It’s Forty Below, I Don’t Give a &*%#, There’s a Heater in My Truck and I’m Off to the Rodeo…

It’s Not Just a Song, It’s a Day In the Life at Gelati Farms…

 

Now, if you have never heard this song, well, I am certainly not going to play it here.  It is playing on my media player right now…on a repeat loop because it makes me laugh every time.  Actually, this song brings back clear memories of sitting in my in-law’s truck with my brother-in-law.  Luke is 12 years younger than me and for a time we shared a love for old country classics.  Devil Went Down To Georgia, The Gambler and most anything by Ian Tyson come to mind, but mostly I remember the day Luke introduced me to the Rodeo Song.  Will you all think me hopelessly vulgar if I tell you that instead of being shocked by the language in this song and setting a mature example for Luke, I sat beside him on that bench seat and giggled helplessly until tears ran down my cheeks?  There’s just something about that song…

 

It’s Forty Below…

 

Well, it is.  Mostly.  If I wanted to be completely, perfectly exact, with the windchill it is actually only -39*C (-38.2*F for those of you Imperialists…), but I believe that once it hits -39*C…who’s going to quibble about one degree?  Anyone wishing to take this up with me is welcome to.  Just, you know, bring your down coat and your Rated -100* Sorels and wear a scarf because we hit the ‘snot-and-tears-freeze-at’ temperature twenty degrees ago.  Oh…and we will be holding our debate outside because I LOVE this weather. 

 

This afternoon, I donned my full length down coat, my black fleece pants with my snow pants over, my new pink, plaid Sorels, a hat with ear flaps and my new mitts and took a walk along the water front.  I also took my new Fuji with me to see if I could capture the violently cold temperatures on digital film.  There is something so pure and brittle about colour and sound when the temperatures dip this low.  I don’t know if I can describe it…but there is a hollowness to sound and a shallowness to colour.  Walking along the  boardwalk, with each step of my boot, in a cold this deep, the wooden planks made the sound of a flinch.  Can you hear it?  And colour…in the summer it just saturates everything: the grass is dripping green, the sky is soaked with blue and the garden flowers are heavy with colour.  In weather this cold, colour is just a veneer…sharp and almost translucent…sort of like a holographic image of the object left behind when the real thing left for more friendly climes.

 

…I Don’t Give a…

 

I believe I mentioned above that, despite the vulgarity of the Rodeo Song, I just giggle my fool head off every time I hear it.  Truth be told, swearing and cursing don’t bother me that much.  (with the exception of the C-word, natch, and the Wh-word which is technically not a swear but, to me, the single most obnoxious word in the English language.  Don’t get me started, but it is because of the complete hypocrisy of a society that creates an individual and then denigrates that individual for what they have become.)  I do not enjoy listening to conversation peppered with the f-word, but when it is used, I don’t get twitchy…after all, I have been known to have a bit of a potty mouth when sufficiently riled.  

 

All bad habits come back to bite you on the ass…this was taught to me one summer when Calla gave my in-laws a tour of my garden…"These are my mom’s fricking dahlias, these are her fricking peonies, those are her fricking peas, and these are her fricking Calla Lilies.  They are named after me."  I about died.  Today, Sophia helped me make a belated New Year’s resolution.  While I was in KFC picking up some Chicken of Death, she gave Dean and Calla a language clinic.  They were quietly listening to Stuart McLean’s stories from the Vinyl Cafe when, out the clear blue, Soph pulled her thumb out of her mouth to say "Holy F***, I gotta boo-boo bum!"  Thirty seconds later, when I spilled into the car saying "Holy Fuuhhhh (I try not to finish the word, just the first two sounds are usually enough to convey my frustration…) when I dropped that bottle of Pepsi, it bounced three times!  We’ll let your mom open it, ‘kay Dean?"  Dean just looked at me while Calla was convulsed in fits of scandalized laughter and said, "Well, it’s no mystery where she gets it from…"  Note to self…stop swearing.

 

 

There’s a Heater in My Truck…

 

Well, actually, it’s a Volvo, but for the purposes of this blog…

I believe I made mention of the heated seats (which, by the way, are a blessing and a curse in this weather.  While it is nice to have seats that heat up…especially leather seats which get verrrry chilly…it makes leaving the car that much harder.  It is not unlike the chill one gets upon stepping out of a warm shower and having the chill air hit warm, wet skin…except it is a fully clothed backside that is nice and toasty and the chill chases it right to the door.) but did I mention the separate climate control for the driver and passenger?  This means that today, when Dean was cold because he had chosen to wear only a fleece and I was sweltering because I had sensibly chosen a turtleneck sweater, fleece pants, one of my two down coats, and a woolen scarf and mitt set, I just turned my thermostat down so that I didn’t arrive at our destination as a puddle.  It is important to note here that while I just made Dean sound totally irresponsible, we always have a box in the back of the car with extra winter clothes, boots and blankets.  Like good Northerners.

 

…And I’m Off to the Rodeo!

 

 

Life has been a rodeo lately!  In the last two weeks, we have seen a loved one through major surgery and sat anxiously by while he struggled to recover, a dear friend of Dean’s had a heart attack at the exact same time and Miss Calla, Queen of Timing finally got the chicken pox.  As of right now, everything is fine…both men are home and recovering (actually, the Chicken of Death was for the recent surgery patient!  He lay in bed for two weeks at the hospital and cultivated a powerful craving for KFC.  We all figured that with everything he had been through, far be it from us to begrudge him a little of the Colonel’s best.) 

 

Calla has only the memories of the Chicken Pox…the odd scab here and there, and she was so wonderful during the whole thing.  Two nights she lay in my bed, crying because she was so itchy but did not want to scratch.  For hours and hours, I gently rubbed her back while both of us wished for sleep.  One night, she had a midnight oatmeal bath and, soothed by the warm water for a few moments, she mugged for some really lovely b&w head shots. 

 

As I type this, I can hear Soph over the monitor…she is having a restless sleep due to a bit of a fever.  I would not be surprised if, in the next few days, we start to see some spots on Sophia.  As someone who had chicken pox twice…once when I was very young and a really terrible case again when I was twelve…I am hoping that Sophia has it over and done with now.  Poor babies, but it is almost a rite of passage…

 

 

So, that was a little musical tour through my life lately.  It is good.  The Rodeo Song is off repeat and now I am listening to the Firebird Suite by Stravinsky, with Shostakovich and Vivaldi on the cue.  That I can have the Rodeo Song and three of my favourite composers nestled up nice and close on my playlist is beautiful thing, and makes me so grateful for Windows Media Player.  Mostly I am glad that it was the Rodeo Song playing when I started this blog…it would have been quite the thing to apply my life to Shostakovich’s Piano Concerto No. 2…