Least wanted presents December 18, 2008 WE OFFER some gift ideas for country dwellers in our current issue of Acreage Life. Now for some balance. I'd like to mention a few things that are NOT considered suitable gifts, especially by women. Here's the deal, guys. You may be happy with a shop vac or a tow-rope for Christmas: your wife most assuredly will not be. A woman may well have need of a new refrigerator, or a car warmer, or a snow shovel. But woe betide you, should you try to fill such needs in the name of gift-giving. There is a very funny YouTube video making the rounds of cyber-correspondents. My friends and I laughed ruefully at this one. Check it out at: bewareofthedoghouse.com/video.aspx In this five-minute mini-movie, created for JC Penney department store, a hapless husband brings home a vacuum cleaner as a special gift for his wife. Sure, it has a shiny red bow on it. And her husband assures her it is a state-of-the-art appliance, the only one she'll ever need, complete with dual bags. But she is outraged. A vacuum cleaner? For his sweetheart? No, no, no! She marches him out to the doghouse, which turns out to be the anteroom for a purgatory for misbehaving men. One fellow, trapped in perpetual laundry-folding detail had - horrors - given his wife a piece of exercise equipment. It looks just like the one Suzanne Somers was touting on TV years ago, the one alleged to be wondrously effective at toning one's thighs. Maybe Suzi really did find this gadget useful. She certainly looks svelte, and maybe even without benefit of starvation or liposuction. My guess is that she simply has good genes. (And possibly good jeans.) I'm pretty sure she wouldn't have been thrilled if her longtime hubby, Alan Hamel, had given her a thigh-reducer thingy. Poor fellows. Many of them just don't get it. They're not mean-spirited, just clueless. I've observed that men are solution-oriented. Presented with a problem, they want to fix it. We women occasionally indulge in self-loathing rants, whether about our thighs or other parts of our bodies. (This is commonly known as the "Do I look fat in these pants?" rant.) But we aren't asking them to fix the situation for us with a gadget, or a gym membership. Smart guys know that when these rants begin, their women simply want to be hugged and told, sincerely, "You are beautiful, honey. You are perfect, just the way you are." Come to think of it, that endorsement is always a welcome gift. Grumpy about garbage December 10, 2008 IS THIS YOUR GARBAGE? No, I didn't think so. It belongs to some unscrupulous person. You should see all the stuff that has been dropped off alongside our country roads in the last year. Derelict couches and chairs, a treadmill, a washing machine, a computer, a fridge: persons unknown have gone to the trouble of hauling all these things out of town, virtually into our backyard, and shoving them into a ditch. If I could catch some big-time litterers in the act, I'd be tempted to follow them home. Once I had their address, I'd load up the stuff and return it to them, dumping it on their front lawn. Think they'd get the message? That's just a fantasy of course. With my luck, I'd be the one caught for littering or vandalism. It would be really difficult to explain I was just returning "lost" belongings. The rural municipality workers gather this stuff and cart it to the dump. I spoke with one of the public works crew, responsible both for road maintenance and collecting garbage, and he agreed the situation has worsened in the last couple of years. Saskatoon is growing, and some people are unwilling to do the right thing with their junk. The civic landfill is accessible seven days a week, from 7:30 to 5 p.m. during the winter months and until 5:30 from mid-April through mid-October. But there are nominal fees to use the dump. For instance, to deposit a broken refrigerator, one would pay at least $19: a $14 surcharge to deal with CFCs, and a $5 entry fee. I believe the situation is about to get worse. My contact at our RM office said he's already seeing more household garbage, clothing, etc. in addition to large items like cast-off couches. I think proposed changes to the city's waste bylaw, if adopted, will have a big impact on those who live in the surrounding area. The trend is toward eliminating the large, anonymous garbage bins in back alleys and making people pay for the disposal of each bag beyond a certain basic level. Generally, environmentalists support this user-pay approach. "The less you throw away, the less you pay." The thinking is that each citizen will become more attuned to recycling and reducing waste. But there are always people who are unwilling or unable to do the right thing. I believe these types don't want to pay the minimal fee to take a load to the city dump, or they don't want to worry about access hours. It's much easier to borrow Buddy's truck and just pitch the sagging chesterfield or the broken computer on the nearest country road. Out of town, out of sight, out of mind. What they don't get is that there is no such thing as throwing an item "away." There is only so much space on our planet, and sooner or later we are all going to have to be much more responsible with our resources, including those items previously considered garbage. The 17-hour job November 26, 2008 A FEW YEARS AGO, we bought a new lawn tractor with a wider cutting base and a snowblower attachment. It has changed our whole approach to the ongoing demands of mowing and moving snow. Before that, Robert was trying to keep four old tractors running, and at times every darned one would be in breakdown mode. The 12 acres of our yard includes several expansive "lawns," as we like to call them. Only a quarter of this green space is regularly watered, but we keep the grass short throughout to discourage the invasion of pests such as field mice. Trust me, that's a lot of mowing: it used to take us a total of 17 hours. We could do it in a weekend, working a bit Friday night, more on Saturday, and finishing off on Sunday. It would go faster if two tractors were operable, and we'd wave as we passed each other on our rounds. At dusk on Sunday night, we'd take a little stroll through the grounds. Observed in just the right, dim light, it all looked very beautiful and well-tended. (My husband calls it the regional park.) Then we'd go off to work on Monday morning, wishing we had more time to enjoy our park. Seventeen hours became our default estimate for any job that might be squeezed into a weekend. Painting the kitchen before the family reunion? No problem - should take about 17 hours. At the risk of sounding like an ad for a tractor company, I must say our new machine has cut the workload significantly. One of us can zip through the mowing in six or seven hours. Now our tractor is ready for winter, fitted with a snowblower attachment. We're bracing for the first big storm of the season. From past experience, we know that clearing out from a blizzard will take us ... oh, about 17 hours. Preparing for the inevitable November 3, 2008 IN NOVEMBER, every day without snow is a gift. We congratulate each other, insisting winter will seem shorter this year. Very often, the first snowfall arrives before Halloween, so the little boys and ghouls go trick-or-treating bundled up and dodging snowdrifts. This year, All Hallows Eve was dry and mild, but we didn't get a single customer. Maybe the neighbours stopped by with their kids before we got home from work. Too bad: I had purchased some treats. Now Robert and I will have to eat them ourselves, and we'll be fighting over the blue Smarties. Preparing for winter is a lengthy undertaking. We start by putting the garden to bed and mowing the grass short, especially along the sides of the lane, where snow piles up. Then we cover strawberries, grapes and other vulnerable plants with layers of straw. For years, we raked leaves and composted them. It was a huge task, and we devised a shortcut. Now we simply mow, chopping the leaves into mulch that will melt away along with the snow, come spring. Another fall task is lining the cat's house with straw bales. We have a deluxe kitty bungalow complete with wall-to-wall carpet, a heat lamp and an electrified water pail, but the stubborn little guys enter only to eat and drink, refusing to cuddle together when an ill wind blows no good. They are much too independent to share an abode. One likes to sleep in a wheelbarrow in an unheated shed, and I bought an old fur coat at Value Village and placed it there so she won't freeze. Another cat prefers to hang out under a granary, and after a blizzard I have to go and call her, using the faint mews to guide me in digging her out. Our resident stray has made his home with us for three years. He used to dash for cover whenever a human appeared, but now when we encounter him he just fixes us with a cold, yellow-green stare before sauntering off. He's big, fluffy and black. I call him Black Watch (like the Scottish tartan) because I fancy he's our night watchman. Maybe he has claimed squatter's rights in the kitty condo, and that's why the others won't stay there. On the weekend, we stowed away the last of the outdoor furniture. It's an odd assortment that we've collected or inherited. It includes hammocks and porch swings, plastic stuff that has become mottled over time, and a couple of classic Adirondack chairs that once belonged to my grandmother. I always delay putting away the metal furniture and the garden umbrella on our deck. If we happen to get a really nice, sunny Saturday afternoon in late fall, it is possible to sit under the umbrella with a cup of coffee and pretend it is still summer. Global warming notwithstanding, winter will show up any day. When the maples are bare and the sky is leaden, the garden umbrella looks silly, a frivolous anachronism that is oh, so last-season. Whooping it up October 15, 2008 ON THE BLOG of Nick Saunders, a Saskatoon birdwatcher, (www.saskbirder.com) I learned whooping cranes had been seen near a marsh north of the city. Check out his terrific photos of them from October 4 and 14. Thus inspired, I decided to try to find them for myself one rainy, windy afternoon last week. I found the region of low-lying fields, dotted with ponds, but saw only plump snow geese, thousands of them, wheeling through the air and strutting beside the water. Like the whoopers, they are glossy white with black wingtips, but the geese are smaller, with shorter necks and legs. I was heading back to the city, disappointed, when I noticed a cluster of seven cranes standing in water. They were a fair distance from the road, but there was no mistaking them. They stand out because they are so still, and so much taller than other birds. They also fly in a distinctive manner, with necks extended straight in front, and legs trailing behind. Other large birds, including herons and pelicans, fly with their long necks folded. I've long been interested in whooping cranes (Grus americana), and I've followed their slow climb back from near extinction. These fantastic looking creatures are, at five feet, the tallest birds in North America. They have long, pointed beaks, red and black heads, and a seven-foot wingspan. The fact that whooping cranes are such big targets is likely one reason their numbers dropped as the North American frontier gave way to farms, towns and cities. Settlements also threatened the wetland habitats crucial to the cranes' existence. As kids, my brothers and I once watched a whooping crane land in our farmyard. Not knowing what it was, we were amazed by its statuesque presence and huge wings. Saskatoon is in the flight path of the whoopers' twice-annual, 2,500-mile migration between wintering grounds in Texas and the summer nesting zones in the Northwest Territories, but we were lucky to have glimpsed one of these endangered birds. In 1960, there were just 33 whooping cranes in the wild. Whooping cranes are not prolific. They don't begin producing eggs until they are four or five years old, and there are only two eggs per nest. Unfortunately, the mortality rates for whooper chicks are very high. There have been active efforts to support the wild cranes while raising some in captivity and reintroducing them to the wild. These efforts brought the number of wild and captive whooping cranes to 335 in 1997. The most recent whooping crane census, in September 2008, lists 387 wild ones and 152 in various zoos and research centres, for a total of 539. I'm thrilled to have spotted seven of them, all at once. Sources: 1. The Whooping Crane Eastern Partnership: www.bringbackthecranes.org 2. www.learner.org/jnorth/search/Crane.html 3. www.whoopingcrane.com/MIGRATION.htm 4. www.learner.org/jnorth/spring1998/critters/crane/Update030598.html Old dog, new tricks October 1, 2008 IT WAS A CALM morning, and mild for the first of October. Sunlight filtered through the autumn leaves, giving our yard a magical glow. It was one of those mornings you want to savour. We were nearly ready to leave for work when Robert noticed Tasha was not waiting by the doorstep. Usually, when we let our dog out in the morning, she takes a 10-minute mosey around the property, snuffles the compost pile in search of tasty apple peelings or potato chunks, and then plants herself on the step, all set for her morning snooze in the kitchen. We inherited her 11 years ago from Robert's mother, who had acquired her about four years earlier. There had been at least one previous owner, too. This gentle, cheerful soul is our baby and our pal. She's got to be pushing 16 or 17, which makes her a geriatric Springer Spaniel. According to some websites I found that convert dog years into human terms (www.onlineconversion.com/dogyears.htm and www.dogbreedinfo.com/age.htm), Tasha is the equivalent of a human aged 77 to 84. Admittedly, she's seen better days. She's lost a great deal of weight this year, her balance is poor, and she's suffered some vision and hearing loss. I keep thinking we won't have her company much longer, and she keeps surprising me. She is not in apparent pain, and she seems to enjoy her life, despite its limitations. When she'd been "missing" an hour, we feared that our local coyote posse had returned for her. We had caught them trying to lure her away one morning in the spring and scared them off just in time. ("Come for breakfast," they said. "Oh, did we mention you're it?") Now, we walked briskly all around the tree line, looking for her and listening for the jingling of the tags on her collar. All was silent, but for a blue jay screeching in a maple behind the barn. It was pointless to call her. She does hear a bit, but tends to get confused about where the sound is coming from, and we've seen her run eagerly AWAY from us when called. This makes it impossible for us to take her for jaunts away from her familiar acreage. If she got loose, it would be difficult to get her back. (It's so great living on the Prairies where, it is said, you can watch your dog running away for three days.) I thought the worst. Maybe she'd become totally blind and disoriented and had headed off across the fields and onto a road. Maybe she'd fallen and couldn't get up. Maybe her heart had simply given out. But there was no sign of a little brown and white spotted creature, living or dead. By now we were anxious, and late for work. Robert would have a classroom of students waiting for him. I had to go, too, but I thought maybe I would just drive around the first rectangle of grid roads, to see if I could spot her in the fields or in a ditch. Leaving our lane, I headed east, then north on a side road. The bare, harvested fields looked serene, and every poplar bluff on our ridge gleamed gold. I drove slowly, peering into every driveway and roadside turnoff. After a short stretch on the highway, I turned south onto another grid road and toward home. As I approached the last crossroads, I saw some movement. To my amazement, it was Tasha and the neighbour's German Shepherd, in flagrante delicto. She had actually shambled several kilometres from home in search of romance. Recognizing my car, she broke away and trotted over nonchalantly as though to say, "That was fun, now here's my ride." So I was late for work and fully annoyed as I drove that shameless hussy home. But I had to admire her, too. There's life in the old girl, yet. Green thumbs September 25, 2008 THERE IS JUST ONE day of the year when I can boast about my green thumbs ... and fingers, too. That's the fall day when we clean up the garden and gather all the tomatoes, be they red, green or in-between. Sure, I could protect my dainty fingers by wearing garden gloves for the chore, but it's lovely to touch the produce, and smell the juicy green tang of the vines, all the while imagining a winterful of meals starring our own tomato sauce. In addition to three big boxes of green tomatoes, and a small box of red ones, our final harvest included 16 zucchinis, a few tiny green peppers, the last of the apples, and some scarlet runner beans. (We planted the latter around an obelisk and they bloomed and fruited all summer, but these last big bean pods, when cooked, proved too chewy. Off they went to the compost. They'll feed next year's crop.) There are all sorts of recipes calling for green tomatoes: tomato jam, pie, chutney, relish, and butter, in addition to that southern classic, fried green tomatoes. Click here for a sampling. Usually, I just wait patiently for the green ones to ripen in the basement, nestled in boxes lined with newspaper. They need to be checked frequently, so the over-ripe ones won't spoil. Quite often I'm still gathering sort-of-fresh tomatoes in December. But maybe I'll try one of those recipes. This one from www.joyinthegarden.com looks interesting, and easy. "Oven-fried" tomatoes 4 large green tomatoes 2 beaten eggs 1 5-ounce can evaporated milk ⅓ cup water 1 teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon pepper 1 ½ cups all-purpose flour Grease two, 15 x 10 x 1-inch baking pans. Slice tomatoes ¼ inch thick. In a shallow bowl, mix eggs, milk, water, salt and pepper. Place flour in a shallow bowl. Dip each tomato slice into the egg mixture, then into the flour. Repeat. Arrange tomatoes in the pans so that the edges don't touch. Bake, uncovered, in a 400-degree oven. Turn after 10 minutes, and continue cooking for another 10 minutes. Meanwhile, my friend Faye is going to take some of our zucchinis. (This is a relief, to have someone actually asking for zucchini. At this time of year, we've sometimes had to resort to leaving them anonymously on doorsteps. Poor little zucchini orphans.) Faye wants to make zucchini kugel, a vegetarian casserole, for a family gathering. Follow this link to find a recipe: projects.eveningedge.com. I hope you, too, are admiring your green thumbs and enjoying abundant harvests. Acreages for fun and profit September 12, 2008 IT'S NATURAL for people on acreages to muse about how they might earn a bit of money from their expansive properties. My husband and I are no exception. During the past decade, we've toyed with the idea of starting a market garden. Or a kennel. Or maybe, we thought, we should try raising worms, alpacas, sheep or other cute and potentially profitable critters. (Admittedly, worms aren't SO cute, but have you ever looked an alpaca in the face? Adorable. And its wool is apparently in demand.) Now, a news story about a unique bed and breakfast in Germany is offering new inspiration. Monika Fritz has created the "1,000-star hotel" in a wheat field near Bad Kissingen. Adventuresome summer campers pay about $10 a night to dream under the stars in sleeping bags cushioned by straw piles, and another $12 for breakfast. Additional features, presumably for extra fees, include the opportunity to roll in a potato bin for an earthy massage, or soak the feet in a box of wet clay. So here's my new business plan. We plant our surrounding fields with oats next year, and once the crop is up, we use a mower to create little scenic campgrounds. What a great place to sleep beneath the moon and the stars and the northern lights! Visitors can look forward to being awakened gently by morning breezes and the songs of birds, or perhaps the comings and goings of other prairie creatures, from field mice to skunks and porcupines. In the morning, we'll serve breakfast on rustic tables in the barn. We'll bill it as Oat Cuisine, otherwise known as porridge. Extra amenities might include do-it-yourself facials prepared with ground oatmeal, known for its healing properties. Then, in the classic Tom Sawyer tradition, we'll give our visitors an opportunity, for a nominal fee, to get a true feel for country life by helping out with various chores. There's never a shortage of these: we'll manage to keep everybody busy and happy. Guests will be able to sign up for their choice of weeding the gardens, trimming hedges, gathering stones from the summerfallow, mowing lawns, turning the compost piles. We'll print brochures for international distribution. I'm sure they'll go over well in Germany. Who knows? We may have to rent fields from neighbouring farmers and hire some assistants. Ah, the entrepreneurial spark. Some people have it, and some don't. But for now, I'm keeping my day job. A hover of hummingbirds August 28, 2008 WE'VE HAD SOME SUCCESS in attracting hummingbirds to our feeder, installed near the kitchen window. Every year, towards the end of April, we hang the feeder, containing a mixture of 1/2 cup of sugar and 2 cups of boiled water. If we're lucky, we'll see some spring migrants. Later in the summer, there will be a few more. One year, we had ruby-throated hummingbirds and a pair of orioles fighting over the syrup. That was something to behold. As far as I know, none have nested with us, but recently we've had at least four hummers zooming around from flowers to trees to the feeder. Sometimes they narrowly escape mid-air collisions, and then they squeak sharply at each other. If the light is on in the kitchen, any movement they perceive through the window causes them to dash away without feeding. Yet I can sit still in the yard and have them happily buzzing nearby. I have been trying to identify these small and lively birds. They are three to four inches long, and not showy. On a dull day, they appear to have pale grey bodies and darker grey wings and back. There are white markings on the tail-feathers. In sunlight, their wings and back sparkle green. I was guessing black-chinned hummingbirds, but my birder friend says they are more likely female or juvenile ruby-throated hummers. Central Saskatchewan is a popular destination for this type during spring and summer. The Wildlife Habitat Council, based in Maryland, has a useful publication about attracting ruby-throated hummingbirds. It notes that they especially like such common garden flowers as columbines, coral bells, geraniums and phlox. (You can find this information online, in PDF format, HERE) I'm a collector of collective nouns, so imagine my delight in discovering the varied descriptions for a group of hummingbirds: a bouquet, a glittering, a hover, a shimmer and a tune of hummers. Our resident hover has been avoiding the wasps, which also visit the feeder. If a wasp is present, they won't land. On occasion, a wasp will pursue a hummingbird. Robert has found six big wasp nests on the property. Wasps serve a useful role as pollinators and predators of smaller insect pests. They also help clean up carrion. But you don't want to have too many of them congregating. Particularly in the fall, they can get cranky. Our nephew once suffered a couple of painful stings and that same season I got stung on my palm. Yee-owch. We discovered the wasps had established an underground nest near the garden; simply walking by was hazardous. After we'd watched wasps chasing hummingbirds from the feeder, Robert decided to dispose of the largest wasp nest, a big, papery grey globe formed from chewed bark and almost hidden amongst the foliage of an ornamental crabapple tree. The recommended time for applying the pesticide foam (from a safe distance) is at dusk, when the wasps are least active. We prefer not to interfere with nature this way, but sometimes it seems necessary. I'm told some country dwellers purchase decoy wasp nests to discourage wasps from setting up house. This is supposed to help because wasps are territorial. They can't be all that territorial, or we wouldn't have at least six colonies sharing our yard. I've been unable to photograph our fast and elusive hummingbirds, but every morning this week I've watched a Swainson's hawk surveying its domain from atop a round bale. It's an impressive creature, about 20 inches long. Its beak is about the size of a hummingbird. Given the opportunity, I'm sure it would eat a hummer for breakfast. With a wasp chaser. Thank you. Thank you berry much. August 13, 2008 WHAT A GREAT SEASON for berries! Rains were abundant while we were away, and we found our acreage lush and overgrown. The grass was almost knee-high; it seemed we'd need a machete rather than a lawnmower to hack through it. In the garden, we discovered not only a plentiful crop of saskatoons but also raspberries, honeyberries and Nanking cherries begging to be picked. As a child, I enjoyed picking saskatoons with my grandparents. Nobody in my immediate family liked to pick berries; apparently I was the only one to get that particular foraging gene. Mom has always been happy to clean berries and make pies, but she has steadfastly refused to pick. She recalls going along with her father when he picked berries, but she'd stay in the car to read. Years before my father planted various saskatoon cultivars in the yard, making berry picking so very convenient and civilized, I would coax my brothers on expeditions through the fields to gather saskatoons. Inevitably, they got bored. They'd complain about the mosquitoes or the wind or being thirsty. They'd eat the berries scarcely covering the bottoms of their pails and then they'd trudge home, leaving me (sob) to my lonely task. During a recent family reunion, I invited everyone for brunch and devised a strategy to get everyone berry picking. I had pails ready, and as soon as they arrived, I informed them they had to select their own fruit topping for the meal. It was a beautiful, sunny morning. Some folks gravitated to the raspberry patch, others to the rows of saskatoons. Even Mom collected a few berries. My brother and sister-in-law enjoyed it so much that they returned the next day and picked a bucket of saskatoons to take back to Halifax with them. They've also taken a copy of Mom's never-fail Saskatoon berry pie recipe (below). There are different techniques for berrypicking. Some will grab a cluster and strip everything off the branch and into a pail - unripe ones, buggy ones, leaves and all. That makes for a bigger challenge at the cleaning end of the operation, Others scrutinize each berry, selecting only unblemished, perfectly purple ones. In the good old days, when people relied on preserved wild berries to brighten boring winter diets, it was customary to tie big pails around one's waist or neck, so both hands remained free for holding down tall branches and gathering the fruit. When I went out with my grandmother, I didn't want to be accused of eating more than I was picking. "Show me your tongue," she would tease. As a point of pride, I held off for a long time before having to reveal a purple tongue. Although the City of Saskatoon was named for this tasty fruit, it is common throughout North America, and it's even found in parts of Britain and Europe. It's known variously as the juneberry, serviceberry or shadbush. While everyone calls them berries, they're actually pomes, known as "false fruit." Apples and pears are also pomes. Now I have to figure out what to do with our berry bonanza. We usually enjoy the raspberries and Nanking cherries fresh, and I'm making saskatoon berry pies this week. This is the first year I've had enough tart and juicy honeyberries (edible blue honeysuckles, also known as haskaps) to bother with. I rinsed them and froze them in a single layer on cookie sheets, so they wouldn't stick together. Then I collected them into freezer bags. I have maybe 12 cups of honeyberries, which I'll sprinkle into muffins and fruit cobblers this winter. I feel rich! Mom's Saskatoon Berry Pie Filling Pastry for a 9-inch, double crust pie 1 ¼ cups water 1 cup granulated sugar 2 teaspoons freshly squeezed lemon juice ¼ teaspoon nutmeg 5 cups saskatoon berries 2 tablespoons cornstarch ¼ cup water Roll out two pie crusts, and line the bottom of the pie plate, reserving the second for the top of the pie. In a heavy saucepan, combine the water, sugar, lemon juice and nutmeg, and boil for 5 minutes. Add the berries and simmer for an additional 15 minutes. Mix the cornstarch and the ¼ cup of water and add this to the cooked berries. Cook on medium-high heat for about 10 minutes, until thickened. (The filling will still look a bit runny, but will thicken further when baked.) Remove from heat and allow the filling to cool. Pour into the pie shell and seal with the top crust. Cut slits in the top to allow steam to escape. Bake for 10 minutes at 450 degrees F. Reduce heat to 350 degrees F and continue cooking about 35 minutes longer, until the crust looks golden. Souvenirs August 8, 2008 BEACHCOMBING is a rare treat for prairie people, so on a recent holiday in British Columbia, Robert and I set aside two days to explore the Tofino area. I've been eager to look for sea glass ever since we published a story about this entrancing, natural collectible in our Spring 2008 issue of Acreage Life. We began a long, long day in North Vancouver. First we made our way to Horseshoe Bay for the hour-and-a-half ferry trip to Nanaimo, on Vancouver Island's east coast. For local commuters who use ferries regularly, I can imagine this mode of transportation might become mundane, even frustrating. That the ferry rates are increasing is also of considerable concern to island residents. However, for tourists unaccustomed to the sea, ferry rides are scenic and relaxing. It's a nice break from the highway, and you're free to roam indoor lounges and outdoor decks, sip a latte and take in the amazing views while somebody else does the driving. On a map, it doesn't look like a long way from Nanaimo to Tofino. It's a much shorter line than that between, say, Saskatoon and Regina. But map distances can be deceiving, especially when mountains are involved. Like the song says, it's a long and winding road. It was nearly dark when we entered Pacific Rim National Park and talked to a helpful attendant about local sights and camping facilities. One campground was a mere 20 minutes away, right near Long Beach. After phoning ahead for us, the parks employee assured us that, although it wasn't possible to make a reservation, there were "lots of campsites available." That, it seemed, was a matter of interpretation. The manager of the facility flashed a smile and what was surely a practised welcome. "No, I didn't say there were spots available," she said. "They fill up really fast in the afternoon. But I never turn anyone away." She gave us our choice of overflow camping locales. We could park our van conveniently under a street light near the office, or wedged amongst other vans next to the saltwater pool and shower complex. Take it or leave it, and that will be $46. Night had fallen, we were tired, and we took it. All we wanted to do was catch some shut-eye. "Oh, and watch out for the bear that's been hanging around," she said as we shuffled out of the office. We didn't encounter the bear, but slept fitfully, aware of campers making their way at all hours to the washrooms. Ah, yes, roughing it in the woods. How charming. How rustic and unspoiled. So okay, we were a bit disgruntled when we finally set foot on the famed beach on the island's west coast the next day. Miraculously, the mood lifted as swiftly as mist evaporating in the morning light. Waves crashing on the rocks near the shore and then foaming up playfully against the sand created a soothing, hypnotic roar. The shoreline stretched as far as we could see, a vast palette of blues, greens and greys. The air was tangy and fresh. When we stepped into it, the water was unexpectedly icy. We watched a surfing class, the students all clad in wet suits, and couldn't imagine swimming there without some insulating layers. As we walked, I was scanning the shells and seaweed at our feet, alert for anything that glittered. "Gee," I muttered, "I sure hope I can find some ...." Before I could say the words "sea glass," Robert had stooped, picked up something and turned to place it in my palm. It was a gleaming triangular shard, part of it clear glass and part of it polished to opacity by sand and water. We were to find several more pieces that day, after walking many kilometres beside the Sitka spruce towering over Long Beach. We had to look hard for these little bits of glass. "It's not like they're just sitting there on the sand," I observed with unintentional irony. But I'll always remember my first piece of sea glass, and how it appeared in my hand at just the right moment. Don't have a bird July 14, 2008 Asking me, said she's so free - How can you catch the sparrow? - Stephen Stills BEFORE I SET OFF for work in the morning, I always have a little visit with the cats and remind them, "Don't have a bird." We feed them nice, nourishing food, and encourage them to snack on all the rodents they can find about the place between meals. Why must they prey on the birds, as well? I dislike coming across little piles of down, the remains of a cat snack. And it seems to me the cats are particularly attracted to the same birds I admire, the ones with the pretty, colourful feathers. One day we'll marvel at the bright wings of a goldfinch, the next we'll find a scattering of yellow feathers. The crows and magpies are often a terrific nuisance, erecting messy nests and raising big noisy families. But I've never seen a cat stalking one of them. One spring day, we enjoyed watching an ovenbird foraging on the ground near the bird feeder. We were able to identify it from the black streaks on the pale chest and the orange crown, bordered by black stripes. It was the first time we'd seen one of these warblers, and I was hoping to find a nest as well. The birds are named for the oven-like dome nest constructed on the ground, with a side entrance. It was disappointing to find the remains of our ovenbird the day after we spotted it. Evidently one of our dear felines spotted it, too. Maybe our cats, like some human birders, have a "life list" of birds they want to find. If we could decipher cat-speak, I'm sure we'd learn they are saying something like, "Tastes like chicken." It's possible Felix is the most avid hunter in our pride of cats. I've noticed the barn swallows that nest at our place ignore the other cats, but they always dive-bomb Felix when she's crossing the yard. There is a thought-provoking discussion about the impact of cat predation at the Windstar Wildlife Institute blog (blog.windstar.org/2008/03/how-many-birds.html). At this site, Rob Fergus, a conservationist with the National Audubon Society, ventures a conservative estimate that cats kill at least one billion birds each year in the U.S. In urban areas, keeping pet cats indoors seems to be the responsible thing to do. On the loose, they are endangered by traffic, they make a nuisance of themselves in neighbouring yards by using flower beds and children's sandboxes as litterboxes, and they also destroy a large number of birds for food or sport. However, in both city and country, rodent populations might soon be out of control if not for cats. Recently, when I found a brightly plumed yellow-bellied sapsucker, quite dead, in the driveway, and saw Felix slinking off, I concluded this was a crime scene. "Bad cat, Felix! Don't have a bird!" My husband and I inspected the ill-fated sapsucker. It appeared untouched and, um... untasted. Then we noticed a smudge on the dining room window, and the teensiest pale feather clinging to it. The crack forensics team was able to clear the feline suspect in the case. In fact, the forensics team turned out to be partly to blame for leaving the blinds up, creating glare that drew the hapless bird into a collision with the glass. Sorry, Sapsucker. Sorry, Felix. Poplar snow June 25, 2008 More in a garden grows than what the gardener sows - Spanish proverb DURING THE LONG, mellow days of early summer, the landscape changes frequently. We want to savour every moment outdoors, and not miss any developments in the yard and garden. Already, several plants in our yard have gone to seed. The asparagus bed, having provided tasty spears for a number of meals, is now a patch of ferns. The rhubarb has bolted, showing off its gigantic pale seed heads. I used to break these off, because gardening books say they interfere with the vigour of the plant, but I don't bother now. The seed stalks with flowers are attractive, and don't seem to affect the quality of the rhubarb. We've already enjoyed an early fruit crop, the tart-sweet and juicy honeyberries. These hardy edible honeysuckles, also known as haskaps, are producing more elongated blue berries for us every year. We covered our eight plants with netting this spring to discourage the birds, and that did increase the yield. There must be a better way to harvest them, though. The least disturbance of the plant, even from a gust of wind, causes the ripe berries to fall to the ground. I'm thinking of placing old sheets or tablecloths beneath the shrubs and shaking down the berries, rather than gathering them one at a time or searching for them in the soil. I found the first sweet, ripe strawberry yesterday, and we'll have some grapes, saskatoons, raspberries and gooseberries in the coming weeks and months. I usually make lots of pies to freeze when we have a good saskatoon crop, and prepare jam with the gooseberries. The grapes are Robert's experiment. He planted them along a makeshift barbed-wire arbour in the shelter of the back garden. We got just a handful last year. It's amazing to see the thumbsize clusters of green grapes developing, like a delicacy for Thumbelina. I was wandering around the yard Saturday morning, appreciating all the new growth and imagining how I would use the garden produce. The air was still and clear and then suddenly there were little floating bits reflecting the sunlight. Against the dark green of trees in the distance, I could see a steady white stream shooting like bubbles from the willows and poplars, then dispersing. On their own mysterious timetable in late June, the females of these related species begin releasing fluffy seeds. The effect is of an unseasonable snow and, like snowflakes, the seeds can accumulate in drifts. Some people consider these trees messy. Because of the fluff from females in the willow and poplar family, the cities of Calgary and Edmonton have stopped planting them. But I look forward to that gentle spring snowstorm. I'm glad I happened to be watching when the seeds emerged on their pale parachutes. Grounds for celebration June 18, 2008 A cup of coffee - real coffee - home-browned, home-ground, home-made, that comes to you dark as a hazel-eye, but changes to a golden bronze as you temper it with cream that never cheated, but was real cream from its birth, thick, tenderly yellow, perfectly sweet, neither lumpy nor frothing on the Java: such a coffee is a match for 20 blue devils, and will exorcise them all. - Henry Ward Beecher I DISCOVERED the joys of coffee in my first year of university. Mom and I would have a cup together in the morning, before I drove to campus, and it seemed the coffee I didn't have time to finish always tasted the best. In fact, I was so often late for my early morning English class that the professor took to leaving the door open for me, closing it once I'd arrived, huffing and puffing. I didn't come to terms with my caffeine addiction until a few years later, when I was a new mother and we were on a family camping trip. We'd forgotten to pack coffee, even despised instant coffee. The withdrawal headache was unforgiving, even after a trip to the nearest townsite for java. It had all the wrath of 20 blue devils, for sure. Through the years, coffee drinking has been my guilty pleasure. Of course in our society, it signals taking a break, and spending time with friends. "Let's meet for coffee," we'll say, and the coffee is just a pleasant excuse for the get-together. The guilt creeps in because there have been occasional research studies suggesting coffee intake should be limited. Coffee, and the caffeine and other chemicals in it, have been suspected of playing a role in all sorts of health concerns, from miscarriages to hypertension to cancer. But the latest research is grounds for celebration, especially among female coffee drinkers. A long-term study by researchers at Harvard University and the University of Madrid found that women who drank two to three cups of coffee a day enjoyed an 18 percent lower risk of death from all causes. Those who drank four to five cups had a 26 percent reduction in risk. As those who have tried to stave off a no-joe headache have discovered, the optimum dose - at the optimum time - is desirable. More isn't necessarily better in terms of coffee and its supposed health benefits. To obtain the supposed protective benefits of coffee, which may be related to the antioxidants it contains, the ideal dose seems to four or five cups. The women in the study who drank more than six cups of coffee a day were determined to have a 17 per cent lower risk of dying from heart disease and other illnesses, as compared to those who seldom or never drank coffee. This is an authoritative study because it surveyed a vast number of healthy people over time. It involves 84,214 women in the well-known Nurses Health Study. They were followed and questioned about their health, diet and lifestyles for 24 years. The study also tracked 41,736 healthy men, following up for 18 years. Because the sample was smaller, the men were younger (therefore less likely to die for any reason) and the study was shorter, the results were similar for men but not statistically significant. Among all the men and women studied, there were about 4,500 deaths attributed to heart disease and 7,500 from cancer. Other causes were blamed for an additional 6,000 deaths. Once other risk factors, such as weight, diet, smoking and diseases were considered, the researchers concluded coffee drinkers were less likely to die than non-coffee drinkers during the follow-up. The risk reduction was linked to a lower risk for death from heart disease. The study found no link between coffee drinking and cancer deaths. It's stretching it a bit to see coffee as medicinal. But the latest research makes me take all the more pleasure in my early morning coffee rituals. Today, I began sipping as I puttered in the garden. Then, checking the time, I grabbed another cup for my commute. I take my coffee black these days. Sorry Mr. Beecher: coffee may be somewhat good for us, but cream is another matter. Weekend warrior June 6, 2008 OURS IS A MIXED marriage. Our differences are not cultural or religious, they are arboreal. I'm a compulsive, unapologetic pruner, and he's not. Sometimes I suspect Robert is truly a dryad or tree spirit, he's such an advocate of letting trees grow their own way. I, too, appreciate wilderness, but I like a neatly trimmed hedge to frame a skyline or a meadow. He doesn't complain when I drag out the stepladder and the hedge clippers. Nor does he offer help. So it's my big and solitary annual job to cut back the caraganas, preserving our view of sunsets and the city lights. I've been wrestling with those darned caraganas since I grew up on this very acreage. I was 10 or 12 when I decided to trim part of the shelterbelt into a hedge. Some of the trunks of the caraganas, planted by my grandparents decades before, were then three inches across. It took all summer for me to hack my way along the hedge, using big shears and a handsaw. The task was easier on subsequent summers, because the new branches that grew up were thinner. And I felt like a pro when I graduated to electric hedge trimmers. The Victoria Day long weekend is the kickstart to Canada's growing season. This year, I spent much of that weekend in the caraganas. Over the years, I've perfected the attack. I jam the ladder amongst the tangled trunks, so it won't tip. Then I loosen up a length of extension cord and climb up, hefting the trimmer. I ensure the ladder is secure, and that I won't trip on the cord. I want to keep my limbs intact. Once stabilized aloft, I activate my weapon with the trigger, and hack at every branch within a safe reach, while trying to keep the tops even with the top of the ladder. Then I shut off the machine. Climb down. Move the ladder a little way. Start over. It's tedious, and after a couple of days of this, I was covered with bruises from fighting my way through the branches, and little slivers from the short spines the caraganas sprout at the base of the new leaves. Also, my shins were sore from leaning against the steps of the ladder, and my shoulders ached from hefting the clippers and reaching across the hedge. A weekend warrior, indeed. I have respect for the humble caragana and its importance to prairie settlers. But it's not my favourite tree. It's a rather weedy looking, inelegant survivor. Also known as Siberian Peashrub, it's capable of living through harsh winters and prairie droughts. It can grow five metres (16 feet) tall, and it will bush out almost as wide as that, which makes for a mighty big hedge. The caragana is not fussy about growing conditions, as long as there is good drainage and a reasonable amount of sun. I didn't quite finish the hedge during that May weekend, and either the weather has been poor or I've been busy ever since. Maybe I'll get to it this next weekend. "It looks good, though, doesn't it?" I prompted my husband, as we surveyed the hedge, and the newly revealed horizon, from our front steps. "It'll be even better when all the leaves are out." He looked at me in my bruised, disheveled and sunburned state and grinned, pulling a twig out of my hair. "Sure," said my dryad. "If you're happy, I'm happy." Tick talk May 16, 2008 Warning: gruesome, graphic content in the following entry may offend some readers. BLASTED BLOODSUCKING PARASITES. No, I'm not talking about the oil barons who profit from my $75 fills at the gas bar. I'm talking about actual bloodsucking parasites: ticks. I was shocked to hear a CBC radio program recently about ticks reappearing in Saskatchewan. The snow was barely gone when people were finding ticks on their pets. This seems patently unfair. It's like having to cope with pimples and wrinkles simultaneously. High season for ticks is May and June, but the hardy little arachnids may be noted from April through October. They are an annoyance almost everywhere, from Britain and Europe to North America and Australia. They're indiscriminate, preying on birds and reptiles as well as mammals. Having just set about writing them, I find I'm already scratching. (I'll bet you are, too, just reading about them. Sorry about that!) Bear with me. I want to remind you that we have to be a bit more vigilant about ticks in the country, since our dogs, cats, horses and other pets are more likely to encounter these pests in parklands, wooded areas and amongst tall vegetation. Ticks are primarily a nuisance, but they can also be vectors for Lyme Disease and other serious ailments. You don't want these guys on your dog or in your house. Ticks are sneaky about finding their way onto you and into you. They lurk on vegetation and are attracted by mammals' odours and the release of carbon dioxide. They also note the shadows cast by prospective victims. As a creature walks past, the tick climbs aboard, buries its mouthparts into the skin and does its creepy bloodsucking thing. There's no pain, just an unauthorized blood donation. Don't get ticked off! After outings, check yourself and your animals. Remove a tick promptly by stunning it with a little rubbing alcohol, then grasping it with rounded tweezers, close to the surface of the host's skin. Twist gently and pull it out. Clean the wound and apply antibiotic ointment. Use flea and tick collars or approved sprays on your dogs and cats. An insect repellant containing DEET works well to keep ticks away from humans. Other preventive strategies include keeping grass in the yard short. Remove clutter and debris on the property that could attract rodents that might host ticks. When you're working outdoors, wear light-coloured clothing, ideally pants and long-sleeved shirts. Tuck pant legs into boots or socks. (I know, it looks dopey, but who's going to see you when you're out weeding?) I can well remember the day I found what I thought was an over-ripe green grape on the kitchen floor. I was puzzled, because I hadn't purchased grapes recently. This peculiar, oval thing was smooth and leathery to my touch. I carried it, cupped in my palm, to my husband's office to get his opinion. By the time I set it on his desk, we could see eight tiny legs emerging from the engorged body of the mama tick. The creature was an inch long. Yeeeuck! It quite likely dined on our dog and then dropped to the floor, full as a ... well, tick. Male ticks aren't so big and impressive. But then, the bloodsucking female is acting on maternal instincts. She is eating in preparation for laying thousands of eggs. Isn't that fascinating and dismaying? Paul Yanko, our Acreage Life webmaster and a country dweller, has an even more compelling tick tale. He was feeding the horses one fine spring day, with his youngsters playing nearby. He noticed his daughter chewing something. When he asked what she was eating, she merely shrugged. So he looked in her mouth, and was dismayed to see that it was full of blood. He swiftly surmised that she had found a full tick and, mistaking it for a grape or berry, had popped it into her mouth. He made her spit out the mess, and whisked her into the house for a mouthwash. She was fine, and quite blasé about the incident, but her dad continues to make certain he knows what his kids are snacking on. The elusive crocus May 5, 2008 WE WENT SEARCHING for crocuses last week, and finally found a few, along with lots of other signs of spring. Right beside our doorstep, we spotted a Mourningcloak butterfly (Nymphalis antiopa) basking on a flagstone. In a way, butterflies are solar powered; their wings must be warm in order to fly. Mourningcloak's dark wings help it soak up the sun. This hardy species lives as long as 11 months and overwinters as an adult, so it may well be the first butterfly you see in spring. There are no blossoms out yet, but the Mourningcloak, common throughout North America, prefers tree sap to nectar. The pussywillows are emerging and soon there will be leaves as well. There are dozens of different kinds of willows growing in Saskatchewan, and when the sap is running for the Mourningcloak buffet, the bark of the different types varies from bronze to green, orange and maroon. These jolts of colour appear dramatic in a landscape that is otherwise grey and brown. Hopping movements captured our attention in the field. It was two brown jackrabbits, covering ground swiftly with their muscular legs and blending in with the summerfallow. Meanwhile, overhead came wave after raucous wave of snow geese. From the ground, in every pond and puddle, answered a competing chorus of frogs. Spring is talkative! As usual, we hadn't managed to leave the yard without the company of our cat. Glamour Puss always tags along, and eventually tires, lagging behind and yowling pitifully, switching her tail back and forth with annoyance. Then one of us will give in and go back to pick her up. Someday I will think to bring a backpack just for her. After resting a bit and seeing the world from a different vantage point, she'll jump down and then preen for a bit on a rock, looking quite regal. We searched in all the likely patches of meadow, but couldn't find crocuses. Were we too early, or too late? These little purplish flowers symbolize spring for prairie folk. They are not true crocuses, the source of aromatic saffron. Ours are actually anemones, and mildly poisonous at that. But they provide a welcome hit of colour, proof that winter is over. How the native people and the early settlers must have rejoiced to see them. Some years, it's very difficult for us to find crocuses. It seems to me they must bloom from 10:15 to 10:30 on a Wednesday morning, then close furry sepals over yellow eyes for another year. Although the blooming time is about two weeks, the flowers are often nearly invisible. Obscured by taller vegetation, they open in the sun and close in the evening and on overcast days. An hour's drive southeast of us, in the Allan Hills, there are pastures that have never been cultivated. There, in late April, the hillsides are studded with mauve gems. Because crocuses contain irritating alkaloids, cattle avoid them and graze on competing plants. It's win/win for the crocus. On our property, there remains only a narrow margin of untilled prairie sod, which is the preferred site of deep-rooted crocuses. We followed a coyote trail, a straight and narrow line through the dried grasses and occasional clumps of silvery wolf willow. Finally, we found a few crocuses. We didn't pick any; they don't last as cut flowers, and photos are the best trophies. With their particular requirements for soil and moisture, crocuses don't transplant well, either. Pausing to study some bluish-white fragments on the surface of the trail, I realized it was eggshells, the remains of someone's lunch. They were scattered around a teensy nest, really just a hollow in the grass. Silly bird to nest on the coyote highway. Location, location, location. Running (in pajamas) with coyotes April 10, 2008 THE MORNING BEGAN serenely. We were awakened not by the clock radio, as usual, but half an hour earlier, by a concert of trills, cheeps and twitters the likes of which we hadn't heard for months. The robins are back! There they were, scratching on the patches of lawn and hopping on the remnants of snowdrifts. Later, I checked some birding websites, including www.learner.org/jnorth/search/RobinNotes3.html to find out more about robin migration. Evidently, this is still poorly understood, so I'm not sure where our robins spent the winter. The experts agree, though, that the males return first, to scout out possible nesting sites. Spring behaviour includes running on lawns and singing. So this explained the morning concert - all those male robins strutting around and vying for territory. Also new to our yard is a flock of dark-eyed juncos. I always enjoy the antics of these pretty little grey finches when they converge at the feeder. My husband had let the dog out and I was making coffee when we glimpsed some unusual activity out the kitchen window. Tasha, our arthritic springer spaniel, had evidently forgotten her creakiness: she was racing happily around the yard with three, large coyotes. Robert grabbed a jacket and raced out, yelling at them. Then he darted back in for his camera. Such is our ambivalence about these creatures. We think them beautiful, and consider ourselves fortunate to live alongside animals that are truly wild. They belong to nobody and respect no fences or borders. But having them right in the yard, in broad daylight, is alarming. We fear for our pets. Tasha seemed to be having a good romp with some fellow canines, but they may have perceived the situation differently. Possibly they were herding her away to make a meal of her. Surely it was hunger, not playfulness, that drove the coyotes to our doorstep. It must be tough for them to scrounge up a meal in winter and early spring. We've scarcely seen a deer or a rabbit for months. A cat lounging on the deck - or a plump old spaniel - would be easy prey for a posse of coyotes. We managed to coax the dog inside, chiding her for keeping such fast company. "Jeepers," I said, "the next thing we know you'll be staying out late, yipping at the moon." She just grinned. Ten minutes later, the coyotes were still hanging about, just at the edge of the lawn. We trotted out after them, Robert pausing to take some pictures. Two of them took off, heading south across the field. One, a long-legged, beautiful creature, its coat grey-gold in the sun, would run only a little ways and then turn to look at us. It did this three times before loping away out of sight. In aboriginal cultures, Coyote is known as a trickster, singer and survivor. Appearing shy or aggressive as circumstances demand, this creature is not to be underestimated. Our cats were nowhere in sight. Fearing the worst, I went around the yard calling them. I couldn't find them and, to my added dismay, I discovered my husband had now turned the camera on me, as I wandered around in my rubber boots and pjs, with just a jacket hastily thrown on. I demanded that he delete those incriminating pictures, and he assured me he would. Finally, the cats jumped down from the Scotch pines, where they'd been hiding. Smart felines. We'd all had enough excitement for one morning, and none of us, even the coyotes, had yet eaten breakfast. Quote of the day This is from Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype (1992), by Clarissa Pinkola Estes: "If you have never been called a defiant, incorrigible, impossible woman ... have faith ... there is still time." Commitment March 28, 2008 OKAY, SPRING. Are you in or out?     These early spring days are so changeable. They may offer, at various hours, glimpses of all the seasons. There are still some cooler mornings when the landscape sparkles with frost, and I have to scrape the windshield before heading to town for work. Yet the sun is getting warmer, and the tops of the willows glow pale orange as sap stirs in their branches. A few little mounds amidst the expanse of a frozen slough revealed themselves, when the snow melted, to be the tops of muskrat dens. As I drove by one yesterday, I glimpsed a muskrat perched atop, grooming itself in the sun. It had spent the winter below, resting and nibbling at a stored pile of tasty roots and weeds. Now that ice is melting around the den, it's time to get fresh provisions, and to see what other creatures are stirring. People are emerging from their dens, as well. Often, it's too warm for a parka, but too chilly for a windbreaker. One afternoon last week, we were surprised by a mini-blizzard, with giant snowflakes swirling in the wind. I was sorry I'd forgotten my gloves. Here, March came in like a lamb and it could go out like a lion. There's a mixture of mud and snow in our yard, and if the dog gets by us at the door without a paw check, there's a mess to clean up. Tasha loves to bound in and check every corner of the kitchen to see if she's missed anything while she was out. Maybe - oh, joy - her humans have spilled something tasty. This morning, fog was draped around the trees like a fluffy grey scarf. According to farming lore, fog in March means you can expect more six months from now ... right in the middle of the harvest season. The drifts are shrinking and the ditches fill with snow-melt. The surface freezes overnight and the strips of ice gleam in the early morning light. I enjoy this fleeting fancy of the landscape. When I was a youngster, iced-over ditches made me think of the story of Hans Brinker, the Dutch boy who longed to compete in a skating race along the frozen canals and win the silver skates. After I read that story, I would watch for the perfect conditions for skating all the way to school. But the ditches along Saskatchewan's secondary roads are not like the canals of the Netherlands. Even when they freeze hard enough to support a skater, the surface is bumpy with weeds and dust. The ice has melted by the time I drive home in the evening. Every day, there are more small ponds appearing, and a few geese have returned. Yet the fields that are stubbled with the remains of the last crops are golden and autumnal in the six o'clock light . In this panorama, adjacent views contradict each other. Spring flirts with Summer and Winter, and can't commit. Minivan mama February 29, 2008 I DON'T GET why younger women loathe and despise minivans. These sturdy vessels are the greatest for shuttling kids to activities, and they're comfy for longer trips. Some even have tables, storage bins for toys and such, and nifty beverage holders. There's a superior, elevated view of traffic and the countryside. And you can cram a lot of goodies from an afternoon of garage saling into a van. (Bookcase? Rocking chair? After flipping down the back seats, the only problem I have is explaining the impulse purchase to my husband. It's hard to smuggle in a rocking chair.) When our daughter-in-law April embarked on her third pregnancy, she realized the family sedan would no longer accommodate the burgeoning family - not with three kids in bulky car seats. A minivan was the only option, but she wasn't going quietly. "It's the end of my youth," she wailed. Members of Generation X equate the minivan with their parents, the Baby Boomers like me. Apparently my minivan is not cool. It is, in fact, the antithesis of cool. I've actually been looking for a smaller vehicle, now that I'm not shuttling kids to birthday parties, dance lessons and soccer games. The trick is to find something greener, a good little commuter that can zip across the city and also handle our country roads. When I took a Smart Car for a test drive, I grinned all the way. It's so neat! It's tempting to buy an energy efficient car like this one when you can qualify for a $2,000 rebate from Transport Canada. (You only have a limited time to take advantage of that, by the way. The end of the short-lived ecoAUTO rebate program was announced in the recent Federal Budget. Consumers can apply for rebates of up to $2,000 on eligible 2006, 2007 and 2008 vehicles, purchased by December 31, 2008. The applications will be accepted until March 31, 2009.) Despite my flirtation with the Smart Car, I don't believe such a vehicle will perform as well as a bigger one in the deep snow, ruts, bumps and mud that are often part of my commute. And my garage sale purchases would be severely curtailed, not to mention grocery runs. In addition to offering one passenger seat, the Smart Car does have a rear storage area: it could just about accommodate my briefcase with room to spare for a litre of milk. When it comes to my next vehicle, the one thing I've settled on is the colour. Dry or wet, gravel roads make a mess of a car, and I'm tired of having the dirtiest car in the parking lot. I want camouflage. In addition to being a very cool and energy efficient model, my next car must be the colour of mud. Snowbirds February 15, 2008 WE'VE HAD THE CHANCE to observe some Snowy Owls recently. The male is almost pure white, and the female, a little larger, has dark brown bars that give the plumage a mottled effect. During grey winter days, you might see one atop a utility pole. It blends into the scenery, but the size and majestic presence of this bird captures attention. It stands nearly half a metre tall and has a wingspan as long as 1.5 metres. According to Hinterland Who's Who, the Snowy Owl (Bubo scandiacus) lives and breeds north of the Arctic Circle during the summer months. In winter, these owls are found throughout most of Canada - except British Columbia. They hunt during the day, feeding largely on rodents. About this time of year, pairs or larger groups gather to begin the annual migration northward. (Strangely enough, human pairs, also known as snowbirds, migrate southward during this season. Orlando, here we come!) We saw a male, huge, white and imperious, perched aloft one Saturday afternoon. As we stopped by the roadside to admire it, we caught a bit of drama. A raven had also noticed the owl, and it swooped over and dived aggressively at it. The owl swiveled its head, but appeared otherwise unperturbed. After the third pass-through from the raven, though, the owl flapped off. It was quite a picture, with the two large birds, one white, one jet-black, tracing their paths across the sky. Neither species would be defending a nest at this time, so it must have been a territorial dispute. ("Hey, you! Yeah, I'm talkin' to you, ya big white lump of feathers! All the mice and road-kill in these parts belong to me! Move along, now!") Seemingly, the raven won that round. Ravens never appeared as far south as Saskatoon when I was a youngster. We'd have to travel farther north, to Prince Albert National Park, to see the Common Raven (Corvus corax, also known as the Northern Raven.) In recent years, these birds have extended their range. A week later, near dusk, I noticed a female Snowy Owl high on a pole, surveying its domain. I had my camera, so I left the car and ventured into the field for a closer look. This wasn't the greatest idea. It was bitterly cold, and the snow was deeper than it looked. Stepping into the ditch, I sank past my knees. I struggled on as the bird stared down at me. This is a bird of prey, after all: perhaps it was watching to see if I'd fall and be unable to get up. It could probably hear me gasping with its acute hearing. I could envision black claws piercing my scalp. A good imagination can be such a curse. I managed to stay upright, and to get a couple of shots before it flew off, disappearing almost instantly against the snowy horizon. Hibernation mode January 25, 2008 MANY PEOPLE consider   the latter part of January the least desirable time of the year. Several years ago, Cliff Arnall, a British psychologist, identified the third Monday in January as the most depressing day of the year. He factored in failed New Year's resolutions, debts from holiday indulgences, and of course gloomy, chilly weather. Humans are vulnerable creatures. We need hope, something to look forward to. Throughout most of Canada, ice and snow make it difficult to get around now. There are 11 more months until Christmas. Spring is still a long way off. If they can manage it, this is the time people flee to a tropical beach. Even the sunburn they'll inevitably acquire along with the silly hats and the made-in-China souvenirs seems preferable to one more day of darkness and wind-chills. If a sunny escape isn't possible, there's always hibernation mode. This manifests in a primal urge to retreat to the cave. The contemporary equivalent involves cosy blankets, hot toddies, carbohydrates (especially chocolate), and an ample supply of books, magazines and videos. There is one more way to cope with winter: embrace it! Bundle up and take a walk. Admire snow-frosted trees and long, indigo shadows. Be on the lookout for animal tracks, or the hollows in the snow indicating where deer have hunkered down to take shelter. The tracks tell stories. Where grouse gather, there will be skidmarks from their tail feathers (landing gear) then the scribbling of little chicken-like footprints as they hit the snow running. In January 2007, when prairie folks were dealing with the worst blizzard in 50 years, our place was snowbound. We're a scant 15 minutes' drive from the city, but we might as well have been somewhere on the Dempster Highway. After two days of howling wind and snow, our access road was indecipherable from the fields on either side. The municipality plowed us out, but then a wind came up and the lane was clogged again with waist-deep drifts. For several weeks, we parked on the main road and trudged back and forth. (Transporting groceries was especially tedious. I would stop at a store for a few things on the way home from work and end up with a cartful, forgetting I was going to have to lug it all a kilometre.) Taking a tip from my friend Michelle, who uses snowshoes when she's tending her horses in the winter, I bought some lightweight aluminum snowshoes. What a revelation to discover a winter activity I really enjoy. It's fun sailing over drifts like a snowshoe hare, and it's easier than cross-country skiing. There is no tedious waxing, no need to make or maintain trails. Your arms are free because you don't need poles. Yet it's still a good workout. Then, of course, when you finally get home after all that embracing of winter, and you're chilled to the bone and exhausted, you have a perfect excuse for the blankets, hot toddies and chocolate. Wake me up when it's spring. The trip chain December 12, 2007 IT'S QUITTING TIME. You log off the computer, check the calendar for the next day's highlights, tidy your desk and trudge out to the parking lot. You're on your way home. But first you have a few errands. You must stop at the pharmacy where they have the late-night post office. If you don't get that parcel off by Express Post it will never make it to your sister's family for Christmas. And Sarah's excema has flared up, just like it does every winter, so you'd better get a refill of her prescription while you're there. Then you pick up Sarah from the babysitter. Finally, the two of you make a whirlwind trip to the grocery store. Mentally, you repeat the shopping list like a mantra: "Milk, eggs, peanut butter, apples." There's a long lineup even for the express checkout, and Sarah's getting hungry and fretful. You grab a box of crackers from a handy display at the end of the aisle and you both start eating them. By the time you leave the supermarket, it's nearly 6, and you have a 35-minute drive home to your country place. You hope your husband is already there and has put the casserole in the oven and fed the animals. Oooh, animals. That reminds you that you're almost out of dog food. You make a quick detour to another store for that. Sarah has fallen asleep in her car seat, and barely wakes when you haul her into the store and set her in a cart. The final stop before you hit the highway is a gas station. You're down to a quarter of a tank. Sound familiar? A report released this week by Statistics Canada terms this scenario "trip chaining." Really, it's just multi-tasking, the kind of thing many of us do on a daily basis. The Stats Can study indicates that the longer the trip chain, the more likely it is that the driver is a woman. Men, according to the study, make the most one-stage trips. Women on the way to or from work are more likely to make stops at schools, daycares and shopping centres. Evidently 45 percent of male drivers make no stops en route to work and nearly 80 percent of men drive straight home from work. More than 20 percent of female drivers stop three or more times during a car trip. About 72 per cent of women drive directly home. The study has implications for urban planning, including traffic patterns and retail locations. It might, for instance, suggest that it's useful to have shopping centres near schools. At Acreage Life, we know most of our readers live within an hour's drive of major urban centres. That's where most of us work, and a shorter drive is more desirable. Commuters soon learn to become organized and to "stack" their trips, planning the most convenient routes to and from work, while still allowing for quick errands. This saves fuel and reduces greenhouse-gas emissions. It's also saves time and energy. Once you're home, you don't want to go back out for dog food. And there might not be an all-night convenience store nearby. Apart from commutes to work, some rural families justify their trips "to town," ensuring that they accommodate several needs at once. Although women lead the way when it comes to making multi-stage trips, the Statistics Canada survey indicates men were behind the wheel for two-thirds of the total number of kilometres driven in Canada in 2005. Maybe that's why, in most vehicles, you won't find built-in bins for a couple of bags of groceries, or a handy place to store a purse. A dose of reality November 15, 2007 HAVE YOU EVER tried to administer medication to a cat? We had to give our three barn cats some pills recently, and it was a nightmare. I'll spare you the gory details of diagnosis. Suffice it to say that felines allowed outdoors enjoy a varied diet. They might come in contact with birds and rodents infected with parasites, so it may be necessary to de-worm cats occasionally. We had misgivings about this little project, but a friend told us it's easy to give pills to cats. "Just tilt the cat's head up and stroke the sides of the jaw. The mouth will drop open and you pop in the pill." Hmmm. It didn't work that way with our bunch. The members of our little clowder - yes, that's the proper term for a group of cats - fought the whole process desperately. What wily, muscular little creatures they are. This must be why cats are said to have nine lives. Even our friendliest furball, a tortoiseshell/tabby named Glamour Puss, became a wildcat when confronted with a pill. She growled and yowled and flailed around, trying to flee. I wanted to flee, too, and I wasn't the one sticking my fingers between those needle-sharp teeth. I thought of accounts I'd read of people fending off cougar attacks. How on earth could they do it, when even a tiny domestic cat can be so ferocious? Glamour Puss flattened her ears and screamed, somehow managing to keep her teeth clenched. Her pupils dilated until all the green in her eyes had been swallowed up by black. She morphed into Scary Puss. On the advice of the vet, we had begun by wrapping our intended patient in a blanket-to limit its movements and prevent our getting scratched. We wore leather work gloves, too, to ward off a bite, but this also made us a bit clumsy. I clutched the kicking, twitching, bundled cat tightly on my lap and tried to keep its head tilted up. Robert coaxed open the cat's jaw and ... dropped the pill on the floor. He retrieved it awkwardly with his gloved fingers and we tried again, with the poor cat gagging and spitting as though we were trying to kill her. Once the pill was in, we massaged the cat's throat to encourage swallowing. With Felix, our chubby tabby, we had to go through the whole rigmarole three times, because she twice secreted the pill in a corner of her mouth and spat it out when we released her. It would be so much easier if you could hide a crushed pill amidst cat food, but that's too iffy. Chances are none of the cats would touch the doctored food. To be sure they were all getting the proper dose, we had to see for ourselves that the pill went down and stayed down. We don't have this sort of problem with our dog, when she needs medication. Tasha is indiscriminate. She will helpfully wolf down anything you place on the floor before her. Doggy treats, pills, it's all the same to her. She's a four-legged vacuum cleaner. It's very handy when I'm cooking, because any crumbs or peelings that get dropped are immediately scarfed up. Cats are much more particular, cautious and difficult. They'd make good spies; they'd never fall for the old Polonium 210 in the tea trick. Cats are such picky eaters that even if you were to disguise medication, coating it with fish or something they find very appealing, they'd likely just nibble around the edges. Dogs are easy to deal with because, for the most part, they want to please you. Cats want only to please themselves. Evidently, taking medication is cause for the greatest displeasure. We are not a-mewsd. Happy accidents October 19, 2007 AN URBAN YARD, even a small one, can yield surprises. When you have a couple of acres or more to tend and explore, there are lots of opportunities to find unexpected micro-environments on your property. For instance, I'm always pleased to find cotoneaster plants in their brilliant fall foliage, far from our cotoneaster hedge. I have the birds to thank. They love the shiny black fruits, and they drop the seeds here and there (often processing them through their digestive systems). These seeds then become plants you didn't plan on. I've started a new hedge by transplanting some of these. The wind and animals will also introduce seeds from afar. Occasionally the surprises are unwelcome. I wasn't impressed to discover stinging nettle (Urtica dioica) in the raspberry thicket this summer. It's bad enough that the raspberry branches are so prickly. Stinging nettle adds insult to injury. I was a child accompanying my father on a fence mending expedition at a remote pasture when I had my first run-in with stinging nettles. I wasn't sure what had happened, but it felt like an electric shock. The jolt is from powerful compounds including formic acid, produced in the short, hollow hairs in the plant's leaves. Fortunately the nasty feeling is short-lived; one of stinging nettle's nicknames is "seven-minute itch." Some people seem to be more sensitive to it than others. I've known those who can sense its presence without actually coming into contact with it. In a pinch, saliva neutralizes the acid. If you're near home, a poultice of baking soda and water works even better. Stinging nettle does have an alter ego. This perennial herb has many positive properties, including high levels of calcium and iron. It's used to make a nutritious soup as well as body creams and ointments. The irritants are destroyed by heat processing and crushing. There are other opportunistic plants that quietly thrive in parts of your property. Take a stroll after a rainy spell, and enjoy all the mushrooms that have popped up as if by magic. If you have expert knowledge or advice and are VERY VERY certain, you can eat some of these. We just appreciate the display, because some mushrooms are poisonous. It's all very well to make mistakes, but not if your life depends on it. Recently, we found deer tracks in the ragged remains of the sunflower garden, and evidence that some of the tall plants had been tugged out by the roots. It appears bees and chickadees aren't the only visitors who love sunflowers. When we moved to the property years ago, an old blue plastic satellite dish got parked back behind the treeline. It has served as a makeshift pond, a watering hole for the cats, and likely wild visitors such as foxes, deer and skunks. This year we discovered the concave surface looking like a real pond, albeit a tiny one. The nearest slough is some distance away, yet cattails had rooted in the silt at the bottom of the basin. Surely if I'd tried to introduce cattails to the mini-marsh, I would have failed. I do appreciate these happy accidents, the result of plants and animals having their own way. Plums and prunings August 17, 2007 THE PLUM TREE outside the kitchen window has seen the best of times and the worst this year. The sole plum in our yard, it's self-pollinating. Alas, it has yielded no more than a tantalizing taste of delicious fruit every fall. Greengage plums (Prunus domestica 'Reine Claude') originated in France and were brought from Britain to North America in the 1700s. They are treasured as dessert plums. The small green fruits attain a yellow or pink tinge as they ripen. Surrounding the almond-shaped stone is succulent, yellow-green flesh with a jammy texture and honeyed flavour. On the advice of a horticulturist, we planted an Evans cherry last year to improve plum production. The two species apparently cross-pollinate. The little cherry's blossoming was not in synch with the plum's this spring, appearing a bit later, and there have been no cherries. But the strategy may have worked. The plum's May finery was more splendid than ever. Glowing with white blooms, it evoked the glamour of a beautiful bride. Although there has been a dramatic drop in some bee populations, there were bees in our yard this spring. Perhaps they were not as abundant as in other springs, but we hoped there were enough to work the pollinating magic. Indeed, by early summer, little plums appeared in abundance. Some we shared, only a bit grudgingly, with visiting waxwings, goldfinches and other birds. All was well until early July, when a devastating windstorm nearly severed two big branches of our MVP (most venerable plum.) Sick at heart, my husband and I surveyed the damage the morning after the storm. Our tree looked sad. Robert has such affinity for any woody thing that he prefers to let them all go and grow as they will. I'm the one to saw off broken limbs, trim hedges, prune lilacs and so on in an effort to make things look neater and encourage better growth. (If I had the strength and confidence to command a chainsaw, I would certainly do so, but I'm afraid of sawing off one of my own limbs.) In this instance, though, he was all for pruning immediately to give the plum an opportunity to regroup. I was the one to hold back. I wondered if the tree would be able to sustain, for a few more weeks, the leaves and fruits of the badly damaged branches. There were only a few centimetres connecting these branches to the trunk. We decided to watch for a few days and see if the leaves wilted on these sections. Amazingly, they did not. Some plums in these parts swiftly dried up, but most continued to grow and eventually to ripen. After we've gathered as many ripe plums as possible, we will prune the tree and give it every chance to recover. To honour its resilience, Robert plans to make a bowl from the wood. Frog song August 13, 2007 DURING THE DROUGHT on the prairies from 1999 until the spring of 2005, it was rare to hear a frog around our place. How we missed their music. Few ponds lasted through the summer. Some farmers plowed up the slough bottoms and planted hay crops. We wondered if we'd ever get those ponds back, but gradually things turned around. We knew the drought was over when the frogs returned. It's hard to imagine where they went and how the population has rebounded so quickly. Certainly there is no shortage of watering holes this year, thanks to the heavy snow covering last winter. All spring and summer, frog songs can be heard kilometres away on a calm evening. Leo, one of our grandsons, is obsessed with hunting for frogs. He has nets of varying sizes, and when he visits we have frog safaris. These jaunts are great fun for all concerned, despite or perhaps because the quarry always gets away. Leo was last here in early spring, before the frogs emerged from the mud. He'd be amazed at all the teensy frogs throughout our property this summer. They congregate in shady areas where the grass is thickest, and in the garden when it's watered. We have to watch where we're walking. As we were mowing in the meadow on the weekend, we kept stopping to shoo the frogs out of harm's way. Frogs are a measuring stick. When they flourish, it seems to be a good year for all the plants and animals. During the springs of 1998 and 1999, we planted hundreds of little trees along the boundaries of our property: poplars, evergreens, sea buckthorn, Russian olive, maples, lilacs, tamaracks. It was bad timing: this was the beginning of the dry years. We hauled loads of water to keep them alive, and even shoveled irrigation channels to guide the paltry snowmelt toward the trees. Finally, we gave up. We lost a lot of trees. Or so we thought. After a few years of adequate rain and snowfall, the trees, like the frogs, are making their presence known. Apparently many of the seedlings rooted but remained dormant when there was little moisture to sustain them. They're taking growth spurts now. Nature has its own pace and its own wisdom. A bunch of tweets August 1, 2007 THE MOST MARVELOUS bird has been serenading us this summer. The performances continue for five or 10 minutes, incorporating some recognizable themes, along with trills and squawks. There are even moments that sound just like a meadowlark or a crow. The signature section always makes me smile; it sounds like "Birdee, birdee: tweet-tweet-tweet!" It may be that this bird sings all day long, but I hear it in the morning, before the breezes stir. My night-owl husband would be just as happy to sleep late, but even he is impressed when I wake him to catch these stellar concerts. I'm grateful this is a shared experience. The late Doug Gilroy, whose nature columns I once edited for The Western Producer, got me interested in birding. I had a chance to visit Doug at his home near Last Mountain Lake, Saskatchewan, a mecca for migrating birds. He laughingly told me about trying to get his adult son to participate in the annual winter bird count. The latter had retorted, "I'm not going out there in the cold looking for a bunch of tweets." After searching through my bird books, comparing the glimpses I'd seen of rusty-brown feathers and the descriptions of the songs, I figured we were hosting a brown thrasher (Toxostoma rufum). But I wanted to be sure. One morning, I crept quietly out to stand beneath the poplar from which the song was being broadcast. Not quietly enough, though. The bird, high above me amidst dense foliage, was obviously aware of my presence, and dived from branch to branch. Cutting the song short, it flew across the yard, alighting on a shrub long enough for me to confirm, by its long tail, wing bars and striped belly, that this was indeed a brown thrasher. Evidently preferring to be heard and not seen, it zoomed into hiding again. According to the Peterson field guide, thrashers and catbirds belong to the family Mimidae and are splendid singers and mimics. That's why it sounded to me like our performer was borrowing phrases from other birds. I have since learned it is inadvisable to stalk a thrasher. In All About Birds, the excellent website of the Cornell Lab of Ornithology (www.birds.cornell.edu/AllAboutBirds/BirdGuide/Brown_Thrasher.html) there is a recording of the thrasher's varied song. There is also mention of the bird being a "vigorous defender of its nest ... known to strike people and dogs hard enough to draw blood." Yikes. This sounds a bit too much like a scene from Hitchcock's The Birds. I'll keep listening for our thrasher ... at a respectful distance. Outbuildings July 15, 2007 AN ATTRACTION of the acreage lifestyle is that there's more room for stuff. This is a mixed blessing. Urban dwellers are forced to make decisions about their possessions, and to cull from time to time. Often this happens on the occasion of a move. With finite storage in basements and garages, there's a limit to the things you keep in the event that they will one day prove useful. In the country, there is more room to store more things, from scrap lumber and outgrown bicycles to broken-down cars, lawn furniture and household items. If you have outbuildings, you're tempted to fill them. For a while, at least, you can avoid having to part with anything. Gradually, you accumulate a bunch of items of questionable value. I hadn't considered all the different outbuildings we have and how we use them until our daughter and her partner returned to live in Saskatoon. He was delivering some boxes of books and other items they wanted to store with us prior to their move. We were going to be away, and my husband instructed him on the phone to stack the boxes "in the little house." To the uninitiated, there are several buildings at our property to which this description might apply. The little house my husband had in mind was built long ago as a summer shelter for hired men, employed by my father and grandfather to help with seeding and harvest. Since the little house is practically hidden now by chokecherry bushes, we eventually discovered that the boxes had been delivered and neatly stacked in a dusty old granary with a leaky roof. That granary, by the way, was one my dad acquired decades ago from a neighbour named Olive. It's been known ever since as Olive's Granary. It has not been used to store grain for some time. Nor has an adjoining building, known as The Grey Granary. (The latter's not grey, either, but it's beginning to live up to its name as the red paint weathers.) Also in our yard are a garden shed, a pumphouse and a combine shed. Would you be surprised if I confided they don't hold garden supplies, pumps or combines? They all have stuff, though, and hopefully it will all prove very useful one day. Roasted crow June 26, 2007 ON A COUNTRY PLACE, it's difficult to undertake and complete a task in isolation. I often start something, only to find I need to do a preliminary job first. At other times, I'll find something totally unexpected that requires urgent attention. I don't worry too much about these detours, as long as something is getting accomplished. It's funny, though, to retrace your steps at the end of the day and see where the wind has taken you. We intended to weed all day Saturday. The garden is full of chickweed, and also that tall, skinny weed with little yellow flowers. After consulting some weed books, I believe it to be common groundsel (Senecio vulgaris.) You need to get this one before the seedheads explode, and haul the uprooted plants right out of the garden. The website of the Government of Manitoba (www.gov.mb.ca/agriculture/crops/weeds/fab37s00.html) confirms my experience with common groundsel. The entry says it's "abundant in sandy, fertile soils" and "competitive in vegetable crops and flower gardens." It also notes one plant can produce a million seeds in a season. Weeding is satisfying work. Unlike writing, editing or teaching, it is not ambiguous. You can see precisely what needs doing, and what you've accomplished. We were making good progress and enjoying the afternoon. We noted it was relatively calm, too, a rarity in our windswept corner of the world. It's nicest to work outdoors early in the day, before the wind gets up. Since it was so calm, we thought of the brush pile we'd been collecting in the field near the garden. It was built mainly of broken branches, especially willows. These trees, which form the outer row of our mature shelterbelt, are brittle. After every windstorm, the yard is littered with twigs and larger branches. This seemed like a good day to burn the brush pile. We're cautious about fires. During his farming days, my father sought to eradicate weeds and prevent snow piles by burning the grass in the ditches alongside the lane each fall. As with many of us, the ritual involved more than a little fascination with fire, too. Often, the wind would shift and he'd end up racing for the water truck, calling all hands and hoses on deck to help protect the house or the barn. Prairie fires are legendary for good reason. I don't want to be the cause of a wildfire raging across the stubble to a neighbouring home. We abandoned the weeding; it was good to stand up and stretch anyway. I hauled out the hose to wet down surrounding trees and prevent sparks from scattering. Robert did a last check of the tree line, to see if there were any more dead trees we could add to this annual bonfire. He found a few more branches, and also a dead crow at the base of a maple. Concerned that the bird might have succumbed to West Nile virus, he put on gloves before bagging the corpse and tossing it on the pyre. This would be a good opportunity for safe disposal. Our springer spaniel, Tasha, was watching the proceedings with more than passing interest. She trotted off into the field and returned directly with something black and white and smelly, an obvious treasure that she proudly deposited at our feet. It was so eloquent, we burst out laughing over the old, dried but still redolent corpse of a skunk. Our dog was clearly saying, "Oh, you seem to be collecting carrion. Do allow me to help, as this is a specialty of mine." We praised her, holding our noses and chuckling. The remains of the skunk were added to the pile. It was a fine, safe bonfire but we left out the finale. Often, after such blazes, we toast marshmallows over the embers. This time, we had no appetite for it. Dandelions run amok June 22, 2007 WHAT'S WITH the dandelions this year? Everyone I know is complaining about them. It's not that we have unrealistic expectations. We've never aspired to a pristine lawn. We have acres of grass and it's all we can do to cut it and water the sections immediately surrounding the house. But it's sad to see the dandelions choking out the grass. We refuse to do chemical warfare, though. Maybe the answer is not in a can but in a critter. I read that the City of Prince George is using goats in a test project to safely eradicate dandelions along the banks of the Fraser River. The only drawback in our case is that we'd have to erect some fencing to keep them from wandering. We'd need to keep them out of the garden, too: goats are renowned for eating everything in sight. Then, of course, we'd probably need to get a donkey to protect the goats from predators. Make that two donkeys. They're companionable creatures who need to be with their own kind. We've noticed a bizarre characteristic in our dandelions this year. My husband zips around with the riding mower and everything looks ship-shape in his wake ... for about 20 minutes. Then flip-flip-flip, the fluffy dandelions heads on tall, pale stalks rebound, swaying brazenly in the breeze. They couldn't possibly grow back that fast. No, it seems they have a sneaky defense mechanism, enabling them to do the limbo under the mower. Maybe we need a special attachment at the front, like that on a grain harvester, to feed those elastic stems right into the blades. If I were a true earth-mother type, I'd see dandelions as a serendipitous crop, yielding greens for salad, blossoms for wine, and roots to roast as a coffee substitute. I'm all for living off the land, and please stop by for your complimentary zucchini later this summer, but I won't be toasting dandelion roots anytime soon. I just want the darned things gone. I want to look at my lawn and see grass, not scraggly weeds. We were pondering our dandelion infestation last weekend when we visited the new Dakota Dunes golf course near Saskatoon (www.dakotadunes.ca). The golf course and the neighbouring casino that is nearing completion are the fruits of a partnership involving a number of First Nations enterprises. Dakota Dunes was named Best New Canadian Course in the January 2006 issue of Golf Digest. Amidst natural sandhills and grasslands, the challenging course unfolds like emerald carpeting, with nary a weed in sight. Obviously the greenskeepers have a dandelion strategy. They're certainly not digging them out one by one. It was a glorious, sunny day, with a breeze carrying the heady fragrances of wolf willow and wild roses. The only downside to our outing was the horrible road. Renovations to Highway 219 are under way, and the half-hour drive from the city features stretches of sand and mud interspersed with gravel road and broken pavement. We were running late and, in an effort to make our tee-off time, my husband was going faster than I thought prudent, given the sharp drop-off and steep ditches. I startled him by shrieking a couple of times as he cranked the wheel to avoid potholes. "How do women know how to do that?" he muttered, braking for a stretch of washboard. It seems a shriek is not part of his vocabulary. "What, scream?" "Yeah." "I don't know. I guess we're hard-wired for shrieking. It's part of our crisis management. EEEK, a mouse. EEEK, a bad hair day. EEEK, a pimple. EEEK my period. EEEK, no period." Or maybe EEEK, dandelions are taking over my acreage. Yardwork June 11, 2007 AS SPRING PROGRESSES, so many tasks suddenly demand attention. I scarcely knew where to begin last weekend. Grass chokes the flowerbeds, and the lawn — now requiring mowing twice a week — glows with dandelions. Pulling on garden gloves, I tackled a flowerbed by the old pumphouse, and yanked weeds feverishly for an hour. Years ago, Mom introduced creeping bellflower (Campanula rapunculoides), otherwise known as noxious weedus, to the yard. Because it spreads merrily via seeds and underground rootstalks, we have it everywhere, even in the lawn. I can't eradicate it, but I go through the motions. Its purplish flowers show up in June and persist until the first hard frost. In fall, it's the only colourful note in the flowerbeds, and then I feel a little kindlier toward it and my failed purges. There's a bright side, and it's purple. The lilies are budding, and their graceful foliage gets bigger and more impenetrable to weeds every year. I must plant more lilies, staggering the blooming times so there will always be something on display in the bed. We have an ancient, rusted wheelbarrow with weathered wooden arms and a metal wheel. There are no flat tires with this relic. Too heavy for general hauling, it makes a fine herb garden. I wanted to renew the soil before planting, so I dug into the compost pile. How thrilling to see that a winter's worth of potato peelings, eggshells and banana skins had once again produced fragrant black earth, with little or no effort on our parts. Our daughter, environmentalist, compost queen and recent science grad, critiqued our compost bin a few years ago. "You're doing fine with the green stuff," she said, "but you need more brown stuff." So we've been adding shredded paper bags, coffee grounds and unbleached filters, tea bags and dryer lint. Once the rusty wheelbarrow was topped up with compost, I planted seedlings of pineapple mint, lemon balm, oregano and basil (both purple- and green-leaved varieties.) Pinching some of the leaves, I inhaled the wonderful aromas. To prevent unwanted attention from our cats, that view any bare patch of earth as a potential litter box, I set flat stones around the plants. Positioned on the patio by the back door, the tiny herb garden is handy for salads and mint tea all summer. Robert was planting out tomato seedlings, so I decided to haul some compost for them. My friend Becky had a plant sale recently, and kindly saved me one of each of a dozen tomato varieties she'd started from seed. A few, like Manitoba, are tried-and-true. But many, including some heritage strains, are new to us. Robert was finishing as I recalled Becky's parting advice. "Throw a handful of Epsom salts in the hole before you plant them; it will prevent blossom-end rot." Whoops. We decided to scoop them up with a spade and toss in some Epsom salts, since Becky knows her plant stuff. As we finished, it was nearly 9 p.m., getting dark and starting to rain. The mosquitoes were fierce. I tossed compost around each planted-and-replanted tomato and retreated. My muscles were aching, including some that clearly hadn't been exercised since the last gardening season. There was about a cup of Epsom salts left: just enough for a hot bath. Ahhhh. Spring fever May 29, 2007 SPRING IS GLORIOUS and exasperating. It tries my patience with its bursts and backtrackings. Winter started last October and lasted much too long. Even on the Victoria Day weekend, when everyone's planting and the greenhouses rake in the sales, we had some frosty nights. It's interesting that this statutory holiday is synonymous with planting gardens. I had the opportunity a few years ago to visit with a German family in the spring. They were the parents of our German exchange student, Johanna. While her father, Jakob, gave me a tour of his lovely garden, I was telling him about our Canadian tradition of planting in May, on Queen Victoria's birthday. He sheepishly confided that the German custom is to plant somewhat earlier, around April 20. Hitler's birthday. This Victoria Day found us hauling boxes of bedding plants into the garage, and covering the asparagus bed and the honeyberries with heavy plastic sheeting. It's hard to imagine this protecting against a killing frost, but my husband assures me it will. After two days under plastic, the asparagus shoots conformed to the covering and were curly, like fiddlehead greens. Maybe we could create a demand for a new delicacy. After all, gourmands prize white asparagus, grown under a covering of soil to prevent photosynthesis. Someone must have discovered white asparagus by accident. Although the honeyberry flowers are supposed to tolerate -7 degrees Celsius without damage, I didn't want to risk it. We ordered eight plants from DNA Gardens, in Elnora, Alberta, three years ago. These blue honeysuckle shrubs, developed in Siberia and Russia, produce oblong blue berries by mid-June. They yielded a handful of berries last year — hardly enough to appreciate the unusual, tangy-sweet flavour — but there should be many more this year. It remains to be seen how the frost has damaged the plum tree, the saskatoons and raspberries. We don't have enough plastic — or energy — to cover all of them. I feel for the commercial operations, though. These late frosts are hazardous. In orchard country, they run sprinklers or light smudge fires to ward off frosts. There have been a few mild, sunny days, but now it's cold and rainy again. The weather can shift in an hour, and who knows whether it will snow or become a scorcher. Some years, spring seems to last mere moments on the prairies before morphing into summer. Connie Kaldor wrote a song about it, "Spring on the Prairies" (comes like a surprise.) Still, it's the juxtapositions I love, the transitions from season to season. Two months ago, light coming into the house was blue from snow banks, and bare branches cast long, dark shadows. Now the light is tinted chartreuse from new leaves and grass. Spring sounds different, too. Wind is the dominant note all winter, that and the odd cow bawling from the farm down the road, or the neighbour's dog that begins barking when my head hits the pillow. On sunny winter weekends, we hear the occasional buzz of snow machines. But spring brings bird songs, and thrumming undertones of bees in the caraganas and crabapple trees. Last Saturday, we walked to a nearby slough and sat on dried grass at the water's edge to watch a pair of muskrats gliding back and forth. Only their sleek, coppery heads and the vee of their wakes revealed their progress. Listening to the frogs, we imagined them to be enormous. Eventually we spotted a tiny guy right at our feet. He was croaking his heart out, his throat sac puffed up larger than his thumb-sized body. This, apparently, is how he claims territory and attracts female companions. It's fun to pick out the different singers in spring's backup chorus.     Do-wop, do-wop. Yesterday, as I was left for work, I recognized the calls of meadowlarks, crows, ducks, robins and killdeer. The breeze carried scents as well; a layered, intoxicating mixture of tilled garden, freshly cut grass, apple blossoms and lilacs. No wonder spring pounces and confounds us like a fever.