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.

like orwell, i too need to say why i write

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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or the political landscape; to create a new style of teaching; or to raise chickens and sheep when others think it outdated, the opposition is the same.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

and then it hit me...

The swine flu and I have developed an understanding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy h1n1 free Wednesday from Alberta's brush plain.

one from the birds

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

farm critter census

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a pleasant, snowy day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Regards from Alberta's brush plain.

to do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Wednesday from Alberta's brush plain.