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.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, October 30, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, October 16, 2009
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.)
- 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.)
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
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.
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.
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