Well, so much for the weatherman and his forecast for Sunshine in the Similkameen - the digital sun glowed on his weather map, promising a bright and energetic day.

But alas...we wakened to fog and frost.







About ten-thirty a frail, veiled sun momentarily broke through the clouds, and looked mournfully down at that silly woman hurrying to get a picture of Sunshine in the Similkameen....



Husband and I are sitting back to back in the computer room, sorting through drawers and disks.

A treasure, - we found a dozen or so glass magic lantern slides from his childhood, - held up to the window images of Winnie the Pooh and his friends, gamboling on a green meadow from long, long ago!

Growing old holds many pleasures, and memory has a favoured place....

To lift the gloom of mist and fog a trip to town this afternoon took me through a fairyland of frosted trees that reminded me of Narnia when the Ice Queen reigned, - perfectly splendid and perfectly romantic in an ethereal kind of way.

Finally, - a sunny day.



In the mornings the mist has been gathering along the Similkameen, rising skyward until it hid the hills. Above the low, thin cloud that shut off the light and brought an eerie gloom to the valley the sun shone brightly on the upper hills and over the passes. I thought about my prairie childhood, where the sky was blue, the snow glistened and crackled beneath your feet, and the sun cheered you along your way as you walked in the frosty air.

The quail that live in the big brush pile came regularly for wheat, making their way across the pasture, oblivious to the mists that swirled and intent only on breakfast.
The small birds hover above them pecking at the wild bird seed and spilling a few seeds for friends on the ground. They were joined by a redheaded woodpecker, not interested in the wheat, but pecking in the gravel of the roadway, free of snow.



The day started with a gentle pink flush...



Along the river the mists gathered and rose with the faint air currents.





By mid morning the trees were still frosty, but the hills were shining under a blue flax sky.



Caspar and I strolled leisurely, enjoying the the sun, - and he slipping and sliding on the ice at the side of the road that soon grew soft and mellow under the sun's rays.

When we arrived at the door he went along in and I dug a little pathway to the loom room trailer and went in and retrieved the table loom, - filled with enthusiasm to make some crib blankets for the little guys who will soon be having birthdays.

Tomorrow is supposed to bring more sunshine to the Similkameen.....

The Frailities of Memory

In the foreword to his Collected Stories Wallace Stegnor says of autobiography:

'I am not to be trusted with it. I hate the restrictiveness of facts. I can't control my impulse to rearrange, suppress, add, heighten, invent and improve. Accuracy means less to me than suggestiveness; my memory is as much an inventor as a recorder'.


And in his foreword to 'Trying to Save Piggy Sneed', an autobiography, John Irving writes:

'This is a memoir, but please understand that (to any writer with a good imagination) all memoirs are false. A fiction writer's memory is an especially imperfect provider of detail; we can always imagine a better detail than the one we can remember. The correct detail is rarely, exactly, what happened; the most truthful detail is what could have happened, or what should have. Half my life is an act of revision; more than half the act is performed with small changes.'

A few years ago I put together a small book of childhood memories as a genealogical effort. I was inspired by the excitement and satisfaction I had experienced whenever I found a tidbit about the life of one of the ancestors, and the yearning I felt to know more of the times they lived in, of their personalities, their passions, and the circumstances of their lives.

I tried very hard to write things as I remembered them; not to embellish or rearrange or invent. However, even then I was painfully aware that the integrity of our memories does not always bear up with those who have shared the same childhood experiences, and I have long been puzzled that memories of the same childhood experiences can be recalled positively by one person and unhappily by another.

Recent neurological research into the process by which the brain stores both working (short term) and long term memories are fascinating, but I have yet to read anything about the interpretation of the memory in respect to the way we receive it and the effect it has upon our lives.

Suzanne Warren, while a student at Bryn Mawr, expands upon the contents of a book 'The Society of Mind' written by Marvin Minsky, a philosopher and scientist and a leading expert on artificial intelligence. In this book he presents his conception of human intellectual structure and function, and defines memory as a holistic neural activity, involving many different areas and processes of the brain in an intricately choreographed dance. .

I have taken part in a U.K. online experiment to test Short Term Memory, and discovered the secrets of remembering small lists, and whether, when I pause on the landing, I can remember if I am going upstairs or downstairs.

But it is the secrets of Long Term memory that intrigue me.

I am sure that my childhood engendered unhappy memories, but it is the happy memories that are prevalent in my recall. Why is this so? I have a feeling that it is all caught up in the controversy regarding spiritualism/materialism and the argument concerning the existence of a Soul.

A great number of years ago I attended a class on creative writing, and was criticized for the lack of a counterpoint of laughter and tears, and of 'hurt' flowing through the pages of a project on childhood memories. Probably a very valid criticism when considering the quality and appeal of the writing, but I can remember at the time questioning my memory and searching for the hurt and tears which would have made my writing more acceptable.

I continue to be mystified by the relative qualities of our long term memory, and uncomfortable when I consider that the memories that are dear and familiar to me are not necessarily the plain unvarnished truth! When a tune, or a fragrance helps me to re-experience a moment from the past I would like to think that the happiness it engenders has some integrity!

Here is a picture from the past that makes me smile, an affectionate memory of a day of cousins that brings me pleasure.



Were we really that sunny, or were there small slights and hurts that happened that if I had been of a different disposition would darken the memory for me???

Nice that there is time to contemplate these questions.

And to discover more about Marvin Minsky. After a cursory perusal of his writing and his thoughts I am considering that Marvin Minsky has many theories to de-mystify the human experience. Is this good??? Well, probably quite splendid to a humanist.....

The rising sun caught the clouds,




and the quail came up from the meadow to breakfast alfresco in the mild morning air



a heavy mist rolled in from the south, but the sun worked his magic



and turned the fog to whipped cream clouds in a beautiful blue bowl




And all before ten o'clock this morning......

Amazing!

How go the Resolutions, Horatio!!!

The Resolve : to live a focused life...
a simpler life.
A cleaner life (that refers to my careless housekeeping)
and a more mindful life.. (translated: don't forget to take bags to the grocery store, - you will never be able to recycle all those plastic bags into doormats!)

Well, yesterday I took five cloth bags to the grocery store and felt immensely 'green' as I handed them across the counter. Virtuous, and pleased with myself.

When I came home and unloaded them, still feeling pure and Polly Anne-ish, I left them in an accessible place for next time shopping.

One swallow does not a summer make, and I can see I am going to have to nurture this habit before I can feel truly righteous.

For some time I have been examining the kitchen cupboards, the linen closet, the cobwebs on the ceiling, - all with my Company Eyes.

This morning, when Husband went singing (as a matter of fact I didn't hear him leave, I was so enthusiastically hauling things off the pantry shelves...) I planned to be doubly efficient. I would do the Pantry, which has been all higgeldy piggeldy for too many moons, and Roomba, the Christmas vacuum, would do the carpets....

I went to tell Ruumba the plans! She was plugged into her Port, but sadly, someone (Husband says it was the Cat) had knocked the electrical cord partly out of the wall, and instead of her green light shining at me all was quiet in Roomba Land. I plugged her in, and the orange charging light came on.

Nonplussed (well, fairly nonplussed) I returned to the Pantry while Roomba charged her batteries.

What amazing things I found tucked into corners and behind the front six inches which is the most active part of the Pantry shelves.... I threw things away, wiped down containers, found two jars of Mincemeat in addition to the one I bought this year. Every once in a while I would go and check on Roomba, but she seemed to be enjoying herself with the recharger, and was taking her time about getting ready for work.

Half way through I heard # 3 Son plowing the snow around the house. Once more into the breach, dear boy. Yesterday's snow piled another few inches on the road and it seems a never ending job to keep it clear.

I ran from window to window, and finally caught his eye to wave our thanks.

Eventually Roomba reluctantly turned on her green light and declared herself ready to work. I returned to the pantry while she scooted around and around the floor. The Dog found a safe spot out of her way. The Cat was terribly curious at first, and I thought she might jump on for a ride, but in a while she turned away in disdain and got up on the top of the couch to watch the quail eating under the bird-feeders.

I was through in the Pantry before Roomba had barely got started, so I had a shower, and when I came out I could hear her gentle hum, but couldn't see her, - until she came whizzing out from under the buffet.....

After a while she stopped, and when I went to investigate a pleasant voice politely asked me to check and clean Roomba's brushes, - which I did and soon she was back doing her cheerful merry-go-round act.

Time for Husband to come home from his morning outing, - I put the soup on to heat, - Roomba went back to her Port to rest, - every once in a while when I went past the Pantry I opened the door and glowed at the neat and tidy shelves.

A good morning's work, and that took care, momentarily, of the housekeeping Resolve.

I still have the Simpler life and the more Focused life to deal with, but I think that getting ancient eventually ordains that we shall not run around wildly doing myriad things that tire us out and distract us from the Mindfulness of life.

Had a nice nap this afternoon, and then Caspar and I went for a Simply lovely walk...
while the pleasures of a clean and tidy Pantry kept popping into my mind....



Perhaps I should just leave the door open so that I can be inspired about the Linen Closet, too.

I have heard it said that when Old Man Winter exhausted himself yesterday with his huffing and puffing and icy demeanor, picking up the drifts of snow and sliding them into great huge piles, and roaring around in wild exuberance while people snuggled deeper into scarves and pulled toques down around their ears, - I have heard it said that when he finally crept home in the wee small hours his Wife, the gentle breeze of summer, scolded him heartily and told him again about the virtues of making friends and influencing people with his many charms and virtues.

Therefore - today Old Man Winter was just a little shamefaced, and went around making up to all those he insulted yesterday. He charmed us all, - the sun shone, the birds sang, the clouds were white and soft. It got a little warmer and everybody's heart was stirred a little at what a sweetheart the Old Man can be...



...the weatherman says we will wake up to snow tomorrow........

A bitterly cold day. The snow swirls off the roof, and the little birds have abandoned the feeders in favour of shelter in the bushes..On the way home from church we saw a hawk, diving and circling with the tempetuous wind.

It reminded me of Hopkins' Windhover...

I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,

But more than that, the wintry landscape and the blowing snow gave me cause to reflect on the benign sweetness of a summer's day, the great, growing greenness and the lively vitality of the garden, the valley, the meadows, the hills, and the bright blue of the sky.

Close the curtains, poke up the fire, and come and join me in a little Summertime nostalgia. And a little light summery music by Django Reinhardt - does it make you want to jig down the garden path?

NEW YEAR'S DAY 2009

I sit idly watching the snow, - once again.... It is calm, - the flakes drift straight from heaven, restoring the pristine beauty of a snowy landscape and foiling the efforts of those who labor to keep the roads in passably good shape.

While the snow was still fine Caspar and I went walking, he keeping to the plowed paths on the road after being rebuffed in his blindness by the stacked snow that lines the lane. When we came back up the road he scooted in to have his sweater taken off, and I made a little path to the bird feeders with sunflower and seed supplies.

Instant response, - by the time I was in the house the word was out, and a flock of little birds came calling.



I watched them, on this first day of the New Year, and thought about their brief lives, and then about the relevance of Time and the moments and the months and the years we live.

Our bodies are inclined to betray us. We hope that our minds grow into some semblance of wisdom. But our spirits remain the same - it seems the years have no dominion over them and we are the same today as we were when young. This is some kind of a miracle? When I was twenty-two, thirty seemed the end of youth, and when I was forty-two, sixty seemed the acme of enjoyable old age. Now that I will be eighty-four (tomorrow) I feel young and exuberant when I think about dear friends of ninety-three, and I am filled with plans for the next ten years. It is all relative - there is no general Truth to apply to any particular time of our lives.

Nevertheless, if we are hopeful of extending our time here, I am slowly accepting the fact that it is important to respect our energies, and to govern our day to day lives by what they will allow.

That is probably my first and most important resolve on this Day of Resolutions, - to remind my Ego of the priorities I have to home and loved ones.

In a way the process of withdrawal comes naturally. If I imagine the family as a wide circle there was always a small ring at the centre where Parents resided. Now, I find that small ring has drifted further and further towards the periphery of the circle. And has even, perhaps, shown signs of translucence, as the ring parts a little where a path wanders off. A slow realization that we are approaching the station for a journey which inevitably must be made alone.

In the meantime there is so much beauty to absorb, so much gardening to enjoy, so many meals to share, so much music to listen to, so many fragrances to surround ourselves with, so many books to read, so many things to talk about, (so many socks to knit...) I see Time stretching far into the distance and I know that if we maintain our health and keep our wits about us the years will continue to be happy, and positive, and full of joy.

Christmas Blessings

And here, at home......

On Christmas Eve, enjoying Oyster Stew......



The little old dog, still interested in Christmas toys, with tail high and a little swagger!



Mama, and the Star of the Christmas Show



Playing second lead, - a deer festooned...


a granddaughter home with family...



and a sumptuous table...



Small ordinary blessings, dearly treasured!

The Last Sunday in Advent

A fresh fall of snow and Caspar and I made new footprints as we investigated the early morning garden - the round flowers of the sedum carrying jaunty hats and the roofs of the birdhouses looking very alpine and Christmassy.

I took my white bell playing gloves to church and our Handbell ringers played the Angelus for a Prelude.

Part way through the opening hymn I looked up from the organ and my heart gave a nice comfortable little thump when I spied our 'furthest away' son and his Dear Wife, home for Christmas and sitting with Husband in the back row.

It was a lovely, musical service with bell music throughout - the sermon was fitting and thoughtful, musing on Mary's bravery and generosity in accepting the task the Angel brought her to fulfil. When we sang the last hymn I could hear those dear familiar male voices singing lustily from the back row.

When one gets ancient all time spent with family is precious, and so lunch and tea and an afternoon of visiting and listening to #1 son's wonderfully strong left hand accompaniment to the carols he played, brought us a lot of joy and love, (which is what the fourth Sunday in Advent is all about).
The day had a nice plus with a quick visit from Katie and Will, bearing gifts to and fro.....

I look forward to the next three days, without any commitments and free for us to prepare leisurely for Christmas Eve - a little bit of baking still to do, a scarf half knit, a batch of peanut brittle to make, a few presents still to wrap, but all to the glorious fragrances of Christmas and the sounds of carols and BoneyM.

A Trip to the City

Over the hill and into the Okanagan on the last day before the Big Snow!



Similkameen ranch lands



A frosty forest beside the road to Yellow Lake.



The water shimmers as a skim of ice declares itself....



We round the corner, past the golf course where the camera catches the bright sun and the sparkle of the snow......



through Marron Valley and up the hill where we catch sight of lazy clouds floating above Okanagan Lake.



Beneath the clouds the lake is alive with puffs of steam..





And on the summery beach a light skiff of snow makes promises for a white Christmas.



We shop! What a bewildering array of gifts, - some beautiful scarlet faux flower decorations catch my eye - and so does the price! I put them back reluctantly and keep looking for presents...

We make a false start home, - have to go back to M & M's and to the Hearing Man. Eventually we turn down the beach road and up the hill. At the turnoff to the Similkameen I catch a nice picture of the hills where, in the springtime, I watch for black-eyed Susans.



As we turn the corner to go up Roadhouse Hill I loosen my boots, stretch my poor shopworn feet, put the camera back in my purse and go into nodding mode!

It was a lovely day to go to town......

He who has gone, so we but cherish his memory, abides with us, more potent, nay, more present than the living man.
   Antoine de Saint-Exupery


The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.
Cicero (Marcus Tullius Cicero)


I have been thinking a lot lately, - about life, about the glorious living of it, about life after, and about how long this life is perpetuated by those of us who remember, and those of us who care enough to preserve...

These thoughts first arose as I recalled my father on the 110th anniversary of his birth. All the small and intimate bits of knowledge that I have about him are in danger of being forgotten unless I can somehow convey them to those who will will live after me, and to those who have even a small portion of the love I felt/feel for him.

These thoughts were flitting through my mind as I prepared to do some baking for Christmas. I laid out the book of Small Town Secrets that the church ladies put together a few years back. After the submitted recipes and before the Hints and Tips, there is a section devoted to Nostalgia. Recipes that were copied from a book prepared by another generation of ladies who took pride in 'starting from scratch' and producing the lightest and the best!!

I came across Lucille Beecroft's recipe for Lemon Cheese for Tarts, and I remembered how perfectly top notch it was, - and then I remembered Lucille's small home, and the women she played bridge with - Margaret and Glady's and Agnes. All dear friends who are probably carrying on their game at some ethereal table. I smiled inside, and they were all alive for me again, - women I have loved.

Lemon Cheese for Tarts Lucille Beecroft

6 eggs, well beaten
2 cups sugar
1/2 cup lemon juice
1/4 cup butter

Mix well together and cook in a double boiler until thick. Makes about 1 quart.


Margaret Ritchie's Welsh Cakes

2 cups sifted flour
1/2 cup granulated sugar
3 tsps baking powder
pinch salt
1/2 cup butter
1 1/4 cups currants softened in water and patted dry
2 eggs beaten
1 tsp vanilla

Mix dry ingredients and sift. Cut in butter to a coarse meal. Stir in beaten eggs and flavouring with a fork, making a soft dough. Knead 10 to 12 times. Roll out 1/3 inch thick.
Cut with cookie cutter and fry in electric fry pan (ungreased) at 340-360 degrees F - five to six moments each side. Serve buttered, with jelly or jam or cream cheese.

Margaret, with whom I have devoured these marvelous creations and who taught me that 'things will always be someway' - who was generous and kind and a friend our children loved. No problem passing on that love to future generations.

In my genealogy I came across a great-great Aunt, and the story told about her was that in the spring of the year she painted her front door yellow. And that she was the matriarch of a family called the 'Clean Clines'. And that her passion for cleaning fostered a love of the outdoors in her husband. Now I do not share that passion, but I know people whom I have loved who did/do, and so it is not hard for me to feel a certain wry fondness for this great-great Aunt of mine.

And as she is remembered with affection so does she live on???

Above the recipe for Lemon Cheese for Tarts is a recipe for Cheese Moons such as my pseudo Aunt Molly used to make. I remembered my mother telling me that if I wanted to learn how to iron with style I should get Molly to teach me. How do I convey to others an appreciation for this skill she had, her special friendship with my mother, the essence of her 1930's home? Who do I tell who will keep this memory alive?

Just musings......

Perhaps tomorrow I will make some Welsh Cakes. The grandchildren love them, and it would be nice to have Margaret's spirit close for Christmas.

In memory of a kindly, loving, gentle Dad

Cline Thompson
Born December 13th 1898 in Roxborough County, Ontario
Died July 27th, 1970 in Edmonton, Alberta

Cline served in the First World War and was wounded at Cambrai, October 11th, 1918



After a year's recuperation he returned home to Calgary.

And then he met our mother, Dolly!



They were married on Christmas Day, 1923.....

And in the years that followed the memories they created for my sister and myself, and the devotion they felt for each other, have lingered with us and set a standard that has influenced our own lives, and those of our children, and our children's children, and their children after them.....

The past cannot be forgotten while memory lasts and love preserves.
Janette Hospital

Early in the morning. The pure fresh snow that lifted my spirits and brought sheer delight to the little dog when we set off on our walk. He has a passion for eating snow, - I have a passion for the memories of snowy Christmases on the prairies, - the nostalgia for simpler times.

I struggle to keep focused on the deepest meaning of Advent, - the waiting, the anticipation and the preparation of the heart. I seem to fail miserably as I try to keep up with Christmas Past, when my energy was boundless and baking and wrapping and planning for the celebration filled me with enthusiasm.

I remember Christmases when things were much simpler. I remember when we didn't have the means to multi gift. In the early '60's we made toy soldiers out of detergent bottles, and knightly swords and shields from scraps of wood. The children were thrilled with them and the time we spent making them with dear friends added to the love and closeness of Christmas.

I am reminded of the need to be meaningful about every thing I do, and to keep my heart (and my disposition) sweet and loving, and patient.......

Check in after all the parcels are mailed and I'll let you know how things are progressing, - heartwise...

Well, now that one can take a long breath of relief after the ridiculously insane Federal developments in Canada it is time once again to enjoy December.

We woke to a nippy morning, and even though the sun came out and shone its mighty heart through the windows, illuminating every bit of dust that had been hiding in the gloom of November the frosty day remained a reminder that Christmas is near.

Tonight I have a Scottish Fruit Cake in the oven - filling the house with that lovely scent of Christmas - it needs only the smell of the pine to mingle with it and bring the feeling of Christmas even closer.

At noon, the first of the Christmas luncheons, - this one to express our great appreciation for the volunteers who come and help us in the Church thrift shop.



Husband's calendar is full of singing dates with the Senior Group whose members warble for fun, and are available to entertain all sorts and conditions of merry makers at Christmas and through the year.

I have been playing 'Christmas with BoneyM' at every opportunity. 'Daughters of Zion' and 'When a Child is Born' make me a little giddy with plans for Christmas that are now beyond me. But at the end the gloriously happy strains of 'Joy to the World' just touch my heart and bring the most contented smile to my face. It has such incredible joyous energy!

I have been shopping, - the ribbons and bags and tissue paper are all organized, - the Christmas letter is written and awaits the added notes of love and friendship.

At Handbell practice all our pieces are sweet old carols,in deference to our new players, - but in church on Sunday I play some of the beautiful new winter and Advent carols as a prelude.

It is a simply a splendid and absolutely satisfying time of year for old romantics like me!!!!

And now the timer bell tells me the cake has been in the oven for two hours and I'm off to find a tooth pick to test it.

Advent - the Season of Preparation and of Anticipation. (http:\\fullhomelydivinity.org/articles/advent.htm )

The Season of Actively making a warm place in our hearts for the sweet Child who is coming.

I ponder on the Advent candles of Hope and Love and Joy and Peace and look for ways to be mindful of incorporating these Advent blessings into all the busy things that lie between me and Christmas Eve.



I remember a homemade Advent candle holder, a pine branch, with holes drilled in it that sat on the dinner table each Advent Sunday for all the years the children were at home.

The children took turns reading the Advent prayer and lighting the candles, and in a mother's hopeful effort to promote hope and love and joy and peace all through the week each child drew the secret name of another with the promise of doing some small good deed for that sibling each day, cheerfully and without a lot of fanfare!!!

I was never sure if the end results met with my hopes, but at least the seed was planted.

There was an Advent Calendar on the wall and the children counted down the days until Christmas with small doors that when opened displayed pictures of the nativity story, until at last, on Christmas Eve, the angels sang, the shepherds and the little lambs, the cows and the other animals knelt in adoration.



It is almost impossible to find an Advent Calendar now that doesn't promise treats behind each evening's door, - Santa and the Elves go gaily about their business and the true meaning of Advent, the preparation in our lives for the miracle of the Birth, is lost.

Or perhaps in some ways the mystery has disappeared, but the power of love remains in the community turkey dinners, the Christmas hampers, the gifts of sheep or hens or cows to those in needy countries, the many active ways that Hope and Love and Joy and Peace are distributed in the spirit of the Christ Child.

It is a comforting thought....

Sunday we will sing the old, familiar Magnificat, and in the following Advent Sundays perhaps a few discreet Winter Carols will creep into the music that sits on the organ. A way of spreading Joy and Love in the face of Tradition.

Advent Song
Lady, what songs are bending
The tall grasses of your mind,
What secret music whispers down your veins,
What wax-leaf ponderings, O Virgin Mary,
Waken our little shouts of expectation?
Our thoughts have lumbered down a treeless highway,
Have sputtered their heavy loftiness, have wept
Their protest. Now we hear the distant birdcall
Oh, dimly! but the woods have heard it well.
The stars are singing in their stupefaction,
The giddy little hills are clapping hands.
But Lady, what songs sway
The supple grasses of your thoughts,
What secret music whispers down your veins?
Glorious things are said about this city
Where the small citizen Christ moves in the lanes
Of so-brief arteried comfort; but what songs
Drift through this templed alabaster town?
We see the windows lighted, Virgin Mary,
City of God, by every hymn we raise
With chipped and broken voices, and our feeble
Vision guesses sacred silhouettes.
But when the little Seed fell in the furrow,
The warm and spotless furrow of your heart,
Tell us what pure songs stirred your delicate wonder,
What secret music whispered down your veins.

Mother Mary Francis, P.C.C. [late Abbess of the Colettine Poor Clare monastery in Roswell, New Mexico]

He addressed Charlie in Scots. "Whisht now, barn. Dinnae greet." Hush, child. Don't cry.
Charlie was calmed.
"You see?" said Jamie.
They drove off, in the green Swedish car, with the castle towering above them, and above that a sky from which the clouds had drawn back to reveal an attenuated blue, cold and pure.

And as I came to the end of the chapter I laid the book on my chest, closed my eyes, and with a smile on my face drifted off to sleep, contemplating what comforting pleasure it was to read Alexander McCall Smith.

I had worked all morning, baking and packaging the results for the Christmas Bazaar. Baking is not the snap it once was, say twenty years ago. It takes a little more concentration, and after a while my back aches a bit, and my legs complain bitterly.



But now it was done - lunch was over and it was time for a little rest. The small dog came alongside the couch, appealing to be lifted up. It is only in the last two weeks he has not been able to manage the small stool and then the step up to the couch. We have reached the same stage in life, and so I have a great understanding of his needs - I circle my arms around his back legs and his chest so that he feels secure and lift him tenderly up beside me. He snuggles into a pillow, and I pick up my book to lull me to sleep.

I napped a little, but then the wind came up, tearing around the house in wild abandon, and rattling the chimes and the hanging pots on the deck. It woke me, and so I read the last chapter of the book - 'The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday' - reluctantly. I hate to come to the end of a McCall Smith book, - it means I have to wait for the next one to be written.... His stories are so civilized, and his humour so wry and gentle. There is an enduring goodness underlying his writing, - his characters are not saints, but they recognize their failings and feel morally responsible for them. A sense of responsibility! It seems to be a quality that is diminishing, one that has lost its importance in keeping us clear of the jungle.

Well, before I take the book back to the library I will have the delight of reading once again the pages that I have marked with little slips of paper, lengths of wool or old grocery slips. And admiring once again Isabel's spirit, the quality of her life, and McCall Smith's unexpected twists and turns in the telling of this story.

The Autumn Skies

Some years the autumn skies are wild. The sun comes up in a blaze of glory, shattering the dawn with gorgeous luminous shades of gold and scarlet. And in the evening the clouds appear to be reflecting a burning global fire that sets the whole world alight with wild, bold colours.





This year has been mild, and the skies benign. October was dry, - no storms to stir the clouds. The days were quiet and the valley bathed in gold as November approached.

And then their was the time of steady rain when the gardens drank gratefully, and the sky was lowering and gloomy, - no sun to touch the sulking clouds and brighten their spirits.

Eventually November slipped into a less sombre mood, and here is Saturday's splendid sunrise.



And Sunday's more subdued and pastel daybreak.



Before the show Casper and I went walking in the half light where the leaves and the orchard grasses glowed softly and spread a special kind of beauty to begin the day.