“No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, - November!”

Thomas Hood



November! The melancholy month. The month of Remembrance. The month of gusts and gales, wild rain and dark mornings. The evenings draw in and the fog swirls throughout the valley as day dawns.

But still the beauty remains. Our days remain sunny and the nights are clear and frosty, but when the mists descend the remaining autumn colours glow with a beautiful translucence.

It was a race to get the geraniums in to warmth and safety, - when frost threatened it was a late evening task to bring them in from the deck after they had been potted from the garden. They are bringing cheer to the big bathroom, or else they are crowding the space around Husband's grooming sink, - whichever perspective you want to foster!



The Canna Lilies found refuge under an outside table while they dried in the sun, and eventually were stored in the Travel Trailer where I hope they will survive until spring. They are a new venture for me, - the first time we have grown them in the garden.

October left us with precious gifts, - lovely new Great Grandsons, - one for my sister and one for Husband and I. Born only hours apart on October 31st these sweet little Halloween spirits slipped ( an adjective I'm sure their mothers would not have used) into their new earthly adventure, no doubt trailling Wordsworth's "clouds of glory". Each generation lives life according to the prevalent traditions, culture, morality, and historical events and values them as the norm. I wonder what life will be like for them eighty years on, and in the intervening years, before they start to say "you call THAT music!!! - in MY day".......... What can a Great Grandma do but pray for their happiness and their safety, and pray for their souls that the beauty of this earth brings awe and contentment to them.

Love to their parents, their grandparents, and all who treasure them.

Today in an e-mail I received the following excerpt.

"Each day is a gift, and as long as my eyes open I'll focus on this new day and all the happy memories I've stored away. Just for this time in my life....

Old age is like a bank account. You withdraw from it what you've put in.

So, my advice to you would be to deposit a lot of happiness in the bank account of memories!"

This little homily, together with the presence of four LARGE boxes of pictures that sit on the trunk at the end of the bed, has prompted me to consider the contents of the four LARGE boxes and the memories that we have accumulated there. Memories of
Husband and I, our family and our friends. For a number of years in the 60's and 70's we relied on a movie camera to record the passing days. Those memories are tucked away on film, in a box. All except a select few that we had transferred to VHS, and thence to a DVD. For the past few years we have used a digital camera, and there are a couple of thousand pictures of the Similkameen Valley, the Lost Garden, Sunsets and Sunrises, and family celebrations stored in our computers.

Well, what do you do about those thousands of pictures once you get to be an octogenarian, and you know that someone, somewhere, sometime is going to have to deal with all these memories. Husband's sister has tackled the job, year by year, and is creating extremely elegant snapshot albums recording each year's family gatherings, visits from friends and important events. I admire her work and the time, the love and the dilegence she has devoted to it. I realize, however, that the task is beyond me unless I wish to give up the garden, the weaving and all the other activities that fill our days now.

This is about the time that I realize I am not alone in enjoying rummaging through these abiding memories!! Husband is equally as sentimental as I, and far better at organizing a method for dealing with this problem than I could ever be. Given the 17 empty albums we have accumulated over the years, in hopes that at some point we will buckle down to the task or sorting pictures into family groups and passing them on to children, - and given the number of shoe boxes that are sitting around waiting to be used for sorting, - Surely the moment of truth has arrived, - the point of no return!!

To strengthen and support this project is the advance of winter, the need for Husband to find something to do that will favour his sciatica (now that the tractor is in decent repair).

I can see it now, - the happy hours spent in contemplation of times long gone, - precious friends who take their place either amongst the quick, or the dead. The stories associated with times and places, and the reminiscences of Christmases, small children, birthday parties, travel to well loved woods and fishing spots.

I pick up a handful of these pictures, and I am taken back to the time when we were young grandparents - and all the delightful times we enjoyed with young grandchildren.

Here is a picture of a distant cousin from the 1800's who is the spitting image of one of our granddaughters when she was the same age.






A picture from the 50's of Husband and young friends with a rogue bear they shot, with our oldest son looking on, wide-eyed.












One of dear friends, gathered together for New Year's Eve sometime in the early 90's; a picture of me that Husband carried with him when he was Overseas, together with a snap of some of his crew and Himself, on leave at the Spa Hotel in Tunbridge Wells.





























There are pictures of our grandparents and their family and friends - a few even of the generation that precedes them. All precious and worthy of good care, - all part and parcel of the memories that we have banked over the years, for just such a time as this.

At the end of this homily which arrived in my e-mail box were the following five simple rules to be happy.

Free your heart from hatred.

Free your mind from worries

Live simply

Give more

Expect less

All rules that reminded me how simple it all is, - this business of being happy!!!!!

Life holds many joys, and to the positive and cheerful soul each day contains within it the power to uplift and satisfy one's spirit.

However, just occasionally we are faced with disappointments that bring sorrow and dismay to our lives. Indeed, no matter how sincere the effort or how diligent the work that goes in to it, some things seem to be doomed to fail, and the failure brings a heaviness to our hearts and a feeling of despair.

Things get out of hand, egos clash and misunderstandings arise. Matters of discernment are twisted, and true meanings and intentions fail to reach from one person to the next. Idle gossip and dangerous assumptions ferment the cauldron, and soon the pot is boiling over with bitter invective.

When such situations arise it is hard to regain serenity and hope, but with the passing of even a little time our perceptions of the troubles become more bearable. With the dawning of a new day and a little breakfast conversation, the future looks brighter. When solutions appear even faintly possible we can greet the day with a hey-ho and a smile, - and I suppose a certain amount of naive trust that maturity and intelligence will win through; and that intransigence will give way to cooperation..

I quote Pope on Hope....it springs eternal!

O suns and skies and clouds of June,

And flowers of June together,

Ye cannot rival for one hour
October's bright blue weather.

October's poplars are flaming torches
lighting the way to winter.
- Nova Bair

In this case it is a Sunset Maple, but just below us is a straight line of pears, which reach like golden torches to the sky.

Many years ago, in the 1960’s and 70’s, we owned the orchard just across the highway from the land these trees stand on. At its eastern end was a block of magnificent old pear trees, and I remember one autumn in particular when the leaves on these trees turned golden, scarlet, subtle and luminous shades of green, soft yellows and glowing earth tones. What a gorgeous tapestry it was.

We pastured sheep amongst the trees on this property. The apple trees were old, - gnarled

Macintosh and red and striped Delicious. It was more like a park than an orchard. The sheep cropped the grass and lent a pastoral air to the land.

The sheep were a family enterprise, - everybody participated, right down to the littlest ones feeding the occasional orphan lambs with bottles. But the Shepherd and the Shepherd’s Border Collie, Candy, were the ones who had most rapport with the flock. Candy arrived in the Shepherd’s pocket one day, to the children’s delight. The Shepherd trained her well, and they made an extraordinary team.

At one time we had four hundred ewes, and lambing time was a mixture of pleasurable anticipation, as we picked out the ewes who were liable to lamb that night by observing them at feeding time, and intense maternity activity in the hours to follow. The Shepherd calmed the sheep, just by walking into the barn and speaking to them, and Candy kept vigil at the door.

The flock were not the most profitable venture, but we had some sheep all the time we were on the farm, and they were the part of farming that brought us the most satisfaction and delight. And sometimes frustration. I have a cameo of trying to herd a recalcitrant ewe back to where she belonged without the help of the dog, tears and rage vying for dominance..

Eventually we planted rutabagas as a ground crop, - seven miles of rutabagas, - up one row and down the next. It was a labour intensive operation, but it was also a time of free spirits and “hippies” who turned their backs on established lives and sought the wonders and adventures of the open road. A lot of them found their way to us, and in particular a University Art Professor who had chosen the alternate style of living, and seemed to be a mentor to all the young people who traveled with him. We learned a lot from these people, and grew especially fond of some of them. Some of our children were at a vulnerable age, and took to smoking the funny cigarettes that were so prevalent at the time and contributed so much to the way of life. It is hard to judge the ambivalent influence these children of the New Age had on our family, but they came back year after year and were a great help to us.

Our farm ran parallel to the highway, and it was not hard to judge the influence the topless turnip workers had on the community driving by!!!!

The Aged Apprentice GoFer

I have mastered quite a few things in my life, but have, most unfortunately, neglected to get my Papers qualifying me as a Journeyman GoFer.

However, what I lack in learning I am making up in experience, and I am just about the best apprenticing GoFer around these parts.

Ask anyone (except the Master Mechanic, my husband).

After my latest learning experience this morning, I feel I should make up a list of requirements for anyone else who wishes to make GoFering their Career. I would advise you to find another Master Mechanic to apprentice with, however. This one is busy with his own novice, and frustrated beyond belief.....

These are the Requirements for being a Successful GoFer, - as I perceive them to be!

1. Keep your eyes bright, your tail bushy, and cultivate your best bedside manner, especially when the situation is grave.

2. A cheerful and calm demeanor is a great asset.

3. No tears or brimming eyes when the Master Mechanic addresses you through clenched teeth. (It is O.K. to go around the corner and sniff a little)

4. Train your ears to hear only instructions. Shut out any extraneous comments from the Master Mechanic, no matter how profanely creative they are.

5. Avoid looking bewildered, - maintain an attitude of competence and understanding at all times.

6. As a consequence of this you will NEVER ask stupid questions (like, where will I find the jiggery thing-a-ma-bob with two greasy knobs on it? - any fool Apprentice would know that it is under the g-d hood somewhere!)

7. Don't ever be a wiss about greasy hands or broken finger-nails, - they are a mere bagatelle to the pure Apprentice.

8. Try to ignore the sailorly language the Master Mechanic uses, - he learned it as his Father's knee when he was a young Apprentice Lad himself. (I can attest to this, having heard his gentle father cursing at his own tractor when he thought everyone had gone to town!)

9. Remember that your hand is probably smaller than the Master Mechanic's, so don't be shy about offering to snake it into the innards of whatever machine is being attended to, - if you are successful you will be the recipient of the slightest approbation. If not you will only get the clenched teeth treatment once again!

10. Most importantly, keep your eyes bright, your tale bushy, and cultivate your best bedside manner. If you follow these instructions you will be able to retire to the kitchen and assume your own Master Mechanic Mien.

One more mere piece of advice, - if the Career as an Apprentice GoFer appeals to you, I would strongly advise you to enter the field before you are an Octogenarian. And be careful who you choose for your Master Mechanic, - based on experience I would not usually recommend relatives, - definitely not Husbands. They have such a clenched teeth way of saying "No, not that way HONEY - ! Remember, the older the Master Mechanic the longer he has held this position, and the greater his grasp of the task at hand. Ergo, the greater he condescends - patiently, but grimly!

It's an experience no eighty year old wife should miss......

Togetherness and apple pies

We are coming to the end of apple picking time here in the Similkameen Valley.

David brought us two or three small boxes of Gala apples, and they sat in the pantry for a week or two before the spirit moved us to turn them into apple pies.

Lovely apples, - they are a mixture of red and gold, - small and round, fragrant, and wonderful for holding a tender shape in scrumptious apple pies.

We decided to tackle the job together, husband and I.

I didn't know that making apple pies in tandem could be such a pleasure!!!

Imagine - Husband all set up at the baking table with the apple peeler/corer/slicer (what an amazing machine) and a box of perfectly shaped Gala apples. Along with an ice cream pail and a couple of sharp knives.

Here am I, taking the previously mixed pastry out of the fridge, rolling it out into rounds and fitting it into the pie plates, - piling Husband's apple slices into the pie plate and sifting on the sugar, flour and cinnamon mixture. Then on to the next production pie, and the next. When all three have been filled we fancy up the top crust, and into the oven they go! These are to eat immediately!!! For Thanksgiving!!!

Are we finished?
Are there apples left in the box?
Onward and upward........
Husband continues peeling, coring, slicing, and storing the prepared apples in the ice cream bucket.

I tear off large sheets of foil, - fit them into pie plates, and pile them with apple slices and sugar mixture. I cover the unbaked pies tightly with the surrounding foil, tuck them in layers in the freezer, and when they have frozen rescue the foil pie plates for another batch - another day.

What a treasure in the freezer, - stacks of apple pie fillings all ready to pop into pastry and begin wafting the fragrance of cooked apples and cinnamon pie throughout the house.

Precious time together, and then a nice cup of tea and a sigh of relief from the little dog who finds the occasional noises the production line makes hard on his little old ears. And besides, it's treat time!

These are today's pictures, and here is today's news, such as it be!

As I was sitting at the computer this afternoon I looked out the window to the south-east and thought about my husband's comment on our extreme good fortune in having this wonderful view to augment our living room.

We can look upon the farm which we established when we first came to this Valley, fifty-five years ago. We settled on a 600 acre veteran's land project, - all sage brush. Dry and dusty, but a good opportunity for the young vets who settled here and were prepared to put their hearts and faith, and a lot of hard work into establishing a future.

Our farm was at the bottom of the main gulley, just right of the centre of the picture. The DVA provided each veteran with $6.000.00 which, with a lot of good luck and good management, would provide him with the price of the land, the price of trees to plant an orchard, whatever orchard equipment he could afford, and a house to live in, - with what was leftover after he had repaid DVA the price of the land.

We moved to the Valley with three children and lived in rented accommodation while we planted the trees and built a house. My husband was the Water Bailiff for the project, - he cleared about 100 acres, in addition to our own 30 acres, planted it to hay and changed sprinklers on it all twice a day. In the second year, before we could move on to the land, he fell victim to the polio which ravaged children and young adults that year, but recovered his health and vigor until recent years when the effects of the polio have caused damage to the nerves in his extremeties

By today's standards it seems like an impossible task, but we were all young, strong and eager - there were tremendous feelings of comraderie and cooperation. We were all poor together, but full of hope and a spirit of helpfulness. And we had lovely parties!!!


Here is a bowl of Marigolds, picked today while I was out skirmishing with the dandelions!!!

I find the most amazing things that traveled up the hill to the new garden with the top soil we bought to get the garden established.

A sumac bush, three vigorous tomato plants that are just now starting to provide us with big ripe tomatoes, - a few ubiquitous elm trees and a splendid variety of weeds and wild flowers.

And here is the favourite rose which we rescued this spring from the Lost Garden. It is struggling to survive, but with a lot of TLC I think it's going to flourish.

It has a little super market rose growing along with it that was most unhappy when I planted it, but took to that new soil with abandon and is growing all over the place with its miniature roses. They keep each other company.....




Here is the garden, beginning to look somewhat the worse for wear and in need of a good "neatening" as fall gives fair warning of winter coming.

Today I found two oriental poppies that I thought had been swallowed by the alyssum that has been beating its dainty white chest and making its presence known up and down the pathway. They will have room to grow in the spring and to bloom as they used to!!


It has been a good day. Husband off to singing in the morning, and home to rejoice in the miraculous recovery of the generator on the Tractor. Plans underway for the building of the Garage, and a splendid big moon, waxing towards a full Harvest moon on the 7th - bathing us all in its glorious light.

Time to do the bedtime chores, gather up the current book and head down the hall to bed. Husband has turned off the Television, and is on his way to take over the den and his computer.

A good day! One at a time, and they make our lives comfortable and satisfying.

The last days of September have been full of a tranquil beauty, even as the leaves turn colour, quietly and imperceptibily.

I looked up into the Cawston hills late this afternoon and suddenly noticed all the deciduous trees which follow the water lines have dyed their leaves the colour of the fall sunset that graced the skies last night.

The garden needs to have a good trimming. Lots of tidying and dead heading demanding attention, but first the removal of dandelions and assorted other weeds that arrived with the marvelous soil we laid down this spring. I have taken to sitting on a stool to do this task, and when one little section is cleared I look at it with satisfaction and imagine the spot all planted with spring bulbs.

The spring bulbs are hiding in the hall closet......all except for the paper whites which are tucked away in the bottom crisper drawer of the fridge. They are Christmas bulbs, and are overly anxious to set forth on their growing adventure. I have grown wise to their ways, and know now just about when to pot them up so that they won't rush the season and be just a pot of limp greenery when they should be wonderfully fragrant white Christmas blooms.

I had the opportunity the other day of dropping Husband off at a Veteran's luncheon and skittering off in the car to the Garden Shop that is often off limits when he is driving. What a wonderfully confusing display! I was glad to have the time to go up and down the rows, filled with bins of daffodils, hyacinths, tulips and a great assortment of small bulbs. Came home with two large bags, - mostly tulips as I did rescue a lot of daffodils from the Lost Garden last spring. David and I bundled them into pots and baskets, and they made a lovely display along the front of the house, and on the steps. After they had finished blooming and their leaves had grown limp and brown I put them in a ditch in the meadow, where they have, I am sure, been gathering strength for another beautiful springtime display.

I found a beautiful new double tulip, - a warm apricot shade. It was it's name that drew me to it in the first place, - "Ramona". A song that holds a tender place in my childhood memories of my mother.

Next to September, October can be a pretty spectacular month in this Valley.
Wild sunrises and sunsets that call for the camera to be always at the ready.

Since I ditched EGO a few months ago, I find I have so much more time to just relax and enjoy the overwhelming beauty that fills these supposedly winter years of our life.

How late we grow wise!!!!

Roses in the New Garden

To delight the heart and feed the soul
Consolation for the Lost Garden

Picking Apples, amongst other things.....

Today was the day for the Big Machinery to come and dig out the bank at the back of the house, in readiness for the new garage.


Two nice golden delicious apple trees had to be sacrificed to the Big Machinery, in order to make room for this new garage, - as a matter of fact we have never owned a garage before!!!


This called for picking the apples from the trees before the afternoon's carnage. I am very sensitive to the destruction of trees, after the wholesale removal of the trees my husband had planted in the Lost Garden. However, I am also fond of picking apples, - have always found it a most pleasant occupation. Especially when the sky is blue, the clouds are white and fluffy and there is a hint of fall in the air, even though the sun is benignly warm.


When I was a child I read a book about an annual apple picking day at a boarding school, - for some reason I found the description of this day particularly appealing. I don't know if this influenced the way I felt about having an apple orchard and the pleasure of picking in it, - I certainly thought that boarding schools must be a great deal of fun .


I was up early and out with a bucket, having decided a picking bag was beyond me at my advanced age. First bucket was a breeze, - second bucket was still fun - third bucket filled up the box, and I looked at it with great satisfaction.


The second box was a little wearing on my shoulders, - by the time I had picked four boxes my eyes lit up and my heart lightened when I saw David, our grandson, trudging up the hill towards the house. Sent by his father.
I was so grateful for his help.....


I disappeared into the house to collect the coffee for a mid morning break, and while I was gone the young one was busy filling up the rest of the boxes, both big buckets and a large yellow plastic bin.







In the meantime Husband was doing what he does best now, - making order out of chaos with the tractor.












While the little dog ran around, delighted to be outdoors and invited to the party.












Until, alas, he stepped on something that pierced his foot, and in the process of having it removed also got a bit of a haircut.

Whining and complaining all the while!!








In the late afternoon we all went for a drive and took this pretty picture of an all together different apple orchard.









Who can help but love September!!!

Musings whilst bent over a table taking teeny, tiny stitches

Not a pasttime of my choosing, but nevertheless a labour of love.

When I offered to order the altar cloth and find some lace for it my ego had expanded to such a degree that it had caused me to forget that I am 81 years old, that my eyesight isn't all that great and that my back aches after 15 minutes of bending over. I did have enough presence of mind to realize that I COULD NOT crochet eight yards of lace, even though I would have liked to think I could undertake such an ambitious task.

I contented myself with finding some suitable lace, and faced with a tableful of ladies who claimed no familiarity with needle and thread, I rose to the occasion and offered to sew the eight yards of lace all around the beautiful Belgium damask altar cloth, - by hand, and with teeny, tiny stitches as befits a beautiful Belgium damask altar cloth.

I did ask for a deadline, knowing well my propensity to procrastinate.

The altar cloth is to be dedicated this coming Sunday in memory of a dear and faithful friend of all those ladies who sat around the table.

I started the project by extending the dining room table, finding the needles and pins and scissors and thimbles, and a large white linen cloth to lay this exquisite damask on. Then I rummaged around and found a gorgeous recording of Bach's music to inspire me, and to make the needle fly.

As I pinned and stitched the teeny, tiny stitches my thoughts were with Isobel, the friend we are honouring with the donation of this cloth to the Church which she loved so steadfastly.

I remembered her sincere and faithful friendship, her amazing generosity of spirit, her mischievous sense of humour - and the delight of being in her company.

I remembered the spirit of adventure that took her to far flung places when she was young, and the wonderful curiosity and intellect that sparked the endearing stories she told. I remembered a certain sweetness she carried with her, and her concern for those in need, and for those who yearned for love and friendship.

I remembered the way she served her church, in every possible way she could. And I remembered the great pleasure she took in doing this, - and all the funny times she shared with her friends. The laughter, and the dear stories she told. Her appearance on her 80th birthday in a baseball cap captioned "80 gives you 50" referring to the mileage and kilometre ratio.

Eventually my thoughts strayed to other friends who were close and cherished, and who are no longer with us. And I realized so many of our memories, as we grow older, are peopled by dear shades of the ones we laughed with, and sorrowed with - danced with, shared with - dreams and food, music and precious intimacies. The ones we grew up with, and the ones who guided our growing up time.

These friends live in our hearts, and will survive as long as our memories of them linger, either in our own minds, or in the presence of those with whom we share the memories, - on and on and on.....

Still two yards to stitch with teeny, tiny stitches and time grows short....

P.S. September 24th

Senior Moments

I hesitate to write about Senior Moments. I hesistate even to acknowledge that such things exist. However, there are some things too blatant to ignore, and last Sundays's experience, whilst readying myself for Church, made me face up to an unpleasant truth.

I DO have SENIOR MOMENTS - I do have times when the wires just don't connect, or the attention slips (just fractionally) and one is (just slightly) chagrined.

I'm not too bad at remembering names and birthdays but at what point of our lives certain things happened I score badly. Too much confusion, too much busyness, too many children doing too many things. I have to remember children's birth dates and then count forward until I come to the approximate age of the child when certain things happened.

Well, I have learned to cope with that, and I'm pretty good at covering up other faux pas I might make because of faulty memory. I usually put the salt and pepper back in the cupboard and the milk in the fridge and the laundry pretty well always ends up in the right place. My husband might disagree on some points, and I guess last Sunday's experience puts him on pretty stable ground.

On Sunday I went to church in a rosy haze!! Sundays are usually pretty relaxed days, with an early morning start at getting spiffed up, music rounded up and off we go. I was just putting the finishing touches to the getting ready program, - was all dressed, powdered, rouged and curled. I reached for the hair spray, applied it liberally, and as I replaced it on the counter noticed it was the Rose Linen and Room Spray, rather than the hair spray.

I slumped over the counter, head in hands. Husband, alarmed, sprang to attention! Why had wife, (who he cherishes and who gets his breakfast, lunch and dinner) collapsed???

He was relieved to find it was not a physical problem, just a mental aberration.

Off to church, smelling mighty lak a rose, up to the organ, well away from the congregation. I played through the service in perfumed splendour. Everyone was polite at tea time, - but daughter, (endearing child that she is) when we got home, threw up her hands in horror, - overcome by the rosy fumes.

The only thing that consoled me was remembering a friend, (when we were much much younger) arriving late at a meeting because she had picked up the shaving foam instead of the hair spray.

Ah, Senior Moments, - may they be few and far between and not too apparent to any except oneself.

It was cold comfort to hear husband muttering darkly from the kitchen that he had even forgotten how to set a mouse trap.

The Lost Manual

Underlying all the other things we are doing daybyday is the frantic search for the lost Manual for a Massey Ferguson Diesel Tractor.


Here is a picture of the Massey Ferguson Diesel Tractor along with its diligent Owner.

This was taken at a time when all necessary information for repair was stored in the Owner's diligent brain.

However, a situation has arisen where the Owner requires the manual to guide him in his delicate work with the wiring, - in short, he requires the schematic which is displayed in the Massey Ferguson Diesel Manual he has owned for forty years (both tractor and manual).

The Tractor sits in plain view in the back yard, displaying its innards. But the Manual has been displaced, shifted, hidden, become invisible, - in short, the Manual is lost. The Owner knows where it was in the old house (I know where things lived even in the house before that) but it has escaped and is hiding, somewhere on the new property.

When things get puzzling for me I often consult Google, and so I thought there might be some advice on finding things tucked away in a remote corner of the Web.

I found there were 52,000 results online when I googled the subject, - "searching for lost items"
This was a tad daunting, but some of the entries soon caught my interest. There are myriad methods of regaining lost objects.

I found that you can do this through Prayer Cards, - or you can do it mathematically. There is a more esoteric method - I ran across a thesis on finding lost objects which involved investigating the real world and the nature of what losing an object really means.

There are a number of patented devices or systems for locating lost objects, and one Web page which promised to reveal how people currently find lost things was clicked on, and the Page came up "NOT FOUND".

I found a method of locating lost items through a complicated astrological system, and one which recommended praying to St. Anthony.

I found a most interesting Spell which guaranteed success.

Supplies required:

• Mirror
• Orange candle
• Black candle
• Small Magnet

Procedure:

Cast your circle and invoke the Elemental Guardians. Light the black candle (for solving mysteries, and drawing away the negativeness of the loss), and then the orange candle (for luck and precious objects). Visualize the lost object(s) in the mirror as already being found. Place the magnet between the two candles and stroke it towards you as you say the following three times, substituting the name of the lost object for "(lost object)":

By the wavering flame of this black light,
Grant to me of my (lost object) a sight.
By the power of this orange flame,
Give me luck to find the same.
In this mirror the (lost object) I see
Make the magnet draw them to me.

Close the circle, but leave the candles burning with the magnet between them until the candles burn down.

I haven't tried this yet, but I was drawn to Professor Solomon's book on the Twelve Principles for finding lost objects. Even the Thirteenth Principle, which when all else fails recommends resignation, a shrug of the shoulders, and a resolve to Call off the Search. However, I doubt if the Owner would be happy with this solution.

Calling off the search and starting a new search for an old manual that some other Owner may have tucked away could be a way of solving the problem. Everyone knows that when you lose one glove and then replace the pair, the lost glove immediately turns up. There is even a Grook attesting to the truth of this theory....

CONSOLATION GROOK by Peter Grook

 Losing one glove

is certainly painful,

but nothing 

   compared to the pain,

of losing one,

throwing away the other,

and finding 

   the first one again."

It reinforces the Rule which reads "To find something lost, Replace It".

Probably the theory which both mystified and appealed to me was that advanced
by the Numerologists, and the first spare moment I have I'm going to try it.

One of the numbers (which are obtained by addition of random numbers) claims
"It went out with the garbage; you will not be able to retrieve it. It's covered
by dirt, and it will soon disintegrate"

Pray this is not so!

I was bemused with what a lot of things turn out to be loseable.....just a few

Lost Time
Lost Sheep
Lost Chord (and also the Lost Cord which turns out to be connected to Spinal Cord 
Rejuvenation.
Lost for words
Lost Prophecy, from Harry Potter
Paradise Lost
Losing one's grip (and not referring to luggage)

This little exercise has not contributed anything to finding the Lost Manual, but it
has kept the Owner's wife entertained for an hour or so, and hopefully it will
entertain the Owner too, and provide a little distraction until the Lost Manual 
decides to surface.

On the Subject of Procrastination I am an expert.

"I love DEADLINES. I like the sound they make as they go whooshing by."

I can spend a whole days doing frivolous things - feeling guilty about it, but nevertheless finding entirely irrelevent things to do which will prevent me tackling the job I am trying to avoid.

I have an application to make, and an accompanying letter to write. I probably have another two weeks before panic sets in and I am forced to sit down and DO this chore. Right Now!!!

I will spend that two weeks in guilty avoidance of the file sitting on my desk. I will pretend that I am turning over in my mind what I will say, and the best way of saying it. But the truth is that the job which would once have been an enjoyable challenge has become just another mundane chore.

Unfortunately when I say I like the sound of deadlines whooshing past, that's just not something I could do. It's wishful thinking. It is a most inviting idea, - to be carefree enough to be able to ignore a deadline!!! What an indulgence....but one not available to me, alas.

It takes a certain amount of charm to be able to avoid a deadline without making any number of people cross with you!!!! A dab of derring-do, and a careless insouciance to carry off a total avoidance of responsibility with any suavity....

I can procrastinate, day after day, but when push comes to shove I will always come through with the goods!!! I am of the the "salt of the earth" clan which is viewed with just a hint of condescension by the dreamers and the fiddlers.

How boring, - I'm not a charming butterfly or a grasshopper after all - procrastination is as far as I can stray from the straight and narrow.

My only hope of hearing deadlines whoosh past with any degree of glee is if, in old age, I hearken back to childhood days and forget the responsibilities of adulthood. I see certain signs of that forgetfulness overtaking me.......

Smoky Days


This afternoon husband, dog and I went for a drive through the Lower Similkameen Valley (where we live) and here are some of the sights we saw.

The smoke is from the Tripod Fire in the State of Washington, seeping up over the border through the Cawston Valley from the south, and from the Tatoosh Complex Fire on the U.S. side of the border in the Pasayten Wilderness inundating the valley from the West.

My husband tells stories about a previous fire in this same area which resulted in him working as a Licensed Log Scaler in the Pasayten country, on the Canadian side of the border. They were cutting burned timber which was left by this fire when it crossed the border into Canada. Because of the restriction which evidently bans the use of heavy machinery in fighting forest fires in wilderness areas in the U.S. this fire eventually had to be fought back with heavy duty machinery on the Canadian side, thus augmenting the Kentucky mule skinners, picks and shovels which were being used in the U.S. Pasayten wilderness to attempt to contain the fire.

I question the wisdom of preserving wilderness areas, only to have them destroyed by uninhibited fire. And I question further the damage to the health of many who are susceptible to smoke. How much second hand cigarette smoke would equal the smoke that is now inundating thousands of square miles because of what appears to be inadequate fire fighting techniques?

It gives me pause to consider the disadvantages of the National Park which is being proposed in the Similkameen Valley. The Kelowna fire of recent years ravaged a National Park left unkempt and neglected, flaunting too much of a temptation for natural causes. Whereas now it is once again in a state of re-birth it hardly compensates for the damage which was inflicted on neighbouring communities.

My husband and I discuss this situation, and consider the orderly logging in these hills sixty years ago, and the stewardship of the ranchers and farmers in the area.

We see that the trees in the logged areas are once again mature. My husband tells me of skid roads and trails which were disturbed by these logging operations, resulting in a soil ready to receive moisture and seeds, and to generate new forest trees. He tells me also of disturbing the soil in treeless areas on the open slopes of the Similkameen valley to a depth of two or three feet with a cat, and turning up charcoal from ancient fires. These are the areas which may take centuries to recover from fierce fires.

Well, those are the thoughts I had as we traveled through this smoky valley, and these are the comments which resulted from our conversation....

September - most glorious of months

Across acres of old pastures, where the goldenrod are taking over, late August and early September turn the land into a tumbling sea of the richest yellow. The fields are awash with waves of goldenrod that flow across the slopes and break against the stone walls and the woods.
Edwin, Way Teale

In the days when we raised sheep and I was enthused about spinning and dyeing wool the goldenrod and rabbit brush drew me into the hills and along the roadsides to gather
great baskets of yellow gold that with the proper mordants gave me the soft and subtle greens and tans and buttery colours to weave blankets that still keep us warm at night and lay over chairs for afternoon naps.

The first day of September, and we enter my most favourite month of all. September is like New Year's Eve to me, - it holds all the excitement of new beginnings. We come from a languid summer, full of zip and great expectations. It has been this way for me always, but more so when I was sending children back to school. I wasn't breathing a sigh of relief, - I just wanted in the worst way to go with them!!

When it finally came my turn to go back to school it was one of the most exciting times of my life, and I loved every minute of it.


Today has been glorious. Cool breezes, warm sun and blue skies. The intense heat of summer has retreated. The hills are still smokey, and the sun set tonight - a spectacular red ball against a smokey sky.



I spoke in a previous post about the curious anomoly that we depression children harbour and the guilt we feel when we indulge in the things we love to do. There is a need to find a practical reason for everything we do. It plagues me when I pass my weaving room, and much as the loom beckons and the unfinished warp scolds, there always seems to be something else that should be done. If I can fool my mind into thinking that I am weaving to make presents and save money at Christmas and Birthdays, then all is well and I can weave guilt free.

I had no hope of ever conquering this feeling until today I read of a wise woman's effort to change "should" to "could".

I said it over to myself, silently. It opened up possibilities, and so I said it out loud.

Try it, - what a wonderful release, - changing a negative to a positive. I COULD go and weave this morning. Or I COULD clean out the fridge. A great decision making opportunity, and permission to choose what appeals most (always keeping in mind that the fridge is going to continue to need to be scrubbed and polished and re-arranged) Perhaps a morning will come when that is the activity which really turns me on!!!!! Clean fridges do have a certain appeal!

Well, this way of looking at things opens up possibilities, and what better month to try it. Imagine, waking up to a morning of choices! I will feel like a butterfly, - a grasshopper. Certainly not a trudging ant. I will banish "SHOULD" from my vocabulary.

Of course there is still "MUST", but MUST places no burden of decision upon us, - it doesn't encourage us to procrastinate. It is purely and simply a fulfilment of an obligation, a commitment

I go into September with lots of enthusiasm and a light heart!!!