THE TIDE IS HIGH

. . . and so is the river. NO; we're nowhere close to being flooded, as some places to the south-west of us have been. It's just that there's a lot of water around — and a lot of jokes about it. (If I could remember some, I'd tell you — but my brain is even less functional than usual today). I recall something about kids thinking their dad had put in a swimming pool; dad had to explain that's the field where he usually grows his crops. Well, um, anyhow. . . .

I very much hope you have a reasonable balance of wet and dry, wherever you are. I'm scheduled for minor surgery in a few weeks; the doctor's going to cut out the webbing that's grown between my toes during all this wet weather. But he has quack yet to determine quack what quack to do about quack these strange noises that quack I've been making. Not ducky at all.

CHANGE. AND PAPER WORK.

This is the kind of thing I'd usually post on my Bears Noting blog. But I'm putting it here instead because, well, because here seems the right place for it. Don't ask me to explain that. Also, please disregard the note on my May 20th posting; that was then, this is now.


    In our lives we go through a variety of changes. Some of these are socially defined, and are known to sociologists as “Rites of Passage.”

    Today, every one of them involves paper work. Lots of it.

    It hasn’t always been that way, but it is now. And increasingly, we are know, not by name, but by the number that is assigned to our paper work. 

    Birth and death are the two universal events. Normally in Canada, you don’t leave hospital until someone has filled in papers for your birth certificate. When you die, you cannot be buried, cremated (or whatever) unless there’s a Burial Permit (which is issued only after the more extensive paper work is done).

    In between — perhaps Drivers Licence, High School Diploma, Trade Certification, University Degree. If you get married, a marriage Licence and Certificate. If you have children, their Birth Certificates. All involve paper work.

    And on the farm, there is paper work involved with the transfer of farm ownership. Back in the 1980s, when I was reporting agricultural developments on radio and in print, intergenerational farm transfer was complex. It needed very careful consideration.  I don’t expect it has become any less complex. If anything, there are probably more things to consider — and more paper work.

    What got me thinking about this is the fact that I’m busy filling in paper work. Late this summer, I will turn 65. That, somehow, doesn’t seem right. I don’t actually feel that old. I don’t think of myself as being that old. I’m 64 going on 46, maybe. But my Birth Certificate tells me I’m going to be 65. In this case, the paper work doesn’t lie.

    According to my long-time friend and colleague, Ralph Milton, 65 is the “age of certifiable decrepitude.” Supposedly, you’re old and worn out.

    That, of course, was not true in Ralph’s case. Nor is it true in the lives of many others. In fact, in my years of work with “seniors,” I saw that many seemed busier in “retirement” than they had been during their “working lives.”

    But turning 65 means paper work — for government pensions, or private pensions, or both, that might just wear me out. I won’t get my money until the paper work is done. Even if the money is sitting in some account, somewhere, with my name and number on it. So I’m doing paper work.

    And even after retirement, I’ll be participating in the economy and community. I’ll have an income. I’ll be buying things. I’ll be with my wife and family. I will continue writing. I’ll continue to serve on a variety of ethics committees, in our community and university.  I’m already facing health challenges, but they haven’t stopped me, though I do need medications. And all of those will require some sort of paper work.

    And I hope the economy in which I live will continue to have a place for, and honour the hopes, needs and contributions of,  young and old, male and female, rich and poor, highly-educated and less-educated. That it will be, simply, a Moral Economy.

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This originally appeared, in a slightly different from, as an Op-Ed column in The Western Producer, last month. It's my latest contribution to our "Moral Economy" series.

SILLINESS

We have had a lot of rain where I live. Either rain or clouds almost every day. It's too wet in many places to continue seeding, so the large crop predicted earlier may not materialize. Neither Her Ladyship, Miss Sadie, nor I are fond of long walks in the rain right now. And it's all making me a bit silly — waterlogged brain, I think.

So, I have an idea. We should change the name of our province from "Saskatchewan" to "Newyyd Cymru" (New Wales). Wales always gets lots of rain. Right? A more fitting name for us right now, since we've apparently had the wettest spring on record. Sigh! Of course, for New Wales, we would need a LOT of sheep; I'm not certain how that would go over, here in cattle country. 

Oh, yes; Miss Sadie is a year old, today. We'll head out for a celebratory walk in a few minutes.  

THE ANTI-MIDAS TOUCH

I've been dragging my proverbial tail around for some now. This is not fun. It is not what I signed up for. The fact that I tripped over Sadie in the middle of the night last night, and landed flat on my back, most certainly did not help the situation of either mind or body.

What made things worse recently was burning a box of papers. It was from a project which I and some other very talented people started in the late 1980s. (The Blog Fodder was one of those who helped us along the way.) It was my idea, but it resonated with a lot of others, who picked up the ball and ran with it. Then they hired me to run the non-profit operation. Bad mistake. I knew what needed to be done, and some of how to do it. But my knowledge of actually running a business could be written legibly on the back of a postage stamp. After two yeas, I removed myself from the leadership position. I continued to be a member but someone more capable took over the reins and carried on, until the organization was betrayed by a couple of "friends" -- and failed. As the nominal founder of the project, most of the organizations documents found their way back to me, though they properly should have gone to someone else. I took most of them to the provincial archives, which was happy to receive them.

Anyhow, 15 year after the Foundations demise, I finally burned the old financial records. An appropriate enough thing to do under the circumstances, I suppose.

What it did though, was remind me of my "Anti-Midas Touch." You remember the story of King Midas -- he had the power to turn anything he touched into gold. With the "Anti-Midas Touch," everything you touch turns into garbage. That was my reflection on my involvement in the Foundation. Then I thought of another case when my "Anti-Midas Touch" had been at work. And then another, And then another. And. . . . By then, my soul was like the ashes in the fire pit. I came in, laid down, pulled a blanket over me, and slept for several hours. I didn't even get up for supper.

I will not let this kill me. But some days I have to reach up in order to touch bottom.

"HEY, SADIE . . .

. . . whats all this white stuff on the ground?"


"I dunno, Nuala; tastes kinda like water, but it's cold."

"Sure is slippery, too, Sadie!"


Such was our puppies introduction to snow. Environment Canada had been saying for several days we might get a few snow flurries on Thursday, When I was out with the puppies at noon, I think I counted four snow flakes -- almost too small to see. "Yeah," I figured, "that's the snow we were promised." But when I woke up following my afternoon nap, we had a few more flakes than I had imagined.

That didn't stop the puppies from chasing round and playing in it, and having a dandy time.


Although the whole experience caused Sadie to stop for a moment and try to figure out exactly what was happening in her world.


Meanwhile Environment Canada is promising more of the same today, with temperatures of -2°C (wind chills as low as -9°C). It's a bit cool for me, but the puppies are wearing their fur coats, so I don't know that it makes a whole lot of difference to them.

But any crops that haven't been harvested ae going to take a real beating from this.

Oh, yes; I have to get out and shovel the sidewalks, too.
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PHRIDAY PHOTO

On either side the river lie
Long fields and of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the fields the road runs by
√√To many-towered Camelot.

– Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "The Lady of Shalott"

Autumn has surely arrived. The barley is ripening; the trees' leaves are turning. The sky is clear and cloudless. The sun is bright and warm, but not too hot. A gentle breeze freshens the air. A glorious time of the year.

(This picture was taken at a spot about five minutes drive from our home.
The river, in the background, curves north from here,
and cuts through the middle of our many-towered city.)
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