Remembrance Day is a day of so many strong emotions. So many of the memory pictures are in conflict. There seems to be no thread to sew them into a whole. I would not like to sleep under a patchwork quilt of such diverse pieces.
- My first memory of war is going to play at a small friend's house. Her father had lost his legs in the war. I was so sorry they were not able to find them.
- My family were not the military sort, whatever that is, but two of of my uncles, both gentle human beings, volunteered for the armed forces, during WW11. One was in the infantry that freed Italy. I had trouble reading The English Patient. The other was an air force man who rose quickly to the top ranks. The first never mentioned one word of his experiences, The second uncle only told amusing stories that were part of military life.
- As I sort through the boxes and boxes of old photographs in the attic, I discover so many portraits of young men in uniform. I knew these men as older men, I had no idea that they had served.
- One of my father's cousins was a pacifist. He served as a medic in the Red Cross, driving charcoal fueled medical equipment across China.
- Some of the Boys who went oversees were little more than children.
- A relative married a RAF pilot from Newfoundland. He was lost over water in the Battle of Britain. He never got to see his little son who was born in Toronto, after his death.
- My mother, born in 1907, grew up during the First World War. As a small child, she was taken to a veterans hospital to recite to the young men brought home barely alive. She told the story of a young man, who had lost both his arms and legs, sitting upright in a wicker basket suspended from the ceiling, to listen to her recitation.
- Our school classes were taken to this same hospital to sing Christmas songs in the 1950's. It is probable some of the very old men, had listened to my mum so many years before,
-My children's paediatrician, as a young doctor, was with the Canadian troops that liberated one of the death camps. He was jewish. I often wonder about all the crosses.
- A neighbour was married when she was eighteen, Her husband was shipped out several weeks later. There was daily correspondence, but she says it was so complicated welcoming home a man five years later who had left not much more than a boy.
-I live fairly close to an air force base. It is common to see men and women in uniform. It gives a deeper appreciation for what our nation asks of these citizens.
- Everyone loves a parade.
- It surprises me how many women of my mother's acquaintance were WACS and WAVES There are also many who worked in munition plants and other factories
- At the local Roxy, the black and white war newsreels still played between the features, in the 1950's.
- There is something troubling about the deaths of those who were conscripted.
- I am proudest when our armed forces are really fighting for peace and the good of humanity.
- The honour in which the native members of the armed forces and veterans are held at Pow Wows is moving.
- I hope the Big Boys (and Girls) in government are not just trying to impress themselves and others with their big toys.
- The most moving part of the Remembrance Day Ceremony, for me, is watching the everyday people taking off their poppies and putting them on the tomb of the unknown soldier.
- I wish wisdom upon those who are making decisions that are so central to so many lives.
- Were those who chose not to serve cowards or honourable people who chose to differ.
-The Armed forces are made up of heavy equipment operators, cartoonists, clergy, truck drivers, dietitians, photographers, cooks, artists, cleaners, communication experts, crazies, musicians, strategists, combat troops, airplane technicians, pilots, doctors, construction workers, architects, plumbers, psychologists, public speakers, recreation specialists, accountants ........................................... . They all have the same colour blood.
- I wear a poppy with respect and with the sadness that all the loss may not have been or may not be necessary.
Friday 11 November 2011
Monday 31 October 2011
Two Bald Eagles
Two bald eagles have taken up residence somewhere nearby.
It is a little difficult to greet the realities of life, first thing in the morning.
I stand at a window, overlooking the harbour to see all the gulls in flight. Among them is the dark, large silhouette of an eagle gliding among them. The gulls, because of their size, can usually out manoeuvre the eagle, but eventually lose strength and become sitting gulls. There is one fewer seagull in the harbour this morning.
Out over the harbour, on the top of a tall fir tree, by the white clapboard church on the cliff, the eagle sits. A murder of crows now swarms below, waiting for leftovers.
My little Halloween visitors this evening will not hold the same horror of the ancient celebration, that I was met with this morning.
It is a little difficult to greet the realities of life, first thing in the morning.
I stand at a window, overlooking the harbour to see all the gulls in flight. Among them is the dark, large silhouette of an eagle gliding among them. The gulls, because of their size, can usually out manoeuvre the eagle, but eventually lose strength and become sitting gulls. There is one fewer seagull in the harbour this morning.
Out over the harbour, on the top of a tall fir tree, by the white clapboard church on the cliff, the eagle sits. A murder of crows now swarms below, waiting for leftovers.
My little Halloween visitors this evening will not hold the same horror of the ancient celebration, that I was met with this morning.
Thursday 27 October 2011
Let the Celebrations Begin............ Halloween Birthday
Daddy is feathering the wings. Mummy suffered glue gun harm sparkling the beak. There is a flutter when Halloween is the birthday. Six-year old to be, labels everything with her newly honed printing skills. Excitement on excitement as the big day approaches.
Little Super Girl whirls through all the action.
Far, far away, in the land of the rising sun, another mummy microsizes a Super Man costume, for her brand new tiny Super Hero.
Grandma is kept well informed of all the doings, as she happily continues to stack winter wood at her house by the sea. She remembers the happy, but sometimes frazzling special days.
Friday 21 October 2011
Home Again
The sun shines. The flag somewhat detached from the flagpole, flutters when the wind gusts. Moses lies on the porch at the south side of the house. I just took the tea bag out of my mug.
I am ready for the familiar rhythm of the house to begin.
Anyone who has ever heard me play the uke knows rhythm isn't my strength. I would give myself a solid D in simple strumming, but my style is unique. So goes the rhythm of my days.
What a time it has been. My older daughter has flown away to her home, to be missed until Christmas. Thanksgiving, a Swiss Chalet, order in, delight is one more unusual holiday for the memory book. The birth of a beautiful baby boy, filling Grandmas arms perfectly, and the wounded body of his momma, the death of a longtime companion take up pages in the book as well.
When I have been away for a while, I bring home new insights from new experiences that in time will be woven into a tapestry of what it is to be me. This I know. The lives of those I love most give a priceless richness to the fabric.
I am ready for the familiar rhythm of the house to begin.
Anyone who has ever heard me play the uke knows rhythm isn't my strength. I would give myself a solid D in simple strumming, but my style is unique. So goes the rhythm of my days.
What a time it has been. My older daughter has flown away to her home, to be missed until Christmas. Thanksgiving, a Swiss Chalet, order in, delight is one more unusual holiday for the memory book. The birth of a beautiful baby boy, filling Grandmas arms perfectly, and the wounded body of his momma, the death of a longtime companion take up pages in the book as well.
When I have been away for a while, I bring home new insights from new experiences that in time will be woven into a tapestry of what it is to be me. This I know. The lives of those I love most give a priceless richness to the fabric.
Tuesday 11 October 2011
Sweet Clara Died at Thanksgiving
My sweet little rabbit hound, Clara, died in her sleep, on my bed last night. I shouldn't really say little, as over her twelve years she became quite full figured.
I can't describe how my heart aches.
I have been away for weeks, helping to look after my beautiful new grandson and his less than hardy mummy. Mummy just had her gall bladder out and her pancreas is still making its presence known. She won't be able to lift her wee babe for a while yet.
I got a call that Clara had disappeared. In years past, she roamed far and wide with the best of them, in search of the elusive rabbits. Lately she has been a stay at home girl, making do with the less exciting odors in her smaller domain.
Without hesitation, I got in the car and headed home, knowing there were others to care for my daughter for a while. My friends had searched everywhere and more.
Clara had left the house early in the morning with determination. She didn't touch her homemade breakfast. She was in search of a good place to die.
My older daughter was with me. She came to Nova Scotia to meet her new nephew and to celebrate Thanksgiving with family. We had just given up hope of Clara appearing, when she stuck her head out from under the holly bushes beside the house. My daughter shouted and I came running.
It was clear that the dog was sick. She could walk, but I carried her in. She drank and drank and drank from her water bowl, but wouldn't touch a prime morsel of chicken.
Clara was no spring chicken. She knew more than a little bit about old age. I knew she was very unwell, but she had made miraculous recoveries before. This time it was not to be.
We spent the next day side by side. At night she lay on my bed. She died in her sleep.
I hope she is not resting in peace. That was not her thing. I hope she she is excited by all the new smells leading to new adventures with all the loved dogs that have gone before her.
Clara was a character who took a part of my heart with her.
.............................................................
As a postscript, I was sitting at my computer the day after Clara's death, where I look out over the Bay, a Sun Dog appeared in the sky. To be honest, I am heartbroken over the death of my friend. We had such fine times together.
I had left the house, suddenly in the night weeks before to be with my ailing daughter and her family. My friends took good care of my dogs. I hadn't had a chance to say goodbye. I worried that Clara believed I had deserted her. I am for the most part a hearth bug.
Clara was a very sick dog when I returned, too sick to actually interact.
When I saw the sun dog in the sky, I thought the universe was welcoming her blithe spirit. Now I choose to believe, she was saying I know. she would have wagged her tail if she could.
I can't describe how my heart aches.
I have been away for weeks, helping to look after my beautiful new grandson and his less than hardy mummy. Mummy just had her gall bladder out and her pancreas is still making its presence known. She won't be able to lift her wee babe for a while yet.
I got a call that Clara had disappeared. In years past, she roamed far and wide with the best of them, in search of the elusive rabbits. Lately she has been a stay at home girl, making do with the less exciting odors in her smaller domain.
Without hesitation, I got in the car and headed home, knowing there were others to care for my daughter for a while. My friends had searched everywhere and more.
Clara had left the house early in the morning with determination. She didn't touch her homemade breakfast. She was in search of a good place to die.
My older daughter was with me. She came to Nova Scotia to meet her new nephew and to celebrate Thanksgiving with family. We had just given up hope of Clara appearing, when she stuck her head out from under the holly bushes beside the house. My daughter shouted and I came running.
It was clear that the dog was sick. She could walk, but I carried her in. She drank and drank and drank from her water bowl, but wouldn't touch a prime morsel of chicken.
Clara was no spring chicken. She knew more than a little bit about old age. I knew she was very unwell, but she had made miraculous recoveries before. This time it was not to be.
We spent the next day side by side. At night she lay on my bed. She died in her sleep.
I hope she is not resting in peace. That was not her thing. I hope she she is excited by all the new smells leading to new adventures with all the loved dogs that have gone before her.
Clara was a character who took a part of my heart with her.
.............................................................
As a postscript, I was sitting at my computer the day after Clara's death, where I look out over the Bay, a Sun Dog appeared in the sky. To be honest, I am heartbroken over the death of my friend. We had such fine times together.
I had left the house, suddenly in the night weeks before to be with my ailing daughter and her family. My friends took good care of my dogs. I hadn't had a chance to say goodbye. I worried that Clara believed I had deserted her. I am for the most part a hearth bug.
Clara was a very sick dog when I returned, too sick to actually interact.
When I saw the sun dog in the sky, I thought the universe was welcoming her blithe spirit. Now I choose to believe, she was saying I know. she would have wagged her tail if she could.
Monday 12 September 2011
Boys...What are little boys made of ?
"What are little boys made of ?" asks the old rhyme. I am about discover something of the world of little boys. My younger daughter had a little boy most appropriately, on Labour Day.
The rhyme answers its question with "frogs and snails and puppy dog tails". To me this answer has always been a little obscure.
I know far more about the world of little girls, not only because I was one, but throughout my life, little girls far out numbered little boys at most gatherings. I have always been curious about little boys doings, but they knew how to keep their exploits for the most part private. In their forts in the woods boys were ever vigilant for the spying eyes of girls.
All this seems very sexist. I have two small grand daughters and I know they are made of far more than "sugar and spice and everything nice". My five year old grand daughter took great interest in the progress of the decaying seal on the shore this summer. This would fit in the category "frogs, snails, puppy dog tails" I suppose. She came home to play with her mummy's Mandy and Jenny dolls on the porch with far less enthusiasm. Both little girls seem to have an overwhelming penchant for things pink, but their lives explode into a world of so many other colours.
At the moment, the little tyke's wardrobe is laden with images of trucks and trains and scary alligators. The future will tell wether he will love his little monkey as well as a prized collection of wheeled vehicles.
My wee little grandson as he approaches the end of his first week, has exemplified the reality that little baby boys are every bit as beautiful as little baby girls. They are all wonders.
So far, I haven't learned much. The future holds many stories.
What I do know is that there is endless love for each little being.
The rhyme answers its question with "frogs and snails and puppy dog tails". To me this answer has always been a little obscure.
I know far more about the world of little girls, not only because I was one, but throughout my life, little girls far out numbered little boys at most gatherings. I have always been curious about little boys doings, but they knew how to keep their exploits for the most part private. In their forts in the woods boys were ever vigilant for the spying eyes of girls.
All this seems very sexist. I have two small grand daughters and I know they are made of far more than "sugar and spice and everything nice". My five year old grand daughter took great interest in the progress of the decaying seal on the shore this summer. This would fit in the category "frogs, snails, puppy dog tails" I suppose. She came home to play with her mummy's Mandy and Jenny dolls on the porch with far less enthusiasm. Both little girls seem to have an overwhelming penchant for things pink, but their lives explode into a world of so many other colours.
At the moment, the little tyke's wardrobe is laden with images of trucks and trains and scary alligators. The future will tell wether he will love his little monkey as well as a prized collection of wheeled vehicles.
My wee little grandson as he approaches the end of his first week, has exemplified the reality that little baby boys are every bit as beautiful as little baby girls. They are all wonders.
So far, I haven't learned much. The future holds many stories.
What I do know is that there is endless love for each little being.
Tuesday 30 August 2011
Hummingbird and the Spider Web
Some moments are so intense. One of those moments happened yesterday.
It is not uncommon for hummingbirds to fly into my kitchen, not any everyday occurence, but this happens several times a season.
When this does happen, I close as many of the six kitchen doors as I can, but leave the outside door open. Usually, the bird flutters about in a panic and then makes her way to a glass kitchen window where I gently cover her with my hand, holding her just tight enough to carry her to the side porch. I open my hand. With blesssed relief, the bird flies away in freedom.
Yesterday this was not the case. The bird continually flew up against the old brown tongue and groove ceiling. In time, she began to take breaks perching on hanging pots and pans or on the ledge above the window.
Before long she was off on an all about frantic flutter. I tried to guide her to the open door, with no success. She flew into an active cobweb beside the refrigerator and immediately stopped moving. She was in a very odd position. I couldn't believe she could be dead so soon.
I tore apart the web, as the large spider made her way toward the significant catch. I plucked out the bird with one hand and placed in my other opened hand. Carefully I removed as much of the sticky web from her feathers as I could. There was still no movement.
We went outside. She remained motionless. In time I set her down on the clear glass of a coffee table. There she stayed unmoving. She looked so cold and out of place on the glass, I once again picked her up and placed her in my cupped hand and started breathing softly on her. She moved slightly.
I stood up, opened my hand fully to the bright sunshine.
The hummingbird flew up high into her own future.
It is not uncommon for hummingbirds to fly into my kitchen, not any everyday occurence, but this happens several times a season.
When this does happen, I close as many of the six kitchen doors as I can, but leave the outside door open. Usually, the bird flutters about in a panic and then makes her way to a glass kitchen window where I gently cover her with my hand, holding her just tight enough to carry her to the side porch. I open my hand. With blesssed relief, the bird flies away in freedom.
Yesterday this was not the case. The bird continually flew up against the old brown tongue and groove ceiling. In time, she began to take breaks perching on hanging pots and pans or on the ledge above the window.
Before long she was off on an all about frantic flutter. I tried to guide her to the open door, with no success. She flew into an active cobweb beside the refrigerator and immediately stopped moving. She was in a very odd position. I couldn't believe she could be dead so soon.
I tore apart the web, as the large spider made her way toward the significant catch. I plucked out the bird with one hand and placed in my other opened hand. Carefully I removed as much of the sticky web from her feathers as I could. There was still no movement.
We went outside. She remained motionless. In time I set her down on the clear glass of a coffee table. There she stayed unmoving. She looked so cold and out of place on the glass, I once again picked her up and placed her in my cupped hand and started breathing softly on her. She moved slightly.
I stood up, opened my hand fully to the bright sunshine.
The hummingbird flew up high into her own future.
Saturday 27 August 2011
Goodbye Jack Layton ; Social Democrat
Who'd have knew'd ? Those twinkling eyes and dapper mustache hinted at the strong good spirit of the man, but it was his true heart, people met, that drew their love and respect to him. Did anyone know how firmly he had taken root in so many hearts of the nation ?
No one has claimed him a saint. He was a good man who lived simply and worked for the good of the people and had fun doing it. What was most impressive to many is that he was who he was.
Love Hope Optimism
Safe journey Jack.
No one has claimed him a saint. He was a good man who lived simply and worked for the good of the people and had fun doing it. What was most impressive to many is that he was who he was.
Love Hope Optimism
Safe journey Jack.
Monday 22 August 2011
Storms of Craziness
Storm clouds have been a significant presence this summer. Those big dark clouds rumbling closer and closer from faraway. The time between sound and light becomes shorter and shorter.
There have been sunny days and endless days of drizzle, but there have been many thunderstorms. I sit on my porch, near the shore to watch the powerful weather, not present above me, but observed for its impressive power, beyond the brow of the mountain, moving slowly but surely above the valley.
To be honest I love thunderstorms. There is something both exhilerating and cathartic in their powerful nature. I have been in houses more than once that have been struck by lightning, but things not people seem most at risk.
It is the storms of trouble of humanity's creation that are creeping and crashing around the the earth that frighten me most. These are storms of craziness. Thank goodness for the sun that shines in hearts of some of humanity.
There have been sunny days and endless days of drizzle, but there have been many thunderstorms. I sit on my porch, near the shore to watch the powerful weather, not present above me, but observed for its impressive power, beyond the brow of the mountain, moving slowly but surely above the valley.
To be honest I love thunderstorms. There is something both exhilerating and cathartic in their powerful nature. I have been in houses more than once that have been struck by lightning, but things not people seem most at risk.
It is the storms of trouble of humanity's creation that are creeping and crashing around the the earth that frighten me most. These are storms of craziness. Thank goodness for the sun that shines in hearts of some of humanity.
Wednesday 17 August 2011
The end of Summer
It is several weeks before summer ends, but the feeling of summer ending fills my days.
In my childhood, The Canadian National Exhibition marked the transition of the summer life into real life: or was it the other way round. The CNE was the last gasp of another world. Candy floss, Shopsey's corned beef sandwiches, the filling of a large bag of free samples from the Pure Food Building. There were more people in that one building than I had seen all summer.
My mother remembering the fall outbreaks of polio, only years before, was always on alert for the dirty. She was always pro mud and mess in my daily adventures, but the Exhibition was something else. No bright red candy apples for me. She had no idea how the apples were washed before they were candied. What is more she would always say I had no idea where those man's hands could have been. She was right. I had no idea, but she certainly had a variety of possibilities that she didn't share with me.
When the Exhibition was over the end was nigh. There would be the last trip to the cottage for Labour Day Weekend. Then the brown oxfords were polished, the new green knee socks were laid out and some combination of a plaid skirt and white cotton blouse were set out at ready.
I didn't hate school, but there were a lot of places I would rather be. By three o'clock I transfixed by the hands of the solemn plain clock that hung beneath Queen Elizabeth and Prince Phillip. The only hand that seemed to move was the second hand. Eventually, the big hand made it to the bottom of the clock. There was no homework in those days, with the exception of learning spelling words , so I was free until the next morning at nine o'clock.
I often had to take a second try going down the school stairs to show I could walk without running. I was always anxious to grasp every moment of liberation. Then boom, I was outside in the fresh air and sunshine collecting the shiny chestnuts that had fallen from the school trees.
Summer became a far off past memory and lay so faraway in the future that was somehow unreal. Halloween and Christmas called to children as the days got colder. But the magic of endless summer days disappeared.
I don't think I am any better at transitions than I was all those years ago. For some reason Gala Days doesn't have the same power as a seasonal demarcation.
In my childhood, The Canadian National Exhibition marked the transition of the summer life into real life: or was it the other way round. The CNE was the last gasp of another world. Candy floss, Shopsey's corned beef sandwiches, the filling of a large bag of free samples from the Pure Food Building. There were more people in that one building than I had seen all summer.
My mother remembering the fall outbreaks of polio, only years before, was always on alert for the dirty. She was always pro mud and mess in my daily adventures, but the Exhibition was something else. No bright red candy apples for me. She had no idea how the apples were washed before they were candied. What is more she would always say I had no idea where those man's hands could have been. She was right. I had no idea, but she certainly had a variety of possibilities that she didn't share with me.
When the Exhibition was over the end was nigh. There would be the last trip to the cottage for Labour Day Weekend. Then the brown oxfords were polished, the new green knee socks were laid out and some combination of a plaid skirt and white cotton blouse were set out at ready.
I didn't hate school, but there were a lot of places I would rather be. By three o'clock I transfixed by the hands of the solemn plain clock that hung beneath Queen Elizabeth and Prince Phillip. The only hand that seemed to move was the second hand. Eventually, the big hand made it to the bottom of the clock. There was no homework in those days, with the exception of learning spelling words , so I was free until the next morning at nine o'clock.
I often had to take a second try going down the school stairs to show I could walk without running. I was always anxious to grasp every moment of liberation. Then boom, I was outside in the fresh air and sunshine collecting the shiny chestnuts that had fallen from the school trees.
Summer became a far off past memory and lay so faraway in the future that was somehow unreal. Halloween and Christmas called to children as the days got colder. But the magic of endless summer days disappeared.
I don't think I am any better at transitions than I was all those years ago. For some reason Gala Days doesn't have the same power as a seasonal demarcation.
Thursday 11 August 2011
New Spider in Residence
A new spider has decided to take up residence in a kitchen window. Perhaps she was first drawn by the solar powered tastefully waving hand of the figure of Her Majesty the Queen, my daughter gave me for my last birthday. The queen waves while the sun shines on her significant purse, that conceals her power source.
More likely the spot was chosen by the closeness of the window to the side door that remains open to the side porch in good weather.
Insects are nothing new to the kitchen. They disappear into the mysterious webs by the ceiling that I only see when I search for them with my glasses on, when I am expecting visiting dignitaries or visits from my children. Fruit fly season is coming up so word must have spread of the choice spot. Early spider gets the fly.
As an aside, I have already had two hummingbirds and a goldfinch visit me in my kitchen this summer.
I have always loved spiders. If there is anything more beautiful than webs weighed with sparkling dew drops in the early morning greenness of summer sunshine, I don't know of it. I think it was the fairies in childhood that first awakened my appreciation for such things.
I read the same fairy stories and poems to my daughters as children, but for some reason spiders didn't take. It may have had something to do with that prissy Miss Muffet or the movie Arachnophobia. In fact my younger daughter became quite disgusted with me as hundreds of tiny spiders dropped joyfully from an egg sac that had gone unnoticed on a flourescent light, over the food preparation area mere days ago. I can be very annoying.
I remember reading Charlotte's Web for the first time when I was pregnant. I cried my eyes out, although that was at the same time I couldn't hold tears back in the somewhat sappy series of Bell Telephone commercials. Anthropomorphizing insects wasn't and isn't difficult for me.
I was happy to learn one of my favourite poets, Mary Oliver, has the same fondness and tolerance for the species.
I am trying not to show too much interest in the goings on. I know mothers-to-be can become a little irritated with too much interest in such things.
More likely the spot was chosen by the closeness of the window to the side door that remains open to the side porch in good weather.
Insects are nothing new to the kitchen. They disappear into the mysterious webs by the ceiling that I only see when I search for them with my glasses on, when I am expecting visiting dignitaries or visits from my children. Fruit fly season is coming up so word must have spread of the choice spot. Early spider gets the fly.
As an aside, I have already had two hummingbirds and a goldfinch visit me in my kitchen this summer.
I have always loved spiders. If there is anything more beautiful than webs weighed with sparkling dew drops in the early morning greenness of summer sunshine, I don't know of it. I think it was the fairies in childhood that first awakened my appreciation for such things.
I read the same fairy stories and poems to my daughters as children, but for some reason spiders didn't take. It may have had something to do with that prissy Miss Muffet or the movie Arachnophobia. In fact my younger daughter became quite disgusted with me as hundreds of tiny spiders dropped joyfully from an egg sac that had gone unnoticed on a flourescent light, over the food preparation area mere days ago. I can be very annoying.
I remember reading Charlotte's Web for the first time when I was pregnant. I cried my eyes out, although that was at the same time I couldn't hold tears back in the somewhat sappy series of Bell Telephone commercials. Anthropomorphizing insects wasn't and isn't difficult for me.
I was happy to learn one of my favourite poets, Mary Oliver, has the same fondness and tolerance for the species.
I am trying not to show too much interest in the goings on. I know mothers-to-be can become a little irritated with too much interest in such things.
Grandchildren Visit Faraway Grandma
I've have often heard that it is so wonderful to have grandchildren arrive and how wonderful it is to see them go. This bit of common wisdom does not ring true in this old house.
How quiet it is. For two weeks the house was filled with the laughter of big and little girls. My younger daughter's tummy bulges with a little boy. His presence will be welcome. His daddy was caught in a world of whirling estrogen. He did himself proud, but I am sure the presence of a son will do something to even the scales.
What fun we had. No big puzzles were pieced. Hallmark Grandma barely made an appearance. Auntie made some cookies and pies. Mary down the road, by the turn of the river, seems to be always a source of all things good. But Kendie and baking sheets just don't seem to be a go. The adults on the porch watched endless performances on the front lawn. Toys from another time got a good play. The house was fully explored. Bowls were filled with raspberries.
The days were filled with adventures. We gathered scallop shells at the end of the harbour, we "discovered" two hundred pound huge sunfish trapped by the the weir, The little girls raced their hearts out on the low tide flats at Scott's Bay. We ate lunch at an out door market.
The biggest adventure of all was a hike up the nearby creek with bathing suits and lunches. A friend had cleared an old path along the water, up to a deep swimming hole. We sat down in the speckled light of ash, tamarack, maples and hemlock . A small falls chuckled down into the swimming spot as small falls are meant to do. The water was cold. I, as always, was a temperature wimp. Thankfully the true Nova Scotian bred and born are a stronger sort. They led the little girls into deep water. The kids squealed with the delight of overcoming something new and different and somewhat scary.
The cameras caught most of it, but the pictures that are most important are the ones that were captured in hearts and memories.
The house remains a little lonely. I miss the chaos of it all. Hallmark cards misses the more complicated, intense moments that are part of real family life.
Within days, maybe weeks a new little life will join the clan. As with all babies he will bring joy and chaos. He will be so welcome. We'll discover how a little boy changes our future adventures.
How quiet it is. For two weeks the house was filled with the laughter of big and little girls. My younger daughter's tummy bulges with a little boy. His presence will be welcome. His daddy was caught in a world of whirling estrogen. He did himself proud, but I am sure the presence of a son will do something to even the scales.
What fun we had. No big puzzles were pieced. Hallmark Grandma barely made an appearance. Auntie made some cookies and pies. Mary down the road, by the turn of the river, seems to be always a source of all things good. But Kendie and baking sheets just don't seem to be a go. The adults on the porch watched endless performances on the front lawn. Toys from another time got a good play. The house was fully explored. Bowls were filled with raspberries.
The days were filled with adventures. We gathered scallop shells at the end of the harbour, we "discovered" two hundred pound huge sunfish trapped by the the weir, The little girls raced their hearts out on the low tide flats at Scott's Bay. We ate lunch at an out door market.
The biggest adventure of all was a hike up the nearby creek with bathing suits and lunches. A friend had cleared an old path along the water, up to a deep swimming hole. We sat down in the speckled light of ash, tamarack, maples and hemlock . A small falls chuckled down into the swimming spot as small falls are meant to do. The water was cold. I, as always, was a temperature wimp. Thankfully the true Nova Scotian bred and born are a stronger sort. They led the little girls into deep water. The kids squealed with the delight of overcoming something new and different and somewhat scary.
The cameras caught most of it, but the pictures that are most important are the ones that were captured in hearts and memories.
The house remains a little lonely. I miss the chaos of it all. Hallmark cards misses the more complicated, intense moments that are part of real family life.
Within days, maybe weeks a new little life will join the clan. As with all babies he will bring joy and chaos. He will be so welcome. We'll discover how a little boy changes our future adventures.
Monday 11 July 2011
The Joys of Strawberry Season.
On our way into town, we passed a corners, with a country store. It was obvious there had been a very serious accident. The road was covered in red.
On the way back home, we stopped at the store to find out, what had happened.
The son of a local farmer, enjoying pulling a wagon took a bit too tight of a turn. Unfortunately, the wagon tipped spilling thousands of freshly picked strawberries onto the road. It wasn't the red sea, but it was a significant pond. The only thing hurt was the young mans pride and the red, red strawberries.
It is Strawberry Season. City cars stream along the country roads headed straight towards a favourite u-pick.
In other fields, out of province workers are stooped over the rows of straw. The straw surrounds each of the thousands of plants, to gently hold the strawberries from the damp soil. Some of the workers fly up from Jamaica, each summer, to help in agriculture.
Earlier in the week, I joined an annual pilgrimage to a Baptist Church in nearby Billtown. We arrived early, but lines had already begun to form. The food was already on tables in open tents. It was a beautiful, warm late afternoon.
Everything was as it had been last year, the year before that, the year before that, for many years back. Women from all generations stood in their matching aprons, with serving spoons at ready. At the head of the serving tables we received plates, cutlery, serviettes and were then off along the table- significant slices of ham right from the oven, scoops of potato salad, with or without onions, homemade Nova Scotian baked beans and fresh brown bread and pickles of all sorts were scooped onto our plates. We were offered tea, coffee or cider from a local orchard.
We searched out places at the many picnic tables. Some of the faces at the tables were familiar, others not. All were transfixed by the magnificence on the plates and we hadn't even made eye contact with the strawberry shortcakes and recently whipped cream.
It wasn't long until our plates were empty, we began thinking of dessert. We were all full as ticks, but after all, this was a Strawberry Supper. The best was still to come.
The strawberries glistened a bright ruby red, as only perfectly ripe strawberries glow. Crushed berries slipped over and down the sides of the shortcake. Huge, perfect, whole berries sat atop a cloud of real, fresh whipped cream.
Summer is here.
In days, I was off one early morning with friends to a no spray strawberry patch on the mountain. The patch had seen better days. Daisies grew profusely among the plants. It seems I am no longer the enthusiastic berry picker of years gone by, but it wasn't long until my quart boxes were full. We drove out through a lane in a hay field and up to a very old farmhouse where we paid for our berries. The elderly farmer said he wasn't much good at figuring, but he was far better than we are.
There is no sense making jam, as my friend makes the best strawberry jam in the province.
Before too long, my berries were washed, hulled and turned into a strawberry compote. Someday next winter, a little bit of summer will come back into the kitchen.
Now is time for a fine cup of tea.
In a few days, bring on the raspberries.
The strawberries glistened a bright ruby red, as only perfectly ripe strawberries glow. Crushed berries slipped over and down the sides of the shortcake. Huge, perfect, whole berries sat atop a cloud of real, fresh whipped cream.
Summer is here.
In days, I was off one early morning with friends to a no spray strawberry patch on the mountain. The patch had seen better days. Daisies grew profusely among the plants. It seems I am no longer the enthusiastic berry picker of years gone by, but it wasn't long until my quart boxes were full. We drove out through a lane in a hay field and up to a very old farmhouse where we paid for our berries. The elderly farmer said he wasn't much good at figuring, but he was far better than we are.
There is no sense making jam, as my friend makes the best strawberry jam in the province.
Before too long, my berries were washed, hulled and turned into a strawberry compote. Someday next winter, a little bit of summer will come back into the kitchen.
Now is time for a fine cup of tea.
In a few days, bring on the raspberries.
Wednesday 6 July 2011
Haying for the Horses
I went haying on the weekend. I went haying, but it would be erroneous to view me as a fully active participant.
I participated in this heavily, labour intensive enterprise. I stacked bales - some, I drove the truck - some, I threw bales up onto the wagon - not a bit. I was a walk on player in a grand production.
It was a glorious day. It seemed as if the whole population of Lunenberg County was making hay while the sun shone. The land was as beautiful as the day. A grove of rustling beech trees, on the ridge of a hill separated us from a nearby lake. The entire field was surrounded by trees.
The hay had just been cut and baled in square bales. It was dry and sweet. Our job was to gather and load the hay, on wagons to be taken back to the barn some ways off. It is amazing, how quickly the field was cleared.
Young men, in their prime, tossed the bales as if they were of no weight at all. The older men and women weren't left far behind. I, on the other hand, carried bales, with some effort to form little centralized spots, where the truck stopped and the real hefting took place. I took pictures.
When the wagons were loaded, we took a rest, and took care of our thirst. Water was the beverage of choice.
Back at the barn the clickedy, clackedy, hay elevator was started. All the beautiful hay we had just loaded was unloaded, brought into the barn and sent up to be stacked in the loft. The barn swallows were most alarmed.
The well fed horses, in their stalls, took keen interest in all the activity. I don't believe they quite comprehended all this was being done for them.
As evening came, we gathered around the empty wagons, quenching our thirst with water and a brew or two. The salty potato chips replenished sodium, lost through the sweat of our brows and most of the rest of our bodies. Fat was well chewed, then all returned to their homes to eat and rest so that we could begin again the next day.
I went into my friends', welcoming home, had dinner with a glass or two of wine, saw the sun set, went to bed and slept well throughout the night, waking early to the bird songs and the sun streaming into my bedroom.
I participated in this heavily, labour intensive enterprise. I stacked bales - some, I drove the truck - some, I threw bales up onto the wagon - not a bit. I was a walk on player in a grand production.
It was a glorious day. It seemed as if the whole population of Lunenberg County was making hay while the sun shone. The land was as beautiful as the day. A grove of rustling beech trees, on the ridge of a hill separated us from a nearby lake. The entire field was surrounded by trees.
The hay had just been cut and baled in square bales. It was dry and sweet. Our job was to gather and load the hay, on wagons to be taken back to the barn some ways off. It is amazing, how quickly the field was cleared.
Young men, in their prime, tossed the bales as if they were of no weight at all. The older men and women weren't left far behind. I, on the other hand, carried bales, with some effort to form little centralized spots, where the truck stopped and the real hefting took place. I took pictures.
When the wagons were loaded, we took a rest, and took care of our thirst. Water was the beverage of choice.
Back at the barn the clickedy, clackedy, hay elevator was started. All the beautiful hay we had just loaded was unloaded, brought into the barn and sent up to be stacked in the loft. The barn swallows were most alarmed.
The well fed horses, in their stalls, took keen interest in all the activity. I don't believe they quite comprehended all this was being done for them.
As evening came, we gathered around the empty wagons, quenching our thirst with water and a brew or two. The salty potato chips replenished sodium, lost through the sweat of our brows and most of the rest of our bodies. Fat was well chewed, then all returned to their homes to eat and rest so that we could begin again the next day.
I went into my friends', welcoming home, had dinner with a glass or two of wine, saw the sun set, went to bed and slept well throughout the night, waking early to the bird songs and the sun streaming into my bedroom.
Thursday 30 June 2011
Canada Day Clothesline, July 1
I am running out of time to fix my flagpole. The cord finally wore out so I need a strong armed volunteer to help me dismantle the pole, so I can replace what needs to be replaced. Canada's flag will wave tall and proud along with others in the village on Canada Day.
At the side door, the real entry to the house, in honour of the day, I have begun a unique celebration. I love clotheslines. A long clothesline stretches from my side porch out to the barn roof. Well hung clotheslines are a thing of beauty and beauty is always in the eye of the beholder.
In the middle of June, I set aside red washing for a special load. On Canada Day the line is a fluttering extravaganza of waving red and white; the red winter flannelette sheets, red and white aprons, to remember the women of kitchens past, red wool socks, t-shirts, turtlenecks, bandanas, a bathmat, jacket and ball cap, baby clothes, doll clothes, tea towels. On and on and on the red stretches filling the line from house to barn. Everything rips in a strong sea wind, dances in the breezes, droops in the rain, becomes mysterious in the fog and waits at attention when there is no wind at all.
O Canada, no speeches here. This is my tribute to the country, that is such a part of me.
At the side door, the real entry to the house, in honour of the day, I have begun a unique celebration. I love clotheslines. A long clothesline stretches from my side porch out to the barn roof. Well hung clotheslines are a thing of beauty and beauty is always in the eye of the beholder.
In the middle of June, I set aside red washing for a special load. On Canada Day the line is a fluttering extravaganza of waving red and white; the red winter flannelette sheets, red and white aprons, to remember the women of kitchens past, red wool socks, t-shirts, turtlenecks, bandanas, a bathmat, jacket and ball cap, baby clothes, doll clothes, tea towels. On and on and on the red stretches filling the line from house to barn. Everything rips in a strong sea wind, dances in the breezes, droops in the rain, becomes mysterious in the fog and waits at attention when there is no wind at all.
O Canada, no speeches here. This is my tribute to the country, that is such a part of me.
Saturday 25 June 2011
I have Winter Wood & This is Good
There are really few essential material things I absolutely need for the good life; a roof over my head, pure water, fresh air, clothes to cover and protect me, wholesome food and wood for a good fire in winter. These are the tangible things.
When that old wood truck rattles up the driveway loaded with wood, I greet it with joy and a little apprehension. When I set eyes on the first piece of wood, I am always immensely relieved, when it is good. This year my wood is beyond good, it is excellent.
The chunks of maple are the right size, the right quality, and the right dryness. This almost makes me look forward to winter and evenings by the fire.
In some years past, the wood delivered was just good enough or almost good enough. I didn't know my wood. In years that followed, they were good enough and sometimes more than good enough. The odd piece of poplar is ok but... Birch is good, though in my mind it hovers between soft and hard wood.
At the cottage we had logs from an old oak tree that would burn in the big stone fireplace, for eighteen hours. The wood from the ironwood tree gave a new dimension to the concept heavy. The wood from the elms was burned with love and respect. These trees had been long time friends.
My mother loved the scent of the smoke from the apple trees. As a child, I loved the fireworks of the cedar.
The stacked maple, row on row, let's me breathe easy. A fine fire will burn in my stove.
When fall arrives, firewood will be moved from the barn to the porch. On the very cold nights, it is challenge enough to bring in the wood from the porch, to the pile by the stove. A new little grandbaby will be welcomed into my family in autumn. Arms will be busy holding the sweet new life.
I sometimes love stacking wood. I hope I will have the stamina for both wood and baby. Both will warm my heart.
Tuesday 21 June 2011
I Love Solstice
Since I've lived in a small village by the sea, I am far more aware of the circles, and circles and circles of life. Today is a day to celebrate the sun, the longest day of the year, the beginning of Summer and in my case the happy birthday of my little friend Jack and my friends across the province, who celebrate their wedding anniversary today. A neighbour has just died.
There is something painful in the day. Just as the day of light reaches an apex, the lighted hours will begin to diminish, until the Winter Solstice, when we will again celebrate the light.
My friend, up the hill, is a lifetime friend. We may have met first in the nursery at Toronto General Hospital, when we newly entered the world. We met for sure in archaic First Form at a one of a kind school. We have been friends ever since. By an odd set of circumstances, North Toronto matrons in waiting, became neighbours in this tiny, glorious spot.
My friend's mother, not unlike her daughter, was a one of a kind human being. When I was young, she made a point of asking me to always remind her when it was the longest day of the year, so she could fully appreciate it. I did my best, but without fail I always think of her on this day.
There is a difference between acknowledging a day and celebrating it. I live in a place where days are celebrated. As I attend a little boys birthday, some friends and neighbours will be gathering on the stony shore, where Canada Creek runs into the Bay. Food a plenty will emerge from various containers, to be shared. There will be a glass of wine or two. Year after year, one family brings a large iced cake decorated with fresh edible flowers. This year, in celebration of their retirement, they are cycling across Canada, from west to east. Wherever they are in this great expanse of country, they no doubt will be toasting the sun and thinking of us without their flowered cake.
As the sun begins to set a dance gets danced. Each participant greets each participant with open arms in a moving circle. Uncomfortable with such things, I stand outside the circle ostensibly to take pictures. As the sun dips into the ocean someone begins to sing "This Friendly Planet" and will be joined by most others. The Solstice Sun sets for another year. The world hushes. Everyone returns to the warmth of the big, bon fire for some more merriment.
There is something painful in the day. Just as the day of light reaches an apex, the lighted hours will begin to diminish, until the Winter Solstice, when we will again celebrate the light.
My friend, up the hill, is a lifetime friend. We may have met first in the nursery at Toronto General Hospital, when we newly entered the world. We met for sure in archaic First Form at a one of a kind school. We have been friends ever since. By an odd set of circumstances, North Toronto matrons in waiting, became neighbours in this tiny, glorious spot.
My friend's mother, not unlike her daughter, was a one of a kind human being. When I was young, she made a point of asking me to always remind her when it was the longest day of the year, so she could fully appreciate it. I did my best, but without fail I always think of her on this day.
There is a difference between acknowledging a day and celebrating it. I live in a place where days are celebrated. As I attend a little boys birthday, some friends and neighbours will be gathering on the stony shore, where Canada Creek runs into the Bay. Food a plenty will emerge from various containers, to be shared. There will be a glass of wine or two. Year after year, one family brings a large iced cake decorated with fresh edible flowers. This year, in celebration of their retirement, they are cycling across Canada, from west to east. Wherever they are in this great expanse of country, they no doubt will be toasting the sun and thinking of us without their flowered cake.
As the sun begins to set a dance gets danced. Each participant greets each participant with open arms in a moving circle. Uncomfortable with such things, I stand outside the circle ostensibly to take pictures. As the sun dips into the ocean someone begins to sing "This Friendly Planet" and will be joined by most others. The Solstice Sun sets for another year. The world hushes. Everyone returns to the warmth of the big, bon fire for some more merriment.
Wednesday 15 June 2011
Jigsaw Puzzle Season
I am literally excited beyond words. Not that "lie awake at night in anticipation" type of excitement, but that deep down feeling of knowing in a short time those I love most, will all be together and it will be good. I am already smiling at the witty chatter that will be. The chatter that inevitably emerges from a gaggle of gigglers, who have honed so much of a shared past down to hilarious key phrases.
Two fine little characters will be able to marvel at their tiny cousin, who will before too long emerge from their loved auntie's tummy. I hope the growing little bundle of life puts on a good show for them. I hope the babe will be absorbing the fun of it all, going on in the outside world.
It is time to search out a great big jigsaw puzzle and bring down my grandma's wiggly old card table from the attic. Part of summer and Christmas preparations for family gatherings is to make ready a central place for puzzling.
Christmas now seems like too crowded a season, to offer the moments to casually walk over to a puzzle to find the elusive piece everyone is looking for, find it and with great satisfaction put it effortlessly in place. Christmas belongs to so many new faces and new places and new traditions, it will be the rare time we will all be together. This summer I am hoping there will be time to do justice to a puzzling tradition.
From places on high, my Aunt Barbara will be trying to find that piece that looks like a dog's head, you know like a dogs head. My mother will be going over the trays looking for the piece that is mostly blue and grey with just a touch of red. I will feel the warmth of their smiles, when I by sheer chance find a key piece effortlessly. My quiet uncle, no doubt, sits nearby reading, mystified by the appeal of it all.
It seems a pleasant irony that the biggest and last puzzle we put together on my mother's screened porch, at the cottage, was the Bluenose.
My daughters, who at one time were held in arms or crawled through the legs to safety under the table, to drink juice from a Wibbly Wobbler, are now active participants. One with more zeal than the other. It remains to be seen whether a new generation of puzzlers have been spawned. From all indications, my elder grand was born with the special skills. Her younger sister is a whizz with her Tinkerbell puzzle.
We will be welcoming friends, who walk in unannounced to the big kitchen, drawn by the allure of the emerging picture.
Doing a communal jigsaw puzzle is one of those things that make little sense and make all the sense in the world.
I am so excited.
Two fine little characters will be able to marvel at their tiny cousin, who will before too long emerge from their loved auntie's tummy. I hope the growing little bundle of life puts on a good show for them. I hope the babe will be absorbing the fun of it all, going on in the outside world.
It is time to search out a great big jigsaw puzzle and bring down my grandma's wiggly old card table from the attic. Part of summer and Christmas preparations for family gatherings is to make ready a central place for puzzling.
Christmas now seems like too crowded a season, to offer the moments to casually walk over to a puzzle to find the elusive piece everyone is looking for, find it and with great satisfaction put it effortlessly in place. Christmas belongs to so many new faces and new places and new traditions, it will be the rare time we will all be together. This summer I am hoping there will be time to do justice to a puzzling tradition.
From places on high, my Aunt Barbara will be trying to find that piece that looks like a dog's head, you know like a dogs head. My mother will be going over the trays looking for the piece that is mostly blue and grey with just a touch of red. I will feel the warmth of their smiles, when I by sheer chance find a key piece effortlessly. My quiet uncle, no doubt, sits nearby reading, mystified by the appeal of it all.
It seems a pleasant irony that the biggest and last puzzle we put together on my mother's screened porch, at the cottage, was the Bluenose.
My daughters, who at one time were held in arms or crawled through the legs to safety under the table, to drink juice from a Wibbly Wobbler, are now active participants. One with more zeal than the other. It remains to be seen whether a new generation of puzzlers have been spawned. From all indications, my elder grand was born with the special skills. Her younger sister is a whizz with her Tinkerbell puzzle.
We will be welcoming friends, who walk in unannounced to the big kitchen, drawn by the allure of the emerging picture.
Doing a communal jigsaw puzzle is one of those things that make little sense and make all the sense in the world.
I am so excited.
Sunday 5 June 2011
Gardening's Fanciful Paths
Long ago, I gave up the idea that any two people think alike, especially about personal gardens. This is never more so, when my thoughts run free as I garden.
My garden is my joy. I dreamed it up, as I lay in bed day dreaming, through the winter of the year of my fiftieth birthday. My fiftieth birthday was the same year as my mother's ninetieth birthday. She wanted to do something special for me. It is my garden I missed most, when I moved here, so I asked for a garden.
For a city, we had a big back yard. My children were the fifth generation of the family that lived in the house. It had quirks we loved. A great big old maple tree reigned from a back corner of the yard. This is where my daughters and some of their friends pressed their ears hard against the rough bark to hear the fairy elevator go up and down inside the tree, when they were small. This is where the fairies left them sparkly tiny treasures. It is also where they buried most of their grandmother's costume jewelry, for the fairies.
Under the shady, ancient friend, I grew a wild flower garden. Trilliums from a friend's farm, lady slippers from the cottage woods, ferns from beneath a cottage window, perriwinkle that grew wild on land where the Ontario government had once planned a second airport - violets white and purple, umbrella plants, jacks-in-the- pulpits and the list goes on.
Under my bedroom window, in full sun, was my second garden. Rich pink, climbing roses, likely planted by my great grandfather, grew up to the second floor. Between the roses I planted a non spectacular little garden. It is here I planted the special plants my family or friends gave me. I usually plant a perennial in honour of people or occasions, so this garden was full of so many memories. All of this continues to grow in my imagination, but I can't smell the roses, when I wake up early on a summer morning.
My new garden, at my home by the sea, became a creation. A neighbour pulled up, behind the truck, huge pieces of driftwood and logs that washed up on shore. These logs and curiosities were arranged in a large circle. A path edged by logs, opened from the grass into the centre making it possible to walk in and be surrounded by garden. A willow hangs overhead. A truck brought topsoil of questionable origin to make the garden. I set out to make the dirt into the black gold my mother always had in her gardens. This remains a goal.
All this sounds very grand, but it isn't. To be honest it is one of a kind, in that one of a kind style. It is small, as gardens grow and has been deemed peculiar by some visitors. The first year it appeared, the spring arrivals teased me that there must have been an extremely high tide in the winter. We have the highest tides in the world, but to have reached the garden's position, the tide would have had to rise thirty feet up the cliff and then a couple of hundred feet inland. That is a little much, even considering global warming. What they were saying was that it looked like the beach's flotsam and jetsam had made it pretty far inland.
Despite all this, I loved it from the beginning. I make some of the garden decisions and allow the plants to make some their choices. The wild thyme has taken a course all of its own.
Fifteen years later I stand at my bedroom window and see a dream still coming true below.
Right now the garden is in its beyond tangled garden phase. I promised myself, I would bring the house a little order, before I go out to the garden where my heart already is, so I must be off to chase a few dust balls and move stacks of paper of unknown origin from one room to another.
I do want to get the the garden ready for my small grand children when they come to visit this summer and and make it welcoming to any fairies that may choose to live here while they are visiting.
My garden is my joy. I dreamed it up, as I lay in bed day dreaming, through the winter of the year of my fiftieth birthday. My fiftieth birthday was the same year as my mother's ninetieth birthday. She wanted to do something special for me. It is my garden I missed most, when I moved here, so I asked for a garden.
For a city, we had a big back yard. My children were the fifth generation of the family that lived in the house. It had quirks we loved. A great big old maple tree reigned from a back corner of the yard. This is where my daughters and some of their friends pressed their ears hard against the rough bark to hear the fairy elevator go up and down inside the tree, when they were small. This is where the fairies left them sparkly tiny treasures. It is also where they buried most of their grandmother's costume jewelry, for the fairies.
Under the shady, ancient friend, I grew a wild flower garden. Trilliums from a friend's farm, lady slippers from the cottage woods, ferns from beneath a cottage window, perriwinkle that grew wild on land where the Ontario government had once planned a second airport - violets white and purple, umbrella plants, jacks-in-the- pulpits and the list goes on.
Under my bedroom window, in full sun, was my second garden. Rich pink, climbing roses, likely planted by my great grandfather, grew up to the second floor. Between the roses I planted a non spectacular little garden. It is here I planted the special plants my family or friends gave me. I usually plant a perennial in honour of people or occasions, so this garden was full of so many memories. All of this continues to grow in my imagination, but I can't smell the roses, when I wake up early on a summer morning.
My new garden, at my home by the sea, became a creation. A neighbour pulled up, behind the truck, huge pieces of driftwood and logs that washed up on shore. These logs and curiosities were arranged in a large circle. A path edged by logs, opened from the grass into the centre making it possible to walk in and be surrounded by garden. A willow hangs overhead. A truck brought topsoil of questionable origin to make the garden. I set out to make the dirt into the black gold my mother always had in her gardens. This remains a goal.
All this sounds very grand, but it isn't. To be honest it is one of a kind, in that one of a kind style. It is small, as gardens grow and has been deemed peculiar by some visitors. The first year it appeared, the spring arrivals teased me that there must have been an extremely high tide in the winter. We have the highest tides in the world, but to have reached the garden's position, the tide would have had to rise thirty feet up the cliff and then a couple of hundred feet inland. That is a little much, even considering global warming. What they were saying was that it looked like the beach's flotsam and jetsam had made it pretty far inland.
Despite all this, I loved it from the beginning. I make some of the garden decisions and allow the plants to make some their choices. The wild thyme has taken a course all of its own.
Fifteen years later I stand at my bedroom window and see a dream still coming true below.
Right now the garden is in its beyond tangled garden phase. I promised myself, I would bring the house a little order, before I go out to the garden where my heart already is, so I must be off to chase a few dust balls and move stacks of paper of unknown origin from one room to another.
I do want to get the the garden ready for my small grand children when they come to visit this summer and and make it welcoming to any fairies that may choose to live here while they are visiting.
Saturday 28 May 2011
Funeral Procession
I just found myself in the the midst of a very long funeral procession, following a hearse from the big Baptist Church in town, up over the mountain to one of many small, rural cemeteries that dot the landscape.
The thing is I was in the procession by mistake.
I went into town to find a new spark plug for my old lawnmower. I was unsuccessful. I decided to drop into Save Easy for some milk and then crossed the road to pick up some fresh bread at the Mennonite bakery. This is the place to buy real homemade ice cream. It is foolish to buy it by the tub, as I wear out the freezer opening the door for a little bit and then a little bit more, until it is all gone. My solution is to buy a cone every week or two to satiate my hankerings, in a more mature way.
This weekend is Apple Blossom Weekend, in the Annapolis Valley, so traffic is a little more busy than usual. I took a back residential street, through town, and waited to get onto the main road just below the Baptist Church.
A woman kindly made a place to let me in. This is not unusual as Nova Scotian drivers are notoriously polite. I turned left into the traffic and found myself in a slow cortege, eating my enormous ice cream cone. There was no place to turn off.
It used to be the funeral processions could be recognized not only by the hearse, I had missed, as the lead car; but by car lights turned on at dim. By law now, all car lights must be on all day to help reduce accidents. So there I was going slowly along in my dirty car, eating an ice cream, that was quickly beginning to melt.
The police stopped all traffic from breaking our ranks, waving us on through stop signs. Traffic coming from the other direction pulled off to the side of road, out of respect. I knew I could discreetly leave the funeral cars when they turned off the pavement towards a valley cemetery. There are not many burials up on the mountain. This was one of them.
Up the steep Oxbow, we slowly proceeded. I tried to find something to put my melting ice cream cone in with no success.
Then, I knew where the burial would be and whose body was being buried. A young woman who had grown up in a nearby community, had returned home, with her husband and little girl, to die.
Finally all the cars turned left onto a gravel road that led to a well kept community cemetery. I carried on to the sea.
Travelling mercies.
The thing is I was in the procession by mistake.
I went into town to find a new spark plug for my old lawnmower. I was unsuccessful. I decided to drop into Save Easy for some milk and then crossed the road to pick up some fresh bread at the Mennonite bakery. This is the place to buy real homemade ice cream. It is foolish to buy it by the tub, as I wear out the freezer opening the door for a little bit and then a little bit more, until it is all gone. My solution is to buy a cone every week or two to satiate my hankerings, in a more mature way.
This weekend is Apple Blossom Weekend, in the Annapolis Valley, so traffic is a little more busy than usual. I took a back residential street, through town, and waited to get onto the main road just below the Baptist Church.
A woman kindly made a place to let me in. This is not unusual as Nova Scotian drivers are notoriously polite. I turned left into the traffic and found myself in a slow cortege, eating my enormous ice cream cone. There was no place to turn off.
It used to be the funeral processions could be recognized not only by the hearse, I had missed, as the lead car; but by car lights turned on at dim. By law now, all car lights must be on all day to help reduce accidents. So there I was going slowly along in my dirty car, eating an ice cream, that was quickly beginning to melt.
The police stopped all traffic from breaking our ranks, waving us on through stop signs. Traffic coming from the other direction pulled off to the side of road, out of respect. I knew I could discreetly leave the funeral cars when they turned off the pavement towards a valley cemetery. There are not many burials up on the mountain. This was one of them.
Up the steep Oxbow, we slowly proceeded. I tried to find something to put my melting ice cream cone in with no success.
Then, I knew where the burial would be and whose body was being buried. A young woman who had grown up in a nearby community, had returned home, with her husband and little girl, to die.
Finally all the cars turned left onto a gravel road that led to a well kept community cemetery. I carried on to the sea.
Travelling mercies.
Friday 27 May 2011
Comfort Food.
When I reached a certain age, I became aware that life is a challenging enterprise. Each day usually holds wonder and delight, but at some times it is impossible to deny, that there are some long, hard rows to hoe. Those are the days that call out for comfort food.
There are the standard solutions, macaroni and cheese, homemade baked beans, fresh baked bread lavished with butter,a warm mug of Ovaltine, sweet buns or maybe a bowl of cornflakes, peas in the pod, fresh, red , ripe, sweet cherries or mashed potatoes with a mother's familiar gravy.
Then there are the individual likings. A university friend, who was prone the vagaries of less than perfect days, used to come home from class, every so often, with a large container of chocolate ice cream and a quart of whole milk. He put the ice cream in the blender, with as much milk as it would hold and blended. This creation was glupped into a mixing bowl. He would lie on the couch, with the bowl on his belly, as his fine mind absorbed some inane afternoon Transylvanian soap opera. With a slow rhythm, a big spoon moved from bowl to mouth, bowl to mouth until the bowl was empty. He set the bowl on the floor and then lay back and seemed to enjoy his experience of what he called "a bloater".
The other day I found myself, in my new car, headed to town to buy cottage cheese and Welch's grape jelly. Back home, the cottage cheese was spooned into a breakfast bowl with more than a little bit of jelly on top.The cottage cheese and jelly were gently mixed until they reached a balanced blend while the integrity of the jelly remained visible. It seemed I needed this odd combination of foods, I hadn't had since childhood.
My family, on my father's side, was crowded with great aunts. Some of them were "unclaimed treasures". When any of their sisters were in need of family, they were available to bring their kind ways and wholesome cooking anywhere; a mining town in the North, the big city, or a farm up atop Hamilton Mountain; but they never made it to Korea, to help out one sister who probably needed them most, when she set off with her children and her husband, a Presbyterian minister, to help build schools, hospitals and perhaps to save a soul or two.
Addie and Vi were the favourites. Whatever the situation, the family knew they knew just what had to be done. With the respect they earned, they also gained the power to define right from wrong. The only time I heard of them hesitating was when they won a cart full of groceries, at some celebration at a local store. They had to be sure this wasn't some sort of gambling before they accepted the bounty.
Well, it was from Addie and Vi, I received my first bowl of cottage cheese and grape jelly. The cottage cheese was made from the raw milk the "boys" brought to town with them from the family dairy farm. The process involved cheese cloth and resulted in what they called crowdie . The jelly was made from the Concord grapes that grew in their back garden. That cereal bowl held all that was good with this world.
The other day this big, old world seemed a little tired. I just couldn't solve my own problems, let alone deal with the news trying to fill my thoughts every hour on the hour.
When I finished my long ago treat, things didn't seem nearly so bad. Cottage cheese and grape jelly seemed to let me put things in perspective. Maybe Addie and Vi arranged to have some of the comfort and love from their time, before the constant chatter of the radio, a time when all could seem well with the world, come into my kitchen for a spell.
There are the standard solutions, macaroni and cheese, homemade baked beans, fresh baked bread lavished with butter,a warm mug of Ovaltine, sweet buns or maybe a bowl of cornflakes, peas in the pod, fresh, red , ripe, sweet cherries or mashed potatoes with a mother's familiar gravy.
Then there are the individual likings. A university friend, who was prone the vagaries of less than perfect days, used to come home from class, every so often, with a large container of chocolate ice cream and a quart of whole milk. He put the ice cream in the blender, with as much milk as it would hold and blended. This creation was glupped into a mixing bowl. He would lie on the couch, with the bowl on his belly, as his fine mind absorbed some inane afternoon Transylvanian soap opera. With a slow rhythm, a big spoon moved from bowl to mouth, bowl to mouth until the bowl was empty. He set the bowl on the floor and then lay back and seemed to enjoy his experience of what he called "a bloater".
The other day I found myself, in my new car, headed to town to buy cottage cheese and Welch's grape jelly. Back home, the cottage cheese was spooned into a breakfast bowl with more than a little bit of jelly on top.The cottage cheese and jelly were gently mixed until they reached a balanced blend while the integrity of the jelly remained visible. It seemed I needed this odd combination of foods, I hadn't had since childhood.
My family, on my father's side, was crowded with great aunts. Some of them were "unclaimed treasures". When any of their sisters were in need of family, they were available to bring their kind ways and wholesome cooking anywhere; a mining town in the North, the big city, or a farm up atop Hamilton Mountain; but they never made it to Korea, to help out one sister who probably needed them most, when she set off with her children and her husband, a Presbyterian minister, to help build schools, hospitals and perhaps to save a soul or two.
Addie and Vi were the favourites. Whatever the situation, the family knew they knew just what had to be done. With the respect they earned, they also gained the power to define right from wrong. The only time I heard of them hesitating was when they won a cart full of groceries, at some celebration at a local store. They had to be sure this wasn't some sort of gambling before they accepted the bounty.
Well, it was from Addie and Vi, I received my first bowl of cottage cheese and grape jelly. The cottage cheese was made from the raw milk the "boys" brought to town with them from the family dairy farm. The process involved cheese cloth and resulted in what they called crowdie . The jelly was made from the Concord grapes that grew in their back garden. That cereal bowl held all that was good with this world.
The other day this big, old world seemed a little tired. I just couldn't solve my own problems, let alone deal with the news trying to fill my thoughts every hour on the hour.
When I finished my long ago treat, things didn't seem nearly so bad. Cottage cheese and grape jelly seemed to let me put things in perspective. Maybe Addie and Vi arranged to have some of the comfort and love from their time, before the constant chatter of the radio, a time when all could seem well with the world, come into my kitchen for a spell.
Sunday 22 May 2011
May 24th Discombobulated Me
Sometimes a great big old word is just fine. Today my word is "discombobulated". The word slips perfectly into the day.
This is the 24th of May Long Weekend, Queen Victoria's Birthday, Fire Cracker Day, although fire crackers are now mainly saved for July 1st, Canada's Birthday. For many of the younger sort or those younger at heart, it is the 2-4 weekend. Beer comes in cases of 24. I am not sure Queen Victoria would be amused, but that doesn't really matter as she has lost all control of the Day. I know my grandmother would not be amused.
The 24th of May
The Queen's birthday
If they don't give us
A holiday
We'll all run away.
When I was a kid, that rhyme is as close to public insurrection as we ever got.
This is the weekend the summer cottages are opened up, the mosquitoes wait for with anticipation, the black flies swarm and the Big Rock, the touchstone of generations is lovingly checked out.
It is also the weekend the canoe is put in the water, mattresses are lugged from one family cottage to another, mothballs are put back into lidded cans, the shutters are removed and all the windows are opened. Fires are lit in the stone fireplaces to take off the damp.
There is always some addled soul who puts on a swimsuit and dives into the frigid water, emerging an interesting bright pink and mottled purple hue. The dipper is usually immensely proud to be the first in, but the older and wiser look on with disdain at the ways of their youth.
Women fuss in the kitchen searching out the leavings of mice and washing the dishes that were carefully washed the last weekend up. Sandwiches are shoved into waiting hands along with glasses of somewhat warm milk. There won't be a proper meal until dinner, when the kitchen is done.
After dinner the men go down to the beach with shovels to prepare for the firework display. Someone is off to a car trunk to return with the awe inspiring box of fire works. The older ones go through the contents one by one , making the inevitable jokes. Before long a bonfire is going and the kids are sent to the willow tree to get sticks for everyone, to roast marshmallows.
The sun sets, the stars turn on at their brightest. The women emerge from the cottages with ground sheets and wool blankets for all. Fireworks go off along the shore. The excitement mounts. Life doesn't get much better than this.
There is always a great aunt or a grandmother, whose joy of this time honoured tradition can't be contained. From the lighting of The Burning School House, through the Twelve Ball Roman Candle, Owl Screech, Baker's Dozen, Devil's Glare, Egyptian Volcano to the closing extravaganza she can be counted on to squeal with delight, making it clear to the children the ability to have fun doesn't disappear with age.
For a moment all is dark, except for the stars and the light of the fire.
Out come the sparklers, the expensive long ones. All dance through the uncut grass with brazenly bright, dazzling danger. For a time the land beside the lake returns to a long ago fairy land.
Then it is off to bed for everyone, except the few who stay behind to tidy up.
This world has now gone forever. That great big city has swallowed up such places to build monster homes. The cottages that were ordered from Eaton's Catalogue and put together by their crew over one hundred years ago, are bulldozed away, the land is levelled, the grass is covered with paving stones. Only the Big Rock remains, forever defiant.
I live the simplicity of the cottage, all year long. The cottage furniture came with me, when I moved and with it came so many memories. New memories are being made, but on this particular weekend I particularly miss the people and the place of another time.
I am discombobulated.
This is the 24th of May Long Weekend, Queen Victoria's Birthday, Fire Cracker Day, although fire crackers are now mainly saved for July 1st, Canada's Birthday. For many of the younger sort or those younger at heart, it is the 2-4 weekend. Beer comes in cases of 24. I am not sure Queen Victoria would be amused, but that doesn't really matter as she has lost all control of the Day. I know my grandmother would not be amused.
The 24th of May
The Queen's birthday
If they don't give us
A holiday
We'll all run away.
When I was a kid, that rhyme is as close to public insurrection as we ever got.
This is the weekend the summer cottages are opened up, the mosquitoes wait for with anticipation, the black flies swarm and the Big Rock, the touchstone of generations is lovingly checked out.
It is also the weekend the canoe is put in the water, mattresses are lugged from one family cottage to another, mothballs are put back into lidded cans, the shutters are removed and all the windows are opened. Fires are lit in the stone fireplaces to take off the damp.
There is always some addled soul who puts on a swimsuit and dives into the frigid water, emerging an interesting bright pink and mottled purple hue. The dipper is usually immensely proud to be the first in, but the older and wiser look on with disdain at the ways of their youth.
Women fuss in the kitchen searching out the leavings of mice and washing the dishes that were carefully washed the last weekend up. Sandwiches are shoved into waiting hands along with glasses of somewhat warm milk. There won't be a proper meal until dinner, when the kitchen is done.
After dinner the men go down to the beach with shovels to prepare for the firework display. Someone is off to a car trunk to return with the awe inspiring box of fire works. The older ones go through the contents one by one , making the inevitable jokes. Before long a bonfire is going and the kids are sent to the willow tree to get sticks for everyone, to roast marshmallows.
The sun sets, the stars turn on at their brightest. The women emerge from the cottages with ground sheets and wool blankets for all. Fireworks go off along the shore. The excitement mounts. Life doesn't get much better than this.
There is always a great aunt or a grandmother, whose joy of this time honoured tradition can't be contained. From the lighting of The Burning School House, through the Twelve Ball Roman Candle, Owl Screech, Baker's Dozen, Devil's Glare, Egyptian Volcano to the closing extravaganza she can be counted on to squeal with delight, making it clear to the children the ability to have fun doesn't disappear with age.
For a moment all is dark, except for the stars and the light of the fire.
Out come the sparklers, the expensive long ones. All dance through the uncut grass with brazenly bright, dazzling danger. For a time the land beside the lake returns to a long ago fairy land.
Then it is off to bed for everyone, except the few who stay behind to tidy up.
This world has now gone forever. That great big city has swallowed up such places to build monster homes. The cottages that were ordered from Eaton's Catalogue and put together by their crew over one hundred years ago, are bulldozed away, the land is levelled, the grass is covered with paving stones. Only the Big Rock remains, forever defiant.
I live the simplicity of the cottage, all year long. The cottage furniture came with me, when I moved and with it came so many memories. New memories are being made, but on this particular weekend I particularly miss the people and the place of another time.
I am discombobulated.
Wednesday 18 May 2011
I Love Crows
Crows are my winter companions.
With the warmer weather, our little village becomes a more peopled place. With regret I admit I am a foul weather friend with the crows. They don't seem to understand.
This morning, I woke up to a crow sitting on a regular perch on top of a fir tree, not far from my bedroom window. The bird was scolding me as only a crow can scold.
I am not interested in crows in a scientific sense, though it is impossible not to know they have big brains.
They are my friends of long standing. I do not recognize each crow on a personal level though I suspect the crow in the fir tree this morning is the crow who visits regularly, when the moment is right. I can't tell one sex from the other. Either both sexes are discreet or they both flaunt their sexuality in similar ways.
Crows have such a wonderful sense of delight, sense of humour. It is not all work and no play in their world. Sometimes when the sea winds are blowing strong onshore, they tumble down through the air currents, blasting the North Mountain, having a whee of a time. The crows seem to be giving each other a hard time, encouraging outrageous behaviour or just sharing their joy. I think of my mother and my children whizzing down a favourite toboggan hill years ago.
The most fun is communicating with them. I sometimes use words, but am not kidding myself about crows' English vocabulary. I think they like the rhythm of it all. Sometimes I try to speak with them in their wordless language. I have no idea what I sound like to others, but it certainly catches the crows' attention.
When I work outside, I try to mimic their phrases. Poor crows find this interesting but puzzling. They repeat, repeat, repeat until either they get bored or deem me ready for some new sound. My summer neighbours already think I am somewhat tetched, so I don't want to encourage their imaginings. Therefore, my friendships are foul weather crow friendships.
The odd time I still let out into the sea air, my version of a caw, but it is indeed a serendipitus caw.
There is a small brook not far from my house, as a crow flies. By foot along the shore or up along the gravel road and down a laneway by the stream, is more than a stroll and less than hike. Sometimes on warm evenings, a friend and I go over to sit by the small waterfall, where brook meets the sea. We each sit on a rock watching the tide go out or the tide come in, talking about everything or nothing at all. The crows come over to join in on the conversation, realizing I am still their friend.
My black feathered friends wait patiently for foul weather, when our friendship will once again flourish.
With the warmer weather, our little village becomes a more peopled place. With regret I admit I am a foul weather friend with the crows. They don't seem to understand.
This morning, I woke up to a crow sitting on a regular perch on top of a fir tree, not far from my bedroom window. The bird was scolding me as only a crow can scold.
I am not interested in crows in a scientific sense, though it is impossible not to know they have big brains.
They are my friends of long standing. I do not recognize each crow on a personal level though I suspect the crow in the fir tree this morning is the crow who visits regularly, when the moment is right. I can't tell one sex from the other. Either both sexes are discreet or they both flaunt their sexuality in similar ways.
Crows have such a wonderful sense of delight, sense of humour. It is not all work and no play in their world. Sometimes when the sea winds are blowing strong onshore, they tumble down through the air currents, blasting the North Mountain, having a whee of a time. The crows seem to be giving each other a hard time, encouraging outrageous behaviour or just sharing their joy. I think of my mother and my children whizzing down a favourite toboggan hill years ago.
The most fun is communicating with them. I sometimes use words, but am not kidding myself about crows' English vocabulary. I think they like the rhythm of it all. Sometimes I try to speak with them in their wordless language. I have no idea what I sound like to others, but it certainly catches the crows' attention.
When I work outside, I try to mimic their phrases. Poor crows find this interesting but puzzling. They repeat, repeat, repeat until either they get bored or deem me ready for some new sound. My summer neighbours already think I am somewhat tetched, so I don't want to encourage their imaginings. Therefore, my friendships are foul weather crow friendships.
The odd time I still let out into the sea air, my version of a caw, but it is indeed a serendipitus caw.
There is a small brook not far from my house, as a crow flies. By foot along the shore or up along the gravel road and down a laneway by the stream, is more than a stroll and less than hike. Sometimes on warm evenings, a friend and I go over to sit by the small waterfall, where brook meets the sea. We each sit on a rock watching the tide go out or the tide come in, talking about everything or nothing at all. The crows come over to join in on the conversation, realizing I am still their friend.
My black feathered friends wait patiently for foul weather, when our friendship will once again flourish.
Friday 13 May 2011
A Mug of Tea
Everything inside and out is still damp, but it is not raining and the sun is valiantly trying to smile.
My good friend, up the hill, is finishing off the last pages of Anne Lamott’s latest book. She is a favourite author and soon it will be my turn. I can hardly wait.
I started a fire. The room is beginning to warm up. The kettle is starting to boil. In no time, I will have a perfect mug of tea in my hands. Pure well water is the secret.
My mother used to sing a song her grandmother taught her.
Tea. Tea.
What would the world be
For we poor old ladies
Without our cup of Tea?
There are other verses but I think they are lost to time.
In Nova Scotia, when a world starts to slip in a wrong direction, the common advice is “What you need is tea, toast and a bath.” This advice is not bad advice to follow. The world may not immediately shift right back on kilter, but it is comforting to be reassured some of the finer things in life remain.
So here I sit squeaky clean, in front of a vigorous fire, comfy clothes, cozy socks with a perfect mug of tea in my hand. My little rabbit hound snores on the couch beside me. It is a good time to begin to get to know a new sorrow.
The sun begins to smile.
Tuesday 10 May 2011
April showers. May downpour.
If April showers bring May flowers, what the hell does a constant May downpour bring?
O.K. The wells are sure full, the daffodils seem to be enjoying themselves, by the sound of it, the spring peepers are having a wee of a time. If there was a thriving umbrella industry, but I don't think there is, they would be going full tilt. Aside from the fact that a neighbour told me, when I first moved to this hamlet, as I offered him an umbrella, real men don't carry umbrellas here.
How is it possible to look on the sunny side when you never see the sun? I have to shove the dogs out the door. They don't seem to be hearing Nature calling. They return with incredibly muddy feet, that have changed my sky blue painted kitchen floor a motley brown.
Then there is the little creek that seems to be forming down the centre of my gravel driveway. There are puddles galore, but the little puddle jumpers I love best are far away in a big city of cement, where puddles are almost rare. What is a puddle worth if there isn't a small child in rubber boots to stomp in it.
I am thankful I that I am not threatened by The Red River as the people of Manitoba are. That is no laughing matter. The rain there is threatening their lives, their economy and their day to day living.
Those poor little hummingbirds outside today must be having a miserable time.
I am not complaining, I think I am just whining a bit. There doesn't seem much else to do. Well, there is a lot I could be doing, but my spark plugs are damp.
I am struggling to get up the energy to go to the local rural, meat market to find me a great big, plump, perfect tomato from a nearby hot house. That will have to be my little sun for today.
What does a constant May downpour bring? Grand new dimensions and enthusiasm to Nova Scotians' favourite topic of conversation, the weather.
O.K. The wells are sure full, the daffodils seem to be enjoying themselves, by the sound of it, the spring peepers are having a wee of a time. If there was a thriving umbrella industry, but I don't think there is, they would be going full tilt. Aside from the fact that a neighbour told me, when I first moved to this hamlet, as I offered him an umbrella, real men don't carry umbrellas here.
How is it possible to look on the sunny side when you never see the sun? I have to shove the dogs out the door. They don't seem to be hearing Nature calling. They return with incredibly muddy feet, that have changed my sky blue painted kitchen floor a motley brown.
Then there is the little creek that seems to be forming down the centre of my gravel driveway. There are puddles galore, but the little puddle jumpers I love best are far away in a big city of cement, where puddles are almost rare. What is a puddle worth if there isn't a small child in rubber boots to stomp in it.
I am thankful I that I am not threatened by The Red River as the people of Manitoba are. That is no laughing matter. The rain there is threatening their lives, their economy and their day to day living.
Those poor little hummingbirds outside today must be having a miserable time.
I am not complaining, I think I am just whining a bit. There doesn't seem much else to do. Well, there is a lot I could be doing, but my spark plugs are damp.
I am struggling to get up the energy to go to the local rural, meat market to find me a great big, plump, perfect tomato from a nearby hot house. That will have to be my little sun for today.
What does a constant May downpour bring? Grand new dimensions and enthusiasm to Nova Scotians' favourite topic of conversation, the weather.
Sunday 8 May 2011
Mothers
Mothers
1. I am not sure a drugstore Mother's Day card can touch the mystery of it all.
2. Some mothers love Mother's Day cards.
3. A mother is a mother forever, even when she is gone or her child is gone. My mother lived from 1907 until 2008. I think I am just beginning to really understand her as a person.
4. Being a mother is both the simplest and the most complicated relationship of a lifetime.
5. No child belongs to a mother. Mothers may belong to their children sometimes.
6. Each mother is unique as each child is unique. Either the mother or the child can be far too unique for the taste of the other.
7. Everyone has a mother. There are so many stories, but the reality is each of us grew within one woman.
9. A mother is seen through the eyes of each child in differently. As an only child, I miss a sibling's take on the whole thing
10. Sometimes the smallest moments are the greatest moments. My mother fell in the river in her best clothes, taking a fish off the hook for squeamish me. This probably wasn't a small moment for my mother. A better example is her excitement as she dug up the potatoes in the garden each fall.
11. No mother is perfect.
12. Some mothers are far from perfect.
13. All mothers are far from perfect sometimes.
14. Sometimes a mother can for a moment be beyond perfect.
15. These moments are rare.
16. To fully understand motherhood it may be necessary to be one. A mother knows the miracle of a first tooth.
17. A mothers job is to hold tight and let go. A child's first trip to the corner store alone is a breath holding event for a mother.
18. Holding tight is easier than letting go.
19. Being the mother of a teenager is hard.
20. Being a teenager is probably even harder.
21. Most often, it is more difficult to see a child suffer than experience your own suffering.
22. Some of the funniest memories are of the stupid things your mother did. My mother made me wear a sponge in the back of my hat when I skated on the hard ice of the creek.
23. Some mothers are good cooks and some mothers aren't.
24. Every mother makes a favourite dish and a specialty that is hard to swallow. My favourite was my mother's lemon snow with custard sauce. I still shudder at the thought of tomato aspic.
25. The stories read in a mother's lap are the best stories.
26. Each mother has a special gift she often offers to her child. My mother gave me her love of poetry.
27. Every child has said or thought "I hate you." to her mother.
28. Every mother has thought, "Who is this child? Where did she come from?"
29. There is no greater or important love than the nurturing love of a mother.
30. Motherhood rocks.
31. I wish I could go out in the woods to pick some wild leeks for my mother. That was her favourite Mother's Day gift.
1. I am not sure a drugstore Mother's Day card can touch the mystery of it all.
2. Some mothers love Mother's Day cards.
3. A mother is a mother forever, even when she is gone or her child is gone. My mother lived from 1907 until 2008. I think I am just beginning to really understand her as a person.
4. Being a mother is both the simplest and the most complicated relationship of a lifetime.
5. No child belongs to a mother. Mothers may belong to their children sometimes.
6. Each mother is unique as each child is unique. Either the mother or the child can be far too unique for the taste of the other.
7. Everyone has a mother. There are so many stories, but the reality is each of us grew within one woman.
9. A mother is seen through the eyes of each child in differently. As an only child, I miss a sibling's take on the whole thing
10. Sometimes the smallest moments are the greatest moments. My mother fell in the river in her best clothes, taking a fish off the hook for squeamish me. This probably wasn't a small moment for my mother. A better example is her excitement as she dug up the potatoes in the garden each fall.
11. No mother is perfect.
12. Some mothers are far from perfect.
13. All mothers are far from perfect sometimes.
14. Sometimes a mother can for a moment be beyond perfect.
15. These moments are rare.
16. To fully understand motherhood it may be necessary to be one. A mother knows the miracle of a first tooth.
17. A mothers job is to hold tight and let go. A child's first trip to the corner store alone is a breath holding event for a mother.
18. Holding tight is easier than letting go.
19. Being the mother of a teenager is hard.
20. Being a teenager is probably even harder.
21. Most often, it is more difficult to see a child suffer than experience your own suffering.
22. Some of the funniest memories are of the stupid things your mother did. My mother made me wear a sponge in the back of my hat when I skated on the hard ice of the creek.
23. Some mothers are good cooks and some mothers aren't.
24. Every mother makes a favourite dish and a specialty that is hard to swallow. My favourite was my mother's lemon snow with custard sauce. I still shudder at the thought of tomato aspic.
25. The stories read in a mother's lap are the best stories.
26. Each mother has a special gift she often offers to her child. My mother gave me her love of poetry.
27. Every child has said or thought "I hate you." to her mother.
28. Every mother has thought, "Who is this child? Where did she come from?"
29. There is no greater or important love than the nurturing love of a mother.
30. Motherhood rocks.
31. I wish I could go out in the woods to pick some wild leeks for my mother. That was her favourite Mother's Day gift.
Friday 6 May 2011
North Mountain Chorus Sings Off the Mountain
....... and a wonderful time was had by all. North Mountain Chorus sang off of the mountain in the nearby town, in the valley. We love singing in the choir and sang our big hearts out. Indeed, fun was had by all.
It was a sell out event, at a notable musical eating establishment. The place was packed. Well, it wasn't really a sell out crowd as there was no charge, but it was packed. Let's just say, we may be able to pay off the purchase of our new keyboard with contributions to the donation box.
Asked to turn out in black and a little bling, we did just that. A fine looking group we were. Much of the black and some of the bling came from the famous local Frenchys, the renowned (used) Family Clothing Outlets. Frenchy clothing finds are worn with a sense of pride. Let's just say, we were the epitome of chic, some new, some old, some new again. The same holds true for the bling. I know for sure there was more than one set of pearls. Scarfs glittered, sequins shone and my pair of iridescent running shoes glistened.
The choir is new. One of the founders wanted to be in one more community choir before her life came to a conclusion. She still has more than a bit of life left in her, but that is beside the point.
Beginning in the fall, we drove through the blazing, displays of the brilliant colours of the maples to a local Community Hall. During the neverending winter, with a few exceptions, we drove the dark snowy roads. In spring, the daylight trip along the the shore, was a highlight of the day.
A description of the choir is nothing but eclectic - all adult ages, backgrounds, educations and employed or not. We are a lily-white crowd that reflects history, but everyone is welcome. In fact diversity is more than welcome.
Professionally trained voices, untrained professional voices, untrained unprofessional voices and maybe one or two, who sometimes just mouth the words, make the music. It is a sound with more than dollop of joy. What pure fun we have.
Our esteemed leader, who no doubt can sing Mozart's Requiem, with the best of them, brings out the best of us, as we sing the music of Nova Scotia. We learn a little more about music bit by bit. No slackers we.
The evening drew to a close. Members of the choir offered us individual, quality, musical performances. A blues band played into the night, with grooving dancers filling the floor. We did ourselves proud, we did our diverse community proud.
In many ways this year has been a hard time for our community. We know about tragedy. Last night was a shining moment.
Cars drove up over the mountain to the sea. Cars spread throughout the valley. We were home to bed and woke in the morning, with smiles leftover from making music the night before.
It was a sell out event, at a notable musical eating establishment. The place was packed. Well, it wasn't really a sell out crowd as there was no charge, but it was packed. Let's just say, we may be able to pay off the purchase of our new keyboard with contributions to the donation box.
Asked to turn out in black and a little bling, we did just that. A fine looking group we were. Much of the black and some of the bling came from the famous local Frenchys, the renowned (used) Family Clothing Outlets. Frenchy clothing finds are worn with a sense of pride. Let's just say, we were the epitome of chic, some new, some old, some new again. The same holds true for the bling. I know for sure there was more than one set of pearls. Scarfs glittered, sequins shone and my pair of iridescent running shoes glistened.
The choir is new. One of the founders wanted to be in one more community choir before her life came to a conclusion. She still has more than a bit of life left in her, but that is beside the point.
Beginning in the fall, we drove through the blazing, displays of the brilliant colours of the maples to a local Community Hall. During the neverending winter, with a few exceptions, we drove the dark snowy roads. In spring, the daylight trip along the the shore, was a highlight of the day.
A description of the choir is nothing but eclectic - all adult ages, backgrounds, educations and employed or not. We are a lily-white crowd that reflects history, but everyone is welcome. In fact diversity is more than welcome.
Professionally trained voices, untrained professional voices, untrained unprofessional voices and maybe one or two, who sometimes just mouth the words, make the music. It is a sound with more than dollop of joy. What pure fun we have.
Our esteemed leader, who no doubt can sing Mozart's Requiem, with the best of them, brings out the best of us, as we sing the music of Nova Scotia. We learn a little more about music bit by bit. No slackers we.
The evening drew to a close. Members of the choir offered us individual, quality, musical performances. A blues band played into the night, with grooving dancers filling the floor. We did ourselves proud, we did our diverse community proud.
In many ways this year has been a hard time for our community. We know about tragedy. Last night was a shining moment.
Cars drove up over the mountain to the sea. Cars spread throughout the valley. We were home to bed and woke in the morning, with smiles leftover from making music the night before.
Sunday 1 May 2011
Hurrah, hurrah for Canada's King and Queen to be. NOW VOTE.
There is something very refreshing about Canada's Royalty.
Like many things in life there is no rhyme or reason to it all. It is, it has been and would seem it will be for some time to come. The Royalty of the Old(e) Empire is a strong thread weaving through the tapestry of what it is to be Canadian.
The Canadian people are made up of DNA from all over the world. Deep down, we know that no one's blood is redder (or bluer) than another's. The present Queen is a woman of red, white and blue who seems to intuitively know this truth. The majesty of her person seems tospread the goodness of humanity throughout the world and is a special presence to those who grew up through the Empire, into the Commonwealth and into a proud sovereign people. I will always think of Australians as cousins, silly as it may seem.
We sang to the Queen each morning as the school day began. The Queen and Prince Philip smiled down on us all day, from high on the classroom wall. They still look down on the activities at the community hall. By high school we could sing to them in both official languages, along with our own national anthem. Christmas mornings were always marked by the Queen's address to the Commonwealth.
Like all families, the royal family, stretching back into time, have done much for which they deserve praise and much for which there is blame to be accepted. The blood coursing through their and their family's blood is no different than yours and mine, but they are born to a Duty.
My family's name is no different than other's. Winds of the times shaped destiny. The Scots cleared from the Highlands of their ancestors to make way for sheep, the Flemish Protestants fled their land for religious freedom, the Loyalists fled America during the Revolution and a young man left England in the 1800's looking for a better chance at life. From these people came farmers, teachers, professors, politicians, business men and women, plumbers, artists, doctors, lawyers, ne'r do wells, military men, ministers and fishing people. Not one's blood is more pure than another's. Not one has more claim to Canada's fresh air. The same holds true for those arriving from near and far into our land today.
The Queen and her forbearers and descendants stand in place symbolically, figuratively and in their living for ideals held by most. They are human. Who cares if they have rules of how to eat asparagus? That is just one of their things.
We are given a space in our understanding of government that separates concepts of what is from the ideals of our foundations.
Politicians are politicians. The Queen is the Queen. We wish her grandson and his new wife well.
Now Canadians, go out and vote for the ideals of our red blooded people to be our elected representatives.
May 3
WHEN I SAID TO GO OUT TO VOTE I DID'T MEAN THAT WAY. WHAT ARE WE TO DO ?
Like many things in life there is no rhyme or reason to it all. It is, it has been and would seem it will be for some time to come. The Royalty of the Old(e) Empire is a strong thread weaving through the tapestry of what it is to be Canadian.
The Canadian people are made up of DNA from all over the world. Deep down, we know that no one's blood is redder (or bluer) than another's. The present Queen is a woman of red, white and blue who seems to intuitively know this truth. The majesty of her person seems tospread the goodness of humanity throughout the world and is a special presence to those who grew up through the Empire, into the Commonwealth and into a proud sovereign people. I will always think of Australians as cousins, silly as it may seem.
We sang to the Queen each morning as the school day began. The Queen and Prince Philip smiled down on us all day, from high on the classroom wall. They still look down on the activities at the community hall. By high school we could sing to them in both official languages, along with our own national anthem. Christmas mornings were always marked by the Queen's address to the Commonwealth.
Like all families, the royal family, stretching back into time, have done much for which they deserve praise and much for which there is blame to be accepted. The blood coursing through their and their family's blood is no different than yours and mine, but they are born to a Duty.
My family's name is no different than other's. Winds of the times shaped destiny. The Scots cleared from the Highlands of their ancestors to make way for sheep, the Flemish Protestants fled their land for religious freedom, the Loyalists fled America during the Revolution and a young man left England in the 1800's looking for a better chance at life. From these people came farmers, teachers, professors, politicians, business men and women, plumbers, artists, doctors, lawyers, ne'r do wells, military men, ministers and fishing people. Not one's blood is more pure than another's. Not one has more claim to Canada's fresh air. The same holds true for those arriving from near and far into our land today.
The Queen and her forbearers and descendants stand in place symbolically, figuratively and in their living for ideals held by most. They are human. Who cares if they have rules of how to eat asparagus? That is just one of their things.
We are given a space in our understanding of government that separates concepts of what is from the ideals of our foundations.
Politicians are politicians. The Queen is the Queen. We wish her grandson and his new wife well.
Now Canadians, go out and vote for the ideals of our red blooded people to be our elected representatives.
May 3
WHEN I SAID TO GO OUT TO VOTE I DID'T MEAN THAT WAY. WHAT ARE WE TO DO ?
Monday 25 April 2011
After the Big Holiday
Perhaps it is time to rethink the Big Holidays of the year. The adornments of these days have almost suffocated the richness and joy these days once held.
The thought of one more slice of a beautifully smoked, cooked and decorated ham is daunting, the scalloped potatoes have found a welcoming home, and nary a stick of asparagus survived. My poor old system is still working overtime to rid my system of too much candy. So much mandatory fuss and rush.
The pussy willows I picked along Russia Road, for some reason hold something of the mystery of the season. Fresh spring air mixes with the salty air wafting up from the bay. The sun is still gentle on the skin.
This has been a sad time around here. Chocolate bunnies won't fill the void.
Cottage life has perhaps become the true place of ritual and celebration. The profound rests in simplicity.
An uncle holds his frightened niece as the thunder roars. A child picks a teacup full of wild strawberries. A rebellious daughter finds some peace as she paddles solo around the point. The weary get a chance for an afternoon nap. Everyone looks forward to supper on the shore with a big bonfire.
In days gone by, celebrations and feasts broke the neverending, unchanging days of hard work and an endless sameness to food and routine.
Today, for many, it is difficult to escape the whirling, world of Everything Now.
There needs to be a time to all sit together and just gaze at the stars.
The thought of one more slice of a beautifully smoked, cooked and decorated ham is daunting, the scalloped potatoes have found a welcoming home, and nary a stick of asparagus survived. My poor old system is still working overtime to rid my system of too much candy. So much mandatory fuss and rush.
The pussy willows I picked along Russia Road, for some reason hold something of the mystery of the season. Fresh spring air mixes with the salty air wafting up from the bay. The sun is still gentle on the skin.
This has been a sad time around here. Chocolate bunnies won't fill the void.
Cottage life has perhaps become the true place of ritual and celebration. The profound rests in simplicity.
An uncle holds his frightened niece as the thunder roars. A child picks a teacup full of wild strawberries. A rebellious daughter finds some peace as she paddles solo around the point. The weary get a chance for an afternoon nap. Everyone looks forward to supper on the shore with a big bonfire.
In days gone by, celebrations and feasts broke the neverending, unchanging days of hard work and an endless sameness to food and routine.
Today, for many, it is difficult to escape the whirling, world of Everything Now.
There needs to be a time to all sit together and just gaze at the stars.
Friday 22 April 2011
Long Ago Easters
Those long ago Easters of childhood, seem so long ago, they have gained a mythic patina.
Good Friday was a day of black and navy blue. A Last Supper with wine and bread was sacred, even to my tea totalling grandmother. There was hiding in gardens, betrayal for money. One person was guilty, a people were guilty, and they tried to convince me, my little self was guilty. This was all happening for my sake. A day of graves and tombs and stones and blood and tears. Bodies crucified. A body washed by women. Sweet smells of fragrant oils. I don't quite remember how vinegar fit in, but most things that my mother was involved with involved vinegar. In our house it was also the day of hot crossed buns.
Saturday things were different. There were eggs to be boiled or blown, then coloured, construction paper tulips, daffodils, and lilies to be made. Extended family seemed to extend even farther. Adult talk was preoccupied with scalloped potatoes, ham to be picked up, pickles and olives. The house filled with flowers, especially Easter Lilies, though both my parents maintained they hated them. Personally I was drawn to the bright orange stamens whose pollen could stain almost anything temporarily, especially fingers. The day ended with an extra long Saturday night bath.
The fuss about clothing was over. Because Easter was at the end of a ten day school holiday, the trip to Eatons, in the city, had already taken place. New good shoes, new spring coat, new white socks, new white cotton underwear and white gloves. Grandma spent much time fussing about sewing matching dresses, for my cousin and me. My cousin's dress would be of a delicate hue. Mine, in the same style, was more likely a deep green or substantial rust, as I was prone to spilling. To top it all off, both figuratively and in reality was an Easter bonnet with an elastic string to keep it from slipping or being blowing off.
Year after year, the little boys had the same grey short pants, grey wool knee socks, brown polished oxfords, white shirts with plaid ties and a blue blazer with brass buttons.
Easter morning was what all the excitement was about. Brightly coloured baskets filled with green raffia, waited to be filled with candy the Easter Bunny had left. There was always a large creamed egg with a yellow centre, covered in chocolate. Laura Secord helped the bunny with these specific eggs. The smaller candy varied from year to year - jelly beans for sure, sometimes harder candy eggs that were a challenge for little teeth. They tasted of sugar and food dye. Sometimes the bunny left a hollow chocolate, bunny in a box, or a fancifully decorated chocolate egg with pink roses. These eggs were personally inscribed with our names, and protected with cellophane tied with a ribbon. One year, the bunny left me a small china teacup, another year there were coloured real rabbits' feet for luck sometimes stuffed real baby chicks with metal legs. The stuffed chicks and ducks were alarming. Each year we stopped in front of a florists shop to watch the small ducklings swim in a small pond or play on a bridge displayed in the window. The most confusing gift of all was the large basket of candy from the retired dentist up the street. Dentists and candy didn't seem to go together.
Easter morning was an itchy event; too much candy, stiff unfamiliar clothing and the constant reminders to take it easy in my finery. Worst of all was the pinching elastic under the chin belonging to the uncomfortable Easter Bonnet.
The public Easter Morning was a communal affair. As we walked down street towards the United Church, we were joined by the dwellers of the houses we passed. Even the folks that were not churchy turned up at church Easter Sunday. Everyone seemed to be headed towards our church, except the family next door. They were exotic. Their Easter preparations involved filling a small cardboard church with pennies throughout Lent. What is more the children had to give up a favourite activity for the forty days. They were Anglican. The Anglicans and Presbyterians provided the village's diversity.
Our church was filled with flowers. The choir expanded to twice its size. All the pews were filled with others in their Easter best. The front row of the balcony gave me a splendid view of all going on down below. I could have watched forever. I played with the bright, shiny dime, my collection, that was carried in my white glove. Someone inevitably took it from my hand, for fear it would drop from my hand onto a bald head below.
The congregation rose as one for the singing of the Hallelujah Chorus in honour of Queen Victoria, who had done just that same thing. Then we were off to Sunday School to colour pictures of Easter Lilies, while the adults carried on with adult worship.
What an array of images- eggs, bunnies, death, wine, disliked lilies, food galore, new clothes, boxes of money, crosses on buns and crosses on hills and on and on and on.
No wonder it was hard to figure it all out. No wonder it all seems difficult to figure out today.
Good Friday was a day of black and navy blue. A Last Supper with wine and bread was sacred, even to my tea totalling grandmother. There was hiding in gardens, betrayal for money. One person was guilty, a people were guilty, and they tried to convince me, my little self was guilty. This was all happening for my sake. A day of graves and tombs and stones and blood and tears. Bodies crucified. A body washed by women. Sweet smells of fragrant oils. I don't quite remember how vinegar fit in, but most things that my mother was involved with involved vinegar. In our house it was also the day of hot crossed buns.
Saturday things were different. There were eggs to be boiled or blown, then coloured, construction paper tulips, daffodils, and lilies to be made. Extended family seemed to extend even farther. Adult talk was preoccupied with scalloped potatoes, ham to be picked up, pickles and olives. The house filled with flowers, especially Easter Lilies, though both my parents maintained they hated them. Personally I was drawn to the bright orange stamens whose pollen could stain almost anything temporarily, especially fingers. The day ended with an extra long Saturday night bath.
The fuss about clothing was over. Because Easter was at the end of a ten day school holiday, the trip to Eatons, in the city, had already taken place. New good shoes, new spring coat, new white socks, new white cotton underwear and white gloves. Grandma spent much time fussing about sewing matching dresses, for my cousin and me. My cousin's dress would be of a delicate hue. Mine, in the same style, was more likely a deep green or substantial rust, as I was prone to spilling. To top it all off, both figuratively and in reality was an Easter bonnet with an elastic string to keep it from slipping or being blowing off.
Year after year, the little boys had the same grey short pants, grey wool knee socks, brown polished oxfords, white shirts with plaid ties and a blue blazer with brass buttons.
Easter morning was what all the excitement was about. Brightly coloured baskets filled with green raffia, waited to be filled with candy the Easter Bunny had left. There was always a large creamed egg with a yellow centre, covered in chocolate. Laura Secord helped the bunny with these specific eggs. The smaller candy varied from year to year - jelly beans for sure, sometimes harder candy eggs that were a challenge for little teeth. They tasted of sugar and food dye. Sometimes the bunny left a hollow chocolate, bunny in a box, or a fancifully decorated chocolate egg with pink roses. These eggs were personally inscribed with our names, and protected with cellophane tied with a ribbon. One year, the bunny left me a small china teacup, another year there were coloured real rabbits' feet for luck sometimes stuffed real baby chicks with metal legs. The stuffed chicks and ducks were alarming. Each year we stopped in front of a florists shop to watch the small ducklings swim in a small pond or play on a bridge displayed in the window. The most confusing gift of all was the large basket of candy from the retired dentist up the street. Dentists and candy didn't seem to go together.
Easter morning was an itchy event; too much candy, stiff unfamiliar clothing and the constant reminders to take it easy in my finery. Worst of all was the pinching elastic under the chin belonging to the uncomfortable Easter Bonnet.
The public Easter Morning was a communal affair. As we walked down street towards the United Church, we were joined by the dwellers of the houses we passed. Even the folks that were not churchy turned up at church Easter Sunday. Everyone seemed to be headed towards our church, except the family next door. They were exotic. Their Easter preparations involved filling a small cardboard church with pennies throughout Lent. What is more the children had to give up a favourite activity for the forty days. They were Anglican. The Anglicans and Presbyterians provided the village's diversity.
Our church was filled with flowers. The choir expanded to twice its size. All the pews were filled with others in their Easter best. The front row of the balcony gave me a splendid view of all going on down below. I could have watched forever. I played with the bright, shiny dime, my collection, that was carried in my white glove. Someone inevitably took it from my hand, for fear it would drop from my hand onto a bald head below.
The congregation rose as one for the singing of the Hallelujah Chorus in honour of Queen Victoria, who had done just that same thing. Then we were off to Sunday School to colour pictures of Easter Lilies, while the adults carried on with adult worship.
What an array of images- eggs, bunnies, death, wine, disliked lilies, food galore, new clothes, boxes of money, crosses on buns and crosses on hills and on and on and on.
No wonder it was hard to figure it all out. No wonder it all seems difficult to figure out today.
Saturday 9 April 2011
Sad Sad Day
Our tiny village is quiet now. Lights are still on in some houses. In others, all have gone to bed.
Only hours ago, the place was filled with rescue vehicles, police cars, and the volunteer fire department. A helicopter flew overhead. A fishing boat circled and circled outside the harbour.
Someone was missing. A neighbour drove the fishing boat. A car left for the nearby town to pick up a loving partner, an expectant mother, from her job at a restaurant. A little boy played happily, safely at a neighbours house.
A daddy, a fisherman set out, over calm water, in a small boat, not far from shore.
The boat flipped. The daddy and his friend struggled in the cold cold water.
We knew everything and nothing.
Crowds gathered.
A sister stood on the wharf by her fishing boat.
Family gathered at the fisherman's house on the harbour.
The father's dozer made a path through the rocky shore towards the receding tide, the highest and lowest tides in the world, to take the rescue boat to the water.
From one window I watch the rescue boat go out to bring back the body.
From another I watch a grieving family wait outside their house.
I know the little boy is safe and unknowing in a nearby house.
The fisherman's old dog, Boy, rambles up around my house.
The young rescuers, who may have gone to school with the young fisherman, demand privacy and respect for his leaving.
One by one the vehicles leave. One is carrying the young fisherman, who is no more.
The little boy is reunited with his mummy and his sibling, who is yet to be.
A larger family mourns.
A tiny village mourns with them, this dark night.
Wednesday 6 April 2011
Colouring Between the Lines
I delight in my friend's formal labelling, Reverend, Doctor, Captain MacGillvary. Reverend in the United Church, Doctorate from Boston College, Captain in the Armed Forces. It doesn't end there. He is a strong supporter of the Monarchy, works hard for the New Democratic Party, is happily married with grandchildren and now a great grandchild and is a respected standard bearer for the Gay Rights Movement.
The world is not black and white, not even with many shades of intervening grey. The earth vibrates with rainbows of colours and so do the people.
Dark lines often define boundaries and barriers, but it is not always possible or desirable to colour within them.
My extended family were the arty sort. Except for school and Sunday School, my life was almost colouring book free. At home we were given endless sheets of blank newsprint, from the Markham Economist and Sun office. We were encouraged to paint, colour, print, squish our little souls out onto the paper. Heck, it didn't much matter if we went beyond the paper onto the floor or easel.
School was another matter. Pages for colouring were a reward for work well done and complete. Surprising as it may seem, I was the recipient of many pages. The Disney characters of today did not cavort across the pages. As I remember it, the sheets were titled, Ducklings Swim in the Pond, Big Brother Catches the Ball, Daddy Waves Good Bye, Mummy Sweeps the Floor, Frog Jumps.
At Sunday School, Jesus Held the Little Children, Baby Moses Floated Down the River, Easter Lilies beside the Cross. I knew enough to use the "right" colour - duck yellow, frog green, Daddy's hand flesh, which in those days only came in a somewhat odd pink. Jesus, too, was in this odd pink.
I wasn't so good at keeping neatly inside the lines. I was amazed and envious of the lauded precision of Gerry Cosburn. I was amazed and impressed when I learned my two year old granddaughter's report from pre-school noted she pasted neatly. I don't worry. I have every confidence this little red headed character will paint the world with every colour and sprinkle it with every kind of sparkle.
I delight in the complexity of it all. We are bombarded by such a collection of images of lives and living in black and white with little room for an odd bit of grey. Bring on the swirling colours that are an essential part of each individual. Enjoy colourers and colours of every kind.
Go out and buy a great big box of crayons. Find a large piece of paper. Draw a picture of the Reverend, Doctor, Captain and use as many of them as you can. Break open the sparkles.
The world is not black and white, not even with many shades of intervening grey. The earth vibrates with rainbows of colours and so do the people.
Dark lines often define boundaries and barriers, but it is not always possible or desirable to colour within them.
My extended family were the arty sort. Except for school and Sunday School, my life was almost colouring book free. At home we were given endless sheets of blank newsprint, from the Markham Economist and Sun office. We were encouraged to paint, colour, print, squish our little souls out onto the paper. Heck, it didn't much matter if we went beyond the paper onto the floor or easel.
School was another matter. Pages for colouring were a reward for work well done and complete. Surprising as it may seem, I was the recipient of many pages. The Disney characters of today did not cavort across the pages. As I remember it, the sheets were titled, Ducklings Swim in the Pond, Big Brother Catches the Ball, Daddy Waves Good Bye, Mummy Sweeps the Floor, Frog Jumps.
At Sunday School, Jesus Held the Little Children, Baby Moses Floated Down the River, Easter Lilies beside the Cross. I knew enough to use the "right" colour - duck yellow, frog green, Daddy's hand flesh, which in those days only came in a somewhat odd pink. Jesus, too, was in this odd pink.
I wasn't so good at keeping neatly inside the lines. I was amazed and envious of the lauded precision of Gerry Cosburn. I was amazed and impressed when I learned my two year old granddaughter's report from pre-school noted she pasted neatly. I don't worry. I have every confidence this little red headed character will paint the world with every colour and sprinkle it with every kind of sparkle.
I delight in the complexity of it all. We are bombarded by such a collection of images of lives and living in black and white with little room for an odd bit of grey. Bring on the swirling colours that are an essential part of each individual. Enjoy colourers and colours of every kind.
Go out and buy a great big box of crayons. Find a large piece of paper. Draw a picture of the Reverend, Doctor, Captain and use as many of them as you can. Break open the sparkles.
Tuesday 29 March 2011
The Adventures of a Waiting Room
Oh, the adventures of the waiting room.
I finally recognized that I was the recipient of an neverending cold. When I breathed, the exotic sound of some yet to be invented musical instrument softly wafted from my lungs, to the accompaniment of the sweet snores of my aging rabbit hound. My head valiantly struggled to search out the horizontal, when I made any attempt to be at all vertical. My head felt like a pair of 7 1/2 feet shoved into a pair of size six shoes. There were no signs of improvement.
I knew I was in trouble, when as an act of energy saving, my energy, I opted to put a couple of extra blankets on my bed for the cold night; rather than put some logs in the stove downstairs.
When morning arrived, I decided to take myself to the nearby clinic, rather than taking my collection of non life threatening germs to my more distant doctor.
I was clean and brushed my teeth but I am not sure my hair met a comb, and frankly I could have cared less. I parked my car in the lot and passed through the double glass doors into a large, clean waiting room. This room was deceptively uncrowded.
The building had once been a community hospital, a place of pride for the surrounding rural communities. The plaques that honoured the long ago supporters covered a wall - "This room was furnished by the children of King's County", ''In loving memory of my dear Aunt and Uncle, "A Gift from Dr. Killam and his wife of Woodville". This hospital is now a clinic, much appreciated, much needed, much used. No more births, no more life saving operations and hopefully no deaths.
The impressive Valley Regional Hospital, with the bells and whistles of modern medicine is farther down the highway.
Even more impressive than the plaques, are the two very large bronze wall pieces struck with the names of the young men who died in battle when they were called to serve King and Country in the 1914-1918 War, the 1939-1945 War and the Korean War. There are over a hundred names. The names are the same names as those who are waiting their turn to see the doctor. The waits are sometimes long and the care is good. I think "the Boys" would be proud
After registering with my attractive sea themed, Nova Scotia Health Card, I took my seat, sat back and let my head droop. I observed what was going on around me, through a not unpleasant haze. An eleven year old boy wearing his hockey jacket with Goalie proudly embroidered on the sleeve, sat with his attractive, relaxed mother to have his leg, until recently encased in a cast, checked out. A sweet little four year old boy in his Star Wars pj's, jacket and snow boots leaned lovingly against his daddy's girlfriend's shoulder. A somewhat haughty politician tried to keep away from the others, perhaps thinking her germs were somewhat superior to our germs. A blonde bombshell, in her faux fur coat who had likely put in fifty years of hard living kicked the beverage machine. The very elderly, frail, farmer, who was unceremoniously dumped in the room by his equally aged wife was given instructions by her not to come out until the wax was out of his ears. The many small children with earaches, full chests and sore throats waited patiently flopped in their mothers arms. A thirteen year old girl slouched in her chair exuding disdain for everything as only a sick young teen can do.
The reading material was weak, The Joys of Menopause, Fun with the Canada Food Rules, What Does Your Man Know About His Prostate?, How to Cough into Your Arm.
The wait was not short.
Oh well. My turn came. My symptoms were noted, my nose was explored and my face was prodded. Before too long I was off to the drugstore to pick up a miracle cure for tender sinuses. As I drove home, up over the mountain to the shore, I still felt lousy, but also thankful I could feel lousy in this tiny piece of the universe.
I finally recognized that I was the recipient of an neverending cold. When I breathed, the exotic sound of some yet to be invented musical instrument softly wafted from my lungs, to the accompaniment of the sweet snores of my aging rabbit hound. My head valiantly struggled to search out the horizontal, when I made any attempt to be at all vertical. My head felt like a pair of 7 1/2 feet shoved into a pair of size six shoes. There were no signs of improvement.
I knew I was in trouble, when as an act of energy saving, my energy, I opted to put a couple of extra blankets on my bed for the cold night; rather than put some logs in the stove downstairs.
When morning arrived, I decided to take myself to the nearby clinic, rather than taking my collection of non life threatening germs to my more distant doctor.
I was clean and brushed my teeth but I am not sure my hair met a comb, and frankly I could have cared less. I parked my car in the lot and passed through the double glass doors into a large, clean waiting room. This room was deceptively uncrowded.
The building had once been a community hospital, a place of pride for the surrounding rural communities. The plaques that honoured the long ago supporters covered a wall - "This room was furnished by the children of King's County", ''In loving memory of my dear Aunt and Uncle, "A Gift from Dr. Killam and his wife of Woodville". This hospital is now a clinic, much appreciated, much needed, much used. No more births, no more life saving operations and hopefully no deaths.
The impressive Valley Regional Hospital, with the bells and whistles of modern medicine is farther down the highway.
Even more impressive than the plaques, are the two very large bronze wall pieces struck with the names of the young men who died in battle when they were called to serve King and Country in the 1914-1918 War, the 1939-1945 War and the Korean War. There are over a hundred names. The names are the same names as those who are waiting their turn to see the doctor. The waits are sometimes long and the care is good. I think "the Boys" would be proud
After registering with my attractive sea themed, Nova Scotia Health Card, I took my seat, sat back and let my head droop. I observed what was going on around me, through a not unpleasant haze. An eleven year old boy wearing his hockey jacket with Goalie proudly embroidered on the sleeve, sat with his attractive, relaxed mother to have his leg, until recently encased in a cast, checked out. A sweet little four year old boy in his Star Wars pj's, jacket and snow boots leaned lovingly against his daddy's girlfriend's shoulder. A somewhat haughty politician tried to keep away from the others, perhaps thinking her germs were somewhat superior to our germs. A blonde bombshell, in her faux fur coat who had likely put in fifty years of hard living kicked the beverage machine. The very elderly, frail, farmer, who was unceremoniously dumped in the room by his equally aged wife was given instructions by her not to come out until the wax was out of his ears. The many small children with earaches, full chests and sore throats waited patiently flopped in their mothers arms. A thirteen year old girl slouched in her chair exuding disdain for everything as only a sick young teen can do.
The reading material was weak, The Joys of Menopause, Fun with the Canada Food Rules, What Does Your Man Know About His Prostate?, How to Cough into Your Arm.
The wait was not short.
Oh well. My turn came. My symptoms were noted, my nose was explored and my face was prodded. Before too long I was off to the drugstore to pick up a miracle cure for tender sinuses. As I drove home, up over the mountain to the shore, I still felt lousy, but also thankful I could feel lousy in this tiny piece of the universe.
Wednesday 16 March 2011
Mothers to Be, in Japan
Being pregnant was being pregnant. Pregnancy was neither an overwhelmingly positive experience nor an unpleasant experience. There is something a little trendy about the mystique of the famous baby bumps. I don't deny the miracle that is taking place, but pregnancy is only the beginning.
Pregnancy was, however, the beginning of motherhood that has brought such incredible richness and deeper understanding of life and living to me. Motherhood is not the only way a woman experiences richness and understanding. I am just saying for me, being a mother through the fun, the challenges, the heartbreaks, the sometimes relentless fatigue and the sheer joy, gave something to me for which there are no words. For sure, if I had it to do over again, there are many, many things I would do differently; but I do know I gave it my best and I gave it with love. I became a mother in a good time, in a good place.
My heart is breaking now for the pregnant women in Japan. Little bits of humanity are growing in their bellies, as the mothers walk through a terrifying inferno of so many dimensions. They live in a country whose people know the legacy of atomic radiation, like no other. They and their babies face dark times.
From my beautiful little place of the universe, I wish for them hope and the world's resources to help fulfill their hopes, to live in health in the goodness of creation, that offers them opportunities, to once again know joy.
Pregnancy was, however, the beginning of motherhood that has brought such incredible richness and deeper understanding of life and living to me. Motherhood is not the only way a woman experiences richness and understanding. I am just saying for me, being a mother through the fun, the challenges, the heartbreaks, the sometimes relentless fatigue and the sheer joy, gave something to me for which there are no words. For sure, if I had it to do over again, there are many, many things I would do differently; but I do know I gave it my best and I gave it with love. I became a mother in a good time, in a good place.
My heart is breaking now for the pregnant women in Japan. Little bits of humanity are growing in their bellies, as the mothers walk through a terrifying inferno of so many dimensions. They live in a country whose people know the legacy of atomic radiation, like no other. They and their babies face dark times.
From my beautiful little place of the universe, I wish for them hope and the world's resources to help fulfill their hopes, to live in health in the goodness of creation, that offers them opportunities, to once again know joy.
Sunday 13 March 2011
Umbrellas, Mushrooms, Clouds - Radiation
Umbrellas, mushrooms and clouds can conjure up an image of an early fall stroll, on a damp day, in the country.
Umbrellas, mushrooms, clouds, can also instantly call up terrifying images of a world gone wrong.
My generation, of Canadians, grew up under the "nuclear umbrella" of the United States. We were and are a nuclear weapon free country. We do possess a little moral authority, as we have no weapons of mass destruction here, by choice. We have the uranium, the expertise but not the will as a people, to join that dangerous atomic club.
The comfort of living under the American umbrella, at times isn't all that comforting. The big boys don't always play by the rules. There we are lying, in all our naked glory, between the world's most aggressive powers. Where do you think the mighty missiles would land, as missiles surged from the Russian north over our home and native land, towards the mainland states and in return whizzed back at Russia. The "nuclear umbrella" would be as useful as my little, pink, silk parasol. Thank goodness that war was cold.
The sight of a towering, threatening force of destruction growing in moments into a billowing mushroom monster still fills me with fear. Not one city, but two Japanese cities were melted, people and all, to bring an end to the Second World War. We watched reel after reel of the events between the cartoons and cowboy pictures at the Saturday Matinees at the Roxy.
Then came the films of the above ground testing, in the American desserts, as the arms raced. Radio broadcasts alerted us to the ripples of radiation that circled out from the blasts to cover the world with teeny tiny drops of destruction that became radiated rain. This was when we really needed the umbrellas, but they were not forthcoming.
Oh, the clouds. I was lucky enough to be passing through Three Mile Island, Pennsylvania on my way from Toronto to Washington, during the partial meltdown at their nuclear plant. I was in France when Chernobyl blew. I wanted nothing of threatening clouds moving this way and that. Something is wrong.
Japan, the country that has suffered most from mushrooms, umbrellas and clouds, up close, chose to harness the power of the atom for peaceful purposes- clean energy, miracles of medicine and uses as yet unimagined. Look what is happening.
Today, the peoples of the world wait as one, to hear the news of human failure to control the uncontrollable in their land. Great minds of the world are focussed on solving a crucial puzzle. Our hearts are with the Japanese and fear is with us as a cloud will pass over each one of us.
I think I'll go check the medicine cabinet to see if I still have those tiny iodine pills that were purchased in what seemed more dangerous times.
Umbrellas, mushrooms, clouds, can also instantly call up terrifying images of a world gone wrong.
My generation, of Canadians, grew up under the "nuclear umbrella" of the United States. We were and are a nuclear weapon free country. We do possess a little moral authority, as we have no weapons of mass destruction here, by choice. We have the uranium, the expertise but not the will as a people, to join that dangerous atomic club.
The comfort of living under the American umbrella, at times isn't all that comforting. The big boys don't always play by the rules. There we are lying, in all our naked glory, between the world's most aggressive powers. Where do you think the mighty missiles would land, as missiles surged from the Russian north over our home and native land, towards the mainland states and in return whizzed back at Russia. The "nuclear umbrella" would be as useful as my little, pink, silk parasol. Thank goodness that war was cold.
The sight of a towering, threatening force of destruction growing in moments into a billowing mushroom monster still fills me with fear. Not one city, but two Japanese cities were melted, people and all, to bring an end to the Second World War. We watched reel after reel of the events between the cartoons and cowboy pictures at the Saturday Matinees at the Roxy.
Then came the films of the above ground testing, in the American desserts, as the arms raced. Radio broadcasts alerted us to the ripples of radiation that circled out from the blasts to cover the world with teeny tiny drops of destruction that became radiated rain. This was when we really needed the umbrellas, but they were not forthcoming.
Oh, the clouds. I was lucky enough to be passing through Three Mile Island, Pennsylvania on my way from Toronto to Washington, during the partial meltdown at their nuclear plant. I was in France when Chernobyl blew. I wanted nothing of threatening clouds moving this way and that. Something is wrong.
Japan, the country that has suffered most from mushrooms, umbrellas and clouds, up close, chose to harness the power of the atom for peaceful purposes- clean energy, miracles of medicine and uses as yet unimagined. Look what is happening.
Today, the peoples of the world wait as one, to hear the news of human failure to control the uncontrollable in their land. Great minds of the world are focussed on solving a crucial puzzle. Our hearts are with the Japanese and fear is with us as a cloud will pass over each one of us.
I think I'll go check the medicine cabinet to see if I still have those tiny iodine pills that were purchased in what seemed more dangerous times.
Wednesday 9 March 2011
Photos Never Taken
Some of my favourite photos are photos never taken.
Perhaps my favourite phantom picture is my mind's picture of my baby daughter, picking the moon out of the silver maple tree.
The night was very cold and very clear. The stars sparkled.
I held her tightly, as I got out of the car, in those days before seat belts.
Fuzzy, white, warm, buttoned jacket; thick, lined, navy blue pants; snow boots that were always falling off; pom pommed hat, scarf and mittens, the colour of sunset, I knit in my knitting days.
The night was crisply magical. The moon was full. My daughter's cheeks were rosy and her eyes shone. She was a long way from two and she reached for the moon with her pudgy hand. I gave it to her forever.
t
Perhaps my favourite phantom picture is my mind's picture of my baby daughter, picking the moon out of the silver maple tree.
The night was very cold and very clear. The stars sparkled.
I held her tightly, as I got out of the car, in those days before seat belts.
Fuzzy, white, warm, buttoned jacket; thick, lined, navy blue pants; snow boots that were always falling off; pom pommed hat, scarf and mittens, the colour of sunset, I knit in my knitting days.
The night was crisply magical. The moon was full. My daughter's cheeks were rosy and her eyes shone. She was a long way from two and she reached for the moon with her pudgy hand. I gave it to her forever.
t
Eat Local. Eat Like the Queen.
Eat local. Eat like the Queen. My friend says she can get all she needs to eat on her bicycle.
That may not seem impressive to urban dwellers, who can purchase their food at local stores. It is a little more impressive that my friend lives on a dirt road in rural Nova Scotia, miles from a local store. Like most of our neighbours, her food is predominantly organic. There is honey, goats milk, maple sugar, free range chickens, free range turkeys, grass fed beef, fresh eggs sold at farm doorsteps, organic fruits and vegetables filling freezers and served from the mismatched plates all around us. Nova Scotian women "put up" the abundance of summer and rejoice in their goodness throughout the winter.
Wild raspberries, spray free, hand picked strawberries, currants, blue berries, homemade jams, apples too many to name, with names our great grandmothers would recognize.
Tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes
In the fall squash, potatoes, onions, carrots, a rainbow of cabbages, parsnips, turnips stored in the cool.
Pumpkins, pumpkins, pumpkins. Fields of pumpkins.
October is our time of thanks giving.
As I stand hanging out my clothes, yes, in the ocean breeze, I watch the fishing boats come into the harbour at high tide, bringing scallops, haddock, mackeral, mussels...and lobster. Down the hill I can buy their fresh catch. Dulse is a local snack food, but I don't partake.
I no longer ride a bicycle. I drive my beloved aged, ailing, Ford truck to my favourite market about thirty miles away. Everything is there, that I can't buy nearby my home, with my loonies and toonies. I buy my bread at the Mennonite bakery.
Saturday market is a weekly celebration of friends, food, creations and music.
An old, brick apple storage warehouse is being converted for winter use, so goodbye to the cramped winter space, generously made available in Acadia University Students Building.
So what about the Queen?
When the Queen visited Nova Scotia last year The Halifax Herald, the provincial paper, published where the ingredients for the Royal Dinner had been purchased. There was cheese from Foxhill, meat from Meadowbrook, grass fed beef from Wolfeville Market, vegetables from local farmers and lobsters from our sea. The wine came from the Annapolis Valley. I don't know whether they chose an organic wine or not.
I can't remember what was for dessert, who cares? I know where to get real gelato and real ice cream.
So, they shop for the Queen where I shop for my table. Nothing comes with Royal Seals, but it certainly comes with my approval.
That may not seem impressive to urban dwellers, who can purchase their food at local stores. It is a little more impressive that my friend lives on a dirt road in rural Nova Scotia, miles from a local store. Like most of our neighbours, her food is predominantly organic. There is honey, goats milk, maple sugar, free range chickens, free range turkeys, grass fed beef, fresh eggs sold at farm doorsteps, organic fruits and vegetables filling freezers and served from the mismatched plates all around us. Nova Scotian women "put up" the abundance of summer and rejoice in their goodness throughout the winter.
Wild raspberries, spray free, hand picked strawberries, currants, blue berries, homemade jams, apples too many to name, with names our great grandmothers would recognize.
Tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes
In the fall squash, potatoes, onions, carrots, a rainbow of cabbages, parsnips, turnips stored in the cool.
Pumpkins, pumpkins, pumpkins. Fields of pumpkins.
October is our time of thanks giving.
As I stand hanging out my clothes, yes, in the ocean breeze, I watch the fishing boats come into the harbour at high tide, bringing scallops, haddock, mackeral, mussels...and lobster. Down the hill I can buy their fresh catch. Dulse is a local snack food, but I don't partake.
I no longer ride a bicycle. I drive my beloved aged, ailing, Ford truck to my favourite market about thirty miles away. Everything is there, that I can't buy nearby my home, with my loonies and toonies. I buy my bread at the Mennonite bakery.
Saturday market is a weekly celebration of friends, food, creations and music.
An old, brick apple storage warehouse is being converted for winter use, so goodbye to the cramped winter space, generously made available in Acadia University Students Building.
So what about the Queen?
When the Queen visited Nova Scotia last year The Halifax Herald, the provincial paper, published where the ingredients for the Royal Dinner had been purchased. There was cheese from Foxhill, meat from Meadowbrook, grass fed beef from Wolfeville Market, vegetables from local farmers and lobsters from our sea. The wine came from the Annapolis Valley. I don't know whether they chose an organic wine or not.
I can't remember what was for dessert, who cares? I know where to get real gelato and real ice cream.
So, they shop for the Queen where I shop for my table. Nothing comes with Royal Seals, but it certainly comes with my approval.
Sunday 6 March 2011
Signs of a Possible Spring
Signs of a Possible Spring near Lupin Hill
1. Pot holes filled with water offer swimming possibilities.
2. Hip boys donning shorts at freezing temperatures.
3. Dreams of asparagus
4. Undone fall chores emerge from melting snow drifts.
5. Double-lined mitts no longer mandatory.
6. Thoughts of lawn mowing with celebratory beer with neighbour.
7. Urge to clear front porch and bring out wicker chairs.
8. Packets of seeds at the feed store.
9. Farmers spreading manure on the snow covered fields.
10. Willows turn yellow.
11. Everyone in mandatory green rubber boots.
12. It is light past six o'clock.
13. The sun is setting farther and farther north.
14. Winter coats are on SALE.
15. It is possible to forget to wear a hat.
16. Then there is the emerging dog poop.
17. People are talking of summer plans.
18.Shore walks are more appealing.
19. Fishermen and women begin to work on boats.
20. Rocks fall from cliffs.
21. Residents sigh because it looks like their dry wood will hold out.
22. Crows are beak to beak on the hydro lines.
23. Cottagers are checking to make sure their places survived winter.
24. All footwear brings in mud.
25. Pussy willows hint of emergence.
26. Where were the daffodils planted last planted last fall?
27. Signs advise it's time to place chick orders.
28. The maple syrup buckets are coming out.
29. Christmas displays are being pried from the melting ground.
30. Snowmobile sounds are disappearing.
31. Walking stick pics are being covered by black rubber caps.
32. Crowds are forming around the paint displays at hardware stores.
33. Thoughts of ice cream cones are not ridiculous.
34 Whew. Winter tires made it.
35. Touques are replaced by baseball caps.
36. The windows can be opened more than a crack for fresh air.
37. Little boys are on their bikes.
38. All await the news of the first robin.
1. Pot holes filled with water offer swimming possibilities.
2. Hip boys donning shorts at freezing temperatures.
3. Dreams of asparagus
4. Undone fall chores emerge from melting snow drifts.
5. Double-lined mitts no longer mandatory.
6. Thoughts of lawn mowing with celebratory beer with neighbour.
7. Urge to clear front porch and bring out wicker chairs.
8. Packets of seeds at the feed store.
9. Farmers spreading manure on the snow covered fields.
10. Willows turn yellow.
11. Everyone in mandatory green rubber boots.
12. It is light past six o'clock.
13. The sun is setting farther and farther north.
14. Winter coats are on SALE.
15. It is possible to forget to wear a hat.
16. Then there is the emerging dog poop.
17. People are talking of summer plans.
18.Shore walks are more appealing.
19. Fishermen and women begin to work on boats.
20. Rocks fall from cliffs.
21. Residents sigh because it looks like their dry wood will hold out.
22. Crows are beak to beak on the hydro lines.
23. Cottagers are checking to make sure their places survived winter.
24. All footwear brings in mud.
25. Pussy willows hint of emergence.
26. Where were the daffodils planted last planted last fall?
27. Signs advise it's time to place chick orders.
28. The maple syrup buckets are coming out.
29. Christmas displays are being pried from the melting ground.
30. Snowmobile sounds are disappearing.
31. Walking stick pics are being covered by black rubber caps.
32. Crowds are forming around the paint displays at hardware stores.
33. Thoughts of ice cream cones are not ridiculous.
34 Whew. Winter tires made it.
35. Touques are replaced by baseball caps.
36. The windows can be opened more than a crack for fresh air.
37. Little boys are on their bikes.
38. All await the news of the first robin.
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