LATEST ARTICLES

Having a Laugh

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It’s probably healthy to have a good belly laugh once a day, but sometimes that’s not an easy prescription to fill. Not until I inadvertently stumble onto hilarity and laugh myself silly do I realize how long it’s been since the previous belly laugh session.

            On some days, the glum days, absolutely nothing seems funny; not the jokey lady at the gas station (I’m glad my frustration with your payment device amuses you grrr) or the droll radio announcer (Ridiculing Saskatchewan’s fall “heat wave”? How is this funny?) or even my friend’s text notification sound – a loud duck noise that usually quacks me up (haha). The Facebook memes I’d screenshot for their great humour? Not funny a week later.

            Interestingly, wait a few days and those memes might once again make me chuckle. The material hasn’t changed, so it must be moi. Apparently one’s sense of humour comes and goes. Lose it for a while, that’s okay – it’ll come back again.

            I’ve been a sucker for funny stuff most of my life. Two favourite childhood books were about humour: a big hardcover called “Jokes, Riddles, and Funny Stories” and the little paperback “Jokes and More Jokes”. Things only got worse from there. I apologize retroactively to the relatives and friends I regaled with questionable juvenile comedy, because I was probably annoying as heck.                                                                                                

            Unfortunately, I haven’t fully “outgroan” that trait, so apologies in advance for future “punny” business. However, I’m not sorry I found the material funny. Kids’ lives are hard sometimes, just like adults’, and a bit of comic relief makes for a happier kid. That’s my theory, anyway. So maybe that pesky pint-sized joker in your life deserves a break. Or better still, a laugh.

            I mean, think about it. Did you never take heart from sharing a knock-knock joke with someone?  “Knock knock!…“Who’s there?”…”Atch”…”Atch who?”…”Gesundheit!” — or an elephant joke? “How do you know an elephant has been in your fridge?”…”Footprints in the butter.”  Were you never cheered by an episode of Bugs Bunny, Laugh-In, Bob and Doug Mackenzie, or whatever else your particular generation chortled at? Laughter just plain feels good, and not only for kids.

            Recently, despite health and travel challenges, my siblings and I gathered together for a day. Some serious conversation took place, which was a good and necessary thing, but the best moments were those where we laughed until the tears came. “Remember when the laundry soap didn’t rinse out of that load of clothes, and we had itchy underpants all morning at school? Hahahaha!!!”… Well, maybe you had to be there.

            But seriously, folks. Humour exists all around us, if we only look. A laughter fix might be right under your nose. And no, I’m not making fun of anyone’s moustache. There’s a reason the Daily Herald has a comic section – because people read it! Sometimes they even read it first.

            Of course, a few funnies won’t take away the world’s tragedies, fights, hurts and injustices. But life as a “groan-up” is often hard, and a bit of comic relief makes for a happier adult. That’s my theory anyway, backed up by that expert in feel-good warm fuzzies, Dr. Seuss: “From there to here, and here to there, funny things are everywhere.”

            Hmm. Anyone else suddenly have itchy underpants?

Musical Notes

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Remember that musical instrument foisted upon you by the school system around grade 5? I mean the simple plastic recorder, that ear-splitting screech maker your parents sent you down the basement with at practice time, or better still, outside.

For the record(er) – see what I did there? — I have almost zero musical talent. I say “almost” because part of me deludes itself into thinking I can perform recognizable tunes on the thing even now. Yep, I’ve hung onto my vintage whistling contraption and still haul it out once in a while to torment the neighbours and start the local dogs barking.

I can’t sing for sour apples, so learning the recorder gave me a ray of musical hope. I was that kid the teacher instructed to “just mouth the words” when our class performed at an inter-school competition. To my credit, and presumably her chagrin, I sang loud and proud and off-key anyway. I hadn’t dressed up in my best white blouse and precision-pressed navy skirt just to stand in the front row with the other short kids and pretend to sing. Humbug to that, Mrs. Fifth grade teacher.

The singing gene may be weak, but the appreciation of music is strong. Nowhere is it written you can’t participate in the music scene just because your vocal chords wander down paths of their own making. The world’s performers need an audience, and some of us excel as listeners, toe tappers, head bobbers, and hand clappers. We give a mean standing ovation too. Audience members are not only valuable, but necessary. Maslow said it best with his hierarchy of needs: food, clothing, shelter, audience. Or something to that effect. Anyway, a good number of “bums in seats” is encouraging to any performer. Go bums!

It’s extra satisfying to attend a performance in your home town. At Prince Albert’s E.A. Rawlinson Centre it’s hard to get a bad seat. The place is small enough to retain a sense of intimacy, and hosts all sorts of shows. It’s not the only game in town either. Posters on P.A. area bulletin boards and social media may surprise you with their musical offerings. The Mahon auditorium in the John M. Cuelenaere Library has presented band concerts, choral groups and wow factor drumming – and the price is right, sometimes by donation. Local restaurants, bars, churches, clubs and other groups regularly offer something different if you’re so done with binge watching Netflix or flipping through the same old T.V. channels.

Alternatively, maybe you inherited the musical gene and are the entertainment. Hooray for you! I’m envious. How many guitars, violins, drums, keyboards and grandparents’ old harmonicas are hiding in our city’s garages, attics, and unofficial walk-in closets called “extra bedrooms”, languishing among the out of season clothes and abandoned treadmills? Um, several? Or several hundred – those things multiply fast when you aren’t looking. And that’s not counting the grade 5 plastic recorders.

Speaking of which, I haven’t annoyed the neighbours and their dogs for a while. Something patriotic like “O Canada” perhaps? Or the folksy, mellow notes of “Early One Morning”? Some may remember that one as The Friendly Giant’s theme song. Played beautifully on the recorder, as it happens. If you’re too young to have watched Friendly on television, I suggest tracking him down on the internet.

Meanwhile, “Look up. Wa-a-y up. And I’ll call Rusty”.

Notes from a messy desk: A little inspiration

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It starts innocently enough. You’re having a rotten morning and could use a listening ear, but nobody’s available to talk. So, because your cellphone’s within easy reach, you pick it up and begin to search the web for something inspirational, a simple word or phrase to shift your perspective. Then the algorithms kick in. Crikey! A video line-up of individuals touting cures for the world’s ills, all vying for the chance to enlighten little old you. Because they care. And they know. And they can guide you toward a better day, a great life, and a joyful state of mind. All in 3, 7 or 10 simple steps. “Just click on the link below.” Hah!

If your tolerance is low that day, like mine was, look out. I proceeded to click. And watch. Click-watch. Click-click-watch-watch. Whoa! An hour and a half flew by, yielding a stream of presenters who looked like perfection, sounded weirdly sincere and yet rehearsed, and had a thing for fresh flowers in chic/ornate/rustic vases. Exactly two takeaways, basically reminders, seemed worth noting: (1) Our bodies may respond negatively to heat and humidity, leading to fatigue and exhaustion; (2) There’s breathing and then there’s breathing — avoid the shallow kind.

All that scrolling on a cellphone had made my eyes go buggy and stiffened up my arthritic thumb. Note to self: when chasing rabbits through cyberspace, opt for computer.

The next morning, with that rotten mood sticking around like a burr I couldn’t pick off, I avoided the web completely and looked to my surroundings for a little inspiration. A pink sticky note on the wall above my desk stared back at me. I’d put it there months ago. The glue on those things is good.

“Listen,” it read. So I sat on the swivel desk chair without swiveling, and listened. Birds (finches?) chirped outside the window, traffic hummed intermittently, wind rustled poplar leaves. The sounds were not unpleasant. Even the strains of “Achy Breaky Heart” from my neighbour’s radio had an ironically uplifting vibe. I felt encouraged.

Next in the “I spy” game: a standup plaque on a crowded bookshelf jumped out at me. Well, not literally. “Never underestimate the power of a cup of tea” it advised in calligraphic script.

“Oh, alright then,” I sighed. “I can take a hint.”

It felt right to perform the whole ritual: boil the kettle until it whistled, rinse the porcelain teapot with hot water, steep the herbal brew for 10 minutes. It stayed warm thanks to a flowery tea cozy, a gift from my sister when I thought they’d become extinct. I’d almost had to revive the old Singer portable, or worse yet, learn to knit – ack!

Indeed, sipping tea for a few quiet kitchen minutes was beneficial. That’s when I came across the serenity prayer. Not a tangible version, but the one in my head I forget to refer to, the one about accepting the stuff you can’t change, and changing what you can. I couldn’t magically make people available to talk, but I could write my thoughts down. So I did.

Maybe you have your own sources of inspiration. The trick for some of us is remembering to pause and use them. It’s time to move mine around, unearth some stored ones, and put them where they’ll be noticed. Particularly on those days that start out rotten.

Notes from a messy desk: Fix-it-yourself

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Given the last few years of skyrocketing prices and supply chain issues, the fix-it-yourself movement seems to be gaining ground. For many of us it’s nothing new.

I come from a long line of fix-it-yourselfers. If the car had a mechanical problem, my dad was under the hood tinkering until things ran properly. When the toaster quit working, he repaired the electrical cord, and although the new plug end was big, awkward and ugly, the resulting toast was great. Mom was also a fixer, especially of clothing. She’d have my sister or I stand on a wooden chair, wearing our latest too-long bell bottoms, and instruct us to “Hold still!” while she measured and folded and pinned. Then she’d sit and stitch up the hems by hand.

I try to fix things too, but sometimes wonder if it’s worth the trouble. Which is exactly what I was pondering recently while performing human pretzel tricks on the floor of my car underneath the steering wheel, in turtle-on-its-back position, trying to get up. It had all started on the day before I was to fly away on vacation. I got into my car to run a quick errand, decided to swish the windshield clean, and the wiper lever attached to the steering column broke off in my hand.

“Nooo!!” I wailed, followed by a couple of expressions not fit for a respectable newspaper, loudly enough to get the attention of a dog-walking passerby who speedily changed direction back toward the alley.

After a bit of Google sleuthing, I determined this might be a case of fix-it-yourself, but it would have to wait until after the trip. Meanwhile, I gave thanks for those earth angel friends who transport people to catch planes in Saskatoon when said people can’t drive themselves. You are my heroes!

Upon returning home, while waiting several days for the replacement part, I could still drive the car in sunny weather – yay!  It then proceeded to rain almost daily. “Fiddlesticks!” I exclaimed (or possibly some other word), after checking for nearby dog walkers. Finally fix-it day arrived, and with the help of a patient friend and a couple of excellent YouTube videos, the repair job was underway.

“Hold my specs please, I can see better without them. There’s every size screwdriver here except the one we need. Oh Phillips, not Robertson? Is that the “x” or the square thingie? Shoot, dropped the screw. No, over there – see it? Gotta change position. Maybe try reaching in from outside the door? Holy rug burn Batman, this pavement is hard on the knees!”

Ninety minutes later the job was finished — double high fives!  The sense of satisfaction when those wipers once again squeeged the windshield clean was almost palpable.

Such resounding success has me dreaming of future fix-its. Maybe the old china cabinet. Refinish it, replace the broken glass, unstick the drawers. How hard can it be? Tons of people do this stuff. Maybe some have their own unfinished projects. Enough to hold an event, not unlike an old fashioned barn raising or quilting bee. Straw bales to sit on, a potluck meal, some fiddle playin’ and square dancin’ after the work is done. Yes! Mom and Dad would be proud.

Now… who to invite first?                                                                    

Notes from a messy desk: A childhood summer

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When school let out for the summer, the first thing my childhood friends and I did was —  play school! Was it just us, or was that a thing? Do kids still do this, I wonder? We’d gather on the front veranda with our pencil cases and exercise books, fight over who got to be the teacher, and class was in session.

“Why do you want to play school? You just got done with it!” my mom would ask in puzzlement. Why? I have no idea. It just cried out to be done, and it felt like fun for a day or two until the novelty wore off. Ah, the lazy hazy crazy days of a childhood summer. They stretched endlessly, or so it seemed in June.

In the summer, we went barefoot. Talk about being grounded to Mother Earth. My sister and I had friends living across the street. The gravelled street. In order to play together somebody had to brave the moat of pointy rocks. “Ouch. Ow!  Oww-oww-oww!”, we’d exclaim on the first few crossings, until our soles toughened up. Then the city oiled the road to keep the dust down. Our feet adjusted to that better than my mother did. “Quit traipsing through the kitchen with that %&#* stuff on your feet!”  And it was into the backyard kiddie pool to try and wash it off.

Summer fun was incomplete without that other natural element: water. Cold water. Lake cold. Swimming pool cold. Lawn sprinkler cold. Icy flippin’ cold! Shoulders shivering, goose bumps over arms and legs, hair dripping, we’d towel off before basking in the sun to dry. Beach sand, attracted by the H2O, clung to spaces between toes, clumped onto hair, and migrated to the inner recesses of ears, belly buttons, and other assorted crevices, until you shed your bathing suit and showered the grit away. Or tried to.

Then there was the wind. In your hair. While coasting on a bicycle, fast, down a l-o-o-ng slope, no hands, feet up on the handlebars. Until you crashed. But that’s a story for another day. Now back to the wind… and that experiential connection with earth’s atmosphere, not unlike a dog with its head stuck out the car window, ears flapping, tongue licking the highway breeze. Wind in your hair, oh yeah!  A trip out of town to pick berries among the pines meant half a dozen kids in the back of Dad’s old Fargo pickup. There was just one catch: we weren’t allowed to stand up. Even so, the drive was so much more exhilarating seated on an old quilt in the open air of a truck bed. Our butts felt every bump in the road, so we felt connected to terra firma whether we liked it or not. 

“Summer goes by faster every year” is the kind of thing “old people” in my young life used to mutter over their cigarettes and coffee in the backyard screened-in gazebo, away from mosquitoes, and to some extent pesky kids. I was too busy running through the sprinkler and chasing down the Dickie Dee ice cream wagon to have any concept of what they meant. Now I do.

So bring on the lazy hazy crazies and fill the kiddie pool. It’s time to stick these feet in cold water and chill with Mother Nature, quick, before I blink and it’s Labour Day.

Lorna Blakeney is an avid writer who enjoys photography, history, travel, and genealogy. She was born and raised in Prince Albert, earned a B.A. from the University of Saskatchewan, likes to walk, and loves coffee shops. Her column appears the first Friday of every month.

Notes from a messy desk: What colour is your thumb?

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Things are greening up. Ever notice Prince Albert’s trees when you drive into town from the north, crossing the bridge? Trees all over the place, up-up-up along the hillside around Second Avenue West. And the green season is just beginning. With front lawns, back gardens, balcony and patio planters, hope sprouts in the hearts of gardeners like perennials in the yard of a vintage home.

The greenhouse merchants have put up pieces of paradise in the paved parking lots (apologies to Joni Mitchell). Begonias. Marigolds. Some flower called bougainvillea. “Look at those adorable pansy faces! Love the scent of petunias… mmm! I must buy a couple or three. Or eight. What the heck, give me a dozen!”

That’s not me talking, it’s the ladies I came to the greenhouse with. I’m just pushing the cart, thank you very much. It’s my thumb, you see. Weed killer or soil sterilant must have landed on it, because any greenish tinge it once had seems to have turned brown. And that’s without the age spots. I envy the green thumb people. Stick the seeds in soil, water them, add some fertilizer, pull a few weeds, and presto! Vegetables. Flowers. Fruit trees, even!

If only.

During the pandemic, with grocery shopping a strange game, I rustled up a few plant containers, bought some dirt, and typed “vegetable seeds” into Google. Well, that brought up a few gazillion places to order from. Once the packets arrived I set to planting, following all instructions religiously. But things were slow, slow, slow to grow. The cucumbers eventually managed some cute little sprouts. The peas never did come up. The carrots grew best, mainly their lush green tops. Maybe the seeds weren’t good. Perhaps I planted them too deep. Or they didn’t get enough sun. Or water. Or maybe too much water. Ack! As a Saskatchewan farmer’s daughter the crop failure cut deeply. I scored exactly one meal of very skinny (but extremely tasty – I was hungry) carrots.

There have been some successes over the years, though. I raised a thriving umbrella plant once. Until it got mites or something. An “expert” cure involving dish detergent mixed with water finished the poor thing off. Not to be deterred, I took on a philodendron, basically a vine that never blooms, and thrives on neglect. Bingo! It was un-killable, and happily accompanied me through several moves to Saskatoon and back. I even named it: Louisa May Plant. Louisa wound herself around the living room at least twice, was inherited by the next occupant, and may well be still putting out new shoots.

Then there was the grafted cactus. It stayed small, but amazingly, it bloomed! For what seemed like months, not unlike a peachy-pink rose in the big south window. Sadly, it was destined to shrivel and die eventually, possibly aided by curiosity from Herman the cat. Still, fond memories….

As things turned out, the ladies at the greenhouse influenced me to buy geraniums already in baskets to take home and set inside big pots. And if the containers are pretty enough, what’s growing in them is really secondary. I now have a lovely collection of pots in lime green, turquoise and purple. They’re perennials, destined to re-appear and brighten the landscape year after year.

The arrangement feels so right that I’m thinking of naming the purple one Violet. Lorna Blakeney is an avid writer who enjoys photography, history, travel, and genealogy. She was born and raised in Prince Albert, earned a B.A. from the University of Saskatchewan, likes to walk, and loves coffee shops. Her column appears the first Friday of every month.

Notes from a messy desk: Unexpected Kindness

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One spring afternoon I was standing in line at a fast food counter, preparing to meet a friend. Prince Albert’s coffee row scene was alive and well in the form of eight guys putting the world to rights at a table meant for six, headgear promoting everything from the P.A. Raiders to AC/DC. I gazed out the window as the blustery winds re-distributed litter around the parking lot. On my way there, I’d detected a new and possibly expensive noise in my car. Earlier, while out walking, I’d been splashed by some speed demon oblivious to crosswalks, puddles and pedestrians. Aaand… where was my cellphone? Apparently still at home, charging.

Finally it was my turn at the till. A cheerful young woman took my order, then chimed out clearly “You are beautiful!” Surely she wasn’t talking to me. I’d seen myself in the bathroom mirror that morning at tooth brushing time, and been caught off guard by the aged specimen of humanity gawking back. A strange yet familiar face on which time, worry, and too little sunscreen during Saskatchewan summers had written their stories for a few years. Perhaps several. Okay, quite a number of years. Despite reminding myself how lucky I was to have had those years, it was still a bit of a shock. That’s what I get for installing LED energy saver bulbs.

Still, there was nobody else waiting in line, so I guess the employee meant me. “Well, thank you,” I replied. She responded emphatically “You are beautiful!”, and as I picked up my coffee she broke into a little tune. The crazy thing is, while I sat watching the litter-confetti eddies and awaiting my friend, I did feel just a wee bit beautiful.

It’s not always the big things, is it? One evening, not long after a family member had passed away, I answered a knock at the front door. There stood my neighbour’s little girl, holding out a container of cookies she’d made with her mother’s help, because as she said “I know you’re sad.” A teeny bit of my grief melted along with each bite of their lovely shortbread.

Then there are the kindnesses that don’t seem so at the time. I recall going on a first date to an Italian eatery, trying to mind my p’s and q’s, when the potential boyfriend abruptly suggested I find a mirror and check out the spinach stuck in my teeth. I didn’t know whether to feel mortified or grateful, so I felt both, and popped to the washroom to fish out the offending greenery. The fellow was an accepting sort, and willing to risk a second date. It turns out I’m not to be trusted with popcorn either. But that’s another story.

To wrap up this one, I think back to the visit with my friend at the You Are Beautiful cafe that day. My cellphone wasn’t missed during our face-to-actual-face time together. Thoughts of puddle-splashed clothing were tossed from my mind into the laundry hamper where they belonged. And on our way out, I found myself smiling and opening doors for strangers.

I’m still doing it. Because, well, why not?

And that worrisome noise in my car? I hadn’t quite shut the radio off. Yep. So I cranked up the volume and rocked the Beatles before they were 64, all the way home.

Lorna Blakeney is an avid writer who enjoys photography, history, travel, and genealogy. She was born and raised in Prince Albert, earned a B.A. from the University of Saskatchewan, likes to walk, and loves coffee shops. Her column appears on the first Friday of every month.

Notes from a messy desk: The comfort zone

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I’ve never written a newspaper column before. It’s out of my comfort zone. Which is exactly why I’m doing it, in the hope that I’ll grow and learn while sharing some interesting stuff along the way.

Well within my comfort zone, however, is my home town of Prince Albert. I was born and raised in this city. I left P.A. a few times but always returned for (a) the people and (b) the trees. After a year spent in a small town on the bald prairie I discovered that I missed being near the forest. Driving home for a visit one summer weekend, somewhere between Duck Lake and Macdowall, I felt compelled to roll down the car window, stick my head out and breathe in the aroma of evergreens. It was a classic case of “you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone”.

The trees, for the most part, are still standing. As for the people I chose to stay here for, many are gone now. Some passed away, others moved away. Losses have a way of tossing you out of your comfort zone, making even familiar landscapes look different. When the pandemic came, our landscape was full of losses: lives, relationships, human connections. Comfort zones had a radius of six feet.

Enter technology. Some of us (okay, me) had a steep learning curve to climb if we (okay, I) wanted to see familiar faces up close, without a mask, albeit it on a screen. Pure stubbornness, combined with time on my hands, prompted me to step up my tech game. I set to work on my fairly new, but according to the repair guy, almost obsolete laptop. Things quickly got uncomfortable and stayed that way.

Eventually, thanks to numerous phone calls with patient individuals, some online videos and blogs, and despite random links down rabbit holes, progress was made. Each week opened new vistas, or should I say windows. In the process, however, I tore out half

my hair in frustration, ground my teeth so I required a mouth guard at night, and started screaming at inanimate objects like computers and cellphones, entertaining the bizarre notion that they would listen and behave. Hah!

But I was determined. Take a break. Breathe. Get out and smell those trees. I burned off my frustrations by frequent fast walks along the Rotary trail. There was no conversing with fellow walkers, even from six feet away; I was working off an acute case of TISD – Technology Induced Stress Disorder. (It’s a thing. I just made it up.)

A day or two later, I’d be back at my laptop, a sucker for punishment, but with a sense of accomplishment every time the computer screen did as I instructed, with no annoying pop-up backtalk. I got onto Facebook and everything! I set up two email accounts! So what if one was by accident. I participated in online chats, and had virtual appointments with health care professionals. I was practically a technological genius!

Well, I may be exaggerating slightly. The point is, I got out of my comfort zone. It had exacted a cost (although my hair has mostly grown back, I still need the mouth guard), but it was worth it. The benefits have far exceeded the price I paid in stress.

Having the opportunity to write this column is one of them.

Lorna Blakeney is an avid writer who enjoys photography, history, travel, and genealogy. She was born and raised in Prince Albert, earned a B.A. from the University of Saskatchewan, likes to walk, and loves coffee shops. Her column appears the first Friday of every month.