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.

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.

let us declare war on unnecessary things.

Sometimes it gets pretty damned hard to sit down and pump out a post for the ol' blog.

Life, it would seem, has been getting in the way.

I've been putting real effort these past few months into simplifying life - every aspect of it. Results have been mixed.

I'm not sure when it happened, but at some point I completely lost control of my own life. Or maybe I was simply naive and believed that, for a while, I was in control of my little world.

Life now is governed by community commitments, family engagements, bureaucratic hoop-jumping, requirements of work (both educational and agricultural), et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseum.

That, of course, doesn't take into account my physical surroundings - at some point our little house became clogged with unwanted clothing, discarded containers, unused appliances, and other detritus of unknown origin.

"But Stu," you say, "that's just life."

Dear reader, say that again and I shall be forced to strike you.

I can think of no good reason why I should allow the situation to continue any longer. So I won't.

The first step, I think, is to get a handle on my physical surroundings. Dispose of the clothes and other assorted crap that's crowding me out of my house.

Clearing out my schedule will be the next step. Decisions will have to be made about what really constitutes important events. Special care will be required when determining which hoops I will refuse to jump through. The aftermath of this, one must expect, will be especially bloody, but the rewards, free time and space to breath, will more than make up for it.

Take heed, friends: the revolution is at hand; change within your grasp. Cling to it while you have the chance.

Happy Friday from Alberta's brush plain.

weathering the storm

The weather this week turned cold and windy. Clouds have moved and there's talk of snow come the weekend.

I'm glad that my work largely follows the seasons. School running through the coldest months, farm work in the summer - it helps me feel connected to the world in a time where more and more people are living removed from it.

My sister recently mocked my back-to-the-land attitude and lifestyle.

After an hour or two spent making fun of her pseudo-bohemianism I had time to sit back and think about what she said.

It appears, dear reader, that my younger sister may have been right.

But it makes me wonder how I can come back to the land when it seems that I never left it in the first place.

I suppose the answer is that Endiang, Alberta (motto: "Not quite the end of the world but you can see it from here") is not immune from outside trends after all: by extension neither are the farms. The fast-paced, consumerist, technology driven world of the urban centers exists just the same at the end of the road.

And frankly I don't find it very satisfying. I don't want a life defined by the number of digits on my paycheque, the square-footage of my house, the year of manufacture on my car.

I don't want to be made obsolete by a machine, or be reduced to the status of technician.

I want to be able to walk where I please, to see the stars at night, to be independent of municipalities and corporations.

Is that cliche? Is it naive? Should I just admit I can't change the way of the world and hold on for the ride?

Because I really don't want to.

I like the farm. I like how the work changes from day to day with the weather and seasons. I like how I am more and more able to provide for myself.

As it stands I can provide some of my own meat, eggs, and vegetables. Soon I'll be able to provide my own milk and wool. With time, maybe electricity and heat.

It's a lifestyle that makes me happy. It's a lifestyle I'm starting to think more people yearn for.

Will I be able to pull it off? I hope so. But I suspect it will be difficult in the future for people like me, people who value the institution of the family farm, to continue.

Because the powers that be seem to want us to dry up and blow away. Make way for the corporate farms to come.

For now, though, I'll hold out in my little island of sanity.

Regards from Alberta's brush plain.

a year without combines

You’d think that the third year of teaching would be easier. That starting up in the fall would take a little less out of you.

If you thought that, though, you’d be sorely mistaken.

The first three weeks of this school year have torn a strip out of me. I can feel my immune system slowly crashing; my eyes droop a little more every day. I am completely exhausted.

Not to say that the year has been bad: by week three the past couple of years I was already looking for alternate employment.

This year the sense of dread is largely gone.

But a new school means learning new names, new faces, new procedures, new locations, new habits. Teaching new courses means new curriculum, new assignments, new marking routines.

And of course, this year has come with its own particular stresses.

Schools, we are assured, need to ready themselves for the H1N1 plague we’re told will kill us all. $80 million budget cuts have everyone questioning the longevity of their employment. Talk of elections has the whole country up in arms.


What I need, dear reader, is for the whole world to step back and take a breather.

Which is why, this year, I find I really miss the harvest.


I think some farmers find harvest time particularly stressful : the potential for disaster – fires, rain, untimely snow, etc. – can be overwhelming at times.

For me, though, harvest is when I finally get to see the reward for all the evenings and weekends. Watching wheat pour into the combine hopper makes stiff necks and sore backs worth it.

At harvest time I turn off my brain and enjoy the world around me: the air is sweet with grain dust, the stubble shines in the fields.


But this year I get none of that. Our harvest is largely done. The early summer drought made sure of that.

Which, of course, means no combining this year. No wheat in the hopper. No golden stubble.


Instead we’ve a pit of silage and a winter ahead of us.

But we should count ourselves lucky. The year was not the wreck it could have been. We’ve feed for our cattle, which is something, and the chance to try again later.


And next spring, when I find myself swearing at the tractor, I’ll remind myself of the combining and reward to come.

That should straighten me out for a week or two.

for fall, too, must come

Fall is coming.

You wouldn't really know it, though, to look around.

It's as hot now as it was for most of July and August; the mosquitoes are only just beginning to hit full stride; the air is humid and heavy and wind pretty rare.

But there are signs. The crows have left and ravens replaced them. In places the leaves have turned golden, the grasses red. Thunderheads in the afternoon have been replaced by sheets of gray.

In short, fall is doing its damnedest to get here. It's just being a bit slow about it.

From my viewpoint it can't get here fast enough. I need the fall to come. I need the year to end. This year has been long, hard, and exhausting. I need the cold days of fall to refresh me.

If you're like me and long for the cold days and short nights of fall, rejoice. It will be here 'ere long.

In the meantime, though, feel free to mutter at the sun worshipping masses with me.

Happy Wednesday from the brush plain.

a little september angst

Why should a person prefer one place over another?

It's a question I ask myself a lot. It's a question you have to ask yourself when you chose to live on the farm.

I like living on the prairies. I like seeing the sunsets and the stars; the chinook arches in winter; the flocks of geese in spring and fall. I like the fields of wheat and barley; the smell of hay in summer and the sound of frogs in the slough.

But whenever time I visit the mountains it takes every ounce of willpower to stop myself packing up and moving there.

A weekend visit to Banff and Canmore reminded me of how much I love the mountain air, the mountain weather and mountain views. Maybe it's the novelty of it: Endiang, Alberta isn't exactly noted for its vertical height or majestic beauty. Perhaps if I lived there it would quickly grow old.

Then again, maybe it wouldn't.

At the same time I feel an overwhelming sense of loyalty to the old farmstead. A glance at the family tree shows that my family has stayed far longer on that patch of ground than they ever had anywhere else: prior to my grandfather's generation my forebears spent their time wandering around Europe and North America: England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, France, Holland, Germany, New York, Northern Ontario, Kentucky, Illinois, Saskatchewan, Idaho being just a few of the birthplaces that show up on the old pedigree.

The wandering stops when you get to the farm. It seems that prairie dust and slough water get into the veins after all.

Sometimes I feel like it's a cop-out to stay here on the farm, that teaching is just a way to postpone the inevitable.

I feel like I need to do this, though. I cannot just give up on a farm my father, grand-father, and great grand-father worked.

It would be easy, but I'd consider myself a failure if I did.

So, I'll give it a try. If, in ten, fifteen, twenty years time it looks like farming's a bust I'll admit defeat. Pack up my bags and find a nice, quiet mountain to hang around on.

But something in my bones tells me that whether on a prairie or a peak I'm going to end up on a farm.

newfangled gadgets

I'm just old enough that I remember the world pre-internet.

It's fair to say I'm from the last generation that can claim that.

It's funny - we don't often talk of the world pre-internet anymore. History before the internet is like history before Christ: so far in the past that we speak of it as a vaguely interesting, but ultimately dead period.

Although I proudly claim the title of Luddite, I am not a part of the ugly mob that decries the internet as evil. I will not condemn cell phones, Blackberries, iPods, laptops, et cetera. I have no intention of going back to a world without them.

Because I like the world they create. I like that I can chat with someone in Brazil, New Zealand, or India at little cost from my home. I like that I can maintain daily contact with friends I otherwise would have forgotten.

But has the world really has gotten smaller?

Or did Cap'n Jack Sparrow have it right when he suggested the modern world just has less in it?

Because no one can deny that each technological advance prods an advance in globalization. Or that each advance in globalization sounds a death knell for another aspect of local culture.

I can't help but think, though, that we're wasting the great potential available to us.

A synthesis, I think is called for. A fusion of old and new for the future.

It's something to be wished for, certainly.

"Whoa, Stu," you say, "Isn't that a bit, you know, much for the first post of the fall? And maybe a bit cliche?"

Dear reader, my apologies if I come off sounding like some UN lackey - it was a long summer and the mosquitoes have drawn too much blood off my brain.

I will speak of it no more..today... but think about it. Maybe the Amish girl on the cell phone has it right after all.

musings on a goat

It looks like out little collection of farm animals is going to get a little bigger.

That isn't to say that we haven't all that many animals running around as it is. Although Kayla and I keep our little flock of chickens as 'our' livestock, the farm as a whole is home to about 200 head of cattle.

Sometimes it's fun to branch out a bit - sometimes branching out is just a good idea. Every opportunity to learn about a new animal is an opportunity to rediscover part of a knowledge base that's getting narrower and more specialized over time.

Because it seems to me that the old time farmers knew everything - how to keep cattle, sheep, goats, pigs, chickens, turkeys, ducks, horses, you name it; how to fix anything from a combine to a screwdriver; how to grow any plant and where to grow it.

That's not to say that farmers are less knowledgeable - I wish I knew a quarter of the things my father knows - it just seems that so much of that knowledge is now technology based. The Luddite in me shudders at the thought.

And so we're getting a goat. I know next to nothing about goats. I know they have hooves and look a bit like miniature ugly cattle. Beyond that I am largely ignorant.

But the opportunity to learn about goats excites me. I look forward to finding out about goat personalities and traits, what they like to eat and how they like to live.

It's exciting to gain a bit of knowledge out of the ordinary. It makes the world seem a little bigger again.

The goat will arrive soon. I suspect it will be a steep learning curve, but sometimes the bigger challenges are more worth it.

Happy monday from the brush prairie.

the summer, too, shall pass

And so it starts.

Summer this year was busy. Terribly busy. The promise of free time on the drought stricken prairie was short lived: summer is out and school is about to go back in.

I am, however, feeling somewhat hopeful about this year.

You see, this year I'm the English teacher.

Perhaps that doesn't mean a lot to some of you. One teacher is much like another and is probably not worth mention.

For me, however, being the English teacher means something altogether different.

You see, this is why I went into education.

I didn't become a teacher because of the pay, hours, or kids. I became a teacher because I wanted to teach high school English.

And here I am. English teacher in a prairie high school.

Which makes it better, you know, because the prairie high school teacher is something of an archetype. I'm not sure I've been anything archetypal before. This is sort of exciting.

And so I'm going to sit now. Look out my classroom window at the dusty little town. Look at the shelves of books around my wall and think about the fall.

Regards from Alberta's brush plain.

too many sunny days blues

Television and radio weather announcers are jerks.

I try to cut them some slack. I try to be reasonable. I try to see things from their point of view.

In the end I remain convinced they're all jack-asses.

By now, of course, I think most people in Alberta and Saskatchewan are aware that a huge swathe of the prairies is locked in terrible drought. You know the sort - howling winds, dust storms, dying crops.

Supposedly, those in the weather-biz would have gotten the memo by now.

It seems they ignored it.

Because for weeks now I've been listening to "it's another beautiful day out there," "no end in sight to the great weather," or (all time favourite) "don't worry, no rain in sight."

My twitching eyelid begs to differ.

Here on Alberta's brush plain the only word that can raise a smile is rain. The only morning that looks hopeful is a cloudy one. "Warm and sunny" sounds like a swear word to me.

But this week the tables have turned. Clouds fill the sky. Showers are doing their damnedest to fall. The weather-men are all crying.

And I feel glad.

Dear reader, if by chance you find yourself drenched by rain, take heart. Know that there are others who would gladly be in your place.

And if you come across a weather man talking about beautiful sunny weather, punch him once on the nose for me.

I'll be forever in your debt.

first post after a long pause

Dear reader, my apologies if I have left you sitting these past weeks wondering when, pray tell, you would get to read a new post from your favourite blogger.

Take heart, I have returned.

The fact of the matter is that now that my summer holiday has begun my free time has dwindled. Considerably dwindled. This is possibly the first moment I have spent not driving, driving tractor, bagpiping, fencing, moving cattle, branding, feeding cattle, etc. since school let out several weeks ago. Free time, for the time being, has exited my vocabulary.

Which isn't to say that I've not enjoyed myself. I'm finally getting back into shape; I've so far had a successful summer bagpiping; I've nearly perfected the rain dance (I think I'm close - clouds are building to the west and I at least know it wasn't a cataclysmic-fire-dance).

This is the pattern that has marked my summers since I was old enough to work on the farm – a pattern that has marked life for farmers over generations.

I'll admit, for a long time I hated it. In high school it was frustrating to be tied to a hay field while my non-farming friends spent much of their summer working mindless jobs with free evenings. In college it drove me batty, working myself to exhaustion while some of my friends spent their day lying on picnic tables, tanning, at what were amusingly called 'jobs'.

I think that I can say I'm a little older and wiser now. Hindsight shows I was pretty lucky to spend my days working a job with real responsibility attached. I was fortunate to be doing work that left me with a tangible outcome I could point to and feel pride in.

“Stu,” you say, “we get the whole 'lessons learned' thing, but would you please get to the point?”

Ah, dear reader, patience. I will come to the point presently.

I wax nostalgic about the farm work of years past because the normal pattern has been disrupted.

Whereas July and August normally mean, for me at least, making hay and eating cherries, continuing drought conditions mean hay-making has been canceled.

Eating cherries doesn't hold the same pleasure without the smell of hay.

I thus feel lost this summer. My purpose has been disrupted. I know not my place in the world.

So I keep myself busy by whatever means are available.

Today a dug a hole. Big hole, too. About eight by twenty feet. Ostensibly it will hold the foundation for my chicken house. I'll believe it when it happens.

Soon I'll go check the cattle.

Not that I think anything has gone wrong with them. Only that I need something to make me feel useful.

So, my friend, I take my leave. If you need me, I'll be out in the pasture.

And if you have hay to make, I'm your man.