like orwell, i too need to say why i write

I like writing. I like finding a topic and working it into something that sounds, looks, and feels pleasant.

I think it was in university that I got the bug - while other people were agonizing over research and editing, I spent most of my time seeing what puns and innuendos I could slip in.

Recent review of my university writing reveals a tremendous lack of substance. But they were sure fun to write.

Every English teacher, I suppose, wants to be like Robin Williams on the Dead Poets' Society: we all want to inspire students to rebel and find greatness. I think that most of us fail.

Not that I think I've done a bad job - the kids seem to like my class, I don't have any real problems with them, they seem to try - but I doubt I've inspired any of them to run off and become the literary figures of tomorrow.

Truth be told, I've lately been finding it difficult to feel inspired myself: the various demands of life have sapped away my time; the general state of the world has sapped away my will.

It's hard to keep writing a blog like this when it seems the world around you has lost its mind. My minor adventures in farming and teaching appear unimportant compared to the political/environmental/financial/humanitarian nightmare that is the world. The death of a chick or the success of a student project seem insignificant in comparison.

But I don't consider my writing to be about the great political and scientific questions of the day: I have my opinions on them and I'll tell you them if you ask, but what I really want to talk about is the life I'm trying to build out here on the prairie.

My articles about sheep and chickens and cattle are part of my effort to communicate how I think the world ought to be: I can only hope that someone will read this and begin to understand.

Julian of Norwich said "All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well."

The world is against anyone who wants to do something out of the ordinary: whether it's to change our environmental practices or the political landscape; to create a new style of teaching; or to raise chickens and sheep when others think it outdated, the opposition is the same. I have to believe that, eventually, the world is a better place for it.

and then it hit me...

The swine flu and I have developed an understanding.

I have to admit that I didn't really buy into the h1n1 hype. I've developed a healthy skepticism about the media and its sensationalism. The swine flu fit neatly into the category of 'over-hyped b.s.'.

Which is why, I suppose, it's a bit poetic that h1n1 levelled me.

I take pride in my relative good health. I've developed teacher's immunity - after a few years surrounded by disease riddled teenagers germs start to bounce off you.

So when I developed a sniffle a couple of weeks ago I expected it to pass after a good night's sleep.

A good night's sleep came and went. By morning I thought I would die.

A week later - after successfully dragging myself to my feet and without tipping over - I felt safe declaring victory without it turning into a mission-accomplished moment.

I still hold that the threat is hyped up. I have my doubts it will kill us all. But I respect it in the way you respect the muttering guy on the corner - he's most likely harmless, but its probably best to give him his distance.

If you need me, you can find me at the farm, battening down the hatches for the next time panic-inducing illness strikes.

Happy h1n1 free Wednesday from Alberta's brush plain.

one from the birds

It seems that chickens don’t pay too much attention to the weather.

Well, that’s not quite true – sometimes they do. A few weeks ago when the first big snow blew in our yard-roaming roosters (there’re about five of ‘em) were stranded in the trees, afraid to come out into the exotic white stuff. Took them about three days to get used to the idea of snow. Now the snow patches in our yard look like the prehistoric dinosaur trackways displayed down the road in Drumheller.

The particular chicken in question right now, however, has decided that late October is the appropriate time to try and hatch out chicks.

I shouldn’t be too surprised. I’ve never heard anyone praise the intelligence of the chicken. No one trains chickens to lead the blind around town. No one expects chickens to communicate with humans via sign language.

But I would have thought there was some sort of instinct informing a hen that short days, long nights, howling wind, and sub-zero temperature mean one should not try to bring young poultry into the world.

There she sits though, has for a few days. I can’t say for sure that she’s moved at all over the past week.

The thought had occurred to me to take the eggs away. The idea of raising a couple of chicks in the dead of winter does not strike me as a particularly bright one. But I have my doubts there’s anything in those eggs to hatch out anyway - she’s only been laying for a week or so and none of her other eggs seemed to be fertilized, although there’s an awful lot of roosters running around over there.

But I’m going to let the little hen keep her eggs for now. It’s a good feeling to see someone determined to see something through – least I can do is let her try to finish the job.

In the meantime, I’m going to take what lessons I can from the birds. Who knew that one day I’ve be learning valuable life lessons from a chicken.
Happy Friday from Alberta’s brush plain.

farm critter census

Dear reader, in order to better enable you to envision our little farm on the brushprairie, I thought it advisable to conduct a census of the farm animals. The results are as follows:

- Icelandic Sheep. Icelandic: Islenska Saudkindin. Ovis aries. 3. Volli (ram), Viska (ewe), Vitra (ewe).

- Boer/Nigerian Goats. Capra aegragrus hircus. 2. Willow (female), Geronimo (male).

- Llamas. Lama glama. 3. Napoleon (male), Mamma Llama (presumed name, female), Tina (cria, female).

- Assorted Chickens. Gallus gallus domesticus. 20. Unnamed. Breeds: Rhode Island Red (2 male, 1 female); New Hampshire Red (1 male); Light Sussex (2 male); Ameracauna (1 male, 2 female); Barred Plymouth Rock (1 male, 3 female); Bantam Rhode Island Red (2 male); Bantam Blue Wyandotte (4 male, 1 female).

- Horse. Equus ferus caballus. 1. Canuck (gelding). Currently resident back pasture.

- Maine Anjou Cattle. French: Maine-Anjou, Rouge de Pres. Bos primigenius. Classified. Perhaps better described as my parents' cattle, but I get to work with'em and that's all that matters.

- Dogs. Canis lupus familiaris. 2. Jack (breed unknown - hound? male. my sister's but he thinks he lives with us.); Guinness ( Chocolate Lab. male. actually does live with us).

- Cats. Felis catus. 2. Cat (neuter. force of evil on the earth. resides with parents.); Mario (male. has a moustache, must therefore be Italian. resides with us.)

a pleasant, snowy day

Winter, which has been lurking around for a week or two in the form of below normal temperatures and arctic winds, caught me by surprise this morning.

There's been snow and ice around for a week of so now: last Thursday I had to rescue half a dozen roosters from the trees when they were caught off guard by a sudden snow-squall - I hadn't considered that my spring chickens likely hadn't seen snow before.

But I did not expect to wake up to several inches of white. Previous snowfall amounted to little more than a skiff: what we have on our hands is a genuine blanket.

Our recently acquired llamas apparently shared my emotions on the subject - when I tramped out to the barn they looked mildly surprised but willing to regard the occasion philosophically.

I can't say I mind the snow, but I guess not everyone shares that opinion: Co-workers met in the hallway struggle to hide their disgust when I suggest the snow is, perhaps, not all that bad; other teachers' faces tell me they think the new guy is out of his mind.

Truth be told, I'm getting used to people thinking I'm nuts. I've begun to think it comes with the territory.

Because it would seem there aren't a whole lot of people who do what I do: high school English teacher / evening, weekend, and holiday farmer is sort of a specialized line of work; cattle, goat, llama and chicken raising appeals to only a select few; recreational bagpiping also does little to improve the image.

But I ask you, dear reader, does living that way sound crazy?

I'd like to think that it doesn't: I'd like to think that you're reading this because you're vaguely interested and maybe even agree with me from time to time. One hopes you're not here because you want to see what the neighbourhood nutcase is up to now.

As time goes on, as I become more involved in the farm or add to the barnyard family I feel like I'm getting a little bit closer to the life I want to live.

If that sounds crazy to you, dear reader, take heart. I'm a hundred miles from civilization: from here it's hard to do any of you harm.

Regards from Alberta's brush plain.

to do.

October is proving to be climatically advantageous for me. By which I mean that the month has been mostly wet and cold. If you ever want to make Stu happy, make the world wet and cold.

But October brings other changes besides the weather. October is a dark month. Not as dark as the months that come later, mind you, but dark nonetheless.

The dark of fall is all-encompassing on the brush plain. In towns and cities you have the benefit of streetlights, yard lights, headlights lighting up the world around you. Out here you get what light you can from the moon and stars.

By no means am I complaining. I am truly one of the luckiest people in Canada for the night time views I enjoy.

But the dark isolates. Falls forces the deer and moose out onto the roads. Snow can come and ice up the roads anytime. Suddenly an evening trip to town becomes hazardous and markedly less appealing.

The dark reveals just how far we live from civilization - isolation guarantees northern lights and stars but leaves you utterly, miserably alone.

It's an odd feeling, to be alone. When I lived in Red Deer and Edmonton I was acutely aware that there were people next door, downstairs, around the corner. There was always somebody around.

When I got back to the farm I realized that, at any given time, the next nearest person could be several miles away.

The farm never seemed as lonely as those years in town did. In town I was always a bit of an outsider. But when I came back the distance between myself and the friends I made seemed awfully far. It only seems longer through time.

And so, dear reader, in hopes of simplifying life, eliminating distance, etc, etc. I reveal to you my list of goals for the coming months:

1. Dispose of surplus crap. No one requires four pairs of ripped jeans and a t-shirt from space camp;

2. Actually visit friends: clever text messages do not cut it;

3. Winterize the house: it's easier to persuade company to visit a house sans interior snowbanks;

4. Train the goats to not wander into the house. Unnecessary to explain;

5. Apologize to sheep for shearing them myself: I can't take their scornful looks much longer;

6. Try to figure out why I still have what appears to be a large, mechanical calculator in my spare bedroom;

7. Stop muttering under breath. Adopt zen-like appearance as alternative.

It's a short list, but it's somewhere to start.

Happy Wednesday from Alberta's brush plain.

let us declare war on unnecessary things.

Sometimes it gets pretty damned hard to sit down and pump out a post for the ol' blog.

Life, it would seem, has been getting in the way.

I've been putting real effort these past few months into simplifying life - every aspect of it. Results have been mixed.

I'm not sure when it happened, but at some point I completely lost control of my own life. Or maybe I was simply naive and believed that, for a while, I was in control of my little world.

Life now is governed by community commitments, family engagements, bureaucratic hoop-jumping, requirements of work (both educational and agricultural), et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseum.

That, of course, doesn't take into account my physical surroundings - at some point our little house became clogged with unwanted clothing, discarded containers, unused appliances, and other detritus of unknown origin.

"But Stu," you say, "that's just life."

Dear reader, say that again and I shall be forced to strike you.

I can think of no good reason why I should allow the situation to continue any longer. So I won't.

The first step, I think, is to get a handle on my physical surroundings. Dispose of the clothes and other assorted crap that's crowding me out of my house.

Clearing out my schedule will be the next step. Decisions will have to be made about what really constitutes important events. Special care will be required when determining which hoops I will refuse to jump through. The aftermath of this, one must expect, will be especially bloody, but the rewards, free time and space to breath, will more than make up for it.

Take heed, friends: the revolution is at hand; change within your grasp. Cling to it while you have the chance.

Happy Friday from Alberta's brush plain.

weathering the storm

The weather this week turned cold and windy. Clouds have moved and there's talk of snow come the weekend.

I'm glad that my work largely follows the seasons. School running through the coldest months, farm work in the summer - it helps me feel connected to the world in a time where more and more people are living removed from it.

My sister recently mocked my back-to-the-land attitude and lifestyle.

After an hour or two spent making fun of her pseudo-bohemianism I had time to sit back and think about what she said.

It appears, dear reader, that my younger sister may have been right.

But it makes me wonder how I can come back to the land when it seems that I never left it in the first place.

I suppose the answer is that Endiang, Alberta (motto: "Not quite the end of the world but you can see it from here") is not immune from outside trends after all: by extension neither are the farms. The fast-paced, consumerist, technology driven world of the urban centers exists just the same at the end of the road.

And frankly I don't find it very satisfying. I don't want a life defined by the number of digits on my paycheque, the square-footage of my house, the year of manufacture on my car.

I don't want to be made obsolete by a machine, or be reduced to the status of technician.

I want to be able to walk where I please, to see the stars at night, to be independent of municipalities and corporations.

Is that cliche? Is it naive? Should I just admit I can't change the way of the world and hold on for the ride?

Because I really don't want to.

I like the farm. I like how the work changes from day to day with the weather and seasons. I like how I am more and more able to provide for myself.

As it stands I can provide some of my own meat, eggs, and vegetables. Soon I'll be able to provide my own milk and wool. With time, maybe electricity and heat.

It's a lifestyle that makes me happy. It's a lifestyle I'm starting to think more people yearn for.

Will I be able to pull it off? I hope so. But I suspect it will be difficult in the future for people like me, people who value the institution of the family farm, to continue.

Because the powers that be seem to want us to dry up and blow away. Make way for the corporate farms to come.

For now, though, I'll hold out in my little island of sanity.

Regards from Alberta's brush plain.

a year without combines

You’d think that the third year of teaching would be easier. That starting up in the fall would take a little less out of you.

If you thought that, though, you’d be sorely mistaken.

The first three weeks of this school year have torn a strip out of me. I can feel my immune system slowly crashing; my eyes droop a little more every day. I am completely exhausted.

Not to say that the year has been bad: by week three the past couple of years I was already looking for alternate employment.

This year the sense of dread is largely gone.

But a new school means learning new names, new faces, new procedures, new locations, new habits. Teaching new courses means new curriculum, new assignments, new marking routines.

And of course, this year has come with its own particular stresses.

Schools, we are assured, need to ready themselves for the H1N1 plague we’re told will kill us all. $80 million budget cuts have everyone questioning the longevity of their employment. Talk of elections has the whole country up in arms.


What I need, dear reader, is for the whole world to step back and take a breather.

Which is why, this year, I find I really miss the harvest.


I think some farmers find harvest time particularly stressful : the potential for disaster – fires, rain, untimely snow, etc. – can be overwhelming at times.

For me, though, harvest is when I finally get to see the reward for all the evenings and weekends. Watching wheat pour into the combine hopper makes stiff necks and sore backs worth it.

At harvest time I turn off my brain and enjoy the world around me: the air is sweet with grain dust, the stubble shines in the fields.


But this year I get none of that. Our harvest is largely done. The early summer drought made sure of that.

Which, of course, means no combining this year. No wheat in the hopper. No golden stubble.


Instead we’ve a pit of silage and a winter ahead of us.

But we should count ourselves lucky. The year was not the wreck it could have been. We’ve feed for our cattle, which is something, and the chance to try again later.


And next spring, when I find myself swearing at the tractor, I’ll remind myself of the combining and reward to come.

That should straighten me out for a week or two.

for fall, too, must come

Fall is coming.

You wouldn't really know it, though, to look around.

It's as hot now as it was for most of July and August; the mosquitoes are only just beginning to hit full stride; the air is humid and heavy and wind pretty rare.

But there are signs. The crows have left and ravens replaced them. In places the leaves have turned golden, the grasses red. Thunderheads in the afternoon have been replaced by sheets of gray.

In short, fall is doing its damnedest to get here. It's just being a bit slow about it.

From my viewpoint it can't get here fast enough. I need the fall to come. I need the year to end. This year has been long, hard, and exhausting. I need the cold days of fall to refresh me.

If you're like me and long for the cold days and short nights of fall, rejoice. It will be here 'ere long.

In the meantime, though, feel free to mutter at the sun worshipping masses with me.

Happy Wednesday from the brush plain.

a little september angst

Why should a person prefer one place over another?

It's a question I ask myself a lot. It's a question you have to ask yourself when you chose to live on the farm.

I like living on the prairies. I like seeing the sunsets and the stars; the chinook arches in winter; the flocks of geese in spring and fall. I like the fields of wheat and barley; the smell of hay in summer and the sound of frogs in the slough.

But whenever time I visit the mountains it takes every ounce of willpower to stop myself packing up and moving there.

A weekend visit to Banff and Canmore reminded me of how much I love the mountain air, the mountain weather and mountain views. Maybe it's the novelty of it: Endiang, Alberta isn't exactly noted for its vertical height or majestic beauty. Perhaps if I lived there it would quickly grow old.

Then again, maybe it wouldn't.

At the same time I feel an overwhelming sense of loyalty to the old farmstead. A glance at the family tree shows that my family has stayed far longer on that patch of ground than they ever had anywhere else: prior to my grandfather's generation my forebears spent their time wandering around Europe and North America: England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, France, Holland, Germany, New York, Northern Ontario, Kentucky, Illinois, Saskatchewan, Idaho being just a few of the birthplaces that show up on the old pedigree.

The wandering stops when you get to the farm. It seems that prairie dust and slough water get into the veins after all.

Sometimes I feel like it's a cop-out to stay here on the farm, that teaching is just a way to postpone the inevitable.

I feel like I need to do this, though. I cannot just give up on a farm my father, grand-father, and great grand-father worked.

It would be easy, but I'd consider myself a failure if I did.

So, I'll give it a try. If, in ten, fifteen, twenty years time it looks like farming's a bust I'll admit defeat. Pack up my bags and find a nice, quiet mountain to hang around on.

But something in my bones tells me that whether on a prairie or a peak I'm going to end up on a farm.

newfangled gadgets

I'm just old enough that I remember the world pre-internet.

It's fair to say I'm from the last generation that can claim that.

It's funny - we don't often talk of the world pre-internet anymore. History before the internet is like history before Christ: so far in the past that we speak of it as a vaguely interesting, but ultimately dead period.

Although I proudly claim the title of Luddite, I am not a part of the ugly mob that decries the internet as evil. I will not condemn cell phones, Blackberries, iPods, laptops, et cetera. I have no intention of going back to a world without them.

Because I like the world they create. I like that I can chat with someone in Brazil, New Zealand, or India at little cost from my home. I like that I can maintain daily contact with friends I otherwise would have forgotten.

But has the world really has gotten smaller?

Or did Cap'n Jack Sparrow have it right when he suggested the modern world just has less in it?

Because no one can deny that each technological advance prods an advance in globalization. Or that each advance in globalization sounds a death knell for another aspect of local culture.

I can't help but think, though, that we're wasting the great potential available to us.

A synthesis, I think is called for. A fusion of old and new for the future.

It's something to be wished for, certainly.

"Whoa, Stu," you say, "Isn't that a bit, you know, much for the first post of the fall? And maybe a bit cliche?"

Dear reader, my apologies if I come off sounding like some UN lackey - it was a long summer and the mosquitoes have drawn too much blood off my brain.

I will speak of it no more..today... but think about it. Maybe the Amish girl on the cell phone has it right after all.

musings on a goat

It looks like out little collection of farm animals is going to get a little bigger.

That isn't to say that we haven't all that many animals running around as it is. Although Kayla and I keep our little flock of chickens as 'our' livestock, the farm as a whole is home to about 200 head of cattle.

Sometimes it's fun to branch out a bit - sometimes branching out is just a good idea. Every opportunity to learn about a new animal is an opportunity to rediscover part of a knowledge base that's getting narrower and more specialized over time.

Because it seems to me that the old time farmers knew everything - how to keep cattle, sheep, goats, pigs, chickens, turkeys, ducks, horses, you name it; how to fix anything from a combine to a screwdriver; how to grow any plant and where to grow it.

That's not to say that farmers are less knowledgeable - I wish I knew a quarter of the things my father knows - it just seems that so much of that knowledge is now technology based. The Luddite in me shudders at the thought.

And so we're getting a goat. I know next to nothing about goats. I know they have hooves and look a bit like miniature ugly cattle. Beyond that I am largely ignorant.

But the opportunity to learn about goats excites me. I look forward to finding out about goat personalities and traits, what they like to eat and how they like to live.

It's exciting to gain a bit of knowledge out of the ordinary. It makes the world seem a little bigger again.

The goat will arrive soon. I suspect it will be a steep learning curve, but sometimes the bigger challenges are more worth it.

Happy monday from the brush prairie.

the summer, too, shall pass

And so it starts.

Summer this year was busy. Terribly busy. The promise of free time on the drought stricken prairie was short lived: summer is out and school is about to go back in.

I am, however, feeling somewhat hopeful about this year.

You see, this year I'm the English teacher.

Perhaps that doesn't mean a lot to some of you. One teacher is much like another and is probably not worth mention.

For me, however, being the English teacher means something altogether different.

You see, this is why I went into education.

I didn't become a teacher because of the pay, hours, or kids. I became a teacher because I wanted to teach high school English.

And here I am. English teacher in a prairie high school.

Which makes it better, you know, because the prairie high school teacher is something of an archetype. I'm not sure I've been anything archetypal before. This is sort of exciting.

And so I'm going to sit now. Look out my classroom window at the dusty little town. Look at the shelves of books around my wall and think about the fall.

Regards from Alberta's brush plain.

too many sunny days blues

Television and radio weather announcers are jerks.

I try to cut them some slack. I try to be reasonable. I try to see things from their point of view.

In the end I remain convinced they're all jack-asses.

By now, of course, I think most people in Alberta and Saskatchewan are aware that a huge swathe of the prairies is locked in terrible drought. You know the sort - howling winds, dust storms, dying crops.

Supposedly, those in the weather-biz would have gotten the memo by now.

It seems they ignored it.

Because for weeks now I've been listening to "it's another beautiful day out there," "no end in sight to the great weather," or (all time favourite) "don't worry, no rain in sight."

My twitching eyelid begs to differ.

Here on Alberta's brush plain the only word that can raise a smile is rain. The only morning that looks hopeful is a cloudy one. "Warm and sunny" sounds like a swear word to me.

But this week the tables have turned. Clouds fill the sky. Showers are doing their damnedest to fall. The weather-men are all crying.

And I feel glad.

Dear reader, if by chance you find yourself drenched by rain, take heart. Know that there are others who would gladly be in your place.

And if you come across a weather man talking about beautiful sunny weather, punch him once on the nose for me.

I'll be forever in your debt.

first post after a long pause

Dear reader, my apologies if I have left you sitting these past weeks wondering when, pray tell, you would get to read a new post from your favourite blogger.

Take heart, I have returned.

The fact of the matter is that now that my summer holiday has begun my free time has dwindled. Considerably dwindled. This is possibly the first moment I have spent not driving, driving tractor, bagpiping, fencing, moving cattle, branding, feeding cattle, etc. since school let out several weeks ago. Free time, for the time being, has exited my vocabulary.

Which isn't to say that I've not enjoyed myself. I'm finally getting back into shape; I've so far had a successful summer bagpiping; I've nearly perfected the rain dance (I think I'm close - clouds are building to the west and I at least know it wasn't a cataclysmic-fire-dance).

This is the pattern that has marked my summers since I was old enough to work on the farm – a pattern that has marked life for farmers over generations.

I'll admit, for a long time I hated it. In high school it was frustrating to be tied to a hay field while my non-farming friends spent much of their summer working mindless jobs with free evenings. In college it drove me batty, working myself to exhaustion while some of my friends spent their day lying on picnic tables, tanning, at what were amusingly called 'jobs'.

I think that I can say I'm a little older and wiser now. Hindsight shows I was pretty lucky to spend my days working a job with real responsibility attached. I was fortunate to be doing work that left me with a tangible outcome I could point to and feel pride in.

“Stu,” you say, “we get the whole 'lessons learned' thing, but would you please get to the point?”

Ah, dear reader, patience. I will come to the point presently.

I wax nostalgic about the farm work of years past because the normal pattern has been disrupted.

Whereas July and August normally mean, for me at least, making hay and eating cherries, continuing drought conditions mean hay-making has been canceled.

Eating cherries doesn't hold the same pleasure without the smell of hay.

I thus feel lost this summer. My purpose has been disrupted. I know not my place in the world.

So I keep myself busy by whatever means are available.

Today a dug a hole. Big hole, too. About eight by twenty feet. Ostensibly it will hold the foundation for my chicken house. I'll believe it when it happens.

Soon I'll go check the cattle.

Not that I think anything has gone wrong with them. Only that I need something to make me feel useful.

So, my friend, I take my leave. If you need me, I'll be out in the pasture.

And if you have hay to make, I'm your man.

i cannot be held accountable for the crazy ideas i come up with.

The time has come, at long last, to evict the eldest chickens from the barn.

Unfortunately, I have yet to secure living quarters that will allow said poultry the opportunity to cluck and scratch about in the great outdoors.

The temptation exists, of course, to simply turn them out in the barnyard. "How rustic!" people may think. "What lovely, free range birds you will have!"

Which is true - it would certainly be rustic, and I would love for them to have the chance to wander freely about the yard. But I want them to survive the night: were I to turn sixteen chickens out into the wild I expect that three or four would be left come morning.

The coyotes and owls, on the other hand, would be looking sleek, smug, and sated after their delightful chicken dinner.

And so dear reader, the time has come for me to build a chicken coop.

Which is a thought that makes those who know me shudder in fear.

There are, sadly, many who can tell you tales of my ineptitude in the building arts. I can measure a board five times and still cut it too short. I have yet to hang a picture or a shelf level. Square corners have so far eluded me, and I expect that they will continue to do so for some time.

It's as though, whenever I try to build something, I become constructionally disabled. (Is that a word? I don't think it so. But I digress)

For this project, though, I'm taking a different tack.

You see, I'm not going to use wood.

In fact, I'm not going to use anything that requires great precision and/or skill at all.

And no, I'm not going to step out and buy a shed.

Instead, my friends, I intend to build a chicken house out of cob.

"Um... Stu," you say, "you really don't need to go making up stories to hide your pathetic carpentry skills."

Dear reader, that hurts. To think you believe I would go to such great lengths to hide my shame.

Cob - that old timey clay-sand-and-straw mix that so many of the world's buildings are built of - is the perfect medium for someone like myself to work with.

Why, you ask.

I will tell you: A) It's incredibly cheap. Dirt cheap one might say. Possibly because it's made of dirt; B) There are no boards involved, therefore nothing to cut too short; C) I don't know anybody who has used the stuff before. As a result, no one will be able to point out my mistakes.

And so, dear reader, I must take my leave. I've a lot of planning to do if I'm going to build this earthen masterpiece soon.

I need to dig the foundation.

I need to accumulate supplies.

I need to convince the chickens to stop giving me that exasperated look.

Regards, and enjoy the last Thursday in June.

curse you, mechanical tormentors

I tried. And I failed.

I find it very difficult to like machines. Loud, noisy things that, we are assured, serve only to make the job easier.

Of course, any time you save doing the job itself is quickly eaten up by the time you spend fixing the blasted things.

As I said before, Thoreau had it right with the whole "Men have become the tools of their tools" thing.

But I tried. I spent the days prying on wrenches, loosening nuts, replacing bearings. I greased and oiled, I adjusted and tweaked, I hammered and swore. It left me feeling tired, sore, and beaten.

In general I am not opposed to feeling tired a sore. I like the ache in my shoulders after a day stretching wire and building fence. I like how quickly sleep comes after a day chasing cattle or branding calves.

But I don't like feeling beaten. I don't like repairing something only to know that I'll be repairing it again in a day's time. I don't like the feeling of being subservient to a machine.

I don't mean to speak ill of the things. I recognise how much harder life would be without machines. I understand that, in many ways, machines have had a tremendously positive impact on my life.

But that doesn't stop me from loathing the things.

"Okay Stu," you say, "you dislike machines. So what are you going to do about it?"

Ah, dear reader, listen and I will tell you.

I don't intend to do a bloody thing about it. At least, not for the moment.

Because I don't see a way out of it quite yet.

Sometimes part of me thinks it would be pleasant to return to a horse and plow, but I do have enough sense to know that walking behind a Clydesdale would eventually grow tiresome and with time I would probably wish the machines back.

I would love to turn back the clock, even a little, to a time when things were a bit simpler. The problem is, I'm not so sure if things were simpler back-in-the-day at all.

So for now I'll bite my tongue and stick it out; mutter a few swear words and swing a sledge-hammer or two.

In the meantime I take comfort in the fact that someday, somehow, I'll have my revenge.

And that, my friends, will be a glorious day indeed.

irritation, thy name be report card

There's a week left in this school year.

I need it to be done now.

It isn't just me feeling selfish or lazy - as soon as summer begins I know that I'll be farming full tilt and will look forward to the relative relaxation of the next school year.

No, the reason I need school to be done is because the students need school to be done.

Having neared the end of ten months of being disciplined, lectured, taught, and assessed the kids have officially had enough.

And who can blame them: once June hits they all know that there's really very little left for us to teach them. The curriculum has, in large part, been covered. All that June really holds for students is the chance to relive the previous nine months all over again.

As a teacher, of course, June couldn't be long enough - between marking, creating exams, guiding review, giving extra help, inventory, completing report cards, and all the bureaucratic crap that gets foisted on us there is very little time to sit back and breathe.

But when you sit back and take a good hard look at it all it's difficult to tell why it all really matters.

I'm a teacher. As such I tend to feel that education is important. I am of the opinion that learning for learning's sake is an admirable goal.

But it's that very idea makes me question the validity of forcing students from the age of twelve upwards to sit in rows and complete a two-hour exam. Is it actually important for a boy in grade seven to recall the correct conjugation pattern for the French verb ETRE? Does it serve any great purpose if a fifteen year old girl can select, on a multiple choice test, the most common STDs in Alberta? Will calamity befall our society if a child in grade eight forgets the proper usage of a semi-colon?

My suspicion is that it will not. But what does that matter? - the powers that be aren't exactly phoning me up to ask my opinion on the subject.

And so I do my job. I do my job well. I dutifully draw up exams. I faithfully record the marks. I contemplatively calculate the grades.

Truth to be told I have no idea what the grades mean. You got a 75 percent in English, eh? Well, that's nice. 75 percent of what?

I seriously doubt you can find anyone who knows the answer. I certainly don't.

Because a lot of education is smoke and mirrors. A lot of the learning that happens in a school happens despite the teachers, the curriculums, the tests.

That isn't to say that we teachers don't do a good job or that schools are ineffective. It's just that maybe we haven't got it right yet.

But then again, nobody asked me.

And so, dear reader, I bid you adieu.

If you need me I'll be around back grading assignments and looking confused.

the too many roosters blues

The roosters are beginning to crow.

It's not really a surprise. When one acquires chickens one tends to acquire a rooster or two as well. Roosters, for their part, are noted for a number of activities, crowing being chief among them.

The real problem is our rooster to hen ratio - while most people would consider one or two roosters sufficient for a little flock of sixteen, our flock contains seven. Seven roosters to nine hens is not what you might call a good ratio.

Good sense and practicality state that the best course of action would be to send the poorest roosters to the pot. Strengthen the herd and whatnot.

I'm a practical person: I have a lot of good sense and I tend not to be overly sentimental. But the thought of condemning my extra roosters makes me shudder.

Which is an unusual problem for me. Having spent my whole life around farm animals I'm quite used to the fact that, sometimes, they get eaten. I treat them well.; I feed them well; I give them the best life I can. There's no reason to be sentimental and weepy about it.

But the problem remains: I simply can't have so many roosters around the place.

I know in the end a decision will have to be made. I know in the end whatever I decide will work out just fine.

In the meantime, however, I'm going to give in to my natural inclinations and resort to fretting.

If you need me, you can find me in the barn conversing with the roosters. And you can bet we'll be trying to find enough hot chicks for them all.

scots abroad

As the summer approaches my thoughts turn to matters Scottish.

Because for most of my lifetime my summers have been regularly punctuated by highland games.

Other than the short time I spent in Scotland a few years ago, I have very little first-hand knowledge of the country. Popular wisdom states the country is generally wet and cool. Experience teaches that isn't too far off the mark.

Which makes one wonder why, when they first arrived on the prairies, a group of Scottish settlers (pining for the old country, one assumes) decided it would be grand to wrap themselves in wool and play bagpipes all day during the hottest part of the year.

Common sense would seem to dictate a more Scottish-esque time of year would be appropriate. Common sense was apparently uncommon among early Scottish settlers.

Had they been able to see what would happen to their hallowed highland games, these prairie Scots may have thought twice about their decision: at today's highland games it is only too easy to find people sporting cowboy hats, sunglasses, tank tops, and - a personal favourite - flip flop sandals with the kilt.

As I look out the window today at the thirty degree heat the sweat begins to run down my spine. To think that in two weeks time I will wrap the old kilt around my middle and blast the pipes away under the prairie sun - I grow faint at the prospect.

Dear reader, you may ask yourself why we Scots choose to do this to ourselves.

The answer, my friends, at the end of the day when we peel of our kilts and socks and return to our native dress of shorts and sandals we get to remind ourselves of one comforting fact - at least we're not English.

Which in my case isn't strictly true. But you can't blame a guy for trying.

Regards from Alberta's brush plain.

the weather gods mock me so

As with the past few weeks, it looks again like it could start to rain. Thunderheads can be seen all across the prairie. From my classroom window I can see one that looks like it might be positioned right over my house. Each and every one of them threatens rain.

The pessimist in me says those threats are idle. When I get home the ground will still be dry, dust will still fly as I turn into my driveway.

The optimist in me says that it can't possibly blow over again; this time rain is sure to fall.

I suspect pessimistic me is right.

Because that has been the pattern lately - rain will appear in the forecast, clouds will build ominously leading up to the day in question, and at the last moment, when the clouds can't swell any more, they blow over to rain elsewhere.

I'm happiest in the rain. I love those cool days when you'd be crazy to go out without a coat and sweater and the rain runs down your face and neck. I'm most at ease when drizzle falls from the sky.

Every time I hear a weather man utter the words "it looks like it's going to be a beautiful day" I want to punch him.

"But Stu," you ask, "if you like the rain so much why do you insist on living upon the dry dusty plains?"

Dear reader, I often ask myself the same question.

A few years ago, when I went to Scotland (I guarantee you that somewhere, somehow my wife is muttering "oh god, he's talking about Scotland again") it rained every day. And I was gleeful.

Admittedly it didn't rain all the time - I have a stack of photos with blue Scottish skies to prove it - but it rained enough to keep me happy. My poor, dried out genes were able to soak up enough water to hold them over for a while.

Now that the prairie weather has chosen to return to dust storms and drought I find my poor soul longs for the rain to come down. The crops sympathize.

Dear reader, if you have any goodness in your heart take pity on a poor boy who longs for days of mist and drizzle: step out in your yard and do a little rain dance for me.

I'll owe you a debt of gratitude. The wheat will too.

meditations for a monday afternoon

If I've had one success over these past two years of teaching it's been that I've taught students how to appreciate poetry.

Which is sort of a strange thing for me to have done because I don't actually like poetry.

To be fair, I don't dislike poetry. I find it enjoyable to read. I own more than one collection of poems that I break out from time to time during the winter. The portrait of more than one poet graces my classroom wall.

It's the snobbery of poetry that I can't stand. Poems really aren't all that accessible to the average Joe and the thought of a poetry reading makes me want to vomit.

I did once try to attend one such event despite my fears that the room would be full of berets and turtlenecks.

"Go on," I thought, "you're just being prejudiced."

So I went.

And promptly left.

I have a problem with people who casually toss around the words 'synecdoche' and 'existential angst.' Some sort of primal urge takes hold and I want to hurt them badly. Because yes, I too know big words like that. Thankfully I'm not enough of a wanker to use them.

Had I remained in that room a bloodbath would have ensued. The jury is still out as to whether or not that's a good thing.

But not all poets can be insufferable twits. Sometimes they actually manage to locate truth and put it down on paper. And when they do one would do well to pay attention.

Which is why today I choose to leave the last words to John Donne, the great English poet. Donne was probably one the first poets who made me sit up and listen. Recent conversations brought him once again to mind.

And so, dear readers, I leave you to meditate upon the words (not strictly poetical) of the immortal Donne:

No man is an island. entire of itself;

every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;

if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less,

as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were;

any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind,

and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

friday afternoon house talk

In terms of farmyards, Kayla and I are awfully lucky.

At some point in time, I'm not too sure when, the majority of farm families around Endiang abandoned the old farm houses and yards and moved on to what I suppose were considered greener pastures.

For the most part this meant long, squat houses and yards sheltered by poplars on three sides, the fourth side generally facing the road. A caragana hedge lines the driveway. Farm equipment is parked around the back.

Which means that all around the country there are old abandoned houses surrounded by lilac hedges and old maple trees. Inevitable these houses have shady porches, elaborate windows, and spectacular views - all of which are now enjoyed primarily by the bats and swallows.

For some reason our house didn't suffer the same fate.

Actually, let me rephrase that - our house escaped that fate longer than most.

Because when we moved in the bats and swallows were the chief residents. You could see the sky through spots in the ceiling. My foot once went through the floor in the living room.

But we fixed it. The house that sat empty for nearly ten years was restored, if not to its former glory, then certainly to a state that can be enjoyed.

But for me the house is not the main draw. I fully expect that one day we will have to admit that time has won and let the old girl give up the ghost.

No, for me the major draw is the farmyard itself.

Because our yard keeps that old farm sensibility - all the necessary outbuildings within easy walking distance, windbreaks planted in a way that preserves the view, a scenic and tree lined driveway.

Whenever I get frustrated with our old house (three or four times a week on average) I just step outside and remember how lucky we are to live there. Our trees are always full of robins and chickadees, orioles and waxwings. The wind (which hasn't stopped in four months) blows a little more softly. The sloughs and ponds that surround us are always full of ducks, geese, and frogs.

When I was nineteen I was sorely tempted to pack my bags and go live in the woods. Build myself a squatters tent on the coast and commune with nature.

As decrepit as our house is, nature is still right at my fingertips, the air is still fresh, and the living still pretty easy.

And whenever I pine for that squatters tent I just remind myself that my house is only marginally better at keeping out rain and bears.

sometimes a guy just feels a little bit country

In general I consider myself to be something of a connoisseur of music. Arcade Fire, Broken Social Scene, Against Me!, Mother Mother, Billy Bragg and countless others grace the CD towers in my living room.

It's safe to say that there is a general theme to the music in my house - for the most part they are socially progressive, indy artists. They share similar politics and themes. They challenge the boundaries of art.

But you can't spend much time back on the farm before the country music starts to work its effect.

In the circles I ran in in college and university it was, shall we say, uncool to listen to country music. This really wasn't an issue for me. Due to my parents fear that I would grow up to be a cowboy I was actively encouraged to listen to alternative music. College did not really require a great change in music for me.

But those years away from the good ol' country stations did have an effect on me. When I came back to the farm and found myself stuck in the tractor I found that country music is the best thing to listen to. Listening material needs a twang when cutting hay is the chief activity at hand.

I'll admit, sometimes it gets to be a bit much. The past few years has seen an increase in the number of songs including the words 'Jesus' and 'god-fearin''. Outward displays of religion make me uncomfortable. Actually, outward displays of anything make me feel uncomfortable. I blame my British genetics (anything beyond 'disinterested' makes me feel a wee bit queasy).

But in general I find that the themes addressed in country music are rather admirable - ideas like the value of work and family, pride in what you do, and an appreciation of what you have.

"But Stu," you ask, "How can you possibly stand the strange right wing political statements?"

Dear reader, I'm glad you ask.

You see, I ignore them.

Out here on the brush plain you either learn to live with the right-wing or you give yourself an aneurysm.

I chose not-an-aneurysm.

If you need me I'll be around back. And don't be surprised if I'm rockin' out to Garth Brooks, Dwight Yoakum and the like.

the post that isn't really formatted but i'm sure you'll all get over it

Since all of you are, I'm sure, avid news followers I think it's safe to assume that you are well aware that Bill 44 has passed third reading. Which for me poses an interesting problem. You see, I have absolutely no intention of changing the way I teach my classes. I try very hard to cover all aspects of any issue that comes up in class - there are really no issues that I refuse to address. As a result, I expect to be hauled before a human rights tribunal any time now. I'm all for parents' right to influence what their children learn - even if the greater society disagrees with those parents' decision. Already governments exercise too much influence over our family lives: the act of raising children has become less of a family matter and more of an exercise in bureaucratic gymnastics. But if you make the conscious decision to send your children to a public school it should be assumed that you accept the curriculum that school offers. If you disagree with the curriculum, there are lots of other education options open to you. As a teacher in the public school system, I am well aware that I am an employee of the state. As such, I am contracted to teach the government sanctioned curriculum, a curriculum that is already filled with biases and propaganda. I don't like it, but I consider myself to be an honest individual who fulfills his obligations: I teach the curriculum as it stands. But at the same time I follow the practice of critical pedagogy and encourage students to always think critically, never accept 'facts' at face value, and to draw their own conclusions regarding the issues they are presented with. The ATA naively takes the position that public education is a forum for free thought and open conversation. It would be lovely if that were true: it would also be lovely if lollipops grew on trees and leprechauns would sweep the floor for me. Some things just aren't going to happen. Public schools will always be a creature of the state and the state will always engage in some form of oppression - truly free thought can never exist in such an environment. The real issue with Bill 44 (and Bill 19 and many other bills before the legislature this session) is that it gives the government the ability to exercise enormous powers over an ever-widening sphere of influence. The checks on their powers are slowly being removed. "But Stu," you exclaim, "the government assures us they would never use those powers. It's not in the spirit of what they're trying to do." Ah, dear reader, that is true. Unlike many other liberal-minded individuals in this province, I choose not to paint the Conservatives as a walking force of evil, in league with the devil himself (amongst a host of lesser demons). I do think that, for the most part, elected Conservatives in Alberta believe they are working for the good. The scary thought is that the Conservatives assume they will be able to withhold themselves from using the full extent of the powers they have given themselves. In general, I don't trust any government any farther than I can throw them: if the temptation is there, eventually somebody will give in to it. On a happier note: the government has yet to find a way to legislate the weather, so enjoy the sunny day. Regards from Alberta's brush plain.

june, when dutiful young farmers tend to their gardens.

Last night we planted the garden.

It was the climax in a long process of preparation that I don't claim to have enjoyed very much. The garden at our house, once renowned for its ability to produce crops considered exotic in Endiang (i.e. watermelons and corn) was left to its own devices for far too many years. The once-loose soil had grown over and turned to sod. I can tell you quite firmly that little kubota rototillers have little effect on sod. Our 200 square foot garden was the result of many hours and countless sore backs spread over two years.

But when we finally had all the seeds in the ground and were able to look at our network of stakes and walkways it was hard not to feel a sense of pride.

Which, of course, I don't expect our neighbours to understand.

For some reason, farmyard gardens have become not as much a place to grow food for the table as a showcase for the owners' ability to make a perfectly straight row.

Our garden, on the other hand, does not possess any straight rows. None of the rows are even a little straight. Come to think of it, we didn't even try for rows - we simply marked off a plot for each crop, took a hand full of seeds each, and went at 'er. There are no right angles - the garden itself is a bit trapezoidal. Our paths meander around the individual crops, marked off by old survey stakes, so it looks as if a condo complex is soon to be built there.

But there's a certain satisfaction that you take from raising your own food that overrides the geometric layout of the garden.

I'm not sure how our garden will come up. It will take a lot of weeding, a bit of watering, and a miracle or two, but I hope that sometime later this summer I'll be able to write to you about how the potatoes are coming or how high the corn has gotten.

As yes, dear reader, you will be welcome to drop on by and share in the bounty.

Regards from Alberta's brush plain.

we're from the country and we like it that way (even if others don't)

Alberta, rural Alberta in particular, gets a pretty bad rap a lot of the time. Alberta: home to gun-totin', tory-votin', Jesus-lovin' rednecks.

Which isn't to say that we haven't earned the reputation - Albertans have a bad habit of acting a little ... back-woodsy, shall we say, when the world is looking. But it's become habit for the rest of Canada, when the heat is on, to turn and say "at least we're not Alberta."

In Alberta, of course, this has turned into something different; "Blame Alberta" has turned into "Blame the Rural-folk."

The rural areas, some would have you believe, are filled with inbred, cross-burning, bible-thumping, Conservative-loving, ignorant, ill-educated, seldom-washed, gap-toothed hicks. All rural people drive huge, polluting trucks with a gun-rack in the back, believe the earth to be 6000 years old and flat, and wait for the local preacher to tell them how to vote. Rural evenings are spent at bush-parties, book-burnings, and tent-meetings.

All evils can be directly related to the population of rural Alberta: homelessness is the result of country-folks right-wing attitudes; numerous Conservative majorities the result of rural ignorance; private health care the brain-child of greedy country-dwellers.

Rural areas are devoid of culture, the people illiterate, the towns and villages suspicious of outsiders.

When spending time in one of Alberta's urban centres, rural people must make a decision: completely renounce one's roots, or face ostracism by enlightened city-dwellers.

Reasonable people realize what a load of horse-turds statements like these are, but reasonable people can be hard to find in a pinch.

There certainly are many people in this neck-of-the-woods who do fit the stereotype, but many more live in the shining cities and all across Canada. Are we to believe that there are fewer Conservatives in Calgary and Edmonton than in the rest of the province? Can it possibly be true that there are fewer Creationists in the cities than out of them? Am I to believe that urban centres are not plagued by racism and prejudice?

When I was in university I spent an awful lot of breath defending my rural background and the baggage that comes with it. Many felt I must be relieved to have escaped the ignorant country-side. When I returned to the farm I suspect more than a couple of my friends questioned my actions: I suspect they're still waiting for me to come crawling back to the city.

The issue goes beyond personal annoyance, however. It seems that nine times out of ten the people who denounce the rural areas loudest are staunch supporters of Alberta's non-right parties. What rural Albertan would vote for someone who holds them in disdain? The Conservatives, for all thier faults, know that rural voters hold the balance of power and to win you need to court that vote.

Be ye warned, people of the left, change will not come without the rural vote.

Thus, dear reader, I complete my post. Regards from Alberta's brush plain.

you want to see dry? i'll show you dry!

As with farm communities everywhere, the big topic out on the brush plain this spring has been the weather.

That mythical 'average year' continues to elude us and every one's feeling the pinch - after several years of excessive rain, sodden fields, and cloudy days we've slipped back into the drought cycle - clear blue skies and never-ending wind that dries out your lips and carries the topsoil to Saskatchewan.

This has been a year of dust storms and fire bans. But we seem to missing something ... oh yeah, almost forgot, "Cue the locusts!"

Dear reader, if I seem to have been inconsistent with my posts lately, I apologize - when you take on the role of a farmer you tend to tie yourself a little more to the elements. "Make hay while the sun shines" applies equally well to spring seeding and fall harvesting. Clear sunny days mean the rush is on to put a crop in the ground.

I fully expect this summer is going to break my heart - if this weather pattern continues we can expect the grain to fail and the hay to be a wreck as well. But we'll get through it.

Because, as they say, there's always next year.

the thing we all need to learn a little (myself included)

http://www.ted.com/talks/joachim_de_posada_says_don_t_eat_the_marshmallow_yet.html

alright, who broke the school system?

I'll be completely and brutally honest with you. I don't like my job. I don't hate my job, but I certainly don't like it.

Let me explain something - I like teaching. I really like teaching. I like sitting down with kids and helping them puzzle through the challenges that face them daily. I like working with them while they learn to think for themselves and challenge the world around them. I love getting to open their minds to new possibilities.

But that's not what my job is. My job title is 'teacher,' but in essence my job is to transmit the values and culture dictated to me by the ministry of education. I am to come to work and do as I am told and I am judged by how well I play the game. I am an employee of the state: as such I am at the state's mercy.

The point is this: teachers, and by extension the public education system, are not judged on their abilities; they are not judged on how their students fare in the world; they are not judged on whether or not they have tried to improve the world. Teachers are judged on the quality of their classroom decorations; they are judged on how long they stay at school after work; they are judged on how much jargon they can use in a single sitting.

Education (and I would argue this goes doubly for public education) has little to do with bettering the world and improving the lives of our children. It has everything to do with appearances.

Teachers really do care. Schools are not inherently evil. The majority of people working in the system do so because they believe they are doing right. Their intentions are good, but the road to hell remains paved with good intentions.

My wife, who now works in a school, and I both came to the realisation at about the same time that schools are not a happy place. Nobody really wants to be there - teachers are, in large part, miserable and count the hours down. Some, like their students, spend their time counting down the days they're done. In Dante's inferno the school would have been located somewhere around the first circle of hell.

I'm young. I don't claim to have all the answers or be able to fix everything. But I'm not stupid. I can recognize when something is not working and public education is not working. It looks good. It gives the impression that something is being done without actually addressing the problems.

As for myself I'm going to go and teach some students. To hell with appearances.

Happy wednesday from Alberta's brush plain.

always look horses, gift or otherwise, in the mouth

Have you ever promised yourself that you would limit your actions? For example, "I'm only going to eat one piece of pie," or "I'm only going to pick a fight with one skinhead," and the next thing you know you're surrounded by empty pie tins and the entire Aryan Nation (Edmonton Chapter). That's sort of what our chicken adventure has turned into.

It doesn't help that the woman we buy our chickens from - our dealer, if you will - is a junkie herself. She just can't help it, she wants the whole world to experience the joy of poultry. You go to buy five chicks, you leave with seven and an order for turkeys.

I can think of far worse things that a person can overdo than acquiring poultry: I don't think that the seven new bantam chicks in our office are going to lead us into a life of crime.

Horse trading, on the other hand, might be a good gateway, if you will, to the criminal underbelly of agriculture.

Whilst returning from our chicken acquisitions we decided to drop in at the auction mart where we knew there was a horse sale taking place. I like horse sales: I understand horse people, their mistrust of other human beings; their strangely warped hats and manure crusted clothes - it's an atmosphere I'm comfortable in. But some of the claims made by horse traders would make a carny blush.

"This here is a gen-u-wine pure-bred thoroughbred mare! Papered and all! Let's start the bidding at five hunnerd!" When said beastie is trotted into the ring you behold a dirt encrusted little nag with a stringy mane and a touch of founder. The ancestry is more along the lines of zebra/shetland pony cross. It would cost at least five hundred to convince someone to take her off your hands.

But people bid - it's like a sickness. Horses trot into the ring, hands jump into the air, prices rise steadily and someone becomes the lucky new owner of thier very own hayburner.

Afterwards you hear everyone trying to justify it to themselves: "I figure I'll feed her up and make a good horse outta her" or " He's just gotta grow a little bit and then he'll clean up real good."

Which is why every other farmstead in Alberta has an unbreakable, unrideable, fleabitten equine living behind the barn.

"But Stu," you say, "how can you speak so harshly about those who just want to have a horse around the place? Don't you want the same thing?"

Too true, dear reader. Too true.

There's one thing has kept me honest so far - our stock trailer isn't road worthy and I don't relish the thought of paying a hefty fine when caught with my illegal rig.

But yes, I too sit there, my eyes glazed over, my hands twitching, trying my damndest not to bid for everything that comes into view; wondering if the auctioneer mistook that involuntary twitch as a bid (important lesson learned - do not take a talkative Italian with you to the auction market: it's liable to end in financial ruin).

It's true that I want to have a couple horses around the farm yard: Preferably rideable ones though - horses you can saddle up any day and not have to worry about filing a flight plan before hand.

Experience has taught me this - a few years ago my family bought a nice little mare at auction. "Broke an' all" they said, "this here's a real nice horse." And she was - a nice little palomino mare, friendly and clean.

When it came time to throw a saddle on her, though, her Jekyll and Hyde personality came out. Our nice little mare turned into a ball of tightly wound rubber bands, a ball of rubber bands that exploded when I hopped astride.

They say when you get bucked off you should just get back on again. Although generally good advice, a guy just sometimes has to admit he's beat. After a couple dozen trips through the air we decided to give the original owners a call.

Turns out she had been broke and ridden (about six years before) but had spent the past few years on pasture with her foals.

I had to go back to college the next week: me being the only one with the guts to climb up on her meant that, next horse sale, our nice little mare returned to the auction.

Who knows, perhaps some poor sod became the proud owner of a "former Kentucky derby winner" that day.

animal based musings

At a time when some people are concerned about swine flu, Kayla and I seem to have come down with chicken fever.

Having managed to sustain our little flock of chickens for a few months we've decided that it is high time to add a few more into the mix. Five more to be exact.

Of course, this means that we will, again, have chickens as our house quests. It also means that we will, again, have to deal with the late night cheeping, scratching, squawking, etc that comes with having such creatures as guests.

Truth be told, I really don't mind.

As this adventure continues we're learning that it's really nice to have lots of living things around. When the cats first came to live with us we were wary - neither of us are what you would call cat people, but pretty soon we were glad to have the extra bit of companionship. When the first batch of chickens arrived we both asked ourselves what we'd gotten into, but we quickly learned how much fun having little feathered monsters around can be.

I've always been an animal lover. When I lived in Edmonton I found the hardest part of it all was the lack of contact with dogs or cats. Now that I'm working in a school I find one of the frustrating aspects of the job is that I can't bring the dog with me (when I'm farming he usually rides with me in the tractor or truck). Animals really do make life easier to bear.

Of course, that means that I have to work pretty hard to restrain myself from bringing home every dog-to-a-good-home or elderly-horse-looking-for-retirement-pasture that I see or hear about - I could easily turn into that guy who drives around in a pickup with fifteen dogs riding in the back.

Maybe I need a change of work. They say that most people switch careers a good seven or eight times in their life; perhaps I should find one that allows dogs.

If you happen to come across a job listing advertising $50 000 a year and dogs permitted, let me know.

Who knows, maybe it would be fun to say I let my job go to the dogs.

westron wind, when wilt thou blow/ that the small rain down can rain?

It seems that it this part of the world most people can recall their grandparents' stories of drought, grasshoppers and poverty from the depression. For those of us who grew up in this part of Alberta those stories are particularly realistic, because to a certain extent we've lived them ourselves.

My junior high and high school years were marked by drought - severe, endless, soul sucking drought. Summers when the temperatures would sit at 40 degrees Celsius or higher for days on end; when the grasshoppers ate the crops down to dirt. Winters when dust instead of snow drifted in the yard. Springs when the grass refused to grow and farmers had to sell of the herds they'd worked years to build up. Other years when we couldn't sell our cattle even if we wanted to because of BSE.

I think that, in a way, I was lucky to have lived through that. It taught me to appreciate things like rainy days and my generally comfortable existence.

But at the same time it left a mark on all of us, a mark best defined as an extreme fear of drought.

East-central Alberta is dry country - there's no way to deny that: this is the peak of Palliser's Triangle, people are not meant to live here. But every spring day that passes without rain raises my pulse a little. Every cloud that drifts by makes me angry. Images of grass fire, grasshoppers, and grazed down pastures pop into my head and have me wondering just how one performs a rain dance.

This spring has been a dry one. At present there is a giant flock of geese grazing the stubble next to my house because there's no water in the sloughs. The roads are lined with blackened grass.

Yesterday a little rain fell - enough to dampen the dust, but not much more - and I've fallen back into an old habit: checking the forecast every time I see a cloud approach.

So far the predictions look promising - thunderstorms for today and tomorrow, a little more rain for the weekend. Experience teaches that weather forecasts have about as much accuracy as the average magic eight ball, but beggars can't be choosers.

Dear reader, if by chance you should watch the weather report this evening and see a forecast of rain for that big empty space on the Alberta map, stick an ear out the window. If you hear a wild whoop of joy coming from that general direction have faith that the weatherman was right.

If you need me, you'll find me dancing in the rain.

may day, may day!

Today is a hard day for me to spend at work. Today is the day that I want to march with my comrades in the streets. Dance around a maypole or two. Burn the capitalist swine in effigy.

May day is a beautiful holiday that has sadly been allowed to dwindle.

Some people may claim it's because the class structure of our society has changed - perhaps, the working class is certainly not what it used to be and the majority, in Canada at least, tend to come under the heading of 'middle class,' an umbrella term designed to make us sound a little more affluent than we actually are.

On May Day, those of us not counted among the rich and powerful get to count our victories and commemorate our losses - victories and tragedies generally ignored by history texts and glossed over by more conservative ideologues. I like reflecting on the fact that at one time people were passionate about the politics that govern their lives, that ordinary individuals were able to express thier anger and frustration towards the abuses of the ruling classes and, through sacrifice and determination, improve thier circumstances.

But years of moderate success have lulled us into a state of inaction. In the third world and the cities of Europe the hardships have remained harder and the booms shorter-lived than those we have experienced in Canada. We've bought into the system and have seperated ourselves from our global compatriots: we've forgotten what we came from which is dangerous because if we misstep we may find ourselves there again.

I wish I could march in the May Day parades in Edmonton. I wish I could spend time with friends and comrades who, like me, think we need to remember this important part of our past.

Unfortunately I am faced with the reality that my present occupation makes taking a day off in solidarity risky - as an employee of the state, and one without a permanent contract at that, one needs to keep his or her nose clean. I have commitments to keep, and such is the trap that many of us have caught ourselves in.

And so my brothers and sisters, I wish you a happy May Day. Go outside; meet with your comrades and family; put your feet up and have a beer. Today we celebrate that we are the ones who still have to work for a living.

It's still essentially true that we have nothing to lose but our chains.

Workers of the world, unite!

In solidarity from Alberta's brush plain.

standard end of the month rant

I have a pretty strong interest in religion. I tend also to maintain an interest in education. From time to time the two do meet.

Recently the two have been meeting more than usual.

It seems that in the past few days, the topic of religion in education reared its ugly head in the legislature. There is a movement afoot to allow parents to pull their children out of classes in which material is being covered that they may not agree with. It looks as though this would translate to parents having the right to pull kids out of science classes in which evolution is discussed.

The government, of course, denies it. I wouldn't expect them to do any less. But when the time comes I'm pretty sure there will be a rash of students pulled from science classrooms across the province.

Which raises a couple of questions: i) what rights do parents have regarding what material their children are taught?; and ii) what place does religion have in the classroom?

From a practical standpoint, I can see this turning into a disaster for teachers. Will we now be required to send advance notice of all material to be covered in class to allow parents time to ponder its worthiness? Will classes no longer be able to contain a discussion component in case 'disagreeable' material comes up? Are we to be censored for everything said and done in our classroom?

I understand parents wanting their children to have values similar to their own. But isn't it the parents' job to transmit those values? In the end everyone has to live in the same world, will be faced with ideas they disagree with and will be forced to defend their own beliefs against them.

Which brings me to the second question: what place does religion have in the classroom? There are a lot of people who say it has no place - many of whom I share numerous political beliefs with. A classroom free of religion, they say, is a tolerant classroom; one in which all students are included.

I understand the position, but I can firmly say that that's a load of horse turds.

As an English teacher I've found that literature cannot be well understood outside the frame of religion. Nor can the history tied to so much of that literature. I cannot communicate ideas about French culture and history without a discussion of religion. Yet there are people who would challenge me because I dare to mention such things within the walls of a school.

The debate really gets ugly when we turn to the sciences - the argument between intelligent design/creation and evolution rages to this day in communities across Alberta. The majority of science teachers I know have found their peace by teaching evolution and devoting ten minutes to creation during the last class of the unit.

The reality of the situation is this: to a very great extent, students' opinions, prejudices, values and beliefs are already solidified long before they arrive in a classroom. A student who enters a classroom believing in creation is unlikely to leave it believing otherwise. Children's attitudes are shaped by the conditions in which they are raised - a child raised by parents who value independent thought and open-mindedness is more likely to demonstrate those traits than a child raised otherwise.

I don't mean to suggest that teachers and schools have no effect on students whatsoever - if I didn't think that schools could play a positive role in kids lives I wouldn't work in one - but to suggest that schools are the sole mean of communicating knowledge and ideas is naive. They are simply one of countless vehicles by which culture is communicated.

"But Stu," you cry, "you still haven't really addressed the idea of religion in schools!"

There you are right, dear reader, I haven't. But patience, for I shall do so now.

Schools cannot escape the realities of the context in which they exist. The outside world will always find its way into the classroom. As teachers we can encourage students to think critically about everything they know. No more, no less.

There can be no such thing as a truly secular school. We can remove all mention of religion from the curriculum, banish it from the science lab, exorcise it in the hallways but we cannot remove those ideas from teachers' or students' belief systems.

The world needs to accept that education is an organic process and cannot be totally bent to any one group's will. Compromise is a fact of life. Sometimes we have to grit our teeth and bare it.

And that, my friends, is where I leave you. Other rants need ranting, other subjects needs flogging and I intend on giving them their due.

Merry Thursday from the brush plain.

don't let the bastards get you down

Suddenly I pine for the days when the news only talked about taser use in Canada.

I find that the media has one particularly bad habit - they like to choose a topic and beat it until it can't move anymore.

For a long time it seemed as though the Canadian media couldn't get enough of the Robert Dziekanski case. Every other word out of newscasters' mouths seemed to be 'taser'.

Now we've switched to swine flu. Personally, I got more enjoyment out of the tales of police brutality.

I don't want to diminish the threat posed by a potential global pandemic - I don't want to stand here and say that this isn't the big one while major populations get wiped out.

But am I a defeatist to think that if this is the big one there's nothing we can do about it? That there are things we can fix in this world and things that we can't and this may fit into the 'can't' category?

I'll admit that I don't take this particular outbreak all that seriously. In my personal opinion, the world has been submitted to an awful lot of crap over the past few months (see global recession, major earthquakes, large scale flooding, etc.) but now we've gotten ourselves so worked up that we're convinced the sky is falling.

Quite frankly, this is no black death. Islands are not disappearing into the sea (yet). The rivers have not turned to blood. I have yet to see a single locust: frogs are also in short supply. I killed a couple of flies last night, but it was hardly a plague.

We seem to engage in a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth any time life gets a little uncomfortable. It strikes me as being a lot of wasted energy.

More than anything, tales of economic collapse and impending pandemic have turned into get-out-of-jail-free passes for governments of all levels. Important environmental initiatives are abandoned in the name of saving the economy. Civil liberties are suspended to battle a flu that may or may not (probably may not) cause widespread death.

Wasn't it Hermann Goring who said "All you have to tell them is that they're being attacked" in order to make people do the bidding of the leaders?

This time, apparently, the attacker is one we cannot see. But they assure us he's there.

Dear reader, fear not. Things are not as bad as we may hear. The world, although a scary place, is not falling apart around our ears.

There's a lot wrong with this country, society, world, but people have made it through worse.

That being said, I think I'll lay in a supply of guns and amo. Maybe some tinned food. Set up a perimeter around my house.

Just to be on the safe side.

Regards from Alberta's brush plain.

fish tale

I have always loved fishing. Never mind the fact that I rarely do it any more, but I'm very comfortable in that class of people who are more than willing to cancel everything and take off for a day of (in my case, normally unsuccessful) fishing.

When I turned thirteen I was given a fishing pole for my birthday. That pole made many trips with me on my bike to the local fish pond. To my undying shame it has only ever reeled in two fish.

I'm not sure why I've had no luck with the fish. Maybe it's because no one ever really showed me where the fish are at. Maybe I use bad bait. Maybe the fish can sense my desperation on shore.

Both of those fish were caught on the same day. It was the day after my grandpa Somerville's funeral. One of our neighbours, a stereotypical outdoorsman by the name of Wayne, stopped by and told me to get my pole - we were going fishing.

Wayne knew perfectly well that I never caught anything. He had watched me for years during those evenings and weekends that I spent trying to coax a fish onto my hook.

When Wayne picked me up I was just a little worried that my bad fishing ju-ju was going to transmit to him. In retrospect it probably did - Wayne usually caught his limit when he went to the fishing, whereas on this day - miracle or miracles - the fish decided to come to me.

Wayne passed away not too long after that. I have not caught a fish since. Life got busier, drought came and the water level at the pond dropped, and fishing moved further down the list of priorities.

I've decided that this summer that has to change. I've decided I want to learn to fly-fish. I fully expect it will be a disaster. Probably one resulting in me embedding a hook in my forehead. Probably one that will not result in me catching a single blessed thing.

I don't care though. So what if the fish feel safer with me around 'cause I scare off the real predators? I've got enough sense to realise that now is the time to take up something like that. I have the time and the desire, so why not?

Maybe someday I'll even catch a fish.

Until then. wish me luck. And keep the antiseptic on hand, just in case.

of grouse and men

There are days, I'll admit, when I miss the city. Sometimes a guy just needs to drink some good coffee or browse through a used book store. Luckily, those urges come few and far between. The rest of the time I feel pretty grateful that I live as far as you can get from civilization and still be in Central Alberta.

Last night I went for a walk. In and of itself this is not unusual: I go walking most days the weather permits, and fairly often when the weather doesn't permit as well.

People who drive everywhere miss an awful lot. The luxury of motorized travel seems somewhat less pleasant when you think about what you see when you're on foot. If you keep your eyes open, at least.

Over the years that I've wandered through the pastures around the family farm I've seen and found a lot of things: countless deer and moose antlers, porcupine quills, birds nests, strange bog plants, fossils, interesting rocks. Even now our house is filled with found objects, a situation not aided by the fact that my beautiful wife shares the same affliction as me.

With the warmer weather this past week I've been able to get out and about again. So far I found a woodpecker on her nest in a tree, watched a few porcupines wander around, tried my damndest to not trample a field of crocus, listened to the meadow larks - for the most experiences I've had before, but still enjoyable nonetheless.

Last night, though, was by far the highlight.

My whole life I've listened to grouse drumming out in the bush. They sound like small engines starting up far away. I've spent years trying to see the birds at work - damned camouflage makes them pretty hard to find, and me being not what you would call 'light-of-foot" means that every small animal within a quarter-mile is well aware of my progress through the bush. The presence of the panting Labrador doesn't help too much either.

Last night victory was mine. At first I thought that maybe my eyes just weren't focusing, but one far off branch looked markedly bird-shaped. I wouldn't have stuck around if the branch hadn't twitched. And then it danced and drummed its wings. And I consider myself pretty lucky to have been there.

There seem to be a lot of people around Alberta who claim to love the natural world but aren't prepared to do a thing to help it. Either people sit around and pretend the wild isn't there or they do their best to tame it. I suspect that the majority of people wouldn't have the patience to sit around and wait for a plain grey bird to drum its wings. Either way it does little to help the wild bits that we've got left.

I feel pretty lucky to live in the middle of nowhere. I just hope it's the same nowhere left for my kids and grandkids in the future.

Regards from the brush plain.

snooty book-judgers of the world, unite!

I have always been a reader. I cannot remember not being able to read, nor can I remember not wanting to read. I've always carted around books, magazines, newspapers, flyers to fill in those moments when I can sit down and relax.

There has only been one brief moment when I couldn't bring myself to read, and that moment filled in the three or four months immediately following my last university class just two springs ago. After four years of being forced to read education theory I couldn't stand the thought of a book - every attempt to sit down and read led to headaches and queasiness.

I'm happy to report that I got over it, and have been reading full tilt for the past year and a half. Generally three or four books at a time, and generally works of non-fiction.

I'm not a novel reader. Never have been. When I read I like to read political theory and history, which I suspect places me in the ranks of the ten most boring people on earth.


Just this morning I finished one: Canadians by Roy MacGregor. I highly recommend it.


Perhaps that was predictable: books about being Canadian naturally catch my attention, but more important was the book jacket - rustic looking with a stencilled maple leaf, simple sans-serif font. It had all the ingredients of a great read.


"But Stu," you ask, "How do you know?"


Because, dear reader, I judge books by their covers.

Yes, I know, I'm supposed to avoid that. But it works - because very often a good book seems to be worthy of a good cover. Take, for example, Margaret Atwood's The Tent, a collection of short stories with an amazing cover illustration. Or Secrets From the Vinyl Cafe by Stuart McLean. Or Louis Riel by Chester Brown. All of them have great covers and what you find between them is worthy.

There are, of course, other considerations one must make when choosing a book. Sadly, in my case, they are just as shallow as the perceived quality of the cover.

Take, for example, paper. Many very good books are printed on very crappy paper. I wouldn't know, I rarely finish those ones.

I like books with thick, smooth pages - books that have some weight to them and feel like a plank in your back pack.

Or text - some fonts are superior to others, as are some inks. Generally, if the book has a page describing the history of the font used it is a piece of literature worth consideration.

And then there are stickers. When your main choice in booksellers is Chapters, stickers can be hard to avoid. I have no problem buying those discount books with the forty percent off stickers on them - most of my hardcover books were acquired that way - but I'll be damned if I buy anything with "Oprah's Bookclub" on it, or a "Heather's Pick" sticker proudly displayed on the cover.

And so, dear reader, I'll admit it - I'm a booksnob and I judge books by their covers. Maybe I need to join some sort of booksnobs anonymous group. Who's with me?

"My name is Stu, and I'm a booksnob."