my friend...

Peter... I hope you do not mind this... sharing a piece of your last letter to me... you reminded me of something I had let go for far too long...
S

....You write beautifully.
Scott soaring and becoming a man.
Finding Tony.
Even that rebuttal to those who must have lost all their senses and urged caution upon you. I guess you know you're a good writer when you can tell your friends to fuck off, without them really knowing that's what you said, but nonetheless being convinced that they should, well, fuck off.

You told me a story once about that gay guy who was in your year at SAIT, who Ian took mercy upon and allowed to intern at his paper. You said that some community leader stopped Ian on the street one day and told him as forcefully as polite communication allows that he couldn't let that kid ever become a journalist.

If I could meet your Tony on the street, I'd tell him as forcefully as polite communication allows -- no, maybe I'd risk it all and grab him and shake him and tell him as forcefully as necessary communication demands that he can't ever let that wife of his stop writing.

Your friend,

Peter....

his words made me feel like an inspired student again... my professor, my teacher, my friend.
Peter was my newswriting instructor at SAIT for two years.
Peter, who never believed in an A , because there is always room for improvement.
Peter, who always called me Stevens, rather than Stephanie, who tented his fingers and stared at me over them with those brooding, inestimable eyes, daring me to keep his steady gaze and earn his respect.
Peter, who referred to our craft always as committing journalism, and whose casual references to his time as a foreign correspondent in the Middle East in the 80s made me yearn to drink in his memories over strong coffee brewed long and black in the Turkish tradition.
It was from Peter that I most craved praise, and from Peter I took criticism not as a setback, but as fuel to improve, to learn more and be the best writer I could be.
And from him, in the end, I got not only knowledge, but a friendship I carry with me like a talisman, more powerful than any charm I wear, more precious than any jewel or token, invisible to others but pressed indelibly within my breast.

His humour, dry and often sarcastic, felt like a shared secret.
I walked into the dark halls of SAIT one early fall morning, the sun barely risen, the grey cement height of the Senator Burns building adding to the quiet the uninspired hallways brought. On the train to school that cold morning the sky had burst with colour, filling me, as it never fails to, with a sort of awe at
the effortlessness of nature to point out good naturedly the impotance she observes in our human existence.
I saw him walking purposefully ahead of me, and called to him. I asked if he had see the sunrise that morning.
His stride did not falter and he responded without pause, "yes Stevens. I watched it with my first years upstairs. We all held hands and sang Feelings."
The quip was delivered dryly, without a glance, but not without a subtle note to it that understood my understanding of the humour within, meant, I like to believe, only for me.
And Peter, who when I was at one of my lowest moments when I was a reporter years ago, overwhelmed with work and life and staring at a deadline already behind me, my spirit crushed and no strength in reserve to draw upon, it was Peter, in response to a desperate plea-riddled email from me that long night, who demanded in no uncertain terms I get my ass in gear, get the work done, and take time to break down later.
Perfect.
More one of my tribe than any ought to be, it brings my soul a healthy measure of steadiness to know he will always be just there, ready to listen, laugh, share of his own... to sidestep in time perchance to share that Turkish coffee, but until then, always just a keystroke away.

and you thought hormones affected YOU.....

So, here I am, entering my eighth month at Amber Autumn Alpacas, happily married to my tall Dutch cowboy, and I have discovered fairly recently that hormonal changes during pregnancy are most certainly NOT restricted to humans.
Nope. Nada. Niet. Nay.
Enter exhibit one.
Ekela.
Now Ekela is a very attractive alpaca, weighing in at about 165 pounds (which is about 40 pounds less than Big Crystal, who did her level best to knock me out last Saturday but managed only to knock me on my back and put my tooth through my lip and nearly break my nose, but that is a story for another post).
When I met her, Ekela was well along in her pregnancy (alpaca gestation is 11 and a half months) and she would stand in her pasture, tail erect and cluck incessantly at me or anyone else with her regal head held high. In alpaca speak, this means (loosely translated of course) " back the hell off or I swear I will charge you and stomp you to smithereens."
If she were in a particularly bad mood, the clucking and posturing was accompanied by a well aimed spit, made up of a lovely blend of regurgitated grass and/or hay and pellets, made up at no small expense just for our rather large herd.
It is a fragrance I truly hope none of you ever wear.
But of course, as she was not in full control of her emotions, we would just give her a wide berth and avoid the spitting, choosing instead to coo to her in soothing tones that she was a lovely girl, and we were so looking forward to meeting her cria, which we truly hoped would be a lovely pure white female.
Time came, about two months ago, that Ekela gave birth to a lovely while male cria, whom I have dubbed Zeke, though his official name has yet to be given.
Of course like all new mums, our Ms. Ekela was VERY protective for the first while and the clucking continued for a couple of weeks.
Then one day, we noticed a wee change.
In doing routine herd care, trimming toenails, giving shots etc., Tony remarked to me, "Honey, do you see how Ekela is acting?"
I looked, and no word of a lie, she was rubbing up against him, as if to say, "Oh Hi! My name is Ekela, and oh please would you rub my neck? You are ever so handsome... did you feel my fleece? It really is soft and fine... touch it... really, go ahead!"
Flirting with abandon at my then fiance (now husband... titter titter!) Ekela went out of her way to charm Tony, then turned her eyes to me and gave what for all the world looked like a dazzling smile.
She continued this way each time we saw her for a few weeks, after which she was bred again, I believe to the handsome Prince Charming (yes, that really is his name) and while she is not quite grumpy enough to spit at us just yet, she has been known to toss a few clucks our way, and does not invite us to stroke her regal neck anymore.
I was reminded of this strongly today when Pixie, who had gotten not quite but almost as bitchy (pardon the language) as Ekela during her pregnancy, gave birth a few weeks ago, and came up to me today and showered my face with adoring little kisses and sniffs, following me around like a puppy awaiting a snuggle.
Sadly, her wee baby did not make it, but she seems to have gotten over the heartache and has directed that adoration directly at me.
Pixie love. Nothing like it, and it makes up for all the hormonally challenged months. I'd best appreciate it while it lasts. Sweet little Pixie is due to be bred in a few days.

Figured I had better post SOMETHING or you would all think I had abandoned you!
Oh and Margie, please to send my your mailing address again?
With love, snuffles and much affection,
S
xoxo