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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)