Anne Hines.com

Since moving from downtown Toronto over a year ago, to serve as a United Church of Canada minister in Lucky Lake, SK (pop 295), I’ve found that life on the prairies is not all that different from in the city. For instance, it is possible to have road rage out here. You just have to wait forty-five minutes for another car to come along. And, when it comes to the holidays, all anyone really, really wants for Christmas is for everything to stay exactly the same.

This was brought home to me recently when our usually harmonious little town suddenly erupted in controversy. The teachers in our local school announced that, rather than presenting a traditional concert this Christmas season, they are going to host a kind of free-flowing “Holiday Village” event. So, instead of assembling en masse in the echoing gymnasium to applaud group after group of children for showing off their skill at waving at their families and forgetting the words to songs, this year parents and students will roam the school together, participating in a variety of fun interactive activities.

Reaction to the news was immediate. Scrums of neighbours collected in the post office, murmuring anxiously. Heated debate broke out in the grocery store check-out line. Someone telephoned, demanding to know what I, as town minister, was going to do to ensure the concert took place as usual. It’s amazing what theology school didn’t prepare me for.

A town meeting was called. Pro-Concert and pro-Holiday Village factions crammed into our school library. Someone began the proceedings with, “I’d like to point out that we’ve been doing this concert exactly the same way for fifty years.”  Both sides took this as a point in their favour.

I understood. Human beings have a profound primal need for change, challenge and adventure in life. And, we have an equally deep-seated need for everything to stay the same. This is exactly the kind of thing, of course, that gives the concept of Intelligent Design a bad name.

When it came to our town conundrum, however, I found myself sitting pretty solidly on the Pro-Tradition side. I like the annual Christmas concert. It reminds me of similar events from my own childhood. And, at least during the holidays, I like to be assured that some things that don’t change.

In fact, the whole concert/no concert issue reminded me of the first year my partner, Liz, and I were together. Christmas morning proved that as a couple we suffered from a serious case of what I now term IHE. Incompatible Holiday Expectations. Liz comes from a “Christmas stockings should contain useful items, not wrapped, because why bother?”" background. My own upbringing was solidly “Are you crazy? I want totally frivolous pretty things and they darn well better be wrapped, just ’cause.” I ended up sobbing with disappointment most of Christmas morning because I found toothpaste in my stocking instead of gaily decorated hair accessories. I didn’t care that it wasn’t rational. I just wanted it to be the same.

I’m not alone in this. My friend Marjorie reports that, even though her daughter won’t be home for the Hanukkah season, she telephoned asking to be reassured that her mother would still be making her traditional latkas. “What will you do?” I asked Marjorie. “Rub some flour on my face, get her on Skype and say they were delicious.”

Our town meeting over, a kind of peace is restored. The teachers agreed they will do the village this year and the concert again next year. I walked home through the snowy, silent streets grateful we’d achieved detente before folks started sporting Team Concert and Team Villages hirts around town. But also, musing that in a world where our special holidays often centre around tradition and things staying the same, what do you do when staying the same isn’t an option?

Perhaps, in the end, how we celebrate isn’t as important as remembering why we celebrate. Maybe focusing on the trappings and traditions of the holidays is like putting our attention on the wrapping rather than the gift. If what our village is coming together to celebrate is… well, being together, then perhaps what we do isn’t nearly so important as that we make a point, each year, to do it.

So this year, there’s one alteration I’m happy to entertain. Whatever turns up in my stocking, I’ll focus on how fortunate I am that it was put there by loving hands. And really, when you think about it, nothing makes a holiday more special than that. It’s the one thing that doesn’t change.

On a brilliant, balmy day this past September, I married my ex-husvand for the second time. This time was different from the first. Not because I’m older and wiser, though one of those is certainly true. Marrying Michael was different this time for one reason. I am now a United Church of Canada minister. I married him to another woman.

Many people find this odd. I have to say, I sued to be one of them. When Michael and Rena became engaged, the emailed from Paris asking if I would preside at their wedding. My first thought was, “Oh my gosh, of course!” But weeks later I called asking, “Are you sure? Won’t people think it’s weird?” Rena laughed. “In this family, there’s no such thing as weird.”

She’s right. Certainly portraits taken and Michael and Rena’s wedding don’t show your traditional family group. The bride is beautiful of course. The groom is glowing. The bride’s two teenage children are there. So is the bride’s lesbian rabbi mother and her partner. And Michael and my two adult  daughters, Becky, and our transexual daughter Jade, who transitioned from male to female. And me, the presiding Christian minister/ex-wife. And my own spouse, Liz.

I have to admit that my image of a perfect family used to me more traditional; a married couple, son and daughter… who all stayed that way. Until, as a friend put it, my dream of a nuclear family melted down.

Even then, while I no longer had a traditional family, at least I knew the traditional way for ex-spouses to behave. We all experience disappointment, resentment and anger in life. The benefit of divorce was, now I had someone to blame it all on.

There’s a problem with this model of dealing with your ex-spouse of course. If you’re going to spend the rest of your life being irritated and frustrated with each other, you may as well just stay married.

A therapist suggested, “You and Michael are going to be in relationship for the rest of your life. You can have a good relationship or a bad relationship.” I suddenly realized that how I relate to other people was entirely up to me.

I could choose the traditional ex-wife role- stay angry at Michael for the rest of my life because things hadn’t turned out as I planned. Or, I could choose not to do that.

True, my life plan had been to get married and stay married forever. But my beauty plan had been to stay 28 forever. Sometimes, we’re forced to rethink. I decided to look for a new way of being family.

“Isn’t it weird?” was the question that was asked when, in the years after, Michael and I sat comfortably side by side at school events, shared family birthdays and turned to each other for help and advice. It was asked when, as a family, we banded together to support our daughter through her transition.

But I’ve come to believe that the real difference between a traditional and modern family is this:

Modern family includes at least one gay, one trans-person if you can possibly manage it (trans is the new gay), one interreligious/racial marriage, unmarried parents of one or more children from one or more different relationships, and at least one divorced couple with/without new partners.

Traditional family includes exactly the same mix. We just weren’t allowed to talk about it.

A few nights before his wedding, Becky, Jade and I took Michael out for a Mexican dinner “send off.” We talked about our family, how it just seems to work for us and how, yes, others find it odd. It brought to mind a quote by philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. “This is my way. What is your way? The way doesn’t exist.” Likely, Nietzsche’s family dinner table included a few interesting relatives too.

Rena and Nietzsche were right. “The way” of being family doesn’t exist. “Weird” is useful to describe the smell of the yogurt at the back of the fridge. But it should never be used to limit who we love.

So, I joyously married my ex-husband to his beautiful new wife and one happy family celebrated together. And, there’s nothing more traditional than that.

There’s an old saying, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do… unless of course it’s immoral, illegal or just icky.” So, since I moved from downtown Toronto to Lucky Lake, Saskatchewan about a year ago to serve as a United Church of Canada minister, I’ve been eager to participate in all the events and rituals of rural life. Naturally, I was delighted when local rancher, Sandra Slater, asked if I’d like to help with a branding.

Sandra: You can manage the calves. When we’re done, I’ll cook up some Prairie Oysters.

Wonderful. A day of real life, frontier-style adventure, plus a seafood lunch.

Days before the event, I decided to get some idea of what branding was all about. I headed to the ranch of Doug and Linda Jones.

Doug explained that branding has come a long way since the “grab ‘em by the hooves” hair-searing days of the Old West. With only two helpers, Doug can now process dozens of calves in an hour without touching a single hide.

I watched as calves calmly filed through a railed chute ending at a “tipping table. ” Two metal shields hold the calf securely in place, tip it on its side and the men efficiently vaccinate, ear-chip and apply a quick, electric brand. “What about castrating?” I ask. I had Wikipedia’d “cow care.” “We stick on an elastic band and eventually the thing just falls off,” Doug explained. “No fuss, no bother.” I had to think the cow might not see it that way. Still, I left Doug’s place confident that I would be entirely able to “manage” a calf down that little chute without so much as smudging my designer cowboy shirt.

Early Saturday morning, I arrive at Willowdale Farm, the ranch owned by Sandra and her husband, Lyle. Light snow speckles the hills surrounding their small, remote farmhouse. Two horses are saddled and standing in the yard. “To provide a little local colour,” I think. A surprisingly large group of neighbours begin arriving. Someone asks if I want to borrow overalls. Smiling, I decline.

We head for the corral where some sixty cows and calves, deeply disgruntled about having been rounded up from the pasture, eye us suspiciously and snort in the cold morning air. I ask Sandra where the tipping table and the metal chute are. “Oh, we don’t have those,” she says, “We brand the old-fashioned way.”

I experience a sudden tightening in my stomach. Like I know how those calves with the testicle bands feel.

Allan Allinson, a cowboy with some fifty years of branding experience, swings himself onto a horse and they wade into the herd. A whirl of Allan’s lasso, a high-pitched shriek and they emerge dragging a calf by the hind legs. Sandra and Lyle’s adult sons, Bryan and Brant, expertly grab the calf by the flank, flip it on its side and begin shouting at me to come hold it down.

The calf battles and bawls. The boys instruct me to position my left knee on its neck and my right on its curled front legs. I kneel on the calf and hold on for all I’m worth. A young woman jabs in a vaccination needle. The calf bellows and twists. Sandra swiftly applies a metal wand, red hot from the fire. A flash of flame and smoke, the stench of seared hair. I begin thanking God that it’s all over, just as cowboy Trevor Tuplin wanders over, lops off the cap of skin and hair over the calf’s testicles, applies one clean snip and plops them into a bucket.

The calf and I share a sudden, harmonious moment of human/animal sympathy. We both go into shock.

Hours later, in Sandra’s farmhouse kitchen, I dab off my filthy, wilted shirt. Sandra serves up homemade bread and savoury slow-cooked beef with all the fixings. Then, the traditional delicacy of branding-time, Prairie Oysters; calf testicles, floured, seasoned and fried in as much butter as the pan will hold. The taste and texture are gummy. Normally, I would not say that “gummy” is an adjective that can be used to describe a taste but, in this case, it absolutely does.

Through a picture window I watch cows plodding back up into the hills, the calves already frolicking and sparing with their friends, the trauma of the morning forgotten. I muse for a moment on what I learned today. That sometimes, real life and adventure are not for the feint of heart. And, “When in Rome, wear overalls.”

Courage amid the Rubble

Messages from Japan inspire hope.

Easter morning. Christians everywhere are celebrating, singing, “Hope comes with the dawn.” But I haven’t had to wait for Easter. For weeks now, hope has come daily in messages from a shattered city in Japan.

The day the earthquake hit, my friend Kenko Tsuji replied to my frantic e-mail message, assuring me that though the ground under their tiny Tokyo restaurant continued to shiver, she and her husband, Kiyoshi, were fine. There was no electricity, Kenko said, no way to preserve the precious fish Kiyoshi turns into sushi. No customers in any case. But Kenko worried most about her brother, four hours away in Sendai City, in hospital with a broken leg. “We cannot contact him,” she wrote. Then added, “But do not worry for us. All we need is love and not material things.”

In the weeks since, Kenko’s messages have continued full of unfaltering courage. Perhaps this should come as no surprise. When she joined our family some twenty years ago, as nanny to our children, Kenko embraced life in this new country and culture with cheerful determination. On her days off, she began to study the Japanese tea ceremony, an ancient art that turns the simple act of making tea into an exercise in cultivating mindfulness and inner peace.

Kenko married Kiyoshi, a Toronto sushi-chef, and they returned to Japan, to realize their dream of owning their own restaurant. Kenko continued to study the tea ceremony, learning patience with her own process, and sharing quiet with those who engaged her to perform the ritual as a celebration of life milestones, or simply to reconnect with the calm we all hold deep within.

When the tsunami hit, I should have realized that Kenko’s spirit would rise above the crushing destruction of waves. Her first e-mails contained details of devastation but also her plan to offer the tea ceremony, as soon as possible, to those who were plunged into despair around her. “We can’t keep in a mood of sorrow,” she wrote a week after the disaster, “We need to keep really close to make a day that we can smile together.”

In Canada we have many examples of those who have turned daunting life challenges into their mission in the world. Terry Fox may be the most famous. But there are others who, like Kenko, work daily at transforming a care into caring. In my own small community in Saskatchewan, Michelle Walsh, mother of three young children, has turned her battle with MS into a crusade to assist other sufferers. From her farmhouse in tiny Beechy, Sask. (pop 295), Michelle’s web-site provides 3,000 people a month, from all parts of the world, with information and encouragement.

My own daughter, Jade, is a transwoman. Jade was born biologically male but knows herself to be female. After suffering through her own “tsunami of the soul,” as I call it, Jade is studying for a social work degree. Her goal is to become a therapist to support other trans-folk.

As a Christian minister, I’ll be talking to my congreagtions this Easter morning about transforming our challenges into our own special way of serving and inspiring the world; turning our crosses into our causes. This is not a message Christians have a monopoly on by any means. For me, this possibility is being lived out most obviously now by a Buddhist woman in Toyko who, daily, sends me messages of courage and hope.

Recently, Kenko mentioned her plan to visit her parents in the countryside, but noted that it may be many months before the roads outside Tokyo are passable again. In the meantime, she writes, “I learn something of value every day. We do not need so much electricity. And, we should never think we are smarter than nature.” Again, Kenko turned to the tea ceremony for wisdom, offering this translation from The Book of Tea by Tenshin Okakura. “-Teaism is the cup of humanity. It is (an art) founded on finding the beautiful among the sordid facts of everyday existence. It instills purity and harmony and mutual charity… It is a worship of the Imperfect, a tender attempt to accomplish something possible in this impossible thing we know as life.”

In his heart-wrenching masterpiece, A Farewell to Arms, Earnest Hemingway wrote, “The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places.” In the midst of the tsunamis of the soul that life brings us all, some find it within themselves not to let their hope be swept out to sea. From the rubble of loss, pain and broken dreams, some emerge stronger, more courageous, more sure of priorities and their mission in the world. Crosses become causes. Burdens blossom into blessings. One single person becomes a light to the world around them. And then, like Kenko, they inspire us all.

Today I’m pondering that age old question, asked by humans of every time and almost every place: How the heck did I get here?”

A year ago I was living in downtown Toronto, finishing an Masters of Divinity degree and looking forward to being ordained and assigned somewhere where my knowledge of inner city life and ministry could be put to good use. In June, I arrived in rural Saskatchewan to serve the United Church of Canada in three small towns; Beechy (pop 295), Lucky Lake (pop 295) and Birsay (pop less than 50). For the last few months, How the heck did I get here? has been a constant question.

For those unfamiliar with the settlement process, the practice of the UCC for some eighty years has been to send newly ordained clergy to churches who, for some reason, are otherwise unable to call a minister. This arrangement made sense in the early years of the church when most graduates were either single or the head of their household. But now most graduating ministers have substantial ties to home, spouses with careers of their own, children in school, parents in need of care.

Along with most of my graduating class, I knew exactly how I felt about settlement. I didn’t want to do it. As I stood in our school chapel enthusiastically singing, ? will follow where Christ leads me,often I was silently adding, ?o long as it’s within a 60 km radius of where I am right now.”

It’s not that I wasn’t up for being challenged by God. I learned years ago that a spiritually aware life is not for sissies. I just couldn’t imagine that what God wanted was for me to be sent far away from my family, thrust into an unfamiliar situations and forced to abandon all the plans and dreams I had for myself. Surely, what God wanted was for me to stay near home, safe and secure. I believed this. In spite of everything I’d ever read about God in the Bible.

I was settled to rural Saskatchewan. 2,800 km from home. Two hours from anything remotely resembling a city.

Now, if I stand on my front porch, in one direction I see our bank, post office, a small grocery store and a bar. There is also a store that specializes in computer supplies and saddles. For some reason, people find this combination convenient. I call this the town ?inancial district.To the left beyond two small houses, snow covered prairie and a big-screen sky that stretches forever. This could not be more unlike what I wanted and expected. And I have never been happier.

The people here teach me daily what it looks like to treat a stranger like family. I’ve learned that no amount of coffee shops or diners beats a meal served from the back of a truck in an open field, shared with men who have been harvesting since dawn. And that quiet around you can nurture quiet inside you. As I drive the back roads on my pastoral care calls, sometimes I am the only human being in the vast, awe-inspiring landscape. It’s magical. I do miss my spouse and family in the east, but I realize every day that I have been given an extraordinary gift; to experience the world in a whole new way.

Perhaps, sometimes, staying where we are means denying the good things God has in store for us. After all, a call to those of faith to venture out is entirely Biblical. And, it’s what created out church in the first place. George Pigeon, one of the most articulate and passionate of the original church unionists once proclaimed, ?he United Church of Canada is an adventure of faith, and the spirit of adventure characterizes all its going.The only certainty we have, as the venturing out begins, is that God is leading us on, ever patient with our fears, but also joyously ready to reveal new ideas and ways of being.

My graduating class was the last to be subject to mandatory settlement. This spring, ordinands may choose to enter the settlement process or look for a position they feel best suits their needs. I think choice is a good thing. But I must confess, I am glad I didn’t have one.

As I look out at the endless prairie I have so quickly come to love, I do ask, How the heck did I get here? But the answer comes easily. I got here because God wanted more for me than I wanted for myself. I got adventure.

Someone wiser than me once said, “Two things in life never seem to come soon enough. Wisdom and spring.” Today, I’d settle for just having spring.

Eight months ago I moved from downtown Toronto to Lucky Lake, Saskatchewan (pop 295) to serve as a minister for the United Church of Canada. My first winter on the prairies has been an education. I had no idea, for instance, that there was such a temperature as -43C. On days like that, as I walk the few hundred steps from my house to the church, my teeth freeze. An elderly neighbour advised, “Perhaps you should try to keep your mouth shut until May.” I believe she meant it kindly.

The long chill has allowed me to participate in some of the traditional activities of a Canadian winter: whining and complaining. But I must admit I was delighted when, last week, I finally encountered a sure sign of spring. I was at our village store joining in a lively debate about whether ice, snow, frozen snow or frozen slush is more annoying to drive through when one our local ranchers, Cindy Boon, announced, “Well, I have to be going. I have a cow in the bathtub.”

Eight months ago I might have found Cindy’s comment surprising. Now I thought, “Of course Cindy has a cow in the bathtub. Likely half our community has livestock in the bathtub. After all, it’s March.”

Many people think that rural Saskatchewan is just a vast, sweeping plain filled with nothing but grain. This is so untrue. We also have cows. And, a sure sign that spring is on it’s way is the beginning of calving season.

The problem is, calves, like spring, don’t always come when you’d like. One rancher noted, “If cows had to hold off till it was warm enough to give birth, some years they’d be waiting forever.” So, calves and also lambs born on a day when winter is still winning out, are often bedded down in a toasty farmhouse kitchen or heated sun porch. Some are popped into a warm bath. I’m not sure how long they’re kept there. Maybe until someone needs to shower.

Local sheep farmer Enos LaBar has solved the cold weather problem by snipping the arms off long-johns and slipping them onto his new lambs as warm cotton coats. Calves are sometimes outfitted with leather ear muffs, complete with Velcro straps to keep their mothers from pulling them off. At least one local woman makes hand-knitted “ear-cosies,” brightening her farmyard with bright red and blue spots.

Trudging home from the store, through streets locked in snow, I realized that what I needed to get me into the spring spirit was to see a calving. I’m eager to experience everything in the country that I can’t do in the city. That includes, “taking a deep breath” and “being able to park my car.” Now, I would add “seeing a calf being born.”

I put out a “cattle call.” Four kindly ranchers agreed to keep my number on speed dial.

I waited. On day four I complained to Linda in the post office,

Me: I really, really want to see a calving. Isn’t there some way to know when this is going to happen?
A pause.
Linda: You’ve had kids, right?

I waited.

Finally, yesterday, Duane Ayers called. His wife, Darlene, had spotted a cow ready to give birth. I was in the car in seconds.

A bitter wind blustered over the prairie, but the sheltered yard at Ayers farm was bathed in late afternoon sunshine. The expectant cow wandered restlessly among the new calves in the yard. “She’s seeing if one of them is her’s,” Duane explained. “She knows there should be a calf. She’s hoping it’s already come out.” Having given birth twice myself, I could relate entirely.

The cow wandered, she moo-ed. Duane and I watched patiently. She lay down. She stood up. She relieved herself in many ways. Again, I could relate.

Suddenly, two small hooves and a nose appeared. I shrieked. The cow lay down, pushed, and out popped a slick, black mess. The mother instantly set about gently and efficiently licking off the afterbirth. Two small ears twitched. A nose reached up. A tiny moo. I wept.

Sharing supper with Duane and Darlene, we talked about how exciting it had been. “I always cry,” Darlene admitted. “And I’ve been seeing it for years.” I drove home through early evening light. Across the frosty fields I spotted a few new open patches of brown. Soon, our back roads will melt into mud. But then, spring is like birth. A bit messy. And you have to wait for it. But it’s a miracle. Every time.

Winter on the prairies. Last year, I moved from downtown Toronto to serve as a United Church of Canada minister in Lucky Lake, Saskatchewan (pop 295). In the city, winter was often “that slushy gap between fall and spring.” Dangerous conditions meant being very, very careful or you’d slip on the sidewalk. Here it’s being very, very careful or you’ll end up putting your car into some backroad ditch where you’ll slowly freeze to death as coyotes gnaw at your earlobes. So, it’s a different kind of thing.

As the temperature plummets, vehicles parked outside our local post office or hockey rink are all left running. Locking your vehicle any time is unusual. Audrey Weir reports that when her aunt died leaving Audrey her car, she parked it on the street and left the keys in, hoping someone would take it away. Did this work? “After a while I finally called a friend and gave it to him,” she said. “I got tired of people coming to my door with keys saying ‘You left these in the car.’”

A crucial strategy to surviving rural winter is daily attendance at what’s called “Coffee Row.” Men gather at the bar, hall or gas station to discuss the important matters of the day. Women get together at the restaurant or library. A restaurant owner in a neighbouring town gets up at 6 AM, unlocks the door, puts on the coffee and then goes back to bed. Patrons just help themselves.

If you ask me, Coffee Rows everywhere should be recognized and funded as official government programs. Coffee Row is community, therapy, support group, judge, jury, town planning and current events updates all in one. There’s no point clergy offering to hear confession out here. By the time anyone reached the priest, the cleric would say, “I heard that at Coffee Row days ago. What else have you got?” What I’ve found is that nothing warms a cold morning like a hot cup of coffee shared with friends.

I’m also beginning to learn about country winter weather. One evening, I was preparing to leave for a meeting when I looked outside to see snow blowing sideways and three foot drifts across the road. I called the committee chair asking, “Is our meeting cancelled?” Her response? “No… why?”
As far as I can make out, there are three levels of what constitutes inclement weather:

Level one: Too bad to go to church.
Level two: Too bad to go to Coffee Row.
Level three: Too bad to get to the hockey arena.
On a few days storms have raged and snow has poured down in buckets and we’ve yet to hit a “Level Three.”

There are many local traditions for predicting the length of winter. So far, I’ve been told that many deer means a long winter, few deer means a long winter, snow by Christmas means a long winter, no snow until New Year means a long winter… I finally asked, “Does anything mean you’ll have a short winter?” The answer: Spending three months in Arizona.

In the city, winter driving is an inconvenience. Here, it’s an extreme sport. Sometimes the sky, fields , ditches and roads are one seamless canvas of white. One man advised, “If you can’t tell where the gravel ends and the ditch starts, look for coyote tracks. Coyotes get from place to place by running on the road.” Does that really work? “Absolutely,” he said. “Unless of course it takes off after a rabbit.”

Some people keep Life Lists of birds they’ve spotted or exotic locales they’ve seen. I’m thinking of starting one of “Ditches I’ve Driven Into.” I used to worry about having the right CDs in my car. Now I worry about having The Kit. The Kit contains everything needed to survive overnight in your car. Staying in your car is the safest bet. Lights from a farmhouse may appear close but, on the prairie, could be miles away. The Kit contains a candle, matches, blanket, power bars and a shovel. The shovel is not for digging out your car. It’s for clearing snow off your exhaust pipe so that the car won’t fill with carbon monoxide. I have to say, I am often left reflecting here on what they didn’t teach me in minister’s school.

So, am I ready to be done with rural winter?

On a day of bright sunshine the prairie becomes a wonderland. Snow ripples like ocean waves. Ice crystals hang in the air, glistening like a thousand tiny stars. A snowy owl dips low in the blue early morning sky. As I drive the back grid roads on clergy visits, the silence is awe-inspiring. It quiets the soul.

I know I’ll be glad when spring returns. But for me, for now, let it snow.

A few months ago I moved from downtown Toronto to Lucky Lake, Saskatchewan (pop 295). I’ve never considered myself the adventurous type. But since coming to the prairies I’ve decided to embrace the chance to try new things for one simple reason. I don’t have a choice.

The list of firstsfor me here is long. There was the first time I got a stone chip on my windshield. I felt like a true Saskatchewanian. The second, third and fourth times it happened were slightly less thrilling.

There are the “first time I ate something” events. This includes crane, elk-burgers, steelhead trout jerky, snow goose, Canada goose and moose filet. This last was cooked up by Willard Ross in homemade sauce, served with veggies from his garden and wild blueberries to finish. The rule here seems to be,”if it runs, flies or swims, we’ll eat it.” So far, I have no problem with this.

I’ve experienced my first hunting season.Out-of-towners pour into our tiny community, parading the streets in neon jackets, lounging for hours in our local bar, complaining that they never see any moose. The locals, on the other hand, never seem to have any trouble finding them with their car.

In the post office I overheard two older men debating whether, if a moose wanders into the centre of town, it’s OK to shoot it. After listening for several minutes I realized that the question wasn’t whether or not this was safe but whether or not it was sporting.

One group of hunters turned up at Elaine Jones’ house early one Sunday morning enquiring if she’d seen any anteope in the area. This is not hunting, it’s “asking.”

By far my most sensational first happened last week. Tim Clifford came by and said those words I’d been waiting my whole life to hear. “Say, would you like to drive the zamboni?”

It’s the dream of every true Canadian to drive a zamboni. Well that, and that there will someday be a law that there has to be a Tim Horton’s on every block. And that stores can’t start showing winter clothing while it’s still summer.

A zamboni is big. It’s hockey-related. It has a fun name. It’s hockey-related.

I called my friends. I’m getting to flood (this is zamboni-talk) the hockey arena! My pal, Michael, mused, “Well, just try not to get lost.” I would like to call him unhelpful. Really, he just knows me.

I arrived at the rink breathless with excitement. Tim patiently explained the basic workings of the machine. I didn’t understand a word. Except for the part that if you don’t crank one particular lever up and down fast and often bad things will happen. Tim hoisted me into the drivers seat and showed me how to fire up the engine. Several tons of vibrating steel rumbled beneath me.

Some teenage boys arrived to play hockey and stood watching patiently behind the boards.

Tim: OK, back it out.

I sat.

Tim: Anytime.

I tried to look as if I was savouring the moment. Really, I was reflecting on the fact that clearly Tim is insane. There’s about a foot clearance on either side of the zamboni garage door. A pilot used to negotiating cruise ships through the Panama canal couldn’t get this thing out the door. The teenagers began getting restless.

Finally, I pulled the reverse lever and the zamboni shot backward out of the garage.

Tim: OK, next time try it faster. With less screaming.

Soon, I was rocketing around the ice at almost 4 mph. I learned to try to keep the front directional wheel close to the board. I learned what happens when it gets too close to the board. I learned that if you miss a patch those watching will helpfully call out “You missed a spot!” Every time. I learned that if you forget to crank the important lever Tim will catapult himself onto the zamboni, scaring the life out of me.

I ended up with a spectacularly well cleared rink. So long as your idea of perfection includes a few wide tiger stripes of snow. I managed to manoeuvre the machine back into the garage and Tim let me push the button that raises the hood and dumps the snow. It was very satisfying.

I’m told I’m the first female to drive the Lucky Lake zamboni. Likely a plaque will be placed in the arena. It may be hard to come up with something to top that first. Tim said I could operate the skate sharpening machine if he can find someone who doesn’t use their skates. And I’ve heard that once the nearby Saskatchewan River freezes I can drive my SUV across an ice road.I certainly plan to try that.

I’ve been surprised to find that the more things I try here, the more I’m up for a fresh new adventure. And for me, that’s a first.

Christmas in rural Saskatchewan. Here in Lucky Lake (pop. 275) our tiny village is dressed for the holidays in crisp new snow. Frost on trees glitters like twinkle lights in the clear prairie sunshine. It’s a Hallmark-greeting-card perfect vision in white. But I, I must admit, am feeling a little  blue.

A few months ago, I moved from downtown Toronto to serve as a United Church of Canada minister. Being clergy of any kind isn’t easy. When I worked in retail, my job description was clear. Sell stuff. If I managed to do this without anyone yelling at me, I exceeded expectations. As a writer, the bar of success was set at “write something.” This was also clear. Though not always achievable. But as a minister, job success is now defined as “do good things.’ Some days I’m not sure what that is.

The fact is, I now live with the most self-sufficient people in the world. By the time I visit someone sick, they’ve already entertained twelve relatives, sixteen neighbours and every one of them has brought soup.

And, I learned quickly that my world is not their world. For one of my first church services I hit on the bright idea of demonstrating the interconnectedness of humankind by bringing in a world map and a variety of foods from different places. I would have the children show on the map where each food comes from. I confidently held up the first item. “Where does cheese come from?” Jesse, aged eight, raised his hand, Saskatchewan.

Me: Well… or Holland.

Jesse: It comes from Saskatchewan.

Me: Some cheese comes from Holland.

Jesse: My grandma makes cheese. She comes from Moose Jaw.

We then went through rice cakes (northern Saskatchewan), salami (the Pajunen family farm), perogie (Audrey Weir’s house) and sauerkraut (every single woman living within a forty mile radius).

By the time we were done, I had managed to demonstrate that all food comes from rural Saskatchewan… and that ministers from big cities know nothing.

All this means that I often wonder what I have to offer people here. Which is too bad, because in a short space of time I’ve come to love and admire these folk immensely. What can I give them that counts as a “good thing”.

Then, I hit on a perfect plan. A Christmas Eve service in a local barn.

Mary and Joseph would arrive at the farmhouse, Mary astride an actual donkey. The homeowner, following the Bible story, would play the innkeeper, pronouncing that there was no room for them inside and sending them to the barn for shelter. It would be magical. Bethlehem meets rural Saskatchewan. It would show people here their world in an entirely different way. The only problem was, once again I didn’t realize where I was.

I arrived at the home of Barb Moebis, who had kindly lent her farm for the event, and proceeded to rehearse Barb on her role as “innkeeper.”

Me: So, Mary and Joesph arrive at your door. You know what to do.

Barb: I invite them in.

Me: No, you send them to the barn.

Barb: But I invite them into the house first, right?

Me: You don’t invite them in.

Barb: Likely they’ll want some dinner. Or a warm coat.

Me: No dinner. No coat. And no telling them you think you know their cousins in Regina either.

Barb: So, just give them a little snack then.

Me: No snack. There’s no snacking in the Bible. There’s manna, but that’s a whole different thing.

We finally compromised. Mary and Joseph will ask for room at the inn. Barb will send them away in a stern voice. But first, she’ll tuck a packet of homemade biscuits and a thermos of coffee into Mary’s lap.

As I left the farm, I have to admit I felt a certain defeat. These are wonderful, warm people for whom doing good thingscomes as easily as breathing. Or knowing when it’s OK to drive your snowmobile up Main Street. What could I possibly have to offer?

I stopped at the post office for mail and news. A clutch of older men were standing around planning the success of their beloved Rough Riders in 2011. One man stopped me, “I heard you’re doing some kind of thing in a barn,” he said. I nodded half-heartedly. “Well, that’ll be interesting,the man mused. It’s been a long while since I was in a barn and didn’t have to do chores.”

It wasn’t much. But it was something. And when Christmas Eve comes and I stand outside Barb’s house crossing my fingers that she doesn’t insist Mary, Joseph and the entire watching audience come in for “a little something” I will cling to the fact that I gave people a chance to… well, maybe to see their own world in a slightly different way. Which of course is what they give me every moment.

Greetings again from God’s country!

As I write today, the sky above my house is filled with snow geese making their twice daily journey from the marsh north of town to the cleared fields to feed. Line upon line of geese cross so close overhead I can hear the beat of their wings. On Main Street one day last week I had to pause in mid-conversation due to the din of their honking. It’s an awesome event every time.

Our local fisherman/hunter/hell-raiser/heart-of-gold import from the US, Terry Shaughnessy shoots geese and serves them up at community suppers each Tuesday night. So far we’ve been treated to spagetti with wild-goose sauce, wild-goose Tex Mex meatloaf and we’re looking foward to wild goose cutlets this week. No five star city restaurant turns out more delicious meals than Shaughnessy serves up to some 200 people each week, and he does it all in aid of local charities.

I’m working, writing, preaching, visiting and feeling blessed to be living amid wide open spaces, fresh air and warm-hearted folk. I’ve ridden on a combine, bought a cowboy hat and joined in conversations about whether shooting a moose that’s wandered into town is still good sportsmanship or if you have to shoo him into a field for it to “count.” Strangely, while the question of what was sporting was hotly contested, no one seemed troubled by any possible safety issue that might be involved.

I’ve been too busy to blog (please see list of preaching, visiting, participating in moose-related discussions etc. above… ) but did recently contribute a piece to the Toronto Star which I offer below.

Cheers till next time and may all your wheat be grade A!

Anne-of-the-prairies Hines

(From Toronto Star, October 10, 2010)
Today, I’m musing about that old saying, “You never know where you’re going until you get there.” Last May, I was happily living in Toronto. Then, I was ordained as a United Church minister and our head office determined that since I have decades of experience living and working in a major city, the best place to post me would be small-town Saskatchewan. In a few short months I’ve gone from “Hey, there’s a parking space!” To, “Hey, there’s a car!”

My friends were concerned. One called insisting, “I checked the population of this place you’re going to. There isn’t one.” This is not quite true. Lucky Lake, Saskatchewan has almost 300 people. The town motto is, I’m told, “Lucky Lake. We’re not the middle of nowhere, but you can sure see it from here.”

My new ‘hood is certainly a change from Toronto, but if you look for the positives in any situation you’re bound to find them. So far, my list includes:
1
2 *Lucky Lake, Saskatchewan is almost never likely to be chosen to host a G20 summit.
3 *You can drive your car for an hour here and actually get an hour from your house.
4 *Then, there’s the question of air quality. We have it.

And while the learning curve has been steep, I’ve now got a little local knowledge to share with anyone ready to trade in reasonable cell phone coverage and take-out lattes for breathtaking quiet and a big- screen sky.

A trip to the bank, post office or grocery store takes the same amount of time here as in the city. Not because you’re standing in line but because you’re stopping to chat. There are no friendlier, nicer people anywhere. The height of incivility is to pass someone on the street without waving. I have finally mastered the art of the two-digit-finger-raise while driving which means I am no longer gesturing wildly from my car causing passersby to wonder if I’m having a seizure.

When visiting, it is considered polite to enter by the back door. I don’t know why this is. Every house has a front door but they are used so rarely you’d think they would have evolved out of them by now.

If you wake up at 4:30 on a summer morning and hear the crop dusting plane roaring six inches over your house, you know it’s going to be sunny. Otherwise, there’s no need for a weather report. Just look across the prairie and see what’s coming at you.

In Saskatchewan they play many sports but there’s only one Team. “Go Riders” is an entirely appropriate phrase to use as a greeting, farewell, indication of general goodwill, or condolence for the loss of a loved one, aimed at focusing the attention of those left behind on what really matters.

The Team is never, ever losing. They are “just not winning yet.” Lately, they have been “not winning yet” by a long shot.

You do not joke about The Team. A couple weeks ago I asked in our local Co-op whether, given how poorly they had played that day, Rider merchandise was now on sale. I now know that this is not funny.

The only thing rural Saskatchewanians take almost as seriously as The Team is politics. A recent local obituary read, “Our dad loved prairies sunsets and watching Conservative politicians go to jail.”

Driving in rural Saskatchewan requires a certain amount of flexibility about what is considered a road. A road is, “Any surface you can drive your car over without actually damaging the wheel base or getting stuck so bad that someone’s Cousin Ed can’t tow you out attached to the back of his combine.” This includes, but is not limited to, dirt paths, lawns, pasture and mud flats. It also includes the many farming grid roads where a popular summer pass-time is fishing tourists out of the ditch who hit the gravel too fast.

A highway is “any surface made of any material that has a line drawn down the middle of it.” There are also roads designated for “seasonal” use. Having driven several of these, I’m hard pressed to say what season they’re for. So far I’ve ruled out spring, summer and early fall.

All directions are given in miles. All car odometers are, of course, in kilometres. GPS will be useful here the minute they can be programmed to locate, “The farm Don Erikson had before the second to last time the Jenson’s shed caught fire.”

The pluck that keeps folk here driving like rockets down “nearly a road” is the same spirit they bring to the rest of life. Recently, I commented to a farmer about the devastating amount of rain that’s fallen on rural Saskatchewan lately. He smiled, “Oh well, it doesn’t do any good to complain.” This was not a philosophy I have been acquainted with. Local wisdom goes, if you want to make sure money, forget farming and head for the casino. You’ve got a better chance.

When it comes to meals, timing is everything. Dinner is what you eat at noon. Supper is what you have around 6 PM. Lunch refers to any food eaten at any time that is not dinner or supper. Unless you’re in a city such as Saskatoon or Regina, in which case dinner is at 6PM, lunch is at noon and supper doesn’t exist.

Everyone here cooks, bakes, cans, pickles, plucks and preserves. Everyone shares. One of our local hunters even brought me roasted crane. It tasted like steak. Soon Canada Goose hunting season starts. In the city, we could only dream.

Are there downsides for me here? I miss my partner, Liz, who stayed behind in Toronto. She’s used to the luxuries of big city life. Like employment. And last night, I was sitting at home thinking, “I am 50 years old, living thousands of miles from everyone I love, in a house I don’t own, eating leftover crane. This is not really how I saw my life working out.”

Then, I slathered a neighbour’s cucumber jam onto someone else’s fresh baked rolls, walked outside and was treated to one of those spectacular prairie sunsets. Sometimes the middle of nowhere is a pretty fine place to be.