Something on my Mind: Reunion (1)

Summer, for many, can be the time for longer days and slower paces, heat and holidays, trips and travels, and family reunions. It can also be weeks of hopeless tedium (for the kids), added stress (for the parents, especially moms), and family reunions.

So, guess what today's topic is going to be?

So far, my summer has been marked by almost all of the above, at least on the positive side of the ledger, and just recently, I was able to take those living at home to join my wife's relatives for a family reunion.

As usual, it was held in Terrace, BC, the town between the two "princes" (Prince Rupert and Prince George), at the west end of Highway 16 in British Columbia. Terrace is also west of Houston, not to be confused with Houston, Texas.

If a writing of this were a classic tale, I will have called it "The Prince and the Pauper": By the time we shelled out all the bucks for food, gas, motel rooms, and cabin rentals, you might say we were the pauper and Rupert and George were the princes.

I should add quickly, by the way, that it was worth every penny.

On the way over and back, we saw a grizzly bear, lots of black bears (one with three cubs), a moose, and some bighorn sheep, and some tourists from Texas. Travellers tip: If you see a bunch of cars parked along the side of the road, it's either a mega bathroom break or they have stopped to stare at one of the above—well, maybe not the tourists from Texas.

Part of the reason for any reunion is it's good to keep in touch in person; social media, with its electronic tentacles wrapped around us so much these days, doesn't quite cut it, compared to face-to-face connections. This happened repeatedly on the shore of Lakelse Lake.

My wife is the eldest of five sisters and all but one of them made it She was tied up finishing her teaching year in Victoria and was unavailable. The attendees included the respective husbands and kids. It was "Cousins-R-Us" everywhere.

This reunion was a little different because most the kids now are young adults--and working young adults, at that. They had to fight to get a few days off. The only actual little kids this time were my grandchildren, all seven of them.

Reunions are all about renewing relationships and making memories. We checked off both boxes on this one. There were canoe treks, hikes, volleyball games, a car rally, and lots of food. And what's a family get together without the ubiquitous Frisbee?

My wife was able to secure six cabins right on the lake, so many of us out of town relatives had their own place. It was an invigorating experience to wake up early every morning at the sight of the lake, the sound of the loon, and the sizzle of the bacon, though some of you may not be able to place "invigorating" and "early morning" in the same sentence.

(Actually the bacon came later, but I liked that line's alliteration.)

The other novelty was the way my wife organized brunch (the mid-morning meal for those who had early morning issues. Certain families hosted members from other families, giving everyone an opportunity to hang out with some they may not usually visit with at length. Each day was a little different, with a balanced rotation of who was hosting and who was guesting.

We hosted twice and guested (not a real word, Maurice) once.

Reunions have many purposes, as I have alluded to already, but I suggest anything that

strengthens family relationships is great. As the building blocks for a successful society (read: families) continue to implode, reunions help stem that trend. Pictures on the fridge, emails in the database, and Christmas cards in December, are good and helpful, but nothing beats a leisurely supper by the lake shore.

Not that it's about eating, but families that eat together have a greater chance of staying together,

I think the mosquitoes also had a family reunion at the same time and place, though I have a thing about uninvited guests.

That was the only mosquito, er, fly on the ointment of an otherwise great time in Terrace.

Something on my Mind: A Calf is Born (2)

Any system works best when the rules are followed. Not perfect, of course, just best. I re-learned that rule with the recent birth of our calf, the subject of last week's column.

Let me explain:

If we follow the rules of the road, by and large, we'll have safe roads and successful travelling. I know there are mitigating circumstances, such as weather, road construction, idiotic drivers (now called "road rage") and such, but in the main, this rule works.

Likewise, if we follow the rules of healthy eating and living, it will usually work in our favour. You likely know these rules better than I do, but I suggest they include a nice mix of a balanced diet, and a deletion processed foods, refined sugars and all the rest of those other miserable restrictions.

My third example is that of building a house: Follow the rules and a solid house results; don't follow the rules and you have built structural grief.

Closer to the point of today's column: The same rules apply to life on the land, whether it involves crops or cows, both of which I admittedly know little about. That hasn't stopped me from trying and failing, then trying and failing some more (but not as much), then trying and getting a better handle on things.

So in grand scheme of things, then, the birth of a calf is a big deal to a "weekend rancher" like me (I like that term better than "gentleman farmer"). The rules of reproduction have been followed, and the result is a healthy calf.

So when I speak of "rules" in this context, I am referring to physiological or natural ones.

I can never quite grasp the mechanics, if you will, of the bull and the cow and what that union produces. Yes, I know about the bull and cow part (or would that be the birds and the bees?), but it's the whole gestational process that results in a healthy calf that amazes me.

And I hope I never get over that feeling of awe.

I also marvel at how each mother and calf bond instantly. Yes, there are exceptions to that rule, but in the main, they are connected instantly. Momma stands still when the calf wants to nurse; the calf is forever at her side; and the calf knows exactly where the milk is.

Uh, udder delight.

How do they both know what to do, having never been taught? Where did all those natural responses come from? I suggest there are some natural rules of inner design that they follow.

This is where I circle back to my "rules" commentary from the top. There are some inherent rules that, when followed, work for the betterment of all.

It's only a matter of days before that calf is eating grass. Where did that notion come from? Why doesn't it go after gophers like a dog does? Or pick away at seeds like a bird does?

This lesson of the calf reinforces the fact that there are rules of design in everything, such as driving, eating, or building, including relationships or lifestyle choices. And these rules of design are not harsh, onerous, or even unfavourable. Work with them, and they work for us.

I have to go now. I think there a calf hiding in the tall grass—just doing what comes naturally.

Something on my Mind: A Calf is Born (1)

Having a calf born is old hat to every rancher within reading distance of this column. I know that, so this will be quite trivial to many of you.

I think I would be considered a "gentleman farmer," though I am neither a gentleman nor a farmer, but that's the conventional term for people like me—a few chickens here, a few cows there (and there and there, when they get out).

But I digress.

Farming or ranching (and I do know the difference) does not come naturally to me. Just ask my wife and kids. But at least I try, and actually get it right sometimes.

I don't do it for a living, unless you call eating a living: On any given day I will be eating the fruit of my labour, though technically it would be called the "protein" of my labour. This comes in the form of eggs, chickens, turkeys, beef, as well as produce from a huge garden

I am a city boy, born and bred, yet for these past sixteen years, plus five years in 100 Mile House a couple of decades ago, I have been a country man, more or less. In 100 Mile House, I just lived on ten acres, whereas here in Southern Alberta, I have learned to utilize all thirty acres.

There are rules when it comes to producing and reproducing, even if the humans sometimes don't seem to get it straight. So, when it comes to cows producing calves, it still takes a bull and a cow.

I know there is something called artificial insemination, but that stuff still comes from a bull.

In my meagre enterprise, I don't have enough cows to justify owning a bull, so I need to borrow one when the need arises—and it arises every summer. Kidnapping a bull is out of the question, of course, because it is a crime; it is also fraught with logistical issues. I would have no idea how to entice a bull into my stock trailer—I just don't think saying "here, bully, bully" would work.

The other plausible option is borrowing a bull from an area rancher. Most ranchers are loathed to loan out their bull for any number of sound reasons--liability being one of them, the well-being of the animal being another.

Fortunately, I have a friend who was willing to lend out his bull to us last year. I had two cows to "service," though one was probably too young and too small to make it work.

I was right and she never caught, but the other one did. She produced another beautiful calf on a recent Monday. Like any newborn's parents—though technically that would be the present cow and the absent bull-- we have had a little "excitement" these past few days with our new heifer.

While there aren't the same demands that a newborn human baby would present, there are others. On the one hand, there are no nursing issues or crying spells throughout the night But on the other hand, human newborns don't need to be tagged within the first few days, don't crawl under barbed wire fences, or seemingly get lost in the high grass.

Our first challenge was catching then restraining the calf, keeping the big momma at bay till the minute-long procedure is over, then watching behind one's back until the pair have moved away in a different direction.

Another challenge was the feistiness of the calf, even within twenty-four hours. We had already chased her, as she ran away from us (see "tagging" above), running through barbed wire fences, or not running at all, just laying low enough in the grass so we could hardly find her.

In fact, she lay so low that even her momma couldn't find her last night, and bellowed enough to wake up the dead. It took a while for us to find her. We were all relieved when we did: I don't know how much more of the Big Momma's noise we could handle.

At least with acres and acres all around us, we wouldn't be bothering our neighbouring ranchers. They have their own racket to worry about.

Cigars anyone?