Foremost on my Mind: Chicken Fun

One of the assumed advantages of living on a hobby farm is the splendid opportunity to raise, butcher, then eat one's own food. One of those advantages is that we know what's gone into it (and what hasn't); in short, we know its health(y) history. Said food could include beef, chickens, turkeys, and pigs, with side dishes of milk and eggs; and when there is enough cream, my wife is able to make yogurt and cheese.

Back when I was living the life of a confirmed city slicker (in 10 BC, as in ten years ago in British Columbia), I knew nothing of the gore, guts, grime, and gloop (yes, Maurice, I'm not just being witty—it is a word) of butchering animals.

I assumed all animals just simply came in small wrapped packages, lying side by side in the meat department, conveniently labelled with their expiry date.

Well, now I know that all animals on our property have an expiry date, for sure, though not quite the one intended at the local grocer. Okay, not all animals: So long as dogs can howl away at coyotes and cats can munch away on mice, they are safe from the butcher's knife.

Currently, we are in the process of raising chickens. Those little, yellow things that arrive in a box at the local Post Office soon become loud, white things that live to eat and eat to live. Perhaps I should be a little more specific here: I've seen a lot of loud, white things that live to eat, down at the Golden Corral—but that's another discussion.

It does seem cruel to pamper these chicks for so long, with the sole purpose of making them fit yet fat for the fate of a fete someday. Maybe that's why people turn to vegetarianism (the philosophy of not eating animals) or veganism (the same philosophy, only it also includes not eating animal products).

Both would be a stretch for yours truly, as I love most (normal) meat dishes, plus I love all dairy and egg products. I would think my penchant for a Monte Cristo sandwich must be to a vegan what a ham sandwich is to Muslim.

The gang was gone the other day, so I was in charge of all the fowls, plus the new batch of little ones. I was told to take care of the “chicks.” I thought to myself, I'm almost 58; how do I handle this one? I misunderstood, but it all worked out well.

When it comes to the day of reckoning for the chickens, I am the scalder. (If other jobs aren't done right, I'm the scolder.) It's one of those rare moments in life when I'm in hot water and it's appropriate. The last couple times we've actually gotten by without pulling pin feathers galore. You see, the right heat means the best result. That, of course, applies to much in life—be it pasteurizing milk, refining silver, and even cooking dinner.

Speaking of cooking dinner, we generally stick with pizza on the butchering day. For myself, I have seen just enough of a chicken's back end and bloody neck to keep me from eating chicken for a while. You might say it leaves a fowl taste in my mouth (but then again, you might not).

There are some significant ironies here: The government can be too overbearing in telling us what we can and cannot eat, on the one hand; but, on the other hand, the food that has been inspected by Big Brother may or may not pass the basic fit-for-consumption test. That is one reason why more and more common people are raising their own animals for personal consumption. I think if we had any idea what happened to these animals in the food chain, from birth to death, we would be outraged and devastated.

And sick. Actually, maybe that's why so many people do have unexplained illnesses.

However, to keep some balance in my life, I still visit places with my favourite initials: A and W, D and Q, as well as K, F, and C.

I like to think of them as my occasional junk-food vitamins.

Foremost on my Mind: Twinning? Double the Trouble

Like you, I was saddened by the recent deaths of eight people on the highway leading to Fort McMurray. (I know the media reports have stated seven died, but the pastor's wife was six-months pregnant, so that makes eight).

I am sad for a number of reasons, which I will develop in a few moments. Suffice to say, I'm not sad because a pastor lost his life (good reason, though). Nor was it because it involved people from Newfoundland, a province for which I have fond memories. And it has little to do with that stretch of highway: I have never been to Fort McMurray, or even travelled any part of Highway 63, so it really doesn't mean that much to me.

No, my sadness lies in two other (and separate) areas: One, they're looking to the wrong authority for help; and two, they're looking for the wrong type of help.

In other words, they are demanding the provincial government (public) to do something that local citizens (private) should do; and they are assuming that Solution A will work when, in fact, it's Solution B that's the ticket.

In an environment that depends far too much on Big Brother for health, housing, highways, and a whole host of other amenities and services, it's little wonder that the provincial government is being pulled into this one. Pulled, and I might add, almost blamed at the same time. Obviously, as it sits, the highways are a provincial jurisdiction, so it stands to reason that they should assume complete responsibility for the any improvement.

Complete responsibility, then, that leaves all private sector in the dust—languishing on the proverbial shoulder, if you will—with limited, minimal involvement.

Which leads to the second (seemingly unrelated) issue. The assumed solution is simply twinning the highway, something I have earlier called “Solution A.” That would make it safer, wouldn't it—or would it? Twin it, that is, so all travellers can drive faster, pass more, and get to their destination sooner.

Just for the record, even since the accident, over a three-day period, sheriffs ticketed over 700 drivers for driving violations. It strikes me as very strange that within days of said tragedy, people continue to exceed the speed limit. According to police sources, this happens all the time.

I know I am a mere plebeian, a yeoman of sorts, with no real political insight, I suppose, but I wonder if I could proffer one common sense solution? And it might just apply to other highways as well.

Just wondering, fellow-Albertans, if perhaps we drove a little slower, kept the speed limit, obeyed the highway signs, and used our heads a little more, that we could stop the carnage we see on on our highways a regular basis ?

There is no doubt that twinning some or all of Highway 63—and let's throw in Highway 3 while we're at it—could have some benefits. For instance, it would be handy to get past some dawdling tractor or new driver; and there is greater potential for arriving at one's destination sooner, if there are more lanes to do it in. (No problem there, Maurice.)

But two lanes become four lanes, thus doubling the chances of speeding morons and reckless twits, taking all sorts of risks. Then there is the ice and snow and wind, with more surface, then, to wreak even more havoc. All along, that would allow for more velocity, that is, a mobile 3,000-4,000 pound weapon (also known as a van)--this is not the solution.

You see, I think we've got the right word but the wrong place: It's not those in the seat of government that will solve this; rather, it's those in the seat that has a steering wheel in front of it that will.

No matter where you are going, sit down and slow down. Better to get there in peace, rather than in pieces.

Foremost on my Mind: What a Card

This time of year is a rather expensive one for “yours truly” (Maurice, that would be me). The reason? My wife's birthday and Mother's Day show up on my doorstep only two weeks apart—clambering for attention, funds, and the right words.

That could be up to two gifts, two cards, plus at least two adjectives per card (Maurice, adjectives are words that describe a noun—the noun, in this case, would be my wife). The said adjectives would involve describing my life with her companionship. And you all may be relieved to know that I do not address my wife as my “cute or loving noun.”

Over the years I'm sure I've become less romantic, thoughtful, or gushy (all great adjectives, by the way) than I once was. I don't know if I am getting more frugal and efficient, or simply more insensitive and thoughtless, but when I remind her (verbally) that I said the same thing last year, which was the same thing I said the decade before, she doesn't take it all that well.

I don't blame her. I think if there was a law in place, I would be arrested for impersonating a warm, loving husband.

Part of the problem, of course, is that “hot” and “cool” and “sweet” meant one thing thirty years ago, something quite different now. Generally speaking, though, the words are still positives and can still be fairly appropriate.

Glad my girls are still thoughtful in these areas. They seem to have a grasp on what a woman wants and needs (two separate yet linked responses). Could the fact that they are older and mature play a role in this? Likely. And the fact that their mother herself is an older, more mature woman can't be disregarded either. In other words, they know what she wants and needs because, well, they're wired the same way.

I'm in the habit of sending birthday and anniversary greetings to other family members via email these days. Can't say that it would go over big down here on the farm, mind you. I usually send one to my next brother, then my other brother, and sometimes to yet another brother. I don't recall them sending email greetings back. Maybe they got lost in the, uh, mail.

I have my reasons for doing the above, and they all make sense to me. One, it's cheap; two, it's personal; and three, it's dependable. What I just said once applied to cards, too, but to a certain extent, sending cards in the mail has gone the way of a Calgary Flames Stanley Cup parade; that is, it may arrive, but likely not.

Back in the olden days (ie., when I had a full head of dark hair and a big bushy beard), cards were a welcome commodity. Because I sent more back then? No, because I delivered more back then. You see, I was a letter-carrier in Burnaby, BC, delivering reams of cards for every occasion. It seems to me that there aren't as many cards out there anymore.

And it seems especially true for Christmas cards. I think this year was the first year we got more electronic mail cards hard copy ones—or, if you want to be witty (and I do), more in the Inbox than in the mailbox. Even then, we got very few in any form. Commercial or homemade, I still like getting the ones you can feel. Mind you, cyber cards kind of add a new spin to the words “cut and paste” and “send,” don't they?

So now I have made a complete circle in my thinking, namely, the value of cards—or could it simply be the thought behind them? Cards are great to give and receive—and I meant that with all sincerity—but it's really the thought that counts. It does cut us frugal/efficient and insensitive/thoughtless types a little slack, though that doesn't excuse us for not giving a card in the first place.

Or at least thinking about it.

Foremost on my Mind: Your Mother, My Mother

She's the type of woman you may find hard to live with these days, but you certainly couldn't have lived without back in the early years. Her name on the call display could mean trouble, a visit, or both. Or it could be a simple greeting that sends you thinking back of your childhood.

Even the very mention of her name conjures up memories of fresh cookies, a shoulder to cry on, and the calming influence in the turbulent sea of life—or at least for me it does. How she put up with the temper tantrums, late nights, and mood swings is beyond me. How, in the face of said misbehaviour, she still even speak to any one of us is likewise beyond me.

She's your mother, she's my mother, and we really need to honour her more than we do.

For any number of reasons, motherhood is not as popular as it once was in many circles. However, I must admit that in the varied communities I move among, it is still seen as noble, worthy, and desireable. I see that among my daughters and their peers; and I see it whenever I get to a park or a playground.

I am not sure when and why motherhood became a default lifestyle, to the point that the following revealing questions have become acceptable: Do you work or are you just a mother? Are these all your kids? Don't you know there's an over-population problem?

I think of my own mother, now in her late eighties--living by herself, driving her own car, and enjoying good health. She was a war bride from...Edmonton, moving out to BC, where my dad was getting established after World War II. Back in those day, she did with what she could afford—which wasn't much—with minimal conveniences and comforts.

In the course of time, she and my father had four sons. I like to think that it took them four tries to get it right, with yours truly being the end result, the apex, the caboose--or some have derisively stated, the baby. No wonder: If they stopped at son number three, that would have been a disaster. That would have been like being stopped on the goal line, like fanning on an empty net, like a swing and a miss, like...well, you get the picture.

To say nothing of the world—or at least the county—being deprived of this column (and this columnist).

To compare yesteryear's moms (say, during the post-war years) with today's mom would be highly instructional, but patently unfair: Unfair because some of today's young mothers do know how to can and preserve; unfair because some of today's young mother's don't dump their kids in daycare or after-school classes; and unfair because some of today's young mothers don't see their children as a burden.

Back when I was a kid--that is, the '50s and '60s--that, of course, was unheard of. Mom was the pilot of the ship, the warden at the zoo, the maestro on the podium. Perfect? Not in your life, but there was that consistent, steadying, over-arching influence—always there for us.

It's just not quite the same anymore. In a world of pre-packaged meals, universal daycare, fast food, endless credit cards, and iPads, the dynamics of a stay-at-home mother is, well, so quaint, so demeaning. Or at least it appears to be.

Your mother, my mother, our mothers, did the best they could under the circumstances they were handed. This coming weekend is the one day a year—for some reason—that we celebrate their gift to us.

Maybe our gift to them should be renewed gratitude and honour—on a daily basis. An occasional platter of cookies would go a long way, too. Just make sure they're homemade.