Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not. Emerson


Husband and I have been traveling the last couple of days, - medical traveling, which seems to be the sum and substance of our adventures out of the valley these days (these months, these years!!!)

Nevertheless, whatever the reasons for going there are back roads to wander while getting there, and that makes everything worth while.

It was early afternoon when we left the Oliver Hospital. I have never been partial to baking heat as experienced in the South Okanagan on really, really hot days, so was relieved and delighted when Husband took the high road through the narrow pass out of Oliver and on to the White Lake plateau.

It was too hot to stop and take pictures, but we wended our way leisurely along the
empty road, lone travelers enjoying the country we traveled through. Below us, on the Oliver/Osoyoos highway the traffic was crowded and stressful, and the Valley steamed!

We passed the Fairview turnoff, and noted the site of the old Fairview Mining Townsite. Not having the right kind of vehicle to travel the road that leads through the hills to Cawston we continued along the narrow pass that emerges into Willowbrook country.
The Ponderosa pines give way to open ranchland and roads that lead off to the south and waken memories of old timers who pioneered the first ranches. And of times that we have picnicked or cross country skied in the area.

Husband remembers the places where he delivered hay in his trucking days, and the friend who had a butcher shop, and the one who grew potatoes and was married to the sister of the wife of a good buddy.

Across the valley is the White Lake Observatory and its myriad towers that send out signals and decipher that ones that are picked up from space, but we do not come close to it unless we turn right towards Penticton. However, the dry alkaline lakes that lend it their name are not too far off the road.

We have had a little trip down memory lane before we come to the bend in the road that takes us through Twin Lake country. We comment on size of the houses that now surround the lake, and compare the lakes with memories from years gone by.

Well, a little before our time.........




















As we descend into the valley that will take us home we pass the Twin Lakes Golf Club, of happy memory, and the emotions here are tinged with regret that golfing is not something we can do any more. We watch with envy the old timers who are out for Men's Night on a Thursday afternoon.


 The heat returns as we travel the valley bottom, and we are glad to get home to the two lucky animals who have spent the hours we have been away in the wonderfully cool atmosphere of an air conditioned house.

We collapse with a cool drink, and contemplate the return journey we must make on the morrow to return the monitors Husband is festooned with.

The Evening Light and the Similkameen Hills

It is Friday evening, the last breath of June. The day has been a little cooler, and tonight there are clouds in the sky which temper the light from the setting sun and enhance the shadows on the Hills.



I go outside and take two or three pictures, and then come back into the house.










The clouds move, and over to the east, across Daly Bluffs, a faint rainbow draws me outside again.


I follow the sun to the north, to where the lower bench of the hill is illuminated. The shadows of the clouds continue to move, and change the pattern on the hillside.

Truly a splendid sight.

















The showers move into the Cawston Basin, softening the vividness of the setting sun and casting a misty presence.








Full of a quiet and yet astounding beauty, - this Valley tugs at the heart and delights the senses.

Ginty's Pond

Late this afternoon Husband stopped by with an invitation to go for a picture taking drive. I gathered up the little old dog, and the three of us went down the road to Cawston, - our first and dearest home here in the Similkameen.

We took the back road, down by Ginty's Pond, a natural habitat that is home to nesting ducks, yellow headed blackbirds, orioles, Marsh Wrens, beavers and other small water creatures, - frogs and toads and dragonflies, turtles, and the occasional Heron.
The lower portion of the pond is a green expanse of bull rushes and water lilies, lined with willows and grasses. Above, closer to the village of Cawston, the water is more open, and it is a favourite spot for photographers, bird watchers, loungers and dreamers, and small fisherfolk.

Ginty's Pond was named after Alfred Hamilton Cawston, a pioneer son of the family for which Cawston was named.

Ginty was the last son born (in 1892) to an English Settler and his Irish wife. In the days when the gender of a baby was still a surprise at birth Ginty's father had rather hoped for a girl to augment the family of three boys, and said if the baby should be a boy he would call it McGinty. It was, and he did, and Alfred Hamilton was known by the name of Ginty all the years of his life.

He lived close to the land and the forests. I remember typing an essay for him, entitled John Chinaman, in which he reminisces about the Chinese who were in the Similkameen during the time he was growing up. Ginty was an integral part of this area, fondly esteemed and full of stories. It seems very fitting that this pond, that skirts the Cawston property, should be named in his honour.
Here are the great broad leafed water lilies that clog the bottom part of the pond, and the grasses that grow along the edge of the roadway that crosses the pond as it nears the river.























Across the river the hills come down in folds and next door, as we continue down the road, Wes Stewart's cows enjoy the verdant meadow
.

Congratulations to our latest graduating granddaughter!

What an exciting time, a kaleidoscope of emotions as young people say farewell to childhood and childhood friends, and hello to a new life, new responsibilities, new adventures, new opportunities.

My wish for them is that they say "YES" to life. Cherish and seize each day and all it has to offer with an enthusiastic and positive spirit.

Carpe Diem, my dear one.

Frustrations, frustrations! Weeping, and gnashing of teeth.

Vista appears on my computer screen, looking pure, ethereal and delicate with it's veil of pale, diaphanous green.

I am beguiled, and after Grandson Guru has installed the basics I am enthusiastic and eager to get all in order. Everything where it belongs, - no qualms about lost information or missing addresses. After all, I've had experience!! Never mind that at the age of 82 some of that experience escapes my memory!

In 1982 #1 son gave me a Timex Sinclair. WOW - what an interesting time that was. Did Timex use Fortran or Dos? Whichever, it was a challenge and an absorbing experience to create small programs that astounded me and all whom I seduced into watching.














Shortly after I acquired a Tandy, and for a number of years kept books on it, composed newsletters, and kept in touch with hundreds of sheep breeders.

There was a time after that when we did not give house to a computer, and the time was good and fair.

But this period of calm didn't last and soon Bill Gates had me in his clutches and I was a lost soul

Computers have opened up many new paths for me, - I have found knowledge, inspiration and creativity hiding behind the monitor, - it has puzzled me how much more information is available in that small space the thin monitor sports in comparison to those big bulky affairs of early years!! And where is there room for the little men who are built in to astound and confound old ladies!









This betrays my lack of computer science, but I am learning. And learning fast.

Monday was spent acquiring knowledge slowly and painfully, but after having downloaded drivers for the scanner and the sound device I felt it would be a cinch to bring the printer up to date. Monday morning I was bright and confident .


By Monday night I had a jaundiced eye. I was totally devastated and bewildered that a strict and careful attention to instructions could result in so little success.

Husband has always maintained that you are born with a feeling for machinery, - and if this is so that gift was evidently not bestowed upon me.


and so I continue to tear my hair, wipe the tears of frustration from my eyes, and plod on stalwartly, - onward and upward.

But I look forward to the day when the Guru Grandson returns and creates order out of the chaos my printer is spewing out.

I am left with the feeling that experience is no match for natural aptitude!

The vagaries of memory

I go about the regular business of the day, and occasionally I wonder how I will remember this day - or IF I will remember this day. Will it join in my memory the thousands of days that have made up my life, but have left no indelible impression apart from vague recollections that spring from the sea of memory like the flash of the sun on a wave. Something, - a scent, a spoken word, a phrase of music, - brings back momentarily a sense of presence, a moment in time, and then it is gone again.

I have heard in the past ten days two stories that I know have been dis-remembered - I have the facts to prove that so. And yet I know the narrators sincerely believe their memories of the events in question to be perfectly true. I listened, and wondered, and mentally shook my head, but said nothing. However, as I ponder the problem I have come to doubt my own memory, and I have been googling the science of memory, most especially as it relates to its vagaries and illusions.

I have long felt that there is something in the storage and retrieval system of the brain that causes some people to remember the positive things in their lives, and some to despair as they remember only the things that have made them unhappy.
This is only from personal observation, and I find nothing in my research to support this idea.

What science does say about retrieved memories is that they are reconstructions, rather than exact reproductions.

Science compares the fragments of memory that are retained and retrievable to a few threads on a loom, with the brain weaving in whatever recent stuff it can find. So the tapestry of memory is a random picture of the old and the new. Does the old thread stand out as a golden thread of memory, or is it beaten into the weft of modern times, lost amongst the threads of the ongoing adventure and coloured by recent experience.

Science also says we remember the unusual, and perhaps that is so, but many of the snatches that return to me are of humdrum times, - little vignettes that are really quite ordinary.

And some of the things you would expect to remember are buried deep - I have no recall of the bedroom my sister and I slept in, and yet I remember the rest of the house in vivid detail.

A mystery, and a puzzlement, but not one that I am going to fret about.

I cherish too much the comfort that my memories bring me, be they true or flawed. I am one of those who remember the happy times!

What is this life if full of care

We have no time to stand and stare?

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep, or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this, if full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

William Henry Davies 1871 - 1940

One of the most delightful advantages of aging is an awakening awareness that probably hasn't been felt so strongly since childhood.

Do you remember the intense kinship you felt with all of nature when you were a child? The awe that little things inspired? A wiggling worm, a tadpole, the green grass growing, and the passion for four leaf clovers? What a precious affinity we had with GRASS, embracing time in guiltless idleness as we lay on the lawn, imagining shapes in the white clouds of summer.

And the little girls who romanced with the flowers in their mothers' gardens, making Princesses out of hollyhocks and sweet heads of clover, - all dressed for the ball and Prince Charming.

Now, as age steals busy activity, it leaves in its place the time to recapture some of the awe of childhood.

The "trailing clouds of glory" that Wordsworth saw surrounding the very young child seem to return to us, and surround us, as we reach the final years.

Some are lucky (or wise) enough to carry the sense of wonder throughout their whole lives, but for others it is a surprise gift bestowed by a sense of infinity and appreciation.







Here are the small birds that gather outside my kitchen window,










- and the magnificent eagles that soar upwards with the currents that are born in this valley.















Here are the simple, endearing daisies,













- and the complex roses with their tightly curled petals, slowly enfolding themselves into splendid maturity.














Here are the flowers of our childhood, the descendant seeds of the perennial sweet peas that Husband's mother planted around the orchard in the early days of the last century



















- and the more exotic lilies, that never grew wild in anyone's field.

If we consider them all, and enjoy the beauty they lend to the days we spend aging - they add to the bonus time that enriches all of living. If we are wise enough (when we are younger) to make time to stop and stare and wonder as time sweeps us along in our busy lives, - how much richer we are for that!!

Down the garden path.......











Centre stage, and it's the delphiniums taking a bow as the June breezes blow.

While on the other side of the pathway the roses continue their first flush of bloom, and a few volunteer poppies uncurl their tight red tutus.

Beyond, in the background, the shasta daisies throw open their petals and call "hello - we're here for the summer"!



























The Abraham Darby, heavy laden with beauty, and smelling mighty lak a rose!!















A single crimson rose, and down at the big house the Catalpa Tree blooms for the very first time.

A sharp eye on the Dealer

After abandoning her nightly hunt for moths, flies, beetles, spiders or the teeniest creature who crawls or flies, Callie put in a request to join the card game.

Having kept her eyes and ears open whilst scanning the ceiling for prey, she is well aware that at least one of the card players is pretty sly and crafty. Armed with this knowledge, she keeps a sharp eye on the Dealer!!

As to the rest of the game, I have to admit she soon lost interest after the effort of holding the cards proved too complicated and frustrating for a mere cat.

We are working on a device that will allow her to spread the cards and display her talents as a card shark, - amongst other things!

Garden Gossip

It was mid morning, and I was out in the garden playing coffee vendor to Husband and the dear Dog (he gets a biccie).

On my way back in I was waylaid in the garden (as usual - a weed here, an overabundance of sunflowers there). Once I am bent over tending to weeds I have no concept of time, - just pure enjoyment and devilish satisfaction!

Miss Callie, the cat, lay at my feet, drowsing with one eye partly open, just in case. All seemed quiet until I became conscious of a small bevy of rosy breasted finches chittering and floating around some seeds that had escaped from the bird feeder above them when the wind blew the top off it. I stopped to watch, delighted with the way they swooped and rose, all the while chattering to each other.

While I stood watching and listening a gorgeous butterfly flew around me and landed on the beautiful red Europa rose.


Did I have my camera? Of course not, - but the butterfly seemed to be resting and I took a chance on creeping back to the house for it - when I returned he had not moved!
After about five minutes he stirred himself, flew to a neighbouring peony, and began to feed vigorously. Well, I guess that's what he was doing... The peonies are not doing well this year, - did I plant them too deeply when we brought them from the Lost Garden?














Continuing along the garden path, (which I noted was sprouting all sorts of weeds and was badly in need of more mulch) I spied two large bumble bees visiting amongst the delphinium.

I suppose one might call this the Delphinium Cafe and Delicatessan, catering to butterflies, bees and the occasional humming bird (oh, not likely, - wrong colour) With camera in hand I continued taking pictures, noting that the first shasta daisy has opened its petals, and that the perennial sweet peas are forming buds. These sweet peas are descended from the ones that Husband's mother started in 1918. on the original orchard that his grandfather planted on the Penticton Upper Bench.

Watch for pictures, - glorious pinks and mauves and whites.....

The Abraham Darby rose has some particularly beautiful emerging buds... and at that time of the morning the blue flax was still enjoying the early sunshine. Soon after noon they have all closed shop and spend the afternoon preparing for next morning's splendid display.















The Oriental Poppies did not fare well in this week's wind and rain, and some are looking rather blowsy, doncha know. But there are fresh young buds opening each day to keep the dance hall open.



And Joining them in the Dance are the Poppies that came surreptitiously from the Lost Garden, hidden amongst a peony bush, or in the Shasta Daisies. They have multiplied all through the garden, and promise a gay show.

The seeds for these poppies came from my Sister's garden, and this is
what they looked like the first year we planted them in the Lost Garden.














The one remaining Iris blooming in the garden sighs its last goodbye, as beautiful as all its cousins gone before it.


Beside it the Mock Orange is blooming in delicate splendour, surrounded by one of the ubiquitous hollyhocks!!!!


























When I went out tonight to see how the garden fared all was quiet, except for one small goldfinch supping on Nyger seed, too shy and quick to have his picture taken.

A miniscule patch of volunteer Evening Scented Stock perfumed the night air and beckoned me to linger within its fragrance.