Another photo run...

 

 

A glorious day, again!

 

 

After a morning spent in the Berlin Philharmonic Digital Concert Hall, watching and listening to a most beautiful presentation of Bach's St. Matthew's Passion I had a quick bowl of chicken soup for lunch and was then drawn outside by the sunshine and the geraniums that I have been meaning to bring indoors before we have a frost that decimates the blossoms.

 

Yesterday I raked up all the leaves that had fallen on the front lawn and filled one large bag. 

Then I cut the lawn and everything looked so tidy.  Of course, overnight the tree released another bagful, but that's alright - I take everything in moderation these days so I will work in tandem with the tree and fill my bags in accordance with its whims. 

 

The leaves fall patiently

Nothing remembers or grieves

The river takes to the sea

The yellow drift of leaves

Sara Teasdale

 

If only the river swept away all these leaves that gather on my lawns!!!!!

 

However today was not the day for raking leaves, - I could hear the river calling, - 'everything's golden here, come and see, come and see' - so off I went!

 

And so it was, golden, and very beautiful. 

In places richly bronzed......

and upstream the leaves were light and transparent, and they gleamed against the water below.

The water was quiet and the golden branches bent down to converse with it.

 

John Burrough says 'how beautiful leaves grow old.  How full of light and colour are their last days.

 

I followed the road around the bend,

through the ranches, and along beside the meadows, ringed with the brilliant colours of small shrubs and evergreens at the foot of the mountains - vivid where the sun strikes them, somber where they lie in shade.

 

 

 

I thought how lovely it would be to continue on through to the Ashnola, and see the beautiful waters of the creek as it crashes its way down the mountain, foaming white and green and the

darkest and richest blue.

 

However, I remembered I was alone (although I didn't feel alone) and the road

is winding and twisty, and perhaps

it would be wiser if I turned at the first wide spot in the road.

 

Autumn, the year's last loveliest smile.......William Cullen Bryant

And then there is that gorgeous October moon, at night!

 

The brilliant moon, and all the milky sky......Yeats.

You drive!!!!

Autumn in the Similkameen, and this afternoon I said to myself, "A good day for a photo trip - you drive"!!!!

Well I missed my driver terribly, - no taking pictures out of the side window while he zipped along, - nobody to point out terrific possibilities or special captures, but I had a feeling he might be along and enjoying the drive.

Because I had to stop to take pictures I had to watch for safe places and unfortunately missed some lovely shots as I haven't yet (or likely ever will) mastered the art of snapping photos while I drive....

It was sunny, and the valley was shimmering!

 

Not just the orchards, but the trees in the river bottom

glowed in the sunlight

 

 

Off in the distance the Chapaka hills were that misty blue

fading a little with each passing mile

 

 

At the upper end of Ginty's pond the brilliant blue water was edged with grasses,

naples yellow, creams and oranges and cool greens

 

 

 

A few ducks

but the majority of them were in the lower pond, plying their way through the silvery scum

that covers the water

I didn't venture along the river bank, as Charles would have done,

but I found some lovely golden coins clinging to the trees

along the roadway

 

 

Closer to home the rich gold of the tree along the front fence

 

 

The last of the roses

 

 

 

and a lovely potpourri of colour in the back garden.

 

 

 

A perfect way to spend the afternoon

and treasure memories.......

 

ABC Wednesday
October 16th, 2013

The letter is N for Ogden Nash

 

I think that I have been here before with Ogden Nash, but he writes such delightful nonsense that

I thought another go-around might be appropriate and fun.

Well, not so much fun for Jack-do-good-for-nothing

 

but words of wisdom and warning, nevertheless

 

in this day and age!

And here is a little bonus......poor Samuel Shy!

 

 

For more interesting and informative Ns nod on over to ABC Wednesday, here,

with thanks to Denise and Roger and all kind blog readers.

Nature from a distance

Skype is calling, and I hurry to answer...

I went for a walk in the woods today.
With my youngest son, and his Ipod
by way of Skype.....
Up in the Chilcotin where the meadowfolk live.

With his camera he showed me a squirrel
his tail curled up over his back,
sitting silent and unmoving,
(not even an eyelash)
on the branch of an evergreen tree.

Below him, in a pile on the ground
was a great mound of acorns,
not scraped up by human hands
but put there one by one
by this far-seeing fellow,
(or is it two by two, - one in each side
of the squirrel's pouchy cheeks)

sensing approaching winter
and the snow that will protect his stash
and keep his little tummy full.



Yesterday we inspected the beaver's
preparation and how she provides,
and my son told me of a chance encounter he had
with a muskrat and a Mallard duck,
holding conversation in the middle
of the creek.

and of the symbiotic relationship
the muskrat has with the beaver,
she providing him with winter shelter in return
for food and building materials.
And I thought it would be nice to know
this sociable muskrat,
and how he would inspire Beatrix Potter
to include him in her tales, and the stories
she could tell about him, Count Middlemarch Muskrat.

It is a grand and splendid world!!!!

Falling leaves

 

 

 

 

 

 

October 10th

Now constantly there is the sound,

quieter than rain,
of the leaves falling.

Under their loosening bright
gold, the sycamore limbs
bleach whiter.

Now the only flowers
are beeweed and aster, spray
of their white and lavender
over the brown leaves.

The calling of a crow sounds
loud—a landmark—now
that the life of summer falls
silent, and the nights grow.

Wendell Berry

 

 

The valley grows wild with riotous colour - a last fling before

 

somber November comes to haunt us with its memories

 

 

 

 

M is for Mandolin

ABC Wednesday
October 9th, 2013

The letter is M for MANDOLIN

Etienne Bonneau

 

The Mandolin

 

A musical instrument in the lute family (plucked or strummed) usually with
four courses of strings tuned in perfect fifths and plucked with a plectrum.

 

It is the soprano member of a family that includes the mandola,
octave mandolin,  mandocello and mandobass.

 

There are three common types of Mandolins.  The Neapolitan mandolins

featured prominently in classical and traditional music,
the carved top mandolin common in folk music and blue grass,
and the flat top instruments, less specific to a music genre. (Wikipedia)
 

Here is the First Movement of Vivaldi's Concerto for Mandolin
 

 

three minutes of pure enjoyment

For more M's move on over to ABC Wednesday, here, with thanks to Mrs. Nesbitt,
Roger Green and all the helpers who visit around on behalf of this meme.

 

A little bit of This and a very little bit of That

Sunday with no Church


In lieu of I wrote  a letter to my sister, put the summer bulbs to bed in a cosy box of vermiculite, went to the store to replenish Callie's special cat food treat (of which she gets one teaspoon a day) and settled down this afternoon to do a bit of spinning.

It is a while since I have done any serious spinning, especially from roving.  I am used to using hand carders and making little piles of rolags (like airy sausages of wool in case the word is not familiar to you) that make the spinning super easy.


So I detached some of the roving from that lovely pink braid I bought at the newly discovered wool shop and teased it out into an airy cloud, - then into yard long bits with all the yarn going one way, lengthwise, and then I started to spin.  Not perfectly, - far from it.  The technique was slow in coming back to me and when I tried a long draw, which I used to love, I found the thread getting skinnier and skinnier.  Back to a short draw, and a few lumps and bumps, but here is what I did on the bobbin.

Sallie of A Full Time Life was asking about instructions for a Moebius Scarf, and here is one below.

About the instructions, I must confess that I don't follow those terribly complicated ones that use a circular needle, - or even two circular needles.  When I first read about a Moebius Scarf in 'Knitting Around' by Elizabeth Zimmerman she explained the basics by describing a "rather long skinny piece of paper, given one twist and stuck together to form the Moebius Ring; a ring with one surface and one edge.

Of course, - I saw it right away - how simple.  And that is how I knitted it then and how I knit it still.

I am not a purist who must make it seamless,  - I am very prosaic and just knit that long skinny rectangle, give it a twist and then sew the ends together, - carefully.

Here is the one I am making now, knitting that lovely ball of wool in garter stitch for as many inches as I need to go around the neck once, loosely and comfortably, - or twice for extra warmth if the 195 m in the ball will stretch that far.  A piece of cake - perfect for mindless knitting if your hands demand to be busy.......

If you don't knit but you are still interested in the Moebius, and especially if you are interested in Topology, which "concerns itself with vast spaces in contrast to specific sizes and shapes of the Euclidean configurations, and uses more than the three dimensions of Euclid.  To study these multidimensional spaces they have to be classified, and this requires an object to compare them to.  This object has to have the unique property of having only ONE surface, and this need was filled by the invention of the great Mathematician/Topologist, August Ferdinand Moebius (1790-1868".  pge 53, Knitting Around by Elizabeth Zimmerman.

And that is quite possibly more than you wanted to know, Sallie, but who knows how many Dimensions the future holds for us....

In Memory.....

 

 

Loving Memory

 

Dorothy Emily Grace

 

By love they are remembered

 

and in memory they live

A bright day despite the rain and clouds

One would wonder at my great elation and enthusiasm on finding a new Wool Shoppe in Penticton - The Knotty Knitter.  Not only is it a NEW wool shop, it is the ONLY wool shop in Penticton, the town having been bereft of any place to buy yarn for the last seven years since an arsonist destroyed the one and only wool shop and so discouraged the owner

that she packed up and went back to Nova Scotia.

The reason one would be inclined to wonder why I should be so elated can be found in the garage, where each of the shelves that line the west wall are piled high with cones and balls and skeins and hanks and pre-wound warps - linen, silk, fine wool, worsted, handspun, 10/2 cotton, 8/2 cotton, 16/2 cotton in all shades and varying amounts - but no self-striping yarn that makes those marvelous colourful socks so much in demand by kids of all ages.!!!

It is only a long narrow strip of a store, but what treasures it contains!  Even roving for spinning, and I came home with a lovely pink braid - polwarth with a touch of silk, anxious to crowd off the brown llama thread that has almost filled the bobbin on the spinning wheel for ages, since one leg got loose and kept falling off.

But our youngest son, who kindly took me to Penticton the long way round, so I could take pictures,

 

 

also fixed the leg on the spinning wheel.  

So what should I do first?????

 

Cast on for a pair of fingerless texting gloves to accommodate one of the grandkids for Christmas, or a moebus scarf for which one ball of striped wool should be sufficient? Or should I put on a good DVD and spend the evening spinning????

 

 

Tomorrow the Berlin Philharmonic Digital Concert Hall features Reinhard Goebel conducting among other presentations, some Mozart and some Bach.  Eight p.m. Berlin time, but just over the noon hour here in B.C.  A lovely way to spend the time,

treadling the pedal.....

Our children, - all of them - are so very kind and caring and fun to be with, and Vincent also came with me to THE FLOWER SHOP - exotically dangerous and full of temptations,

only to be entered with blinders that hide the side view as you go

directly to the object you are there to buy.

 

It is not only dangerous but the owners are crafty, and right beside the check-out counter they have a wonderful array of bouquets at cut prices.  One of which we came home with!!!!

 

Gosh, a bright day despite the rain and clouds.....

 

 

ABC Wednesday

The Letter this week is L

L is for Limerick

A short, humorous, sometimes ribald, nonsense poem

 

consisting of five lines

 

with an anapestic metre  AABBA

 

popularized by Edward Lear in his 'Book of Nonsense'

 

 

 

and taken up by all sorts and conditions of men (and women)

 

some entertaining, and some really just awful!!!

 

Here are some good ones by Ogden Nash

 

Limerick One

 

An elderly bride of Port Jervis

Was quite understandably nervis,

Since her apple-cheeked groom,

With three wives in the tomb,

Kept insuring her during the Service.

 

Limerick Two

 

There was a young lady of Guam

Who peddled her charms, charm by charm,

Inspired, I suppose,

By the classical prose

Of W. Somerset Maugham.

 

Limerick Three

 

A lady from near Rising Sun,

She flattened her boy friend in fun,

Saying, Don't worry kid,

That's for nothing you did,

It's for something I dreamt that you done.

There are others which are really much too risqué to be included in a fine Meme like

ABC Wednesday

created by Mrs. Nesbitt and Loyally maintained by Roger Green and all the lads and lasses who

visit the participants.

 

Leap over to the loverly site to see what other Ls are lying in wait for you.

Farewell to September

September Field  Brian LaSaga

After a wild and stormy night the day dawns gently, albeit very moist.

On this last day of September,  a little melancholy, a little tender, I post today's rendering on

 'A Year of Being Here'........

 

 

September Meditation

 
I do not know if the seasons remember their history or if the days and
nights by which we count time remember their own passing.

I do not know if the oak tree remembers its planting or if the pine
remembers its slow climb toward sun and stars.

I do not know if the squirrel remembers last fall's gathering or if the
bluejay remembers the meaning of snow.

I do not know if the air remembers September or if the night remembers
the moon.

I do not know if the earth remembers the flowers from last spring or if
the evergreen remembers that it shall stay so.

Perhaps that is the reason for our births—to be the memory for
creation.

Perhaps salvation is something very different than anyone ever expected.

Perhaps this will be the only question we will have to answer:
"What can you tell me about September?"

"September Meditation" by Burton D. Carley. © Burton D. Carley.

 

Snow on the mountains this morning.....

 

   Snow on the mountains

 

 

 Rain in the valley, and the willow tree leans close,

tapping on the window, glistening with raindrops.

Out in the garden the sunflowers take note of the of the white mountain tops

 and lean closer together, waiting for the small birds to come to come and feast,

 twittering with news of the approach of winter.

I bring the plants  from the summer porch and tuck them in for winter

wherever there is a window to surround them with light  - 

 and sunshine, when it comes. 

They have grown during their summer sojourn, both in size and numbers

as my good neighbor has popped across the street with plants freshly propagated,

-  or in need of!!!

 

The mail arrives and in it a poem from 'A Year of Being Here'

 

September Midnight   Sara Teasdale

Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
       Ceaseless, insistent.  

The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples,
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn, broken,
       Tired with summer.  
Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us,
       Snow-hushed and heavy.  

Over my soul murmur your mute benediction,
While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
       Lest they forget them.

 

A little blue sky, a little sunshine now, late in the morning.

 

A digital Skype call from our youngest son, up on the meadow in the Chilcotin,

with live pictures of chipmunks running along the snake fence

that surrounds the property, - what he calls the chipmunks'

four-lane highways as they use each layer of the fence

for transporting seeds from the meadow to their winter stash.

 

He tells me of his morning visit to the beaver's dam

and how she has prepared for winter, with her

stack of willow wood and her smooth mud entry

to the water from her cozy stick home.

 

And of the symbiotic arrangement the black bear (that makes the meadow

his summer home) has with the beaver;  in return for access to her waterway

he discourages the beaver from straying too far from home and cutting down the aspen

that the two footed inhabitants of the meadow

set great store by, and would be very cross and not have such friendly feelings

for the beaver were she to include the aspen in her winter stash of food, along with the willow.

 

I am eternally and incredibly amazed at the technology that allows me to see

from 500 miles away little clips of

chipmunks, racing along the fence, -

the beaver's home, and

occasionally even the black bear (although not often)

 

Did see a Grizzly on the meadow once, though, via Skype.

 

Perhaps if the sun keeps shining and the clouds part I will get up

to the country garden and get that red peony

and a huge hosta that needs to be moved and make roots before winter arrives.

 

Sometimes I think Fall is as fickle as Spring and as much of a tease

before they finally usher in Summer and Winter.

 

 

And so go the days....

When I went to have dinner with my son and daughter-in-law Sunday evening they sent me home with a bountiful box of apples, exotic peppers and veggies from the farm of their good East Indian friend, and among the tomatoes they included a couple of lovely green immatures because Sid remembered my fondness for fried green tomatoes (both the movie and the actual thick slices, breaded and fried and reminding me of my father, who shared the passion).

And so this morning for breakfast I had a poached egg, a few slices of fried green tomatoes and a piece of whole grain toast - healthy and delicious.  I felt quite well-fed and comfortable as I started off to walk to the Seniors' Centre and spend the morning with the singing group that Charles so enjoyed, and which I have taken up.  Not because my voice adds anything to the choir, but because of friendships' sake!

I wore my new/old jeans which my youngest daughter brought me yesterday from her stash and felt quite young and 'with-it' - and besides, they fit just perfectly and didn't hang despondently around my twenty pounds lighter frame, as all my dress pants do.

I have had lunch, done up a parcel of books for my sister in Alberta, including Anna Quindlen's 'Blessings", written her a little note and now I am off to the library, to the bank and the post office.

I had planned to go to the other garden and retrieve yet one more red peony, but the wind is chilly. so I will spend my gardening time in the library, investigating shelves and new arrivals and DVDs which help to pass the elongated evenings as the darkness comes upon one earlier with each day that passes.

Tonight I'm going out for prawns at the Branding Iron, - their Wednesday Night special!!!  When I come home I will knit a bit on the long scarf I am making, - mindlessly the needles clack as I watch an old movie, - Mia Farrow in The Purple Rose of Cairo.

I will take my new book to bed with me.  "I am of Irelaunde" - a novel of Patrick and Osian, beautiful, mystical, and hopefully sleep inducing....although the little blurbs on the back cover surely don't indicate that!!

Ah well, so go the days.....

The Kingfisher

ABC Wednesday
The letter is K for Kingfisher

An excerpt from Chris Arthur's book of essays entitled "Irish Nocturnes"

page 69, Kingfishers, the first paragraph......

"Their plumage is so richly iridescent, the blue and red so bright, that for my first few sightings of them kingfishers seemed unnatural.  They struck the eye as something artificial, synthetic, clad in all the arid shininess of plastic, rather than the subtler hues of life.  To see them flash past constitutes such a discordant eruption of sudden metallic colour against the muted greens and browns of their riverside haunts, that it's not surprising if the mind reaches at first for man-made analogues in order to find some likeness for them.  Having this little chromatic missile shoot into view without warning can even create an expectation of noise.  It's as if one had been surprised by a tiny, secret, supersonic jet, roaring its intrusion through the world, the fly-past soon to be caught up with by the same ear-splitting barrage of sound that follows in the wake of low-flying fighter planes."

and after an essay in which he comments on the slight chance of seeing a kingfisher in Ireland, the serendipity moments when you do, and compares this to the moments of chance in our lives that destiny seems to choose to change our lives forever (if I had lingered just one minute more - if I had not gone down by the river that Sunday afternoon...)

 he ends his essay with this paragraph.....

"And, in the end, the impossible question: is our life punctuated by a flash of kingfisher colour as something transcendent impinges on us, or are we imprisoned in the world we see, earthbound and clumsy, shackled immovably to the chains of our finitude?  Is there, behind the stink of fish in a dark hole in the earth, some hope of bright colour beyond it?  I've looked hard for the fly-past that might herald such otherness.  Sometimes I have been surprised by something unexpected, sudden, beautiful, seemingly like the stuff of fantasy, too exotic for the mundane world.  But have I really seen it?  Sometimes nothing much seems to stir above the waters of the ordinary.  But has my vigil been sufficiently keen to catch that sudden flash of sapphire light?  In the end, the final answer, if there is one, lies downstream, where all the currents of water, air, flesh and feather are inexorably leading us."

I cannot recommend "Irish Nocturnes" too much - or other books of essays by Chris Arthur.

And perhaps you might enjoy watching the video above, on painting the vibrant and iridescent Kingfisher.

For more takes on K do a fly-past ABC Wednesday, here, with thanks to Denise, Roger and all who help with this great meme.