Things are only things.

"Everything in life is relative. I'm short compared to Shaq, yet I'm tall compared to a child. I'm old compared to a baby, but young compared to my dad. I'm a dunce compared to Einstein, yet fairly clever compared to most house pets. How we feel about our possessions is also relative. Relative to what? To the possessions of our friends, of course."
~David Chilton

Somebody broke into my son's home and stole some of his possessions. They weren't my possessions, but I was furious nonetheless. Livid! I sympathized with him, and then felt incredibly sad for him, then stomped around the house flinging curses into the air, sending the nastiest of vibes and evil thoughts to whomever the thief or thieves were. Let me tell ya, if any of my Irish blood has the power to curse, then these thieves are done for. Done for!

Then I calmed down somewhat and was thankful that the dogs were OK, and that no one was home at the time, and that it was his empty house (other than the dogs) and not one of the older folks who live nearby...it didn't turn out to be one of those horrible home invasions that have such tragic endings. Not that I am forgiving or feeling sad for the thieves, who are probably drug addicted and brain addled. On the contrary...I hope they rot in Hell.

But he will be able to replace most of the stolen goods, and the things that cannot be replaced, like my father's watch, which wasn't even valuable, at least not in a monetary sense, well, that's where "everything is relative" comes in. Maybe not even that so much as "the power of perspective."

Sometimes nothing is better for a case of the blues than a dose of perspective.
I was proud that my son, while most assuredly being pretty pissed, was also of the mindset that: "Life goes on" and "My dogs are OK". I'm not so sure that I would have such a good attitude. (as a matter of fact, I know that I don't. Every time I think about it, I can feel my blood pressure rise and that vein in my neck start to throb.) So, the following is really a reminder for me.

"Frustrated that your HD TV isn't there and you have to use a more normal one? Remind yourself that more than nine hundred million people across the globe don't have access to safe drinking water.

Annoyed that you don't have stainless steel appliances? Keep in mind that one in six people go to bed hungry every night.

Is it really a big deal that you can't locate a high-speed wireless connection? Remind yourself that more than a billion people don't even have electricity.

Our pets, our pets, for Heaven's sake, live more comfortably than half of the world's population.

We obsess so much about what we don't have that it affects our ability to enjoy what we do have.

~David Chilton.

And when I think about it, forcing the thoughts to the back of my mind of how I'd like to punish the people who had the nerve to come into my son's home, touch his belongings and take my father's watch, I think of my father, who was so very casual about belongings. His favorite saying was "Don't cry over spilled milk." He would have been just so grateful that no one was hurt, and he actually would have been a little horrified at me for being concerned about "stuff."

So I'll take a deep breath, remind myself that what goes around, comes around and be pleased that my father lives on in my son, no matter who has his possessions.

But I still hope the bastards rot.

So, you know, I always thought I'd be a perfect contestant for Survivor. It's like I've been practising my whole life. I think what started my determination to outlive any catastrophe was the book "My Side of the Mountain" by Jean Craighead George. I read it when I was about 12.

The book follows Sam Gribley, a 13 year old boy from New York City, who chooses to reject urban life, and runs away to his great grandfather's old abandoned farmland in the Catskill mountains to live off the wilderness. He brings with him a penknife, a ball of cord, some flint and steel, 40 dollars he earned from selling newspapers in the busy streets of New York, and the knowledge he gathered reading books about survival.
When he finally gets to the Catskill Mountains, he slowly begins learning the practical aspects of wilderness life, applying the things he read while preparing. He perfects the best ways to fish, starts to orient himself, and learns to forage. He burns and chops out a hollow in a huge hemlock tree to serve as a shelter. He hunts, lays traps, and manages to capture and tame a baby peregrine falcon who he names Frightful, who helps him catch small animals.

I was spellbound and spent that summer trying to find somewhere to hide out and imitate Sam's life. Not an easy chore when you live in the flattest part of Saskatchewan, and you're not allowed out after dark.

Then my Mum introduced me to the books of Euell Gibbons, which I devoured (that's a pun ,if you recognize the author) . I didn't try to run away anymore, but instead I spent my days foraging off of the land, just like Euell taught me. I'd boil up a mess of greens, mostly dandelions and large pieces of crabgrass since there isn't a lot of wild greenery in central Saskabush. I found bulrushes in the local swamp though, that was a treat, and I'd haul them home, dripping and slimy, and grind the roots to make flour, and slice the young cattail tops to fry up. The stalk can be used like an onion. Just think! You can make a batter to coat the cattail in, and flavour it with the onion-y stalk. A whole meal that has 12 times the Vitamin C of an orange. And rose hips for dessert! It was all edible, but I have to admit, really rather disgusting. I'm sure at this point my parents would rather I live outside in a hollow tree, like my idol Sam. I think I recall my Dad even mentioning that, after another "meal" of some ungodly concoction.

Then, to make matter worse, my Mum bought me "The Whole Earth Catalogue", which taught me even more! How to make wool, how to weave, how to make candles and infuse them with scent from wild flowers, how to build a snow shelter, a raft, a tree house, how to cure a cold and how to await water rescue, how to build a fire. In other words...how to survive. You know, after the nuclear holocaust when we all have to start over again.

I didn't get into eating ants and grasshoppers, but, if I had to, I could. I know how to get water from a fish (remember this..it could save your life...eat the eyeballs)

So there I was, wearin' my cool poncho, wearin' my beaded leather moccasins (which I could have made myself, knowing how to skin a deer and chew the hide...thanks Whole Earth Catalogue) My hair was long and parted in the middle, a headband finished the look. Yup, I was a Child of the Universe.

Then I graduated to other post apocalyptic books that also taught about survival. Stephen King's "The Stand" (unedited version only please) Neville Shute's "The Beach", Robert McCammon's "Swan Song" and Edward Silberstain's "Abandoned". Normally I never read a book twice, but these four? I've read them time and time again.

Stuck in some quicksand? Give me a call. Need to build a travois to haul your friend out of the bush, that is, after you've set his broken leg? Just dial my number. Need to boil some water over the fire but you don't have a pot? (and no, it's not a coconut shell) Give me ring...I'll fill ya in.

My point being....I am ready for Survivor! I've been ready since 1974. It's a shame that Canadians can't apply. I'd be a shoe in. I'd wax those young folks in a freakin' heartbeat. I would rock!

Just one thing though, there would have to be no spiders there. And I'd have to at least be able to put on a bit of eyeliner and mascara in the morning, after I shower. And, you know, I'd have to have just a small cup of coffee as well. And I need good tissues to clean my glasses, I get really pissy when they're all smudged and blurry. And I couldn't sleep cuddled up to a stranger who snores and farts, so you know, a little hut of my own would be good. I'd make it myself. I have a wonky knee, so I can't really run, so I'll tend the fire while the rest of you compete, I'm not competitive at all. And I like to sleep in a bit in the morning too. I'm older, so I doubt that anyone will have a problem with that. So, what the hell Jeff Probst? When's my interview?

I'm no Martha.

I am no Martha Stewart, and nor would I want to be. I sure admire her though, indeed I do. I read her magazine every month, although I get it from the library, a fact which I'm pretty sure would put me on her shit list. Not that she would ever say "shit list", or even admit to having one.

I have had some success with some of her crafts and some of her really simple recipes, but so many of her recipes tend to have ingredients that I not only don't have in the house, some of them I have never heard of before. I mean seriously, have you ever heard of "lovage" or "muhammara" or "ajwan seed"? Have you? Really? I don't believe you.

I've heard of pomegranate and I've heard of molasses, but I've never heard of "pomegranate molasses". Lately I've heard mention of "za'atar", but I certainly don't know what it is, and I know damn well I don't have any in my cupboard.

I often buy my spices at the Dollar Store (Shhh...don't tell Martha that) If I went in there and asked for some "ajwan seed", I bet they'd call the RCMP. If I asked for "lovage", they'd direct me to the Adult Store. If I asked for "muhammara", they'd probably think I was just clearing my throat. So, it's not really much use trying any of Martha's fancier recipes. Besides, I have a few tried and true things that I make when friends come over. Everyone has a few recipes that they have perfected over the years, and you always know that this particular meal will be a rousing sucess. I think people even look forward to coming over and having the same thing.

But. *sigh*

Today, I read this in her magazine: "I keep records of all meals served so that if I have the same houseguests twice, I don't serve them the same thing more than once--unless, of course, they beg to have their favorite dish again."

What can I say? I'll just never be able to compete with Martha Stewart.

The picture in the below post looks much nicer when you double click in it, and then read the short poem.

'Tis evening on the moorland free, the starlit wave is still.

Home is the sailor from the sea,

The hunter from the hill.

~A.E. Houseman.

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My Grandpa is WHO?

I always thought my Grandpa looked a lot like Clark Gable. Hair swept to the side with a bit of Brylcreem, ("a little dab'll do ya"), ears that stick out a bit; poor Clark, such a ladies man, but oh, those ears...., that shadow under his lower lip, those bushy eyebrows...yup, my Grandpa looked a lot like ol' Clark. Funny, I have sticky-out ears, bushy eyebrows and a shadow under my lip too. Wait...you don't think....naah, couldn't be...could it? Could my Grandfather possibly be....Clark Gable??? My heart is going all pinball-wizardy...let's figure this out.

Well, one was born in 1900 and one in 1901, but birth certificates are easy to fudge, especially if it's only by a year. They both served in WW2, hhmmmm...both gone from home at the same time......

My Grandpa was away from home a lot, he worked in Detroit, in the auto industry, for years. Or did he? Was he actually in Hollywood, making movies, having children with famous Hollywood starlets? Saying he worked in Detroit would have been a wonderful excuse for having American money. And probably that's where he learned to be so cool. My Grandpa was a hep cat, the bee's knees and 23 skidoo to you too.

Hey! My Grandpa was a Freemason and so was Clark Gable...coincidence? I'm thinking not.

Clark's ethnicity was Irish, and my Grandpa was so incredibly proud of our Irish heritage, I guess because it was something that he could openly share, as opposed to having to hide his true identity.

And speaking of identity, did you know that the "Clark" in Clark Kent was inspired by Clark Gable? Hmm? A man hiding his "true" identity. Well, it's pretty darn apparent to me what's going on here.

Clark Gable died in 1960, but he had a closed casket. I wonder why? No one in Hollywood had closed caskets back then, it just wasn't done? Is it because ....he wasn't really in there?

In 1960, I was already born, and my Grandpa was devoted to me, obviously he couldn't be in Hollywood making movies, and watch me grow up me at the same time, so I think it's pretty evident that he faked his death, left Hollywood behind and came to finish out his days in Victoria.

He would have been 111 years old today. One Hundred and Eleven!

I will now thank you to know me as Shannon Kelly Gable Smitna, and for those of you who think I am foolish, well , "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."

Jimmie Rodgers - English Country Garden

It's sort of strange how something so technologically futuristic can bring a person so close to their past. Of course I mean computers; and more so, what they contain, and the most amazing (to me) are Google and Youtube. If you are anywhere near my age, you might want to play this YouTube video while you read this, and it might bring back memories for you too. And if you're young, with small children of your own, well, maybe it might make a nice change from The Wiggles, or Barney, or whatever is trendy these days.

My Mother used to sing lots of songs to me when I was little, and a lot of them were songs that she learned from her Mother. That was what we often did for entertainment we sang, we read, we walked and played. We didn't have a TV for years and years (and when we did, it was a small B&W and we only got CBC, but that's a whole different time and place)

I remember my mum singing while she cleaned the house, singing while she made dinner, singing when she made the beds and dusted. I have no idea if her voice was any good, but to a child, a Mothers singing is always perfect. Hmmm...my voice is simply terrible, I can't hold a note worth beans. I wonder what my kids remember of my singing?

Mum would sing while going downstairs to use the old wringer washer, I'd have to stand back because we all knew the stories of someone getting an arm torn off because they stood too close to the wringer.

She'd sing while hanging the clothes on the line, I can still hear that "snap" as she shook out the pillowcases before hanging them . I'd play with the clothespins, which isn't as much of a poverty thing as it sounds, the old wooden pins made perfect clothespin dolls, every little girl had clothespin dolls.

My dad made me a child size ironing board and I'd iron along with my mum. I can still hear the "psssst" of the spray starch, and the sizzle that the iron would make as it hit the damp clothes. Not my iron, mine wasn't real. Things were different back then, but I didn't have to iron at 5 years old!

It sounds pretty old fashioned and gender biased, but it wasn't a bad thing, not then. A women didn't have to work, but she could if she wanted. My mum was a photographer in the Airforce, and she retired to stay at home and raise me. She loved taking care of my Dad and me, and being a housewife. And I'm not going to say "homemaker"...that was a term no one had even heard of back then, and there was no shame in being a housewife at all.

My parents were pretty modern for those times. I'd get toy trucks and toy guns for Christmas, as well as Barbies. I'd go to "work" with my Dad on weekends and he taught me about carpentry and how to use tools. My Dad would do dishes and laundry, and these were things that most men just didn't do back then. Again, it wasn't a bad thing, it was just the way things were.

And he sang too. His favorite song, or at least the one I recall hearing him sing the most was "They Called the Wind Mariah..." My mums  was "An English Country Garden".

I had long forgotten the words to both songs, and not that many years ago I'd be feeling pretty sad about it...knowing that the words and the tune were long gone. BUT, the whole point of this post is to shout out the joys of Google and Youtube. Seriously, you can enter a few words of whatever you're thinking of, and "voila!" Chances are really, really good that whatever you are looking for will be but a mouseclick or two away. I just am always amazed. My mum never used, or even saw, a home computer, and to think that something she could not even visualize would bring her back to me, is truly like a little technological miracle.

It makes me wonder what good things are yet to be invented, things that I can't even imagine, will bring me closer to my kids, when I'm gone.

Every day is a surprise.

It's true, every day really is a surprise. When I get up in the morning, the first thing I do is open the blind on the bedroom window, and I have that half a second of anticipation as to what might be out there...snow? rain? grey clouds? blue sky? I look out into our backyard and over the fence into the neighbours back yard, will I see the neighbours shovelling? mowing? having a morning cup of coffee? Will their dog, Chinook, hear the blind and look back at me, head tilted sideways in curiosity? What I see will sometimes have an effect on the rest of my day...you know, will I change plans because of the weather? Will I go for a walk in the forest, or do laps at the arena? Whatever my choices are, they usually aren't very life-changing.

However, you just don't know what the day will bring as the sun moves through the sky...from moment to moment something might happen that will change your life, either for good or for bad, and in a way, it's sort of frightening, not knowing what choice to make. Even simple things like when I'm walking in the bush, I come to many forks in the path and sometimes I take one without even thinking, other times I wonder which way to go.... I always end up back at home anyhow, but what if I come across a nasty dog that attacks me, or a cougar, or I trip and snap an ankle and no one knows where I am? How do you know which choice to make? And does it matter? Would something equally bad happen if you choose the other path? Or something equally good?

Or, does it even matter what you choose? Is the choice is made for you. Karma? Fate? Destiny? The Will of God?

Two of my friends woke up one day this summer, I'm sure they both looked out their window and had no idea that on this day, their lives would change.

One friend bought a lottery ticket and won $500, 000! A half a million bucks!

The other friend said "Have fun" or something equally inane to her 20 year old son as he went out, and on his way home that night, he was in an accident and died instantly.

Both of my friends are, as far as I know, equally decent and good people. So what's it all about? Who made that choice?

~There are the waves and there is the wind, seen and unseen forces. Everyone has these same elements in their lives, the seen and unseen, karma and free will. ~Kuan

Sweet bird.

People always say you never see baby crows, and I always wondered why that was, because it's true...you just never do see baby crows. But to my surprise, here is one right before my eyes. Double click on the picture to see his downy feathers, and his nervous eyes. He sat on that fence for close to an hour and a half, and I managed to get closer and closer. I'm thinking his crow-folks told him to wait while they were off looking for whatever it is that crows look for, old french fries and other bits of tasty refuse.

It made me think of "Sing a song of Sixpence, pocket full of rye...4 & 20 blackbirds baked in a pie." Lately I've picked blueberries and made a pie, picked rosehips and made a loaf, I wonder how long it would take me to gather up 23 more blackbirds?

Really?

There is a public library not too far from Shane's place. I always check out libraries when I'm in other places, it's like checking out grocery stores and Mc Donalds...you can get a "feel" of the locality by going places that the locals go. A lot of people sniff that supercilious sniff and say "McDonalds? I'd never go to a McDonalds while on holidays...I'm a traveller...not a tourist." Pfft, pshaw to those folks...other countries have the most amazing McDonalds ever, plus they usually have clean bathrooms. Paris...have a beer with your burger, Patras....have Greek salad and souvlaki, Italy...the best gelato ever. Don't be a travel snob...if all the locals eat at a McDonalds, then...well, it's not really a tourist trap is it? Besides, 'traveller" "tourist"...you say potato....

Anyhow, that got me totally off track. What I wanted to comment on, was the fact that this library was kind of tattered looking, and didn't seem very busy. Can you possibly wonder why? Could it be because to get in the door you have to pass by a larger than life sculpture of a pig being strangled by a huge snake? With little dead piglets scattered about? And if you look up, there is a large vulture type of creature looming over you. Really? Who gave this idea a thumbs up?

September!

What a phenomenal day. It's funny how the last 3 weeks of August were so deathly hot, it was close to 100F every day, and that's highly unusual for around here. People were struggling to walk, sweat dripping down the backs of necks, faces red from both sunburn and exhaustion, dogs lay in the driveway and barely lifted their heads to watch us walk by, certainly not enough energy to bark, ...phew....not liking that heat.

Overnight...August 31, it rains. It's like Mother Nature took at look at our calender and decided to go along with it, the weather turned cool and crisp, I saw a few leaves fall off trees and the forest was spectacular. The air was so clean and fresh, the rain drops glittered like (dare I use the old cliche?) diamonds on the leaves. The smell of a damp forest trail just can't even be explained, but if I could bottle it, the forest wouldn't be safe from the perfumeries trying to compete with me.

It was still early when I went walking, I like how this picture shows the sun on the hills on the left, but the shadow is still on the right. It was not silent, but the sounds were forest sounds, chickadees, tanagers, blackbirds and even crows were all singing and calling, it was a cacophony to enjoy. Even the squirrels were scavenging in the tree tops, i thought at first it was raindrops coming down, but it was just the squirrels dropping pine cones, not sure if it was on purpose or just by mistake.

A sure sign of the end of summer is the bright red rosehips. My Mother always told me that they were chock full of vitamin C and would keep scurvy away. I tend to think that I eat enough oranges to not have to worry about scurvy, but none-the-less, good to know. As a matter of fact, I picked a bag full and came home to make rosehip loaf. It's in the oven right now, so I'll post a picture of it after it's done. I made rosehip tea one year, and it was revolting, so I hope this isn't as bad because it took me hours to seed them...a rosehip is smaller than a cherry, and chock full of little seeds. Of course the seeds are probably the healthy part, but I have heard that, while they won't hurt you, the seeds have tiny little hairs on them that can irritate and cause "itchy bottom syndrome" And that I do not need. And nor do you, so if you ever cook with a rosehip, remove the seeds. Thank you Euell Gibbons.