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.