A happy reunion.....

A short sweet visit from an old friend today.

I met Norma when we started a business course at the McTavish Business School in Edmonton, where we both learned to be avid secretary material.

We were immediate friends - kindred spirits who spent many happy hours together,  walking, shopping, biking, - lunch hours spent poring over cards and linens and china, all part of our romantic dreams..... holidays at the lake, carefree times, a

perfect friendship, on the cusp of being young wives and mothers.

We were on one of our famous pork chop-fried potatoes-niblets-and-a-quart-of-milk hikes the day we met Charles, down by the river.

So many endearing and enduring memories of those few short years before we both got married and our lives took different paths.

Norma was one of my bridesmaids, and was married just a few months after when Bud,

her fiancé, was released from a prisoner of war camp

 where he had been held after his plane went down.

Bud stayed in the Airforce and their life was one of travel and adventure,

while we stayed home and farmed,

but we always kept in touch -

 saw each other when we could and stayed close in heart.

And here we are - near to ninety, still friends, still young at heart.

 still with some traces of awe and wonder.

Once again (poignantly) waiting to be re-united with our men.

(if that is the way things are...)

ABC Wednesday

The letter is I

The word is Idleness

The internet abounds with quotations of famous people who deride the very idea of Idleness, presenting it as the work of the Devil and a sure road to Hell on a Handcart.

 

I quote excerpts from Isaac Watts "Against Idleness and Mischief"

 

"How doth the little busy Bee improve each shining Hour and gather Honey all the day from every opening flower!

....................

 

In Works of Labour or of Skill I would be busy too: For Satan finds some Mischief still

for idle hands to do."

But I, thinking of the pleasure and values of meditation, and delightful hours spent in the shade of a rustling tree reading a good book; of an empty mind, open to receive inspiration, I was on the

lookout for words of Praise for Idleness.

 

 

 

Here is what I found from Sir John Lubbock

 

"Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes

on the grass, under the trees, on a summer's day

listening to the murmur of water

or watching the clouds float across the sky

is by no means a waste of time"

 

And Robert Louis Stevenson, as well, came to the defense of Idleness

 

"Extreme busyness is a symptom of deficient vitality,

and a faculty for idleness implies an appetite

and a strong sense of personal identity"

 

Virginia Woolf supports my theory that the empty mind  is fertile ground

for whatever grand ideas may be floating around, ethereally

 

"It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top".

 

and from more ancient times....

 

"Besides the noble art of getting things done there is the noble art of leaving things undone.

The wisdom of life consists in the elimination of non-essentials".

 

Lin Yutang, with a suggestion of Occam's Razor

 

For more I Interpretations visit here, at ABC Wednesday

with thanks to Denise, Roger and all non-idle helpers.....

Monday morning

Monday morning, and I was awake very early. planning the day.  It was in my mind to go and survey the hill garden, - maybe to cut back the roses and tame the sweet peas, and see what was left in the trailer cum studio that I could store or give away.  I packed up my garden gloves, the small shovel Charles bought me, a long sleeved shirt, my clippers and my boots.....

 

But first I had to put some pictures of yesterday's all day moving event on a thumb  (getting the garden shed down from Dot and Frank's to the garden across the alley) and take it to my daughter.

Last week was shaded with portents of autumn - cloudy days, stormy nights and deliciously cool air.

 

So yesterday I made a large batch of soup. The comforting kind on fresh fall days....

 

Today the thermometer registered 30 degrees centigrade at eight o'clock in the morning!

By the time I had visited with my daughter and inspected all the things that she has to move, but more importantly all the things that came out of the garden shed that have to go back in to it, it just made me so weary......and hot!  I turned to town when I left, - stopped at the store for milk and Callie's treats and came home to find refuge from the sun and this last great outburst of SUMMER!

"Lord, it is time.  The summer was very big. 

Lay thy shadow on the sundials, and on the meadows let the winds go loose. 

Command the last fruits that they shall be full;  give them another two more southerly days,

press them on to fulfillment

 and drive the last sweetness into the heavenly wine."

 

Rainer Maria Rilke

 

All my gardening paraphernalia is still in the back of the SUV - perhaps this evening will be cooler.

 

If not, there is always tomorrow.....

 

In the orchards the apples are ripe for harvesting

 

Arthur John Elsley

 

and the memories are sweet.

 

Time for a bowl of that warm comforting soup!!

 

 

In the night ........

 

 

 

 

The Thunder roared

The Lightning flashed

and all the world was shaken.

The little pig curled up his tail
 

and ran to save his bacon!

 

Did anyone ever write this verse in your autograph book?

 

Did you ever have an autograph book, or were autograph books

a phenomenon special to the first half of the last century,

and did their popularity fade away with modern times

and the coming of television and other ways of entertainment

that require no creativity.

 

I have my Aunt Hildred's autograph book(s), circa 1920

and in one of them my mother wrote

 

"Friendship is a golden tie

that binds our hearts together

and if you never break that tie

We will be friends forever".

 

 

but I digress......

 

This post is really about the thunder and the lightning that wakened me last night

with such a shattering, earthshaking, earsplitting clap

that I felt as if I were about to be lifted from my bed

and transported through the window and up into the heavens

where all the noise and commotion and fireworks were taking place. 

 

Advanced warning had cautioned me to turn off the computers,

but I should have left the bedroom door open for Callie

to find refuge under the duvet at my feet....

 

I rose to go and look for her, but she was not visible.
Under the couch ?   Behind the piano?
I called, but no response.
However, as I turned to go back into the bedroom
a very frightened cat hurried past me,
hurtled through the air, diving under the duvet,
and we both spent the rest of the night with our eyes tightly closed
awaiting the next thunderous roar.

Eventually the storm passed,  the skies lightened with the dawn
and the thunder was only a long, low grumble,
and we both slept......

As to any pigs that were out and about, I presume
they found refuge somewhere where their bacon was safe.



September comes to the garden

Out in the garden this morning to pick the raspberries, and I am reminded that the grass I cut just a few short days ago (or should I say 'harvested' - it was more like a haying operation) - well, anyway, the grass that I cut just a few short days ago has responded just like a child's haircut and immediately gathered green energy, enough to suggest another trimming!

As I whirred along the side lawn I found the grass around the hazel nut tree heavy with petticoat covered nuts.  I didn't run in to get the camera, but when I had finished mowing and was resting and looking around the garden, it was plain to me that September had arrived, with cooler weather and a lovely flush of roses.....

 

"For man, autumn is a time of harvest, of gathering together. 

 For nature it is a time of sowing, of scattering abroad".   

 Edward Way Teale

 

Here is Mister Lincoln, top hatted in a gorgeous velvety chapeau.

 

and his companion, Abraham Darby

 

both fine and well respected gentlemen

who have lent their names to what

I consider to be among the most

beautiful of roses.

 

 

The ramblers along the side fence have been blooming for a week or so

and I have had to prune back their wandering branches

that used to reach out and catch Charles as he went by in his cart,

causing no end of consternation!!!

 

 

Mainly the garden is shades of yellow and orange - sunflowers, rudbeckia, yellow daisies,

Chinese lanterns, barn flowers,

 

 

 

 

 

 but the Rose of Sharon, a first year Foxglove, blooming late,  and some autumn Crocus join the last of the phlox and the porch pots in adding pinks and whites to the mix.

 

 

 

 

When I had finished cutting the small lawns I contemplated the little portion that lies between the compost corner and the pussy willow tree, and I envisioned the peonies, the iris and the poppies from the garden on the hill, moved down and comfortably ensconced in all their lovely glory.

 

Who will turn the sod? 

 

 And have I enough compost to make a comfortable bed for them???

 

I ponder, as now is the time to move them!!!!!

 

Oh, it's always something,  I can hear Charles saying.........but he loved the garden too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

ABC Wednesday

September 3rd, 2013

The letter is H and it stands for Seamus Heaney

 

In Memory

 

Noli timere

 

Postscript

 

And some time make the time to drive out west

Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,

In September, or October, when the wind

And the light are working off each other

So that the ocean on one side is wild

With foam and glitter, and inland among stones

The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit

By the earthed lightening of a flock of swans,

Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,

Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads

Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.

Useless to think you'll park or capture it

More thoroughly.  You are neither here nor there,

A hurry through which known and strange things pass

As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways

And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.

 

Seamus Heaney

 

 

For more interpretations of the letter H click here, at ABC Wednesday

with many thanks to Denise, Roger and all Helpers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A day in the life of.....

Here I am, devoid of any inspiration, but it has been a good day!

 

I wakened early and as I came in to the kitchen, with Callie brushing against my ankles in anticipation of her morning kibbles, I caught the faintest glimpse of pink through the branches that screen the west window.  It is not often that I catch a sunrise, enveloped as I am in greenery and garden and neighbouring houses. 

 

Will it still be there while I dress?  No, of course not  - it is only the faintest pink, not a full blown production with scarlet and fiery orange and deep rose, and perhaps a dash of purple.  Hesitation will only bring with it disappointment.....  Slippers and robe will have to do.

 

There, in the east, delicate wisps and ripples, and the last silver crescent of the old moon. 

 

I feel somewhat blest, and stay to take a few more pictures of the sunflowers.

 

 

 

and Callie, who turns to look at me with her green eyes questioning this early morning romp.

After I have dressed I step out on to the front porch

 and discover the pink clouds have turned to silver,

 

 

and I am absolutely enchanted!!!

 

After coffee and a chat with my loving and faithful daughter, who comes each morning on her way to work, I do up the dishes, visit for a bit on Skype with my youngest son in the Chilcotin,

feel even more blest, and gather up the cake I am taking as my contribution

to a funeral reception.

 

Then it is off to the library where I spend an inordinately long time looking at DVDs

to help pass the long evenings, and searching the knitting and weaving shelves.

 

I come home with a knitting book featuring scarves, shrugs and shawls,

three DVDs, Jean Thompson's "The Year we left Home". Mark Steyn's "After America"

(which I expect will depress me)

and a book by a local Okanagan author and piano restorer,   Marinum J. van Prattenburg -

"Mr. Sebastian - the life story of a mid-nineteenth century grand piano".

 

I arrive just in time to click on the Berlin Philharmoniker Digital Concert Hall

to listen to the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra under the direction of

Manfred Honock in the opening concert of Musikfest Berlin 2013.

 

The program features Witold  Luteslawski's Chain 11 with

Anna-Sophie Mutter as guest soloist.   Beautiful!!!

The quiet conversations between violin and orchestra and violin and piano were charming.

And they had two encores,  - the last one being the Last Waltz from

Richard Strauss'  der Rozenkavalier. 

I sighed and went to have lunch....

 

In the afternoon I cut the back lawn which was at least nine inches high!!!

It called for a scythe, I think.

 

And then I rested, and looked at some pictures of early

days which I am adding to a digital album in memory of my darling -

and after a while I had my supper.

 . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 

I am reading, - randomly - essays by Chris Arthur from his book entitled

"Irish Nocturnes"

They are absorbing and intriguing and his words,

and the way he puts them together, fascinate and delight me.

 

Off to make some hot chocolate and explore this lovely treasure of books,

and when I go to bed I will say White Rabbits last thing so the

thought will be with me in the morning, the first day of September.

 

 

 

 

 

 

ABC Wednesday
August 28th, 2013

The letter is G  for GRASSHOPPER

(The Grasshopper Poem)

The Summer Day

 

Mary Oliver

 

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean -

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down -

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down to the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

 

For more interpretations of the letter G hop on over to ABC Wednesday, here,

with thanks to Denise and Roger and all their hoppy helpers.

A problem with the Ego

I have this little problem with my Ego - not my personal Ego.  This is a generational Ego, and it can be just as bothersome as the personal kind, which I try very hard to keep under control.

It happened this way.....

I am in the Bargain Centre yesterday, helping in my own small way which usually consists of straightening racks, clearing off empty hangers and trying to make things look less like a Bargain Centre and more like the 7th Avenue Boutique  (which is how it is advertised).

The volunteers are chatting as they work, and the subject is Food, which is a nice change from politics, church and otherwise.

One lady declares 'Betty Boop' makes the very best lemon tarts of anybody in this town!!!!

My ears perk up.  I know this is not true!!!  Joan, my dearest friend, makes the best lemon tarts of anybody in this town, with her wonderful shortbread pastry and the sweet-tart creamy filling that melts in your mouth.  Everybody know she starts in November to fill the demand for Christmas gifts, Bazaars, thank you presents to the postman, teachers and anyone else who has done her a kindness during the year.  My children compare the delight of her lemon tarts to the beauty of her rendition of O Holy Night each Christmas Eve, when they were small.

But Joan died a year ago in April.  So then I go farther back in my memory, to the years when we were first married and Lucille Beecroft made the most amazing lemon tarts in her tiny farm kitchen.

I am thinking about all of this while I have my first cup of coffee, and I am shamefaced that I had considered making lemon tarts for a tea we are having to say farewell to another old timer using Shirriffs'  Original Lemon Pie Mix!!!

My conscience and my generational pride get the better of me, and I determine to go all the way back and use Lucille's recipe.

I reach for the Church cookbook that we put together for a fundraiser, and turn to the Nostalgia section.

I decide to do this the old fashioned way, and find my double boiler and my hand beater, just as Lucille would have done.

I check the egg supply, - there are six in the carton.  I had planned to poach one for breakfast, but I have a leftover piece of quiche, instead, so I won't take the chance of jinxing the lemon curd.

 And yes, there are enough lemons........


It is such a simple recipe - you just mix all the ingredients well in the double boiler, heat them gently and stir religiously until this lovely lemony liquid begins to thicken.


When it is done I pour it into jars, being careful
not to be too circumspect in getting all the delicate curd out of the pan......

I anticipate licking the spoon and cleaning out the pan myself, with the stirring spoon!!!

I go and find my nicest jar, which Lucille and Joan's best ever lemon curd deserves, and I feel
satisfied and content with having remembered their kitchen talents, and ready to acknowledge that 'Betty Boop' might be the best current lemon tart maker in this whole town...but she has high standards that will stretch her culinary accomplishments.....that's my Generational Ego talking!

Here is Lucille's recipe, as written in 'The Secrets of a Small Town'.  Simple and spare, but absolutely delicious......

ABC Wednesday

August 21st

The Letter is F, for Robert Frost

The Flower Boat

 

Robert Frost

 

The fisherman's swapping a yarn for a yarn

Under the hand of the village barber,

And there in the angle of house and barn

His deep sea dory has found a harbor.

 

At anchor she rides the sunny sod

As full to the gunnel of flowers growing

As ever she turned her home with cod

From George's bank when winds were blowing.

 

And I judge from that elysian freight

That all they ask is rougher weather,

And dory and master will sail by fate

To seek the Happy Isles together.

 

For more happy F's sail on over to ABC Wednesday here, with thanks

to Denise, to Roger and to all Fair helpers.

Early morning in the garden

A lovely cool breeze this morning, carrying with it that first faint scent of autumn.

 

I take my first cup of coffee into the back garden, with Callie following, and the night fragrance of the nicotinia still lingers in the air as I brush past the pure white blooms. 

And the one stalk of evening primrose that grew in the pot where a great clump were meant to be!

We take what we gets and be grateful!

The clouds along the rim of the hills are long and low and the sun shines bright on the willows

that grow in the length of the underground stream that runs along the bottom of the benchland.

 

 

It is Sunflower time again - a gay portend of September and the opening of the
Sunflower Breakfast Bar for the small birds that remain in the valley.

 

The clouds above radiate from the East

 and a particularly ambitious sunflower towers above it's neighbours, thinking to reach into the clouds, I do believe!

 

 

The Mountain Ash is turning autumn orange

 

 Mister Lincoln is well into his second flush,

and bears a few more buds, as does the Abraham Darby

 

I gather a few second crop raspberries, just enough to make the breakfast cereal a treat

 

 

 

And Callie and I go in to start the day in earnest, - Monday, in what promises to be a busy week, and being busy is good for my grateful soul. 

A poem for August

 

August Morning

It’s ripe, the melon
by our sink. Yellow,
bee-bitten, soft, it perfumes
the house too sweetly.
At five I wake, the air
mournful in its quiet.
My wife’s eyes swim calmly
under their lids, her mouth and jaw
relaxed, different.
What is happening in the silence
of this house? Curtains
hang heavily from their rods.
Ficus leaves tremble
at my footsteps. Yet
the colors outside are perfect—
orange geranium, blue lobelia.
I wander from room to room
like a man in a museum:
wife, children, books, flowers,
melon. Such still air. Soon
the mid-morning breeze will float in
like tepid water, then hot.
How do I start this day,
I who am unsure
of how my life has happened
or how to proceed
amid this warm and steady sweetness?

Albert Garcia

E is for Effie Gray

ABC Wednesday
August 14th, 2013

The letter is E

The choice is Effie Gray

Effie Gray, painted by Thomas Richmond

 

I came to Ruskin early in my reading life but somehow, now, I have just discovered his wife,

Euphemia Chalmers Gray

 

Born in Perth, Scotland, she lived in Bowerswell, where her family was acquainted

with John Ruskin's father, and between them they encouraged a match between the two.

 

They were married in 1848, and Google says "their different temperaments soon caused problems

 as she was naturally outgoing and flirtatious,

coming to feel oppressed by her husband's dogmatic personality".

 

However, the facts are that Effie left her husband after five years,

without the marriage being consummated,

 and after the annulment of the marriage, married her husband's protégé, the painter, John Millais.

 

This famous Victorian 'love triangle' has been dramatized in plays, films and an opera

(so how did I miss it!!!!)

 

A new movie on the subject, entitled "Effie" and directed by Richard Laxton, is to be

released in October, 2013.  The script is by Emma Thompson.

 

Another Emma has also written a short story about Ruskin and Gray's

wedding night, entitled 'Come, Gentle Night' ,
to be found in Emma Donoghue's  book of short stories

'The Woman Who Gave Birth to Rabbits"

 

Effie went on to have eight children and led a presumably happy family life with John Millais,
 even though the scandal of the annulment from Ruskin
 barred her from some social functions, and she

was not allowed in the presence of Queen Victoria!

 

Oh well............

 

For more interpretations of the letter E visit here at ABC Wednesday

and give thanks to Denise Nesbitt, Roger Green and all who help in maintaining

this great meme.

 

 

 



Saturday evening music

 

 

Friends very kindly took me to a lovely evening concert on the grounds

of the Grist Mill in Keremeos, - as a matter of fact the two performers from Silk Road

in North Vancouver played beautifully

in the outdoor kitchen used for demonstrations 

to an audience gathered under a huge and magnificent chestnut tree, sitting

on blankets or lawn chairs brought from home.

 

 

 

 

Two local wineries provided refreshment, and it was a lovely gathering

of mixed generations, - ancients as well as many of my children's peers, who

appear suddenly greying, middle-aged but still full of memories

of growing up on the Cawston Bench.

 

I can only give you a link to a small partial video of their performance

of a Turkish melody, but I hope you will enjoy it.

<iframe width="640" height="360" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/DU1e1Xo5zWA?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>

 

I have seen these two great performers in more sophisticated settings but

they played just as enthusiastically under the chestnut tree,

a wonderful eclectic mixture of Celtic, Asian and Folk music.

 

Such a satisfying event!