Over the past few days I've been reflecting on my years in high school - that three years of awkwardness between the ages of fifteen and eighteen - and trying to remember some of the things that I learned in my classes.
I have to admit that I cannot really remember anything that I learned in my classes. No single fact or statistic, no particular skill, no way of thinking.
Same with college and university - other than that 'Tacitus was a republican' I can tell you nothing about the material from my courses.
What I can tell you is my opinion on every teacher or professor I ever had, whether or not I enjoyed the material, and why I took that course.
Which leads me to the conclusion that school, or at least the courses we require students to take, is a waste of time.
"Um, Stu," you ask, "Isn't that sort of a dumb thing for you to say, being a teacher and all? Are you trying to work yourself out of a job?"
Dear reader, fear not, for everything will become clear.
Education is intrinsically valuable - a belief that I will always hold to be true, but what we are offering is not really education at all.
Any school system that emphasizes calculus, physics, and classes of that ilk over communication, civics, or the arts is not educating students - it is manufacturing the illusion of education.
Our schools emphasize quantity over quality, and students pay the price. We force them to undergo twelve years of busy work and then wonder why they are inept when they graduate.
Just like the movements to slow down other areas of our lives, we need to slow down our schools - give students a chance to breathe and internalize some of what we try to teach them.
"So Stu," you ask, "Do you really think that this little rant will fix anything?"
No, dear reader, I don't. But maybe it will help start something.
Mark Twain said that he never let his schooling interfere with his education.
Smart man, that Sam Clemens - I think I'll see what I can do with his advice.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
cattle based observation.
Yesterday we brought the cattle home, and just in time too: by the time we got to the winter pasture to round them up there were three newborn calves running around the field.
I've always loved moving cattle - it's fun. An extended walk through the prairie with some critters walking ahead of you seems like more of a game than a job to me.
Of course, things don't always go well. There is a reason I learned to swear like a sailor whilst herding cows - unless the stars are aligned, something usually goes wrong.
Yesterday was one of those fortuitous days when weather and luck combined to bring the cows home quickly and easily, but sometimes the cattle decide to break through fences, jump into other herds, run through the bush, swim across creeks and all other manner of mischief.
Sometimes they decide they have lost their calf and will run madly back to the previous pasture.
Sometimes they are struck with a terrible thirst and decline to leave the slough in which they stand.
Sometimes they don't want to be found determine that the appropriate course of action is to hide behind a tree.
At the end of the day though, when the job is done and the cattle are where they ought to be, you have to admit it's pretty damn satisfying.
Over the next month or two we'll have to be out amongst the herd most of the time - I'll probably change straight into my farm duds after work and see how things are amongst the cows - and a lot of things can go wrong: calves might be born backwards or maybe their hips will catch on the cow's pelvis; the weather will turn and we'll have to find shelter for wet calves; conditions may go wrong and disease appear.
It's stressful, but in a good way, and man does it feel good when you get through it.
Dear reader, if you are one of those who happens to live far from the farm in a world in which beef and milk appear miraculously in the supermarket cooler, I suggest you come out and meet the cows. When you learn a greater appreciation of the smells and the sights of the farm you gain a greater appreciation of the food that you eat.
So don't pity me because sometimes I have to tramp through the mud and manure of spring to haul around wet calves, feed cattle at four in the morning or check on the calves at two. Because in the end, I pity those who don't get to.
I've always loved moving cattle - it's fun. An extended walk through the prairie with some critters walking ahead of you seems like more of a game than a job to me.
Of course, things don't always go well. There is a reason I learned to swear like a sailor whilst herding cows - unless the stars are aligned, something usually goes wrong.
Yesterday was one of those fortuitous days when weather and luck combined to bring the cows home quickly and easily, but sometimes the cattle decide to break through fences, jump into other herds, run through the bush, swim across creeks and all other manner of mischief.
Sometimes they decide they have lost their calf and will run madly back to the previous pasture.
Sometimes they are struck with a terrible thirst and decline to leave the slough in which they stand.
Sometimes they don't want to be found determine that the appropriate course of action is to hide behind a tree.
At the end of the day though, when the job is done and the cattle are where they ought to be, you have to admit it's pretty damn satisfying.
Over the next month or two we'll have to be out amongst the herd most of the time - I'll probably change straight into my farm duds after work and see how things are amongst the cows - and a lot of things can go wrong: calves might be born backwards or maybe their hips will catch on the cow's pelvis; the weather will turn and we'll have to find shelter for wet calves; conditions may go wrong and disease appear.
It's stressful, but in a good way, and man does it feel good when you get through it.
Dear reader, if you are one of those who happens to live far from the farm in a world in which beef and milk appear miraculously in the supermarket cooler, I suggest you come out and meet the cows. When you learn a greater appreciation of the smells and the sights of the farm you gain a greater appreciation of the food that you eat.
So don't pity me because sometimes I have to tramp through the mud and manure of spring to haul around wet calves, feed cattle at four in the morning or check on the calves at two. Because in the end, I pity those who don't get to.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
physical labour = excrutiating back pain
Because, as teachers, we are sometimes required to work extra hours, from time to time we get an extra day off. Yesterday was one of those days.
“So Stu,” you ask, “What did you do with your day off? Read a book? Watch a movie? Sleep in late?”
Dear reader, I will tell you, but you may not like the answer.
I worked … all day … quite hard in fact.
And I loved it.
Because Kayla still had to go in to the library, the alarm still went off at 6:00 am. Since I was already awake, didn't see much point in going back to sleep, so I finished by breakfast and headed out with the saw.
I'm a sick individual – I love sawing things by hand, particularly logs and particularly with a buck saw. Since the windbreaks surrounding our yard have not been cleaned out since sometime in the '60's, there was plenty of saw work to do, I can tell you.
I hadn't planned on spending my day doing that – originally I set out to just trim back a few trees that dangerously block the view of oncoming traffic. But soon I was moving at a steady pace, hacking down dead trees the whole way.
I sawed, I carried, I dragged, I stacked.
I'm exhausted. But more than that, I'm sore.
The problem with heavy, physical work like that is that I'm not used to it anymore. When I was eighteen and worked on the farm all the time I was in great shape and could keep up a pace like that all day. Two years as a teacher does not a fine physique make, and methinks it will take a while before I can work like that again.
“So Stu,” you ask, “do you have the good sense to put your feet up for today?”
The short answer, dear reader, is no.
But I don't think that I'll spend another full day out there: in this trying-to-find-balance quest that I'm on it's important to take an afternoon off from time to time. If Bertrand Russell found something praiseworthy in idleness I guess I can give my protestant work ethic the afternoon off.
But that doesn't mean I won't start working three hours earlier today.
Regards from Alberta's brush plain.
“So Stu,” you ask, “What did you do with your day off? Read a book? Watch a movie? Sleep in late?”
Dear reader, I will tell you, but you may not like the answer.
I worked … all day … quite hard in fact.
And I loved it.
Because Kayla still had to go in to the library, the alarm still went off at 6:00 am. Since I was already awake, didn't see much point in going back to sleep, so I finished by breakfast and headed out with the saw.
I'm a sick individual – I love sawing things by hand, particularly logs and particularly with a buck saw. Since the windbreaks surrounding our yard have not been cleaned out since sometime in the '60's, there was plenty of saw work to do, I can tell you.
I hadn't planned on spending my day doing that – originally I set out to just trim back a few trees that dangerously block the view of oncoming traffic. But soon I was moving at a steady pace, hacking down dead trees the whole way.
I sawed, I carried, I dragged, I stacked.
I'm exhausted. But more than that, I'm sore.
The problem with heavy, physical work like that is that I'm not used to it anymore. When I was eighteen and worked on the farm all the time I was in great shape and could keep up a pace like that all day. Two years as a teacher does not a fine physique make, and methinks it will take a while before I can work like that again.
“So Stu,” you ask, “do you have the good sense to put your feet up for today?”
The short answer, dear reader, is no.
But I don't think that I'll spend another full day out there: in this trying-to-find-balance quest that I'm on it's important to take an afternoon off from time to time. If Bertrand Russell found something praiseworthy in idleness I guess I can give my protestant work ethic the afternoon off.
But that doesn't mean I won't start working three hours earlier today.
Regards from Alberta's brush plain.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
meditation upon the benefits of keeping poultry
The chickens are turning into chickens.
"What an odd thing to say," you mutter to yourself.
Dear reader, worry not - I shall explain.
The chickens, three weeks ago fuzzy chicks, are now flapping around their pen showing off their shiny new feathers and developing combs.
Of course, this means that they have increased somewhat in size and the old rabbit hutch can't quite cut it as chicken house any longer. Logically, this would mean that the chickens could move out to a shed somewhere around the yard - however, since mother nature seems to have decided to give spring a pass this year and just add a couple more months of winter it wouldn't take long before we were left with a flock of poultry-cicles and that seems counterproductive to me.
So last night I renovated the rabbit-hutch-come-chicken-pen.
Originally I had just wanted to find a big, sturdy cardboard box to move them wee birds into. As it would turn out, large chicken-flock sized boxes can be hard to come by.
Kayla came up with the solution - find a box of similar size to the present cage and attach it to the side, thereby doubling the space (thank God for logical wives: I was seriously considering building a gate and giving the chickens the run of that part of the house).
Eventually I did turn up an appropriate box: with the aid of a hunting knife, some chicken wire, and a handful of clothes-pins we rigged up something that looks like it belongs in the slums of Rio, but it works.
The chickens, of course, went nuts. The cardboard box was new for them - they have never encountered cardboard before - and they spent the rest of the night hammering on the cardboard floor of their new home which, because sections of it are suspended off the floor, sounded like a session at the Rhythmically-Challenged-Drummers Convention.
In a world where it seems that everything is falling apart, I feel awfully lucky to be able to come home to my crappy old house and flock of chickens - it's a good place to escape for a little while from indifferent political "leaders" and deteriorating economic conditions.
Being a naturally depressed, pessimistic individual (my normal self would assure you that yes, the glass is indeed half empty and that half-full glasses are statistically improbable) I'm glad I've discovered that a few minutes spent watching chickens can make the world seem less bleak.
Which makes me think that the next great advance in medicine will be the discovery that, instead of writing prescriptions for anti-depressants, someone needs to prescribe more chickens.
Regards from Alberta's brush plain.
"What an odd thing to say," you mutter to yourself.
Dear reader, worry not - I shall explain.
The chickens, three weeks ago fuzzy chicks, are now flapping around their pen showing off their shiny new feathers and developing combs.
Of course, this means that they have increased somewhat in size and the old rabbit hutch can't quite cut it as chicken house any longer. Logically, this would mean that the chickens could move out to a shed somewhere around the yard - however, since mother nature seems to have decided to give spring a pass this year and just add a couple more months of winter it wouldn't take long before we were left with a flock of poultry-cicles and that seems counterproductive to me.
So last night I renovated the rabbit-hutch-come-chicken-pen.
Originally I had just wanted to find a big, sturdy cardboard box to move them wee birds into. As it would turn out, large chicken-flock sized boxes can be hard to come by.
Kayla came up with the solution - find a box of similar size to the present cage and attach it to the side, thereby doubling the space (thank God for logical wives: I was seriously considering building a gate and giving the chickens the run of that part of the house).
Eventually I did turn up an appropriate box: with the aid of a hunting knife, some chicken wire, and a handful of clothes-pins we rigged up something that looks like it belongs in the slums of Rio, but it works.
The chickens, of course, went nuts. The cardboard box was new for them - they have never encountered cardboard before - and they spent the rest of the night hammering on the cardboard floor of their new home which, because sections of it are suspended off the floor, sounded like a session at the Rhythmically-Challenged-Drummers Convention.
In a world where it seems that everything is falling apart, I feel awfully lucky to be able to come home to my crappy old house and flock of chickens - it's a good place to escape for a little while from indifferent political "leaders" and deteriorating economic conditions.
Being a naturally depressed, pessimistic individual (my normal self would assure you that yes, the glass is indeed half empty and that half-full glasses are statistically improbable) I'm glad I've discovered that a few minutes spent watching chickens can make the world seem less bleak.
Which makes me think that the next great advance in medicine will be the discovery that, instead of writing prescriptions for anti-depressants, someone needs to prescribe more chickens.
Regards from Alberta's brush plain.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
i don't think this is the canada i ordered.
I love being Canadian, but more than simply being Canadian I love the idea of Canada.
I'll admit, I'm a sucker for Canadiana - you know, mounties and lumberjacks and canoes and maple syrup. Farley Mowat and Pierre Burton both have important places on bookshelves in our house. When I was a kid I used to throw on the mocassins and go snowshoeing all afternoon. I grew up soaked in the traditional image of Canada and I loved every minute of it.
As I grew up I realized, of course, that there was more to Canada than the old birchbark sterotypes, but what I learned I loved too. I loved the freedoms we enjoyed, the more-or-less accepting character of our society, the reputation that we held in the world.
It's hard for me to admit that a lot of what I love about Canada is being systematically destroyed - it's harder to believe that my Canada is being dismantled with the tacit consent of the people around me.
Just today I read that the CBC is being forced to make massive cuts because the government refuses to help. Our reputation as international peace keepers has been tarnished by our participation in the invasion of Afghanistan. The natural world that, in my mind at least, makes up such an important part of the Canadian psyche is being sold off piece by piece.
Of course, here in Conservative Alberta to argue such things is treasonous - here, the doctrine of neo-conservatism rules all: all other opinions, values, and beliefs must bow before it.
Like your Canadian Wheat Board? Too bad; ideologically it doesn't fit.
Enjoy your clean drinking water? That's nice; we feel like building a nuclear power plant on top of the aquifer, so you should stock up on Aquafina.
My greatest fear is that the Canada I love will disappear under an avalanche of ideology.
I am no blind patriot - I am quite happy to admit that my country has many faults; that inequality is growing; that the abuse of authority runs rampant; that ecologically we are irresponsible. Canada is not perfect: it never was and probably never will be.
I think that it's time we took back our country - let's take back hockey from the rich and powerful; let's take back our politics from the ideologues; let's take back our farms from the corporations; let's take back our forests from the clear-cutters.
Let's hand opportunity back to our immigrant population; dignity to our first nations; hope for the future to the masses.
"But Stu," you say, "this seems suspicious. What's with all the flag-waving?"
Dear reader, fear not: I have not lost my mind. Yours truly remains as cynical and jaded as ever, but sometimes a guy needs to stand on a soap-box and talk about his country.
I tell you my Canadian brothers and sisters, a line has been drawn in the sand. Will you stand up for the Canada that should be - the Canada of Mowat and Fox and Douglas and Suzuki, or the Canada that is - the Canada of Harper and his minions?
I , for one, will stand with the should-bes.
And when we meet the enemy face to face (as surely we shall) with their tragic lack of personality and neo-con sentiments I will be proud to stand up, look them in their dull, beady eyes and proclaim as Bob and Doug Mackenze did of old,
"Good day, eh?"
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
turkey hallucination update.
it seems that the urge to own turkeys is no mere hallucination brought on by over-exposure to adolescents.
i've spent quite a bit of time over the past few days trying to locate a source for turkey chicks. i had always assumed that turkeys would be no harder to find than chickens. apparently, i am quite naive.
i started out my search with a fairly specific goal in mind - i didn't want any commercial white turkeys, and i didn't want wild turkeys because i suspect they would fly away - what i was looking for was your good, old-fashioned brownish barnyard turkey.
i remember when i was little going to visit some neighbour or other's house and watching the turkeys in the yard. they were big, prehistoric, bronze coloured things who thought they owned the place. that couldn't have been more than sixteen years ago: if people could find old-fashioned turkeys then it had to possible now.
what i forgot was that sixteen years ago most small towns had a hatchery - i remember visiting the one in stettler - and far more people kept a small flock of poultry in their yard.
a lot had changed since then. the barnyard turkey, it would seem, is another example of how globalization destroys rural economies.
but disaster has been averted - i may have finally located a supplier of big, rusty coloured turkeys. they're in ontario, and i know that isn't really in keeping with my new fervour for local, but a guy's gotta start somewhere.
of course, this means that i really need to find an alpaca.
"umm, stu," you ask, "what's with the jump from turkey to alpaca?"
dear reader, trouble yourself not. i have not lost my mind.
you see, while i think that turkeys are one of the coolest species on earth, my beautiful wife, kayla, feels that the llama is one of the coolest.
since llamas are a large, spitting force of darkness on the earth, the alpaca, their shorter, cuddlier cousin, seems a suitable alternative.
this, my friends, is how farmyards are made.
it is here, dear reader, that i shall leave you. if the opportunity arises you're welcome to drop by the farm.
don't be afraid of the labrador, and you don't need to worry about the chickens or alpaca.
but i'll warn you now, i can't vouch for the turkeys.
i've spent quite a bit of time over the past few days trying to locate a source for turkey chicks. i had always assumed that turkeys would be no harder to find than chickens. apparently, i am quite naive.
i started out my search with a fairly specific goal in mind - i didn't want any commercial white turkeys, and i didn't want wild turkeys because i suspect they would fly away - what i was looking for was your good, old-fashioned brownish barnyard turkey.
i remember when i was little going to visit some neighbour or other's house and watching the turkeys in the yard. they were big, prehistoric, bronze coloured things who thought they owned the place. that couldn't have been more than sixteen years ago: if people could find old-fashioned turkeys then it had to possible now.
what i forgot was that sixteen years ago most small towns had a hatchery - i remember visiting the one in stettler - and far more people kept a small flock of poultry in their yard.
a lot had changed since then. the barnyard turkey, it would seem, is another example of how globalization destroys rural economies.
but disaster has been averted - i may have finally located a supplier of big, rusty coloured turkeys. they're in ontario, and i know that isn't really in keeping with my new fervour for local, but a guy's gotta start somewhere.
of course, this means that i really need to find an alpaca.
"umm, stu," you ask, "what's with the jump from turkey to alpaca?"
dear reader, trouble yourself not. i have not lost my mind.
you see, while i think that turkeys are one of the coolest species on earth, my beautiful wife, kayla, feels that the llama is one of the coolest.
since llamas are a large, spitting force of darkness on the earth, the alpaca, their shorter, cuddlier cousin, seems a suitable alternative.
this, my friends, is how farmyards are made.
it is here, dear reader, that i shall leave you. if the opportunity arises you're welcome to drop by the farm.
don't be afraid of the labrador, and you don't need to worry about the chickens or alpaca.
but i'll warn you now, i can't vouch for the turkeys.
Monday, March 23, 2009
spring: when young man's fancy turns to thoughts of construction.
In my quest to live a little more sustainably I've been trying to adopt a do-it-yourself ethic. It's an idea that I admire and one that, to a great extent, I was raised with.
There's just one problem. When it comes to doing some things myself I really suck.
Now, you can't say that I'm incompetent. I am not an un-handy guy - my wife can attest to the fact that I have successfully repaired her car on more than one occasion, that I fixed all the ceilings in our house before we moved it, or that I repaired our roof in a wind storm with no incident.
On the other, if you asked her she would point out that every board I cut ends up being too short, that there is not a level surface in our house, and that pieces of the kitchen wall fall off from time to time.
A shame, because I always fancied myself having the potential to be a fine carpenter.
My handyman-wannabe heart rejoices, however, when I look at the list of things I need to accomplish over the next few months. Sometime between now and July I need to rebuild the corrals around my yard and construct at least five portable chicken huts. Sometime in the next couple of weeks I need to repair the circuit breakers in my house so that our deep-freeze works. Sometime before the fall I need to build a full-blown chicken coop.
As I sit here and make my list I tear up with joy. Think of all the wood I get to cut! All the right angles I get to construct! Paint to be applied and wires to be soldered - it warms the cockles of this farm boy's heart.
Fear not, dear reader - yours truly is used to the jeers of the doubters: per usual, I shall overcome.
So let the neighbours laugh at my un-level construction projects; let them scorn the sparks that fly from my electrical repairs.
I'm being self-sufficient, dammit.
Besides, my chickens and I think your arrow straight fence and skillful soldering don't look so hot either.
Regards from Alberta's brush plain.
There's just one problem. When it comes to doing some things myself I really suck.
Now, you can't say that I'm incompetent. I am not an un-handy guy - my wife can attest to the fact that I have successfully repaired her car on more than one occasion, that I fixed all the ceilings in our house before we moved it, or that I repaired our roof in a wind storm with no incident.
On the other, if you asked her she would point out that every board I cut ends up being too short, that there is not a level surface in our house, and that pieces of the kitchen wall fall off from time to time.
A shame, because I always fancied myself having the potential to be a fine carpenter.
My handyman-wannabe heart rejoices, however, when I look at the list of things I need to accomplish over the next few months. Sometime between now and July I need to rebuild the corrals around my yard and construct at least five portable chicken huts. Sometime in the next couple of weeks I need to repair the circuit breakers in my house so that our deep-freeze works. Sometime before the fall I need to build a full-blown chicken coop.
As I sit here and make my list I tear up with joy. Think of all the wood I get to cut! All the right angles I get to construct! Paint to be applied and wires to be soldered - it warms the cockles of this farm boy's heart.
Fear not, dear reader - yours truly is used to the jeers of the doubters: per usual, I shall overcome.
So let the neighbours laugh at my un-level construction projects; let them scorn the sparks that fly from my electrical repairs.
I'm being self-sufficient, dammit.
Besides, my chickens and I think your arrow straight fence and skillful soldering don't look so hot either.
Regards from Alberta's brush plain.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Captain Ludd calls, are you listenin'?
Ned Ludd was a good and honorable man.
Over the past few weeks I've been thinking about our obsession with technology and speed.
I've come to a conclusion – to a great extent technology and speed suck.
As a teacher and farmer I have an idea about what it feels like when someone tries to replace you with a machine.
It doesn't feel good.
Just a generation ago the majority of the work done on farms still required a certain amount of physical fitness and critical thought. On some farms now, workers do little more than read the computer monitor in the tractor cab. As tractors get bigger the farms do too - pretty soon the family farm becomes another footnote in a textbook.
When I was in university we had an entire course to demonstrate the technologies coming into schools. Now that I'm in the school system I see these same technologies being used to eliminate teachers in the classroom. It seems that, besides being cheaper, computers have the added benefit of doing as they're told and not discussing pesky ideas like critical thought.
“But Stu,” you inquire, “Aren't you writing this very entry on a computer?”
Ah, you have me there. Yes, dear reader, I am, but let me say this – just because I am writing this on a laptop does not mean that I do not handwrite everyday, and it in no way eliminates the careful consideration used when putting thoughts into words.
But the desire for ever greater speed, greater technology makes me want to take my sabot to the nearest available silicon chip.
When I look at my students - students who have no idea how to think without a keyboard in front of them - I can't help but feel we've lost something. True, they do need to learn how to use computer skills and computers can do incredible things, but what happens when the computer isn't there?
When I look at the farmers I know - people who traditionally knew how to do most anything – you can see that the repositories of ancient knowledge are disappearing and I know that they will probably never be replaced.
But remember this: when Ned Ludd was made obsolete by a steam-powered loom, he knew just what to do – he destroyed the machine that had replaced him.
It's time to lend an ear again to Mr. Ludd. He knew that a life spent hanging on the fringes of the cogs in the system was no life at all.
Thoreau said that “men have become the tools of their tools.” If he'd been born a century or so later he would have turned his ire on the worship of speed. It would seem that the two go hand in hand.
So I pay heed now to good and honorable men. I will close this computer walk down to do some chores, probably do most of the work by hand. I think I'll take my time.
Think your life is too fast, too plagued by machines? Just ask your self this one question:
What would Captain Ludd do?
Friday, March 20, 2009
of turkeys and the plague.
Someone once told me that when plagues come, the teachers are the first to die.
I have reason to believe this is true. Since I began teaching I have probably spent three quarters of the time ill. It’s not really a big surprise –being coughed and sneezed on by unwashed thirteen year-olds from 8:30 to 3:30 every day is not conducive to good health. Come evening a guy just wants to boil himself in bleach.
This latest round of flu - the third since Christmas - seems particularly vicious. I’m feverish and shaky, but I’ve come to work all the same thanks to a charming policy we have requiring teachers to find their own subs.
In my feverish state I’ve suddenly developed an odd urge – the urge to become a turkey owner.
Some people might think that sudden urge to be a turkey owner sounds a little crazy.
I dispute that statement.
The sudden urge to invade Poland is crazy. The sudden urge to engage trees in discourse is crazy. The sudden urge to have a bird of prehistoric appearance wandering the yard is eccentric.
“But Stu,” you ask, “What does your wife have to say about this?”
Dear reader, fear not. My beautiful wife is quite used to my sudden inexplicable schemes. Anyway, how could one not want a giant gobbling dinosaur in her yard? Why else would one move to the farm?
“But Stu,” you inquire, “What could you possibly know about keeping a turkey?”
So many questions, dear reader!
I will learn, my friend. When you have the urge to be self-sufficient it’s surprising what you can figure out.
Besides, I have lived in Alberta my entire life – anyone who has lived that long under the provincial conservatives knows a thing or two about turkeys.
I have reason to believe this is true. Since I began teaching I have probably spent three quarters of the time ill. It’s not really a big surprise –being coughed and sneezed on by unwashed thirteen year-olds from 8:30 to 3:30 every day is not conducive to good health. Come evening a guy just wants to boil himself in bleach.
This latest round of flu - the third since Christmas - seems particularly vicious. I’m feverish and shaky, but I’ve come to work all the same thanks to a charming policy we have requiring teachers to find their own subs.
In my feverish state I’ve suddenly developed an odd urge – the urge to become a turkey owner.
Some people might think that sudden urge to be a turkey owner sounds a little crazy.
I dispute that statement.
The sudden urge to invade Poland is crazy. The sudden urge to engage trees in discourse is crazy. The sudden urge to have a bird of prehistoric appearance wandering the yard is eccentric.
“But Stu,” you ask, “What does your wife have to say about this?”
Dear reader, fear not. My beautiful wife is quite used to my sudden inexplicable schemes. Anyway, how could one not want a giant gobbling dinosaur in her yard? Why else would one move to the farm?
“But Stu,” you inquire, “What could you possibly know about keeping a turkey?”
So many questions, dear reader!
I will learn, my friend. When you have the urge to be self-sufficient it’s surprising what you can figure out.
Besides, I have lived in Alberta my entire life – anyone who has lived that long under the provincial conservatives knows a thing or two about turkeys.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
gravel, gravel everywhere....
spring is coming.
how can i tell?
other than obvious signs like "first day of spring" printed on the calendar there is the fact that the road to my house has turned to soup.
a couple of summers ago the municipality where i live decided to consult residents about how to improve the county, improve sustainability in the region, and improve the general quality of life in this part of the province.
as a result of that process i had the chance to be part of a panel to come up with a plan of attack. we were to discuss our ideas, prepare a plan, and present it to the province.
i arrived with a head full of ideas for community based projects and green developments.
everyone else wanted to talk about roads.
they talked about the number of paved miles in the county. they talked about the quality of the gravel on the country roads. they talked about the intelligence and education of the grader operators.
i arrived at that meeting thinking that here was a chance to make a difference. i left the meeting feeling frustrated and tired. the whole meeting was spent discussing how to improve roads.
which is why i was surprised last spring when the county came and dumped six inches of dirt on the road, dirt they amusingly called gravel. just a couple of weeks ago they did the same - now that the dirt has met the spring melt it has developed a consistency like watery stew.
roads are the bane of my existence.
it's not actually the poor roads that make me complain - it's the nicely paved highways. shortly after our local highways were paved in the late eighties/early nineties our towns started to die - stores shut down, gas stations went under, schools closed - because the world became a little smaller and cities like red deer, with their greater selection of goods and services, seemed that much closer.
i don't claim to be innocent - i willingly went to high school in stettler, an hour's drive away. i still drive to red deer once a week. i drive forty minutes to work monday to friday.
it's hard to stop, but that doesn't mean that changes shouldn't be made.
i'm going to go home tonight and when i get there i'm going to watch my chickens and play fetch with the dog and check on the cattle.
and this time, when the car careens towards the ditch, i'm going to thank my lucky stars for ineffective county councillors and the crappy roads they provide.
how can i tell?
other than obvious signs like "first day of spring" printed on the calendar there is the fact that the road to my house has turned to soup.
a couple of summers ago the municipality where i live decided to consult residents about how to improve the county, improve sustainability in the region, and improve the general quality of life in this part of the province.
as a result of that process i had the chance to be part of a panel to come up with a plan of attack. we were to discuss our ideas, prepare a plan, and present it to the province.
i arrived with a head full of ideas for community based projects and green developments.
everyone else wanted to talk about roads.
they talked about the number of paved miles in the county. they talked about the quality of the gravel on the country roads. they talked about the intelligence and education of the grader operators.
i arrived at that meeting thinking that here was a chance to make a difference. i left the meeting feeling frustrated and tired. the whole meeting was spent discussing how to improve roads.
which is why i was surprised last spring when the county came and dumped six inches of dirt on the road, dirt they amusingly called gravel. just a couple of weeks ago they did the same - now that the dirt has met the spring melt it has developed a consistency like watery stew.
roads are the bane of my existence.
it's not actually the poor roads that make me complain - it's the nicely paved highways. shortly after our local highways were paved in the late eighties/early nineties our towns started to die - stores shut down, gas stations went under, schools closed - because the world became a little smaller and cities like red deer, with their greater selection of goods and services, seemed that much closer.
i don't claim to be innocent - i willingly went to high school in stettler, an hour's drive away. i still drive to red deer once a week. i drive forty minutes to work monday to friday.
it's hard to stop, but that doesn't mean that changes shouldn't be made.
i'm going to go home tonight and when i get there i'm going to watch my chickens and play fetch with the dog and check on the cattle.
and this time, when the car careens towards the ditch, i'm going to thank my lucky stars for ineffective county councillors and the crappy roads they provide.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Where's the black army when you need them?
Whenever I see this picture I can just imagine the premier and cabinet deep inside their chambers, rubbing their hands in fiendish delight.Not being one of the provincial government's core supporters, I tend to feel as if Alberta is being run by a group of power-hungry maniacs. To date I have seen nothing to prove otherwise.
Just try saying that around here though - Endiang is smack-dab in the middle of Conservative country. Federally I think this has been shown to be the single most conservative riding in the country. Provincially my riding has been home to premier Don Getty, deputy premier Shirley McLellen, and now Infrastructure minister Jack Hayden. No bones about it - this is conservative ground zero.
For now.
During the couple of years that I lived in Edmonton I learned that there was one major thing that the farm offered that the city didn't - freedom. Look at it this way - when I was growing up I used to take off most days and just walk wherever I wanted. Maybe I would go snowshoeing or fishing or shoot gophers. Maybe I would ride my horse or play my bagpipes or roast a bag of marshmallows out in the coulee. It didn't really matter what I did because I had the freedom to choose. Living in Edmonton drove home the idea of just how lucky I was to have ever had that freedom in the first place.
Those years in town almost killed me - by the time I left I was a complete wreck. When I got back to the farm that spring I soaked myself in freedom like it was a hot bath, and man did it feel good. Still does.
For now.
Have you heard of Bill 19?
Charming little thing, really: it seems that the Minister of Infrastructure would like to be able to have his way with our land - any one's land actually. There are these bits about the province being able to tie up your land indefinitely if they think they may one day want to build something on it - things like power lines or highways or pipelines or just about anything that strikes their fancy. And then if they change their mind fifteen years later they can choose not to deal with messy things like compensation.
Of course, if you choose not to comply with the provincial diktats they are happy to extend to you a $100,000 dollar fine or a brief stay in prison.
So if the bill passes I may have to bid adieu to that freedom I've enjoyed on my family's own land - at least when the Minister decides that a high tension power line would look lovely in my back yard.
Gentle reader, fear not - freedom yet reigns supreme on the brush plain. Even now I hear murmurs in the enemy camp and the murmurs are talking mutiny.
People of Alberta: pick up your torches! Raise your pitchforks to the air! Let us storm the legislature and let democracy finally shine throughout the land!
Or else you can sign the petition. It's your choice, really.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
it ain't easy being green.
You’d think that living on the farm would make it easy to live a little greener.
It isn’t.
In fact it’s bloody difficult.
I suppose that at one time it wouldn't have been that hard. When my father was young the roads were poor and Endiang, only four or five miles away, had most of what you might need – driving wasn’t a big part of life. Most families had a big garden and raised their own meat. Just looking at those factors I can imagine that one’s carbon footprint was drastically different in the sixties than it is today.
Of course now we need to travel for just about everything. When the railroads died so did most of the small towns and there constituent businesses, schools, and community organisations. You can still get some of what you need at the store in Byemoor, but for anything outside of milk, bread, and coffee you really need to head to the bigger towns further afield.
And then consider the fact that the local farmer’s slogan seems to be if-it-ain’t-supposed-to-be-there-spray-it-real-good. Or that the local oil men won’t be content until every square inch of land has a compressor station or pump-jack on it.
It makes my soul hurt.
What frightens me is that I seem to be one of the few out here who feel this way. I'm sure there are others, but to date the only person I’ve found who agrees with me is my wife Kayla. Ditto for the preservation of the local ecosystem. For the most part my neighbours sit firmly in the I-love-my-big-truck-and-bigger-oil camp.
Of course, I can’t blame them. Most of us here have spent our lives being made to feel inferior by people who believe that no one of worth exists outside the city. And when the same people who write you off as an inbred-redneck-hick turn around and tell you that your lifestyle is harmful to the environment it’s a little hard to swallow.
That being said, I think the neighbours get a kick out of me. Every time I try to walk the kilometre from my house to the main farm yard someone pulls over to ask me if I’m okay – why would I walk when I could just drive?
Or how about last summer at the local gymkhana. I showed up wearing my fair trade organic cotton “Live in Harmony” shirt. I was met by a group wearing “Kill Anything” shirts – and I could just smell the sweat of those little kids on them.
And then there’s the times when I ride my bike out to the field (couldn’t he just take a truck?) or take pictures of wildlife (couldn’t he just stuff it?).
In the end I like it here, and just who’s going to stop me from greening up my life a little bit anyway?
So here I’ll stay with my chickens and my garden, my bagpipes and my indy music, my David Suzuki books and anarchist literature. At least until the government uses Bill 19 to replace me with a transmission line.
Regards from Alberta’s brush plain.
It isn’t.
In fact it’s bloody difficult.
I suppose that at one time it wouldn't have been that hard. When my father was young the roads were poor and Endiang, only four or five miles away, had most of what you might need – driving wasn’t a big part of life. Most families had a big garden and raised their own meat. Just looking at those factors I can imagine that one’s carbon footprint was drastically different in the sixties than it is today.
Of course now we need to travel for just about everything. When the railroads died so did most of the small towns and there constituent businesses, schools, and community organisations. You can still get some of what you need at the store in Byemoor, but for anything outside of milk, bread, and coffee you really need to head to the bigger towns further afield.
And then consider the fact that the local farmer’s slogan seems to be if-it-ain’t-supposed-to-be-there-spray-it-real-good. Or that the local oil men won’t be content until every square inch of land has a compressor station or pump-jack on it.
It makes my soul hurt.
What frightens me is that I seem to be one of the few out here who feel this way. I'm sure there are others, but to date the only person I’ve found who agrees with me is my wife Kayla. Ditto for the preservation of the local ecosystem. For the most part my neighbours sit firmly in the I-love-my-big-truck-and-bigger-oil camp.
Of course, I can’t blame them. Most of us here have spent our lives being made to feel inferior by people who believe that no one of worth exists outside the city. And when the same people who write you off as an inbred-redneck-hick turn around and tell you that your lifestyle is harmful to the environment it’s a little hard to swallow.
That being said, I think the neighbours get a kick out of me. Every time I try to walk the kilometre from my house to the main farm yard someone pulls over to ask me if I’m okay – why would I walk when I could just drive?
Or how about last summer at the local gymkhana. I showed up wearing my fair trade organic cotton “Live in Harmony” shirt. I was met by a group wearing “Kill Anything” shirts – and I could just smell the sweat of those little kids on them.
And then there’s the times when I ride my bike out to the field (couldn’t he just take a truck?) or take pictures of wildlife (couldn’t he just stuff it?).
In the end I like it here, and just who’s going to stop me from greening up my life a little bit anyway?
So here I’ll stay with my chickens and my garden, my bagpipes and my indy music, my David Suzuki books and anarchist literature. At least until the government uses Bill 19 to replace me with a transmission line.
Regards from Alberta’s brush plain.
Monday, March 16, 2009
It's march and something's in the air...
I like teaching – it's fun and I get to work with kids – but at the end of the day, it's not what I really want to do.
I want to be a farmer.
“But Stu?” you ask, “aren't you already a farmer?”
Well dear reader, you are technically correct. I do spend my evenings and weekends and summers farming. Sometimes my mornings too (including one memorable morning last week, complete with forty below wind chill and long strings of profanity produced by yours truly).
But that’s not really farming. I want to get up in the mornings and check the weather and feed the cattle and go about my chores and not have to leave for another job. My father still does the lion's share of the farm work - in the end I'm just playing make believe.
The fact of the matter is this – under provincial and federal governments that openly support industrial farming techniques it gets pretty hard to make a go of it on the old family farm. Not to say that our farm isn't up to the challenge – in our community my family is one of the few that's been able to live by farming alone – but I know it wouldn't be smart to give up that outside income just yet.
There is light at the end of the tunnel, however. (My pessimistic self says beware of the light, but just for you, dear readers, I shall take the happier option.)
The movement to save the environment may, by accident or design, end up saving the family farm. For a dyed in the wool tree-hugger like me it’s a beautiful thing to see these two parts of my life come together. Slow food and hundred mile diet - your names are like music to the ears.
With that, dear readers, I take my leave. I need to throw on my roper boots and a flannel shirt – head outside – have a look around.
Take a deep breath of that fresh air.
Bull shit?
Ah! The manure pile is thawing out.
Spring is on its way and a new chapter in this farm boy's life may have just begun.
I want to be a farmer.
“But Stu?” you ask, “aren't you already a farmer?”
Well dear reader, you are technically correct. I do spend my evenings and weekends and summers farming. Sometimes my mornings too (including one memorable morning last week, complete with forty below wind chill and long strings of profanity produced by yours truly).
But that’s not really farming. I want to get up in the mornings and check the weather and feed the cattle and go about my chores and not have to leave for another job. My father still does the lion's share of the farm work - in the end I'm just playing make believe.
The fact of the matter is this – under provincial and federal governments that openly support industrial farming techniques it gets pretty hard to make a go of it on the old family farm. Not to say that our farm isn't up to the challenge – in our community my family is one of the few that's been able to live by farming alone – but I know it wouldn't be smart to give up that outside income just yet.
There is light at the end of the tunnel, however. (My pessimistic self says beware of the light, but just for you, dear readers, I shall take the happier option.)
The movement to save the environment may, by accident or design, end up saving the family farm. For a dyed in the wool tree-hugger like me it’s a beautiful thing to see these two parts of my life come together. Slow food and hundred mile diet - your names are like music to the ears.
With that, dear readers, I take my leave. I need to throw on my roper boots and a flannel shirt – head outside – have a look around.
Take a deep breath of that fresh air.
Bull shit?
Ah! The manure pile is thawing out.
Spring is on its way and a new chapter in this farm boy's life may have just begun.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
prairie sermon for a march evening.
I went to church today.
Even now I can hear people saying “uh-oh, where're you going on this one Stu?”
Don't worry, it's not nearly as scary as you might think.
Today I went to church, and that's always an odd experience for me. I sort of fell away from the church when I turned twenty – as it turns out it was pretty difficult to hold my leftist views and attend church all at the same time. Since moderation and compromise are not concepts I grasp with ease, something had to go – church was the loser.
For the most part, quitting church was pretty easy – the majority of my friends being lapsed Catholics, secular Lutherans, or atheists seemed to put me in good company. I think that I learned a lot about myself in that time. In fact, I would have to say that most of what I think and know about the nature of the world was formed during that time.
Call it a (nearly) quarter-life crisis, but I've been re-evaluating a lot of what I think I know over this past year. In fact, as much as anything I think that's what this blog is all about – rethinking my place in the world (albeit it in an amusing and frighteningly public way).
(“Oh Lord,” I hear you say, “here we go with the creepy religious experience talk.” Dear reader, have no fear – read on and your mind shall be set at ease.)
Why do we live in a society where we are required to have both feet in the same camp? Why is it that, as a fervent left-winger, the fact that I cling to my religious beliefs is considered ignorant? Why is it that, as a religious believer, my adherence to a political theory is considered to verge on sin? In what way are they truly contradictory? Why do I have to choose between the supremacy of scientific or religious knowledge? Is there any objective way to prove that one has more value than the other?
Post-modernism has always left a bad taste in my mouth, but I'm about to make the closest-to-post-modern statement you'll ever hear from me: I fully reject the idea of many truths, but I'm starting to think that there are many ways to understand the Truth. It's the fact that many of us are working towards something better that deserves attention, not the fact that we disagree about how to get there.
Will I start going back to church regularly? I don't know. Somewhere in the transition from dirty-anarchist-with-a-chip-on-his-shoulder in university to married-rural-teacher on the family farm I learned you have to play it by ear. At the moment, I'm not sure what I'm listening to.
The one thing I know for certain is that Church has value, just like hanging out in the Strat on Whyte Ave, or going to the cattle auction in Stettler, or listening to Against Me! underneath a bust of Marx has value.
And so my friends, I take my leave. Now go out, have a little fun. As they say at the Dead Dog Cafe; stay calm, be brave, wait for the signs.
Happy Sunday from Alberta's brush plain.
Even now I can hear people saying “uh-oh, where're you going on this one Stu?”
Don't worry, it's not nearly as scary as you might think.
Today I went to church, and that's always an odd experience for me. I sort of fell away from the church when I turned twenty – as it turns out it was pretty difficult to hold my leftist views and attend church all at the same time. Since moderation and compromise are not concepts I grasp with ease, something had to go – church was the loser.
For the most part, quitting church was pretty easy – the majority of my friends being lapsed Catholics, secular Lutherans, or atheists seemed to put me in good company. I think that I learned a lot about myself in that time. In fact, I would have to say that most of what I think and know about the nature of the world was formed during that time.
Call it a (nearly) quarter-life crisis, but I've been re-evaluating a lot of what I think I know over this past year. In fact, as much as anything I think that's what this blog is all about – rethinking my place in the world (albeit it in an amusing and frighteningly public way).
(“Oh Lord,” I hear you say, “here we go with the creepy religious experience talk.” Dear reader, have no fear – read on and your mind shall be set at ease.)
Why do we live in a society where we are required to have both feet in the same camp? Why is it that, as a fervent left-winger, the fact that I cling to my religious beliefs is considered ignorant? Why is it that, as a religious believer, my adherence to a political theory is considered to verge on sin? In what way are they truly contradictory? Why do I have to choose between the supremacy of scientific or religious knowledge? Is there any objective way to prove that one has more value than the other?
Post-modernism has always left a bad taste in my mouth, but I'm about to make the closest-to-post-modern statement you'll ever hear from me: I fully reject the idea of many truths, but I'm starting to think that there are many ways to understand the Truth. It's the fact that many of us are working towards something better that deserves attention, not the fact that we disagree about how to get there.
Will I start going back to church regularly? I don't know. Somewhere in the transition from dirty-anarchist-with-a-chip-on-his-shoulder in university to married-rural-teacher on the family farm I learned you have to play it by ear. At the moment, I'm not sure what I'm listening to.
The one thing I know for certain is that Church has value, just like hanging out in the Strat on Whyte Ave, or going to the cattle auction in Stettler, or listening to Against Me! underneath a bust of Marx has value.
And so my friends, I take my leave. Now go out, have a little fun. As they say at the Dead Dog Cafe; stay calm, be brave, wait for the signs.
Happy Sunday from Alberta's brush plain.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Did you expect to hear a teacher say this?
I hate school subjects.
Strange thing to hear a teacher say? Well, it's true. The part of my job that I find the hardest is separating my assigned subject from any other.
Look at it this way – in my English classes I find myself constantly referring to historical figures, events and contexts. No big surprise there, most people seem to acknowledge that history and English are closely linked. But I also spend time talking about the elements, about humours, and about alchemy, which usually turns into a discussion of early science and medicine and how it has changed over the years. I discuss how mathematics and second languages require similar thought processes, thought processes equally valuable in the sciences or school sports.
The most popular crossover, however, was between the study of French and contemporary English when my grade nine students discovered the fact the 'douche' means shower, a fact that gives them no end of enjoyment.
But you see how it is– there's really no basis for the segregation of the disciplines or even the determination of what does as does not count as valuable learning.
It goes beyond simple school subjects too – I spend just as much time talking to students about the experiences I've had bagpiping, farming, traveling, studying, campaigning, protesting, etc. as I do covering the subject matter.
It's the unrelated stuff that sticks.
My grade eleven French students have a background in planetary motion and African politics.
My grade ten English students can talk at length about Hugo Chavez.
My junior high French class can tell you that I am afraid of roller coasters.
Why do they remember this instead of the curriculum?
Because nobody talks to kids. They're are treated as though their grade eleven pure math grade is the only thing that really matters. In the meantime they are ignored by everyone nineteen and older.
I did well when I was in high school – I had good grades, my teachers seemed to like me, and when I graduated I won all sorts of scholarships – but I learned more on the few occasions when people just sat and chatted with me than in all my classes. The same was true of university. The same is true today.
So to all the self-righteous curriculum planners out there – get over yourselves. In two years everyone will have forgotten your contributions to deforestation, but my students will still remember that douche means shower.
Strange thing to hear a teacher say? Well, it's true. The part of my job that I find the hardest is separating my assigned subject from any other.
Look at it this way – in my English classes I find myself constantly referring to historical figures, events and contexts. No big surprise there, most people seem to acknowledge that history and English are closely linked. But I also spend time talking about the elements, about humours, and about alchemy, which usually turns into a discussion of early science and medicine and how it has changed over the years. I discuss how mathematics and second languages require similar thought processes, thought processes equally valuable in the sciences or school sports.
The most popular crossover, however, was between the study of French and contemporary English when my grade nine students discovered the fact the 'douche' means shower, a fact that gives them no end of enjoyment.
But you see how it is– there's really no basis for the segregation of the disciplines or even the determination of what does as does not count as valuable learning.
It goes beyond simple school subjects too – I spend just as much time talking to students about the experiences I've had bagpiping, farming, traveling, studying, campaigning, protesting, etc. as I do covering the subject matter.
It's the unrelated stuff that sticks.
My grade eleven French students have a background in planetary motion and African politics.
My grade ten English students can talk at length about Hugo Chavez.
My junior high French class can tell you that I am afraid of roller coasters.
Why do they remember this instead of the curriculum?
Because nobody talks to kids. They're are treated as though their grade eleven pure math grade is the only thing that really matters. In the meantime they are ignored by everyone nineteen and older.
I did well when I was in high school – I had good grades, my teachers seemed to like me, and when I graduated I won all sorts of scholarships – but I learned more on the few occasions when people just sat and chatted with me than in all my classes. The same was true of university. The same is true today.
So to all the self-righteous curriculum planners out there – get over yourselves. In two years everyone will have forgotten your contributions to deforestation, but my students will still remember that douche means shower.
Friday, March 13, 2009
so, last week i met these really hot chicks....
i have a confession to make. i like chickens.
i never really expected to enjoy chickens this much. chickens were always something that i saw once in a while, perhaps threw some blades of grass to at a neighbour's house, maybe saw at local agriculture events. they were enjoyable, but ultimately forgettable. having chickens is a whole different ball park.
when we picked up twenty little chicks last weekend i did it in the thought that this would be a good way to become a little more self-sufficient - you know, use up some food scraps and grow some eggs, live a little closer to the way our ancestors did.
now i understand how they lived so well without tv.
i've never been a tv fanatic. it's a good way to pass a few minutes in the evening after work and that's about it. i enjoy a little simpsons, sometimes a little david suzuki, but not much more than that.
having chickens is a bit like watching most extreme elimination challenge, the sopranos, and the parliamentary channel all at the same time - some of them are running a pointless obstacle course, some are plotting brutal revenge on their neighbours, and others are arguing over the leftover crumbs at the bottom of the box, all while someone else is falling asleep in the background.
of course, it's not that easy keeping these chickens. being but wee chicks yet it seems that every draft gives them a chill, that the pangs of hunger strike them constantly, or that their heat lamp is disturbing their beauty sleep. it keeps us on our toes. there are wood shavings mysteriously spreading throughout our house. my pockets are full of chicken feed. our cats have turned into death-plotting machines. but that's just a part of the fun.
so, i'll admit it. i like keeping chickens. you may scoff at me and my rural ambition, but i'm having a blast. besides, can you tell me when was the last time that a chicken crapped in your hand?
i can.
i never really expected to enjoy chickens this much. chickens were always something that i saw once in a while, perhaps threw some blades of grass to at a neighbour's house, maybe saw at local agriculture events. they were enjoyable, but ultimately forgettable. having chickens is a whole different ball park.
when we picked up twenty little chicks last weekend i did it in the thought that this would be a good way to become a little more self-sufficient - you know, use up some food scraps and grow some eggs, live a little closer to the way our ancestors did.
now i understand how they lived so well without tv.
i've never been a tv fanatic. it's a good way to pass a few minutes in the evening after work and that's about it. i enjoy a little simpsons, sometimes a little david suzuki, but not much more than that.
having chickens is a bit like watching most extreme elimination challenge, the sopranos, and the parliamentary channel all at the same time - some of them are running a pointless obstacle course, some are plotting brutal revenge on their neighbours, and others are arguing over the leftover crumbs at the bottom of the box, all while someone else is falling asleep in the background.
of course, it's not that easy keeping these chickens. being but wee chicks yet it seems that every draft gives them a chill, that the pangs of hunger strike them constantly, or that their heat lamp is disturbing their beauty sleep. it keeps us on our toes. there are wood shavings mysteriously spreading throughout our house. my pockets are full of chicken feed. our cats have turned into death-plotting machines. but that's just a part of the fun.
so, i'll admit it. i like keeping chickens. you may scoff at me and my rural ambition, but i'm having a blast. besides, can you tell me when was the last time that a chicken crapped in your hand?
i can.
Thus entereth Stu into the blogosphere....
Today I begin my blog. I wanted to have something big and exciting to add as my very first post - something that would knock people's socks off, make them say wow, this guy is really cool.
Unfortunately, you get what you pay for.
As a result, this will have to do. I do hope to give you something worthwhile, something fun, something to think about, but I'll probably just pump out a bit of drivel for you to sift through in the hopes of finding that hidden gem.
And what, you ask, will I be writing about in this blog?
Dear readers, have no fear - politics, farming, teaching, bagpiping, over-sized cookies baked on cast-iron frying pans, wildlife that accidentally wanders into our house - they all have a place in here.
And so it is that I end my inaugural blog. Regards from Alberta's brush plain.
Unfortunately, you get what you pay for.
As a result, this will have to do. I do hope to give you something worthwhile, something fun, something to think about, but I'll probably just pump out a bit of drivel for you to sift through in the hopes of finding that hidden gem.
And what, you ask, will I be writing about in this blog?
Dear readers, have no fear - politics, farming, teaching, bagpiping, over-sized cookies baked on cast-iron frying pans, wildlife that accidentally wanders into our house - they all have a place in here.
And so it is that I end my inaugural blog. Regards from Alberta's brush plain.
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