Kicking Horse Pass



A strange name for this spectacular pass that lies between Lake Louise, Alberta and Field, B.C.!

In 1858 the Palliser surveying expedition was given the task of finding a way across the Great Divide. In August of that year James Hector, a British medical doctor, geologist and natural historian, set out to search for mountain passes crossing this Continental Divide into the western river valley. He and his men camped at Wapta Falls. When a pack horse bolted James Hector gave chase, but as he rounded up the horse it kicked him, breaking his ribs.

James Hector was knocked unconscious. His guides thought he was dead, and had even gone so far as to select a site for his grave. It is said that he regained consciousness within a minute or two of being buried alive, and that he managed to wink an eye to show that he was still alive. This story is not officially recognized, but it adds to the adventure..... Hector recovered and he and his men followed the river east to its summit pass. "Both the river and the pass were named 'Kicking Horse' for Hector's ornery steed".

In 1885 Donald Smith drove the last spike that marked the fulfillment of a Confederation promise to build a railway in Canada, stretching from Sea to Sea. Nowhere had it been more difficult or treacherous than through the Rocky Mountains. West from Lake Louise the trains chugged up the mountain to Kicking Horse Pass, but once they had reach the top it was a deadly descent to the division point at Field - a hurtling drop of almost 300 meters in just over 6 kilometers at a grade of 4.5%. There were many accidents and several railroaders lost their lives. With 4 locomotives required to move even the shortest train up the mountain it was a costly endeavour.

In 1907 John. E. Schwitzer, a CPR design engineer, proposed the building of 2 spiral-shaped tunnels, with tracks that crossed over themselves in a figure 8. They were completed in 1909 and now, a hundred years later, are still used as part of the CPR Mainline.

Here is an excellent source of text and pictures.

And here is a video posted by Terry Rowsell on February 21st 2007.



We have not traveled this CPR route since our honeymoon, almost 64 years ago, and these days it is a pretty expensive trip by rail, but there is a fine viewpoint along the Trans Canada Highway which doesn't give you the thrill of the actual experience (especially if you are on your honeymoon) but does provide enough of a view to put one in awe of this engineering wonder. The trains which travel through Yoho National Park (Yoho is native for WOW) are no longer short, - nor do they require four locomotives, - at times the first locomotive is emerging from the second tunnel while the caboose is just disappearing into the first tunnel, on its way to making an almost complete circle within the mountain.



Come and see this splendid engineering feat and the spectacular mountains that surround it.....

Music Monday

Reinhardt Django

Something to listen to while I'm gone.....

Sweet Georgia Brown

The Meteorologist said
(not the Weather Man)
The Meteorologist said,
(with data to prove it)
that the wind would blow
and the snow would fall -
5 centimeters in the lower Valley.

The air was full of birds -
What the meterologist said had
reached their tiny ears.



In the fields a flock of starlings
(close to two hundred)
spread out over the bottom of the pasture
and worked their way to the top,
diligently bobbing, greedily feasting
on worms, or bugs, or beetles.
a gift of Spring.

Two dozen blackbirds chattered
in the trees next door,
suddenly falling silent as three crows
came swooping by
and taking up their story again
as the cawing disappeared in the distance.

A flock of geese rose up from the river,
circled twice around the valley
and eventually headed west by north-west
off to the northern lakes.

The robins, quiet and genteel,
searched out their own dinner
around the bottom of the apple trees -
quite oblivious to the thirty seven shiny black crows
that cawed rudely through the tops of the walnut trees

while the hunter went looking
for his blunderbuss....

Tonight the meteorologists, abashed,
enjoy the fine weather........
Windless, snowless, a gentle rain.
I hear the garden sighing with pleasure.

Or perhaps that is the meteorologists

Post Script

It is four a.m.
I waken to the sound of the wind,
ferociously circling the house,
slipping under the open window,
rippling across the bed,
assaulting my nose.

I hear the Meteoroligist's
self satisfied chuckle.

But this morning the sun is shining
and there is no snow....

BOOKS

Old Books, New books, Lists of books....

Here is Maclean's current Canadian best seller list

FICTION

1. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Anne Shaffer and Annie Barrows, - which I have read and enjoyed immensely!

2. The Kindly Ones, by Johathan Kittell. This sounds as if it would be a small, sweet read, but no, - it is 900 pages based on a Greek Tragedy, and examines the morality of an S.S. officer, who tells of his involvement with the horrors of the Holocaust with no apology and from the point of view of the Nazi German. I doubt if I will read this, and yet I feel I should!!

3. Handle with Care by Jodi Picoult - a novel about the care of disabled children.

4. Old City Hall by Robert Rotenberg, which immediately appealed to me because I used to work in an Old City Hall, but I discovered it held no memories for me and will pass it by.

5. The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley. A must for its charming reviews and its promise of more to come about the heroine - an eleven year old girl named Flavia, a mystery solver!

6. The Associate by John Grisham - bound to be good.

7. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, - well, I think it's out of my league.

8. Cutting for Stone by Abraham, a novel with Egyptian overtones, I believe.

9. Fall by Colin McAdam - and its reviews interested me not one wit.

10. Through Black Spruce by Joseph Boyden. An novel about aviation in remote areas. Sure to catch the eye of a Flyer.

The Non Fiction is a mishmash of success stories, stories of failure, books on the economic woes which beset us, a book about the Yankees (Baseball) and the one the I have ordered from the library, - The Inheritors by David E. Sanger. It is a book which analyzes and forecasts the Obama years.

How does this Canadian list compare to other countries? I am sure we are not so global that we all read the same books, but certainly there are some that entertain or educate people in all countries. The Kindly Ones is a translation of a novel written in French by an American author and I think it has a moral message for all people.

I don't seem to have time to read during the day, but my night time reading is still dominated by Peter Ackroyd, - the Clerkenwell Tales and still The Sacred River.

This morning at the breakfast table Charles and I were discussing the amazing things we had read about the Hologram Theory, and, in passing, how it affects the structure of the breakfast table. Or is that an oxymoron considering the possibility that what appears to be the breakfast table is only an illusory perception.

The very same son who alerted me to the Hologram Paradigm also introduced me to The Galaxy Zoo. I was immediately drawn to its amazingly beautiful images of far away galaxies and as soon as I was recruited as a citizen scientist, (one of about 150,000 people who do duty by observing and classifying the various types of galaxies, stars and other phenomenon)I was busy classifying too, with awe and wonderment. Are these stupendous galaxies really all part of the Hologram???



The Galaxy Zoo files contain almost a quarter of a million galaxies which have been imaged with a camera attached to a robotic telescope (the Sloan Digital Sky Survey). In order to understand how these galaxies — and our own — are formed they need help to classify these images according to their shapes — a task at which the brain is better than even the fastest computer.

The galaxies can be elliptical, spiral, cigar shaped, disks - some close together and merging. All of them most wonderfully beautiful and glowing with unbelievably gorgeous colours.



There is a short tutorial and then you are off on your magic carpet on a fascinating inspection tour of space.

And you never know when you might find something unusual and out of the ordinary.


From Galaxy Zoo....

"One of the most exciting discoveries from the original Galaxy Zoo was something we never expected. Hanny Van Arkel, a Dutch schoolteacher and Galaxy Zoo volunteer, posted an image to the Galaxy Zoo forum and asked "What's the blue stuff below?" No one knew. The object became known as the "Voorwerp" — Dutch for "object". The original images from the Sloan Digital Sky Survey couldn't tell us what it was, so we took follow-up telescope observations, in optical and ultra-violet light, as well as measurements from the Swift satellite.



The Voorwerp is shown above but you can read more about it and see additional examples on the Galaxy Zoo blog article: The Mystery of the Voorwerp Deepens!.

The Voorwerp is only one of the many interesting and wonderful objects that users found in Galaxy Zoo 1. Teams of astronomers — and of Zooites — are working hard to follow up on these. It's something that is unique to a project like the Zoo. Computers will slowly get better at classifying galaxies, but looking at an image and asking "what's that odd thing?" remains uniquely human".

So if you haven't come across The Galaxy Zoo, why don't you arrange to take the tour?

In the past few weeks two of my children have spoken to me about The Hologram Paradigm. I'm not sure if their motive was to startle me, or merely to share information.

Well, it does startle me, and I find it very difficult to get my head around these
fantastic new ideas, - and I use the word fantastic as describing what seems to have slight relation to the real world because of its strangeness or extravagance.

Quantum Mechanics and the String Theory have never been clear to me, - I grew up with particles and relativity and these strange new theories make my head spin, - slightly. The fact that physicist Alain Aspect and his research team discovered that under certain circumstances subatomic particles such as electrons are able to instantaneously communicate with each other regardless of the distance separating them, whether they are ten feet or ten billion miles apart does not communicate to me with instant clarity, although I can see that this might be an explanation for telepathy.

As I continue puzzling and reading I come across a portion of work written by Michael Talbot on the Universe as a Hologram which blows away my Memory File Drawer Theory and leaves instead a blank space waiting to be filled.

Michael Talbot informs that a fellow name Pibram was drawn to the holographic model by the puzzle of how and where memories are stored in the brain.

Well, I had wondered about that too, and thought my Theory was quite reasonable, - when you can't remember something the drawer is stuck! Simple...

However, I feel it necessary to try to understand how Pibram explains memory storage. And this is what Michael Talbot has to say about it.

" For decades numerous studies have shown that rather than being confined to a specific location, memories are dispersed throughout the brain. In a series of landmark experiments in the 1920s, brain scientist Karl Lashley found that no matter what portion of a rat's brain he removed he was unable to eradicate its memory of how to perform complex tasks it had learned prior to surgery. The only problem was that no one was able to come up with a mechanism that might explain this curious "whole in every part" nature of memory storage.

Then in the 1960s Pribram encountered the concept of holography and realized he had found the explanation brain scientists had been looking for. Pribram believes memories are encoded not in neurons, or small groupings of neurons, but in patterns of nerve impulses that crisscross the entire brain in the same way that patterns of laser light interference crisscross the entire area of a piece of film containing a holographic image. In other words, Pribram believes the brain is itself a hologram.-->

Pribram's theory also explains how the human brain can store so many memories in so little space. It has been estimated that the human brain has the capacity to memorize something on the order of 10 billion bits of information during the average human lifetime (or roughly the same amount of information contained in five sets of the Encyclopaedia Britannica).

Similarly, it has been discovered that in addition to their other capabilities, holograms possess an astounding capacity for information storage--simply by changing the angle at which the two lasers strike a piece of photographic film, it is possible to record many different images on the same surface. It has been demonstrated that one cubic centimeter of film can hold as many as 10 billion bits of information.

Our uncanny ability to quickly retrieve whatever information we need from the enormous store of our memories becomes more understandable if the brain functions according to holographic principles. If a friend asks you to tell him what comes to mind when he says the word "zebra", you do not have to clumsily sort back through some gigantic and cerebral alphabetic file to arrive at an answer. Instead, associations like "striped", "horselike", and "animal native to Africa" all pop into your head instantly.

Indeed, one of the most amazing things about the human thinking process is that every piece of information seems instantly cross- correlated with every other piece of information--another feature intrinsic to the hologram. Because every portion of a hologram is infinitely interconnected with every other portion, it is perhaps nature's supreme example of a cross-correlated system."

My word! What next, I wonder......



If we allow, for the sake of argument (Talbot says) that the superhologram is the matrix that has given birth to everything in our universe, then was it by Design or by Chance????

I went down the hall with the express purpose of making my glasses sparkle and glow, but something distracted me and then I forgot this important aspect of Sunday morning, and I played the organ throughout the church service, seeing but darkly!

Although I think I played Amazing Grace with some elegance and emotion, inspired by Il Divo.

Afterwards, in the grocery store, it came upon me that all was not as bright as it should be, (including mine own dear self) and I resolved to clean my glasses as soon as I got home.

But alas, the little old dog met me at the door, apparently in dire need to go for a walk, - and we found the leash and the walking shoes and away we went. Only arriving back in time to get lunch, - in a haze, still darkly....

After lunch I put the telephone and the glasses beside the couch and Casper and I laid ourselves down for a small nap after the morning's musical exertions. I dreamt I lost my friend who I was taking back to the Care Facility, and I wandered in the dark looking for her in vain.

Finally I woke, gratefully, and I thought how glad I was that dreams relinquish us from their terrors and anxieties. Then I went to put the kettle on for tea, and was inspired to lighten things up with some freshly baked orange muffins.

I put on my glasses to check on the amount of baking soda in the recipe, and somehow the day lost its brightness, and became heavy, and dreary.

Casper needed to go out again, - we left the muffins in Charles' care and I took off my glasses and away we went, finding pleasure in the mildness of the afternoon and the small tufts of green showing up along the lane. In the distance there is a lovely tree that every March seems to have an aura of spring around it, long before the leaves are ready to unfurl, and as we walked it occurred to me that perhaps this encouraging phenomenon is caused by the large evergreen behind it and across the road, lending its colour to the bare branches.

We saw the quail, in pairs, skittering after each other, and two woodpeckers courted shyly in the neighbour's walnut trees.

We had tea, and sweet warm muffins, and while Charles read the paper I leafed desultorily through Theodore Roethke, looking unsuccessfully for a poem.

Carelessly, I had once again donned those dirty, filmy spotted glasses.

I lifted my head from the book and looked across the valley, where nothing was as sharp and clear as it should be. The sap is rising in the golden willows, but they were not glowing ...

Oh, ENOUGH - at last I rose and found the glass cleaning spray, and polished those spectacles within an infinitesimal inch of disintegration.

Our nice Welsh preacher this morning spoke about God's gift of the Grace of Endurance, but I felt somewhat unappreciative of this gift today, - a whole grey day when the Gifts of Awareness and Common Sense would have saved me from its dreariness.

Tomorrow I will wear my rose coloured glasses, and search in the garden for more signs of spring.

They have a new round-about in Penticton - a nice simple one that we had no trouble navigating on our way to see the ophthalmologist.

However, it brought back memories of other round-abouts we have known which have struck terror in our hearts as we tried to find a way off them - headed in the right direction! Mostly they were in Britain, or on the Continent.

We had been to a crew reunion at Coningsby - then journeyed up to Lincoln and were on our way to Buxton.

We set off for Buxton after lunch - this time with George, the Scottish Engineer (Crew) in the lead. All went well for a goodly number of miles, but then we got cut off from him on entering one of the roundabouts, - cut off by four big lorries. Couldn't see where he had turned off, so we guessed. Wrongly. Three times.

Finally, as Lincoln seemed to be getting closer, rather than further away, we stopped for instructions and started off again in the right direction.

From my Journal - 'The countryside changed as we got closer to Buxton - more hilly and rolling - through Robin Hood country and Sherwood Forest. Eventually we started up a long, long hill. There were sheep everywhere. The pastures are all divided with stone fences and the buildings are beautifully crafted with stone. A quarry nearby, no doubt. Surely all of these stones couldn't have been picked off the fields!

Jack and George were waiting for us half way up the hill, and escorted us into town to the Palace Hotel, - a structure of great grandeur. Our bathroom is larger than our whole room was in London. It is an old hotel, - built in 1868 to accommodate all the wealthy patrons of the Spa. It has broad, wide staircases, beautiful old furniture, gorgeous (if shabby) carpets - and pretty fair service.




Went tonight to a pub about half an hour away, and had another very warm communal dinner. The talk never stops. Or the laughter, - or the memories.

Tomorrow we move to another hotel, and have a trip planned to the Derwent Valley dam, where they practiced for the dam-buster raid.'

And on June 12th (back in 1985)

'After breakfasting together at the Palace we all went out to tour the shops briefly, and then to lunch at the Devonshire Arms on our way up to the Derwent Valley. A nice pub - the proprietor is a nephew of Brownies (the Radio Operator) and of course there were the inevitable pictures. Everyone is so interested in this crew of men - I guess there is a certain romance about their friendship for one another, and certainly it must make people feel good to see it.

We stopped at Castleton on our way, - the most picturesque of English towns. A real tourist trap! All of the shops on the main street sell BlueJohn jewelry. We bought some too. Above the town is the remains of a medieval castle, and as you leave the tourist part you pass through lovely old stone residences. Onward and upward through Hope to the dam - the country still full of sheep (lots of Jacobs) but the pastures were then divided by hedges and there was considerably more forest land. Margaret says the village of Castleton is decorated each Christmas with fir trees and the castle is flood lit.





The Derwent Valley is all parkland, but it is also full of sheep who keep the grass nicely clipped. The dam itself was of great interest and I understand was used in filming the picture "Dam Busters".






We returned via the Duke of Devonshires' estate (a stately old home) and what a wonderful flock of sheep he has. They seem to use a lot of Suffolk for their final cross, and these sheep were in superb shape. The lambs were fat, and looked about ready for market.

When we got back we moved our belongings to the St. Ann Hotel - another really old relic of bygone glory. The Baths of Buxton are no more, but the accommodations linger on. Tonight we are sleeping in four poster beds. The rain is beating down and the wind is blowing in gusts. Tomorrow we go to York.'

Well, I did digress, and I have not told you yet about our way around and around and around about Lille - or Njimegan. I was in tears in Njimagen! But these pages do bring back wonderful memories, and I guess I got lost in them. It was beautiful county, marvelous companions and I think each and every day we were together with the Crew would qualify as a Golden Day.

We had an early lunch and lingered over coffee, talking idly about Charles' singing group which had visited the local Care Centre in the morning. We reminisced a little, and then fell to discussing the river Thames, and the wonderfully researched book that Peter Akroyd has written about the Sacred River. I was particularly interested in the wealth of Neolithic and Bronze Age artifacts which have been found, concentrated in the short stretch between Twickenham and Teddington. We were discussing the complex geology of the Thames and reading aloud little bits about the relevance to ancient earth ages when suddenly there were strange noises coming from the nether parts of the house.

I went to investigate.

The cat was in the laundry room, swishing her tail and with a wildly concentrated look in her eyes. A mouse, - somewhere behind the hot water heater there was a mouse!

Charles came to investigate.

I left the two mighty hunters behind closed doors, discussing the capture of the creature.

Through the door the discussion grew a little frantic, - I could hear the cane (Charles' cane, not the cat's) pushing things aside, banging on the floor.

Ah, things have quietened down somewhat, - Charles is speaking to Miss Callie with gentle approval - "Good Cat, Good Cat" I hear.

Suddenly, all approval gone, the feline intelligence is being questioned. Loudly. Miss Callie has let the mouse escape....well, of course, - isn't that the name of the game?



She catches it again, - Charles tries to guide Callie and the mouse through the open door, but in vain. The mouse is free! And in behind the washer, where nothing and noone can reach her/him....

I lie down on the couch and feign sleep, - Charles and Callie emerge from the laundry room. Callie comes and lies on my chest, telling me what went on and commenting on the status quo.

It is clear that the answer lies in a mousetrap, generously baited. Charles moves the washer and dryer closer together so that there is room to slide in the cheesy morsel. We close the door, and settle for a little nap, complacently confident that this will do the trick.

We are old hands at this game....

Tonight Miss Callie haunts the laundry room, frightfully bucked at the thoughts of another exciting chase. Nobody has the heart to tell her the cheese was the poor little creatures downfall.....

Memorium for a Lost Garden

Wonderful morning in the garden - mild air, blue sky, the sweet sound of birds, aching back, and all that goes with clearing away the winter debris and making room for the lovely green shoots pushing their way towards the light.

As Charles pruned the roses, and reported hopefully on their condition, I hacked away at tall dried stalks, and as I worked my mind wandered to the garden we left behind us when we moved almost four years ago. The Lost Garden.

It truly is a lost garden - nobody to care for it, and yet there is a wonderfully courageous air about it, as the shrubs bloom and the plants push brave new greenery above ground.



We drive by each Sunday on our way to get the paper. The Star Magnolia is now just starting to bloom....



And though the forsythia has not been pruned since last Charles clipped its glorious branches, it will be beautiful and golden for almost a month.




There are three beloved shrubs in the farmer's way. I understand he plans to shovel them out SOON and I am hoping that rather than destroy them he will be sweet and generous and allow us to bring them to the new garden. There is a fragrant viburnum, which I have for the last three springs tried to replace, and a lace cap climbing hydrangea which is heavenly with blue iris and red poppies. And a rather tattered looking hibiscus that needs to be shaped and loved.





The sweet peas we have perpetuated were planted by Charles' mother on the orchard that his grandfather planted when he returned from the Alaska Gold Rush, and they still grow on the original orchard. We have carried seed carefully from place to place, and they grew vigorously last year in the new garden, here on the pasture.



Our new garden has been a delight to create, but in my memory are all the wonderful hours I spent, early in the morning and in the cool of the evening, reveling in the care of the flowers, - the roses and iris and phlox and daisies. I remember with such great affection all the trees that Charles planted, - dozens and dozens on the three acres that made up the property. Almost all gone now, - yanked out to accommodate a market garden or fruit trees. Alas, alas....

We were so fortunate to have had this Lost garden while we were still vigorous and in the golden years.

We are so fortunate now to have a spectacular view, a quiet pasture, and a precious microgarden to accommodate (in jungle fashion) a wonderful medley of our favourites.

0h March, - you crazy mixed up month!



Yesterday, from the top of an apple tree which he was pruning, # 3 Son used his Cell Phone to alert me to the presence of a meadowlark in the near vicinity, and thus claims the honour of the first kid to tell mother about the arrival of the meadowlarks, - dear creatures who put end to the rumour that winter will go on forever this year....

Today I heard another one,
and whilst walking Caspar early in the day I saw a big fat robin
resting in the neighbour's cherry tree.

Charles and I drove by the Lost Garden that we left behind when we moved,
inspecting the shrubs and hazelnut trees that the farmer is going to tear up this spring, to make room for crops!
We imagined the Viburnum and the Hibiscus and the climbing Hydrangea lining a pathway around the periphery of the garden.....

When we stopped at the grocery store after church
there were encouraging patches of blue sky.

The girl at the check out counter had smelled skunk this morning.

The wind came up and blew wildly,
this way and that.

When I came out of the grocery store
there were light flakes of snow floating on the wind.

The last pile of icy snow in the garden
has finally released
the Hellebores.

Just down the valley a farmer set his pruning pile alight,
and smoked billowed up to meet the low clouds.

Tonight the air was mild,
and the sky had turned the tender blue of spring.

Across the valley a hollow near the mountain top
held an ephemeral mist,
Spring's hide-away perhaps?

After being plunged into a day of retrospect inspired by reading a list of literature that had influenced the life of The Weaver of Grass I decided that I too would accept the invitation of The Crafty Green Poet to record the books that have being meaningful in my life.

1. The first book I can recall was about King Arthur, probably the junior book "King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table", and I would imagine I received this as a birthday gift when I was about six. I remember being told that I would grow into it!

2. The Book of Common Prayer - the prayers and passages which were part of my childhood re-echo in my mind more than you might imagine, having been away from a purely Anglican Church for almost forty years.

3. Peggy Parsons, a Hampton Freshman by Annabel Sharp (still available) - it made me dream of going away to College. But I didn't until all the children were in their teens..

4. The love poems of Sara Teasdale were dear to me when Charles was a Lancaster Pilot flying out of the Midlands in England. "It is enough of honour for one lifetime...."

5. When I was immersed in motherhood Anne Lindbergh's "Gift From the Sea" opened many doors for me.

6. And when we were first farming Malabar Farm by Louis Bromfield was both practical and romantic.

7. I came fairly early to Will and Ariel Durant. I have passed on their wonderful books on Civilization, but keep a copy of "The Story of Philosophy" and "The Lessons of History".

8. Ex Libris by Anne Fadiman, given to me by my sister-in-law, - I have read it again and again and again...

9. Thomas Firbank's "I bought a Mountain" - another gift from my SIL, stirs up great memories of our own sheep experiences. We went on to read his other books as well, - with true enjoyment.

10. At one period of my life John Fowles brought a great deal of turmoil into my life with his philosophy and his comments on the human situation. I can't remember now if I read him before I read..

11. "Hymn of the Universe" by Teilhard de Chardin, - I only know they still sit together on my bedside shelves, - although somewhat separated by a few books that don't cause such consternation with their different philosophies. I still haven't quit asking questions.

12. Lillian Beckwith's tales of the Hebrides, - wonderfully human.

13. Ogden Nash - wonderfully ironic.

14. "The Immense Journey" by Loren Eiseley - begging to be re-read for his marvelous insight into nature.

15. For humour and wisdom, Peg Bracken's "A window over the sink", and

16. The Journals of Bartholomew Bandy, by Donald Jack.

17. Every last one of Susan Howatch's series on the Clergy of the Church of England. As well as

18. Penmarric.

19. The poetry of Gerard Manly Hopkins, - especially "The Windhover" and "God's Grandeur"

20. Theodroe Roethke's "The Waking" and "My Papa's Waltz".

21. Alexander McCall Smith - all his books bring me delight - his writings are gentle and civilized!


22. Robert Louis Stevenson - "A Child's Garden of Verse" - for all the tender memories it brings to mind.

23. "The Songs of Solomon" for their beautiful lyricism.

24. "A Garden for all Seasons" - prosaically printed by The Readers' Digest.

25. "Journal of Solitude" by May Sarton. "Solitude," she writes, "like a long love, deepens with time, and I trust will not fail me as my own powers of creation diminish. For growing into solitude is one way of growing to the end." - back cover, The House by the Sea

Charles has been gently remonstrating with me about the fullness of my life's agenda, and as I leafed through the Aristos I found underline on page 41,(probably forty years ago) "The anxiety of time. Have I the time to do what I want?"

The more things change the more they remain the same - who'd a thought it, - I wonder what next!!

Thank you Weaver, (and the Crafty Green Poet), for the memories....

SPRING - lost on the pathway to Summer....

The redwing blackbirds are awaiting, and one lone robin has been seen searching for swelling buds and green grass.



Pussy Willow and forsythia brighten up the indoors, and outside the sky is blue and the sun shines brilliantly. But the North Wind is bitter, - so bitter....



And where is Spring????

Has she abandoned us for some wayward pleasure?

Alas,

I have it on good authority....



While she dallies and flirts the earth waits patiently, but I'm here to tell you, there is wailing and gnashing of teeth amongst gardeners......

What am I reading?

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.



Well, that's what I was reading, - now I am re-reading bits and pieces before I have to return it to the library, and wondering why I waited so many months for my turn to enjoy it. Why didn't I buy it in the first place?

I didn't know it was going to be so charming, and at the same time have such depth to it. It was the title that first attracted me - a lot to be said for titles that capture the imagination. You could probably write a real dud, and if it had a fascinating title people would pine to read it, and at least get through the first few chapters.

Not so with the Guernsey book. It reminds me of an English trifle. I hope you have clicked on the link and read the review, for then you will understand that its light-heartedness is the whipped cream on the top of the trifle, - dig down and you will find an appetizing mix of fruit and cake, a little sweet sherry, some soft custard, and at the very bottom a bittersweet chocolate to represent the dark days of the occupation.

Charles was aware of the extent of the occupation of the Channel Islands, but I had not realized the hardships and oppression they lived with.

Epistolary novels (as this is) can be 'almost voyeuristic from a reader's point of view' - a clandestine reading of another's intimate correspondence. It lends a novel a certain realism when one considers the contents straight from the 'horses' pen. Personally I think this form of novel is very captivating, and carries one along with great interest to read just one more letter, and then just one more reply...and perhaps the next letter, - and on, and on.....

I am reminded of '84 Charing Cross Road' by Helen Hanff, and Alice Walker's 'Color Purple" and C.S. Lewis and 'The Screwtape Letters. Sometimes the epistolary carriage is a diary, as in that of Bridget Jones, and The Adrian Mole Diaries, and most famous of all, the Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Franke.

Now that I have been charmed by the Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society I am back to where I left off reading 'The Elegance of the Hedgehog' by Muriel Barbery"



The Hedgehog is a small, exclusive apartment building in Paris. The book has two heroines, - Madame Renee Michel, the 54 year old concierge of the building, intelligent and introspective behind her guise as a poor peasant, and an occupant, Paloma Josse, a twelve year old French whiz kid who, from her amazingly realistic observation of life so far, has decided it is hardly worth the effort.

I found the reviews of this book to range wildly from slight venom to extravagant praise for its philosophical backdrop. It is said that the French have enfolded this book to their hearts much as Americans accept the writings of Alexander McCall Smith. Of course, with my fondness for Alexander McCall Smith I have a bias towards a more favourable view of the Elegance of the Hedgehog.

Here is what Michael Dirda of the Washington Post has to say...

"This is a very French novel: tender and satirical in its overall tone, yet most absorbing because of its reflections on the nature of beauty and art, the meaning of life and death. Out of context, Madame Michel's pensees may occasionally sound pretentious, just as Paloma might sometimes pass for a Gallic (and female) version of Holden Caulfield. But, for the most part, Barbery makes us believe in these two unbelievable characters."

I like it - but have half of the book yet to read. It still makes bedtime (reading time) something to look forward to.

And when I have finished - what next? Any suggestions....

What came in the Post Today.....

Some days it isn't worth stopping for the mail, but today we hit the jackpot.

I opened the post box door and was excited to see the parcel key sitting at the front edge...the present had arrived for great grandson #2 who celebrates his first birthday on Sunday. William Lincoln - named after his father, his paternal grandfather, his maternal great grandfather and his paternal great-great grandfather, the latter two both born on Lincoln's birthday. A sturdy lad, - bonny and sweet dispositioned.

We had ordered a beautiful hand made wooden top for him, from Wishin' on a Star (see my sidebar and do open the site and exclaim over the wonderfully crafted tops for children - and adults.}




When I arrived home I stopped to put the kettle on, but then quickly opened the box I had carried in. Over tea we unpacked the top, the extra launcher and the nice wooden display block.

I saw my Tea Companion's eyes light up and his fingers begin to twitch!!! In no time he had proclaimed First Dibs and was busily winding the launching cord.....

Look, see how finely balanced it is! It twirls for nigh on to four minutes. Won't the little one be wide eyed! As for the adults, I think it is in the same class of contention as a miniature railroad, prompted by deep childhood memories.



The other two items in the post box bore dreams and promises and turned me right away from March and into the midst of summer.

Gorgeous, fantastic, bewitching flower catalogs that promise more than the heart and reality can bear. The garden is already jam packed with heady roses and lilies, delphinium and peonies, and a dozen other favourites. Where can I find room for a cutting garden? Or for the butterfly blue scabiosa or the pink pampas grass? Or the hardy evergreen Bamboo, - perhaps along the west side of the garage? I am beguiled into dreams, but have been down this garden path before and know that at the end of it lies stark reality! No room, no room - not enough energy - be content!



A lovely haul from the post box, - probably tomorrow will bring only bills and flyers, but today was a bonus. And on Sunday we will go and have birthday cake with the darling little boy.

Associations between gardening and prayer are pretty obvious, - both done fervently and with a degree of discipline, joy and frustration. And on one's knees!

Jane Mossendew's series "Gardening with God" illustrates the link between the church year and the cycles of nature. I first became aware of these books in 2006, and in Lent of that year I read "Thorn, Fire and Lily" which begins on Ash Wednesday.



This year, with spring so late here in the Similkameen and Easter middling so, it seems like a hopeful occupation to re-read the Lenten meditations and all the lovely plant information with their Lenten themes.

When I started reading on the Thursday after Ash Wednesday I was delighted to discover that Borage, the Star flower was the plant of the day.



Borage and I have a long time relationship, - sometimes loving, sometimes despairing when the plant becomes too bold and decides to carry on with other garden flowers. It turns up in the most unexpected places, and although it never fails to enhance the scene, sometimes it's just a bit too much.

With its hairy leaves it is not hard to associate it with the "hair shirt" of lenten discipline. Jane Mossendew likes to think that Borage comes from the old Celtic borrach, meaning courage, "and that if this is true it could have been brought to Gaul and thence to Britain in early Christian times".

"Whatever the truth, it has long been known as the 'herb of courage' and ladies would embroider its bright blue flowers on the jerkins of knights about to depart for the Crusades".

What a versatile herb it is. It has a euphoric effect, and has been used to treat depression, - and in that vein it was once the herb of Plimms, before it was replaced by mint.

If it is used in salads it is expected to exhilarate and make the mind glad, - the opinion of Gerard in The Herbalist (1597). And he continues to tells us that Borage is also used for the "comfort of the heart, to drive away sorrow and increase the joy of the minde" A truly excellent plant, despite its wandering ways - the most appealing of blues.

Early summer mornings in the garden, when the flowers of the flax open their lovely blue eyes, and the borage winds amongst the roses and the lilies, it is true blue delight.

Yesterday, the first Sunday in Lent, stachys, or Lamb's Ear was the plant Jane Mossendew chose to remind us of the words of the Prayer of General Confession "we have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep". Alas, in our Ecumenical church we no longer repeat this old familiar prayer.



Lamb's Ear is another of those nomads of the garden, - I even find it down along the lane, and it ventures further and further out past the confines of the garden.

I remember almost sixty years ago, when we were so young and in the church, singing All in an April Evening - I saw the sheep with their lambs and I thought on the Lamb of God. Sometimes, in the spring, I play it as an organ prelude.

Today I brought in some 'sticks' from the forsythia, and a few small branches from the flowering almond. The almond is the plant for tomorrow, and as I turn the page I see a note to myself 'plant a flowering almond this spring - will it have ten years to grow?' Well, it has had three, and is doing famously. We rescued it from the Lost Garden that we moved from, - it had been run over by a tractor. Charles and I found a great spot for it, planted it tenderly, and now in the spring it is covered with small pink blooms.

My beloved has gone down to his garden, to the beds of spices, to pasture his flock in the gardens, and to gather lilies.
Song of Solomon 6:2

Reality in the house, - the flowers of Winter.

But out in the garden the buds swell softly and down the road the pussy willow tree at the big house braves winter's bitter farewell, - and inclines me to dream and entreat....

Shall I call the flowers?

Come littlest, come tenderest,
Come whispering over the small waters,
Reach me rose, sweet one, still moist in the loam,
Come, come out of the shade, the cool ways,
The long alleys of string and stem;
Bend down, small breathers, creepers and winders;
Lean from the tiers and benches,
Cyclamen dripping and lilies.
What fish-ways you have, littlest flowers,
Swaying over the walks in the watery air,
Drowning in soft light, petals pulsing.
Theodore Roethke

A familiar sight on Shrove Tuesday.

These are not the men of our Parish, but here is the clean-up crew that took over when all the pancakes and sausage and eggs were scoffed...



And here are some of the people who scoffed them...



A friendly outreach into the community and a really delightful evening, which morphed overnight into the somberness of Ash Wednesday.



The purple of Lent - and now begin the days of mindfulness and spiritual examination.

This Lent I have chosen to re-read a book by Lucinda Vardey and John Dalla Costa - Being Generous, The Art of Right Living.

I quote from the outside cover......

"Generosity, as the word itself connotes, is about not only giving but also generating. It is a creative act, rather than a handout, an attitude or ethos rather than an exchange between someone who has too much and someone who has too little. Even when pursuing other objectives, or coming from other motivations, generosity is often at the heart of what brings peace and real self-worth... In virtually all relationships, but especially in friendship, partnership and marriage, generosity is the expansive quality energizing hope and happiness. As such, generosity is not optional. Nor can it be occasional. Rather, it works its uplifting magic only when it becomes a central characteristic and ordering principle in one's everyday life".

It is a goal worth achieving, - to avoid the mean and miserly, and to embrace life itself with a spirit of positiveness and sharing. To be mindful of making generosity a way of life, so that where love lives misery cannot abide.

Will I be successful? - ah, who knows. It takes a lifetime of striving to overcome ego and look outward with open arms and heart. And an awareness...

"This delicate balance of living generosity as a spiritual practice takes some dedication and resolve. Like all magnificence it can't align aspiration with practice without a dutiful development of consciousness"
.

The wonder of our consciousness which we
neglect to explore in depth, although we see
that it and it alone provides the cast
that makes the universe so huge and vast,
that it and it alone supplies the base
for all the immensity of time and space,
that it and it alone allots the size,
the shape and form which we mark with our eyes,
also the number, distance and the span
of time we try to calculate and scan.
Gopi Krishna

I was late taking coffee out to the man in his workshop. Breakfast was late because we'd had such a nice sleep-in.

When I slipped out the door with the coffee tray (guiltily eluding Caspar who has a little inner clock that tells him when it's time for walks and biccies)I found a large coffee tin on the workbench,(one of many that grace the garage) - the repository for numerous small treasures which were now laid out in rows, neatly wrapped in plastic bags. A lifetime of precious findings, although they may have merely carried visions of a practical future when first they were gathered.

I understand this quite well, being something of a hoarder myself, - is there anybody who grew up in hard times who has never said "I might need it some day" as they wrapped some precious object and put it away in a large coffee can, or a drawer or a trunk, along with all the other treasures.

And they were lovely, these small brass hinges and drawer pulls and the tiny coaster balls that were most practical when you needed to make something movable. There was no expendable plastic amongst them. They were all heavy and durable and spoke clearly of days gone by, when even small hardware was made to last and be elegant.

We discussed possible ways of using the drawer pulls, - or the double hinges that would go on a swinging door, if we had room for such a convenience. I came away empty handed, but I know that each and every one of those small plastic bags went back into that large coffee can, just in case they should be needed for another day.

I ponder - is it nature, or nurture? Is it hard times and a scarcity of the means to replace things that causes us to save and make do, and use our inventiveness to make those funny redneck things instead of going out and buying new? Never mind that they work, - they always draw smirks from those not afflicted....

Or is it a gene?

If it's a gene I can see that there is a possibility of these coffee cans being around until at least the end of the century. We have six children, some of whom I suspect are incapable of throwing things away. You know who you are!

There are great advantages to being a morning person.



By ten o'clock you have accomplished enough to carry you through the rest of the day with an easy conscience. And you can slide into tea-time and the happy hour looking back on the pot of soup you put on to simmer before the sun was up, and the apple pies that were cool by noon, feeling fairly pleased with yourself (but not too fatuous, we hope).

It was good to be in the kitchen today. Winter skulked around outside in company with a damp, raw wind. For a short while the sun battled valiantly to part the clouds, but alas, in vain.

I notice that the snow drifts are somewhat diminished, and that gives me some hope that they will be gone before tulip time.

To tide me over 'til then, - the magic that happens on the wide bathroom windowsills
where the amaryllis have blossomed overnight.