face, I pleaded with my mother for a sandwich. Needless to say, after the toad made its leap to freedom via my mother's face, I did not get my sandwich. (Some people have no sense of humour),

I remember the time that some surveyors discovered one of our runawawy turkeys. She had set in the ditch across the road with a half dozen eggs, which my father could not resist breaking open. Luckily they must have been ready to hatch, because most of them lived. We placed them in our large popcorn bowl (sorry to anyone who ate popcorn at our house in the early eighties) and they slept in my room for a few days. That was way cooler than just a dumb old doll. I was pretty peeved when they were not allowed to join our family, permanently, but must hvae forgotten it by Thanksgiving, because I do not recall any trauma there.

So, anyway, Cowboy devised that, as he is a welder, he could simply plug the heat lamps into the generator on his welder ...ah shucks. And then the power came back on anyway.

And it is with some swallowing of crow, that I hand it to Cowboy's decision making skills. I have been begging to get the children a playhouse (we are flanked by prairie on two sides and I fear that the children will go out to play one day, only to end up in Oz). It seems the playhouse would have been quite unnecessary, as Koogiook and Ukluk have set up permanent residence in the chicken coop. Koogiook actually wanted to sleep out there with them. If only the power had stayed out. A little girls dream could have been granted, and she could have slept with her baby chicks, well, after her stepmom siphened the gas out of the welder.

2008-06-05T12:11:00.000-07:00

My Little Patch of Heaven

2008-06-05T10:41:00.000-07:00

This picture was taken off my stoop at about 0400, the other morning. Cowboy woke me with his usual clang and clatter (I know he can't stand me sleeping, if he can't), and while I was ornerey upon first opening my eyes, I was glad that he didn't keep the noise down. The sunrise was spectacular. I've watched the sun rise against Table Mountain from an ostrich farm in the middle of the veld somewhere, I've watched it rise against Ayres Rock from a camel's back, I've seen it light the golden hills of Vermont on fire, and I've watched it turn the world pink from an airplane in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. There is nothing likea sunrise to make you thankful to be where you are.

After enjoying the beauty of this particular one, I crawled back into bed, between my tow littlest ones and enjoyed the warmth of their flawless little bodies, and slipped back to sleep with the sound of their whispery breath in my ears.

Later that day, we blew bubbles and watched them disappear into the sky over the river hills. It seemed as though they might fly staright to heaven, but then I realized something about the direction of the little orb's flight. They were going the wrong way, because, sitting there in my faded green lawn chair, while my son dripped soapy liquid unto his sandbox, was Heaven - complete with little angels.

WANTED: for the crime of wearing gold lame spandex after motherhood

2008-06-05T08:38:00.000-07:00

Fashion Talk: or The Summer of Saggy Boobs and Staples, Shaved heads, Gold Lame and Dung Kickers

2008-06-02T16:47:00.000-07:00

Well, how about settling in for a cuppa and I'll catch you up with the insanity I call my life.

Yesterday was a busy day. Two dance recitals. My little ballerina performed her heart out and made me so proud. We sat in the same section as her mother (which I am sure completely made Koogioook's day) and her mother let me do all of the backstage stuff this year (which tickled me tu-tu pink). I always say that being a stepmom stinks because you do all the hard stuff, like late night fevers, and normal every day mom stuff, with none of the say or decision making, as well as being left with second choice on the good stuff. I hate sharing. I am probably the world's most selfish stepmom. But yesterday, I was able to have the fun with Koogiook. Of course, after the recital, she wanted to go with her mom, cutting our visit short, but what ballerina doesn't want her mom? Besides, I am going to ambush her farm field trip on Wednesday, anyway, and we did have a great weekend together.

If you are not yet aware, I am a competitive tap dancer. As Kathy recently asked, how does a cowgirl become a tap dancer. I can only answer too much farm cable as a kid (CBC was our only chanel ...if the stars aligned just right and dad tweeked the rabbit ears just so). Millions and millions of Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly movies. Unfortunately, I have already passed my "as good as it gets" phase, and each year becomes more of a battle with coordination, than an expression of it. I subjected myself to the humiliation of three performances, yesterday. I am just glad that Koogioook is too young to be embarassed by it all. Considering that my baby is only 10 months and came shortly after my son, I probably had no business in a gold lame body suit with chaps. I would be surprised if you could not see, just below my spandex, two round puffy circles. Those would be nursing pads, because when my milk lets down, it is more a flaash flood than a trickle. I am happy to report that throughout my various performances, I was consistently the only lactating performer. And I do think the paunch over my c-section scars added a lovely touch that Ginger Rogers could never have pulled off.

The real treat was my group routine, which we all agreed we didn't really like, but we hung in there for each other and had a lot of fun in the end. I really want to hand it to one of the ladies from my dance class. First, it was her first year as a tap dancer, and she got up on stage and performed her heart out. That takes guts. Second, she recently shaved her head to raise money for cancer research. She strutt her stuff without a hair on her head! Who couldn't admire that?

Speaking of cancer, it would appear that there are two growths lingering about in that nasty old ovarian cyst of mine. I went to the doctor a couple of weeks ago, only to be poked and prodded more than once for an ultra sound. If you thought that having your bladder pushed on during one of those was bad, well, you haven't had the kind of ultra sound that I've been getting lately. Let's just say, if I have many more, Cowboy may get jealous. Anyway, Doc put me on the pill. Someon, please, let Loretta Lynn know, the pill aint just for keeping the mister and misses happy in the bedroom anymore. She could write a song called, "Mama's Cyst is Gonna Be Long Gone". Well, hopefully, because if it isn't( I can't feel any relief, yet), it is time for the knife. That puts a serious kink in my breastfeeding schedule, not to mention my concerted efforts to get bathing suit ready for summer. I could deem it "The Summer of Saggy Boobs and Staples".

Anyway, the barbeque is calling and the family are looking at me like they are about to eat me. Stay tuned and I will try to post a picture of the gold lame. It'll do wonders for your own self-esteem, but I'm warning you, nobody call Stacey on me, because I think she is a bag, and I would be forced to make her over in Wranglers and real genuine authentic Two Rivers horse dung covered cowboy boots, and chaw stained shirt. Then I'd send her on a date with Larry, and....

Flash Back Friday: Or Sentimental Saturday

2008-05-31T09:32:00.000-07:00

This installment is, once again, late. So today it will be a Sentimental Saturday.

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of Saturdays at the rodeo with my father. Back then, at least in theses parts, girls were not aloud to mutton bust (any wonder that my strong nature led me to riding bareback broncs?). So, I barrel raced. I never won a prize, but I was usually at least ten years younger than my competitors.

I remember one particular sunny day, at the Ribmey Rodeo ... now that was an event. My brother and I could hardly wait for it each year. The parade was awesome. (nowadays, it seems that parades are just big advertisements. Wow! Look, it's another big rig with a bow on it. Now that's something you don't see everyday). My brother and I would rush into the never ending line of horses, antique cars, and gussied up tractors, scrambling for candy that we would fill into our cowboy hats. But what I loved even more than the candy, was being in the parade.

And the parade only kicked off the main event. The rodeo was the best of all. So, on one sunny day, I prepared to chase some cans. My father saddled my horse for me, because at about 16 hands, no four year old could do it (at least none that I've met). He was a gorgeous quarter horse with a broad back end and a white star, named Chief. He is still my favourite horse of all time (how's that for sentimental?). I hopped in the saddle and waited.

When my turn came at last, I whizzed into the arena (probably barely more than a trot), heart nearly breaking my pint-sized rib cage. As I looked around me, I felt like an ant in an empty swimming pool. Not to be intimidated, I maintained the focus of a prescholler as I headed for the first can. That is when it happened. The grandstands, towering like mountains, came alive. A wave of cowboy hats rippled through them as the spectators rose to their feet and clapped.

I had practised that clover leaf pattern a million times. I could have rode it in my sleep. But, this was a little too much for my already overloaded brain. I made the mistake big, and I made it on the first barrel. I went the wrong way.

I knew it the minute I did it. I tried to recover, with a child's logic, making the flub, bigger and bigger. I did, however, manage a spectacular dash for home (spectacular in that everyone was still cheering).

I was incredibly disapointed. For anyone who doesn't know me, I have a slight (ok, mile wide) competitve streak. My disapointment was to be doubled. Instead of telling me what a great job I had done, my father let me have it. He was sure to tell me what I had done wrong and what I should have done, and ask how I could have messed up so badly.

Maybe I was destined to be a barrel racing protege, but I doubt it. What I do know I was, was a child trying to do something she loved. Thankfully, I am now a parent, and free to fully judge my parents. And the great thing about being a parent is, I now have my own kids to mess up (well, hopefully not) in my own way. Tomorrow, as Koogiook takes the stage for her dance recital, I will scream and clap louder than any parent in the auditorium. And, rest assured, I will give her the biggest hug, whether she remembers when to pirouette and does her tondus on cue, or not. She rehearsed her dance all year because she liked doing it, not because she is about to give the world's greatest performance, ever (though it will be to me). Parent's often put too many of their own hopes and dreams in their children. We are here to facilitate them, not the other way around.

Kim had a great post about her little guy playing tee ball and waht she learned from it. If you're a parent, I'd check it out because it was inspirational.

And please, don't feel to bad for me. Riding the octupus at the midway took a whole lot of the sting out of my barrel racing disaster, and on days when I feel like I am at the bottom of life's slew, I remember all those adults on their feet, for lil ol me.

What's in a Name?

2008-05-29T22:10:00.000-07:00

If you weren't already aware, I use my children's Inuvialuit names instead of their real ones. My son, Ukluk -bear (he's gentle and loveable, but man can he be ornerey). oldest daughter, Koogiook- Swan (she's a non-stop ballerina, and my youngest daughter, Banikpuk- Big Daughter (which was the name of the wife of a trapper my mother-in-law knew. When her husband died, she carried on with his trapline) because she is very large for her age.

Ukluk's real name was something I thought would be quite original. He was named for a country star with a rare and unusual name. In fact, I may have been the first mother to use it since his mother. People looked at me strangely when I announced that I would name my unborn child after this man. So, I gave my son two very plain and ordinary middle names. I figured that would solve any future problems, if he had any. But, I was determined to give him a unique name as mine is so common, I always had at least one other one in my class and at least two others with variations of it. What a curse? For a time I even had the same name as my best friend. Nope. Not for my son. He'd me different. There'd be no confusion at roll call.

Wrong. In the 2 1/2 years since having my son, I have scanned the paper, weekly, to read of the new births in our area. Without fail, I now see that someone picks my baby name, on an average of everey few months. (Wasn't there a Sex and the City episode like this?) Now, I could see if I'd named him for Johnny Cash, who is now even more popular in death, but I didn't. Speaking of which, does anyone else think that it is strange that people are now calling their children Cash? Hello, this is my son Cash, my daughter Penny, our bouncing baby Cheque, and let's see, we lost credit somewhere.

When I worked with my husband in the oil patch, we used to joke that we would name our unborn child after something to do with the oil and gas industry. There was Derek (the main structure of a rig for anyone not from Texas or Alberta), and Rod (for welding rod), and Jack (as in Pump Jack). There were others, but they escape me right now.

Another time. a friend and I seriously considered names we could give our children that would protect them, rather than get them beaten up on te playground. Hello. This is my son Winchester, and this here is Remmington, the youngest is Colt, and here are the twins, Smith and Wesson. Have you met my husband Browning? He's out walking our dog Ruger. If Mr. Heston were still alive, we could have used his celebrity and my writing skills to get a children's book published about a happy gun toting family.

And when it comes to celebrities, they sure can name them. Let's take George Foreman, for example. He must buy his wife some mighty fine rocks, because no woman in her right mind would name every on of her sons "George". Just think about it for a minute. Ring. Ring. Can I speak with George. please? or Hi. I'm George's teacher. We need to have a talk. or George Foreman, you get over here young man. Crazy. But, then again, the odds of getting things done might increase. George, can you take out the trash? In my household, that would backfire. I didn't do it because I thought you wanted George to. No thanks.

My oldest daughter was named an old and not so common name. After it was popularized on a TV show, that went out the window. There is another one in her dance and prescholl classes. So, that leaves my youngest daughter. She has a name that I have only heard used as a nickname for cowboys and DJs, as well as the odd Vegas entertainer. No, it isn't tacky. Most people just love it. That's what worries me.

In the end, I guess my son will likely hate me because I gave him a common name, instead of for strapping him with an offbeat handle. Ah, but they find a way to blame you no matter what.

As a side note, I must mention that my horse was named Claude, before I acquired him. I don't know what cowboy thought it was funny, but Claude means lame.

Flash Back Friday: Foul Play For the Fowl: The Kentucky Axe Massacre

2008-05-24T11:55:00.000-07:00

Ok, so you can either look at this instalment of Flashback Friday as a day late, or six early. Well, we know who the pessimists are now, don’t we. I figured I’d write this little memoire for Kathi of I Think We’re all Bozos on this Bus, as she has recently embarked on a career as a chicken rancher.

When I was just knee high to a grasshopper, I took it upon myself to herd my mother’s substantial flock of chickens. I would arm myself with a stick and shout out my best impersonation of a cattle call. Stampeding feathers this way and that.

Then came the infamous day that changed my life (and started my career as a cynic). It was a typical sunny day. The smell of impending doom was strangely absent from the air, as I headed off to town with my mother.

Now, either my mother was far too efficient a shopper, or my father was far too inefficient at drinking coffee and making small talk, because what I came home to was akin to the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Actually, more like the Kentucky Axe Massacre. The farmyard was a chaotic mess of feathered blood fountains scrambling this way and that. I was furious.
I marched straight up to my father, with an axe in his hand and some poor buzzard with his leather neck stretched across a stump, and demanded that my father put the heads back on the chickens, immediately. He chuckled and took a swing, which set me to repeating a few colourful words I had heard him throw at our dogs when they were chasing the horses. G... d...n! Son of a... You get the picture.

As you may have guessed, the assaulted fowl in question, were not reunited with their heads- a point for which my father has still not earned my forgiveness. But even back then I was not the picture of a bleeding heart. I happily ate my Shake n Bake that night without an ounce of grief. It amazes me that more farm kids don’t need therapy.

Years later, when I was teaching wilderness survival, I was the appointed chicken butcher. Any wonder? I actually went into labour with Ukluk, while cleaning chickens and turkeys, but as it was my first pregnancy, I was oblivious to the fact that my little one was about to come. So, I merrily gutted away. I am happy to report that my son was not birthed beside a large vat of scalding water.

Now, the saga continues. Cowboy has just ordered 100 layers, broilers and turkeys. I can’t help but wonder, what was I thinking? (as I munch on a chicken nugget for lunch). Now I am subjecting my own children to the same horrors of farm life, and heaven forbid they grow up to be neurotic children’s writers.

Flash Back Friday: Fording the Blindman River

2008-05-17T00:39:00.000-07:00

Today is shaping up to be a beautiful sunny day. I can’t believe it, but it looks like we are going to skip the traditional May long weekend blizzard. Yeh! I can’t begin to say how thankful I am for that, as I start the Glenn Stewart Horse clinic this weekend. His website (which you need to check out, even if you aren’t that into horses) starts by saying, “do you remember why you fell in love with horses? Let us remind you.” I’ve been on horseback since before I could walk (you’d think my father was a Mongolian nomad for the amount of time we spent in the saddle), so, I don’t quite remember the when, but I can recall a million reasons why.

Fridays, henceforth, are to be known as “Flash Back Fridays”. Below is an assignment I wrote for the writing course I am taking (which explains why it is written in the 3rd person). It is a blip in time, almost exactly 25 years ago, when I went on a poker rally with my father. He decided it would be a great time to break a colt (which later ended up in the Calgary Stampede string). I remember the trail being difficult, the weather being worse, and my father- well, let's just say he was no Mr. Mom. At least I got a story to tell out of it.

She pushed her tongue into the gap left by her first lost tooth. This was a challenging trail, even for a cowgirl like her. Her raw thighs ached as the warm body of her paint pony swelled and contracted beneath her. She pulled two wet spongy leather reigns into the sleeves of her jacket. She had nearly caught her father’s stride when the sorrel rump of his colt crushed against her leg. Her father didn’t bother to look back as he faded behind a curtain of rain. She tucked her chin inside her collar, and a stream of cold rainwater drizzled off the brim of her brown felt hat and onto the oversized yellow slicker. It stuck to her skin like wet papier-mâché.

Ahead, riders bunched together in a clump. She craned from the saddle. Shifting her weight, she stood over the right stirrup. An overpowering static roar filled her ears- Rushing water! She was going to have to ford the Blindman River, high with melt water runoff and swelling rapidly with rain. She swung her braids, heavy like two soggy ropes, as she searched for her father. The riders began to uncoil and stretch out across the river. She could see her father now. The colt was spinning circles beneath him. It nervously wound its way up the far bank, until it crested out of her view.

She pressed her fingernails into the smooth leather of the pommel. She braced as the pony balked. A cowboy rode up beside her, his red curly hair poking out from under the sides of his white straw hat. “Give’er her head and it’ll be all right,” he told her.

“Just get my dad? I want my dad,” she pleaded.

“Looks like he’s having some trouble,” he said. Taking off his glove, he pinched a stream of snot from his nose and flung it through the air.

“I want my dad.” She puffed a few clipped bursts of steam and furrowed her brow.

The redheaded cowboy reached out for one of her reigns. She pulled it back from him. He smiled and spit some tobacco juice in the mud. As the paint eased down the bank, she felt the right shoulder drop out from under her, followed by the left. She kicked her numb feet from the stirrups and tucked them underneath her saddle-sore bum. Splash Splash Sploop The River rushed against the pony’s white belly, mixing its earthworm smell with the leather/dung aroma of wet fur. She could feel the neck muscles strain as the pony lunged and bobbed its head, against the current.

The redheaded cowboy scrambled up the bank, ahead of her. She jerked in the saddle, while the pony’s front hooves pawed for footing. Her body clenched as the paint tucked its hind legs beneath its rump. It pitched forward, slamming her ribs against the saddle horn. Her feet found the stirrups and she squeezed the pony’s sides, nodding to the redheaded cowboy as she galloped after her father.

The Value of a Good Fence

2008-05-15T13:01:00.000-07:00

There is a lot to be said for the value of a good fence. You wouldn’t know it around here, though. With three little ones (4 ¾ , 2 ½, and 10 months), I am not of much use around the ole homestead. It seems I am always racing out the door and off to town, or cooking, or bathing, or changing bums, or trying hopelessly to catch up on laundry, or.... And cowboy? He dumped the cattle a long time ago, for the oil patch ...like everyone else in these parts. So, he’s either away in camp, or recuperating from it. As far as our horses are concerned, we’ve got a pretty low security facility around here- maybe more like a halfway house, because at times the critters are actually free to come and go as they please.

Right now, we are experiencing something called “Spring Break-Up”, which did not derive its name as a consequence of what happens when the recently returned men do not accomplish their “honey-do lists”, but is what we call it when the ground turns to melted marshmallow and the oil and gas industry comes to a halt while it dries.

There isn’t much break in break-up this year. Cowboy has been busy turning over the field until the wee hours, that is, until the tractor broke down today. So, it was off to town for the proper part, only to get one he may have to farmer-jimmy. While he was there he figured he might as well grab the seed, and a booster shot for my horse, and I had to send him to the dance studio for something I had forgotten. He won’t be home until 5:00 pm. A wasted afternoon is not a good thing around here, especially not today. A farmer must gamble against the weather, and Cowboy is hoping to get the field in and fertilized, just as the rain comes, and before my horse clinic on Saturday, because that is when he becomes Mr. Mom (which reminds me, he still needs to give my horse that booster and trim his hooves).

You better believe that it gets a little stressful around here in the spring. I’d love to take the little ones out with me and get at the fences, myself, but Cowboy will never go for that because he has a brilliant idea to put in new fences that will likely materialize long after the horses get out again. So, I cringe as I watch the wire sag and the posts sway like dead soldiers in the wind. I think back to last summer, when our yearlings got out, and I eight months pregnant, had to round them back up (see poem below), and I shudder. But Cowboy likes to be the spread boss around here, and as he is too busy to endure any nagging about the fences, right now, I’ll just have to keep a bale of twine handy, lest I have to use it for a quick fix. There’s a lot of value in a good fence, but I put a lot more stock in a happy relationship.

Prenatal Farmwife Blues

With a bun in the oven
The fences were down,
And the old man…
Well, he’d gone to town.
So, with a belly this BIG
And ankles this SIZE
I slipped on my shoes
And went for the stupidity prize.
Well, of course it was the yearlings
Who aint never seen oats.
I’d rather of herded
A handful of goats.
But they were in the alfalfa
Munching away
And I didn’t even wanna hear
What the neighbour’d say.
So, I waddled cross the gravel
And into the field
Trying to remember natural horsemanship’s
Pressure and yield.
But after five minutes I weren’t
Whispering none-
Hell, I was screaming out,
“Son of a Gun”.
After an hour I thought my bottom’d
Give way
And I’d be birthing out there
In the hay.
But I’s to stubborn to
Just lay down.
I was ready to herd ’em
All into town
Straight to the auction
And into the ring-
Collect the five bucks
A grade’s known to bring.
That was when my luck
Started to turn.
Good thing it did,
Cause my belly’d been some awful burned.
I cursed my pants
That didn’t meet my shirt
As they trotted outta the grass
And onto the dirt.
We were cresting the gravel
When a neighbour
stopped to help out-
To wrangle or midwife?…
I still have some doubt.
Before too much longer
We got ‘em headed
For home,
Hot on their heels-
One 200lb Explosive Hormone.
We ran ‘em up to the yard
And down through the gate…
With the other side open,
I realized, too late.
After we’d finally
Got ‘em back in
I figured I’d just stop
And add to my kin,
But I’d had no energy
To push or to heave,
And of some repairs
The fences
Still were in need.
We rigged ‘em all up
With wire and twine.
They weren’t pretty,
But I figured ‘em fine.
And a miracle happened…
No the fences fell down,
But it was another two weeks
‘Fore my girl hit the ground.
She opened her eyes
And started to frown…
Said, “Dad, let’s just move to Town!”

Crushes

2008-05-14T12:26:00.000-07:00

I recently came across a blog post about highschool celebrity crushes. In the post, my friend, Cinnamon Gurl, lamented over a crush she had once had on a musician and how she had written a letter to him in her journal for English class. Reading that post brought back so many memories. While she was writing letters in her journal, I was trying to write the perfect poem that would one day help me get noticed by my crush.

He wasn't a Back Street Boy, or an athlete. He wasn't a Hollywood actor, or even a male model. But he was tall, and quirky, and had a really, really, really big ...brain! So, who was the mystery man? Who was I obsessing over? While other girls were pinning up pictures of Brad Pitt and Luke Perry, I was staying up late at night to watch Daniel Richler host Imprint on TVO.

For an outsider peering into my crazy little teen world, this would have seemed an odd choice. I had a streak of the bad girl, once upon a time (but if you tell my kids, I'll deny it). I hung out with the boys who had muscle cars, and was seldom home on a Saturday night (though I subscribed to Saturday Night). So, why Daniel Richler?

To begin with, I wasn't just a bad girl. I had an insane passion for literature, and learning. I spent a lot of time in the smoking section (isn't it obscene that we ever had such a thing at school?) with my head stuck in a book. Nine times out of ten, it read "Mordecai Richler" on the cover. Reason number two: the thought of having the original Barney Panofsky for a father-in-law strangely intrigued me (kicking back something barrel aged and complaining about the Canadian government oddly sounded like fun, even at the age of 15). Finally, I think I found Daniel Richler so attractive because he wasn't your run of the mill intellectual. He was a bad boy trapped in the mind of a eurodite (he could give Robertson Davies a run for his money in the eurodite department). I found that wildly appealing. Kicking Tomorrow actually helped me form a new definition of myself. Until then, I had not really realized that all the different parts of me were not in competition with each other, they were simply just different parts of what made me me. Never mind the simple fact that an intimidatingly intellegent man holds some serious wow factor.

I actually got to meet him once. It was at the Harbour Front Festival of authors where I went to see Mordecai Richler read (at just 16 you can bet I was the youngest Mordecai Richler fan in the place). I worked up the guts to walk up to Daniel Richler, and asked him to sign my copy of Kicking Tomorrow, which he did. I still cherish that book. Anyway, I couldn't think of anything to say after that, and my moment just embarassingly faded away. I still smile when I recall having met my ultimate crush in person.

Cowboy has a crush on Jennifer Anniston, so, he is quite obviously confused. But, looking back after all of these years, I would have to say, I am not embarassed that Daniel Richler was once my Jordan knight. I am just embarassed that, all these years later, he is now my George Clooney.

Things That Run Through Your Mind When You Find Out You May Have Cancer

2008-05-13T18:40:00.000-07:00

When my mother was just 35, she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. I remember being scared because my mother and I did not have a good relationship, and I remember thinking, "so that's my fate". All the women in my family have battled some form of cancer or another. Most have won, but some of the amazing matriarchs of my family, have not. Now, I figured I had a name for the thing I would need to watch for.

After I became a mother, I gave up the maverick approach to my health, I had previously taken, and started thinking more about the possibility that I could develop cancer, myself. I am certainly not the type to race to the doctor every other week, but I did start paying more attention to my body. Now, an ultrasound has discovered an ovarian cyst. It is not my first. I had one shortly after the birth of my son, which, luckily, went away on its own. However, this time feels different. I can check off quite a few of the symptoms for ovarian cancer (which are subtle and can all be caused by other things), and the doctors seem a little more concerned.

If you think that cowgirls don't cry, you'd be surprised to discover what a postnatal blubber fest I can be when I consider the possibility that my children may live a life without me. But I am a cowgirl and back in my brief days of riding bucking horses, I was never known as a bailer. I have a whole lot of gumption and grit in my guts and I think this thing will likely play out like a good old Western movie. The hero either cheats it, beats it, or takes it on gracefully.

I'd like to share this journey, be it short (i.e. ends with the negative tests), or long, with all of the women out there who may face this themselves, or be put in the position of watching a loved one struggle with their own fight. So, here are some honest thoughts that I think when I consider I may have cancer.

How can my life possibly accommodate an illness? How am I going to slot it in between the children and their preschool, dance classes, craft time, story time, my dance classes and writing, the farm, Cowboys mother, Cowboy's need for some husband wife time? Guess we'll need to hire a housekeeper for sure, because I am already fearful that someone is going to cal Clean Sweep on me.
Can my family handle me without estrogen? I am already a postnatal mess on permanent thyroid replacement. Now I may have to face life as an hysterical woman plagued with hot flashes, even more melt downs and way more facial hair?
Am I ready to wean my little one? A part from the fact that I still enjoy our moments of bonding, I am not ready to see what my boobs will look like when they are not filled with milk. (I practically went straight from breastfeeding my son, to my daughter)
Will my stomach at least be a little flatter if the cyst is removed? Or will it just give up on me all together after being tampered with too many times. (I've had two c-sections)
Will I be bald when I get married next summer? I was hoping for spaghetti western hair. I hope hats are in fashion.
If something happens to me, who will my daughter call when she needs to cook a turkey? I had to call home, at least, my first five times.
Who will teach my son to dance with a girl? His father has two left feet and no rythymn.
Could my children survive on steak and potatoes? Because that is all their father can cook.
Will my children inherit my bad genetics? Will the children hate me if I stick them on a blue/green algae diet, and pump them full of viatamins?
How would my children remember me? Would they remember me?What image of me would replace who I really am? Would they remember the time-outs more than the hugs. (note to self: up the hugs, not just for the kids, but for Cowboy, too)

Well, I believe it is now time for me to take a minute to up the hugs. Be sure to do the same, yourself, tonight.

A Typical Mother's Day

2008-05-12T07:52:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning I awkoe to the sound of my Cowboy doing the dishes. Ahhh, sweet music to the ears (I absolutely hate doing the dishes). He made me pancakes and coaxed a "Happy Mother's Day" from my two-year-old boy, Ukluk. I should have felt on top of the world, motherwise, but I didn't. I find myself between a rock and a very hard place like so many other mothers, because my oldest, Koogiook, spent the entire day with her mom. Yup! I'm a lowly stepmom. I know she had a wonderful day and really enjoyed spending it with her mom, and I will get her today after preschool, but knowing that did not make it hurt any less.

But, I'm a mom, so I had to get on with my day. Ukluk, and his ten-month-old sister, Bunikpuk, needed a bath. I figured it might be time for my weekly bath, too (I cannot believe the disgusting levels of personal hygiene I maintain as a mother). So, we all piled in the tub together. Ukluk was already overtired by 10am, so my bath time with them ended by me screaming for his father to come get him out of the tub before he drowned his sister. Needless to say, bath time was followed by naptime.

As I lay, sandwiched between my children (yes, I sleep with my kids and I don't care what the parenting books have to say about it either), Bunikpuk sucking away at the great saggy thing that was once my boob, and Ukluk with his arm excruitiatingly tight around me, I felt thankful to be a mother. No matter what the doctor says next week, I am not giving this up. I'm a fighter and if it comes to it, this cowgirl has got a lot of fight in her, to stay in the game. I asked Cowboy if he thought they loved me, jokingly, and he asked me something like, did I think they needed to breathe air.

I stealthily wrestled by boob back, and unwound myself from my son's clutches. I tried to send a few pictures to my mother, but smoke signals or the pony express would have been a much better bet (if you're internet is hooked to dial up ...you might be a redneck). I gave up. I'll mail her a cd.

With my super-sonic mommy ears, I heard a rustle at the end of the hall. I raced down to the bedroom where my son had transferred his death grip to Bunikpuk. They lovingly stared into each other's eyes, and insread of enjoying the moment, I prayed they would JUST GO BACK TO SLEEP. (Am I alone in my guilt, or do other mother's spend half their day feeling lousy for the little moments they didn't take the ten seconds to enjoy?) They didn't. Ukluk decided that he was going to feed his little sister some booby. Being far to clever to be fooled, she was upset, to say the least.

I was preparing their lunch, when the phone rang. It turned out that our neighbours had a crop fire out of control. I wondered who would be burning off their field on Mother's Day. Turns out they weren't. The fire started near an abandoned trailer on their property. Cowboy gave me a kiss and ran out the door to help. This just about sent me into post natal tears for a couple of reasons. First, the only thing I asked for for mother's day was to go for a ride with cowboy, which was obviously not going to happen. Second, and way more importantly, I felt completely impotent (is it ok for a woman to use that word?). The neighbour in question had helped me out last year when cowboy was away working and our yearlings got out. (I was eight months pregnant, and he patiently trailed after my hormonal rampage, until the critters were penned.) I am not used to sitting at home, while the men go off to take care of business. I was an infantry soldier. I rode bucking horses. And there was mommy guilt moment #2. Intead of enjoying the day with my children, I was wishing I could be free of them to help out.

After the little ones were fed, I figured out a way I could be of use. I searched the house for water bottles and loaded them up in my SUV (yes, I drive a gas hog, but it's a little hard to haul a stroller, groceries, three car seats and four sacks of chicken feed home on a bicycle). As we headed down the road, I was thankful I wasn't famous, like Brittney Spears. The paparrazi would have been able to get some good pics, because the carseats were in cowboy's truck.

I found Cowboy, a weed sprayer full of water hooked to a quad, with a 5th grade at the wheel, and quite usefully, refreshed them with some bottles of lukewarm water. Thankfully, they were not fighting a particularily bad spot. Spill over from the nearby dugout, flanked a good deal of it. So, as Ukluk happily played with the windsield wipers, and Bunikpuk made friends with the 5th grader, I helped cowboy stamp out a few flames. Call me a redneck, but I strangely found it more romantic than going for a ride (though I certainly won't be gracing the cover of Harlequin in sweat pants, a stained old maternity top, and knee high buckaroos, any time soon).

The Forestry took over, and as the flames were losing their vigor, Cowboy, the kids and I were free to go home and celebrate Mother's day. Cowboy and Ukluk took his truck, and Banikpuk rode with me. On our way home, we found a very lost and extremely flustered water truck driver. If you're not from the country, finding a place in the sticks can be challenging, even if you need only follow a big puff of smoke. So, we deicided to play scout and drove him to the scene. Half way down the back, back way, Bunikpuk decided she was hungry. I popped a boob in her mouth and carried on.

By the time we returned home, Bunikpuk was fast asleep. I laid her in bed and set to preparing the fish, and baking the cake I had promised my mother-in-law, ground up Bunikpuk's food and called my mother. Supper was on the table by 7pm, followed by angelfood cake (from a mix) strawberries and ice-cream.

With faces and hands washed, Bunikpuk and Ukluk were hauled to bed by 8:30. I am not sure how long it took them to fall asleep, because I am certain I was out, first. Ahhh, a typical Mother's Day ... well out in these parts. anyway.