Om Sri Hanumate Namaha...

Here's for my guy...

Jaya bajarangbalee jaya Hanuman
Shankata mochan kripaa nidhaan
Jaya bajarangbalee Baba Hanuman
Shankata mochan kripaa nidhaan.


Namo....namo.....Ajaninandanaaya.

WANT. THIS. OUTFIT.

Want it massively. That way, I could wear it out, and die of hypothermia. But I'd die happy.

Where, Oh Where Is Spring?

Funny....I never get feeling gloomy in the thick of winter. Winter is kind of nice, and I love to see the snow, all glittery and bright. I love the clear, sunny winter days here, with the endless Alberta sky just as big and open as in the summer months. I love Christmas, and all the fun of that crazy season. We are friends, winter and I, most of the time.

What I do not love, however, is the crap-assed excuse for spring we have in this part of the world. Spring is meant to be all about rebirth, renewal and glossy, little green shoots of life delighting one's eyes. Here, all we get is frequent gloom, and wet, soggy snow that just goes on and on and, for the love of fuck, on!!! Gets my goat, and gets me down. (Small interjection: Here, I think of the funny, little childrens' book character, Junie B. Jones, who riffs wonderfully on the idea of 'getting a goat'....) We warmth-starved creatures try so hard to unfold and blossom after a long winter, but we get nada in return from the weather gods. We tentatively produce sandals, shorts and other accessories of decent weather after the tiniest bit of promise, and then are consistently and collectively kicked in the teeth by Not-Spring, forced to trudge back home, back to cars, etc, our sandal-clad feet blueish from the snow that creeps over our toes. Gooseflesh marks our bare arms and legs, as the weather gods laugh and laugh at our tragic optimism.

Enough, already, ok? Could we not enjoy some warmth, some daffodils, some catkins, perhaps a baby bunny or two? Is it too much to ask to send in the Spring?

Cabin Memories

It has been nearly a week since we departed the cabin, back for home, after our first visit of the season. Our cabin season lasts from sometime in late March, early April, until the start of November sometime, always contingent upon weather. Those four or so months in between, my sister's and my sturdy, comforting, little log house on the cliff in Sundre is alone to slumber through the darkest part of the winter.

The first visit if the year is always pretty special; the trip up is fuelled by anticipatory energy, from grown-ups, children and dog alike. Alongside the excitement of looking forward to our inaurural visit of the year, my mind turns to a bit of worry: what state will things be in when I arrive? Will the squirrels have found a way in and stored mushrooms everywhere, as has happened in the past? Will we see serious rodent damage? Will there be, as my sister's and my running joke holds, the inevitable long-dead mouse in the bottom of the garbage bin? Or, more ominously, I always allow my mind to flit to the possibility of real violation--will trespassers have found their way to our cabin and done something awful? Lee's attention is usually with the state of the spring, from where we get our water, and the health of the woodpile, which fuels our 2 wodd-burning stoves. The girls want desperately to go check their playhouse, their forest-fort and the Shrek-house at Rocky Beach. I always, always feel the same feeling of relief, and bone-settling contentment when we pull up in front of the cabin, usually in the hours around supper time, and anticipate a glorious weekend ahead.

This last time was no different. There's a certain quiet kind of excitement as we unload everything, get everybody's beds sorted out, get the food under control, and finally have a beverage with a sigh of relief that we're all squared away, and the weekend stands in front of us with all its pleasures. Once the coal-oil lamps are lit, the snacks are out and everybody's hand holds a cold drink, well, the weekend has begun!

We always, always have hysterical evenings, playing games, gobbling chips, yammering away, drinking happily in the knowledge that nobody has to drive anywhere. Mornings are usually late, after a needed lie-in, and then we fuel up with coffee made on the Coleman gas ring, and a big breakfast of pancakes or eggs. The kids are long-gone, usually coming back to home base at the cabin only for food and drinks. Coffee in the sunshine, on the front deck, looking over the Little Red Deer River, can't really be topped.

We often take a picnic/bevvies down to Rocky Beach in the early afternoon, maybe after a nice little nap, and spend ages down at the river. The kids go off into the Shrek House, explore the fallen forest, or wade/swim in the river, depending on the season. We sometimes do a veggie dog roast down at the river, or just eat cheese, crackers, sandwiches, etc, that I have packed down in my neon pink Hello Kitty backpack. (Lee claims that any wildlife will take one look at that backpack, and be gone into the hills in trauma!) We have some drinkies at the river, and just enjoy the perfect peace of the spot.

We walk up top in the field, in the early evenings sometimes, and we have been known to engineer a late-night walk with the kids, chaperoned by at least one adult. Last summer, I saw the procession across the field, from the cabin door, visible only as a row of bobbing glow bracelets as they made their way home from their nocturnal perambulations.

Eating is always great, and somehow, the tacos or spaghetti or whatever we eat tastes better at the cabin than at home. The kids plow through a terrifying quantity of food and drink as they tear around in the lovely, fresh air. The dog(s) are in heaven, too, with sights and sounds entirely missing from their city lives.

The time just goes so quickly, and packing up is always an epic production, and we inevitably feel more and more blah the closer to zero-hour we get. I do my final rounds, closing each set of curtains so there is NO PEEKING (Wyn and I are very particular about this!), cast my eye around the once-again clean and tidy rooms, looking for errant bits and bobs that managed to escape our eagle-eyes earlier, and always, always say good-bye to that beloved, shabby, perfect little cabin till next time. We lock up, load into the car, and make our way away, with more than slightly dampened spirits. We have a car full of filthy clothes, grubby, tired kids, grown-ups and dog, bags of garbage and empties, depleted coolers, baskets of dubious leftovers, and hearts and souls full up to the brim with happy memories. Thanks, little cabin, for all that you've given so many of us for so many years. Here's to many, many more.

Back From the Cabin...

Yes, we are home after a truly outstanding weekend. Details of this weekend will follow, when it is not so late, I am not so tired, and there are not a few more strawberries waiting to be eaten in my kitchen. This is merely a notification that I am out there somewhere, and that I have more where this came from, peeps! Stay tuned!