Tuesday, June 30, 2020

Learning to Negotiate

Some people are born negotiators. My friend and mentor, the late Tim Marshall, was the best negotiator I ever met. He loved every minute of it and had both charm and patience to carry it off. We were in Beijing in the 90s when he decided to go to the area of the city that had antique shops to look for opium pipes and cricket cages which he collected. He soon found what he wanted in a tiny shop and the young woman who spoke good English gave him a price. It was insanely high. That was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. I got bored and left but in an hour and a half Tim owned the antiques for the price he wanted to pay and a friend for life.

I am not a negotiator. If I consider a price reasonable and fair to both sides, I will take it. If not I will walk away. Whether I am buying or selling, the first offer is the final offer. Obviously this does not get one far in the real world, so I was sent to a Public Service Commission course on negotiation many years ago. All I remember is that one needed to get to win-win.

We had several chances to practice with set piece situations. The one that sticks in my mind went like this. Each person was given a piece of paper outlining the situation. We were paired with the person sitting beside us. A rare plant had been discovered in the high Andes with properties that indicated it could complete your companies quest for a cure for Alzheimer's. The company needs the ashes from burning 1 kg. You are flying to Lima to buy the only kg in existence. On the plane you are seated next to someone who turns out to be a competitor for the plant. Their company needs it to complete a cure for Lou Gehrig's Disease.  How do you negotiate with this person since there is only 1 kg available?

The person you are paired with has the same instructions BUT their company needs the smoke from burning the 1 kg of rare plant. Once you negotiate enough to find out that the needs are compatible, problem solved.

One of the participants in the course, sitting several seats down from me was a very attractive young woman in her late 20s who worked in PR for one of the Crowns, possibly SaskTel. When the instructor gave the signal to start negotiating, she smiled sweetly at her partner and began unbuttoning her blouse.

That pretty much destroyed the rest of the class.

Sunday, June 21, 2020

Remembering the Farm: Good things about my Dad

Dad and I maybe 25 years ago

People often write loving tributes to their fathers on Facebook. I have never done that as I would feel like a hypocrite if I did. I have envied sons who farmed in partnership with their fathers eventually taking over the operation. It was certainly not for me. So many people have said good things about my father from their perspective.  They were not wrong but they were not me and they did not view his marriage and family life firsthand. But he was not all bad and I have tried to write about some of the good things he did as a father from my perspective, in no particular order and certainly not inclusive. I have this saved and will add to it as more things come to mind.

When Ross was a baby, I would have been about 3 or 4. Kaufman’s General Store had a baby doll on sale with a bottle and flow through tube so when you fed it, the doll needed changing. I’d seen Mom, looking after my baby brother so I asked Dad if I could have a doll. He said, “Of course”. The salesclerk said, “Dolls are for girls”. And Dad said, “No, boys need to learn how to look after babies, too.” I never forgot that.

Dad taught me how to play checkers. We had a round metal box with checkers on one side and Chinese checkers on the other that held the checkers and the marbles. I don’t know how old I was but likely around 10 when we started playing. Dad understood I didn’t need to ‘win’, I wanted to beat him, and he played to kill. I do not know how many games we played over three years, likely well over a thousand before I finally beat him. Dad could not get over how he would beat me time after time after time and I kept coming back for more. It took a while before I beat him the second time. Eventually we were about equally matched. The paint is worn off the board, but it is still around the old house, I think.

We were brought up very “small p” Presbyterian with all the usual DO NOTs, card playing, drinking, smoking, dancing etc. Consequently, until highschool, most of my friends were cousins. There was some question with some of my relatives, as to whether it was proper for kids to play on Sunday. Dad would have none of that. He said we worked all week at school or at chores and deserved time to have fun. There was a one acre patch of native prairie, known as ‘Across the Road’ because it was on the other side of the highway/grid from the farm site. That was our main summertime play area.

I was bullied all through elementary school at Cavell. It was a family thing. The father and uncle of the two bullies bullied my father and their grandfather fought with my grandfather on the school board. By grade three I was in bad shape and dad tried to teach me to fight back. He was no fighter, but he rigged a punching bag full of hay with a nose filled with grain and encouraged me to hit it hard and often. Sad to say, it did not work. I was too much of a coward to fight but he tried, and I give him credit.

In Saskatchewan you have to go down before you can go up, the saying goes. Our second cousins, two miles down the road had a coulee running just east of their yard, step enough to go tobogganing. Dad would often drive Ross and I over on a Sunday afternoon, when he would rather sleep than visit, so we could go tobogganing with Bryan and Barry. We would have been around 8 to 12 years old I guess.

Dad was very patient when teaching how to do something, as long as you were trying and did not argue. Both Oliver tractors, the 77 and the 88 were gasoline powered and gravity feed to the carburetor from the fuel tank. Water in the gas was a constant problem as our fuel was stored in 45 gallon drums and rain was bound to get in sometimes if the caps were not tight enough. Dad taught me how to remove, clean and replace the sediment bowl and set the needle valve so the tractor would run right. No idea how often he showed me, but it eventually sank in I guess, and I was able to do it myself if the tractor gave trouble in the field.

There was a slough about 3/8 mile away in the pasture with poplars and willows around it and sometimes even water in it. Grandparents Johnson had given Ross and I for Christmas a 6x6x6 teepee tent with a centre pole and four corner pegs. We would take the tent and go “camping” to this slough quite often when we were in elementary school. We asked dad to build a tree house for us, so we got some poplar poles which he nailed between four trees and we made a floor from other poplars. Making it was more fun than using it as it turned out because the floor was too rough to sit or lie on, but we used it to play pirate ship and other games.

Cattle were part of our farm from my earliest years. Our handling facilities were not quite the proverbial post in the middle of a barren quarter section but not a whole lot better. Building better facilities according to recognized cattle handling psychology was not going to happen. One had to learn to “think cow” if one were to persuade cattle to go into the barn or a pen. I learned to “think cow” from Dad, where to stand, how close to get, when to move where, to get an animal to move where you wanted it. I was never afraid of cattle (other than one B&W cow who hated children and skirts) because I knew what they were going to do.

We were poor; until dad started driving school bus, we were dirt poor. How poor I never knew or never noticed really. Our city relatives were much better off but that never bothered me. It is how things were. Dad did what he could with what little he had. Our allowance was 10 cents per week. But dad made sure we had money for Christmas. He would give Ross and I half a pig each to pay us for doing chores. Then when we planted miles of shelterbelt, he gave us the money that the RM paid us to hoe them.

Horses were also part of our farm life, from when dad farmed with horses when I was a small child. After he bought a tractor, he kept one team of draft sorrels, Victor and Kitten. They were young and not good with kids. Victor died when I was in Grade 4 and Kitten was no good without him, so she was sold. We got Bob and Bell, an old mismatched draft team from Mike Kump, which we drove or rode to school and used as a chore team around the yard. Dad knew I wanted a real horse, like any young wannabe cowboy. He bought a team of full sisters, Standardbred crossed with American Saddle Horse from Jud Robinson. They were one and two years old and we named them Jet and Star. When they were two and three, dad broke them to harness by driving them on the jumper sleigh in deep snow so they could not get too fancy ideas about running. He asked Bob Graham to loan me his saddle and helped me get the horses used to the saddle and then ridden, again in deep snow. Eventually I bought my own saddle and then two of us could go riding (Usually my cousin Lorne Dale and I). All through highschool I was so happy because I had a real horse to ride.

Leipzig Coop had a genuine Stockman’s jackknife which I diligently saved for. I’d had enough of cheap ones. This one was over $10. I bought it in October and that evening we dug and topped turnips. Dad had warned me if I cut myself with it, I would lose it for a month. So of course, while slicing the tops off turnips I gashed my hand. Dad felt bad because I had been using it on ‘family business’, so he put it on the windowsill and told me I just had to ask to use it. But I never cut myself again either.

Before we got big enough to be useful working on summer holidays, Ross and I would spend a week at cousins on Dad’s side (Lorne and I were the same age) or on Mom’s side (Joyce and I were the same age). Sometimes a week at each. Those were pretty much the highlights of our summers and we appreciated the time away from the farm, leaving Mom in the garden and Dad to do chores. There was still 6 weeks to weed gardens and do chores. Eventually though we had tree rows to hoe and summerfallow to work.

We milked several cows and shipped cream before dad started driving the school bus but for some years after we still had a milk cow. We would help milk in the evening or when it was just the one cow, do the milking.  Dad always did the morning milking and let us sleep in.

Dad has been gone 18 years next week. What I miss is his historical knowledge of our community when he was young and when I was small. There is really no one left now to ask. As a father Dad did the best he knew how. He carried a great deal of baggage from his father that accounted for so many things. I carried some baggage from my father, but at least I knew it and hoped I did better though certainly not always.

Happy Fathers’ Day, Dad. I love you, and I forgive you.

Wednesday, June 17, 2020

Tanya's Flowers are Blooming

These pictures I took this morning. The rain and heat have brought the roses and everything else too.























Sunday, June 14, 2020

It isn't Funny

It has been a rough three weeks and I have not felt like doing anything. Reading the news feeds is enough to drain every drop of enthusiasm out of my body. Some days I didn't even turn on the computer. When I did, MS informed me that Windows needed an update from 1809 to 2004 (aka 2020-1). Of course it didn't work. My IT guy in Delhi told me how to do it manually and that worked just fine. Of course once installed it gives even more problems as it adjusts, has extra downloads and in general makes chaos until it settles. Finally got my IT guy to spend a couple hours to sort out some problems caused by left overs from deleted programs, namely System Mechanic which was trying to control things.

I have deleted or archived all my livestock related stuff. We'll see how long it lasts but I just wasn't using it.

I have only one political cartoon and then a few others to lighten things a bit though they don't help me right now.
It seems appropo to the situation
I have learned that:

  • Protesters protest, looters and arsonists loot and burn, police riot.
  • If violence doesn't solve anything, why does the establishment turn to violence the instant they feel threatened in any way, as we saw during the OWS protests?
  • Many of the cities with out of control police are run by Democrats.
  • Canada has a serious police brutality problem with Blacks and Indigenous for the same reason America does.












Tuesday, May 26, 2020

I have nothing to say

I have nothing to saw. So I will not take 10 paragraphs to say it. As my then three-year-old daughter said when she dialed 911, "Nothing 'citing ever happens 'round here". (Something did, shortly thereafter). It is cold and raining enough to be miserable. My FB news feed and email inbasket is full of Coronavirus and Trump, with a bit of Trudeau, Kenney and Ford thrown in. Occasionally, some Zelensky, Putin, Merkel, Macron and Johnson. Bleah. So I am posting some cartoons I have collected over the years. I'll leave the off colour and political ones to Jackiesue in West, Texas at Yellow Dog Granny. Her sources are superb.














Tuesday, May 19, 2020

I never saw a purple dog

Well, actually, I have, sort of. It's a long and violet tail.

Volk was 12 years old in January. He does not know this. He is also a runaway because he hates being in the dog yard especially now that Lucky has figured out his size makes him top dog. So Volk sits by the fence and cries a lot, a mournful not quite howl.

I used to let him run free with Lucky on a leash because he would mostly come home after our walk. Then he stopped and took off to somewhere, coming home when he felt like it. So I put both dogs on leashes and all was well but Volk was even less happy in their yard.



Late one afternoon, last week, he started with the mournful howl and Tanya said enough. She opened the gate and he disappeared. At 4:30 in the morning she opened the door to let the cats out and there was Volk, comatose on the front step. He had a bit of blood behind his left front leg and on cursory examination, what looked like a small round bullet or pellet home. It was not a bullet or he would have been dead and the wound did not seem very deep.

Tanya called the vet at 6:00 am. Our "House-calls" vet was out of town, so she called the lady vet at the clinic. We could get in at noon. She gave Volk some water with a syringe. Next thing he was sitting up. He was comatose because he was tired. We reexamined at the wound and found a couple more. The little SOB had been fighting, AGAIN. It was not much of a fight as he showed no signs of a struggle. He had been attacked and made a run for it.

An hour later he had struggle to his feet and stiffly walked to the gate to go back in the dog yard. He knows the drill, having been through it many times before. But we had a vet appointment.

The vet found a couple more holes, cleaned, disinfected, bandaged him and sent him home. Antibiotic injections for 10 days. We made a bed for him on the front step, rigged a cardboard box for him to sleep in and tied him to a reasonably heavy plastic patio arm chair. The leash was long enough to give him room to move around and we took him for walks every 4 hours, more to keep him happy than that he needed potty breaks that often. Once a day Tanya would disinfect the wounds, spray purple disinfectant (Potassium permanganate) on it and rebandage him.




On Sunday, Tanya went out the front gate and left it open. Volk made a run for it, dragging the chair. the chair caught in the gate, the "knot" came undone and he was gone, leash, bandages and all. We went looking for him but a lady brought him back in about an hour. She lives across the river/marsh from us.

She has a little female dog and two large yard guard males. Volk likes the little female. the two big dogs disapprove. Volk was then firmly tied to the railing. We quit bandaging as it didn't stay on very well anyhow. He lived for walks so yesterday I took him for 3 km. His leg is fine. Last night he was howling again so we threw him back in with Lucky. He can defend himself.

I went out this morning and sprayed him purple again.



That dog has more lives than a cat. He still wants to run away and we have to watch him when we open the door to the dog yard


For those whose education had been neglected, a poet named  wrote:
The Purple Cow
I never saw a purple cow
I never hope to see one
But I can tell you anyhow
I'd rather see than be one.
Years later she added a verse:
Ah, yes, I wrote the purple cow
I'm sorry now I wrote it
But I can tell you anyhow
I'll kill you if you quote it.