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.
Saturday 28 May 2011
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 ?
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