Ideas on Handling Medical Conditions

I have been stalled for a blog idea for some time. One topic that I have been asked about over the years is how to handle medical conditions in such an isolated lifestyle. As it stands, my family is quite aware of the difficulties that surround living with medical conditions that can, if something goes awry in the treatment, become life threatening.

My life has been one of awareness and calculated risks because I was diagnosed with sleep related epilepsy as an infant. In the last quarter of a century, my parents and I have lived a life filled with neurologists, tests, and medications to control my seizures. At 21 years of age, my neurologist began to phase me off of drugs with a slight alteration in my medication every six months and there was little to no negative change in my brain's abnormal activity. Six months ago I was declared epilepsy free and since October I have been on a rapid phaseout plan that, providing all goes well, shall find me off of all medication by January 20th. The last few weeks, however, have not been so easy and, given my situation, they have led me to contemplate every outcome that is possible and to implement even more calculated risks than is normal.

What is a calculated risk? In the bush, you learn very quickly that every action has a consequence. Whether that is slipping and injuring yourself when it's -30C, falling through a beaver dam, or getting lost you learn to measure your actions before you walk out the door.

A few actions my family takes to ensure my safety as I complete my life's greatest science experiment:

1) During the winter, we keep a small gas filled generator inside at night. This permits us to plug in and start a vehicle during extreme temperatures in the event that I need to be taken to the hospital.

2) As a team, we ensure that I have several months of medication on hand at all times to prevent any problems if my drugs get short listed by the pharmacy a good five hours away.

3) We keep track of my nightly activity and follow a disciplined routine to help ensure I do not end up sleep deprived, which is crucial to controlling abnormal brain activity.

4) I maintain an active lifestyle to combat the adverse affects of stress -- stress is never good for someone with a seizure history. 

5) If I have had a particularly spastic night, my parents maintain a quiet sound level and don't push me beyond whatever function I am capable of maintaining without making my day worse.

6) Most importantly: Whether I like it or not, I never sleep alone. 

These are a few of the ways we maintain my condition in the bush to aid me as much as possible as my brain adjusts to not being on medications for epilepsy. That said, there is absolutely no reason why others with controlled medical conditions need to live a life close to the hospital. The truth is, I have never felt better about my condition than I do in the bush and that alone has made my isolated life worthwhile. With a few adjustments to your routine as someone with a medical condition, and the development of an action plan between you and your family, you are likely just as able as I am to enjoy the isolated lifestyle while being considerate of your medical needs. 

Here's to a Merry Christmas and All the Best for the New Year.

Love,

Jenn

How We Entertain Ourselves Without Technology

WARNING! For the duration of this blog entry, I'm going to ask you to read without checking your cell, your e-mail, your facebook, your twitter, your linkedin, your updates, your uploads, your downloads, your accounts, or whatever your avatar self does all day. Do you think you can do it?


One question my family often gets is, "What do you do up there?" True, we don't have television, internet, or cell service; we don't have a game system, the latest blue-ray player, or other gadgets that so many of our friends can't seem to live without. I'm not bashing the technological world for I use it all the time. Without technology I would not be writing this post right now and it provides me with the service of communication with those people whom I choose to maintain contact with (like you). That said, my family has discovered the bliss of unplugging from the age of technology and it has resulted in a sense of freedom.


So, what do we do to entertain ourselves?


Activity: We read books.

Cool Family Moment: One of our family's great memories took place during our War and Peace marathon, which literally resulted in the demolition of the book. I handed sections of pages to Daddy and he then passed them along to Momma who made perfect little stacks of the close to 1000 pages after everyone read Tolstoy's words.


Activity: We talk.

Cool Family Moment: We solve the world's problems, our own problems, and our two nations' problems through dialectics before breakfast is over.


Activity: We go for walks alone or together.

Cool Family Moment: When alone, we are able to sort out our own lives and dreams so we don't kill each other from lack of space. When together, we learn more about one another and discover thoughts and sides of our family that we never knew existed.


Activity: We sit around and think.

Cool Family Moment: Through reflection and introspection, we have discovered the importance of the phrase, "Know Thy Self" and life is now so much more rewarding.


Activity: We work on our own personal hobbies (i.e. I knit and write, Daddy reloads and does leather craft, Momma bakes and crochets).

Cool Family Moment: The discovery that we are able to think and enjoy our lives without being told what to think and do.


Activity: We watch and commentate on movies together.

Cool Family Moment: That point in LOTR when Frodo is a prisoner, the orc says "that shiny SHIRT is mine" (except that "shirt" comes out like a four-letter word), and everyone still bursts into laughter after all these years.


Activity: We write letters.

Cool Family Moment: When we send off a letter and smile from the knowledge that there is a small ray of joy on the way to someone dear to us.


Activity: Hunting with Daddy.

Cool Family Moment: When we're making our way home at dusk and hear the eerie bellowing of a cow moose echo over the land and rip to shreds the sleeping silence of the forest.


Activity: When we go fishing.

Cool Family Moment: When I park my kayak next to a beaver dam, eat a few snacks, soak up the sun, and think of how my parents look like a Rockwell painting as they fish from our canoe.


Activity: When we take road trips (no backseat screens for us, thanks)!

Cool Family Moment: When everyone is singing along to old hits from the 70s because they're awesome and help us make crazy 2 day, 36 hour drives possible.


Activity: Waking up and watching the aurora borealis dance through the midnight sky.

Cool Family Moment: Waking up everyone else, going outside, and reeling with that glorious feeling that tells you that you are doing exactly what you ought to be doing for the moment. Okay, it's 3AM -- what's your point?


Activity: We live in a family zone.

Cool Family Moment: When we realize that we are together not by force or the use of agenda-shifting time blocks, but because we have come to enjoy our life together.


My short list does not begin to cover all that my family does together, but it's a small example of how we entertain ourselves and what we like to do. I've been bushed so long, I don't remember what we did before creating our uncivilized life. Oh well, it obviously didn't leave much of an impression. Life is far too vibrant now for me to ever want to go back to the former norm. By writing this blog entry, I've made myself curious: What do you do out there? And, how free are you?


Love,
Jenn

The Beauty of Life

The beauty that surrounds me is without compare, but every year at this time I discover that I am standing on the edge of something gorgeous and filled with allure. There is tension, there is sadness, and there is hope that all swills together into the giant blue cocktail glass we call the sky. What is there in the coming of fall that brings such intense feelings?

As the leaves fall in frozen showers of gold, I wonder at the world we are so privileged to live in, to love in, to flourish in. It doesn't take a miracle, it doesn't take a lifetime, and it doesn't take anything more than amazement at the sheer loveliness found in every waking moment to comprehend how precious are our lives.

A quick look at the garden reveals that my sunflowers gleam with ice. Until the morning thaws, they are preserved in perfect likeness of the sunny beauties that have greeted me all summer long. How fragile is life here and, yet, so resilient. A laugh wells up from inside me as the mental image of a giant dumping bottles of clear nail polish over the well shaped flowers blooms within my mind.  I cannot stop myself from contemplating the fantastic sight before me. I don't feel that it belongs to our world, but to the pages of a good fairy tale.

The chill air makes me shiver and I feel a warm smile spreading over my face. The fond memories of my life are lucid today and I possess a perfect clarity that is akin only to the thrill of walking barefoot through the first good snow of winter. Pure joy. Though the day is the same as yesterday, I know that today shall be different if only for the great dreams it promises to bring.

It's true, today's entry is not in keeping with my usual entries. Right now, form and narrative don't seem to matter or even have a place here. After all:

July 1st, 2014,

The world fascinates my every feeling sense, until all that remains is my soul.

Whoever you are, wherever you are, I hope that you are able to look at the small and the large, the simple and the complex, and realize that the greatest beauty of all has nothing to do with where you are; rather, it has to do with who you are. I know that in my own life that knowledge has made all the difference.

I love our world and I love all of you who have helped to make my life beautiful.

Love,
Jenn

What I Have Learned This Summer

Every year, well, every season, I find that I learn more about myself and more about my environment.

So what have I learned?

1) Pick your flowers while you can because killer frosts come far too soon in this forest.

2) When adolescent bears are 30 feet from your door, they are adorable. When they proceed to eat the wild cranberries, they are merely cute.

3) Mushroom pale students + intense northern sunlight = pain

4) We no longer have to pick the squirrels off with the .22 because PJ, our year old cat, picks them off for us.

5) This world may be the same, but each moment brings new and unique experiences.

6) There is nothing better than the taste of sunlight.

7) If you listen hard enough, you can hear the Earth's heartbeat.

8) The smallest gestures in life produce the greatest results.

9) Your brain may feel clogged with duckweed, but at least it has a purpose.

10) Each moment is precious. Never let the frosts of life touch what matters to you the most.



Love,
Jenny

August 2014 (Because I Love Experimental Forms)

A note on the post: Just because I think they are fun to write, I have decided to write a blog post that is a combination of the braided lyric and the flash essay forms. Enjoy! ~MUL

Sweat. Trickling it slides and tickles. A mosquito flies by. Itching hands seek out the insect that is biting into tender, fleshy parts. A slap.

Summer’s autumn days are here. I walk through the compact of tan foundation with its cool powder puff of clay, and contemplate the insect sounds that flit here and there and all around. The days are hot. Exposure bleached my hair out long ago. The forest, sick with streaks of gold, flaked out in the sun for too long. It peels without interest. Those trees whose roots are shallow have leaves of half-green -- squiggled scorch marks -- and of half-yellow.

            

The hand feels wet and the mouth emits a groan. Great. Another blood bomb. But, look. The hand is covered in a translucent, clear substance. Sweat.

Well, that was a fun way to spend twenty minutes.

Have a magnificent week!

Love,

Jenny

              

A Beautiful Summer

A few weeks ago, a dear friend of mine asked me to keep him posted on how my summer goes. I told him that, in short, it glows. After that conversation, I began to think of just why this summer seems so perfect. You see, I expected it to be one of the worst in recent history because I intentionally took a very difficult semester in order to justify the slack fall line-up I have on board for travel reasons.

Why does this summer glow?

1) The world is a beautiful place.

2) I know I love others and that I am loved in return.

3) The creatures that surround me are made more brilliant by their simple needs and complex designs.

4) The forest acts more alive than I remember from past summers.

5) There is an abundance of sunshine to soak up and a blue, blue sky to wade through each and every day.

6) There are more songbirds this year and, for that very reason, more songs in my heart.

7) The breezes are gentle caresses that shield me from the bugs that bite and drive me crazy.

8) The berries glisten with raw seduction in both shade and sunlight; giant gems waiting to be picked.

9) The rocks sparkle more and make me wonder at the vastness of our world.

10) I feel myself glowing in the awakening that has followed a long sleep filled with beautiful dreams.

It took me quite awhile to come up with the above ten points, but I know my list really has no end. Each day, I continue to add new thoughts and beautiful observations that show me just how magnificent is the forest in which I live, how all of life itself is glorious. In my beautiful summer I want only to lean back, observe, and enjoy each and every moment with the peace that by my waking thoughts revives my soul.

In this moment, may each of you know that you are loved. I hope your summers glow.

Love,

Jenny

A Typical Day

I realize I haven't added to my blog of late and, for it, I apologize. The truth is, I have been contemplating a blog suggestion from an old family friend.

What is a typical day like in my life?

Good question.

The only answer that felt right is that there is no such thing as a typical day. But, that doesn't really answer the question, now does it?

7:00am - My parents have been up for an hour or more, and one of them shouts up to where I am curled up in my snug little world wishing I could ignore the sounds of their alarm clock voices. Daddy goes for a walk

7:30am - I switch to autopilot, and slip on clothing that reflects a mad scientist's ideas of good taste and ask someone to please put up the ladder. Daddy usually has my coffee poured and waiting amidst the continental mess I call a desk. When I sit down, it's a gross understatement to say I'm awake. Rather, I'm lost in my mind and trying to capture that beautiful dream I had to leave behind in my bed. I listen to my parents talk and maybe throw a random thought out there, but for the most part I'm a coffee drinking veggie.

8:00am - Still a vegetable for whom the world doesn't really exist.

8:30am - I start to contribute to the family by joining the philosophical, political, or sociological debate going on around me.

9:00am - I'm finally to the point that I can function, and I usually make more coffee. By now I'm thinking about school. My thoughts usually go something like:
          1. Spanish. Need to work on Lección whateveritis. Oh, and the next assignment.
          2. Faust. Hmm... I should probably sit down and figure out what I want to write my research paper on.
          3. Creative Non-fiction. Editing, again? Oh, well, I guess those cute little punctuations can be fun.
During this process, I'm usually toasting two slices of homemade bread, toasting them on Momma's cast iron skillet, and reminiscing with Momma.

9:30am to 11:00am - I study and Momma gets exasperated with me because all I want to do is talk. That's studying for you.

11:15am - I go plaster myself to the flatbed and soak up some sun in a pair of Daisy Duke lookalikes and work on my tan.

11:30am - Lunch break.

Noon - Back to work after I eat, usually bread again, and maybe have a short talk with Daddy who comes in to get out of the sun for a break. Throughout the morning, Momma usually reads or works with Daddy (depending on what he's doing that day).

12:00 to 2:00pm - Another tanning session where I hum old rock tunes, day dream, and think of those I care for most.

2:30pm to 4:00pm - Back to the books.

4:30pm or 5:00pm - I organize my studies for the next day. Really, there actually is an organizing thought behind The Monstrosity. Then, I take off for a 3 mile walk down to Homestead Road.

6:00pm - I'm back, buggy, and getting ready for dinner.

6:30pm - Dinner and a movie on my laptop.

9:00pm - Bedtime.

That is as typical an agenda as I can form. We take one day a week and go to High Level or, maybe, Peace River if we need major items. On those days, I swim laps at noon to 1pm and then go to the library to get online for research purposes and talk to my friends. There is nothing else typical about my life other than eating, sleeping, and breathing.

Love,
Jenny

Spring Revelations

What I write for MUL is sometimes the runoff work I do when developing an essay for a class. To survive this semester, my work often contains 3 parts whimsy and 10 parts coffee...

Every spring, the forest inhales and holds it breath. The air is laden with expectations of new life, a ballooned world rich with foreboding and tension. During this time, the world is brown with speckles of new green. The aspens are heavy with blossoms that resemble tentacled pussy willows waving in a whiff of breeze. In less than a week, the blooms begin to shrivel up into little brown strings that look more dead than alive.

Though I adore winter, this may be my favorite part of spring. I begin to notice grasses, golden all winter, flushed with green blush. The ducks, robins, and the small birds that look suspiciously like whippoorwills fill the air with sound. Frogs in chorus croak and rasp. They remind me of cicadas and crickets from Missouri’s sultry summer nights.

One unexpected morning, I look out the window by my bed and see the tree by the woodpile. What large leaf buds! How could I have missed the trees budding out? A closer look reveals that the trees are all budding and close to leafing out in the denouement of spring. I notice that the wild cherry trees have thin leaflets poking out from fragile stems, the rose bushes push forth their wispy leaves from between their thorns, and the lilac cuttings from our last home are lowering their green spears and will soon unfurl into soft shapes. If I blink, I know I’ll miss that exhale when the whole world grows up for another season of life and virility.

My transplanted wild violets are in bloom and, every day, I check the clumps of twin flower, my personal favorite, that grow on the northwest sides of random trees. The first mature green leaves in spring, I wait for their pixie-sized stems to form, for their duel-branched flowers to curve toward the many-layered mulch of dead aspen leaves, and for their miniature translucent pinks and white bells to flash up from the forest floor. The child in me wonders what it would be like to be smaller than an inch, wandering free through woodland halls of blooming twin flowers, unseen by the mountainous giants that thunder by my little trickling streams and deep mossy bowers.

When I imagine such an enchanting microcosm, I have a habit of craning my neck back and looking straight up through the overarching branches at the bright blue sky. The microcosm I live in is far vaster than any I might ever imagine. Besides, who says that the trees that curve about me couldn’t become giant flowers one day? It’s true, I openly refuse to grow up. Maturity is great, but to lose my imagination would make life dry, common, and dull. Who in their right mind wants to live that way? The world is so fascinating that I could never permit such a bland outlook on that which is an ever-changing myriad of kaleidoscope details. Could you?

Love,

Jenny

The Rites of Spring

Every year, the snow piles up, the winds blow, and the spirit begins to feel squashed into a tight little space by the grey skies and the never-ending white of the snow. Then, it happens. The thermometer begins to flirt and tease us in jumps of its thin red line. Haltingly, the snows melt, freeze, melt, freeze. I dig out my rain boots and wear them when there is too much squelching clay. Daddy thinks of his garden, Momma thinks of her canning, and I think of my flowers.

As I walk down the dry road in my black and yellow rain boots, I can't help but laugh. What a sight I must make! Besides the irony of wearing rain boots when it's dry, I am also carrying an open umbrella. Looking around, I see that I am under a patch of bright blue sky and I can feel the intense heat of the sun. Feeling quite smart, I carry on and, before long, feel the pattering of raindrops as the sun goes behind one of many very large, very dark clouds. I am reminded alternately of Mary Poppins and Igor Stravinsky's The Rites of Spring.

The Rites of Spring... Yes, that is the perfect metaphor for how spring arrives in the north. It begins in bursts that lead to a psychological agony with all the stops and the starts pulled out. It rains, is snows, it pours, it shines, and, ultimately, the wet clay-mud sticks to everything it touches.

I look up. There is a flock of geese flying in V-formation. With a smile I watch the changing of the guard, well, of the lead goose. Their sorrowful and awkward calls fly before them from high above my mere form, which is only glorious in its insignificance. My days shall be filled with sound once more, for with the coming of spring comes the Canada goose. They will come and squabble for the best nesting sites; as I jog, I will probably have the occasional hilarious run-in with mating pairs and their young. But for now, it is still wintery and blustery; after all, it's only mid-April. In fact, it's supposed to snow.

Then, as though Winter were in a rush, the snow melts and the squishing ground underfoot begins to dry. As the clay becomes solid once more, I will find myself looking around at the bare brown world. With an air of expectation, the forest will seem to say, "I'm still sleeping, but--" In consternation, I will find myself wanting to know, "but, what?" Then the answer comes, a small surprise, and I will answer myself, "but -- not for long." For beneath me, far below the limbs and branches that I trail my fingers against as I walk, there it will be: green.

Even though I am enjoying the awkward youth of spring, I have to admit that I shall miss winter. There's something so delightful in the way winter freezes sound into little bites that, though mournful, are just enough to make me think, to wonder at the world and everything in it. On warm days, were it not for the snow, I would never be able to see the snow lice turn my white world into gun metal blue, nor would I ever see their little, black hopping bodies jumping in their little lousey way. The snow louse is almost invisible because of its extraordinarily small size. They are everywhere now, but that is because it is so warm, and the snow looks sooty to the untrained eye. While looking at the lice, I often find spiders that have blown off their perches in the trees lumbering by; or, if it is still quite cold by spider temperature, wiggling their legs in slow agony.

The first green of spring, really isn't green at all. I've tried to put it into words so many times, but the closest I have ever come to describing that first green is that it is more silver than green. The first seen, is never old enough yet to understand the bitter chlorophyll that shades all the forest in fertile green, is always of a pastel Easter green, a dye that is too dilute, and shrouded in winter's last reminder, enclosed in a faint frost of silver, the first tender living leaf will begin to unfold, to stretch upward to the deep blue of the May sky.

The wonder of life in the Boreal Forest. The rites of spring.

Love,

Jenny

Cabin Fever

The Price of Solitude

I truly love the soft serenity that the Boreal Forest offers any person who stops long enough to seek out the beauty of solitude; however, I would be lying if I didn't admit that solitude sometimes has a price. Perhaps you think I am referring to the lack of socializing. Well, that might be partially true. The real price is cabin fever.

While cabin fever is definitely a negative experience, I have always thought of a teddy bear fridge magnet Grandma would point to now and again that read, "Grin and bear it." That mantra of hers has stuck with me and it should come as no surprise that I have come to accept one of the most psychological circumstances of life on Rosehill as just a yearly phase we go through as a family.

You may be wondering why I've decided to talk about cabin fever. My reason is simple. It's reality. When I first began MUL, I decided to portray life as it is lived, not as I might wish it could be. If I didn't admit to getting cabin fever, I would be portraying reality as skewed, unrealistic, and might as well deem my family perfect in spite of our flaws. So it seems vital to discuss the cabin dweller's equivalent to the sailor's doldrums.

What is cabin fever?

What is cabin fever? I'm sure we all have our own definitions, but I would describe it as a crazed irritation that ignites at the slightest provocation. Raw nerves and frustrated tension tightened until that they are primed to snap. You become annoyed at the slightest hint of sound from one of your family members and reclusive to the point that you are as wary as a wild animal. (Odd as it is, I admit to hiding in the bush at times when I see a car coming.)

Now, none of these feelings are anyone's fault. In the spring and summer you can get outside, get your dose of vitamin D, and greatly reduce the effects of cabin fever.

In the winter, cabin fever builds up silently, the sky clouds over, you get far less sunshine, and most of your time is spent cooped up like a chicken that spent her summer running around the farmyard.

Yes. It's hard to adjust.

Coping

Since cabin fever is an annual problem, I have had time to devise ways of coping with an otherwise impossible feeling issue.

1. Get outside anyway. I'm not saying I don't fight the idea sometimes, it can be very hard to force myself to get outside, but I do know that one long walk a day does wonders for my mood. The temperature is irrelevant, as I layer up and go anyway.

2. Find ways to get through really cloudy weeks. Personally, I find citrus, juice, a calming tea with honey, or a steaming mug of hot chocolate can help get my senses going. I keep a candle lit and find the flickering flame soothing when the levels of light are low.

3. Lose yourself in an engaging book.

4. Lose yourself in your imagination.

5. Knit. It sounds weird, but the repetition helps me organize my thoughts (I imagine crochet works just as well). Besides, wearing out your irritations from cabin fever by doing this kind of activity results in great projects that also make great gifts.

6. Write. Maybe it's just because I like writing that I find this option effective. However, keeping a journal of your thoughts, dreams, and contemplations does seem to make the days go by faster.

7. Watch a movie with your family. When I'm really struggling with cabin fever, I choose war or action. Recently, I found Band of Brothers particularly effective as there are also a few comedic moments.

8. Any other hobby that you find soothing. I do find that engaging my creative side over my more analytic side is better where cabin fever is concerned.

9. Write letters (yes, I mean snail-mail style) to those you love. For example, I write family, honorary family, and friends just because I can, and hope to make them smile as they sift the bills from the flyers.

10. Try something new. Expand your reading list from your standard fare -- I once did Larry McMurtry's Lonesome Dove books, several of Terry Pratchett's Discworld Series, and all the Jules Verne books I could find in a six month time period -- pick up a new hobby or ask family members to teach you more about one of their hobbies (you may be surprised at what they know).

11. Bake bread the pioneer way, using no bread makers or mixers. Kneading is a great way for getting rid of your wintertime frustrations and the smell of the bread will help perk you up too! I love this one!

12. Above all, start your day off as positively as possible. It can be hard, of course, but if you train your mind, it gets much easier.

13. Avoid eating out of boredom. I did this one winter an can testify that it left me more miserable than when I started.

14. Get in touch with your spiritual side. Momma strongly recommends prayer.

15. Music. Whether it's listening to the radio, CDs, MP3s, or making music of your own, it helps.

16. Take time to laugh at yourself. If you're too far gone, try finding a comedy station on the radio because that helps too.

17. Do something random for others. On the back of every personal envelope I send, you will find, "Practice random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty." I think it sums it up.

Along with techniques of your own, I hope you are able to get through cabin fever, as you experience it, until you can get outside in the spring. Though cabin fever isn't fun, at least it can be made bearable. Knowing and accepting it as part of my life has made all the difference because now I can focus on all the things that really matter.

When you think about it, cabin fever amounts to the kind of diversity that, if overcome, makes for times to remember in years to come.

Life couldn't be better.

Love,
Jenny

P.S. If any of you who read this post have gone through cabin fever, or something like it, I would love to hear your ideas and stories of how you get through the winter doldrums. ~MUL

On Wolves

Dear Readers, my apologies for getting so far behind and being so inconsistent. The inspirations that so often are available when I go to write left me for far too long. The good news is, I have one non-fiction book idea, a fractured fairy tale that I would love to have illustrated one day, a screenplay idea for a feature film, and an idea for a speculative fiction trilogy. All that came flying into my head within a week, so I think it is safe to say that my bad case of writer's block is over. Thank you for your patience ~ Jenny.

It's 8:03AM. The indoor-outdoor thermometer is displaying -33(C) in large, black numbers. After yesterday's grey skies filled with fluffy snowflakes, the morning sky looks clear. But, there have certainly been times when the grey cloud covering was so uniform that it only appeared clear. When the sun finally rises out of the early gloaming then, and only then, will I truly know what the day shall bring. As I watch the sky grow pale with light, I find myself thinking over my favorite sound to hear on a clear day. Part of it has to do with the radio newscast that just crackled through the speakers, but most of it has to do with some of my favorite memories despite that it is a rather contentious issue within our northern municipalities and counties.

Before continuing, perhaps I should explain why a clear day is so different from any other day. Where I live, you can hear for miles through the trees when the temperature is cold and the sky is clear. Many is the time when I have been on Rosehill and gone completely still because I heard the crunching of snow. Though it sounds as though a vehicle is driving up, the reality is that I am hearing the crunch of wind hardened snow squeaking and crunching under tires miles away (especially if the wind is just right). While the crystal clear sound quality may not seem like much, it seems magical if it falls at the very time of year the wolves come through.

About a month ago, we were privileged enough to listen to a wolf pack's chorus on one of these exceptionally clear nights, the kind of night when you could tap a bell and hear it resonate for hours, and hear the rising symphony of their voices harmonize while one wolf accentuated the rhythmic energy with a howl that reminded me of a cross between scat and jazz. So eerie. So chilling. So thrilling. Daddy decided to see if they had made a kill and, sure enough, he found what was left of their moose while the ravens cawed at him from overhead.

For me, this is one of the most stunning and magical sounds the wild has to offer.

Sadly, not everyone agrees.

Snapping out of my reverie of memory, I am reminded of the radio newscast. In one year, there have been over 700 bounties paid out for each wolf killed in those counties and municipalities that offer wolf bounties in Alberta. In my own county, the bounty is around 200 dollars (if I remember correctly). While I understand why farmers and ranchers find wolves a source of annoyance, after all, nobody wants to have perfectly good calves killed by wild animals when they could sell that same calf once it comes of age and turn a profit. I get it. It's bad business. On the other hand, my own perspective is the same as my hunting perspective. To kill a wolf that is harming livestock, as it harms the livestock, is one thing. To set a bounty on an entire population is another. I have no qualms with people hunting, but I believe in hunting to eat and hunting in moderation. It seems to me that a bounty on wolves will only cause an imbalance in the natural equilibrium, the carrying capacity of animals that are hunted by the wolf, and eventually lead to sickness and other issues within other populations.

As a testimony to the power of a bounty, let me explain it like this. Since we moved to Rosehill, we have listened to wolves nearly every year. It has only been in the years the bounty was officially issued that we heard no wolves and saw little to no sign that they were even in our area. Two summers ago, the coyote moved in. As you may know, this is a sign that the wolf population is not at it's usual strength.

The power of the bounty is just this: the clear air that filled with the resonating sounds of a wolf hunt were the first I have heard in several years.

And those years were just a little too empty for my liking.

I hope to see the bounties stopped, so I may continue to count on hearing the wolves sing.

Love,
Jenny

You Know You're Isolated When...

Over the course of the year, I have found myself laughing at life and the circumstances that make it so bloody funny. As some of you know, our family leads a quiet and unassuming existence down the back roads of the Peace Country. While nothing that has happened has been earth shattering or cataclysmic in the slightest way, it has made me wonder how often people get lost in translation. (Rosehill doesn't seem that isolated.) What follows is a list of things that have happened to me over time and make me wonder just how isolated we really are.

1. You know you're isolated when the hunters that are staying with your ultra-friendly neighbors see you on the road you share with the rest of the world while taking a break from your daily jog and go, "Who are you?"

2. You know you're isolated when you find yourself talking to the local wildlife as though they were people and actually answer yourself. (Yes, Castaway totally had it right.)

3. You know you're isolated when you learn weeks later that the road grader operator quit.

4. You know you're isolated when the directions to get to your home are too complex for Google Earth and requires a freestyle hand drawn map on a sheet of 8.5x11 printer paper if anyone is going to understand you.

5. You know you're isolated when people say many years after the fact, "Oh, you're the people that bought [insert some name you've never heard of] place? Good to meet you."

6. You know you're isolated when the County has to have a bus turnaround made at the base of your driveway because even a mini-bus can't get up to your house.

7. You know you're isolated when you find yourself calling the County to ask them if they stock beaver ponds with fish because the water, which is on both sides of the road, is maybe a foot below road level.

8. You know you're isolated when the Canadian census worker comes up and looks utterly as bewildered as you are when you open the door, and you find yourself in a Mexican standoff with a stranger. He's thinking, someone lives here? You're thinking, I swear someone just knocked on the door...

9. You know you're isolated when you're out jogging and you jump into the bush to watch that strange car come over the hill only to discover that it's your mom. In the family car.

10. You know you're isolated when your neighbor's tell you that to communicate with them you should set up a community-wide smoke signal language.

11. You know you're isolated when your neighbors spread the word that, "If you know Jenny's going to be home alone -- announce yourself!" (True story.)

And my personal favorite that just happened in the last few months:

12. You know you're isolated when the County workers who are putting up the country address signs for each residence (think garish blue sign with numbers on it for the ambulance at the base of your drive) either forget you exist or can't figure out if that rope gate, that blocks the Twilight Zone road that apparently leads nowhere, which reads: NO HUNTING. PRIVATE. has a home somewhere...up there... To be direct, they completely lose you.

Well, maybe I'm more isolated than it seems.

Love,
Jenny
MUL

To Use a Shovel

For the most part, Rosehill is an amazing place to live. As I slipped into my brown cowboy boots and grabbed a pair of thick work gloves, I was beginning to wonder if Rosehill was as full of vitality and life as I had once thought. Grabbing the shovel that stands taller than I am, I walked down the sawdust path that leads to the outhouse, walked around the lilac bushes and picked out a spot directly in front of the one from a week ago.

As I jumped on the shovel to get maximum leverage and bite through the semi-frozen dirt, my mind wandered over the week our family had just spent in southern Alberta. The packed, dry clay began to yield and I stopped for a breather. Watching the last of the leaves rustling dryly on the trees, I couldn't help but think of the devastation wreaked on my hometown. After driving around looking at watermarked houses, the haunting emptiness of my favorite coffee houses and walks, it seemed like all the destruction was so -- senseless. As I finished the hole, I went back to the doghouse for Minnie. My heart broke. One of our largest kittens was curled up on top of the body I had set out to bury before the emotions kicked in. Pulling them both out, I listened to the heartfelt cries of the living kitten whose eyes reflected a sadness I've not seen in the eyes of a cat for a long time.

I knew exactly how he felt.

One week ago, prior to our trip to the High River area, Momma handed me Death. His putrid screams rent the air as I cupped an emaciated kitten in my trembling hands. With one wise look at me, I whisked him into the cabin (under which he had been hiding, without the energy to move) and we set about caring for him. Three days passed, three days of timed feedings that dwindled from little to nothing, three days of grabbing Frankie (my cat) and trying to get her to nurse him, three days of buttoning him up inside my shirt where he could sleep while I worked "hands free" so to speak, three days of shaky hope.

Death is simply part of the equation, another factor to the formula, and I've always understood it as a fact of life. In watching a creature forfeit life because I failed to observe the warning signs, I couldn't help but wonder if euthanasia wouldn't have been better for the kitten that I'll always know as Death. His family had given up on him, which was clear, but he seemed to want to be among his own. It was late Sunday night that I brought him back inside, half frozen, and I noticed the gulping breaths. As Daddy and I dug a hole beside my dog Billie's grave, I realized how attached we all were to the dying kitten Frankie and Liza wouldn't even acknowledge now.

Though we were to get up at 3AM, I didn't sleep. Around midnight I heard eight cries, eight strokes of a clock far older than any we've created. Silence. Peace.

As Momma and I kicked the dirt over Minnie, and I scraped the pebbly clay into the hole, I couldn't help thinking about how death was so different for the two siblings that had died exactly one week apart; nor, in fact, could I stop thinking about how differently I reacted to the two deaths and how the slow limping of my hometown trying to recover from disaster juxtaposed so perfectly against the deaths of Death and Minnie.

As I leaned the shovel back in its place inside the woodshed, I felt the bitter taste death of one so young always leaves in me, but, all the same, I was thankful to have escaped the human caricature of civilization for home and My Uncivilized Life.

Love,
Jenny

Summer of the Bear

Before I really begin, let me apologize for my unrelenting absence from MUL. Between exams, organizing the new school year, finding myself rained in, and feeling generally unimaginative...well, you get the picture. While each of those clauses sound like excuses they have enabled me to take the break I've been needing from the writing that I found myself forced to do without much reason to find enjoyment in what I was doing. Perhaps now I will have the inspiration and focus to concentrate on MUL ~ Jenny

A Lesson From the Bees

Our family grows an amazing garden, of which about half is my flowers that keep inching their way every year across the spacious lot. When I go through the gate and walk down the well tended rows, I find myself walking through a moving hum of bees and hornets and wasps. Despite the fact each of those species would sting or bite me if I frightened them, in all our years on Rosehill, I can count, on one hand, the number of times they have attacked me even when I am cutting flowers for arrangements or just running my hands over the hedge-like tops as I walk along. 

It was on one of these walks, there were more insects than usual boiling up, I felt my hands buoyed along across the flower tops only to realize that I was completely calm. Knowing for years that a bee stings only when provoked, I contemplated if I hadn't been applying that same principle to larger animals like, say, bears. Experience has since taught me that a bear is no different from a bee. This summer, I have found myself tested in many ways as I found myself surrounded by an unusual number of bears who would have done me great harm had I made a mis-calculation regarding their cubs.

Why I Love the Bear

When I see a bear, a secret thrill runs through me. Though not fear, I've long understood the power of being calm, I would say that every pore fills with respect the moment a bear becomes part of my atmosphere. While my family has many amusing bear stories, and while we know just how dangerous a bear can be, we have long been watching the bears that live in our area. For that reason, there is no doubt that as my blog progresses you shall hear of my three bachelors: Brutus, Boris, and Chip. 

To me, the bear seems to be that lasting emblem of the wild that surrounds and keeps me from becoming puffed up with human ingenuity. The last regal, muscular force that people seem to spend a lifetime fearing (which isn't entirely irrational) and minimal time admiring, and I get to live in the very same woods and experience their beauty every year. Could anything be better? I rather doubt it.

Touched by Bears

"To a Black Bear"

It was a boring day
you wanted some fun

so chased the boss's wife

into her log kitchen

clawed some paint off the door

to hear her howl

Petulant

you wandered about our yard

hidden in willows

I baited the culvert trap

with rotten sardines

you feigned indifference

I had plans for you

A change of scene,

new country

without women to entertain

Sulking

you sniffed around

a squirrel's cache

I went to my trailer

to get some old wieners

With the same idea

unmindful of each other

we arrived, me at my front door

you ambling in the open rear

into my bedroom

We met in the kitchen

"Woof" you said

startled while trying the fridge

I forget what I said

Your black fur made quite a contrast

against that white porcelain

Being both timid

we turned simultaneously

and attempted to exit

in embarrassed haste

The shiny linoleum

froze the action

I slipped and fell,

your claws lost traction

I made it at length

You shouldered through back there

wiped out two metal doors

with a fine backhand

carried them off

like streamers of tinfoil

Forgive me

in consternation,

I spoke rashly, obscene

loaded the shotgun

Boring days will never come again

to this sleepy warden station

Sid Marty

from Going For Coffee

While I cannot claim to have ever met a black bear at the fridge, I love referring back to Sid Marty's poetry and prose. It's like sitting out on a porch swing with a mug of coffee and an old friend. I have had my own "shotgun moment," and found myself at odds with resident bears many times. However, I learned a valuable lesson this summer.

It had been almost a year since I had been home to Rosehill. We had been living on a Hutterite colony (that's another story) where my parents worked as educators for ten months. While the experience was a valuable one, my senses weren't as sharp as they should have been for we had been away when the bears came out in the spring.

It had been a beautiful day and I was feeling free from the burden of exam anxiety when I chose to go for a walk down the road. As the weariness fell away, I found myself beginning to jog down the start of the drive, which makes an abrupt right turn before the stream of gravel flows downhill and joins with the County road system. Leaping around the corner with a laugh, I broke out singing the first lines of a 70s rock anthem and did a little dance (I can be such a girl, sometimes). A rushing, crashing sound came from the right. My head snapped up. There was a tell-tale path of still rustling bushes that I began watching earnestly. 

Standing there, I watched as a very young, beautiful cub climbed up a small tree just barely big enough to hold him up. Three things happened simultaneously: 1) a second cub went up another small tree2) the girly side kicked in as I felt like an overgrown softie thinking, "Awe, look how cuddly.."3) the other side of me, the common sense side, hit the alarm button as I began to talk to the cubs, and cocked the gun I carry in the woods as a noise maker, "Where's your mom? Where's your mom, where's your mom? mom-mom-mom-mom--"

It was the closest to a panic I had ever come when surprised by a bear. A ripple under the twin cubs' trees showed black through the foliage and I saw one of the largest sows I've ever seen place a paw high on a tree and pull herself up so she could see me over the foliage before coming toward me. As I backed up to my corner, wishing for once the wind was not in my favor, I had every intention of running as soon as I was out of her sight. 

Talking to her, I found myself thinking that the Rainbow School's bear program they put kids through when I went there was a valuable program, how important it was to squash any sound of fear from my voice, how dangerous sows with cubs could be, how glad I was I hadn't been between her and her cubs, how relieved I was that she didn't pursue me any further after I got back to my corner and booked it to the cabin, how thankful I was that she didn't charge but meandered toward me instead, how glad I was to have dusted the rust off my bear training and that I still had my wits about me.

That was supposed to be the end of the story, but it's not.

Women and Common Sense

I said that wasn't the end of the story and I truly meant it. After telling my parents that we had a resident sow with twins who was practically on our doorstep, Daddy insisted on going to see for himself. In fact, he was going to walk with me thinking two people would be better than one. Sounds good so far, right? 

Wrong.

We reached the area that I had encountered her at and discovered that she was down, with the cubs up a couple of sturdy thirty foot trees, in the bowl shaped declivity that dents slowly downward to the left. She had had the advantage of being on higher ground than me the first time, this time it was she who was disadvantaged. 

Daddy asked me for the gun I was still carrying and I gave it to him a midst my urging pleas that we go back to the cabin. Now.

I shrieked.

My father the crack-shot had forgotten to warn me that he was going to shoot and I was totally oblivious to the fact he might shoot. (I'm just glad he's an excellent shot, for I would hate to ever see a stray bullet hit what it wasn't meant for originally.) Well, I saw her under the trees and, frankly, I felt bad for her. Not liking that I couldn't get behind him, not liking that he was trying to scare a bear off that I was pretty sure would move on of her own volition after I got so close to her cubs, not liking the booming sound, and knowing that supper was pretty well ready, my temper got the better of me and I prodded him all the way home with things like, "What's the matter with you -- that poor -- defenseless -- bear. All she wants to do is protect her cubs and you come along with a gun and try to scare her off. Did you really think she would move? No? Surprise, surprise!" 

We had arrived on the walk outside the cabin. I reached for the door and asked him one last question, "If I had kids and thought my kids were being threatened by some guy do you think, even for a second, that I would ever back down?" 

"No."

"That's right, I wouldn't. She's a Momma and if I were a Momma I'd be the same way -- it's just a matter of common sense."

I whipped the door open, looked at Momma with a puzzled look on my face as my anger left me, and said, "Men."

She nodded sagely after hearing everything that she had missed out on and said, "Men."

Conclusion

Since that day, my family has seen 9 cubs, 3 sows, and my 3 bachelors. While Brutus, Boris, and Chip offer more comic relief than not, I'm glad to have had my run in with the sow. If nothing else, she honed my senses to their previously sharp state and prepared me for the frequent run-ins I have had since that day. Though I know my bears will frequently feature in MUL, I have no clue as to when I will speak of them again. I realize I have provided no advice for handling bears in the wild. The truth is, it's mostly just a matter of common sense.

Love,

Jenny

P.S. If any game wardens and/or fish and wildlife officers read this blog, thank you for the educational programs you provide at schools. I know now just how valuable those programs really are.

Morning Contemplations

To see a word in a grain of sand

And a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand

And eternity in an hour. 

 ~William Blake, Auguries of Innocence

August 5th, 2013

As I walked outside at 8:15 this morning a magical sight made me smile in the cool morning air. Looking down the hill toward our garden, I saw the area was enveloped in a silvery haze.

I quickly went inside for my camera before the sun burst forth and the haze dissipated, lifted the liquid veil from my enchanted eyes.

As I snapped pictures rather quickly, for my battery was quickly dying, I felt grateful for the opportunity to begin my day in so lovely a way and grateful for the tranquil peace I felt upon sniffing the air which held no trace of wood smoke -- thankfully -- for we (northern Albertans) have had too many summers of forest fires in recent years.

My battery died, I lowered my camera, and stood with Liza (our cat) and watched the morning mists vanish as the sun rose and burned it off.

Though it was a small wonder, I discovered long ago that the best moments seem to be caused by the "little things in life," and, it is the little things that leave the greatest impression on my memory, enhancing my ability to appreciate living in the moment.

Looking at Liza and my blue pajamas, I felt the warmth of the golden light that enveloped us in the still, calm morning and thought, "What could be better than this?"

Well, I have exams to study for so I best get going.

The above is from my Writer's Journal and I don't believe more words from me are necessary. The pictures say it all.

Though I do have exams right now, I hope to be done in time for the next blog post. For, in my free time, I have been compiling bear stories.

Love,

Jenny

A Fight for Life

Loving Winter

People often ask me why I love winter when spring and summer are so warm and sunshiny. While I find every season beautiful and inspiring, winter dominates my year from the first snowfall in October to the hallowed May Long Weekend that is unofficially considered winter’s end and the beginning of the gardening season. With around seven to eight months of winter, it is a matter of survival that I love it for its beauty and treachery.

However, the main reason I love winter above all others is quite simple. A mantra of survival, it is often chanted by the romantic Northerners that love their lives in the wilderness and have come to know the earthy, drumming, pulse of the Boreal forest, No mud. No bugs. Four simple words, the butler who ushers in the elegance of winter, that dear prelude called frost, is my relief from the dangers of my life.

The banes of my existence are those that make me an unwilling blood donor. Yes, I mean the kamikaze terrorists that reign for four very long months: bugs. They come in overlapping waves: mosquitoes, black flies, horseflies and deer flies, sand flies, and then death by frost. (By now, you can probably guess what my favorite part of the cycle is.)

Open Season

As you have probably guessed by now, this blog post is about bugs. In order to convey exactly what my life is like, it is crucial that I discuss the good, the bad, and the nightmarish. By far, today’s post deals with the nightmares of life.

For any of you, particularly my American friends and family, who have seen me at the end of bug season, you know just how focused (okay, obsessive) I am the moment I see a mosquito go pirouetting by like a Japanese Zero and you probably know just how hard a slap I have. If I have ever bruised any of you, I apologize for past emphatic rampages and any that will occur in the future.

To my way of thinking, the mosquitoes figure there’s an open season on humans and, likewise, I believe that if I’m to be hunted I’ll do some hunting of my own.

A Twilight Anthem

If you can, imagine a droning hum building upon itself with volume and intensity as the sunlight pierces through the trees with the deep gold of evening that ushers in twilight. Try to imagine the thousands of mosquitoes necessary to form a roar of angry protest as they fill the forest with their troops, their legions of liquid grey clouds. Like the trees, the mosquitoes seem to stem from a single source that spreads through the night as one large fluctuating mass, unseen.

While I know it to be impossible, mosquitoes seem to know exactly where even the smallest holes of entry are, they feel like they are everywhere as a single entity, and definitely feel invincible. I have often been perplexed to find mosquitoes biting me from inside my work boots (really, how do they get in there?) and other impossible places, heard their droning pierce my ears from the inside of my brain out, and felt crazed because I was unable to escape their force.

The Worst Night of My Life

The worst night of my life occurred in June 2006. At 16 years old, I felt like a princess as I breathed a sigh of relief as the stress of my very hectic school year began to fade away as the natural beauty surrounding me melted into my school-wearied soul. As my family exchanged our usual clothes for the smoked up shirts we normally took camping and our Carhaart work clothes, I happily grew to view my work gloves and work boots for the duration of our summer vacation as an extension of myself. Summer didn’t start that way.

None of us had really felt the psychological impact insects, particularly mosquitoes and black flies, can have on a person since our years in Rainbow Lake and Chateh (previously known as Assumption). I’ve always loved psychology, but that June psychology couldn’t have been further from my mind. At least, that’s what I thought. As it was, I became my own psychology experiment.

Over Easter break, we had put up the structure that was to become our home in 3.75 days. (By “we” I mean my parents did while I sat in a tarp teepee I constructed and read the Narnia series by C.S. Lewis because, at that time in my life, I was more help if I stayed out of the way.) However, it was not yet finished and the upper edge of the structure where the roof joined to the wall was not sealed; the birds and insects could freely come and go.

We had no intentions of setting up a tent and we desired to spend the night in our new cabin. After travelling for approximately 13 hours the three of us were exhausted and ready to sleep in comfort without having to straddle our bodies across the heaving washboard, stick covered, baked clay ground. There was still that open-air strip that I could stick my arm out and wave at my parents through to consider. It was Momma who came up with the genius idea to hang sheets from the roof joists like mosquito netting round a bed. After supper, we went to bed quite at ease thinking about nothing but sleep. Sweet, wonderful, sleep.

Yeah, right. First, I discovered a mosquito had decided to join me for the night under my sheet. Anyone who has ever had a mosquito invasion in their bedroom knows just how antsy, how jumpy, and above all, how close the atmosphere can get until you kill the little bloodsucker. Well, that’s what I set out to do (I wanted to sleep) but before long I discovered a second problem in my sleeping arrangement. The sheet hanging over my camp mat was touching me. I remember going “uh-oh…” as I felt dozens of little pinpricks coming through every inch of sheet that was touching my skin.

The hum grew as what had to be thousands of mosquitoes found their way into the loft, surrounding us (and biting me). As the hum grew louder, I felt my grip on sanity weakening in that helpless way that sends any human straight into a fear driven panic. Without warning, my one tent guest turned into many as the sheet that draped over me fell down. It was unintentional but, as I balled up, I may or may not have ripped it from the ceiling. Between the three of us, how it happened remains a point of contention though I think it safe to say we all blame the night’s insanity on the mosquitoes.

I was now fully exposed to the swarming mass of flecked silvery bodies that whirled around my body as though they were on the giant zero gravity ride in Calgary’s Callaway Park. Some critics might say I’m crazy for what I did next but most of those critics have never found themselves in a virtually unlived in area of the woods, at night, and fully exposed. I felt my last hold on sanity crack and the fear I normally contain with ease flashed brightly as hundreds of mosquitoes vied for position on my flesh. If you’re wondering what that feels like, imagine a needle prick and multiply that pricking sensation over each square inch of skin you possess. Along with that pricking sensation, add the erratic jumpiness from a tickle fest that went too far and caused you to cry out in anger because of the excruciating, unstoppable low-grade pain. If you can imagine all that, then you are well on your way to imagining what I must have felt that night.

There had been an intense claustrophobia with me under the sheet, but now it felt amplified as I saw my tormentors densely swarming everywhere and round my body, landing to sink the length of a proboscis into my flesh, and flying off with a drunken droning that told me they were full of my blood. With mosquitoes on every inch of my body that was exposed to the grey night air, with them crawling and probing through my thick blonde hair, everything but self-preservation evaporated and my mind entered a panic dominated state like no other. I had to get away. I had to get them off.

Grabbing my traitorous sheet I ran down the ladder (I’m amazed I didn’t break my neck that night given my crazed state and lack of experience on ladders at that time) and it flapped out behind me as I ran through the cool air of the thinly stretched sunshine that night. The only thing I remember from this point of the night is wrapping the sheet round my shoulders, standing under the palely lit moon, and bawling like there was no tomorrow as I began running around in my underwear and a pink spaghetti-strap tank top while my sheet streamed out like a cape. (Actually, if someone had told me there wasn’t going to be a tomorrow I would have fully believed them in those hours of pure, helpless agony.) My actions can only be likened to a large game animal that, being plagued by insects, gets a wild look in his eye and goes bucking and springing through fields and scraping alongside trees in his desperation to get away, to be left alone.

In the waning hours of the morning when the vast numbers of mosquitoes miraculously dissolve and vanish at daybreak, I passed out and slept. When I awoke, my body was one large welt of bites. It doesn’t help that I react badly to mosquito bites even if I don’t scratch, but there’s nothing to do but treat them quickly and leave them alone. Since we weren’t able to seal out the mosquitoes yet (we didn’t yet have the necessary supplies), Daddy took plywood and popped it up over the approximately three foot hole that separates the two lofts from each other when the next evening came. We fell asleep to the muffled droning that had pervaded my senses and been my apocalyptic nightmare the previous night as a mosquito coil smoked slowly up through the windows and into the night sky.

To this day, if one of us says, “do you remember that night when, Jenny…” each of us knows exactly what the speaker is talking about and finds it satisfying to go kill a mosquito with masochistic delight.

Jenny’s Survival Kit

1. Learn what times of the day the insects typically swarm so you can avoid them as much as possible. You’ll discover that this generally occurs during the warmest parts of the day. Mosquitoes and black flies seem to dislike temperatures that are either hot or cold, but thrive in warm and just verging on cool weather.

2. Give up using any product that has any perfume in it. If you’re like me and use perfumed deodorant, then learn to compensate by putting more bug repellent around the arm socket to deter the insects.

3. Buy insect repellent that is as high in DEET as possible. We use Repel 100, which is 99% DEET. The higher the DEET content, the more bug resistant you will be.

4. Know that really smoky fires are your best friends because the insects I’ve already described hate it. Yes, I’m encouraging you to sit in the smoke and wear clothing that is permeated by that extremely smoky smell when you go camping.

5. STOP buying After Bite, you’re only wasting money. After Bite consists of ammonia and mink oil, but it doesn’t last nearly as long as you need for extreme bug bites. I’m thinking of horseflies and deer flies in particular because of the sheer size of their bites. Instead, grab your household ammonia and pour it into a plastic bottle (or stick a finger in the jug, that’s what we do). Let that dry and then apply a nice, thick layer of calamine lotion or, if you can’t find calamine, I suggest using Aveeno’s anti-itch cream (it’s relatively cheap and very gentle on the skin).

6. Don’t be afraid to slap just because you feel something tickling on your skin. You never know exactly what might be there getting ready to bite.

7. If you’re out for a walk and the bugs are really bad, cut a willow switch. They’re bendy, don’t really hurt, and extend your reach big time to slap those unreachable places.

8. STOP scratching. A mosquito bite will go away within 24 hours, on average, if you don’t scratch. If you do, well, then just expect to deal with the itching for an indefinable time.

9. If you live in bug country, try taking a spoonful of garlic oil once a day. I got this tip from a young Hutterite woman about my age and, though I’ve not yet tried it myself, she was able to sit outside with a bunch of us one day without being bit once so maybe there really is something to it.

10. If you are bit by a black fly (none of us have tried this technique on horseflies or deer flies), gently squeeze the wound before it coagulates. The bleeding causes the caustic residue to leave you. Then, spit on it. (It's gross, but effective.) I don't know if it's an enzyme reaction or what, but I do know that the spit causes the blood to run freely and, provided you leave it alone, your bite will clear up within an easy 36 hours.

11. Above all, build your immunity. The more immune you are to bites, the better off you are.

So, now that I am feeling totally buggy I think I'll get ready to head back from this little patch of civilization in the Peace Country for My Uncivilized Life. 

Enjoy the woods, and enjoy getting back to nature. Ultimately, I hope you enjoy your life.

Love,

Jenny

A Rose by Any Other Name...

…would not smell just as sweet. Sorry, Shakespeare, but I disagree with you there. Actually, there’s a lot about the play Romeo and Juliet that I object to, but seeing as this is not one of my formal essays, allow me to change my mask and start again…

***

As stated in the Introduction to My Uncivilized Life, my family makes their home in Carcajou, Alberta. What I failed to discuss, however, was how Rosehill got its name.

If you were to visit the County of Northern Lights head office, you would see a land ownership map with our family name on little green squares. That map contains no mention of Rosehill because Rosehill is the personal name we have given our land and, to us, that’s the only name that matters.

We bought our land virtually sight unseen in 2005 and came up with lists of names to fit the rugged beauty we hoped to one day call “home.” In a way, naming the land became a road game favorite that we would play to stay awake during Daddy’s insane driving marathons. None of the names we invented fit, none of them felt right and, ultimately, we gave up trying to find that perfect name.

It was not until 2007, close to two years later, when Daddy and I were moving the family effects to our land in Carcajou that the land provided its own name.

In the North, there is a magical time of change that creeps over the forest. When winter has passed, the hovering expectation of new life is gone, and spring is close to its end, she draws one last breath and the landscape becomes overwhelmed with fragrant wild roses (actually called prickly roses) in showy shades of delicate pinks that pop forth from the greenery. To me, they are the showiest of the early wildflowers and signal the transition from spring to summer.

I won’t deny that I find our provincial flower beautiful, but more than anything, I find it comforting. Though the fine thorns are a nuisance and quite painful, the beauty of the aromatic roses make the pain worthwhile. There is something comforting in knowing that the seedpods will form and remain visible during the winter, something comforting about knowing that, if ever I were stuck in the wild, at least there would be food to eat, and, that meager meal though the fruit would be, the rosehips are abundant throughout the region. I hope that I would be able to get to safety before the elements or starvation took my life.

Such are my thoughts today and, as I walked up the winding path that is now our driveway, so they were back in 2007 as I was filled with awe at the beauty surrounding me on all sides as I walked into another world. It had been a long drive from High River and we were both exhausted. Soon we would be moving Momma to Carcajou after her contract with the school division terminated. As we walked along in our silent reverie, I remember trying to count all the shades of pink that were on every side. Everywhere I looked, I saw roses.

“Rosehill,” I whispered it more to myself than to Daddy. As I looked around wide-eyed, that feeling of being involved with something bigger than I am was effervescent in the gold tinged air. The land demanded respect from this lowly human.

“What?” He looked surprised at the sound of my voice.

“I said -- we should call this place Rosehill.”

“I was thinking the same thing.” We smiled at each other as a soft golden nimbus covered every contour of our new world.

Though part of why Rosehill entered my mind was because of all the wild roses, I would be lying if I tried to convince you that Alberta’s emblem was behind my streaming, albeit romantic, logic. The overgrown atmosphere reminded me of a special graveyard in Missouri that, now overgrown, is home to the bones of my ancestors. We found the chance to give new life, new meaning, to an old yet special name close to our family’s heart, and, in the words of Robert Frost, “that has made all the difference” (Mountain Interval 1916).

Had we come up with a name other than Rosehill, I think our deep connection to the land would have developed slowly. Because we gave it a name deep with meaning for my paternal family, I firmly believe our love of the romantic past, our love of the Boreal Forest, and our persevering attitude to make the land habitable is what gave the Canadian Rosehill a home in our hearts. I can only hope that our family’s “new” Rosehill may be a living testament to the strength and resolve my ancestors possessed as settlers and that, as my parents and I live our lives, we may pass on what the land has taught us to those who wish to know and to those who dare to dream.

Many years have passed since that tired walk on the snaking path that led through the brambly, fragrant blossoms. To this day, in the last days of spring, the wild roses inspire me and fill me with soft thoughts and deep joy. Due to all our family and the land have gone through together -- the laughter, the sweat, and the tears -- each bloom is speaks out in nature’s universal language a love letter of few words, “Here is Rosehill, you are home.”

Love,

Jenny

P.S. ~ If those of you who read My Uncivilized Life has questions that I have not answered, or something I have written has brought a question to mind, please feel free to ask by leaving a comment and I will answer it if I can.