a guy can't sound depressing all the time.

As the more astute of you may have noticed, I haven't posted anything in quite some time.

Life, it seems, has been getting in the way.

Perhaps it's a sign, though, that things are going not too badly: I am, after all, busy because I'm still employed, which I'm given to believe is a good thing.

I'm also busy because this may, possibly, if we're lucky, turn out to be a good year.

Rain has fallen from the sky. The sun is shining on the fields. Grass has sprouted and the animals do frolic. I don't think it's too optimistic to think it a good start.

There are, of course, the standard predictions of catastrophe: if we do manage to get the crop in on time, it will probably get hailed out. If it doesn't get hailed out the value of grain will probably fail to pay the input bills. If the value of the grain does manage to pay the input bills, the price of cattle will probably drop to nil.

But today I need to ignore the probability of disaster, ignore the chances of education cuts taking my job or weather finishing off the crop of markets getting the better of the cattle. We have fields of calves, water in the sloughs, and sunshine today.

All in all, at this moment, life ain't that bad. And today I can't ask for more than that.

Happy Wednesday from the brushprairie. Enjoy the sunshine.

give me chickens or give me death

There are times when you can feel a little embattled living in a rural area.

Right now, however, I feel embattled most of the time.

When I was growing up I never really expected to come back to live on the farm. The farm was isolated, there wasn't really any company, and was ground zero for unpleasant activities (ie. work).

It wasn't long, however, before little things started to get to me. I wasn't sure, for example, how it mattered to my neighbours where on my balcony I chose to rest my bike; or why I should suffer the scornful glances of passerby if I left my Christmas lights up too long.

It's not that people didn't care back home - I'd been privy to many a tut-tut over the state of a neighbour's barbed wire or the straightness of a swath - but most people kept it to themselves and didn't have the time (or, for that matter, the option) to send a bylaw officer over to eliminate said affront to public decency.

But it seems that, not matter how far you get from the city, the city never really stays that far away.

The recent electoral boundaries report, for example, unleashed the traditional cries of how-dare-rural-areas-have-so-many-MLAs; not taking into account, however, that most public money eventually disappears into urban areas; that rural opinions are seldom, if ever, heeded by the government; or that rural services and rural depopulation are rarely considered on equal footing with Calgary's perennial snow-removal issues and Edmonton's angst about the City Center airport.

I have to laugh, however, when things rural make inroads in the urban centers.

Take, for example, the current brouhaha over backyard chickens in Calgary. Some Calgarians wish to join the growing ranks of urban poultry fanciers with a view to produce few eggs, a little meat, and reconnect with their food.

Which, of course, has the tut-tutters out in full force. Because, as we all know, your neighbour's two or three hens contradict your fundamental right to forget that food doesn't grow in the supermarket.

This being a rural topic, and I being a rural person, I think I can offer a bit of advice to the good tut-tutters of Calgary.

It's not manners to stick your nose in your neighbour's business. If they want to go off and act like fools, let 'em.

Don't say a word about their chickens. Just watch and rest sure in the knowledge that you can do it better.

Take my word for it. You'll feel better in no time.

fairly standard thursday afternoon educational musings.

This winter, more so than at any time before in my life, I've fallen into a rhythm.

Every morning I drag myself out of bed, plug in the kettle and fix myself a nice hot beverage (coffee, tea, hot chocolate, chai, accidental mixture of above) and take a nice, long hour to slowly wake up.

It suits me - I'm generally a morning person, but I have the instincts of a bear: the short days and long nights send Stu into a six month long nap-cycle, one only broken by sounds of honking geese and running water.

The best part of it, though, is that once my brain starts to wake up again I start wanting to read.

When I finished university I couldn't stand the sight of a book. I tried to read, but every attempt sent shivers down my spine.

Which was uncomfortable for me: I can't remember not being able to read; I can't remember not having a three of four books on the go at any one time - so it was with a sigh of relief that I read my first novel without breaking into tears.

And, of course, since I started reading again it's been awfully hard to stop.

Which is why, dear reader, I'm baffled by how hard it is to get my students to read.

Back in my day even the non-readers would flip through a magazine. Or read a comic book. Or look for dirty words in the dictionary.

I've tried comic books. I've tried magazines. If I wasn't concerned about angry phone calls I'd tell them where all the dirty words are in the dictionary.

I've come to the sad conclusion that, unless it sings, dances, and exists on a screen, no student will pay attention to it.

The education gurus, in thier infinite wisdom, tell me it's okay, just give them what they want and it will be alright. Meaning that I'm left feeling like one of those roller-skating monkeys with the accordian on the street corner - amusing, perhaps, but certainly pathetic and probably abused.

It would be silly to say that the world hasn't changed from what it was a hundred, fifty, twenty or even five years ago. But it's equally silly to say that we should cater to a lowest-common-denominator that's becoming more common all the time.

I don't imagine commenting on this here will do any good - I suspect the powers that be don't much care to listen to the low man on the totem-pole in Armpit, Alberta.

Maybe if I attached some letters to the back of my name I might matter. Look into it and let me know.

And if you're wondering what the weather's like (again)

"Dear Stu," you say, "why has it been so very long since you left us a blog post?"


Ah, kind reader, it's true. It has been a very long time since I've left a literary meandering here for your perusal. And there's a very simple reason for it - blogging doesn't pay very well.


Not that I am a mercenary blogger - no, no, dear reader. Yours truly blogs out of a desire to spread knowledge and enjoyment among his fellow men.


But let's face it - when jobs are short one must put the proverbial nose to the grindstone and ensure he or she is fulfilling the old contract to the best of his or her ability.


But good news, dear reader, all this time spent chained to a lesson plan has only heightened my desire to add to the neglected blog.


You see, dear readers, the winter has been one of note. Largely because it's a winter that is. And lord knows we haven't had many of those lately.


But this winter has had it all - horrific wind chill, monumental drifts of snow, periodic blizzard warnings. It makes a person feel all old-fashioned and down-home-y.


Which doesn't mean, of course, that the season hasn't held any peculiarities.


For reasons unknown to the author, this winter's wind has chosen to blow primarily from the south and east.


Which is problematic for the following reasons:


a) Back, waaaayyyy back, when my very decrepit house was built, the builders, in their wisdom, put all the windows on the south side (said windows being, apparently, very effective heat drains);


b) Prevailing north-west winds mean that shelter belts, the saving grace of the prairies, were built on that side of the yard (merely serving as something to beat you against when opposing winds occur); and


c) As a child of the prairies, a windy region, I grew with a slight lean to the north and west (a useless adaptation when winds choose to blow from either south or east).


But redemption, dear reader, remains.


Long experience teaches that hard winters can lead to sweeter springs.


Except, of course, when they don't.


For today, I think, I'll take the optimist's option.