Showing posts with label #Alberta. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #Alberta. Show all posts

Sunday, March 10, 2024

Gone to the Dogs - Barbara Baker

 

 

I grew up in a tiny place east of Banff. It was not large enough to be given hamlet status – hence they called us ‘a community.’ But it was the best place for a kid to grow up. There were no fences, no streetlights and once in a while we saw a car. Playing in the woods started at the end of our driveway.

And our family always had a dog. In fact, most families in our community had one.

When I played outside, I knew which dogs to avoid, which ones not to run from, and those who were sure to follow me home. Dog poop bags were not a thing back then. Having said that, I do not recall stepping in dog poop. Ever. But I am positive dogs still pooped.

Fast forward to 2024 – with spring coming and the freeze-thaw going on, I find loaded dog poop bags hanging off fences, branches or scattered on the side of walkways and trails.

It's wonderful that our urban and rural areas have gorgeous parks with off-leash and on-leash areas for dogs and green spaces scattered throughout neighbourhoods. There is signage, poop bag dispensers and garbage cans at most pathway entrances. Do the signs, which ask you to ‘pick up after your dog,’ really need another line added ‘and put it in the appropriate disposal bin?’ because if that is all it will take, I can get on it.

It’s annoying to find these deposits on city walkways and open spaces but when I find them hanging off spruce boughs or perched on a rock beside a hiking trail in our provincial and national parks, my piss-me-off meter escalates. Do the owners really think there are dog-poop-picker-upper fairies?

Yes, I realize the offenders had good intentions of picking it up on their return trip but it seems many dog walkers got distracted and forgot. Maybe they received a phone call telling them they won the lottery … or maybe their brother’s wife’s cousin had a baby. It’s possible, I guess. I remain hopeful these dog owners, who leave the poop behind, quit making responsible dog owners look bad.

Google says under perfect conditions, the compostable bags will deteriorate in up to 60 days. The ordinary plastic bags decompose in 20+ years. Thank you, Google.

Never in my life did I think I’d write about dog poop. Yet here I am, doing just that. And the issue is not the dog’s fault. The owners are the ones who need to attend obedience class.

When did my collection of sunrise pictures change to photos of poop bags?

I told my six-year-old grandson about this blog and asked him what he thought a 'dog-poop-picker-upper fairy' might look like. This is what he drew. Yup, all those extensions are fairy arms, doing their job.


Sometimes I miss the carefree old days when dog poop was not an issue. For now, I will step off my soap box, and go outside to find another sunrise … and I will never speak of this again. 

You can contact me at: bbaker.write@gmail.com

Summer of Lies: Baker, Barbara:9780228615774: Books - Amazon.ca

What About Me?: Sequel to Summer of Lies : Baker, Barbara: Amazon.ca: Books

Saturday, February 10, 2024

When the Polar Vortex Hit Alberta - By Barbara Baker



Day 1 - My thermometer reads minus 37 Celsius. I can’t complain though. Global News warned us for a week that a Polar Vortex was about to hit Alberta. Initially, I doubted them, but they were pretty insistent, so yesterday I did a grocery run just in case they got it right this time.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate winter. In fact one of the aspects I enjoy is being able to put on layers of clothing to stay warm, whereas in summer, if it gets too hot there are only so many layers I can take off before it gets offensive to those around me.

In the afternoon I watch Bruce Springsteen, Neil Diamond and Johnny Reid music videos while I get 10,000 steps on the elliptical. The evening news stresses the dangers of frostbite, lists the closed ski resorts and posts a city map of all the warming shelters set up for both people and pets.

Day 2 - I marvel at the accuracy of the forecast. Highs of minus 33. After regular tasks are done, I organize miscellaneous drawers. Glancing out the living room window where chickadees and nuthatches take turns at the feeder, I wonder when and how we managed to accumulate this much clutter.

I add Meatloaf’s “Bat Out of Hell” and “Hot Summer Night” to my music videos and do a cardio workout in the basement.

Friends vacationing or living in warmer places send pictures of large iguanas, green grass and sandy beach sunsets. I reply with frozen emojis.

Day 3 – The afternoon high will get to minus 31.  I check the tidy drawers before I tackle a day of housecleaning. I want to be ready for the ski hills when they reopen. Because of active cleaning I only need 4,650 steps on the elliptical. I add Jelly Roll’s “Save Me” to my music videos.

Day 4 – It’s minus 34. I need to get out of the house. And we’re out of coffee. Since the store is only eight blocks away, I dress in my warmest gear – snow pants, thick scarf, down mitts, long parka, fuzzy toque, unattractive winter boots and goggles. I put my wallet on the chair and turn to take a quick check in the mirror. No exposed skin. Perfect.

I take off on my coffee run.

When I step outside, even with the scarf over my mouth and nose, I gasp and hunch my shoulders forward against the brisk breeze. My goggles fog up instantly forcing me to exhale into my collar.

Snow squeaks with each step. Crosswalks glazed with white ice require penguin-style walking. There is no one on the street or sidewalk. When I crest the hill, the wind increases. I scrape frost off my goggles as tires screech to a stop next to me. 

“Do you need a ride?” someone shouts.

“No, I’m good,” I holler back.

“It’s really cold,” they caution me.

I wave them on. What a friendly soul and possibly a rocket scientist.

Almost there.

The automatic door screeches open slowly. Once inside, I shake hard to let warm air circulate through to my skin. There is no coffee on sale so I grab the cheapest box.

At the till the clerk scans it as I search for my wallet. So many layers. So many pockets. None of which hide my wallet. I stare at the clerk like maybe she knows where I put it. She smiles and waits. I search again and pull out my phone.

“I’m sorry. I forgot my wallet.” I look at my phone and back to her. “Can I pay with an e-transfer?”

She shakes her head. “You can tap it with a credit or debit card.”

“Yeah, I don’t have that set-up.”

She puts the box of coffee on the shelf behind her and I head back outside. How could I forget my wallet? On the way home, I stay warm by chastising myself for being forgetful. I blame it on aging. Oh well. It was a gallant effort on my part, and I got aired. Maybe I can drink tea. No. That will never happen.

The house door squeals when I open it. And there sits my wallet. Right where I left it - on the chair by the mirror.

“I found coffee and toilet paper in the basement in our tornado-COVID stash,” my husband calls out. “It’s past the best-before-date.”

“How far past?” I hang up all my layers.

“January 2020. Google says it might taste a bit weaker, but it shouldn’t kill us.”

“Good to know.”

How sweet is he that he knows I’m anal about expiry dates? A healthy helping of expired alfalfa sprouts did it to me forty-five years ago.

Day 5 – Google was right. We didn’t die from the expired coffee and the news promises the Arctic Vortex will pass in a few days. Ski hills are still on standby or closed.

A brisk walk outside and then more time on the elliptical. I add “The Sound of Silence” by Disturbed to my music collection. Totally stepping out of my comfort zone, but damn he does an amazing job with the song.

I pull out a puzzle from Christmas and we assemble the border. I organize the pieces into colour trays. 500 pieces. Wow. The cold snap can’t end soon enough.

Alberta Alert announces rotating power outages. We bring in firewood and find flashlights.

Relatives in Germany message to see if we are okay.

Day 6 – A repeat of Day 5 with minimal puzzle progress.

Day 7 – I wake up to a balmy minus 15. Hallelujah. There is now a snowfall warning in our forecast. I put the puzzle away for the next cold snap and pull our ski bag closer to the door.

Take that Polar Vortex.

See you next time.

 

You can contact me at: bbaker.write@gmail.com

Summer of Lies: Baker, Barbara:9780228615774: Books - Amazon.ca

What About Me?: Sequel to Summer of Lies : Baker, Barbara: Amazon.ca: Books

 

 

 

Sunday, December 10, 2023

Where Did the Year Go? - Barbara Baker

 

 

    The ski season started. The Christmas tree is up. Outside decorations are hung. I'd like to say the shopping, baking and meal planning are under control or complete, but I'd be lying. It's never under control, let alone close to completion.

    I can't believe there's only 21 days left before we start 2024. We went from a winter which got almost too cold to ski, wearing jackets in March to hike in Arizona, the smokiest Alberta summer in history followed by a stunning fall, to now - winter. The season we adapt to because it can last six months and, this year, winter is full of surprises. 

 

   Three golf courses were open in Calgary on December 5th. Tee times were all booked. We saw a rainbow in the Crowsnest Pass on December 6th when southern Alberta received rain. The ski hills struggle to make and/or keep their precious snow. What a year.

    Throughout 2023, I hammered away at Book 3 of Jillian's last story. Until September, hammered away might be an exaggeration. Peck is probably a better word to describe my progress. When my manuscript didn't even show up in Word's most recent files, I realized I needed motivation and fewer distractions to finish it.

    So, I made a commitment. I made myself accountable to 'sit my butt in the chair' and finish writing the novel. I set a goal to have the first draft completed by the end of the year. And so far, it's working. My solution - I set the alarm clock for 5 AM. When it goes off, I head to my office to write. Trust me, my husband loves the alarm clock idea especially if I wake up before it rings and sneak out of the bedroom without turning it off.

    For two solid hours, without interruptions, I write. I don't open Facebook, Gmail, LinkedIn or Instagram. I start by reading the last few paragraphs of the previous days writing. Then I check the Notes option on my iPhone and the slips of paper in my tray which have scribbled 'must add comments', 'snappy dialogue' or 'scenes the story can't live without.' I add them if they're appropriate for where I'm at in the story or put them back in the tray.

    And, it's working!

    But now with all the baking and shopping staring me in the face, the clock ticking and the year's end creeping closer, I feel myself faltering. Sharing my goal with people makes me accountable. I hate to fail. I'm competitive. But I also procrastinate and hit snooze.

    If just one person asks me on January 1st, 'Is your draft done?', I can't imagine letting them down. Or me. So wish me luck as I attempt to schuss through the finish line and get to The End.

    All the very best of wishes for 2024. May the holidays and Mother Nature be kind to us all.


You can contact me at: bbaker.write@gmail.com

Summer of Lies: Baker, Barbara: 9780228615774: Books - Amazon.ca

What About Me?: Sequel to Summer of Lies by Baker, Barbara (amazon.ca)

 

Monday, July 10, 2023

Pedal the Highwood Pass – Kananaskis Country / by Barbara Baker

 





Every June, before Hwy 40 is open to vehicles for the summer, my husband and I ride the road from the Peter Lougheed Provincial Park to the Highwood Pass (highest paved pass in Canada). David and I take off earlier on our x-country bikes because we haven’t crossed over to road bikes or electric bikes yet like our friends have.

 
Do I love this ride? I’d be a liar if I said yes. But I do love parts of it. Like near the beginning where there is a downhill. The scenery is breathtaking. I love the feeling of accomplishment when I get to the top. And the descent is a thrill. But the grueling uphill makes me want to swear. A lot.

After the initial downhill, I check my odometer. 5.3 km. Only 11.7 km to go. Insert a big sigh.

There’s lots of bear scat on the highway. I scan the blooming dandelion filled ditches for movement. The jagged peaks of the Eastern Slopes make the plate shifting events more visible and there’s little snow on top because it’s been an unseasonably hot spring.

“Drink lots of water,” David reminds me.

I nod and force myself not to look at the odometer until the next corner.

Our friends pedal with us for a few minutes of chatter.

“If it’s cold at the top, don’t wait for us,” I say.  “Just photoshop us into the group picture.”

Off they go. Part of me wishes I hadn’t said no to the e-bike for my 65th birthday. I was adamant I didn’t want one until I turn 70. I’m not quite so adamant right now.

When I see more bear scat, I run the bear rule scenarios through my head. If it’s a grizzly, don’t look them in the eyes. They feel it’s a challenge. If it’s a black bear, look tall, speak with confidence and make slow movements to retreat. If it’s a momma bear of any type and I’m between her and the cubs, kiss my ass goodbye. The visual of me kissing my ass goodbye makes me chuckle. The bear scenario – not so much.

 

My eyes peek at the odometer. 12.3 km. If I round down to 11, I have further to go but if I round up to 13, who will pedal the extra .7 km? I chastise myself for checking the distance again.

A group of road bikers zip past and say, “Good job.”

I force a smile and glance at David. “Would this really be faster if I was on a road bike?”


“Yup.” 


“But this is the only time I ride on a road.”

“Yup.”

“I need a break.” I quit pedaling and coast to a stop. “My crotch and toes are numb.”

It takes a few seconds to get the prickles out of my foot before I can set the other one on the pavement. We both do our own version of stretches, eat a granola bar and wash it down. Off we go again. Only 3 kilometers left and a short flat stretch ahead. I stand and pedal until the uphill starts.

I start to count the pedal rotations to see how many it takes to make a kilometer. But I get lost around 276. Don’t look at the odometer. Focus on the line in the middle of the road. The hill is endless and after yet another corner, at the top of the hill, I see a sign. I KNOW that sign.

Tiny people wave. Crank. Crank. Do it. Just do it. Don’t stop now.

And there we are, in time for the group photo. 

After a quick sandwich, I put on all my warm layers, get one last picture taken and start the thrill of the downhill.

                                               
                                 2017                                                                    2023

I feather my brakes when I get to 52 km/hour. There’s no time to take in the scenery now as tears run down my cheeks.

You can contact me at: bbaker.write@gmail.com

Summer of Lies: Baker, Barbara:9780228615774: Books - Amazon.ca

What About Me?: Sequel to Summer of Lies : Baker, Barbara: Amazon.ca: Books


Thursday, November 10, 2022

Grampa Saves the Day - by Barbara Baker

On a gorgeous fall drive with two of our young grandkids we stop at a park to play. Fresh air. Colourful leaves. Blue Alberta sky. And a backpack full of snacks. A perfect outing.

The kids run and jump and swing through the playground. In no time at all, I have 5,000 steps and only three near heart attacks at the hanging upside down antics.

Just as I begin to video our granddaughter as she hurtles down a zip-line, our grandson, who is only three years old and too short for the ride, lets out a scream. Not just any scream - a full out anyone-within-a-mile-can-hear-him kind of scream.

I bend over in time to see him swipe a wasp off his pinky finger. Tears streak down his face as he sticks his hand in the air.

Even without reading glasses on I can see the stinger, with a blob of venom attached to it, sticking out of a small cut right above his pudgy knuckle. I pull the stinger out and lift it to my eyes. The venom sac still clings to the sharp barb. It’s kind of cool to see but another scream brings me back to my grandson’s finger.

Hugs can’t console him and people start to stare. I’m sure they think the tyke has fallen victim to some enormous travesty set upon him by me. I give the staring people a pleading look to tell them, “I’m doing my best.”

“Let’s go to the car and get a band aid,” Grampa says.  “Stick his finger in your mouth.”

I look at my grandson’s dirty hand.

“It was a wasp sting not a snake bite,” I say.

“It’ll distract him.”

I pick up the tyke and put his finger in my mouth knowing I’m doomed. No amount of hand-sani can’t save me now.

Once his finger is in my mouth, the screaming stops. When it starts up again, it’s not as loud. I suck on the finger. The scream turns into snotty sobs.

At the car, I set him on the tailgate and pour water over the sting while grampa searches for a band aid. Candles, old granola bars, blankets, masks and gloves (thanks covid) pile up beside us. Not one band aid.

Grampa digs through his emergency car repair kit. “Look what I found.” He holds up the tiniest silver hose clamp. “It’s a superhero ring for a brave little boy.”

Our grandson’s eyes go big. “Really?”

Grampa nods a very serious grampa nod. He takes the injured pinky and ever so gently, puts the hose clamp over the red mark.

All the way home our grandson holds his hand in the air.

“I got a superhero ring.” He waves it at his sister. “Because I’m brave.” 

What About Me?: Sequel to Summer of Lies : Baker, Barbara: Amazon.ca: Books

Summer of Lies: Baker, Barbara:9780228615774: Books - Amazon.ca

Barbara Wackerle Baker (@bbaker.write)

 

                   

 

 

 

 


Saturday, September 24, 2022

Alberta History in My Writing by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

 


 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

https://www.bookswelove.com/donaldson-yarmey-joan/

I began my writing career as a travel writer and I drove and camped through all of Alberta, British Columbia, and the Yukon and Alaska, writing about what there was to see and do in those provinces, and the territory and state. I learned a lot of history, saw a lot of beautiful scenery, and met a lot of wonderful people.

The following historical excerpt is about Fort Macleod, along the Crowsnest Highway, from my travel book the Backroads of Southern Alberta. Fort Macleod, coincidently, is the setting for the novel, Illegally Dead, the first book of my Travelling Detective Series.

The Only Shadow in the House is set north and east of Edmonton, Alberta, and Whistler’s Murder takes place in Whistler, British Columbia.

After the Hudson's Bay Company sold Rupert's Land to the Canadian Government in 1869, fur traders from Fort Benton in Montana travelled north into present day Alberta and set up illegally trading posts called Whiskey Forts. They brought wagon loads of whiskey and guns to trade for furs with the natives. The watered down whiskey, laced with any or all of Tabasco, red pepper, tobacco, ginger, molasses, tea, sulphuric acid and ink, drove the natives wild and they brutalized and killed their own tribesmen, other bands, and some whitemen. Sir John A Macdonald, prime minister of Canada at the time declared that the area should be safe for settlers moving west and he formed the North West Mounted Police (NWMP) in 1874. They marched west and established Fort Macleod, which is southern Alberta's oldest settlement.

The downtown district, on 24th Street between Second and Third Avenues, was declared Alberta's first provincial historical site on May 14, 1984. There are many wood frame buildings that date back to 1890s and some brick and sandstone ones from the early 1900s.
The Empress Theatre opened in 1912 and was used for vaudeville acts, minstrel shows, silent films, political rallies and talking films. It has been renovated, but the original pressed metal ceiling, double seats in every second row, and the old radiators remain. The Empress Theatre Society presents movies or live performances during the summer.
The present-day Fort Macleod is a reproduction, but some of the log buildings inside the Fort Museum are original and house numerous historical native and North West Mounted Police-Royal Canadian Mounted Police artifacts. A Musical Ride is staged four times a day during July and August. Young men and women dressed in replica North West Mounted Police uniforms present an exhibition of horsemanship and precision, similar to the world famous Musical Ride.

Harry `Kanouse' Taylor, a former whiskey fort owner, set up a hotel in Fort Macleod after the arrival of the NWMP-the original name of the RCMP. Due to the changing times and transient population, there had to be certain rules in his hotel. They were:
1. Guests will be provided with breakfast and dinner,
but must rustle their own lunch.
2. Spiked boots and spurs must be removed at night
before retiring.
3. Dogs are not allowed in bunks, but may sleep
underneath.
4. Towels are changed weekly; insect powder is for sale
at the bar.
5. Special rates for Gospel Grinders and the gambling
profession.
6. The bar will be open day and night. Every known fluid,
except water, for sale. No mixed drinks will be served
except in case of a death in the family. Only
registered guests allowed the privileges of sleeping
on the bar room floor.
7. No kicking regarding the food. Those who do not like
the provender will be put out. When guests find
themselves or their baggage thrown over the fence,
they may consider they have received notice to leave.
8. Baths furnished free down at the river, but bathers
must provide their own soap and towels.
9. Valuables will not be locked in the hotel safe, as
the hotel possesses no such ornament.
10. Guests are expected to rise at 6:00 a.m., as the
sheets are needed for tablecloths.
11. To attract the attention of waiters, shoot through
the door panel. Two shots for ice water, three for
a new deck of cards.
No Jawbone. In God We Trust; All Others Pay Cash.

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