Life as we know it

The Hungry Cat

There is a pink playhouse in the yard at the house where I live now, a whimsical little building that I can’t make use of at this juncture in my life as it is clearly meant for children. Mid-life is a perplexing place to be. I am still a mother, but I have no children living here.

A few weeks ago I was outside cleaning the flower beds and saw a tabby cat with white boots and chest watching me from under the big spruce that shades the playhouse from the afternoon sun. The cat scurried under an opening in the wood pile along the back of the little house as I walked by, and I didn’t think much of it at the time. Living in town means the neighbour’s pets often walk through the yard, adding a bit of excitement to our little dog’s life when he spots them while perching on the back of the love seat along the front window. He badly wants to go out and introduce himself to the dogs or chase the cats. Last fall he took off after a rabbit, across the street, into a small bush and it took awhile before he found his way home.

Yesterday I noticed the rabbit is back. So is the cat. Except I think that the cat never left, as I started seeing her every day, first sitting in the grass and then on top of the plywood that covers the sandbox. Yes I have a sandbox, too. Cats love to poop in sandboxes so I expect that is why it is covered. Maybe the cat has been here all along.

Growing up, our house was a magnet for stray animals. My mother never turned anything away, in fact, the first thing she would do was feed whatever came into the yard. Then she’d give it a name. Some of the best pets were those who chose us instead of us choosing them.

Once there was a stray cat we named Kitten Little. We named her that likely because she was very small and looked young, but shortly after arriving had a batch of kittens of her own. I remember very little about Kitten Little except that she became my sisters’ cat and she wasn’t with us long. I think she was hit by a car shortly after having her kittens, and we ended up raising them. Imagine that, three girls and a batch of kittens. That has never happened before! We kept one, the baby that looked like Kitten Little and much like the cat that now lives under my wood pile.

I am in no great hurry to make friends with this cat. I have no desire to pat her or allow her furry body into the house. But she was a hungry cat so I went straight to the store and bought a bag of food. I could tell by the desperate look and pained meow and there is something else about her too, in the way her belly hangs loose and soft.

She is living on instinct right now and her daily routine is a pattern I recognize. She comes out in the morning and eats the morsels I leave for her, then goes back under the wood pile. She emerges an hour or so later and stays out for a few hours, never venturing far from the opening. If I go close, she scoots back under, even though she recognizes me as the lady who brings food.

Tempting as it is, I’ve resisted getting too close. I know what will happen if I do. She will move her nest and only come back to see me when she wants something to eat. If I am patient, soon little heads will begin poking out and a few days after that, the heads will be followed by fuzzy little bodies that will begin playing in the grass. I’m already wondering what colours they will be.

Occupants for the playhouse after all.
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Oh those headlines!

Forest service considering explosives to get rid of frozen cows in Colorado cabin

Click here for original story

Just imagine the forest rangers standing there, looking in the door. Bill looks at Bob and says, "We really weren't trained for this."
No, you weren't. And neither were we. But we understand. Honest we do.

Welcome to our world. Almost everyday, cattle producers stand there and say the same thing:

Stupid cow.

The scene goes something like this: Cattle producer gets up in the morning and thinks it's going to be a good day. Actually, it's that kinda optimism that keeps him getting up everyday, but whatever.
He goes outside and things appear to be fine. His heart rate is at a normal pace. But then, like an old dog that senses a storm is coming, he stops. Something doesn't 'feel' right. So he goes to investigate - his cattleman DNA knows instinctively where to take him - and there she is. A cow in a predicament. Heart rate accelerates to 140 bpm.

Picture it: hands on hips, head tilted slightly in one direction, one hand moves up to remove ball cap while the other hand scratches head hard. Then as the ballcap is being screwed back on, the producer says, "What the hell?"

If cows did the same thing more than once, life would be easy. But they are like teenagers that way. The older ones make mistakes and the younger ones seem to learn from it and they make different mistakes, so everyday is a new adventure.

Knowing how to "get stuck" is in the DNA of cows. Clustering into a building? Heck that happens all the time. At least they were dead. Imagine if Bill and Bob had showed up and tried to get them out while they were still alive? Two shadowy figures appear in the doorway, trained only in forest conservation, start waving their arms and yelling . . .

Dead cows, they're the easy ones to deal with. It's the live ones that cause the heart to start racing. Put your hand up if you've ever: tried to get a live cow, stuck up to her shoulders in mud, from a dugout? Or out of thick, snowy bush after she decided that would be a good place to calve during a storm? Or up off her back, when she's stuck lying downhill, already starting to bloat? Or when she's wedged her belly between two close grown poplars at the edge of the pasture? Or wrapped herself tight in barbed wire after going through a fence.

And exactly how do you get an old car tire off the bull's head when he's already scared and mad and because the tire is blocking his peripheral vision, all he's got to focus on is you . . .

Take that, Mr. Forest Ranger.

So how would a cattle producer get six dead cows out of a cabin?
Not sure, but I know what his first thought would be: "Man I hope those aren't my cows."

Then he'd probably call the neighbour and say, "you gotta come see this." Then they'd stand there, twisting their caps from side to side, figuring out a solution, which in the end, would amount to another red total on that bottom line.

And I do know one more thing for sure.
Nobody in their right mind would ever give us dynamite.
___________________________________________________________ 

Oh those headlines!

Moo-dini

Click here for the original story


A few times each year stories like this make the news and insiders can't help but shake their heads. This is the reason why cattle producers lose patience with urbanites / the media:

Dumb point #1
They always get the terminology wrong. This animal isn't a cow. If it's female it's a heifer, but watching the video I think it's a steer or maybe a bull (we'd need a better look between the legs to confirm). Think udder vs. testicles. Imagine what city folks would think if cattle producers called teenaged boys "women?"

Dumb point #2
Chances are somebody left a gate open and that's how it got away. It doesn't have the mental facilities to plan an elaborate escape. It ran because people in vehicles were chasing it, no doubt while honking their horns. It wasn't trying to get away from the slaughterhouse, it was trying to get away from them.

Dumb point #3
People were "cheering it on." This is ridiculous on so many levels.

Dumb point #4
The man at the slaughterhouse told them it would live out its life on a farm. That's what you tell a five year-old when a stray dog shows up and the child asks, "Can we keep him?" Sometimes it's easier to lie than to tell the truth.

Dumb point #5
Steers are not pets. Period.

Dumb point #6
Any farmer with half a brain isn't going to keep that thing and if he does, good luck. Fed and watered, it will live for another 17 years and grow to about 1,800 lbs. If he could keep it in a fence (a 50% chance if it is a steer, 0% chance if it's a bull), he'll have to feed it. A low estimate is $500 a year = $8,500. The return: $0

Chances are once the cameras are gone, it will be end up in the freezer. If not by now, by next spring. That's why it was produced in the first place.

What do I want to know?
Why was an 800 lb. steer sent to the processor . . . shouldn't it be fattening in a feedlot somewhere? And who took the approx. $1,050 financial hit if it was given away?
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Under the Dumb Plum Tree

Chasing Dreams
by Jaime Kaufhold
(April 1991)

There is a plum tree in my backyard.
It has been there for as long as I can remember but it seldom produces plums. That is why I call it "dumb."

Over the years I have spent many an hour pondering life under the shade of my plum tree. While sipping a cup of tea, surrounded by my children, I spent many an afternoon dreaming of what I could have been. One day, I was an aspiring country music queen, playing the guitar and singing at the Grand Ole Opry House. The crowds clapped and cheered - I was famous. The next time I was an actress being whisked away in a private jet to an exotic land, wearing designer fashions while dining with the rich and famous. Oh what a glorious life it could have been . . .

Out my kitchen window I see the tree staring back at me. The plum tree has been more than a conduit of dreams. It provides shade on the hottest July days and is a favourite hiding place for the neighbour's cat. There are no more tricycles and the sandbox is long gone. The child sized swing sits idle most days except when the grandchildren come to visit. The tree has endured at least 30 winters with only one broken branch. Although I've often chastised it for not producing nice, succulent fruit, I guess it has had it's limbs full, so to speak.

What did I become?
A home handyman who can break up domestic disputes while fixing the vacuum cleaner at the same time. I am a nurse, chef, hairdresser and baseball coach. I am a full-figured model who knows how to shop for a bargain. While raising a happy, healthy family I've learned how to make do with I have and laugh at life's little problems.

With spring right around the corner, I am looking forward to another year of buds, shade and if I'm lucky, fruit from the tree. While reflecting under the plum tree I've discovered that I am somebody despite the elusive fame and fortune that so many of us dream about. I am a mother. And it never hurts to dream.

___________________________________________________________

You can't get here from there 
By Karen Emilson

Reading Mom's column makes my heart hurt.
Had I been a more experienced editor, I would have asked her to expand upon her column to include details from the trip she took to Nashville, Tennessee in the spring of 1977.

Growing up, our house was filled with music. We'd come home from school, open the door and immediately know that Mom was dreaming again.  Of all Mom's desires, being a country music star was the one she savoured most. She bought a Fender guitar, wrote her own songs and taught herself to play. When she wasn't singing her own songs, she was singing someone else's - loudly and usually off tune. She forced us to be her audience so we'd sit there on the couch, being polite for as long as we could. Her band was the console stereo behind her and hidden inside were the back up singers, their voices coming through on vinyl—rich and deep—dust, scratches and all. The band played and they sang along with Mom for hours. To this day, I still know the words to everything by Tammy Wynette, George Jones, Charley Pride and Freddy Fender.

As a charter bus driver with Canada Coach Lines, Dad made regular trips to the Grand Ole Opry House in Nashville. Back then, long weekend bus tours were quite popular. Mom wanted badly to go along but the added cost and four kids made it impossible for years. Finally, when I was 14 and old enough to reign supreme, my brother Mark and I were left in charge. Wearing a cowboy hat, studded jeans and her best costume jewellery, Mom boarded the bus.

The more popular charters often filled up and two buses were hired the time Mom went along. The other driver, Doug Sullens, was a good friend and a frequent driver to Nashville. Doug was charismatic, boisterous, easy to talk to and he became acquainted with many of the performers. Knowing how much Mom liked Freddy Fender, he arranged for her and Dad to go backstage after the show. He introduced Mom as a hopeful country music singer and songwriter, and Freddy was very gracious. He asked if she'd brought along her guitar and of course she had. Soon they were in the middle of a jam session with Freddy and his band in Doug's hotel room, Mom's handwritten songs spread out on the coffee table.

It was obvious when Mom returned home that the experience was thrilling. Whether it was accidental or not I don't know, but she left behind her songs, and the way I remember it, Doug called her a few months later to say that Freddy performed one of those songs live at the Grand Ole Opry House, dedicating it to her. When Freddy's next album came out there was also a bit of excitement because one of the songs sounded a lot like something she'd written. Mom wasn't interested in royalties or recognition, all she wanted was a bit of validation—that maybe she was good enough.

People have laughed when I told them Mom jammed with Freddy, saying he wasn't a very big star. But had he been more famous he probably wouldn't have had the time to sing with a nervous, off-key housewife from Ontario. But maybe he knew they were kindred spirits, sensing that Mom's childhood story was similar to his. He went on to enjoy more success than most of us, while she was left to simply dream.
 
I always thought the song "You can't get here from there," was written by her because she sang it all the time.  On the surface it sounds like a love song, but it also could have been written by a girl who was sent to live with her grandmother because her parents were too young and irresponsible, spending nights in the bar instead of at home. Eventually Mom was reunited with her parents who turned their lives around, but those scars never completely healed. I have a duo-tang folder with pages in her handwriting, revealing those tough years, to prove it.

An internet search yesterday showed that "You can't get here from there" was written and recorded by Glenn Barber as well as Freddy, long before Mom met him. With all of them gone—Mom, Dad, Doug and Freddy—there is no one left to ask, to correct where my childhood memory went wrong. But there is no harm in keeping her dream alive by believing that somewhere out there exists an album cover with a song that might be hers. I just wish that I'd known to ask 20 years ago.

If I ever find out the real story, I'll be sure to let you know. 
___________________________________________________________ 

Reflections

Darlene's first birthday

Happy, Happy Day

Today is my 49th birthday.

Mom never phoned me on my birthday because I always called her first. This ritual began when my son Laurie (her first grandchild) was about eight years-old.

Every year on January 17th, since 1986, I go to bed and remember in vivid detail the night before Laurie was born. My water broke just before midnight. I remember sitting at the kitchen table as the early pangs of labour started, my overnight bag sitting in the hallway. It was the coldest January 17th on record, so as we waited for the car to warm up, I drank a full litre of juice, knowing that once I got to the hospital there would be nothing more to eat or drink until after the baby was born. I'd been so thirsty up until then that l dreaded the thought. My damp pants froze almost instantly as we walked from the house to the car. I wasn't worried that the child was coming nearly a month early, all I could do was remind myself over and over again that every person in the world had been born by a woman just like me. I could do it. Laurie was born at 7:50 a.m. the next morning.

Years later, when Laurie was old enough, when asked what we should do to celebrate my birthday, he'd stop and think for a few moments. Then his face would light up. His reply still makes me smile.


"I know," he'd say. "Let's pick up Nolan and go to Chicken Chef for supper."
Growing up, Nolan Thage was his best friend and Chicken Chef in Ashern was his favourite place to eat. Those were fun times. By the time Laurie was old enough to realize that it was time to stop blowing out the candles on my birthday cake, I understood that there was someone else who was remembering that day. 

So I started phoning Mom on my birthday to wish her a happy day.
"Afterall," I said the first time I called, "you're the one who deserves congratulations."

My last conversation with her was on January 6th.
"Happy day, happy day!" she said cheerfully when she answered the phone. She was in high spirits, reminiscing about how 42 years earlier, she'd given birth to my little sister, Darlene, who was supposed to be a New Year's baby, but false labour sent Mom home from the hospital.

"But you know your sister, she's always late," she laughed. "She tortured me for another week, but when she was born, because she was overdue, she looked beautiful. Her skin was plump and pink, she was so content - huge dimples - the most beautiful baby in the nursery."
I asked her about the rest of us, even though I'd heard the story many times before.
"You were little and wrinkly and cried all the time. I didn't know what to do with you. Your brother Mark looked like a monkey, honestly, he was an ugly little thing, it was kind of embarrassing. And Nance, well, she came so fast I nearly had her in the hallway."

I reminded her that next year, I'd be turning 50. Curious, I asked how that made her feel.
"How does it make ME feel, I don't care, you're the one who's getting old!" she laughed, missing the point entirely.

We talked for over an hour, mostly about plans for Laurie and Dayna's upcoming wedding. She and Paul planned to come; we'd pick them up at the airport and I'd book them a room at the Narrows Lodge. It would be a lot of fun. But in the back of my mind I knew that Paul's health had been failing, that maybe he wouldn't be able to make the trip.

The last thing my mother said to me was this:
"Your only son is getting married that day. You stand up there with your head high and be proud of what you've accomplished. You raised a fine son. Always remember that I am your mother. Make me proud."

Almost as if she knew.

Thanks Mom, for everything.
Happy, happy day.
___________________________________________________________ 

Life as we know it

Isla Mujeres, Mexico

Our Winter Holiday

Like our mother, we all love taking a winter holiday. A few years back we discovered Isla Mujeres, a wonderful little place off the coast of Cancun. While typing Mom's column, I was amazed that she'd commented on the smell of sea air - like her, it is what I love and remember the most about those few moments after arriving at a hot, coastal destination.

The week before Mom & Paul died, Nance and our brother Mark said they wanted to go and they were trying to talk our sister Darlene into coming along. We booked our flights for February 24th.

We all agreed that never before did we need a holiday as much as this one and so we went, despite the grieving, the rigors of dealing with the estate and concerns about Grandma. Darlene and her family had decided not to go afterall, which made it easier for us to leave knowing that she and niece Emma would be home to watch over Grandma.

Mom & Paul

When it came time to get ready, I took the large, green Samsonite suitcase out of the closet and put it on the bed. It is the same suitcase I'd used just a month earlier to bring home treasures from Mom's house. It was her suitcase and the tag attached still has her name and address.

As I was packing I remember hearing about the time shortly after Mom and Paul married that she'd been hinting for months about how she wanted to go south that winter for a few weeks. It was right after Christmas and Paul made the mistake of saying, "If you can be packed and ready to go in 45 minutes, I'll take you." Mom was and they went.

Nance & husband John

Three of Mom's grandchildren came with us this year: Lace, Kassarah and Laurie.

Lace & my brother Mark

 While on the trip, Lace reminded me that in 1995 Mom & Paul took her and an exchange student from Germany (we remember his name as "Stretch" because he was so tall) on a winter holiday to Myrtle Beach, just a few years after she wrote her column about the trip in 1974. So she did get the chance to fulfill at least part of that dream.

Kassarah and boyfriend Rob

Our holiday was everything we'd anticipated. Because we'd booked it prior to their untimely passing, we'd made plans for a two day stop over in Ontario which had originally been intended to visit Mom, Paul & Grandma. It felt strange being there in the house without them there.

Laurie & fiance Dayna

When I got back to Manitoba, I made a pot of chili in Mom's memory, using the same cast iron pot that she used when we were kids. It is one of the treasures from Mom's kitchen that now means so much more to me than it ever did.






Karen's Chili

Olive oil
1/2 green pepper
1/2 red pepper
1/4 small onion, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
Cook until tender.

Add 1 1/2 lbs. ground beef and cook until brown

Add:
1 398 ml can diced tomatoes
1 398 ml can kidney beans
2 398 ml cans brown beans
1 tbsp. brown sugar
1/4 tsp. liquid smoke
2 tsp. Victorian Epicure Pueblo Bean spice
1 tsp. Victorian Epicure Guacamole spice
1 squirt Mexican spice
1 tsp. pepper
1 tsp. salt
Garlic powder to taste

Cook on medium heat, stirring regularly until it starts to thicken and stick. Switch the heat to low and cook, stirring occasionally all afternoon.

Serve in a bowl with a large spoon. To fancy it up a bit, add a teaspoon of salsa and sour cream; crushed tortilla chips (I use La Cocina) and grated cheddar on top.

Delicious!
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Under the Dumb Plum Tree

Four kids, two dogs and a road map

Destination South
By Jaime Kaufhold
(February 20, 1991)

Thank goodness February is a short month, or at least it starts to feel that way as the sun shines higher in the sky and the days grow longer. Today as I sit down to write, I can see the Plum tree outside my window is covered in hoar frost, a pretty indication that the temperature is bearable.

Sometimes I get wild ideas, at least I used to. One of my favourite things to do is take a winter vacation. My parents moved to Florida when the children were little, so it gave me a wonderful excuse to try and persuade their father to take us there. In the same way that mothers forget the pain of childbirth and go on to have more children, fathers forget what it's like to travel 1,500 miles with a carload of kids and after some persuading, will agree to go again. The kids were as thrilled as I was because it meant they'd miss two weeks of school.

So on February 12, 1974 we folded down the seats in our Pinto Station wagon and loaded it with suitcases, pillows, four kids, two dogs, a road map and a packed lunch that was supposed to feed us for a whole day but between the kids and the dogs, was gone by 9:30 a.m. I remember the date well because it was one of the coldest we'd ever experienced in southern Ontario at -28 C and the car needed a boost to get going. Father took this as a sign that maybe we shouldn't go, but I took it as a sign that we definitely should!

Entering Detroit at 9:30 a.m. was a nightmare. I never realized there were that many cars in the world and the highway signs were confusing so our only hope to avoid taking the wrong exit was staying in the middle lane. A voice from the back seat made it known that we'd need to find a bathroom - and soon. We found a truck stop, fueled the car, used the washrooms and the smell of bacon cooking lured us into the restaurant where we all ordered cheeseburgers and french fries, one of the cheapest meals on the menu. Back then restaurant burgers (I'm not talking about fast food places) didn't have fillers and the fries were from hand cut potatoes. Today we have to search for places that serve wholesome "slow" food which just goes to show how much things have changed.

It was my turn to drive so I settled into the driver's seat, reassuring Father that the trip was going to be lots of fun, and at the same time, reassuring myself. Thankfully the kids fell asleep soon afterwards so it was a peaceful afternoon drive for me. When we pulled into a Howard Johnson's motel early that evening, the air outside was noticeably warmer than what we'd left that morning. It took another day and a half of driving and at least three more stops for burgers and fries before we pulled into my parent's driveway in Clearwater, Florida. We were stiff, hot, sweaty, grumpy and windblown since Pinto station wagons did not come equipped with air conditioning, but that moment stepping out of the car and inhaling the warm, salty air is one I'd never forget. Mom was thrilled to see us and Dad promised to take the kids fishing the next day. But right then all we wanted to do was put on our bathing suits and go to the beach. It was a wonder to be able to sit outside in February with flowers blooming everywhere and the ocean right there.

The kids went fishing with Dad and caught supper for us which was delicious. We spent three more days at the beach, visiting with grandma and grandpa and exploring. Then the day we were all looking forward to finally arrived - the trip to Disneyland. I remember as were were getting ready to leave Mom handed me a $50 bill which was a lot of money in those days and really helped us out.

Disneyland was impressive and surprisingly as much fun for adults as it is for children. We all loved it. There was so much to see we couldn't have possibly done it all in one day but we got sore feet and exhausted trying!

Our eight days in Florida went by fast and soon we were kissing Mom & Dad good-bye and on our way home again. By the time we reached the snowbanked roads in Stoney Creek, we were tanned, tired and broke. The kids went to see their friends and I turned up the heat, unpacked the car and since were all sick of burgers and fries, made a pot of chili for supper. For many years afterwards I anticipated our next winter holiday, but we were never able to make that trip again with the kids.

Now, 18 years later, Mom lives here with us. The kids are all grown but I still dream of winter holidays in Florida, and in those dreams, I'm now traveling with my grandchildren and we're looking for restaurants along the way that serve good old fashioned burgers and fries. But we're not riding in a Pinto station wagon!
___________________________________________________________ 

Under the Dumb Plum Tree

A fresh batch

Valuable Junk
by Jaime Kaufhold
(January 27, 1991)

January seems like the longest month of the year. Thank goodness it is almost over. My poor little plum tree looks so desolate, cold and lonely. Spring will be here before we know it, and once again it will flourish. I can hardly wait.

Most New Year's resolutions are broken by now. I no longer make resolutions since I cannot keep them. I have tried and failed.

I use the winter months to reorganize my home so that when spring finally arrives, I am ready to spend my days outdoors.

Once I read in a magazine that if you do not use an item for a year to dispose of it to eliminate clutter. I am the original pack rat. I have discovered over the years that if I throw it out today, I will need it tomorrow.

Once during a cleaning frenzy in the garage, I shamed my husband into junking an old rusty walking tractor. To my knowledge, it never ran. Not long afterwards we were at a farm sale auction and a replica of our old beat up tractor sold for $1,500. When it comes to the garage, I now organize, I do not discard.

If I pack all our 'valuables' away in an orderly fashion, I can make room for all the new things that I'm sure to find this spring at flea markets and garage sales. Last week my iron died, but did I worry? Not on your life - I have three in the cupboard in the basement. I'm not sure where they came from, must have been a garage sale.

I decided last week to throw out the old useless stuff in the attic, to make room for my more current and much more valuable junk. I proceeded to the attic, garbage bag in hand.

What I discovered in the cramped quarters was a goldmine of memories. I began removing boxes but couldn't throw them out without first examining their contents. Old posters which had been glued to a bedroom ceiling, school notes and stuffed toys were in one box. Could I throw out my daughter's first painting made in kindergarten, with the heading, "To Mom, with love" or their report cards? What about the crumpled paper which held the speech, "Why I love my brother." That speech commanded and received a red pencil mark of 100.

At the bottom of the box was "Baby Boo." Baby Boo was a doll that Santa Claus brought to our home many years ago. She had been a lovely doll, with long blonde hair. My youngest daughter had cut the hair off and fed Baby Boo peanut butter once. Remnants of both still remained, and as ugly as the doll was, she was loved. She nursed my daughter through many fevers and even spent a couple of days in the hospital. Did this doll deserve to die?

I sorted for many hours and almost everything was returned to the attic. Someday when my grandchildren are older they will enjoy looking through their mothers' school work and books and who knows, maybe one will adopt Baby Boo.

Many items were placed in a separate box and placed not in the garbage heap, but in my bedroom closet. Some items should not only not be thrown out, but kept within closer reach.

Today I cleaned out my kitchen cupboard where I keep cook books and recipes. I came across my son's favourite cookie recipe. Maybe I will make some tomorrow and send them home with him next time he comes by.

Until next month, don't clean too hard.

Jaime's Oatmeal Date Cookies

1 1/4 cup butter
1 cup brown sugar
3/4 cup buttermilk
2 1/2 cups rolled oats
2 1/4 cups flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt

Cream the butter and add sugar. Add milk and rolled oats. Add the flour, baking soda and salt. The dough should be very soft. Chill for about 30 minutes. Roll thin, cut out with the rim of a large glass and bake on a cookie sheet at 325 degrees for 12 minutes or until the edges begin to brown.

Date filling:
1/2 lb. dates
1 cup water
1/4 cup sugar
Pinch cinnamon

Cut the dates into small pieces. Add water, sugar and cinnamon, cook until mixture is quite thick, stirring often to prevent sticking.

When the cookies are cool, spread an ample amount of the warm filling across the bottom of one, then place another on top. Serve with a glass of milk and your children will love you. Store the rest in a plastic container and the cookies will stay soft and chewy.
___________________________________________________________ 

Life as we know it

The writer in me

Mom always wanted to be a writer. I was reminded of this on the weekend as we went through Mom and Paul's house, dividing up their belongings amongst the seven families. It felt like an intrusive thing to do, that it was a little too soon, but the circumstances were unusual in that they were both gone. A house cannot sit unoccupied for long. Besides, two of us from out of town were there.

Upstairs in the spare bedroom closet was an old word processor I'd helped Mom buy and a scrapbook that I didn't know existed. I brought home the scrapbook and Mom's reading glasses, plus a few other things so precious I'll mention them in future posts.

Today I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down in my office with the scrapbook. It is unseasonably warm this year and the sun is shining brightly in through the patio door that opens onto the deck in the backyard. I'd moved from the farm to Winnipeg in 2009 and this past September, followed my heart to the house with the most beautiful yard in Grunthal, Manitoba. The last three years have been emotionally difficult, overflowing with change and grief. Once I realized in June 2010 that my Dad was going to die, I lost the ability to formulate what I want to say. Since I was a little girl my best writing always emerged while sorting through emotionally charged events and with the exception of Dad's eulogy, the blank page has become my enemy. It's called writers block and I've never experienced that before.

Opening the scrapbook is overwhelming. Taped to the pages are a year's worth of monthly columns written by my Mother, her musings printed under the heading, "Under the Dumb Plum Tree." The clippings were from the North Interlake Echo, the paper I once owned. Twenty years have passed since then and I'd long forgotten that Mom was once our columnist.

Later today my son Laurie is coming for a visit. I'll bake a batch of cookies from the column she wrote on January 27, 1991. Tomorrow I will publish her column here and will continue every month for a year.

I am more like my mother than I ever realized.
___________________________________________________________ 

Passages

“So dear I love him that with him,
all deaths I could endure.
Without him, live no life.” 

- William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

Horst Paul Julius Kaufhold
Paul was born February 17, 1934 in Dusseldorf, Germany to Matilda and Wilhelm Kaufhold. When Paul was a young man he immigrated to Canada and began working as a farmhand and then in 1969 as the mechanic at Andrés Wines / Peller Estates Winery in Grimsby, Ontario. In 1959 he married Grace Burnham and together they raised three children, Peter (Carole) Kaufhold, Pat Duperron and Robert (Margaret) Kaufhold.

Jaime Ann Kaufhold
Jaime was born August 10, 1942 to Pamela and Jack Easlick of Hamilton, Ontario. Jaime worked as a medical receptionist until she married Bruce Snively in 1961. They moved to Stoney Creek and together they raised four children, Karen Emilson, Mark (Margaret) Snively, Nance (John) Lester and Darlene (Don) West.

It was a mutual love for sailing that brought Paul and Jaime together when they met at the Port Maitland Sailing Club. They became inseparable and moved to Grimsby, marrying in 1984. Paul continued working at Andrés Wines, retiring in 1999 after 30 years of dedicated service. Jaime worked at odd jobs and then after Paul retired, they began volunteering their time at the Grimsby Benevolent Fund. Whether it was renovating the house or working in the yard, Paul and Jaime did everything together. In their younger years they enjoyed traveling and made trips to Germany, Florida, Atlantic City, Las Vegas, Ireland, Calgary and Winnipeg.

Their home was a warm and inviting place where family was always welcome. Every one of us benefitted from their wise counsel and loving support. They will be greatly missed by everyone who knew them.

On January 16, Paul suffered a massive stroke and was rushed to the hospital where, surrounded by family, he passed away a few hours later. Jaime refused to say good-bye to Paul and within a few minutes following his death, also suffered an aneurysm and joined Paul later that night.

Left to cherish their memory are Pamela Easlick; all seven children and spouses, along with grandchildren Laurie, Lace, Kassarah, Alicia, Emma, Daniel, Cheyenne, Christine, Kelsi, Dana, Katherine and Kate. They will also be missed by Paul’s family including brothers Ewald (Christina) Kaufhold, Hans (Hildegard) Kaufhold and sister Ursula Ilgner, all of Germany.
Paul was predeceased by his parents; Grace Kaufhold and brother Dieter Kaufhold. Jaime was predeceased by her father Jack Easlick; and Bruce Snively.

The family would like to thank the staff at the West Lincoln Memorial Hospital for the excellent care given to our parents and for the compassion shown to us that day.

A private family funeral service was held Saturday, January 21, 2012. If desired, memorial contributions to The Heart and Stroke Foundation or The Lincoln County Humane Society can be made through the funeral home (905) 957-7031 or merritt-fh.com
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