tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70794336662204251402024-03-13T01:11:48.349-07:00The Accidental FarmwifeDiana Leeson Fisher grew up in the small town of Kemptville, about an hour south of Canada's Capital. Although surrounded by farms all her life, she really knows nothing about farming. Every day is a new experience for this Accidental Farmwife, as the animals teach her everything she needs to know about life on the farm.Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.comBlogger691125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-14634724468610786252023-08-15T07:56:00.001-07:002023-08-15T07:56:26.840-07:00Take your bad romance elsewhere
The RCMP reports that the Canadian Anti-Fraud Centre received 1,249 complaints of romance scams in 2021. That doesn’t count the victims who were too embarrassed to report what had happened to them. The total amount lost over those 1,249 complaints? Fifty million dollars.
Most of us have been targeted by a romance scammer through social media or email. It starts with a friendly message or simple connection request from a stranger. You click on their profile, they appear to be legit, maybe they even have some interests in common with you. But look a little closer. Do you have any friends in common? How did they come across your profile? Do they have more than a dozen posts on their page or is it something new that they just set up? Is their profile a common name with an underscore and string of numbers? Most people come up with a more unique and individual profile handle. If it looks like a name that a robot could have generated, you should see red flags waving.
Most victims of romance scams tend to be people who don’t use social media often. Maybe they don’t even use their email very much. So when someone starts an online friendship with them, they are easily duped. And the scammers are getting smarter. They will create profiles using stock photos of good looking people, male or female. Once they make a connection with a target, they explain that they travel a great deal for work or they live many miles away, so they can’t possibly meet in person (this last part could be very true, by the way. Your scammer is quite often part of an organized crime ring in somewhere like Nigeria).
After a few weeks or even months of cultivating a romance online, when they feel their target is sufficently involved in the relationship, the scammer will pull the trigger and ask for money. They will say they need it for a medical emergency for someone in their family, or even to pay for a travel visa so that they can come and meet their online sweetheart, and start a new life together.
I have never been in a position to fall for one of these schemes, but I have accused real people of being scammers in my paranoid skepticism. And I have met a victim of a romance scam, a nice farmer in the States, who rarely used his computer. When he did, he met someone via email who used my photo and name to con him out of tens of thousands of dollars, all in the name of love.
-30-
Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-65836697981055513312023-08-01T12:17:00.001-07:002023-08-01T12:17:01.110-07:00Raising women in the age of Barbie<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">I was a fan of Barbie when I was young. I had an old apple
basket that I used to transport my dolls. I would bring them to the backyard
where I would imagine they lived in treehouses (in the boxwood hedge we had
around our yard). Occasionally there was danger, when G.I. Joe arrived with the
help of the boys in the neighbouring yard. Joe was far too aggressive for
Barbie’s liking.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Being a brunette myself, I was always on the lookout for
dark-haired Barbies. I remember getting scolded for misappropriating a certain
doll from a friend’s house, and having to return it to its rightful owner. I do
not remember thinking that I should aspire to look like Barbie when I grew up.
That never crossed my mind. It was a ridiculous idea. She had no curves to
speak of. She was plastic. She was a doll. I didn’t imagine I was expected to
try to look like my Dawn doll either. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was, instead, a victim of the airbrushing era of the 1980s
supermodel in beauty and fashion magazines. But that is another story. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I remember being told that I could grow up to be “whatever I
wanted”. I can’t remember who told me that (perhaps a teacher) but I believed
them. I had no reason not to believe them. I competed for highest marks with
the boys in my class. I often won. I felt I was being treated equally.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And yet, as I matured, I realized that something weird was
going on. Slowly but surely, society began to carve out an image for me and my
girlfriends. We were expected to act, dress, walk and talk a certain way. We
weren’t supposed to be too loud, ambitious, competitive, or victorious. And
that wasn’t necessarily coming from the men. Our female mentors, teachers, club
leaders and coaches also advised us on society’s expectation of a nice, young
lady. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m telling you it held us back. Made us falter when we
should have spoken out against injustice, harrassment, maybe even assault. Had
us questioning our instincts and doubting our own abilities when we were
developing and daring to pursue our dreams. Society told us, in so many soft
little whispers, that we were wrong. That it would be too hard. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now, every chance I get, I encourage my daughters and
granddaughters to trust their instincts and listen to their gut. To try new
things, and find what gives them joy. I hope they will do those things, because
the world needs more Barbies who have busted out of their boxes. The world
needs more joy. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">-30-<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZ69psVsVgrpKEK_whKbln8v-BLWsFngwpVOyOrcW0zvlHvQkwCK8xv8T955uY-ciu_m_krENSrcH7y-rz1dOdcDF7HaUf65hCT_py2AA3IfPk7tMf5fJxTiaiydOgS8gmXvNWVn1aSvHOtBuX59khWI66GmzqzHKeVcGFNedcieQC2IR0J3_baKksYrYj" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="472" data-original-width="364" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZ69psVsVgrpKEK_whKbln8v-BLWsFngwpVOyOrcW0zvlHvQkwCK8xv8T955uY-ciu_m_krENSrcH7y-rz1dOdcDF7HaUf65hCT_py2AA3IfPk7tMf5fJxTiaiydOgS8gmXvNWVn1aSvHOtBuX59khWI66GmzqzHKeVcGFNedcieQC2IR0J3_baKksYrYj" width="185" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Pictured: Dawn doll "Lily" circa 1972</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-45540128778700869512023-08-01T08:22:00.000-07:002023-08-01T08:22:39.073-07:00Festival season has begun<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPvLAs7gaF9ePd0L_1hCceaW5i9d1xCNgTSweV8nMg2ADj2WAeOgCH5VKu3ukxWN9IkqTadxZzfe94ZOdtsVkMllZG5ay-dLHNMVKbHQgKU5eqttzCi9bH0A_fqAGsRGRU0lTh-E5IjWhhbaZfxQDPZ-ZBRqaaERqR2eiMme0-A8JAmUcdbmpuL2j5yHlr" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2236" data-original-width="3352" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPvLAs7gaF9ePd0L_1hCceaW5i9d1xCNgTSweV8nMg2ADj2WAeOgCH5VKu3ukxWN9IkqTadxZzfe94ZOdtsVkMllZG5ay-dLHNMVKbHQgKU5eqttzCi9bH0A_fqAGsRGRU0lTh-E5IjWhhbaZfxQDPZ-ZBRqaaERqR2eiMme0-A8JAmUcdbmpuL2j5yHlr" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Well that was the show of a lifetime. I have loved Shania
Twain for about 25 years now, and I finally got to see her in person, at Ottawa
Bluesfest. The lovely surprise was that this megastar is so down to earth, you
feel like you are watching a smalltown musician’s performance on a school
auditorium stage. She just exudes “Ontario girl” when she performs, giggling
along and never taking herself too seriously. She brings a touch of Vegas to
this show, however, with her impressive light show and graphic video special
effects that transform the stage into Twain Town Saloon. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I love that this 57-year-old mega superstar is just like me
– reinventing her look at every opportunity to play dress-up. Heck, if I was on
stage 5 times a week I would wear a different outfit and a new wig each time
too. It doesn’t mean she isn’t happy with her looks. She just likes to have
fun. And I love that she created all of those costumes herself, by just going
through her closet and redesigning pieces that she already had.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The songs were right on point too. Every tune was just as
recorded, just as expected. Yes, Shania has in recent years lost some of her
singing ability due to trauma in her vocal chords from Lyme disease and she may
have been singing along to her own vocal track at some points but that doesn’t
bother me. It’s still Shania. And she has been performing live, several times a
week, in different cities each time. That has got to put some strain on the
voice, and the body. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">All in all, it was a good show – and it more than lived up
to my expectations after reading so many harsh reviews. What I wouldn’t give a
good review to, however, is RBC Ottawa Bluesfest itself in its handling of this
oversold event. With a capacity of 30,000, the LeBreton Flats space had trouble
accommodating the extra 5,000 people that were sold tickets on opening night
for Shania. About an hour before the 9pm show began, the gates flew open, security
stopped checking tickets and bags, and they even allowed people to scale the
fence, because there were so many people inside, you could barely squeeze in
past the electronic turnstiles. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You’ve got to do better, Bluesfest. I am glad you are
bringing in these big names but you have to move to a bigger venue, just on the
edge of town, where your happy crowds can spill out into the surrounding fields
without issue. Maybe partner with the Hard Rock Café on the south edge of town.
Your fans deserve to be safe and comfortable.<o:p></o:p></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-31989684154539035872023-08-01T08:18:00.002-07:002023-08-01T08:18:22.164-07:00The Class of 2023: One for the history books<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEijUj_08zGns5Mrqj2bmpVNj96anbsdpkiwPzMcqZyS-Dy5LEgPrwddDEFznPpHZjwP9cHYRYKAjExDFQm0MWZzL0DfgbyYzJK9II_Ro3pNaIRp9EIaLZ4hUb-KL0xx0JGvkFgSQVWkId3K5WgB7eeelBcliQQDg20Ur2KV0UhRIC5thSt6UmMQdIMfkCf8" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="209" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEijUj_08zGns5Mrqj2bmpVNj96anbsdpkiwPzMcqZyS-Dy5LEgPrwddDEFznPpHZjwP9cHYRYKAjExDFQm0MWZzL0DfgbyYzJK9II_Ro3pNaIRp9EIaLZ4hUb-KL0xx0JGvkFgSQVWkId3K5WgB7eeelBcliQQDg20Ur2KV0UhRIC5thSt6UmMQdIMfkCf8" width="279" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Another year, another graduation ceremony. For fifteen years
now, my mother, sister and I have been presenting an award in my father’s name
to a deserving student who is truly interested in science. As I sat there this
year, watching one student after another shaking hands, or enthusiastically
hugging or clapping the back of their young principal, I realized that
something was different. There was an unusual vibe permeating the festivities.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The grads were dressed creatively, as per usual, with each
one attempting to shine in their own individual spotlight. Of course, one or
two were trying to blend into the crowd, but most were taking the opportunity
to express themselves. They left their grad robes open in front, to expose
their brightly patterned tropical shirts and shorts, their flip flops or cowboy
boots. I swear I even saw the telltale red soles of a pair of Christian
Louboutin designer stiletto heels.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Last year we were asked to ‘hold the applause’ until the end
of a group of graduates. That didn’t work very well. This year the organizers
just let us clap at will. Some students illicited hoots and hollers from their
biggest fans and closest friends. Things proceeded in a fairly orderly manner,
but there was a really casual tone to the event.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As one young man accepted his diploma, instead of returning
to his graduating class, he kept right on going out the exit door. He called
back to one of his friends, “Steve! Come on!” But Steve did not follow. The
teachers just smiled. The principal shrugged. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Maybe they played “Pomp and Circumstance” as the class filed
in, maybe they didn’t. I don’t recall. But it was definitely more like a house
party than a convocation ceremony. And that’s fine. I mean, who am I to judge? As
I contemplated this, I realized that this was a very special graduating class.
This particular class started in the fall of 2019 – a mere six months before
the worldwide pandemic hit, forever changing what their high school careers
would look like. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They learned how to complete Grade 9 and 10 in virtual
classrooms. By the end of Grade 11 in 2022, the smoke was beginning to clear.
But they had been changed forever. These resilient, resourceful students had
found a way to succeed in an impossible situation. Dozens of them graduated as
Ontario Scholars, with an average over 80 percent. There were remarkable
students in the group, winning thousands of dollars in scholarships and awards.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yes, some students barely made it through. But perhaps they
learned far more about themselves than a textbook could ever teach them. And
now they go out into the world to teach the rest of us. <o:p></o:p></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-34409157228007852342023-06-05T13:39:00.002-07:002023-06-05T13:41:19.539-07:00June is a month to be proud<p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In case you missed it, June is Pride month. This is the
month where we provide a platform and space for members of the LGBTQ2SIA+
community to speak up, support each other, and educate the rest of us on what
it is like for them to face daily challenges just by being their authentic
selves.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was born and raised in a small town, by a school teacher
and an administrator. We didn’t have many people in our community who identified
as gay – at least not openly – but I feel I was raised with a healthy sense of
acceptance and an open mind. I can’t say the same for some in my community –
and I’m not sure what they are using as an excuse. Perhaps they were raised by
bigots, or they aren’t aware of what the Pride movement truly stands for – or maybe
they are just afraid of things they don’t understand. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s still a shock to me when I hear someone say there should
be a Straight parade as well. Educated people. People who should know better.
Straight people have not been criticized, ridiculed, discriminated against,
bullied or even physically attacked and killed for their lifestyle. That is why
we have Pride. Because everyone deserves to live authentically, as their true
selves, free from hate. The world would be so boring without all of those rainbow
colours. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Gender expression is one thing, and sexuality is another. It
can get complicated and confusing if you try to put labels on people. I have
learned it is best to let people introduce themselves. They will tell you what
you need to know about them. Everything else is their own private business. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I took part in this year’s Pride parade for the first time, along
with my theatre group. As I marched, I noticed my former junior high teacher on
the sidelines. When she caught my eye, she put one hand on the shoulder of the
woman beside her, and one hand over her heart. She was introducing me to her
sweetheart. After all these years her private life had been just that. Private.
That moment was the highlight of my day. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The perfect ending to the day was a Pride comedy event at
Bubba and Bugs, our local café and safe place for the LGBT+ community. They will
also host Queer Prom this month, so that those who feel they don’t fit in at
their school prom can still celebrate their graduation with someone they love,
on their own terms. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To learn more about how to support someone in the LGBT+
community, visit <a href="https://pflagcanada.ca/">https://pflagcanada.ca/</a>.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am proud of how my little community is progressing in
acceptance and pride – but we do have far to grow. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">-30-<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhN2y4xxnJmS-uuoTTetafOWyqYgVSDSbFVaXWtBruyWeF8tC81zIkz0UGcHVjUSSox5-JvwFFTO1z-ZdR6YOGZrEdIyw1D6RqjmkNvA0d1pjYlcP5dLernBEu3nEDCXJ9AUO0xUDzb2P4S0otlmf1G1PqGd7hJJRtLOKs25lAsdgz0PZm6wQm32SZHuw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1662" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhN2y4xxnJmS-uuoTTetafOWyqYgVSDSbFVaXWtBruyWeF8tC81zIkz0UGcHVjUSSox5-JvwFFTO1z-ZdR6YOGZrEdIyw1D6RqjmkNvA0d1pjYlcP5dLernBEu3nEDCXJ9AUO0xUDzb2P4S0otlmf1G1PqGd7hJJRtLOKs25lAsdgz0PZm6wQm32SZHuw" width="195" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-34005640762917331872023-05-12T10:53:00.004-07:002023-05-12T10:53:35.507-07:00The peanut butter in the sandwich<p>My mother is a wonder. Not only is she a reliable,
dependable and devoted mother, ready to spring to action the instant my sister
or I ask for help, she is also a dedicated daughter. She is the proverbial
peanut butter in the sandwich, holding the team together with her strength and
love. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">My mother’s mother passed away at the age of 102, a few
years back. The last few years of Grandma Vicky’s life, Mom spent nearly day at
her side, taking care of her basic needs, ensuring she had everything she would
require to be comfortable and happy in her cozy room, even playing (and
purposely losing) cards for hours. Mom generously gave of her time, energy and
resources until Grandma decided to bid the world adieu. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Then it was my other Grandma’s turn to need some support. A
few scares with high blood pressure and a tumble or two made Mom realize that
Grandma needed someone to check in on her each day. My mother spends a large
amount of her time there, now, making sure pills are taken and Grandma is
feeling ok. We just celebrated her 100<sup>th</sup> birthday in February. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I have no doubt my mother will live to be 100. She is coming
to the end of her 70’s looking and acting decades younger. What keeps her
young? It could be the two litres of water she tries to drink every day, her
daily walks, her weekly exercise class, or maybe it’s her evening glass of
white wine for medicinal purposes. But honestly, I think it’s her optimistic
spirit, her generous heart, her love of laughter and her tendency to dance
around the room when she hears a favourite tune that keeps her healthy and
happy. I hope I have inherited some of her joie de vivre too. She never
complains about the number of miles or hours she puts in to looking after the
rest of us. Because her heart is involved. She wouldn’t have it any other way.
And I know exactly what that feels like.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I know what it’s like to get a call in the pre-dawn hours
about a sick grandchild who needs daycare, or someone else who needs to borrow
a vehicle or a few bucks until payday. I am a busy mom and grandma, and
consider it a true privilege that my children know they can turn to me for
help. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">And someday, when it’s my turn, I will be ready to look
after my mom too, the way she looked after me, my children, and even my
grandchildren. I will take my place in
the middle of the sandwich. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Happy Mother’s Day to all the Mothers out there. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">-30-<o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiM9cmyJdWVuWsTgaJh7UsYBv9EzaDj9diTNl8GExQSLZhzVVZ4Vtz58t6xtGUmOlmmJmw0yHuD361H6Zqnru58BIPMvnISskkBcPA5OG1RuvUM0ftBq-e0iJf6Fs8t-VabUU9elt-giRIj_Bj8l1djDz3rIGUlsjFeIzp_TcFQ2K2k36tXMKBKsqx-Dg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1296" data-original-width="1936" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiM9cmyJdWVuWsTgaJh7UsYBv9EzaDj9diTNl8GExQSLZhzVVZ4Vtz58t6xtGUmOlmmJmw0yHuD361H6Zqnru58BIPMvnISskkBcPA5OG1RuvUM0ftBq-e0iJf6Fs8t-VabUU9elt-giRIj_Bj8l1djDz3rIGUlsjFeIzp_TcFQ2K2k36tXMKBKsqx-Dg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-4847493594634768282023-05-12T10:52:00.001-07:002023-05-12T10:52:03.817-07:00The play's the thing<p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The first play I remember being in was “School Days”, in
Grade 6. I played the schoolteacher. I had to sing a song about students and
their excuses for not doing their homework. I still remember the song. Our play
director was also the choir director. He taught me how to project my voice to
the back of the room. I was on the front page of the Advance on opening night!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was bitten by the acting bug, to be sure. Moving into
junior high and then on into high school, I was in the play every year.
Sometimes I had a supporting role, but more often than not, I had a lead part. (I
could project my voice, after all.) Only two of the plays stand out in my
memory: “The Children’s Hour” (an edgy, progressive piece about two female
schoolteachers accused of a romantic relationship, set in 1934) and “The Farm
Show” (performance art and skits – I played the grandma standing in her washer,
showing off her photo albums and delivering a lengthy monologue on family). <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I loved the camaraderie of the cast. For weeks and months
leading up to the performance dates, we learned our lines, developed our
blocking and practiced reacting to each other. It was exciting to watch it all
come together. Opening night was almost a let down, because it meant our fun
was almost over. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Flash forward close to 40 years. I went to the NAC to see
the musical “Come From Away” with my husband. At the end of it I was on my
feet, laughing and cheering, with tears streaming down my face. I realized how
much I missed being part of something like that. So, I signed up for the North
Grenville Community Theatre’s spring production. Lucky for me, they had someone
drop out and the part of Lady Catherine was available. It is a minor role, so I
don’t have to test my powers of midlife memory too much. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">First written in 1902, “<a href="https://www.ngct.ca/TAC.html">The Admirable Crichton</a>” is a story
about the family of a manor house and their servants. The group goes on what is
meant to be a short trip but they are caught in a storm and their yacht sinks. They
end up on a desert island, where it soon becomes apparent that the serving
class is far more equipped for survival than the Lord of the Manor and his daughters.
It’s kind of a twist between Downton Abbey and Gilligan’s Island. Tickets are
available <a href="https://www.ngct.ca/tickets.html">online</a> and will soon
be at the B&H. We are on stage at The Urbandale Arts Centre May 24-28! Come
on out and enjoy some community theatre.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">-30-<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhToc7oN8ik6PlHK_LfSyqcDrmMJQSEYD_kNFgYFthTHoU4F06kNDEIqQcNuWQwtjbmUh95aEhV9l6Spg8SJj1NZ48yXF5yLQsDMbYW1PKPDAtiXg8KhmzHmVB6LCDDIw6QB36_NTRsUIGYEEqZmd7jtD_W2Hap3_CU88aDXnfkBmLdppc5T3j3SjxdOA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhToc7oN8ik6PlHK_LfSyqcDrmMJQSEYD_kNFgYFthTHoU4F06kNDEIqQcNuWQwtjbmUh95aEhV9l6Spg8SJj1NZ48yXF5yLQsDMbYW1PKPDAtiXg8KhmzHmVB6LCDDIw6QB36_NTRsUIGYEEqZmd7jtD_W2Hap3_CU88aDXnfkBmLdppc5T3j3SjxdOA" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-74421599898786229552023-01-22T12:02:00.000-08:002023-01-22T12:02:37.320-08:00Recycling: a Chinese New Year Tradition<p>Welcome to the Year of the Rabbit! While 2022, Year of the Tiger,
was about energy and getting things done, 2023 on the Chinese Zodiac calendar
is meant to be one of reflection and relaxation. Well, I’m all for that. But
allow me to add another “R” word: Recycling.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Every Chinese New Year, I get the urge to clean out things I
no longer need. This is likely a leftover tradition from when I lived in Asia, where
people were encouraged to clean out the old and bring in the new, both at work
and at home. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As the inhabitants of a rather large farmhouse with many
closets and empty rooms, we are the recipients of the castoff furniture and
clothing of many of our family members. I am feeling the urge to get rid of
some of these things, as they still have use but not for us. My plan is to ask
on our family chat if anyone wants these things and then I will put them up for
grabs on Marketplace or some other local Facebook page. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This year I will be saying goodbye to: books I did not enjoy
(but someone else might); a baby stroller that isn’t great on my dirt road
(more for town dwellers); a bassinet; several baby chairs; an assortment of
baby toys; and clothes that no longer fit me. Getting unwanted clothes away
from my husband is something I gave up on a while ago. He likes to keep things,
even if there is little to no chance of ever fitting into them again. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I also need to say goodbye to multiple serving platters, dishes,
teacups and oddly shaped plates that I will never use. They came here when my father-in-law
moved out of his home and we inherited about 60 years worth of stuff. It can
go, along with the Christmas-themed decorations and tchotchkes that came from
who knows where. They haven’t made it out of the basement for over 5 years, so
they need to vanish.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I know it will take at least a whole weekend to sort these
things into a pile in my basement, take photos of each item and post online –
but I will be so relieved to see them go. If no one wants them, they are headed
to the Score or the Salvation Army – where they will no doubt find a good home.
While I’m there I will likely find a few bags of new things to put in my
basement – where they will sit for a few years until it is their turn to leave.
That seems to be my version of recycling. Works for me. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-28506125665742555602023-01-14T05:57:00.001-08:002023-01-14T05:57:29.000-08:00Remembering Dad / Larry / Grandpa on the 15th anniversary of his leaving. <p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhNHadfdWI5v9BQI4XFr3ZiPG_wbIRxdzaxRbD1qSaMzEYi_21G5V2d5s_tMSEoLbXt-J1e9GaQQ3X4FCYwroersOgunyA0zVJpsj8FmkmAFUQ71RVB1v7176ZgfYF54luS8zP8gijgDVl6sw0U31NwQn5G2rQQv46iPZZwqd9cK050YxTtirYBgsIF8g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="859" data-original-width="859" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhNHadfdWI5v9BQI4XFr3ZiPG_wbIRxdzaxRbD1qSaMzEYi_21G5V2d5s_tMSEoLbXt-J1e9GaQQ3X4FCYwroersOgunyA0zVJpsj8FmkmAFUQ71RVB1v7176ZgfYF54luS8zP8gijgDVl6sw0U31NwQn5G2rQQv46iPZZwqd9cK050YxTtirYBgsIF8g" width="240" /></a></b></div><b><br />Dear
Larry, </b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-no-proof: no;">Today
I am thinking of the fifty years we spent together and I am so grateful for the
memories and our family.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-no-proof: no;">You
are an unforgettable, one-of-a-kind, man who will always be remembered by all
who knew you.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-no-proof: no;">There's
a saying that "a life that touches others will go on forever" ... and
you touched so many. We are still hearing stories from former students of your
impact on their lives, and every June we give your award to two high school
graduates going on to further studies in science.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-no-proof: no;">Your
family misses you and keeps your memory alive by sharing your stories and funny
sayings. You will certainly be missed this February when we celebrate
your mother's 100th birthday but I know your presence will be felt as we show
photos of you.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-no-proof: no;">R.I.P.
Thumper! You will always be in my heart. Love, Maureen XXOO<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgjxVETsUO-SI8lmO-Hpps-g8UjXxczQ191HAV25cmmsa69mWVJyc2Rwql02prBQLQBhj2BvrLqsG1Fnkk-FDXgqUKAhqs7938wkMaMnSwdO1yWzHX7lNsA3H069VyDOZV1EUWw7EQv17Nr5IsFfhEALNv3cCs-BREVg1cOCVlJAJLj0J3JXBxnIC1s5A" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgjxVETsUO-SI8lmO-Hpps-g8UjXxczQ191HAV25cmmsa69mWVJyc2Rwql02prBQLQBhj2BvrLqsG1Fnkk-FDXgqUKAhqs7938wkMaMnSwdO1yWzHX7lNsA3H069VyDOZV1EUWw7EQv17Nr5IsFfhEALNv3cCs-BREVg1cOCVlJAJLj0J3JXBxnIC1s5A" width="192" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Dear Dad:</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“It’s been 15 years now and I still dream of you. I feel
your presence in significant moments in my life. I miss you and wish you were
here to guide me.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, I miss my Dad.” It doesn’t take much. The tears still
come easily. Followed by that feeling of a bowling ball rolling to the centre
of my gut. An empty space you once occupied. You were my assurance, my
reminder, my steadiness.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We all remember you in different ways, Dad. When we hear a
snowmobile ripping by on the trail. When we eat Habitant soup. When we see
someone laugh so hard that they go silent, with tears running down their beautiful
smile. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhj4SoU-JV-8nNwiO6TxKdxrW2JqNFQFEQaFeM0BjjPd8v9oe2cLHnw2t59xv4gmqcLR1AwkCNJ3jCyTm9fO0vOfU5JuCafY5i7QK8-_H_eauqPr7kLKrbKA8OFHvgQRCGBpERVIT8XiS3pHZEOJbEiGWx0_jFCNVD2D5PCHZuDoTn3-ZzKXr3vPei62g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhj4SoU-JV-8nNwiO6TxKdxrW2JqNFQFEQaFeM0BjjPd8v9oe2cLHnw2t59xv4gmqcLR1AwkCNJ3jCyTm9fO0vOfU5JuCafY5i7QK8-_H_eauqPr7kLKrbKA8OFHvgQRCGBpERVIT8XiS3pHZEOJbEiGWx0_jFCNVD2D5PCHZuDoTn3-ZzKXr3vPei62g" width="240" /></a></b></div><b><br /><br /><br /></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Grandpa:</b><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I had a dream and you were in it. You were in jeans and a
crisp button-down shirt, sitting at a picnic table with Grandma. There was a
street party going on and you were on the sidelines, observing, blue can of
beer in your hand.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Grandpa would LOVE this snow.” He loved winter. The chance
to race across a cornfield on his Yamaha. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">"She has his smile, and his sense of humour." </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZA3JK4IzbkVPc1l_z8qodhydX6BZL6PB5vIHEaqVtX89gYQ2C5ZHb-zC3ihRv0y-sPKeOOb8FQ1Vht765RlPBYmuQjxUIlt5sA-HWWJlJKfXstRbcfzeaV6ZYsV0hs5Mhzp-gGMfoF-ss_iQYBpCxXQFZ-WcGf4S-ywgCP6G2jZEL87wnmwsR0tjSjQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="373" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZA3JK4IzbkVPc1l_z8qodhydX6BZL6PB5vIHEaqVtX89gYQ2C5ZHb-zC3ihRv0y-sPKeOOb8FQ1Vht765RlPBYmuQjxUIlt5sA-HWWJlJKfXstRbcfzeaV6ZYsV0hs5Mhzp-gGMfoF-ss_iQYBpCxXQFZ-WcGf4S-ywgCP6G2jZEL87wnmwsR0tjSjQ" width="206" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">We haven't forgotten. It's impossible to forget such a big presence in our lives. Fifteen years. Fifteen minutes. You are still here.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHKSC-FPyr6G5MUJdsuz9QRxBAN4ZKa8iFQOH5t87GF8cin2xta6g6BmPt3-yf8EZSL9qvJR8LOtg1oDgE5ieW0SMZUfapAQomvitb0eNzaH1_lt62bOBgkXCnqK11E0pLnguOVDstlLsWW60i8gwLFnOW3jV56BmVuv9C3-dJCACBkwkukpOsnNAHDg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHKSC-FPyr6G5MUJdsuz9QRxBAN4ZKa8iFQOH5t87GF8cin2xta6g6BmPt3-yf8EZSL9qvJR8LOtg1oDgE5ieW0SMZUfapAQomvitb0eNzaH1_lt62bOBgkXCnqK11E0pLnguOVDstlLsWW60i8gwLFnOW3jV56BmVuv9C3-dJCACBkwkukpOsnNAHDg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-34982403388296464832022-11-08T16:01:00.002-08:002022-11-08T16:01:55.827-08:00It's time to fill a bag - with brotherly love<p>There are some who say foodbanks are not the answer. We who
operate the foodbanks tend to agree, for the most part. Handouts of the bare
grocery essentials, every two weeks, will not lift a family out of poverty. But
they might help someone to bridge the gap between pay cheques, while gas, food
and housing prices soar astronomically for the first time in a generation.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Wages just aren’t keeping up. And in a small town, there are
few jobs that actually pay a living wage. Everything else needs to be supplemented.
That’s where the foodbank comes in. Many of our clientele pop in to pick up
their box of groceries right after work. They are still in uniform or dressed
for work. Some are in the trades, with unsteady paycheques. Most just don’t
make enough. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was surprised to learn that there is no regular government
funding for foodbanks in Canada. There are partnerships, and our local foodbank
is lucky to have formed one with our own municipality of North Grenville in the
last budget cycle. Our foodbank will receive funding to cover approximately one
of operating expenses ($25,000) from the town for each of the next four years.
We have to depend on the community to help cover the other eleven months of the
year. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We have many generous local businesses and individuals who
make regular financial donations to the foodbank, through <a href="http://www.salvationist.ca/">www.salvationist.ca</a> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Others drop off cash at the Salvation Army thrift
store on Rideau Street in Kemptville, where we are able to divert funds to the
foodbank. If you have made a donation, let us know by emailing: <a href="mailto:kemptvillesalvationarmy@gmail.com">kemptvillesalvationarmy@gmail.com</a>.
That way we can ensure that your donation goes where you want it to. That is
also the email to use if you have free time this month to assist with the
massive Fill-a-Bag campaign. We need drivers and helpers to drop off paper bags
at local residences, pick up the filled bags, and sort the contents back at the
foodbank. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Watch for your paper bag to arrive on Sunday, November 20<sup>th</sup>.
Take a look at the list printed on the side of the bag and consider making a
donation to your local foodbank. Whether it’s dried or canned goods, bathroom
supplies or pet food, the 100 families that we are currently serving in North
Grenville will definitely appreciate it. We can even accept food that has gone
past its ‘best before’ date in the last year, in most cases. Put your bag
outside on the 27<sup>th</sup> and our volunteers will swing by to pick it up. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Thank you for sharing with your neighbour, and putting a
little love in the bag. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">-30-<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEii6pHVMxnWse8hiQ8VYykz7KfVsVW5T7tEyahTpYvhTmNA5Il7fleqEJDDbY5f1zX6nI1MigjgpBRdOIO_FL-mTkiaRHY7VrlaJrQZDSy7lk2vI14h7www7-nBATuIaswDq4yLkeCS__eS04qjCKMtapyPvse_5zpz8o9F97-pPwheTTSIy8tiW2w-ew" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEii6pHVMxnWse8hiQ8VYykz7KfVsVW5T7tEyahTpYvhTmNA5Il7fleqEJDDbY5f1zX6nI1MigjgpBRdOIO_FL-mTkiaRHY7VrlaJrQZDSy7lk2vI14h7www7-nBATuIaswDq4yLkeCS__eS04qjCKMtapyPvse_5zpz8o9F97-pPwheTTSIy8tiW2w-ew" width="188" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-58936536842100776842022-11-08T16:00:00.000-08:002022-11-08T16:00:15.684-08:00Playing a part in Hollywood North<p> On an English movie set you might hear, “lights, camera,
action!” But I was recently on a totally French movie set and the direction
was, “Moteur! Trois, deux, un, action!” It certainly tested my bilingual
abilities (which are not great, with only highschool French), and I was very
grateful for the translation skills of my co-actors.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I have been a background actor / extra on half a dozen
productions in the Ottawa area. I got to be a <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt3286052/">dead body</a> once. You can’t
really see me in the finished movie as my scene is blurred and quite brief. We
filmed the results of a car crash in a parking lot at Kemptville College in
February 2015, when it was 30 below and windy. I had to keep my (dead) eyes
open for as long as I could while the cameras rolled. I teared up and my fake
blood kept melting and running into my mouth. It is not a good taste. Sort of
like a mix between melted lipstick and olive oil. I did get to meet <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oz_Perkins">Oz Perkins</a>, the director,
however. He stuck his head in through the broken windshield and said, “they did
tell you it was a horror movie, right??”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My other background roles have included churchgoer, nurse
with clipboard, woman in crowd, salesclerk, and I can’t remember the last one.
They have all been fun because you meet people, including the ‘big name’ stars
sometimes, but they all have one thing in common: lots of waiting around. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This latest experience was a new one for me – I have been
surrounded by Quebecois at a Bryan Adams concert in Montreal and know they like
to have fun – but I have never worked with a bunch of strictly French-speaking
people before. In between very serious scenes in a courtroom (I played a
Supreme Court judge!) they were cracking jokes and goofing around. Something
was lost in the translation and I am pretty sure I looked like an idiot because
I was the only one who wasn’t laughing – until the laughter just became
contagious and I was actually laughing at their laughing. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This time I was on camera, for several long scenes, but I
had no lines (thank goodness – nothing to screw up). It was a challenge for
sure – even the set notes and schedule were totally in French. I had to put one
paragraph at a time into Google Translate just so I wouldn’t miss my cues. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If you are interested in getting yourself or your kids into
background work, sign up with <a href="https://www.smythcasting.com/">Smyth
Casting</a> or a local talent agency. They are always looking for new people! <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">-30-<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQflarYf5ajKNYfjdy7FtuAxDnX2RbMA5Wnl547coas-Pb7kHkg46pCQ6xq2q_KGwsVxaMCUwAkX30Po1aoycXXDYDQV9S3wK81XBfxiuQt22_g3f33LR8vNU05l-vJ0w85uIc68LTBH-tLZxO1F9RAzojIgxs72Gf5PRYJ_VkqF7nyNyGeUilL11rfQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="166" data-original-width="303" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQflarYf5ajKNYfjdy7FtuAxDnX2RbMA5Wnl547coas-Pb7kHkg46pCQ6xq2q_KGwsVxaMCUwAkX30Po1aoycXXDYDQV9S3wK81XBfxiuQt22_g3f33LR8vNU05l-vJ0w85uIc68LTBH-tLZxO1F9RAzojIgxs72Gf5PRYJ_VkqF7nyNyGeUilL11rfQ" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-3948059443663352582022-11-08T15:56:00.001-08:002022-11-08T15:56:24.484-08:00The chicks are calling<p> <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The baby chicks in our basement are very interesting houseguests. They peep peep peep peacefully all day, an ongoing soundtrack for my workday. Sometimes my associates comment that they can hear something in the background in our Zoom meetings. Then I have to take my camera downstairs and show them what is making the noise. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-52ba77e9-7fff-0654-05c1-39f4ad92f563"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you make a sudden move, the chickens emit a collective SQUAWK. I also find it very strange and somehow endearing, the way they all decide it’s time to go to sleep. Like immediately, all at once, without a discussion first. They just close their eyes and put their heads down where they are – in the wood shavings, in the feeding trough, under the heat lamp. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">They are going through a lot of water. We can only put small watering units in there, upturned mason jars dribbling into tiny lids that are too small for a chick to fall asleep and drown in. These water stations are up on bricks so that they don’t get the wood shavings all wet and cause the chicks to catch a chill and die. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I see tiny feathers sprouting from their backs. They are losing their golden fluff and baby cuteness. My granddaughter holds a yellow chick in her hand and repeats, “awwwww….awwww…” over and over again. The Golden Retriever, intrigued by the sound and smell, tip toes down the basement stairs. He is normally scared out of the basement by a trio of hissing cats. It is their lair. Today he comes over and peeks his head into the circular pen of baby chickens. Then he sees the one the child is holding in her hands, and dives at it with a ‘snap’ of his jaws. She pulls the bird away from him, just in time. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Oh!” we say, in unison (including the bird). I collect the tiny creature, smooth its ruffled fluff and tuck it safely back under the heat lamp to gather its wits. The dog was quickly ushered back upstairs, where he will remain for the next few weeks until we move our slightly smelly houseguests out to the shed. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m hoping they grow enough feathers to keep them warm for the nine weeks or so that they will be in the barn. They will be under heat lamps, and big enough to cuddle together without smothering themselves. Still, we never know what kind of weather November will bring, and December can be brutally cold. A nice blanket of snow to insulate the barn from any chilling drafts would be perfect, if I could place an order. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For now, I have to find a way to keep the chicken coop smell from rising up out of the basement and into the rest of the house. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">-30-</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpduPr4HzbMx72NbcwGjaqZ_u7Zb03bEctaE-GUqnMUav7J7m6qxUUCYZn1HLBgpWUGw_ep-kiF22q5TUZOEKqBMBhouaCstObROQS9HLUggS0obnCEBieQ7xonIa52WxsowZXiTTLWWD4XsZxyH_kj7Y-HhRbjrT4oc5n7AOVWEa5lxwaz2ANt0tHdg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpduPr4HzbMx72NbcwGjaqZ_u7Zb03bEctaE-GUqnMUav7J7m6qxUUCYZn1HLBgpWUGw_ep-kiF22q5TUZOEKqBMBhouaCstObROQS9HLUggS0obnCEBieQ7xonIa52WxsowZXiTTLWWD4XsZxyH_kj7Y-HhRbjrT4oc5n7AOVWEa5lxwaz2ANt0tHdg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /></span>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-32704068285969872332022-09-19T07:53:00.005-07:002022-09-19T07:53:49.124-07:00Trying to overcome Imposter Syndrome at the Plowing Match<p> <i>As I write this, the plowing match has not yet happened.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ready, set, plow! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
you have passed by the former Kemptville College grounds lately, you will have
noticed a tent city being built. It’s rather impressive how the people behind
the International Plowing Match have transferred their model for a successful
event to our site, setting up auxiliary power and lighting and facilities to
host thousands of people in less than a month of preparation. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I heard the call for volunteers and offered my services
close to nine months ago. I was asked to use my experience as MC to assist in
the hosting of the Celebration of Excellence – the awards gala. I’ve hosted
dozens of events for charities and different organizations so I know the drill –
you have to have stories to tell if there are delays, to keep people interested
– sometimes a joke or two, and I’ve been known to occasionally break into song
(consider yourself warned). However, I don’t believe I have ever hosted an
event this LARGE. I’m trying not to get intimidated as I drive slowly past the
massive circus tents. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve had imposter syndrome more than once in my time as an
Accidental Farmwife (thus the name). Whenever I’m asked to speak at an AGM for
a local agricultural society or a group of farmers, I feel a bit dumb. I don’t
know how to drive a tractor, for example (tried once on our ancient
International but my leg wasn’t strong enough to push the pedals). I’ve never
successfully baked a pie or mended torn overalls. I’m allergic to hay. My vegetable
gardens, although prolific, have been overtaken with weeds, and I don’t like
feeding chickens because they peck my ankles. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Over the past fifteen years, however, I have learned how to
raise sheep and cattle. I have rejoiced over their births and cried over their
deaths. I have worked hard to keep them comfortable and happy, and felt the
determination to find solutions when they were laboring or unwell. I made sure
their short lives here were happy and safe. I contributed to the agricultural
economy and the foodchain. I guess that makes me a farmer too. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve documented my farming experiences over the past decade
and a half in this column, and although we don’t raise animals anymore, I still
feel strongly connected to the farm as we watch the corn and soybeans grow
through all kinds of weather. Thank you to everyone who takes part in the
International Plowing Match in North Grenville – the competitors, the
volunteers and the spectators – and thank you for coming! <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now I just have to figure out what hat and boots to wear.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">-30-<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhMGI_B6hXoxI_dRqrUkcilctkbGX6lwReFjsfOl-2QVnf7aNc67J8CCqXYxtOXVwfdBD22QeeR9cv7lkILBELU4mWyMxtu2X2dvRareHLmfPGciQPyaSKlTVslYx_-vWDpZ1R81bJlbt-GoupPVMQ-e0jb-lL6A09FxfPKC66bV6VdVJQSSgmmqMRofQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhMGI_B6hXoxI_dRqrUkcilctkbGX6lwReFjsfOl-2QVnf7aNc67J8CCqXYxtOXVwfdBD22QeeR9cv7lkILBELU4mWyMxtu2X2dvRareHLmfPGciQPyaSKlTVslYx_-vWDpZ1R81bJlbt-GoupPVMQ-e0jb-lL6A09FxfPKC66bV6VdVJQSSgmmqMRofQ" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-66713135698246364962022-09-13T11:02:00.003-07:002022-09-13T11:10:48.931-07:00Farm to table: not as easy as it looks<p>Ok let’s try this again. Last spring we brought some chicks
home to raise for our own freezer. Well, they didn’t make it to the freezer. In
fact they didn’t even make it to one pound of body weight. Some critter snuck
into the shed in the middle of the night and murdered them all. I’m just glad
the massacre happened the day AFTER I sent my daughter in there to feed them. I
wouldn’t want her to witness that carnage.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is not the first time we have lost all of our birds to
a predator. It seems to be the norm lately, no matter where we house our chicks
– in the log cabin, the barn or the shed. We can stuff the cracks, line the pen
with chicken wire, and the beasts still get in. It’s probably raccoons. They are
extremely dexterous.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In addition to the predators, we have to consider the cold.
We are at the end of summer now, and the nights are chilly. We can put heat
lamps over the chicks but we have to make sure the drafts are all covered in
the shed, or disaster will happen. The chicks will start piling on top of each
other to keep warm, smothering one another in the process. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Farmer has been busy for a few days now, building a new
chicken coop in the shed. He has covered the floor of the horse pen with wood
shavings. Chicken wire has been pulled across the walls and it forms a ceiling
overhead. As I watch, I’m thinking of the video our daughter shared of a
raccoon she caught in a live trap. It had been killing her laying hens so it
had to go. There, caught on her live cam, was a full sized raccoon, prying the
metal cage apart with its tiny hands. After he escaped, he threw the mangled
cage to the side, out of his way, and waddled out of the shed into the
moonlight. I’m not sure our chicken wire will be able to withstand raccoon
hands. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My solution was to bring the chicks into the house, at least
until they are a good size. We can fit the chick brooder in the old dog kennel
cage. That will keep the chicks safe from curious house cats. They will be
sheltered from the elements, and hungry wildlife. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Will this be the year that we manage to raise our chickens
successfully? It seems like it has been ages since we were able to fill our
freezers with meat we raised ourselves. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">-30-<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1elIuG3caKG8QNE98YdEOvsN88EH4ruJ-eyJIGW6UK5yqp-z52whhiOGFlnvX3iGk1Hh7079phJEECC078SE6huG0Z2T6Pd6VDXQi_S05pfwApPra5PQKlegXm3oJbdS4MvbxRxNedGTSiAMvfD5s1C5GhyhgP7xFFOVLQ3SZA-WCaoVdYLzmhZQlQ/s960/10561573_824977557555402_6072917443896406639_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1elIuG3caKG8QNE98YdEOvsN88EH4ruJ-eyJIGW6UK5yqp-z52whhiOGFlnvX3iGk1Hh7079phJEECC078SE6huG0Z2T6Pd6VDXQi_S05pfwApPra5PQKlegXm3oJbdS4MvbxRxNedGTSiAMvfD5s1C5GhyhgP7xFFOVLQ3SZA-WCaoVdYLzmhZQlQ/s320/10561573_824977557555402_6072917443896406639_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><p></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-84437569027634000592022-08-28T10:55:00.004-07:002022-09-13T10:45:31.885-07:00Revisiting my memories <p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The view from the picture window of the “Cabin on the Hill”
at Bon Echo Provincial Park makes me want to cry. And not just because of the
way the sun sets on the 300-foot rock face on fire at the end of the day – a
scene that has inspired countless artists to honour its beauty in their work. I
get emotional because this particular panorama reminds me of when I was 16
years old, swimming across the lake, climbing that cliff with friends, dining
on blueberries and jumping off ledges into the cool, black water below. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I learned to waterski on this lake. My dad never stopped
teaching, even during the summer. At 6am he’d wake my sister and me and we
would dress quickly to join other puffy-eyed characters on the beach. The water
was smooth as a mirror at that time of day. The only sound, an occasional loon
call. On a school day, we teens would long for a few extra minutes of sleep.
Not at Bon Echo. We were up at the ‘crack of sparrow fart’, ready to start our
day. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We ran in packs, to the soundtrack of “Synchronicity” by The
Police. At lunchtime we would run home to our respective campsites to scarf
down ham and cheese sandwiches or a plate of camper’s charcuterie left behind
for us by our parents: cheddar, kolbassa and dill pickles atop Ritz crackers. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our bellies full, we would head back to the main beach for
sunbathing, floating on rafts and spouting the wisdom of young people who would
one day rule the world.When the sun finally dipped behind the rock we would
pack up our towels and rush home to eat camp dinners with our families: beans
and wieners, Kraft dinner with tuna, grilled burgers and corn on the cob. We
sped through washing the dishes because at 6pm we were due at the camp ball
diamond where Mrs. Watson organized a game six days a week. Our parents brought
lawnchairs and socialized on the sidelines. Afterwards we took our sweaty,
sandy bodies to the lake for a moonlit swim or headed to the showers to wash up.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dressing in hoodies, jeans and sneakers, we would meet after
dusk at a designated campsite for marshmallows over the fire. Sometimes we
played pranks on each other, like waiting until someone had been in the outdoor
shower long enough to be fully soaped up – then turning the water off and
watching from the bushes as the screaming ensued. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s no wonder Bon Echo is one of my favourite places in the
world. It’s a magical place on its own but for me it holds a big piece of my
childhood. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">-30-<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3ftsevn-vQi50Ko5_g_ctjGUXyyWAqyIIK6CfDXV6l4zDkNZ-1VAsXj-L8DKEsGvp5SCwuhdYVLhOzPDsxoS-uvr2SoS--p0JbAK0ZqMhQfFwCnq2N2VJktlgM9PyJrYKrpZfhpSeHW84pSM7GLrL1JtyyNBTcO9369CGbrpDcfG5m7LeQplsnd_qMQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3ftsevn-vQi50Ko5_g_ctjGUXyyWAqyIIK6CfDXV6l4zDkNZ-1VAsXj-L8DKEsGvp5SCwuhdYVLhOzPDsxoS-uvr2SoS--p0JbAK0ZqMhQfFwCnq2N2VJktlgM9PyJrYKrpZfhpSeHW84pSM7GLrL1JtyyNBTcO9369CGbrpDcfG5m7LeQplsnd_qMQ" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-50302864519345469922022-08-28T10:52:00.001-07:002022-08-28T10:52:05.671-07:00Many hands make short work..or something like that<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The noise
woke me at around 3am, two nights in a row. It sounded like someone was rolling
a large garbage bin down a driveway – except we were at the cottage and we
didn’t have a garbage bin. Or a driveway. On the third night I sat straight up
in bed, straining to make sense of the weird noise. I have heard squirrels
doing construction on a maternity ward in my attic (sounds like tiny hammers
and saws), as well as woodpeckers, foxes, loons and raccoons, chattering at
each other pre-dawn. This was a new sound though. I talked it over with the
Farmer at breakfast. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I struggled
to describe the noise I had heard. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“I heard it
too! Thought it was thunder at first. Are the raccoons in the recycling again?”
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Our Golden
Retriever Fergus had also heard the noise. He was up before dawn, pacing,
growling and ready to bolt as soon as someone opened the door. Once outside,
nose to the ground, he circled the house three times before he gave up,
distracted by an enticingly chewable stick.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“No idea.
The recycling was untouched. The porch fridge had little muddy handprints on it
– a sign that the raccoons had been trying to get into it – but no other
evidence of tampering. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Since our
new neighbour began removing trees from his property in order to renovate his
cottage, we had all kinds of new wildlife visiting our place. Fergus had an
unfortunate meeting with a baby porcupine that resulted in a trip to the vet to
get six quills removed from his muzzle. When we set live traps to catch the
porcupine family (which is a near impossible feat), we caught a mama and
teenaged raccoon instead. They are strong enough to bend metal, so we didn’t
leave them in there long. I threw a blanket over the cages to stop the coons
from snarling and the Farmer sprung the doors with a long pole. Raccoons can be
vicious when cornered. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We didn’t
relocate the racoons because there were three babies sniffing around the cages
and scurrying up the nearest tree. So now we are host to the whole family. They
were sitting in the middle of the road the other night when we came home from
dinner, playing tug of war with an earthworm. I hope they don’t get hit by a
car. People don’t often realize the lasting effects of cutting down an entire
acre of mature trees in one go. It doesn’t give the animals long enough to reorient
themselves. They wander around dazed and confused for a bit until they find
another suitable home. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I thought
about this as I approached my compost bin with a load of corn husks. The
sliding door on the top of the bin had been pulled open and bent in half. Muddy
handprints covered the side of the barrel where tiny hands had worked hard to
roll and spring it open. I’m going to have good soil this fall thanks to those
raccoons who keep stirring up my compost. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEimcVkp7nvt5__uTWPWciKe4dcfDhivM3Mvw4IbQ10pR6F9qUXNynaPNEhlWPK1p0w48USJAXUfAYQUrnkIL5GRmpzip4MqaXFjRQoYorUXLVKYUs0_oODF7TGlBz3GRU7i1jegRp5xyQ_5Cl_OVSzoagc9sBXFiGJ05NLpk8pggFGpPXdnVQCsMEYtXg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2633" data-original-width="3933" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEimcVkp7nvt5__uTWPWciKe4dcfDhivM3Mvw4IbQ10pR6F9qUXNynaPNEhlWPK1p0w48USJAXUfAYQUrnkIL5GRmpzip4MqaXFjRQoYorUXLVKYUs0_oODF7TGlBz3GRU7i1jegRp5xyQ_5Cl_OVSzoagc9sBXFiGJ05NLpk8pggFGpPXdnVQCsMEYtXg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-39298901073085025002022-08-28T10:50:00.001-07:002022-08-28T10:50:22.831-07:00The Farmer is an eternal optimist<p> </p><span id="docs-internal-guid-53f1b0a7-7fff-e9a5-743f-86c093a9c0e9"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Farmers hope for the best and prepare for the worst. They are the ultimate optimists. They prepare the soil, plant the seeds and hope the crop will grow, even if it was washed out by floods or shrivelled by drought the year before. And so, the Farmer is buying more chicks, even though our little flock was wiped out last year by some kind of stealthy predator. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We will do what we can to keep the raccoons out of the chicken coop this year. We will cover the space with chicken wire and install a door that even the most dexterous fingers will not be able to open. We will keep a light on and the radio will play all night. But even then, we might lose a few birds to the coons. Because if they want to get in, they will. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Of course, theoretically, we can trap and get rid of the raccoons, but they are smarter than most of the traps. So, in the end it is up to luck. We just hope that the raccoons have found something else to eat this year, so they will leave our chickens alone. At least for the 12 weeks that we need to grow them. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am not a huge fan of chickens, because they peck my ankles. Every time I go in to feed them, they swarm around my feet and peck me – and we never let their feeders run empty. It isn’t as if they are starving or even hungry. They are just socially awkward. They have no idea how to make friends with the hands that feed them. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Chickens are also cannibalistic. If one of their lot gets wounded, you have to pick him out and put him in his own quarantined space, or his friends might eat him. How is that for nature at its most brutal? Disgusting. I prefer turkeys. They are polite, softly cooing around you as you fill their feeders. They also respond in unison sing-song gobbles when you speak to them. Turkeys are cool. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last year after our flock was destroyed, we were left with a handful of chickens and one lone turkey. After the chickens went to market, Turkey Lurkey was alone. We gave him to our daughter who raises laying hens and she snuck him into her coop under cover of darkness. When the sun came up the next morning he was pretty much accepted into the fold. We ate him for Easter. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Growing your own food is risky business, but it’s worth it (I say as I watch my husband roll out the chicken wire, from my safe vantage point on the porch).</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiypNjSrNulwSZU1PPCV0f_U3_AGiXD4Fuu9KyaJkTgBjqA29vQXfw98Hl1qp3GXptz31nwHYyR7yygEU9K8nV66mgY1MZXXo6rDOmMiC0yclncZaGtfr50XtWP2cwmvJBo3G2xyHPqYS1lrqp6mT5MOzoC7XxyhFIaP653MZpied_SDgApvFzP03P5jQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiypNjSrNulwSZU1PPCV0f_U3_AGiXD4Fuu9KyaJkTgBjqA29vQXfw98Hl1qp3GXptz31nwHYyR7yygEU9K8nV66mgY1MZXXo6rDOmMiC0yclncZaGtfr50XtWP2cwmvJBo3G2xyHPqYS1lrqp6mT5MOzoC7XxyhFIaP653MZpied_SDgApvFzP03P5jQ" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /></span>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-72376477171484390542022-06-02T04:12:00.002-07:002022-09-13T10:47:43.100-07:00Not my Donkey, not my circus<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">For those people
who messaged me, worried that my donkey may have been on the loose over the
weekend, thank you but it was not my beast of burden. Our donkey was shipped
out years ago when we found a new home for our sheep. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Of course,
I’m not sure what farm he calls home at the moment. If he is still in the area,
it could very well be the same donkey who used to earn his keep watching over
the sheep at our farm. He sure did enjoy a springtime escape and walkabout. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">One foggy
morning a few years ago, I was headed down the road to work when the pre-dawn
mist cleared in front of me to reveal two big butts. The little grey one
belonged to Donkey and the big gold one belonged to our Belgian horse, Misty. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I slammed
on the brakes and climbed out of the car to give chase. I tried running circles
around them like a sheepdog and then I remembered that Donkey would do just
about anything for an apple. I went back to the kitchen and grabbed a few.
Within about ten minutes I had the two of them back in the barnyard, safely
secured. I even made it to work on time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I think
Donkey could get out of just about any gate if he really put his mind to it. He
would spend hours nibbling at locks and chains with his dexterous lips, using
them like fingers. Sometimes he got out and visited the horses down the road. Many
times I would glance up and find him calmly nibbling the flowers in my garden.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Occasionally
Donkey used his powers for good. One night at dusk he broke through the yard
gate and came to the kitchen window. It was getting dark, but I saw the whites
of his eyes. I don’t know what his next plan would have been if I hadn’t seen
him. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When we
went outside, Donkey headed off down the field at a clip. That’s when we
noticed the sheep weren’t in the barnyard. We jumped on the ATV and followed
Donkey, who led us to the sheep in the back pasture. They had climbed through a
hole in the fence but when dark fell, they couldn’t find their way back out. As
we opened the gate and Donkey led them back up to the barn, we could hear the
eerie choir of coyotes singing behind us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">That rescue
gained Donkey a few points, but the next day he erased them by wandering over
to the neighbour’s house and peering in her patio door as she sipped her
coffee. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8to4hQbceu7S6uxlKZJjkv2vSJe2Goz_LHUX3NgizDepogUv_J5E13Nc4xlEuyO7gCk38jN3iQLXlxGEdlaYbS2iVeACzcTSziP4-TrZQqzL4DURnD3p5997R8AdygTWG3gO24he-g3XEVJNOxcmj4OnHkJSV5-Z4MeI3_n1btOuY1j_FiPdKprhbMg/s744/DONKEY.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="744" data-original-width="499" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8to4hQbceu7S6uxlKZJjkv2vSJe2Goz_LHUX3NgizDepogUv_J5E13Nc4xlEuyO7gCk38jN3iQLXlxGEdlaYbS2iVeACzcTSziP4-TrZQqzL4DURnD3p5997R8AdygTWG3gO24he-g3XEVJNOxcmj4OnHkJSV5-Z4MeI3_n1btOuY1j_FiPdKprhbMg/s320/DONKEY.png" width="215" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-56374185676097239122022-06-02T04:08:00.002-07:002022-06-02T04:08:12.075-07:00We had a sheepdog and a dogsheep<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">There once was a sheep who thought she was a dog. When
Gracie was born, her mother either died or rejected her – I can’t remember
which – sad stories are best forgotten on the farm. Luckily, she took to the
bottle right away. She also learned to steal from other ewes when they had
their heads in the feeder and weren’t paying full attention to who was under
their udder. She wasn’t a dumb sheep, by any means. But she did have a very
vacant look on her face. It was like a perma-smile. She never looked alarmed or
sad – just happy. All the time. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">While most lambs totally forgot about me as soon as they
were turned out of the barn onto the fresh new meadow, Gracie had total recall.
All I had to do was shake a pail of sweet feed or call her name and she would
come running, bleating her excitement. I think she eventually got used to the
sound of my rubber boots crunching across the gravel. You didn’t have to call
for very long. Gracie was never very far away and she would let complete
strangers pet her. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Gracie was also a bit of a show stealer. She loved the
spotlight. I gave a presentation at the Literary Follies one year and my
daughter held Gracie in the wings off stage. When I pulled a baby bottle out of
my bag and clicked my tongue Gracie was released and came bouncing across the
stage to be held and fed in my lap. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Years later, Gracie was part of the local Christmas Parade.
She seemed to be smiling at everyone from atop the float. If she could wave,
she would. Her little stub tail was wagging, like the dog she thought she was. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When we decided to get out of sheep farming, I just couldn’t
say goodbye to Gracie. I kept her for a bit longer. The donkey and horse let
her join them on their daily walks, and the three of them looked like the
Bremen Town Musicians. At night, though, they stood while Gracie lay on the
cold ground. She didn’t have her comrades to keep her warm any longer. I
decided it was time to let her go to a nearby farm where they also had sheep.
Donkey went with her, to guard the flock. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I heard that Gracie eventually found her calling,
entertaining residents at a seniors’ home in the area. What a great idea, to
have a bit of a hobby farm on site where many former farmers could visit or
even help to take care of the animals. I’m sure Gracie basked in the attention.
<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhEHH67VpEdOsltJEutJjYM9G3s7i9xR4lfUSzkVeVgAnoEjJalGe1ESEXL9IscWK7gq_keaSOo40EudBANw0MvnP3v2vzFzTeYyhb-CpUVtN4ReBCldbT-zmA--Yh9a20Wx4vcL56PlT86hfhRz0bIn3N2Ezix_MULKuSFFr2bEhhslewh5Ft8eoZuxQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhEHH67VpEdOsltJEutJjYM9G3s7i9xR4lfUSzkVeVgAnoEjJalGe1ESEXL9IscWK7gq_keaSOo40EudBANw0MvnP3v2vzFzTeYyhb-CpUVtN4ReBCldbT-zmA--Yh9a20Wx4vcL56PlT86hfhRz0bIn3N2Ezix_MULKuSFFr2bEhhslewh5Ft8eoZuxQ" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-27467803771193923712022-03-11T11:47:00.001-08:002022-03-11T11:47:50.694-08:00Springtime on the farm is good for the soul<p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My first lambing season on the farm was January of 2008.
That was the same month that my father died, after a brief but intense bout of
pancreatic cancer. The numbness that tends to plague many of us in the winter
months was intensified for me because of this loss. I was also fairly overwhelmed
with the emotional involvement of lambing – the adrenalin, the worry, and the
sadness when a newborn doesn’t make it; the utter delight when you see one
thriving and bounding around the pen like a springbok.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I barely remember that winter. It’s all a blur.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Springtime, however, was another story. After eight weeks,
it was time to let the first lambs out onto the new green shoots of grass that
were poking through the last few puddles of snow. We opened the doors to the
pens, and the first of the brood poked their heads out into the aisle. Seeing
an escape route, the rowdier ones pushed them on from behind. Soon everyone was
at the door to the barn, waiting for me to open it. They poked their noses at
the cracks in the door, the sunlight peeking through.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I slid the door open, bright sunshine beamed in and
blinded the lambs who were used to the filtered rays of the pen. They shook
their tiny, bobbed tails and blinked. Then, one tentative hoof on the concrete
ramp. Oh! It makes a tapping noise. Tap, tap, tap. She did a little dance and
spun around. Her cousin followed. A tiny mosh pit of lambs was created on the
ramp before the first ewe stepped out, stretched her neck up to the sun and
gave them a good shove out of her way. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Once on the grass, the lambs seemed energized with a sudden
high voltage. They sniffed, bleated, jumped and ran. Some, realizing they had
lost their mothers on the outside of the pen, began to run around in circles,
butting udders with their heads, in a desperate search for something familiar.
They were repeatedly nudged away until, finally, they found the ewe that
belonged to them. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The ones that had been on the bottle sometimes needed a top-up
at the end of the day, when we brought them back inside. For the most part,
though, they forgot all about me. Life was suddenly so much bigger than the
soft hay in the lambing pen and the warm sweetness of milk. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Watching those lambs celebrating life helped me to remember
that our difficult seasons come and go. Life is a cycle, and death is just one
tiny part of it. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">-30-<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2RsDVPlN6h8O7_SBLb9E0vJMfdPyJLCJpRCLUNvHauHJAM6oBg6RhyLKaHYCTaC891Vxs2tin0JbwpJqaHKfF0tdV_-sH9d9w2cp8Nj8wAUrSkhp4FUPpgdJCXdNUGmROQsb7rsynOYyttPdTLhKW1W_BB6W1hvaXH-SmIdmHd7ZHKpMm-ra0_T2q6g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="720" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2RsDVPlN6h8O7_SBLb9E0vJMfdPyJLCJpRCLUNvHauHJAM6oBg6RhyLKaHYCTaC891Vxs2tin0JbwpJqaHKfF0tdV_-sH9d9w2cp8Nj8wAUrSkhp4FUPpgdJCXdNUGmROQsb7rsynOYyttPdTLhKW1W_BB6W1hvaXH-SmIdmHd7ZHKpMm-ra0_T2q6g" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-6796179463985911352022-03-09T10:54:00.003-08:002022-03-09T10:57:03.444-08:00No arachnophobes in this house<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">When I travelled to Australia, I made the mistake of reading
the Lonely Planet’s guide to the most poisonous animals on the continent. For
the first week I had trouble venturing outside as a result – until someone told
me that you are just as likely to find a funnel web spider or carpet snake
inside as out. That information came in handy when I found out that the
thumping in the wall behind my bed was actually a harmless carpet snake
climbing up to the loft, where she would slither inside, coil herself around
the rafter and spend the night. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was also helpful to learn that the larger huntsman spiders
tend to be harmless. There certainly were enough of them, in the garage and
under the sun visor of our SUV, ready to pop out and surprise us at any moment
(once our startled driver almost went off the road). I also met the shower
spider when I was in Brisbane. When the power went out, I showered the sea salt
off myself in virtual darkness. At first, I thought the fuzzy thing that had
fallen onto my foot was a facecloth. Until it moved. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When I’m frightened, I go completely silent. I got out of
the shower and without drying off, wrapped a towel around myself and opened the
door to the kitchen. My host and his uncle were sitting there on the couch,
drinking beer. “Did you meet Harry, then?” they asked. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That introduction to the wild world of arachnids was good
practice for me, when I became a cottage owner. Otherwise, I might have been a
bit put off when I realized a family of wolf spiders (cousins to the huntsman) had
taken up residence in the closet. They introduced themselves one day when I was
sitting at my desk, by skittering across my laptop keyboard. They made me jump,
then they jumped themselves. They are actually kind of cute and they do eat
other bugs (like the dreaded mosquito) – but I swept them outside anyway. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The other day I realized that there is a daddy longlegs on
the ceiling above our shower. It seems to be catching ladybugs, so I let it
remain. The ladybugs are terrible pests – I vacuum or wipe them off the window
every day, but they still find their way into my bed – and my water bottle –
most nights. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then the Farmer pointed out that the daddy long legs has a
wife. And she appears to be nesting. I don’t mind sharing my bathroom with one
bug-eating spider, but I’m not sure I want a whole clutter in there, watching
me shower. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixhVNgb4JrMtcffzWcVy43MtZyr8iqpaNwxweJbBFPX9xBag9XKLj4KTKblIMtJ_blu5TMvywc-A4daDN8xL4TQNtXxiDWWXzz7XzZGaGjmcgH98aJmQecOQRSp2ZG_Z3zo9cE8vkw3Y-Ady802TVir2D3Athj-nf3yjHC-VImgmkjJW1uYjYkChfLlw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="406" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixhVNgb4JrMtcffzWcVy43MtZyr8iqpaNwxweJbBFPX9xBag9XKLj4KTKblIMtJ_blu5TMvywc-A4daDN8xL4TQNtXxiDWWXzz7XzZGaGjmcgH98aJmQecOQRSp2ZG_Z3zo9cE8vkw3Y-Ady802TVir2D3Athj-nf3yjHC-VImgmkjJW1uYjYkChfLlw" width="287" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-38194754026068663132022-03-09T10:52:00.002-08:002022-03-09T10:52:38.028-08:00Even the robin's flight south was cancelled<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was walking Fergus down the road the other day when he
stopped and stared up at a tree. I followed his line of sight up to one of the
fattest robins I have ever seen. Even the dog seemed to think it strange to see
a robin here in January. Worms are frozen this time of year, yes? I look
forward to seeing the first robin every spring, as a harbinger of warm weather
and the end to winter. Don’t tell me we have totally messed up bird nature with
climate change too. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve seen other people in Eastern Ontario posting photos of
robin sightings online. Apparently there are quite a few of them that decided
to stay for the winter. Someone even caught a picture of a robin fishing in the
open river for a minnow. I did some research and this is what I found out. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Robins are nomadic, so while they may have left your
property, they may not have flown south. In the colder month their diet has to
change, so they will relocate to a place where they can find berries or fallen
apples. And they aren’t actually fat – the bird I saw was likely doing
something called “rousing” – a fluffing of the feathers for optimal warmth.
Robins have more than one layer of feathers, so they can trap warm air next to
the body, to stay dry and warm in winter. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">According to most online sources, there isn’t much you can
do to help robins in winter. If food becomes scarce, they will simply move on.
They won’t eat from your birdfeeder because they have learned that food is
found in shrubs or on the ground. You might try leaving out some suet, berries,
raisins or chopped apples. But they are pretty good at fending for themselves. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Someone else suggested a warm bird bath might be helpful,
because the robin spends most of its energy in winter shivering to stay warm.
If it had warm water to drink, this might help. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I don’t know who to believe with this conflicting
information, so I’ve got all bases covered. I’ve put out some suet and berries,
and my warm water bird bath should be here next week. I just hope it doesn’t
attract every member of the winter animal kingdom. I don’t want to look out the
kitchen window and see a coyote out there enjoying the spa. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The main cohort of robins is expected to return right on
schedule in spring when the ground melts and worms can be found again. That’s
one mystery solved. Now what about that huge murder of crows?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrT2ZHRviSmMOLzmldbc9hydvXiZ09MuKwfPMP5PEa7EPgM2TL_FjX_ZA4GJld17Jngufvtc7jM94QTSvWc4f1ajricrxZBvFQVXZKhj4TRUvIq6asWOh8mVSTIETLIgmZyn1KnRNGR_OAorLvmsavWTl3gxc3S09hTf6ohzNey3-s0kjaYtr62MWN_g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="358" data-original-width="516" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrT2ZHRviSmMOLzmldbc9hydvXiZ09MuKwfPMP5PEa7EPgM2TL_FjX_ZA4GJld17Jngufvtc7jM94QTSvWc4f1ajricrxZBvFQVXZKhj4TRUvIq6asWOh8mVSTIETLIgmZyn1KnRNGR_OAorLvmsavWTl3gxc3S09hTf6ohzNey3-s0kjaYtr62MWN_g" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-12890144481311451082022-01-14T05:51:00.003-08:002022-01-14T05:54:53.450-08:00The gold chain<p><br /></p><br /><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span><p></p><div><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">My dad was a snappy dresser. He was the last generation of public-school teachers to wear a suit to work, every day. He never wore running shoes because he had no intention of running. His sweatpants never made it outside the house. He ironed his jeans. He wasn’t fond of jewellery, except for his thick gold wedding band, and a flat serpentine chain.</span> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When my dad passed away in January 2008 after just four months of illness, we were all in shock and struggling to face a world without his huge presence in it. I decided to throw myself into a new challenge at work and found the learning curve quite steep. I needed quiet, so I could focus. Mom had gone to Florida with friends, and the house was empty. I packed a lunch and brought my work there. I spread my files out on the coffee table and opened up my laptop. I sat quietly on the couch and closed my eyes. The house hummed with the energy that our family had embedded in its walls over the previous twenty years. I felt a sense of total comfort and support, as if he was still there, sitting in his favourite armchair to my right, answering my questions and encouraging me. My mind was clear and the words came easily as my fingers flew across the keyboard. My focus on that first assignment was laser sharp. The work led me into a whole new path in my career. I doubled my salary overnight and began making what my writing was worth – for the first time in my life.</span> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A year later I had taken on yet another challenge, as project manager on a documentary film project. It was completely out of my realm of professional experience, but I felt pushed and supported by the trust of the Indigenous group that had requested me on the assignment. As we packed our bags to head up to Northern Quebec, I realized I didn’t have a suitable jacket for the damp chill of springtime in the North. I borrowed one from my Mom.</span> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As I walked out on the frozen Rupert River to assist our film crew on that chilly April morning, I slid my hand into the pocket of Mom’s coat. My fingers closed around something, and I pulled it out to take a closer look. I recognized it immediately as the gold chain that my father wore continually in summer. It had been polished to a shine by the leather of his tanned neck. I put it around my own, under my scarf. I felt him walking with me as I stepped out confidently onto the ice.</span> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It took my mother a couple years until she was ready to bury my father’s ashes. His remains are on a soft hillside overlooking the creek in Oxford Mills. We have found deer prints there occasionally, near his headstone. He would like that. But I don’t feel his presence there, so I don’t visit the site often. I can’t visit the old house anymore either, as it has been sold and my mother has moved on. Now, when I want to feel close to my dad, I wear his gold chain.</span> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I realize it would be unwise to form an attachment to this inanimate token of my father’s memory, because that would just lead to my losing it. I need to find other ways to keep his memory alive, before I forget the sound of his voice, the tilt of his smile, the touch of his hand and the glint in his blue-green eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtg6kl6rDsXRd5g2_a0nR5kC113t38dF3okjGxtUytrGeN_DEYxLOOwWPT2GEEZw5vqSIAfP810R9jmWjgYJV9OoJ_q4cB2oTi67M2E2BXjI721etO814dbrm9whZO8WICH_nR6csRi41q2UroXUPeO625SqMBpSdK6tkK0VKGatj_6gRLGtyE9XzlLw=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtg6kl6rDsXRd5g2_a0nR5kC113t38dF3okjGxtUytrGeN_DEYxLOOwWPT2GEEZw5vqSIAfP810R9jmWjgYJV9OoJ_q4cB2oTi67M2E2BXjI721etO814dbrm9whZO8WICH_nR6csRi41q2UroXUPeO625SqMBpSdK6tkK0VKGatj_6gRLGtyE9XzlLw=s320" width="320" /></a></div></span></div>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-54688939427009361392022-01-14T05:01:00.004-08:002022-01-14T05:03:58.791-08:00Remembering Larry / Grandpa / Dad, and keeping him alive in our hearts<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif"><i>Larry Andrew Alan Leeson</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif"><i>September 4, 1941 - January 14, 2008</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif">It’s
been fourteen years since we said goodbye to a very special person. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif">He wasn’t
a saint. He wasn’t always easy to live with. But he loved teaching, laughing,
dancing, and driving. And he lives on in the memory of so many. If we could, we
would pass these messages on to him today. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif"><b>Hi Dad, </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif">We keep hearing your favourite song "Rasputin" and catch ourselves mimicking your dance moves along to the music. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif">We still have dreams of you where you are helping us to be good moms - where you would have been a great grandpa, and Dad. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif">Miss you so much. ~Cathy.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhr2YpeI5hbBYoSY_SPlN_LIDU9AdmE2F1nIn19oTm43TCjqS6brcuPvNih5XSbuw6j1HpoP0vJFLZVUIJUZUb-WY8Qk7cX6g1IczSYAbDMZYRAMzU1DM7kn4FENFtmQoWpzwtugsPWwNYn3Oas60Xv3rzWkiWTKBP2ZpiRJpbu1Wmiha87ZUUE8p32zQ=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhr2YpeI5hbBYoSY_SPlN_LIDU9AdmE2F1nIn19oTm43TCjqS6brcuPvNih5XSbuw6j1HpoP0vJFLZVUIJUZUb-WY8Qk7cX6g1IczSYAbDMZYRAMzU1DM7kn4FENFtmQoWpzwtugsPWwNYn3Oas60Xv3rzWkiWTKBP2ZpiRJpbu1Wmiha87ZUUE8p32zQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b>Dad,</b></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif">I keep hearing
funny stories about you – so I’m writing them down before I forget them. I hope
you don’t mind – I might turn them into a book someday. There are more than a
few life lessons in there for all of us. From you, I learned to follow my heart
and do my best. I learned to notice that everyone is good at something, so we
shouldn’t compare. I learned that if someone gets the courage to ask you for something,
you should give it to them, if you can afford to. And if someone asks you to dance,
dance. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif">I love
you, Dad. ~Dee.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhyzGrQNpS3mGlmsvaUfoXYUt3x5fj8Ip-oBVwAkxJzKoP9aQyY_ESnj0bUBYWGFBiHJxkwqWSjWhH8EmBHGILlH69_jUTZnbS3yBjSLJogG4nsXEMtj0wbu3DBlNjiTTngp5BXu6hyRO8dbjQv-MGWaSAflqdwS_9viqkux34TYEsWFaRYaYENESHiWw=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2446" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhyzGrQNpS3mGlmsvaUfoXYUt3x5fj8Ip-oBVwAkxJzKoP9aQyY_ESnj0bUBYWGFBiHJxkwqWSjWhH8EmBHGILlH69_jUTZnbS3yBjSLJogG4nsXEMtj0wbu3DBlNjiTTngp5BXu6hyRO8dbjQv-MGWaSAflqdwS_9viqkux34TYEsWFaRYaYENESHiWw=s320" width="194" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif"><b>Dear
Larry,</b><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif">Wow!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fourteen years since you left us; the years
are going by so quickly now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif">Your
family of five generations misses you and we talk about you often, your
favourite music and crazy sayings, so the younger ones will know you too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif">During
this pandemic, I have felt so grateful to be living comfortably in my own home
and with wonderful memories of our43-plus years together ... raising our two
beautiful daughters, building homes, boating, snowmobiling, travelling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thanks for spurring me on so often to make
those life-changing decisions that make my life what it is today.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif">You were
one of a kind and will always be loved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif">Maureen<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOZr_iMNGWb9kmhad_P3ACRecGZgwjXvbPPOFZziDtMM01uL8M5FMBjHr3XlblfvdJpInWilLYKKnlTBc-U74w5Spl0-zsYyxo5l5a7xeZ7HKe5BOsoLCVbreg9VA0HYM7IQayfbUt5QYL/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOZr_iMNGWb9kmhad_P3ACRecGZgwjXvbPPOFZziDtMM01uL8M5FMBjHr3XlblfvdJpInWilLYKKnlTBc-U74w5Spl0-zsYyxo5l5a7xeZ7HKe5BOsoLCVbreg9VA0HYM7IQayfbUt5QYL/" width="180" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial Narrow",sans-serif"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7079433666220425140.post-33638389321778175012022-01-08T10:17:00.004-08:002022-01-08T10:17:48.899-08:00What is your WOTY for 2022? <p> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Many different organizations around the world declare a Word
of the Year for different purposes. Usually it’s the word that has had the
greatest impact on the population. The Merriam Webster Word of the Year for
2022 is: VACCINE. In 2021, the word was PANDEMIC. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, those words may indeed be the stars of the search
engines these days, for many different reasons. But I prefer to choose my own
personal Word of the Year each January as a positive guidepost of sorts. It’s
my form of New Year’s Resolution.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the past, I have chosen words like: Present (to remind me
to stay focused on the here and now, instead of getting caught up in things
that have already happened or worrying about what is to come); Less (as a
reminder that I already have more than enough, so why eat / drink / buy more?
Except where books are concerned, of course – you can never have too many books);
and Listen (another way to stay present and grounded, as I work to develop my
grandmothering skills). This year, I have chosen a word that will remind me to
make time for my favourite lifelong pastime, because it brings me joy and
relieves stress. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As a little girl, I kept a daily journal. I had the
traditional kind with the tiny lock and key. Each evening I listed things like
what I ate, what I wore, who I saw, who hurt my feelings, and what new song I
heard on the radio. Into my teen years I secretly listed the names of the boys
I liked, while carefully recording the fashion and hairstyle details of the
girls I admired. I didn’t write with any particular goal in mind. I certainly
wasn’t planning to publish my journals some day. And yet, I wrote. If not every
night, then at least every week, without fail. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Journaling helped to keep my brain organized. It was like a
data dump of worries and concerns that allowed me to clear my head so I could
sleep soundly. I found it especially helpful when I was a young mother.
Sometimes at the end of the year I burned my journals, as a symbol of a hopeful
change in direction for the year to come. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Over the years as I took on writing professionally, I let my
journaling habit fall by the wayside. This year I have been gifted a brand new journal
and I plan to use it. Who knows? Someone might find my notes interesting in the
future, after I’m gone. My word of the year is WRITE. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">-30-<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4sClCw73i5lOoUGzG90OAJQdtgDoceuAFOhk0f7eD1tsY7Av1CDOHHqgLWS9UyROTmUS-meCMktlONlTDw9oDjK_U_cv5ZSsbwyABrP_MEoxcKFQj0h6c1Tf1AT9ytvF6wrIwYFQ1jWQz/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4sClCw73i5lOoUGzG90OAJQdtgDoceuAFOhk0f7eD1tsY7Av1CDOHHqgLWS9UyROTmUS-meCMktlONlTDw9oDjK_U_cv5ZSsbwyABrP_MEoxcKFQj0h6c1Tf1AT9ytvF6wrIwYFQ1jWQz/" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Diana Leeson Fisherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00460287061698734921noreply@blogger.com0