Leaving the Nest

Vision Credit Union Calendar Contest - Eagle link

Thank you for voting for my eagle family in the Calendar Contest! Click on the link above, scroll down past all the contest rules etc to below my eagle picture; click on the heart at the centre of the blue bar, and you've done it! Repeat every day until September 2, 2024 ...

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Leave the field that the eagles call home and turn left onto the 855. Go up to the tower and turn left. Drive 20 kms on dusty gravel and turn left onto the 36. Head north for a few kms, past the burnout; and on your right you will see, about a quarter mile off the highway, a little white house with a red roof.

Only about 12 miles from the Good Rancher's place, as the eagle flies.

As you turn off the 36 onto the gravel something wonderful happens. A rainbow appears. Wait, a DOUBLE RAINBOW, arching gracefully over the house.

This house, this nest, that launched eight fledglings in their time:

Gordon

Mary

Allan

Clark

Margaret

Bruce

Mabel

Marilyn

This particular evening, the symbol of promise hovers over this place as my sister brings her son to see it, to see the nest that nurtured his family four generations ago.

The place where Ruth and Tiff brought their premature, sickly baby son after he was released from the Hanna hospital. Where Ruth prayed, "God, if you save my baby, I will give him back to you to serve you."

The place where she wept, 26 years later, after she had waved goodbye to him from the steps of their home and watched the car all the way up the dusty quarter mile until it vanished from her sight. Not once did she ask him not to go.

Her son Allan served God in India for over 40 years. Each time he returned to Canada for a brief period of home assignment, the first place he would go would be home.

He returned one time unexpectedly, shortly before she died. He came to tell her he loved her, to tell her thank you, Mom.

He had made his life on the other side of the world.

But he never forgot his nest.

Writing In The Dark of the Year: All About Snakes

Week 2 of Writing in the Dark of the Year. For the first exercise we read Sylvia Plath's Rhyme and then we were asked to think of a story and give it a twist.

When we were in Coonoor, India, and going for walks with Mum on the Lamb's Rock road we would have "Snake Drills." Mum would call out, "Snake!" and we would have to freeze in whatever position we were in at that moment.

I saw my first snake at the ranch in the garden in 2023, a beautiful garter snake. I didn't know whether to freeze so I took a picture and shot it to Ivy and the Good Rancher. They both assured me that this snake wouldn't hurt me!

All this to say that the writing course I'm taking took a decidedly reptilian turn.

This is what I wrote:

Once upon a time in a land far away there was a garden, a garden full of the scent of eucalyptus, the sparkle of cinnamon, the punch of Tellicherry pepper.

Through the garden ran a river where fish would sparkle silvery in the cool, clear water. 

And the birds would flit and preen and coo. 

It was very good.

But there was a serpent in that garden, of course there was, hiding in the eucalyptus leaves, lying in wait for the innocent maiden who he knew would pass by him in the heat of the day. Surely she would notice him today. He would wait for her.

The maiden did come to the eucalyptus grove. She gathered her basket of leaves, piling them high as she breathed in their heady aroma. She paused for a word with her companion; and as she did, the serpent slithered surreptitiously into the basket of leaves, slid to the bottom with the faintest rustle, so soft the maiden never heard him.

She lifted the basket onto her head. It seemed heavier than usual, somehow. Maybe she was just tired, she thought to herself, as she trudged down the path to the factory.

She took her place in line, setting her basket down with a sigh.

From the depths of the basket appeared a sleek head with two obsidian eyes and a forked ruby tongue.

The maiden, lost in her thoughts, did not notice.

"Look at me now," the serpent hissed as his tongue flicked against her left heel and he made a loop around her ankle.

Almost faster than thought he wrapped himself around her, his head curling around about her neck, squeezing her in his vicious embrace.

The courtyard froze in horrified, helpless silence.

The girl, choking, petrified, fainted and fell to the ground as one dead. The snake exhaled, a victory hiss. She had noticed him. They all had noticed him. He had triumphed!

Slowly, slowly he unfurled himself from the maiden's supine body. He began to crawl away on his belly, back to the camouflage of the eucalyptus trees, back to wait for his next victim.

BOOM! The foreman's gun blew his head to smithereens.

---------------------------

For the second exercise we look at a picture the facilitator has selected for that night's work. This is what she had selected for week 2:

(Untitled by Katerina Plotnikova)

She showed it to us after I had read my piece ... Because of this weird coincidence, I thought I would include the second piece I read to the group that evening. After looking at the picture and gazing at the fresh face of the young woman with the world-weary eyes, my mind was transported to that first garden in the Book of Genesis.

The first part of the next piece is clearly not my writing, as you can see. My comments start immediately following the old, familiar story:

Genesis 3:1-7 (The Message)

"The serpent was clever, more clever than any wild animal God had made. He spoke to the woman: 'Do I understand that God told you not to eat from any tree in the garden?'

"The woman said to the serpent, 'Not at all. We can eat from the trees in the garden. It's only about the tree in the middle of the garden that God said, 'Don't eat from it; don't even touch it or you'll die.'

"The serpent told the woman, 'You won't die. God knows that the moment you eat from that tree, you'll see what's really going on. You'll be just like God, knowing everything, ranging all the way from good to evil.'

"When the woman saw that the tree looked like good eating and realized what she would get out of it - she'd know everything! - she took and ate the fruit and then gave some to her husband, and he ate.

"Then they understood what they had done. And they realized that they were not wearing any clothes. So they took some leaves from fig trees and sewed them together to cover their nakedness."

The man went to work, tilling the soil, setting up empires, toiling until he dropped with exhaustion.

But the woman, with the weight of the serpent's words wrapped around her head, looked down through the generations with knowing, tired eyes.

And the guns roared and the bombs hissed and the buildings dropped and the mothers wailed, Rachel weeping for her children, unable to be comforted.

And so it continued for 100 days and counting.

And the fig trees - unwitting props in the drama between good and evil that began to rage that day in the garden - bowed their heads and withered in Gaza.

Remembrance Day

Today the Hanna Lodge hymn sing was canceled. It was a stat, I was told. No activities were scheduled. 

I attended no service. Driving by myself to Hanna last night in the cold and the dark and the unknown had wrung me out.

At exactly 11:00 a.m. this morning I stood at attention for two minutes, a silence broken only by the stertorous breathing of Gunpowder, the dog born with misaligned hips, who dozed at peace on the sofa.

And I thought about Maynard, as I often do on this day. His birthday is November 16; I remember him on the 11th, and I think of those who never quite made it to serve their country.

Maynard went to high school with me. We became friends in standard 8, and he was unfailingly kind to me. I was short, stout and self-righteous. I earned some nicknames. Maynard never called me them. He called me Tinhead, a play on Ironside. He chose "head", he said, because my head was smart and pretty and could hear the music. He told me to listen just to the music.

As happens when you go to boarding school in another country, we graduated and went our separate ways. I enrolled in university; he enrolled in his Uncle S's navy.

It wasn't a good match for him. He was a TCK - a Third Culture Kid - a strong, gentle, young man who was somewhat adrift and was looking for a place to call home, for people to call family.

The navy proved not to be that place.

And one day he just showed up at my university.

I was attending a spiritually and socially conservative university, and this was in the early '80s. Visits from friends of the opposite sex had to be pre-arranged and approved in writing by parents. My parents and his parents were in India.

With trepidation we approached the Dean of Women. We explained the circumstances to her, and she kindly gave Maynard a permission slip for meals and a place to stay in the men's dorm for five days. He attended classes with me, lunches and dinners, and he walked me back to my dorm in the evenings. We got caught up on the two-plus years we had not seen each other since graduation. He told me how tough the navy was for him, how he had made a mistake, how he was afraid to go back.

On the fourth evening we attended a basketball game, and the team I was cheering for won. In his exuberance, he flung his arms around me and hugged me.

Hugged me at a no-physical-contact-between-men-and-women university, in front of everyone I knew there.

We were summoned by the Dean of Women that very night.

I was given a stern lecture and put on social probation. No talking to boys for a month.

Then she turned to Maynard. She asked him more about his leave of absence from the navy; to my shock, he confessed that he had gone AWOL. He told her something of his childhood, of his experience as a frightened cadet. Something had snapped in his brain and the only thought he had was if he could reach a friend, maybe he would be able to get his bearings again.

The Dean of Women was silent for a long time. When she spoke, her voice was husky. "Young man, this school takes loyalty to our military very seriously. Your duty is to report back to your base and to bear your punishment like a man. You will need to leave here now. May God give you strength."

He threw his arms around me again and we clung together for a moment while she gazed at a painting on the wall.

And then he was gone into the night and I crept back to my room. Everyone was silent; but Michelle squeezed my hand.

I heard from him a few years later. He had indeed returned. He had been courtmartialled and thrown in the brig. What happened there was so awful for him that he spoke of it to me only once. And then he was dishonourably discharged.

He had spent time as a day labourer, picking up odd jobs. He had spent time on the streets. His arsenal of alcohol and drugs helped combat the pain. 

And so his story went. A couple of marriages, a pretty little kid. She had his eyes. 

Jail time.

Rehab.

Still searching to belong.

He checked in with me every so often. 

We saw each other for an afternoon in the late '80s when a friend and I were driving me back to Canada from the States. And he came to visit me once for a fortnight in Calgary in the mid '90s in the bleak midwinter. 

In 2005 I got the email from his brother. He had been found in a cheap motel room, the kind you pay for by the day. Apparent overdose.

Two days earlier he had called me and said he had completed the latest stint at rehab and had saved some money and was wondering if he could get on a Greyhound to Alberta for a visit. He was desperate to see a friend from a time when life was easier. 

I demurred. Things were tough right now. It wasn't a good time. Besides, he should go see his family, his little girl, his pregnant wife. They needed him. Maybe another time? 

"Maybe another time," he echoed, and his voice caught in his throat. 

"Always your friend, Tinhead."

https://youtu.be/tsX7Gv1GhTc

Eighty-five Years Ago Today

Eighty-five years ago today, a woman gave birth to her third child - her third child born early due to the punishing schedule she set herself as she and her young husband toiled to defeat the dust and the dry, blistering land they were establishing as their farm.

This baby, however, was very premature, especially for back in 1932. There was something wrong with his heart; and his skin - oh, his skin was non-existent. It appeared that he was covered with fish-like scales.

The nurses in the delivery room wouldn't bring the baby to his mother. She was told that she wouldn't want to see "it"; that it was going to die anyway and so there was no point in getting more upset.

The young mother demanded: "Bring me my baby!"

And finally, reluctantly, after the doctor was consulted, the nurses did.

He was wrapped in cotton batting because his flesh was so fragile. And when she saw him, she loved him with all her heart.

"God," she prayed, "If You will spare my baby's life, I will give him back to You to serve You."

God heard the prayer of that anguished mother, and my Dad lived.

He was not allowed to cry for the first weeks of his life - something to do with too much strain on his weak heart.

He was always small, but he loved to work. He was his Dad's shadow. He could ride a horse almost from when he could walk, and he and his brother Clark could drive a team at about the age of nine.

He started school early. He was younger than everyone else, and he was so little anyway, and he didn't want the teacher to forget about him; so each morning when the class stood for the singing of the National Anthem and the reciting of the Lord's Prayer, he would stick his stomach out as far as he could, hoping he would occupy more space that way, hoping his teacher would remember how much he loved school.

And at home, his Mom would be waiting to hear the events of the day. More children were being added to the crew, however, and her time was at a premium.

With her eldest son, Gordon,

on the steps of The Farm.

Feisty until the end!

No electricity.

No running water.

Wood stove for heating and cooking.

Outhouse across the yard.

Eight children.

She worked alongside her husband until the elder kids were able to take over a bit. She cooked, cleaned, gardened, canned, baked, sewed, washed clothes, hung them to dry, ironed, scrimped and saved, disciplined, loved.

On days that her boys had to work extra hard and as a result were more famished than ever, she was somehow "just not hungry." One of her younger daughters reckons that there was many a day Mom was actually starving; but she would not deprive her children.

Allan, her third child, developed a passion for boxing. She went along with it. She got up earlier than ever to ensure he had a good breakfast after chores and before he went out to train. His heart healed because of all that training. In his last visits to his pulmonologist's office, they were always amazed at how strong his heart was. It was his heart that carried him for the extra time we had with him.

Then came the day he decided that what God was calling him to was Bible college in Calgary.

She helped him get ready.

Now he wasn't home in the summers; he worked the oil patch to make money for school. One day he received time off and so decided he would hitch a ride back to The Farm to surprise his folks. He told no one he was coming. He just started walking, sticking out his thumb when a vehicle approached.

Not one stopped.

He walked all that afternoon and into the night. He had on his new work boots, which rubbed his feet raw.

He finally arrived at The Farm after 2:30 in the morning. Everything was dark. Even the dog didn't stir.

He clutched the railing and dragged himself up the steps to the house, easing the door open as quietly as he could. He knew what a precious commodity a good night's sleep was.

From the dark came a voice: "Is that you, Allan?"

She got up, stoked the embers in the stove and boiled some water for tea. She knelt in front of him and eased those boots off, carefully removed the socks and tenderly bathed those burning, bleeding feet.

Then came the day when he announced he was being led by God to go to India. India! His Dad had something to say about that!

His Mom ... squared her shoulders and helped him pack: books, clothes, whatever she thought he might need in this strange unknown land, into metal barrels to be shipped to Bombay.

When he left she kissed him goodbye and went back into the house. He caught a train from Calgary heading south to Port Arthur, Texas, from where he would sail. He wouldn't see her again for ten years.

And at home? The rest of the story was told to Dad and me by his second youngest sibling, Mabel, the very last time she visited him on this earth, just weeks before he passed away.

Mabel and her younger sister were attending school in Castor. Mom told them that this was a regular school day and they had to go. They dragged their mournful little selves off and somehow got through the day.

When they got home that frigid January evening, something was off. The house was in darkness. No Mom to greet them and ask about their day. They crept into the house and bumped into their Dad. He was carrying a china cup and saucer filled with steaming, aromatic tea.

Their Dad was never home while there was work to be done.

Their Dad never made tea.

"Your Mom's had a rough day," he commented briefly as he disappeared into their bedroom and closed the door softly behind him.

The two little girls sat there at a loss, not knowing what to do. Mom never had rough days! She was Mom - she made rough days better!

About half an hour later she emerged from her room, pale, face streaked with tears. She stopped when she saw her two little daughters sitting in the gloom. Then she squared her shoulders and her jaw. "It's been a difficult day," she said. And she set to mopping the floor.

Tears ran down the creases of my Dad's cheeks as Mabel concluded the story. "She never let on," he whispered.

"She never wanted to hold you back," Mabel replied gently.

And then Mabel passed on advice that her mother gave her when Mabel had her first child. When things seem to be tough and your heart is breaking and your tears are flowing, wash the floor. Your tears will mingle with the soapy water and you will feel better and the floor will be clean.

"It works," said Mabel.

Every year our Nana would send us a Christmas parcel: a can of Spam, a tin of Roger's Golden Syrup, a cake mix, some Jello, the large block of Velveeta cheese. Christmas candies would fill the corners. There would be a letter and a card. That was the best part of all. She prayed for her boy every day. She never stopped caring; she had to give her worries to God or she would have gone crazy.

So many years later, our Dad surprised her once more by suddenly appearing in the doorway of the hospital room where his frail mother lay. She thought she was seeing things, and covered her face with her blanket ... They spent hours together talking, laughing, catching up.

It was during this visit that she told him about the circumstances surrounding his birth, about how she had dedicated him to serve God if God would give his life to her.

No wonder she was his first love!

He spoke at her funeral.

And I recall that every time he was ever asked to pray for someone on their birthday, he would always thank God for that person's mother, for the one who gave life and love to her child. Even when the circumstances were bleak, he would say, "Your mother did the best she knew how at the time for you."

On his own birthday, he always had a special prayer of thanksgiving for his Mom.

Today, they are together celebrating. Do you think they have pie in heaven? Uncle Clark said Mom always gave Allan the largest piece of lemon meringue pie. I wonder if the three of them are checking out the size of the pieces ...

Today he's not here to thank God for his Mom, my Nana, and so I do in his stead:

Thank You, gracious God, for this brave, stalwart, godly woman. Thank You for her quiet courage. Thank You that she kept her word to You given back on September 4, 1932. Thank You for the impact her decision has made on countless lives carrying on even today.

Thank You for truly great mothers.

Amen.

Rain On The 855!

I've discovered a use for potholes!

We had prayed.
We had compared notes, to the tune of 10ths of an inch.
We had scanned the sky, with and without sunglasses, to see which way looked more hopeful.

We had not - entirely! - given up hope.

On Friday we were rewarded and teased a little bit:

The heavens opened and a deluge thundered down for a few holding-your-breath minutes. The smell around a light summer rain is indescribable.

I had to head out from the house, south on the 855. The Good Rancher's place is about one mile north of where the Special Areas road care ends and the County of Stettler road care begins. On our little stretch of 855, the County of Stettler road care also continues north past the G.R.'s driveway for about 8 kilometres.

I use the term "care" rather lightly, I know.

Complaining about the atrocity of that road is a topic that ranks up there with weather, cattle prices, canola, and the NDP government.

I am learning to deke and swerve and brace myself to dodge the worst of all potholes and pitfalls associated with any or all of the above.

On Friday, avoiding one of them was easier. The potholes were filled with precious rain, glimmering in the glow of the watery sun. Our own hyperbolic rain gauges!

Panoramic shot of a straight stretch of road. However, it feels like we're negotiating

a steep curve while navigating the potholes!

 As chance would have it, I was wearing my Muck Boots ...

Wouldn't you have done the same?!

Admittedly, my inherited vehicle has upwards of 400,000 kms so this road owes it nothing. That Yukon can shake, rattle and roll over any terrain! My fractured tailbone - if I brace myself just right, it's not affected too much either by the jarring, boneshaking hits if I happen to land in one of these road traps.

And honestly, all I have to do is remind myself of how bad the roads used to be in India on the drive from Coonoor to Bangalore. They have upgraded them since my childhood; but if I hearken back to those days where there were two parents, six kids and a black cocker spaniel in a 1957 Vanguard, this 855 road seems almost acceptable!

But this is about rain. We prayed for it and wished for it. And this morning the outside seems like a kinder, gentler place.

So this Sunday morning I remind myself that "This is the day that the Lord has made. We will rejoice and be glad in it!"

I'll be going now, heading to church, down that old 855 which is becoming as familiar to me as the lines in my palm, and almost as dear.