Preparation for Hurricane Arthur

                                                          
Friday Night

1. Foxgloves and Delphiniums  secured with purple sticks and red polka dot ribbons.

2. Bathtub filled with water.

3. Cole's wagon on front porch.

4. Dishes washed.

5. Fresh sheets on bed.

6. Metal battery box filled.

7.Candles at ready.

8. Tea and milk recently bought and safely stored.

9. Battery radio at hand.

10. Sandbox lid duct taped on.

11. Car filled with fuel.

12. Thoughts are with farmers'  and their crops.

13. Eyes open for unusual sea creatures seeking  safety up the Bay of Fundy.

14. Clean hair and clothes.

15. Computer charged.

16. Plenty of dog food.

17. Matches in strategic locations.

18. Semaphore flags irrelevant as I never learned semaphore and my neighbours
knowledge is limited.

19. Large ball of rope to rescue Mary from the raging creek.

20. Flashlights corralled.

21. Lawn furniture secured.

22. Car parked facing out.

23. Check local news.

24. Put charged cell phone in car. ( House is not accessible.)

25. Watch fishermen securing their boats.

26. Watch tourists watch fishermen securing their boats.

27. Barn door secured.

28. etc.


Tuesday

Hooray. Whew. Electricity, water, phone returned at 11:00 am Tuesday. They disappeared 7:40 am Saturday. Lots of spoiled food for the ravens. Let me tell you that was some storm.

Thankyou house for staying upright on the ground. Thankyou bathtub for holding almost enough water to flush the toilet. Thank you candles and flashlights. Thankyou neighbours for checking on my well being. Thankyou car full of gas. Thank you batteries. Thank you containers of water. Thankyou cbc for keeping me company. Thankyou weather people for almost getting it right. Sorry telephone, you were missed. Thankyou hydro and telephone linemen (and women ?). Thankyou ocean for putting on such a grand show. Thankyou barn roof for staying on. Thankyou trees for doing your best. Thankyou Moses for keeping me company. Thankyou gas stove for my many cups of tea.
Thank you Arthur for the adventure.

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My Storybook World

My  everyday life is lived in a storybook world. Yes there are woods with wild creatures, an ocean down the hill, old caves in old cliffs, surprising creatures washing up on the stoney shore, winds that move landscapes, snow that buries the familiar, night skies often beyond imagining and tides who follow the moon's instructions to great heights and  then call the water far from shore, but there is something more.

We are now well into June, approaching the important day when day and night are balanced. At such times the otherworldly slips into the ordinary.

It was at such a time that my little grandson came for an overnight visit. After dinner, we set down the hill and over the bridge to visit a little friend, who is just his age, but is far more familiar with the happenings of the place because his home is right there beside the river and across the road from the harbour. This is the place he knows.

The little boys are so alike and different. They race along a path by the water to MaryMarks. A house of fresh cider, warm cookies and adventures. My little ginger headed grandson lacks some of the confidence, but has his fair share of awe.

The grand chickens get fed, the gate is opened to explore the emerging life in the vegetable garden and then the boys, not so carefully, slide down to the river. The tide is out so the water is low in this tidal stream. MaryMark point out the new piles of pine brush that have been placed on the other side, to prevent erosion. This apparently is also a splendid new home for trolls. There is no end of possible entrances. The little local, fist clenched threateningly strides almost unaided to the other shore, stepping on stone by stone, to find and punch a troll. My grandson listens to his own wisdom to wait and watch to see what transpires. I am not sure he knows about trolls. All this is new to me.

There is some movement above the opposite river bank. It seems unlikely that a medieval winged spear is emerging from the garage window, but indeed it is. It is joined by another. They appear around the corner and then outside the door. I ask my entranced grandson if he is scared. He dismisses my question.

No one is alarmed, when a stooped hooded creature emerges, a spear in each hand.

My grandson does not join Local the Brave, who advances with fist still forward. The roar of the creature frightens this small valiant soul, until he catches a glimpse of a face under the hood. Forward he goes, to grab a spear for himself. In no time at all, the creature is locked in a fenced, covered enclosure built for a large outside dog. It is no time again until Local the Valiant has opened the gate and has joined the creature, laughing merrily. The creature exalts in the success of his finds from the nearby university town's Dump and Run, accounting for the two medieval winged spears.

My little fellow remains on his side of the river, intrigued and amused by the spontaneous production, but not ready to join in. Before too long he is joined by his little friend, where he sits. He runs off behind him along the river towards a new adventure.

This is one more chapter in my storybook world. Before long, we walk back home, beyond the hill of emerging lupins. This was not a Midsummer Dream.

New Life for a Very Old Church

The little white United Church, on the cliff, in Harbourville, is entering an exciting new time. It is once again becoming a vibrant centre of activity for the surrounding communities.

It was with great relief that Mary and I went into the the bank in town, to sign the final papers releasing the church money, to a higher power.

I love that little church and the memories of those people, who gave it life.

Over one hundred and fifty years ago, many people got together to build a no nonsense,  Methodist church. The church was not a physically impressive church. Its beauty was in its simplicity. Unlike so many other churches who joined others to become part of the United Church of Canada, in 1925, this church did not change its Methodist interior.

In time, the beautiful chandelier was converted from gas to electricity, the straight backed pews were painted and repainted, furniture was recovered and a bright red carpet was laid over some areas of the painted wood floor. Until the authorities said, "This can be no more.", the ancient oil burner rattled away heating the sanctuary on cold days.

There is no phone and for much of its history, no address. There is no plumbing. In times of great desperation, it was necessary to resort to the dilapidating outhouse, out behind.

Winter mice sometimes made their homes in among the large bibles and old, worn hymnaries.

On Christmas Eve, a small miracle took place each year. The simple church became magnificent. Candles, red ribbons, holly, evergreen boughs, wall hangings, a creche transformed the sanctuary.

Most importantly the church was full.

The church not only filled with light, but with music and the joy of the season. The house was full as in years gone by. Many a foot that had not crossed a church entrance, since the year before, came into the church. Many with individual individual faiths came to celebrate.

The United Church Women and theirs friends, who made up the Ladies Sewing Circle, through generations, kept the church alive, as the congregation dwindled. The local cottagers swelled the ranks in the summer. We "younger" women were happy to follow their lead, but when we became older,  there was no one to lead.

The relentless laws of attrition took their toll. The church no longer plays a central part in many younger lives.

In winter the church workers dwindled from a few to two. Two is not a flock. We were not up to what was  required.

A little task here, a little task there, some phoning here and there, some necessary practical decisions, some inevitable congregational decisions, requests to attend meetings, issues concerning insurance, finance, foundations, roof, services, ordinary upkeep inside and out, charge matters, became too much. We were not the people to make the big decisions and became overwhelmed by the time required for the little ones.  The church needed a wider community.

How wonderful it was that others, with fresh new ideas and the skills and enthusiasm to accomplish much came forward, when we finally, determinably stepped back.

The little white church on the cliff has a new life, as it moves into the future. The church will remain into the future, whole and even holy.

                                                    ++++++++++++++++++++++++++


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Death of a Loved Matriarch

I live in the Brown's, green, house on the hill. People lived here before the Browns, and many, many, people have lived here since, but in this small community, it is the Brown name that has been affixed, to the place. It seems irrelevant that the house has been blue, for over twenty years.

I call this house home.

The little Brown girl, who grew up in this house, died last week. She was ninety-two years old. Jennie was born in a house, just up the road and it was there she lived most of her life, where she raised her family, entertained her many friends and family members, where her grand children visited and where she sat by her large living room window, watching the magnificent sunsets from the spot, with the best view in the village. Nevertheless, she had a special spot in her heart for this  childhood house. It is here her father, her mother and her two bachelor brothers lived for many years. I have met many a man, whose hair as a boy, was cut regularly in my big, farm, kitchen years ago by one of these brothers.

With the exception of the last few years, when her house became too much for her, she lived in Harbourville and a proud Harbourvillian  she was. Jennie's head was filled with so many stories of her school days here, the doings in the little white clapboard church on the cliff, and the workings in the harbour, she could see so well from her house. She loved the place.

Jennie never pretended to be anyone, but who she was. She was a decent human being, living a good life, in good times and bad. She led a fairly simple life, but their was nothing simple about Jennie. She knew so much about everyday living and much more. Her big heart and big brain knew much of the intricacies of living in the real world. She had more than enough common sense, that was eventually the foundation of wisdom.

There is sometimes, something demeaning about the word humble, so I won't use that word. I suspect Jennie was happy to be Jennie. Humility may be a better word. She did not push a sense of importance on anyone, who entered into her life.

An irrepressible twinkle in her eye, hinted at the rascal that dwelled within. There is no doubt Jennie was one of the well respected matriarchs of the community. Her opinions were often sought out and always respected. But Jennie's wit and thorough enjoyment of trickery opened others hearts to her. Sometimes I would be entangled in a scheme. I don't remember all the details, but I do remember delivering a beautiful valentine turnip to a local mailbox, one snowy Valentine day.

While I have lived here, Jennie's birthday on January 22, always involved powerful snowstorms. Her eightieth birthday was no exception. The roads were all closed, but those who could make it came on skis, snow shoes or the sheer determination of walking one foot in front of the other, through the deep snow to show up to surprise her.

A special happy, celebration took place in her warm house. A knock came on the door while we were drinking our tea and eating birthday cake. A neighbour, brought Jennie something he most prized, a significantly large bottle of booze. Jennie was delighted with the gift. When he had left, she set it on a table near the door. She declared that he would be back to get it at three o'clock in the morning and indeed he was.

Jennie was well loved and cared for by her family. I know she knew how much they cared. I am not so sure she knew how well respected and appreciated by the wider circles of her life.

Safe journey Jennie, I loved and miss you.

singing and singing and singing

My grandmother wasn't the sweetest woman who walked this earth, but she played the piano beautifully. One of my earliest memories is gathering around as she played from the latest sheet music, she most likely picked up on one of her frequent visits to the city. There were all sorts of children's songs, just for us. I remember marching round and round with soldier hats made of newspaper.

When summer came we were stuffed into the car, between piles of this and that, needed for cottage living.What was no distance at all could seem, never-ending. The car had hardly started, before we began singing the silly songs we loved. My mother and my aunt had a children's camp, before we were born. They could sing song after song, to anywhere and back. Time didn't exist.

There was an appreciation of music of all sorts around me.

Miss Raymor came from Box Grove, to give us piano lessons, when I was quite small. Even though I tried, I was hopeless. I don't think my lessons lasted long.

When we moved to the city, an aunt gave us her piano. My teacher, Court Stone, was a composer of some sort. His house was dark. The windows were draped in thick, plum coloured, velvet curtains. Busts of long gone musicians sat on every available spot. I don't remember whether there were four or five grand pianos, but they were all put to good use at his musical gatherings. It was so difficult to sit still in uncomfortable clothes in the stuffy air, as his music played on. The birds outside the windows had a merry time with their music.

In the spring, the Toronto Board of Education annually presented a concert of public school students, in Massey Hall, The May Festival. I never knew why I was one of the children chosen to be in a mass choir, made up of children from all schools across the city. I always thought it was because I wasn't afraid to take the subway, to the practices downtown. Looking back, I think many of the Jewish children, some of whom were impressively talented, would come from families, that would be uncomfortable with the distinctly Christian hymns that made up a significant part of the programme.

There was a thrill of singing with so many other children in such a space.

I went to a high school that held a Carol Service at Christmas and choral presentation at Eaton Auditorium for the Graduation and Closing Ceremony. The whole school filled the stage. We sang as one. Preparations for this event were taken very seriously. We had to learn all the words, with punctuation, for an exam before the event. Those songs still every so often pop into my head.

Camp songs are camp songs and I spent many of my summers at camp. Flag raisings, meals, campfires, canoe trips, bedtimes were some of the occasions, that called for songs.

University days took place in the late sixties. There were hootenannies, here, there and everywhere, especially, if your companion took a guitar with him most places we went.

In time, there was much singing with my wee babes, until they grew old enough to be embarrassed. Lullabies remain my favourite. Grand babies have offered me those times again.

Most of the time the songs sung now are with me and my big old mutt, who has a deep contralto voice, when he chooses to join in.

Several years ago, I joined a choir on the mountain for singers of all abilities. As the choir has expanded the number of people with musical training has remarkably  increased. It was fun singing the old Nova Scotian folk songs and we weren't half bad. I don't think it will be long until my dyslexic self will disappear, as I know at this age, my ability to attach so many squiggles on the pages, to a joy in singing is limited.

Pete Seeger : thanks for leaving such wealth behind

university days now seem a blur..
                                                 "we shall overcome. we shall overcome"

american boys lives taken, in swampy far off places
naked, children, burning, run down dirt roads.

close to home, blacks' heads are bashed
in hate and ignorance.

with long hair and innocence we sing
                                                        "where have all the flowers gone? "

   "little boxes, little boxes, they all get put in  little boxes."

and yet,
children swirl around in joy and innocence                                                                                                                                                                                                    
                                                                 "all around the kitchen cockadoodledoodledo"
and now
my two year old grandson
hurls his tiny self into music
                                         "may we be forever young."


we say goodbye knowing your words

                                                         "To my old brown earth
                                                           And my old blue sky
                                                            I'll now give these last few molecules
                                                            of "I"

                                                            And you who sing
                                                            And you who stand nearby
                                                            I do charge you not to cry

                                                            Guard well our human chain
                                                            Watch well you keep it strong
                                                            As long as sun will shine

                                                            And this our home
                                                            Keep pure and sweet and green
                                                            For now I'm yours
                                                            And you are also
                                                            Mine"

                        "To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven

 


   

Another Valentine's Day 2014

How I spent Valentine's Day 2014 (in random order)

1. Poked my head out the door to smell spring and realized Snowmegeddon from the southern states had left my tiny part of the world untouched..

2. ..except my car was bright and shiny after a good rain.

3. Tried to remember Valentine's Days past; good, silly, not so good, horrid.

4. Washed all my towels, throwing fancy to the wind, not sorting the lights and dark.

5. Cleaned the dirtier half of the refrigerator.

6. Put some raspberries in the yogurt on my oatmeal.

7. Put off picking up the dog's leavings on the lawn.

8. Checked out Environment Canada to learn what WARNINGS they had for the day.

9. Got dressed in a comfortable ensemble not suitable for public wear, to encourage me not to galavant.

10. Thought of my grandchildren celebrating Valentine's Day at School.

11. Remembered how much I liked to be asked by the teacher to decorate the Valentine's Box....

12. ..... and how much fun it was making a box lunch to raise money for the Red Cross ...

13. ......and not enjoying eating the lunch every year with Donald Cameron, because Donald Cameron always bid on my lunch.

14. Got a call from a sweet little boy wishing his grandma a Happy Valentine's Day.

15. Ate leftover scallops and asparagus for lunch, from dinner the night before.

16. Enjoyed hearing how well Canadians were doing at the Olympics.

17. Gave Moses a brush.

18. Tried to tidy my room, but didn't get very far.......

19. .....but got the sheets changed.

20. Toasted the day with a wee glass of sherry as I sat by the fire and listened to CBC.


OOPS !    I forgot to wear my my valentine socks from Frenchies.

Toronto the Good.

I am trying to figure out whether I am a Torontonian.

I was born in a city hospital and lived my young life, until  I was ten, in a small Ontario village. I was shocked, at first, when I found myself, a country girl living in a big city. For university I chose a small city.

My young husband and I lived in Stratford for two years, where he taught art. Stratford never felt like home. It is one of those places where it is necessary to have your parents, grand parents and preferably your great-grandparents born on the local soil.

In time we found ourselves in the Toronto neighbourhood, where I  grew up. Our children were little Torontonians.

When my daughters were through school, I moved to a tiny fishing community on the
Bay of Fundy. This is my home.

I can't ever remember thinking of myself as a Torontonian. People who live in New York are New Yorkers,  people who live in Paris are Parisians and it would seem those living in Montreal are Montrealers. Toronto didn't have that same feel.

I always identified myself as Canadian, thus unconsciously giving myself a broad spectrum of landscapes, peoples and ideas from which to absorb my sense of belonging. As I was becoming something of an adult, the whole nation was celebrating Canada's nationhood in Centennial Year. The summer of 1967, canadians everywhere celebrated our Canadianess.

Toronto is an ever-changing city. I have deep roots in the soil, much of which now is hidden under mountains of concrete. I know where my great-grandfather grew his large family garden, where so many before me went to school and where all of them are buried. I know so many places that no longer exist. The old brown brick home, built for my great-grandfather and was my home for so long,was recently bulldozed down to provide a large space to build an impressive new dwelling supposedly better suited to a new era.

I would have thought  the demolition of important places to me, would have been traumatic. The reality, in a sense, makes things easier. The scenes are completely obliterated, so I can more easily project, with the inevitable quirks of my imagination, the pictures of other times.  Just as I  walk through the old Eaton's store on Queen St., stopping to rub the toe of the large, bronze statue of Timothy Eaton himself, I can stroll or stop in all the places my memory has collected.

I  still know the changing neighbourhoods with their parks, trees, churches shops, restaurants.

I was born into Toronto the Good. The Toronto with empty Sunday streets, where large department stores, curtained their windows to encourage city dwellers to keep their thoughts on higher things. Toronto was a city of churches. This did not necessarily make Toronto the good, but no doubt contributed to Toronto the dull. Liquor was a highly regulated with taverns, continuing into the 1960's, maintaining separate entrances for men and ladies with escorts. At one time, licences were required to  to purchase liquor.

Toronto was a bastion of Protestant thinking, whose strict rules of public deportment were imposed on all the citizens.

For decades and decades, the mayor of Toronto by tradition needed to be a member of The Orange Order.

However, all Mayors did not fit the same mold.

Sometimes the city was Toronto the Odd. Few know little of Charles Lance Miller, whose Will began the Great Stork Derby, leaving a sizeable sum of money to the mother who produced the most children in the decade after his death.

Mayor Philips became "The Mayor of All the People" in the 1960's. His Jewish faith broke the non-protestant barrier. Phillips Square at City Hall commemerates  his service.

David Crombie won the hearts of everyone, with his fight to save the neighbourhoods. At my polling station, a second ballot box had to be brought in to hold all the ballots. Against Crombie ran  Rik of the Universe and Rosie the Clown, (Vicky Gabereau), and a strong willed tea-totaller who wanted to return Toronto to the dry days

After amalgamation, "Bad Boy" Mel Lastman, a man everyone knew as a man wearing prison stripes,   brashly promoting his chain of appliance stores.

Mayor Rob Ford, the Great Toronto Joke, isn't all that funny, but he has brought world attention to this World Class City. Dull old Toronto is not so dull and Toronto the Good isn't always that good.

In a bizarre way, it looks good on the city. Away with the stuffiness.

Maritimers, along with most of the rest of the country, love to mock the city. A special disdain is held for the city's acceptance of help from the Army to keep open the hundreds of miles of city streets during "The Big Snow Storm". The fact is the city kept going. Public transportation chugged along, stores were open, the elevators still carried men and women up and down the high towers of commerce, the hospital doors were open, although the children of the city got an historic snow day, a pleasure unknown to many generations of Toronto students.

Sure big cities make big targets and many take aim with just cause, but I know that enough of the Good still beats in the heart of the Old Lady. Smugness looks ugly on all faces.

I guess I'll have to claim my citizenship in Toronto the Good, the Bad, the Odd and the Ugly.