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.

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.