Spring Ahead with Trivia - Barbara Baker

 

Goodbye winter. Hello spring. Another round of setting clocks ahead is behind us as well as all the rant on social media about why we continue with this practice. Some people blame farmers for screwing with our circadian rhythm, but they're not the culprits. Cows and crops rely on the sun. Not clocks. Maybe that’s why Saskatchewan ignores time change.

In 1895, George Hudson, an entomologist, made the first attempt to introduce time change. He wanted the world to go ahead two hours in the spring so he could hunt bugs in daylight after his day-job ended. He was unsuccessful with his request.

Time change kicked in during WW1 and WW2 to optimize daylight hours and conserve energy. After each war, it was up to jurisdictions to decide whether they stuck with it. In the winter of 1974, permanent daylight-saving time came into play and children started walking to school in the dark. Hello logic.

But now I’m over time change and have moved onto hello spring. The hunt for the first crocus, first dandelion sighting and of course watching birds as they construct or renovate their nests.   

I checked some of my favourite nesting sites. Unfortunately, the great horned owl's home was gone. When I found the pile of sticks scattered at the base of the tree, my heart sank. Great horned owl parents raised their fuzzy owlets here for over a decade.

I went down the Google rabbit hole to determine whether owls rebuild in the same place. What I read, shocked me. Owls typically do not build their own nest. What? How did I not know this? They apparently take over a suitable nest from another bird and spruce it up to their liking. I’m a huge owl fan. Should I think less of them for being opportunists? Or more of them for conserving their energy?

Later that day I discovered owls aren't the only opportunists. A ballsy Canadian Goose honked at me from it's perch high in the tree. Last spring a bald eagle lived there with an unobstructed view of the Bow River. Maybe I have never given geese enough credit. Maybe they are smart.  

But the first flight for her goslings will be a true test of wing power.

Geese can be cheeky buggers.

And the bald eagle moved on, seemingly unperturbed about the nest thief.

Cowbirds don’t steal nests. They merely deposit their eggs in an already furnished home. If the eggs in the nest she selects are white with beige specks, the cowbird will lay her eggs with the exact same colour pattern.

After the cowbird lays her eggs (sometimes as many as six) in the unsuspecting nest of, let’s say, Mrs. Red-Winged Blackbird, she might peck tiny holes in the host’s eggs. This way her chicks won’t have to compete for food or attention. When Mrs. Cowbird leaves, she doesn’t go far. She sticks around for a while to keep an eye on her eggs.

Mrs. Cowbird may be a negligent mom, but she wants to make sure Mrs. Red-Winged Blackbird has adequate mothering skills. If she dares to push out any of Mrs. Cowbird’s eggs, well, female cowbirds have a way of getting even. She will return to the nest when it’s unattended and toss out the original eggs.

When Mrs. Red-Winged Blackbird proves she’s a worthy foster mother, Mrs. Cowbird flies away to enjoy her freedom. In just a few weeks, she’ll flit her wings at another dashing male cowbird and the process repeats itself. As for her young, they grow up knowing they're cowbirds without their mother ever being around.

Nature is fun and funny. 

And Mother Nature has a wicked sense of humour. She can still turn on the snow-switch randomly for a few more months.

 

 

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

So You've Finished Your Novel... Now What? by Vanessa C. Hawkins

 

 

 Vanessa Hawkins Author Page

    

Yes! You see correctly! I have finally included another cover amongst my books! Twice Hung is finally finished (at least the draft) and I can rest easy knowing that it has now flown off to visit the editors, who will--hopefully--rip it apart until I cry and feel sorry for myself. A good editor does that, ya know. Any editor that tells you the first draft is perfect is... well, fibbin'. Get you a Doctor Frankenstein if you can, because an editor that can take a few bare bones and help you to stick some meat on them, is worth every penny. Really though. But what do you do after you write a novel? In my case... start a new one! But if you aren't ready for that, just sit back and bask in your ability to follow through on an idea.

... I was going to end the blog there for comedic effect, but I DID follow through! I finished a book!

I think I'll watch an entire crime docuseries... With icecream... What do you do to celebrate when you finish a book? After George R. R. Martin finishes a book he...

Just kidding! George R. R. Martin never finishes books...

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

A War of Words by Vanessa C. Hawkins

 

 

 Vanessa Hawkins Author Page

    

You ever hear of a word war? If your familliar with Nanowrimo or national novel writing month, then you probably have. Word wars are like the Olympics of writing, minus the spandex. They're a turbo boost for productivity, turning procrastination into a distant memory faster than you can say "writer's block." It's like a battle royale, but instead of wielding swords, we're armed with laptops and caffeine-fueled determination.

Not a word war... though accurate.

Imagine a room full of writers, all clacking away furiously on their keyboards, eyes wide with the thrill of the chase for word count supremacy. It's a frenzy of creativity, where the only rule is to write like the wind and pray your spellcheck doesn't fail you.

A real life depiction of a room of writers...

And let's not forget the camaraderie! Word wars are the ultimate bonding experience, where fellow writers become comrades-in-arms, cheering each other on through the highs and lows of the literary battlefield. Plus, there's nothing like the sweet taste of victory when you emerge with the highest count!

So far, word wars have gotten me through a few writer's blocks. Nothing beats a bit of competition, though I usually always lose... Lately I have been trying to turn by brain down a notch. Stop overthinking everything I write down and just get it on paper so I have something to work with during the editing phase. But I got to wondering if its only me who struggles. Obviously not.... but what do you do to get through blocks and obstacles? Wait till it passes, and hope the time is short, or power through it?

Surely some one else can relate, right? 

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)

 

Seeing Woody's in Halifax by Vanessa C. Hawkins

 

 

 Vanessa Hawkins Author Page

    

I'm in Halifax! This weekend I have a book fair, and so since the situation is outside my home province, me and two gal friends have decided a ladies night was in order.

Now... We are all mom's in our 30s, so the first stop was Ikea. After hours there, it was the mall to see this!

It's woody the talking xmas tree! It's as scary as it seems and I love it!

Next was eating, hot tub and nails.

It was perfect. But because my nails look like this now:

I can't type well. So this will be a short post. Sorry... I'm already dreading putting on pants tomorrow... So this is hard for me too.

Here's a poem for you in apology.

I bought a new lamp

It's great and it's damp

With lava and green

Like beetlejuice.

Im not a poet, so here's a picture instead.

Cheers!

Distracted Biking - by Barbara Baker

 

 

Most days I’m over the embarrassment and if just one person rethinks what they do because of my incident, my work here is done.

I was biking on a quiet, paved path behind my seven-year-old granddaughter. The sky was pink. A mountain loomed in the foreground. On a slight downhill, Ainsley crouched low behind her handlebars, hair flying, pedaling like she was headed for a finish line. What a picture.

With my right hand, I dug deep in my shorts’ pocket for my cell phone. Pulled it out. Glanced down to open it. Looked up and there she was - right in front of me. No time to think. My left hand hit the front brake. Hard. My bike stopped. I could feel the back end lift. Over the handlebars I flew. I think I tucked and rolled and landed beside Ainsley. Thank God I didn’t hit her.

I got up fast and looked around. How stupid is that? I just crashed and my brain is worried someone might have seen it happen.

“Gramma,” Ainsley screamed. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, honey.” I picked up my cell phone, groaned at the cracked screen and shoved it in my pocket. “Can you lead the way back to Grampa?”

“You’re bleeding really bad.”

“Not a big deal.” I glanced at the blood pouring from the road rash on my knee. “We have lots of band aids. Lets go.”

Off she pedaled towards home.

The handlebars were off centre so my steering was all wonky but I managed to keep it straight and focused on pedaling.

“Grampa,” Ainsley shouted. “Gramma fell off her bike.”

“I hit the front brake,” I said.

David looked at me with puzzled eyes. I knew those eyes were saying “what the hell, your front brake? Why?” but his outside voice said, “Are you okay?”

“I will be.” I nodded.

I put my bike away and took my helmet off. The top was scratched and chipped and chunks of gravel stuck out of the air vents. The visor hung on by one arm. I hooked it on my handlebar and went to the outside tap.

First, I stuck my bleeding palm under the cold water. It felt so good. Then my knee. Then my elbow. I repeated the process until the body parts were numb and my embarrassment subsided.

“I cannot tell a lie.” I looked up at David. “I was getting my phone out of my pocket with my right hand and when I looked up, I was right on Ainsley’s tail.”

He nodded. And frowned. Checked my scrapes and got out the Polysporin.

I stayed awake long into the night fretting about what could have happened if I hadn’t had a helmet on. If I hadn’t stopped in time and hit Ainsley. World’s worst grandmother ever. When I closed my eyes, the worst-case scenario made me open them again. It was a long night.

A few ribs on my left side screamed at me when I got out of bed the next morning and brushing my hair made me wince. Weeks later the ribs still reminded me of the crash.

 

When I see kids or adults riding bikes without helmets, I want to yell at them to put a helmet on. Road rash and ribs heal. The head, not so much. If you see a gramma sitting on a street corner handing out helmets to helmetless riders, it might be me. And yes, I will buy a new helmet for myself.

Now when I follow the grandkids on my bike, I keep both hands on my handlebars and my head up, capturing the moment to memory - it saves the bytes taking pictures would use and more importantly, any further injury to myself.

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