It was supposed to be a hot, dry summer on the prairies. It was dry but where I live, it’s been unusually cool. There were hot days, but seldom more than a couple in a row. Then came the end of August and temperatures soared.

For those farmers who were lucky enough to catch the rain (there wasn’t a wide spread steady rain), harvest is well underway. Many of the crops are in the bin and it’s barely fall. However, as the above picture shows, the dry weather in the Northwest Territories has resulted in wildfires that have sent smoke into Alberta. Air quality has been extremely poor in some areas.

I live near a school and students are already back. I miss the days when kids walked to school. Most now are driven and their parents/guardians park so close to our driveway, that getting onto the street is a safety hazard. I do enjoy the shouts and laughter that drift my way at recess and when the kids are playing.

This morning, on the early dog walk, I ran into 3 young men, obviously on their way to school.

“Hi, ho,” I said, “it’s off to school we go.”

They laughed and one of them called, “Have a good day.”

It turns out I did have a good day even though I had to do a little cleaning, the bane of my existence. Other than that, I laid outside on the “swing” and read. I played with watercolours and did a painting. I doom-scrolled and since this is a positive post, I won’t mention politics, book banning, or the looming teacher strike.

I’m retired so that’s sweet. Most days are pretty good. I’m hoping for good times ahead…for everyone.

I’m not getting younger and it was time to acknowledge that some things on the bucket list were never going to happen but that some could, if I stepped up to do them myself. I have always enjoyed writing, even in elementary school I’d write my own stories and poems. Mum encouraged me and sent some of my poems off to The Western Producer. One of those poems was published and she kept a copy in one of her scrapbooks.

Then it was a long time before I published anything else. Once the kids were away to university, you’d have thought, here was my perfect chance. I even retired early but somehow the idea of having written something was more fun than actually sitting down and doing it. The world tour didn’t happen, and I did a lot of substitute teaching. Then came my grandchildren and I imagine they took up a lot of my time (not true).

I’ve been in a local writing group for thirty years, maybe more. Its members changed as people’s interests changed but a couple of us became good friends as a result. We meet once a month, but not in summer and the main focus is to support and offer mild criticism, if it’s asked for. I owe them thanks for ideas, catching obvious bloopers, and grammar errors.

I finally sent an edited manuscript, as good as I could get it (I thought) to some publishers. Not the big names and still I had only one editor express any interest. I think she really wanted me to sign into the division of their company that was “hybrid”, meaning I would be responsible for expenses in publishing. No thanks. The manuscript sat for a year or two. Then I gave copies to a couple of good friends to read.

Two things happened. Someone who had been a part of the writing group for a while, asked me to do some amateur editing. Then the author published it himself through a “do-it-yourself” site. I liked the look of the book. Then when one of the friends returned the “perfect” manuscript with discreet line edits, I knew it was time to take advantage of these things, and to try to publish Prairie Bend Secrets myself.

It turned out to be easier than I thought and I found a free lance graphic artist to design a cover for a very reasonable price. There were a few glitches and I’m still waiting for the printers who have a contract with Amazon.ca to enable printing of my book and to not have the paperback available only to third party distributors (the UK) for a ridiculous price. (The e-books available for Kindle, Kobo, Apple, etc. have no issues.)

It’s done! When the author copies came, I was very satisfied and having done it once, I may just publish another book. One thing more from the bucket list. And the truth is there, in print, on my birth certificate. Time is marching on.

I’m ready to say good riddance to 2023. There were sad times and good times but I’d like to think 2024 will be better.

In January 2023, I had to euthanize my little dog at 14 and a half years. He was the best little buddy and I still miss him.

A good friend has been diagnosed with cancer. Another good friend’s husband died, shortly after their 60th wedding anniversary. I attended funerals of relatives and friends. 2023 looked to be just sad.

Things did improve when we spent a few days in Kananaskis. The cabins we booked were the Canadian equivalent of Fawlty Towers. A foldout bed featured no mattress, another bed missed a section, and the fun just continued. Fortunately, we didn’t spend much time in cabins.

There was camping and fishing and visiting with friends. Louie, the little guy we got in February turned out to be stubborn and energetic. He is absolutely affectionate and a good dog. He’ll be one January 1st.

A small local lake didn’t disappoint for the August camp with son and grandkids.

Fall has extended to the end of the year and although I love the mild temperatures, I worry that climate change and a lack of moisture is going to result in a severe drought. Fingers crossed for snow and rain in 2024.

Happy New Year! May 2024 feature health, happiness, and peace.

Photos- snapshots, really. Black and white and small gradually fading. Disappearing into the mists of time. An awful cliche but cliches are so worn because they convey the truth. Snapshots fade and so do memories.

I debated writing about Remembrance Day this year. I fear repeating myself and boring people. But if it bores others, I’ve decided that is their problem. I will continue to remember and to share. The world wars are long ago when measured by human lives so it is up to those of us touched and haunted by those conflicts to bring them to the attention of others.

My memories are personal because the World War 11 was a background to my youth. My parents did not dwell on the hardship or talk much about the conflict. They did, in some ways, want to forget. My Dad was in North Africa and through Italy and Belgium. He seldom talked about what he experienced, and like so many other WW11 veterans he wouldn’t answer questions or he would brush them aside. The few anecdotes he shared were: that once he wandered through a field while inebriated. When he woke up, he saw he had staggered through a mine field. Another time, he was sleeping in a pile of hay when a German shell fell near him but didn’t explode. In Italy, he saw a boy running though the streets home, grasping a wriggling eel. Perhaps the first protein his family would have had in a very long time.

My Dad had a private airplane and he did love to fly. It wasn’t just an idle passion. He had the airplane so that should war ever touch Canadian shores, he would fly us somewhere safe. He never wanted his family to experience the horrors he had.

My mother lived through the Battle of Britain and the bombing. She lived with her sister and remembered a card table-like structure, they’d bring out and hide under when the bombers came. She remembered the rationing and the blackouts, the sounds of the doodle-bugs, V1 flying bombs, a bomb with wings. She remembered (she might have been a teenager) riding with “Jeffry” on his motorbike in the blackout. She remembered Churchill’s stirring speeches. The war was immediate and real.

I do remember and my adult kids do. For my grand kids, the world conflict is farther and farther away. It is hard for them to imagine. Yet, my granddaughter wants to read about Ann Frank and her betrayal. Perhaps the sacrifices won’t be forgotten. I hope.

The Korean War, Canadian Peacekeeping Missions, and the work of Canadian soldiers in Afghanistan must be remembered, too. Their sacrifice is as important.

I will continue to remember and to try and keep others engaged in remembrance. Lest We Forget.

It’s Remembrance Day tomorrow and always a time to reflect about WW11 and the huge part it played in the lives of my parents. Even their planned wedding date of May 8th, had to be postponed due to VE Day.

How did they meet? My mother, Ethel Hooper, lived in Harrow in the Greater London area and my dad, Aleck, was the son of Ukrainian immigrants to Hope Valley, Alberta. Hope Valley is no metropolitan Mecca. My mother’s mum died of scarlet fever when she was born and there were older siblings. Her grandmother Curtis raised her until she was nine. My Uncle Henry was “farmed out” to relatives (Chestermans) in Hope Valley. When he heard Dad was going overseas, he said, “Here look my sister up.” Henry served in the Canadian Navy.

Introductions were by letter and I have forgotten (or didn’t properly listen) but they did meet, at a crowded London train station. My mother remembered Dad’s letter saying, “I’ll be the one with the bright red face.” He was shy and quiet. One thing led to another.

The picture above was, of course, in black and white but my mum loved colour. At one point in the 50’s “colourizing” these pictures was popular and mum had this one done. You can see the beautiful bouquets. It’s no wonder she always tried to grow roses on the prairies. Her dress was borrowed.

Dad said, when he saw the picture, “Why didn’t you tell me my hair was standing on end.”

Mum’s reply, “I didn’t know you that well.” And yet she married him and shipped out to the Canadian prairies, arriving in the middle of winter. Dad, in his winter attire of parka, felt boots, and hat with ear flaps, was not nearly so dashing as he’d been in uniform.

Life as a farm wife was totally foreign but the neighbours were kind. Mum and Dad raised me and my brother. It wasn’t easy but they made a life together.

Now Remembrance Day commemorates WW1, WW11, Korean, Afghanistan and other veterans. Those who made the ultimate sacrifice and those that returned, changed forever.

I don’t know if I’ll attend a formal ceremony tomorrow. For sure, I’ll be thinking of my Dad, who like many others, seldom talked about his experiences overseas. I’m not sure what our town is doing. The recognition at the Cenotaph had been moved indoors before the pandemic so I think I’ll just have some quiet times and think of all veterans.