Grandma

Lately I've been thinking about my grandma, my dad's mom - Helen Kublick. Grandma and Grandpa lived on about 10 acres on the outskirts of the tiny village of Minitonas. We lived about 8 miles from them when I was growing up but despite routine visits to their farm, it always seemed like a planet in another universe. They had a ramshackle old farmhouse full of wondrous curiosities like an old gramophone in the upstairs bedroom, a china doll with real hair and azure colored eyes that flickered back and forth in her crackled porcelain face if you rocked her, dusty fleece from sheep long gone hanging in the cellar and of course the ubiquitous collection of unknown preserves in glass jars. The drinking water came from a well with a wooden lid. Sometimes we got to pull the bucket up and pour it into the crock on the kitchen counter, a chipped enamel ladle hanging at the ready on its edge. I loved that water despite my mom's caution about critters having fallen into the well and meeting their end. My sister and brother and I stayed with Grandma and Grandpa from time to time if my parents went to the city. That's where my most vivid memories of Grandma come from. Grandma making chicken noodle soup and white bread on the wood-burning stove (she had a modern electric stove but preferred to cook over a wood fire) while Grandpa sat at the little kitchen table slowly peeling apples for pies. He didn't talk much so Grandma filled in the silences, instructing us kids on the finer points of making doughnuts or milking cows. She only spoke German to my dad and my grandpa and because English was not her first language, we would often get a blend of the two languages when she couldn't find the English word she was looking for. It didn't really matter.

When we visited in the winter, the little front porch of the house was crowded with a menagerie of jackets and boots and scarves and mittens. This was a working farm and everything was dirty, permeated with the slightly sweet smell of cows. With the early descent of the winter darkness, Grandma would pull on a pair of boots, a heavy coat and mittens. She was a small woman and I remember fitting my footsteps into hers as she would make her way through the snow to the barn for the evening milking. "Cow-boss, cow-boss!" she called only twice and the cows would gather in from the field towards the barn and their stalls. Grandma loved her cows and her cows loved her in return, obligingly and ungrudgingly giving her milk morning and night. There were pigs and chickens and dogs and cats, all of whom responded to grandma's gifted way with animals. I like to think I got a little bit of this gift but Cassidy has received the lion's share. She is every bit like Grandma was with an intuitive knowledge of animals.

Summertime meant visits from the city cousins. We played hide and seek in hay bales past their prime and in the process, someone would occasional discovery of an egg left by a wayward hen. One of us would determine that possession is nine-tenths of the law and the finder then had the privilege of hurling this fragile orb and its pungent, sulfuric contents at the unyielding side of the barn, sending the onlookers laughing and scurrying in the opposite direction. We found no shortage of things to amuse ourselves with. The garden was a riot of flowers,weeds and vegetables, with dill self-sown beyond the garden's borders and into the neighboring ditches. Two apple trees, hardy to the prairie winters, flanked the garden patch and at least half a dozen outbuildings were full to the brim with abandoned chairs, tractor parts, Christmas decorations, derelict bicycles, barbed wire and rusting mouse traps. This was the backdrop for our childhood ramblings and those long hot summer afternoons became legendary in our young minds. Nothing about my grandparents farm was neat or tidy or orderly. Their home was a distinct departure from ours and we loved it.

Then there were those holiday meals at the big table in the dining room. Grandma had known hunger and this knowledge never left her when she came to Canada all those many years ago. She felt certain that behind the abundantly stocked shelves of the Co-op store, hunger still prowled. But she would outwit him. She would save and accumulate and always have something tucked away to buy him off with. Yet with reckless abandon, she would feed her family, reunited and gathered at the dining room table, not just chicken but chicken and roast beef or turkey and ham. It was as though she was making up for the years when there was never enough. Her generosity to us had something of a frantic edge to it. I cannot remember once ever having left her house without a gift of sorts. She had a sideboard in the dining room crammed full of tea towels, soaps, scraps of fabric and zippers and elastic, panties and bras and blouses, all purchased on sale and just in case there should be a need, everything permeated with mothball scent. She would coax open a heavy dark drawer and procure something for my sister and I (yes, sometimes it was panties!) and whatever it was, no matter how outrageous, we were told to politely accept it. My grandparents eventually downsized and moved to town and now that same sideboard sits in my dining room, housing china dishes that I rarely use. I can't bring myself to refinish it and it still smells faintly of mothballs.

It's funny what a person remembers. My memories of Grandma stack up one on top of the other, creating the patina of a woman who faced hardships, who knew work ethic, who did not complain and who was generous to a fault. She died in 1989 shortly after Gerry and I got married. I am certain she knew she was going to die because she phoned my dad and told him she wanted to sell her beloved cows. I had been living at home with my parents for a few months preceding our September wedding and so I went to the farm that late summer afternoon when the trailer came for cattle. Grandma looked small and old. I sat beside her on a log and I could tell she was trying not to cry but I didn't know what to say or do. If I had that moment to relive, I still wouldn't know what to say or do. Maybe I would just hold her hand...

The Sound of Silence

Lately I've been longing for quiet and my hunger for this serenity grows in the summer when the windows are open on hot summer nights. I am referring to the kind of quiet that you can actually hear. Anyone who has spent time in the middle of nowhere knows what I mean by that. I grew up in northern Manitoba sixteen miles from town on a gravel road. You could hear a vehicle coming from two miles away. Some nights if the wind was blowing in the right direction, it would carry the lonesome call of coyotes from across the river. On a nice fall evening, there was the steady hum of combines from neighbouring farms. Then there was the sound of nothing at all, the silence of a predawn morning or the quiet in the dead of night. These were the sounds of my childhood. There were no squealing tires, no loud motorcycles, no sirens, no thud of music from a passing car. By my description, you'd think we live on the mean street of some sprawling metropolis. That is not the case. We are on a little acreage in Langley but even so, the voice of suburban hustle filters in. There are, however, two sounds in my environment that I do like - the plaintive whistle from the 10:30 PM train as it journeys through Langley and the crowing of a distant neighbour's rooster each and every morning. I accept that I am not likely to find myself living in the kind of quiet that I long for any time soon but there are still those magical moments went the city seems to be still. Those moments are for my enjoyment.

PS The photo is of the elevator in my hometown.

Bee careful...

I have been a negligent blogger! And so much time has past that I don't know what to write about. This was supposed to be a group effort (group = Gerry and I) but half the "group" has yet to make an entry. Actually the other half of the group has been on flood alert and has not had a day off since our return from Brazil at the end of March. Thankfully, the worst threat has past, leaving us unscathed but with a serious warning from Mother Nature.

Speaking of Mother Nature, I have a bone to pick with her. Where the heck is summer?! I showed amazing restraint this year and actually waited until the May long weekend to plant my vegetable garden. When the Westcoast Seed catalogue arrives in January, it takes all my willpower to stay out of the garden shed and away from the hoe and the rake. This year, with the exception of the peas, everything else is cold and wet and waiting for the sun. I think the cucumbers and tomatoes and definitely the basil were actually shivering the other day. Oh well. The raspberries are giving it their best shot, though, and I have had a handful already.

Seeing how there's not much to do in the garden yet, I was cleaning up some branches in the back pasture this evening when I made a fascinating yet frightening discovery. A very large wild bee nest. Gerry to the rescue! At first I thought they were wasps but Gerry used to keep bees with his dad and he corrected me. Like all honey bees, they are generally amicable...unless you inadvertently stick a big heavy branch into the middle of all their hard work! One pound (.45 kg) of honey equals the life work of approximately 300 bees and a flight distance of two to three times around the earth! Type A workaholics to be sure! We watched from a safe distance as they swarmed around, assessing the damage. It was incredible. There were hundreds, maybe thousands. Gerry lit a piece of newspaper on a LONG stick and when in was smoking, he put it by the nest to clear them away. Oh, they cleared away alright. One came straight at him like a heat-seeking missile and found its target on Gerry's right cheek. He saw it coming and did this maneuver like Keanu Reeves did in The Matrix when he was being shot at. Only Keanu was better at it - WAY better at it!! And did I mention Gerry has a bee allergy?? Oh, and yes, did I also mention that the Epipen in the glove box of the car expired six years ago?! No matter. He survived,a bit puffy but alive nonetheless. I figure the bees might just rebuild after all, despite our feeble and somewhat accidental attempt to persuade them otherwise. I guess you could call it survival of the fittest!

PS Notice that the guy in the bee suit is wearing safety goggles and what looks to be little else! Don't try this at home, folks!

It's a boy!!

A picture is worth a thousand words. This little guy is the maiden foal of the mare that has been summering at our place for the last two years. Her name is Bella and she is quite likely one of the nicest horses I have had the pleasure of knowing. After months of waiting,we were all present as she gave birth to this gangly creature. It was very exciting - I even got a bit misty-eyed!

Little is much

On occasion, I have one of those days where, before I even swing my feet over the edge of the bed in the morning, I feel overwhelmed and discouraged but the prospect of the day that awaits me. This morning was like that. I was still sleeping soundly when the alarm sounded - not off to a good start already! And my "do list" was long and sure to get longer as the day progressed. Ugh. As I drove the kids to school, they seemed oblivious to the responsibilities already draped over my shoulders and cheerfully added their requests and requirements to my ever growing list. After dropping them off, I continued on to pick up my daily pile of transcription work from the office. Absentmindedly and huddled under a dark cloud of negativity, I picked up the new CD that Kayden had left lying on the seat and popped it in. This was not by chance. The song is the song that played called "Little is Much" and I needed to hear this and be encouraged. Here are the lyrics...

What is the measure of a life well lived
If all that I can offer seems too small to give
This is a song for the weaker, the poorer and so-called failures

Little is much when God's in it
And no one can fathom the plans He holds
Little is much when God's in it
He changes the world with the seeds we sow
Little is much, little is much

Who feels tired and under-qualified
Who feels deserted and hung out to dry
This is a song for the broken, the beat up,
And so-called losers

Consider a Kingdom in the smallest seed
Consider that giants fall to stones and slings
Consider a Child in a manger
Consider the story isn't over
What can be done with what you still have


Little is much. Be encouraged.

Mark 12:41-43

CCD

They're calling it CCD - colony collapse disorder. I am referring to the mysterious disappearance of bees from their hives. German scientists have linked the cause of the bees' demise to cell phone radiation that interferes with the bees' ability to communicate with each other. They become disorientated and are unable to find their way home. This is just one more reason I am anti-cell phone for anything other than urgent communication. I confess that I do have a cell phone and it's usually turned off or lying in the bottom of my purse with a dead battery. I still somehow manage to live a relatively normal life without relying heavily upon it. Oh, I know. Some of you are rolling your eyes but do we really have to be accessible all the time? In our cars, at work, at school, while we eat in restaurants and my pet peeve - in the grocery store! And don't even get me started on Blackberries and those phones that take pictures and download videos and whatnot! Growing up on a farm in northern Manitoba way back in the day, my dad would have had to go to a neighbor's house to use the phone if he had a breakdown and perhaps needed a part from town. He may have even needed to wait until the phone was free as we were all on party lines back then. Certain neighbors had a propensity for long winded conversations about what was on sale at the Co-op store and how Mr. Hart at the post office charged too much for stamps the other day. You could interrupt these kind of conversations but there was an unspoken protocol that was innate to rural residents. Furthermore, an interruption was always listened in on and an interruption to order a tractor part would have been a week long source of gossip and consternation. No matter. That meant there was time for a cup of instant coffee and a quick visit with the neighbor. Dad didn't call my mom just to chat or to say he'd be home for lunch in half an hour. They used to look at their watches and Mom would start cooking when she figured Dad would be home and Dad would start heading home when he figured Mom had lunch ready. Nine times out of ten, things worked out. I clearly remember when things went "high tech" and Dad installed CB radios at home, in the truck and in several select pieces of equipment. The one in the house was called "Base" but Dad and the hired men came up with their own radio names or handles. I wanted a handle too, something catchy and unique, but Dad said we kids were not allowed on the radios. They were strictly for work and not for goofing around, as he put it.

So, I wonder how we moved so far away from the necessity of communication to the point where we have lost our manners and now we're messing with Mother Nature. Times they are a-changin'...and I'm not sure I like it.

Magic Erasers

I love Mr. Clean Magic Erasers! I have no idea just what they are made of but they are great. They work wonders on those mysterious scuff marks that appear halfway up the wall that the kids never admit to administering there. They do a nice job cleaning the white painted newel posts on the stairs. Mind you, I question the wisdom of painting the posts white in the first place. However, those handy little sponges endear themselves to me most when it comes to cleaning the handle on the fridge. It's not one of those fancy stainless steel fridges that can practically mix and pour you a martini after a hard day's work. No, it's ordinary white fridge and the handle is a little bit rough (I think the salesman called that "textured"). Day in and day out, family members and occasionally guests, tug at that handle and over the course of a few days, the handle shows its grime. Sometimes I feel like the handle on my fridge - tugged upon and slightly grimy. I would prefer that no one sees my life in a less than gleaming condition. Daily commitments and chores, unforeseen circumstances, busyness, procrastination. These all contribute to messing me up. So what is my Magic Eraser? Quite simply, God's grace. Just like I'd never give up on wiping the handle of my fridge door, He never stops cleaning me up. I'm thankful for that. Some days after a lot of wear and tear, I particularly need it. Like those Magic Erasers, God's grace and forgiveness extended to me is a mysterious and amazing thing.

Luiz´s Story

Today was a travel day from Parati to Curitiba via Rio. After an early breakfast we were met by our driver who greeted us in English. His name was Luiz and this is his story.
Luiz was born in the favelas of Rio. His father worked hard but drank alot. When Luiz´s uncle was released from prison, he came to live with the family and things began to disintegrate as the uncle pulled the family into drug trafficing. Luiz eventually lost his whole family to trafficing - mother, father, sister and brother. As a young boy with no family, he found himself on the streets, the `road`he called it. But a woman named Maria took him in and raised him as her own with love and discipline. Later Luiz became a Christian but it didn´t feel real to him. He prayed `to become a servant of Jesus`. A short time later a stranger approached him on the street and said, `You are a servant of Jesus.`Luiz´s life changed forever. A man gave him an English Bible and he taught himslef English from reading the Bible exclusively. After years of witnessing to Maria, she too became a Christian. Luiz left Rio for a quiter life in Parati where he has lived for the last 30 years. He is married with two teenaged boys, the oldest boy is named Genesis. He attends the Assembeia de Deus (Assembly of God) church in Parati where they worship 3 times a week. He has been praying that someone would come to translate their services to English. He grinned as he told us that the Holy Spirit has been working in Parati and that about half of the people are now believers. Besides great conversation, he played great Brazilian music! Earlier in the week, our guide in Rio explained that few people every escape the favelas. Luiz´s life is a beautiful example of God´s amazing power and redeeming grace.
We are blessed to have met him.

Jam Busters in Heaven

I grew up on a farm in northern Manitoba, 16 miles from town. Every Saturday we would drive that 16 miles, 6.5 miles on gravel and 9.5 miles on pavement, for groceries. That would include a stop at the bakery for a week's worth of bread. The bakery probably had a name but in a town so small, it was always just "The Bakery". The owner had a strategic marketing plan - arrange the best sugary stuff at eye level for a 5 year old. That way while mothers bought bread, white of course, the children would stand with their faces pressed to a curved sheet of glass, the only thing separating them from sticky hands and an inevitable sugar rush. I was no exception and I was a creature of habit. I wanted a jam buster. My brother and sister were more experimental in their choices, one week selecting a cream puff, the next week perhaps opting for a long john with sprinkles. We never picked cookies. Mom made those for us. But for me, nothing could satisfy like that confection-coated, raspberry-filled wonder. I don't remember ever having to whine, plead or cajole my mother into making the purchase. She would just look down and nod and as the bakery clerk, appropriately clad in white, would lean over the counter slightly, I would point with silent conviction to that glorious tray of jam busters.

I don't eat jam busters anymore. I think they were better from "The Bakery" than anywhere else on earth. Besides, if you ask for a jam buster at Tim Horton's, the clerk (their uniforms aren't white!) meets your request with a confused gaze and then, like the dawning of a new day, understanding becomes these words: "Oh, you mean a jam-filled doughnut!" Yeah, whatever. Jam-filled doughnut. The name has no pizazz and the doughnut doesn't taste as good as the jam buster of my youth.

Gerry shared a jam buster story with me yesterday. He is in Ottawa for meetings this week but he also made some time to go to a tailoring shop that specializes in the fitting of RCMP officers' uniforms. He spent about two hours being measured and studied and measured some more for his new Inspector's kit. The tailor was a Vietnamese man named Huong and as he measured and pinned, he shared pieces of his life's journey with Gerry. He came to Canada as a young man of 25 to start a new life. That was twenty years ago. He worked hard and started a family and, like everyone else, worked his way through the peaks and valleys that are a part of life. Then in 2003, his 17-year old son drown. Huong's eyes filled with tears as he explained how guilty he feels about his young son's death. If only he had taught him to be a better swimmer. If only. Huong sighed and continued. He is a Buddhist and perhaps this accident was simply meant to happen.

The fitting complete, Gerry was about to leave the shop when Huong shyly asked if he would like to stay for coffee. He led Gerry through the shop into a small backroom where spools of thread lined shelves and industrial sewing machines took centre stage in the cramped quarters. Four other tailors broke from their duties and introductions were made. Someone plugged in the kettle and pulled up an extra stool as someone else cleared a space on the little lunch table. Coffee was served and conversations were shared. Not one of these men came from a similar background yet their lives had become woven together, thread by thread, much in the same manner as the fabric they make a living with. And now Gerry was a thread in their fabric. From a crumpled bag on the counter, Huong produced a jam buster and he carefully cut it in half, some of it's sweet red center finding it's way to the napkin below. It was the only one. He shared it with Gerry.

Last night as I lay in bed, I prayed for Huong and his family. I prayed that the seeds of salvation and hope that Gerry had been able to sow would one day take root and bear fruit. I don't know if we'll eat in heaven but I hope so and I think so because the Bible so often mentions feasts. I pictured Gerry and Huong meeting there one day, sitting down to share a jam buster and stories from the fabric of their lives.

The trouble with titles

Let me preface any future writings by saying that neither Gerry or I have blogged before. Setting up the blog was simple and straightforward until it came time to decide on a title. A blog title, like a person's name, should somehow identify us, preferably in a positive light and we were having trouble with the title. Gerry and I tossed ideas back and forth but nothing seemed to stick. We must have been procuring some rather dismal ideas because the kids jumped in to offer some ideas of thier own. We can credit Cassidy for the title of "Boots at the Back Door" - there are always boots at our back door. We live on a little 2.5 acre chunk of land in suburbia and up until a few years ago, we raised chickens and a few steers every year. The kids wore rubber boots winter, spring, summer and fall in all of their early years. I still wear my rubber boots. If you were to pop around unexpectedly on a nice spring day, chances are you will find me in my boots working in the garden. However, Gerry isn't much for "real" rubber boots. He says they're too hot. So, he wears those little shoe-type boots (we call them "bootlets"). I think he feels they are slightly more fashionable for those last minute dashes to Home Depot!

Enough about footwear! Let me give you a synopsis of our family as follows:
1) Gerry - My fabulous husband of 17.5 years, RCMP inspector, doodler/drawer extraordinaire, owner of a brilliant sense of humour and close follower of Jesus.
2) Lonna (me!) - Blessed with an amazing family and wonderful friends and a great church, compulsive vacuumer, gardener/cook/animal lover, and decorating magazine junkie.
3) Cassidy - 15 year old who tops my height my at least 3", horseback rider and maker of the finest risotto in the Fraser Valley.
4) Kayden - 13 year old who has inherited his dad's quick wit, fan of rock climbing and archery, and maker of innumerable "inventions".
5) Otto - Our Wirehaired Pointing Griffon and canine clown.

The purpose of this blog is simply to give you a little glimpse into our lives. We shall endeavour, between Gerry and I, to journal an entry once a week. Thanks for reading!