Could be.

I'm hoping for a brand new day today.

Not a day like yesterday. Or the day before. A new day.

I really am.

So I asked my wife if I could put the pot of purple flowers on the front step. She shrugged yes.

And today, looking outside, gazing at the clouds, and staring at the hills at the end of our street and letting the wind wind its fingers in my hair, my eyes sting like it could be.

Could be.

I hope against hope. And I wish I knew for sure.

A word or two my friend
There's no telling how the day might end
We'll never know until we see
That there's gold in them hills
There's gold in them hills
So don't lose heart
Give the day a chance to start
There's gold in them hills
There's gold in them hills.
~lyrics by Ron Sexsmith

Six-Minute Window

Avoid chugging this.

And another thing.

How is it possible to have a bad cold in the middle of summer? There should be some universal law against having a chest cold when it’s hot. Or sunny. Or camping. Or in a pool. Or when you’re on a holiday. Or in July. Or August. Or on the weekend. Or during the week. Or if you’re alive. Can’t Oprah do something? Or Tom Cruise? Somebody?

And another thing.

There’s no way one’s freezer should break down in the summer. Isn’t there some laws of physics this goes against? How can the most important time to keep something frozen be the time when “frozen” is a setting that is no longer available? Hey physicists: it’s not like we can put the ice cream outside like we usually can for eight months of the year. And oh the ice cream...we’re talking three boxes of ice-sandwiches and fudgsicles. That’s just wrong.

And another thing.

There’s no way a person should have to wake up early in the summer if he or she is not required to wake up early or chooses not to wake up early. And when one does wake early one should not have to count backwards thirty-eight times or meditate or basically weep in frustration to try to return to a restful sleep. A guy should just be able to snap his fingers and tah-dah: sleep. There should be an easy button for this sort of thing like say a snooze button behind our ears.

And another thing.

There should be like, let’s say something more-than-reasonable, like maybe a six-minute period each day when all human beings (not just Oprah and Tom Cruise) are granted three wishes. I’m not talking about wishes where you can wish for a million dollars or another million wishes. Pshaw. That’s just taking advantage. I’m talking about when you can wish your cold away or wish your constant coughing away or wish your freezer to work again and also wish back the ice cream you had to throw out (and since we’re on the topic let’s just wish away all calories in ice-cream forever) and maybe after that’s done just wish yourself back to sleep again so you don’t have to stare at the wall for an hour. Is this unreasonable? I don’t think so. I would highly doubt that this six minute window is capable of ruining the balance of the entire universe or anything.

And another thing....

This is my hood.

See the white specks?
Those are wheat flowers. Who knew?

Sometimes the little things are actually the big things. Did you know that more foods are made with wheat than with any other grain?

#flour

#pasta

#crackers

#bread

#cake
#cookies

#cereal

#play-doh

#beer
#hugafarmer
#glutenfreepeoplelookaway

The Hills & Mutant Trees Have Eyes?

The Crooked Bush creeped me out.
It's a perfect horror movie location if I ever saw one.

Imagine it at midnight. 

My family visited this genetically mutated grove of Aspen trees near Hafford, Saskatchewan while on our summer road trip. Science hasn't yet determined the cause of this oddity. Trees outside the grove are straight.

Inside the grove it feels somewhat enclosed. My pea-brain inner voice kept whispering, "behind you." Thus I wandered through the Crooked Bush like a rat in a maze. 

The really creepy part happened after we left. We found a geocache at the end of the road past these gnarled trees and then a pick-up truck came over the hill and down the road toward our vehicle. I swear the first thing that popped into my head was this (just the music, not the claymation so much.) 

Instant adrenaline. 

So I peeled on out of there. In my rear-view mirror I watched the pick-up follow us for a while then turn around and drive back up over the hill...what the hell? So I joked that the pick-up was most definitely filled with extras from The Hills Have Eyes. But we all knew it was true. So while I fishtailed down that gravel road out of there, we all began weeping/ screaming/ laughing like maniacs until we finally reached the highway again. What can I say? In my little family, barbaric yawps diffuse the tension caused by overactive imaginations.

And that folks is why I TOTALLY recommend this place.

Mystery Solved?

Beware.

I may have solved a mystery.

I spent a lot of time with my fabulous Grandmother recently and I just have to admit it: she's aged a lot in the past two years since I last saw her.

But I don't want to admit it.

After visiting her for a few days, on the trek home I saw four old men sitting together in a Tim Horton's. One seemed animated, the others a little bored. They were wearing matching clothing. By "matching" I mean the typical old guy uniform: plaid shirts, baggy old man pants, socks and galoshes.

Old people fascinate me; I kinda love them. Always have. My Grandma is one of my absolute favourite people and she just celebrated 88. Well, celebrated might be a misnomer. It's more like she ate her cake, cracked a joke and that was enough of that fuss. She's just totally over herself. We also spent time with my wife's Grandmother who has early Alzheimer's. She scrutinized me like she might any "stranger," but then she stepped forward, made eye contact, smiled coquettishly, rubbed my face and offered me a cookie. Both these old ladies make me pay attention to what I have and what I haven't. And that's how I think I may have solved this mystery: at what point exactly does one become old?

Remember counting birthdays? Pining for adulthood. I couldn't wait to be a man. And then I was. And then I got married and had kids and suddenly I was 32. And I couldn't even remember how old I was. And then this happened at a cousin's wedding: I ventured outside with a drink where a group of young people had gathered to share stories and so I shared a story too and everyone laughed and then some drunk kid in his early twenties said, "Hey who's the old guy?" They all looked at me. Confused, I turned around to look for the old guy too and that made them laugh again. I'd like to say it was a minor epiphany but what that little prick said stung a bit. I was the old guy?! At 32?

Thirty is not old. Nor is 40. Ditto 50. Even 60. It's not just the number. I'm sure now it's something else.

After observing those old men interacting, drinking their tea, their legs crossed, socks pulled up, galoshes dangling, I think I might know the point, the juncture, the very minute when one becomes old: it's when you stop wearing flip flops.

Think about it.

My Grandma insisted she didn't want anything for her birthday. She says she has everything she'd ever want plus a cane and a walker and one leg shorter than the other. If wish I could see her face when she opens my birthday package and discovers pink flip flops. I'd say that's instant youth.

Evidence

My sister-in-law's amazing and gooey cinnamon buns.
Only 8.42 million calories of deliciousness. 

See previous post.

Wordfuse (Overeating Edition)

(noun): formerly referred to as my waistline; a side-effect of the immense number of snacks I've consumed on this little holiday. Bummer.

This is my hood.

Look who followed my brother home to have breakfast with us this morning.

Born very recently (perhaps yesterday) and apparently much too late in the season, it seems this tiny runt of a deer was abandoned. My brother found it standing on the road and when he reached out the fawn ran right over to him. He waited for the doe but she did not appear.

Starving and trembling but otherwise seemingly uninjured, it roused after a bottle of milk and took a tentative walk in his farmyard and then up onto his deck with its impossibly dainty legs. Suddenly it seemed to remember it was wild and attempted to bolt, so my brother returned it to the spot where he found it.

Yup. It's just another day on a farm in Saskatchewan.

Yeah, no. Probably Not.

Does anyone else do this to cool off?

Yeah, no. Probably not.

What you are witnessing is motivated by several factors:
#saskatchewanheatwave
#bleepinghot

#livingonthesecondfloor

#livingwithoutairconditioning
#there'scheesegrowinginmyrolls
#mywifeisnotheretotellmetostop
#swass
#swalls

Sometimes it's the little things.

It's hard to tell by the photo but it's even pink.

Every little girl needs accessories but if you're a little girl growing up in Saskatchewan, apparently you need this accessory too. Sweet.