Well, there are piano recitals, and then there are Piano Recitals Par Excellence... (click to enlarge)

Today Husband and I answered an invitation to a Piano Recital presented by the students of Donna Fishwick's Piano Studio when we attended an absolutely splendid musical afternoon in Osoyoos.

Donna is the daughter of our dear friend who is approaching his 100th birthday in December, and in his honour she filled a shiney wine coloured coach with twenty students and their families and brought them from Vancouver to the Osoyoos United Church to perform for him.

What a wonderful birthday gift..... we are filled right to the brim with the most marvelous piano music. This is a group of students who are dedicated and inspired, and no doubt supported all the way by their parents. They have visited Europe three times on concert tours, and besides spectacular piano solos they play two piano duets and have a DVD entitled Forty Flying Fingers.

Most amazing performances, - four fourteen year old boys, with the most relaxed and bequiling smiles, playing the "Poet and Peasant" Overture, and then Sousa's Stars and Stripes Forever, stirring two pianos with such spirit that they sounded like a full orchestra.

And a young boy, just turned twelve, leaving us in wonderment at the dexterity and vitality with which he played "The Juggler" by Toch.

Another quartet played Schubert's Marche Militaire, and Husband bemusedly remembered playing this same piece at a Piano Recital, but somewhat lacking the same aplomb.

I noted the wrist positions and the arm and finger movements, and recalled how Donna had taught our two oldest children when she first began her career, and the various touch techniques she recommended for practising.

These were wonderfully appealing young people, - disciplined, at ease, happy and enormously talented.

When the Recital closed with the Grande Galop de Concert by the same quartet who opened the program, presentations were made to Sterling, our friend, and everyone enjoyed birthday cake and conversation.

Tonight I delight in remembering thirty beautiful piano renditions, twenty young people for whom music is so obviously an important part of their life, and a dedicated teacher who inspires and guides them with such easy grace.

A simply stupendous afternoon, - wish you could have all been there.

September is fading fast, - this morning the Valley is socked in and the Autumn rains are with us.

But the cheery faces of the sunflower still linger...and the melodies of Bach are always soothing.

Ahh, this Moon stays very much with us.

Riding the clouds before midnight,


and still lingering in the western sky at six a.m., when Caspar and I go walking with an eye out for wild critters who might be browsing by the moon's bright light.









At the same time, the rising sun illuminates the eastern clouds with Monet shades, sweet roses, tender blues and for emphasis the lovely slatey colours.

Boys and Toys

A question from the Valley...


Answer me this - how many grown up boys do you know of who have reached the age of 83 and still have a backyard full of dirt to play in and a tractor to move it around from one place to another?????

Here is Husband, doing a wheely on the old and faithful Tractor.

And pushing that dirt all up hill to fill in around the garage and tamp it down.

This is a part time job, - he only works mornings in case you were thinking of hiring the Man and his Machine.













A fine job, - well done. I'd recommend him to anyone. He's a Keeper........

Last night, in the twilight, as the pink of the setting sun slowly faded from the sky
a pale porcelain moon rose in the East, over the Cawston hills.

Later in the evening, as dusk deepened and the night grew dark, a halo gathered around the moon, and whereas before it had appeared elegant and ethereal, it became a dramatic beacon that bathed the valley in light the whole night long. Husband and Daughter attest to that - both being up at three a.m. - I slept on......

I thought it was terribly romantic, but alas, we are at the age where romance touches us lightly with memory, and then passes on to more mundane evening affairs.

Things carry on much as usual under the light of the silvery moon.....

Nevertheless it adds a certain sweetness to the evening.

As I am slowly coming back to consciousness after my precious afternoon nap the ringing of the phone brings me suddenly to my feet. Wrong number, but I am awake now.

I go to the door, and am seduced outside by the stillness and beauty of the autumn afternoon.

It is quiet, - the faint sound of traffic does not disturb my reverie as I sit on the step in the soft September sunlight and lazily survey the garden.

With pleasure I observe the little birds enjoying afternoon refreshment at the sunflower seed bar stretched along the outside fence. The wings of the honey bees and wasps make gentle whisperings as they whirl around the autumn buds of Mum and Aster.

In the distance I hear the faint conversation of apple pickers. The breeze stirs my hair and the leaves of the hollyhock as it wafts the sound of voices through the trees, but I cannot catch the form of the words.

I gaze across the valley at our original home here, - the farm where we spent our youthful married years, and where our children roamed the hills and creekbeds, the water fall and the small caves that are found along the side of the canyon above the house. I note the rills that mark the Cawston Basin hills, and reminisce about the cloud burst that fifty years ago sifted them down to bedrock so that they shone in the sunlight.

I see the barn, standing out in the clear September air, high on the hill. I think about the nightime hours we spent amongst the quiet warmth of contented sheep, - our attention focused on the ewe(s) who had chosen that particular time to lamb, and the memories are happy.

The sounds of Husband stirring from sleep in the house, anxious to be about his afternoon tasks, give me pause to think of putting on the kettle for tea.

As I leave my stoop I see a large hawk crossing the valley, up, up against the blue, blue sky, into the hills that form the northern slope of the valley. A small quail, perched on a fence post as a look-out for a troop of quail that are skittering across the meadow, sounds the alarm

Off to make tea, and to look for my bell ringing gloves that have hidden themselves away since the last time they were used in May.

The Season changes, and although I woke this morning in a blue Monday Morning funk, my spirit now is soothed and I close my eyes momentarily to give thanks.

O when, O when will my ego let me rest and prepare myself for the rocking chair and the knitting needles.

When I think Knitting Needles do I think "cotton dishcloths" ?

NO, - I immediately am drawn to knitting socks on two circular needles - a mystery to me now.

But also a Challenge.

I could do that.......

What fun........

Where, and How Soon can I get instructions and the necessary needles.
Being the shame faced owner of a 60 year old stash of needles and yarn, taking up space in the second walk-in closet that is sorely needed for other things, finding the necessary tools to take along on this Knitting adventure is really not a problem.

What really is a problem is that I promised Husband and myself that I would finish the warp on the Glimakra and prepare the loom for storage, so we could reclaim the room it dominates.

The Promissory Note comes due on the 30th of September, and it is blatant evidence of an ego out of control that I should even be thinking of taking on another project, - let alone sitting here writing about it.

I shall slink away to the card table and put all thoughts of circular socks out of my head while I strive to beat Husband at the nightly game of cards.

The wringer washer and its place in my life or a little nostalgia (a very little)

I have to confess it has never held a very LARGE place in my life, - the wringer washer. It was not exactly a priority, - something I could just not live without.....

But an awareness of the wringer washer did arrive fairly early in my childhood.

I have mentioned the Water Glass container that lurked in our basement, and whose main purpose in life (besides preserving eggs in a most fiendish manner) was to scare the living daylights out of small children.

As small children grew a little older and more capable they were introduced to the wringer washer, which I was told we were really fortunate to have. It was one step up from the scrubbing board, - which was one step up from pounding with stones and mashing with feet..... It was accompanied by a slatted foldable table on which sat two rinse tubs (sometimes used for bathing children or giving them a treat on hot days - pre-plastic swimming pools). We were fortunate in that we didn't have to heat water, but could rely on a hot water tap and hose to fill the washer and the tubs. However, our nemesis was the wringer that moved around from tub to tub.

The washer we had was a vile beast that lay in wait for whoever was chosen to be washer woman this week. It had a wringer that periodically went berserk, whirling around and around at a furious pace, catching anyone who was unaware of impending doom and was within the radius of its mad circling. Its secret weapon was surprise, - it didn't always act up, - sometimes it was docile and cooperative, lulling one into forgetfulness and complacency. So that when it DID indulge in its wild round-a-bout the danger was particularly sudden, and resulted in shrieks and screams and frantic dancing to and fro as one reached for the plug to quieten its madness.

I have discovered that a " Berserker" was a furious Scandinavian warrior of heathen times, and it describes our wringer washer to a T. The dictionary tells me it was, in fact a "legendary Norse warrior whose frenzy in battle caused their transformation into a wolf or bear, made them howl and foam at the mouth (hence ‘to go berserk’), and granted immunity to sword and flame. Such warriors were an elite associated particularly with the raging war god Odin ". (if you click on Odin you can probably find out more about this subject.)

I think because I had a Scandinavian name (meaning noble woodcutter's daughter) it was especially drawn to inflict its machinations upon me. Although I do consider that my sister would probably challenge this statement, having enduring many a frightening flight from the Mad Wringer herself.

I had a milder version of the wringer washer when I was first married, and also a scrub board, - the day the automatic washer entered our house was certainly a celebratory one. But I still have the washboard.......... I use it for felting and cherish it as an antique.

Theodore Roethke and Ogden Nash
Sit side by each on my library shelf

If you examine the following rhymes
Can you randomly choose who penned which after being inspired by a hippopotamus???

The Hippo

A Head or Tail - which does he lack?
I think his Forward's coming back..
He lives on Carrots, Leeks and Hay;
He starts to yawn-it takes All Day

Some time I think I'll live that way.

THE HIPPOPOTAMUS
Behold the hippopotamus!
We laugh at how he looks to us,
And yet in moments dank and grim,
I wonder how we look to him.
Peace, peace, thou hippopotamus!
We really look all right to us,
As you no doubt delight the eye
Of other hippopotami.

Such widely divergent poets - Nash, the light hearted humorist, whose verse almost verges on the ditty, but who, nevertheless, was widely acknowledged in literary circles.

And Roethke, whose dark spirit caused him such mental anguish during his lifetime, and who, besides his nonsense poems, wrote such poignant lines -

"Eternity's not easily come by.
When opposites come suddenly in place,
I teach my eyes to hear, my ears to see
How body from spirit slowly does unwind
Until we are pure spirit at the end."

And his words from "The Waking" so often quoted - "I wake to sleep and take my waking slow. I learn by going where I have to go."

And yet some of his poetry rivals Ogden Nash for light-heartedness and breakthroughs in the use of language.

They were peers, Nash and Roethke, - both of them affected by the depression of the thirties in that they did not have the necessary money to finance their educations.

Roethke, much more serious, won many awards for his writing.

Nash made his way into the hearts of people dealing with a difficult time in the thirties and forties of the last century. His books have been with me for over sixty years, - well thumbed, and much of his verse is imprinted on the inner pages of my brain. They make me smile and lift my spirits, and besides that I admire his wit and his wonderful comments on reality.

The Parent
Children aren't happy with nothing to ignore,
And that's what parents were created for.

Family Court

One would be in less danger
From the wiles of the stranger
If one's own kin and kith
Were more fun to be with.

And, of course, - "Candy is dandy - but liquor is quicker!"


Roethke is later coming to my book shelf, but I value him equally for the beauty of his language, and the poignancy of his thoughts.

"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.
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,
Drowsing in the soft light, petals pulsing."

His father's greenhouse, with its benches and greenery and warm fragrance, comes alive for me, and I am in awe of how he perceives......

Roethke wrote "The Hippo" - a dead give-away is the last line.

Nash wrote "The Hippopotamus" - a nice little bit of reality in comic verse.

Thank you to Mrs. Morrison...

Mrs. Morrison was my Grade 4 teacher, and I owe her a huge debt of gratitude. I thought about this when I was rummaging through old music and came across my father's favourite, " Charmaine" and also a copy of Ketelbey's "Monastery Garden".

Who could resist Ketelbey, - that wonderfully showy music that gives young students heart that some day they will be able to WOW their audience. That and the "Flower Song" of crossed hands fame.

I was alone in the house, and I sat right down and indulged myself in a dramatic frenzy of arpeggio's, deep chords and bell notes, and it all came flowing back through my fingers as if I had played it yesterday, rather than fifty years ago! The birds trilled in the garden, and the Monks chanted the Kyrie Eleison and I marveled at the way fingers and brain (and probably neurons) worked together to bring such satisfaction. (I must look for the Persian Marketplace, and Husband reminds me of Nevin's Narcissus which he used to play with great dexterity)

I owe it all to Mrs. Morrison.

She it was who approached a piano teacher, recommending that I have piano lessons to "broaden my education". What a gift that was.....as a result my soon to be piano teacher, Mrs. Shillabeer, offered my parents the opportunity to send me to her for lessons each and every Tuesday, for the sum of fifty cents. Hard to believe in this day and age, but the combination of her generosity and the economic times of the Thirties made this a price that was just barely affordable.

Before Kathleen was married she taught from her studio, upstairs in her parents' house. You waited on a bench at the bottom of the stairs while she finished with the student before you, - either marveling at that student's proficiency, or feeling buoyed up if you felt you had your lesson up to scratch and wouldn't disappoint.

One of the really excruciating experiences was the semi annual Piano Recital.

I didn't mind the yearly exams so much, and by the time I was ready to compete in Music Festivals my confidence was a little steadier. But Piano Recitals, - ah, I shudder when I remember. Always dressed to the nines, with parents present, and the eternal fear that you would forget your notes and mess up your performance. Even the goodies that followed didn't compensate for the butterflies.

Until their deaths a few years ago Kathleen and her husband, Walter, were good and cherished friends. When they came to B.C. they visited the farm, and letters flowed between us sporadically.

I miss seeing Kathleen's writing on a Christmas card, or note, but I treasure the memories I have of her, as a teacher and a friend.

However, my most profound thanks must go to the teacher who saw the potential and acted out of kindness to bring music into my life. I have only a vague memory of what she looked like, but I am in awe of her perception. I never did get beyond the proficiency stage, but the many joys I have had, and the little bits of teaching I have been able to pass on, have made my life much richer.

A Day of Surprises

Surprise No. 1

I traipsed up the church aisle this morning, hoping that the dead "F" on the organ had been fixed, and I would not be confined to playing hymns in any Key that contained F#.

I arrived at the organ, and something was not right.

There stood a replacement for the old familiar organ that has become a friend since I learned all its idiosyncrasies and no, it wasn't a replica of the beautiful pipe organ shown above.

Rather it was an old, but still elegant, Hammond L102, completely foreign to me, - the big white tabs labelled full organ, soft, etc. etc, didn't take too much imagination to manipulate, but all the drawbars with numbered figures from 1 to 8 on each one, were a complete mystery.

What do elderly ladies do when faced with a surprise of this magnitude, - well, if they're versatile, they cope. So I gathered all my versatility around me, and I must say that after so many years it has grown rather thin and scarce on the ground. Nevertheless there was enough to enable me to get through the service, rush home and google the Hammond L102. With surprising results, - I was fascinated by its history and the possibilities of making it sound just a little like the gorgeous pipe organ... Just a little was enough to pique my interest, and Husband and I will go to the Church one morning this week and see what marvels (if any) we can draw out of those numbered bars.

Second Surprise..

Ah, what a pleasure it was. A visit from our new Great Granddaughter, and her wonderful parents. Dear child, - she will not remember visiting her great grandparents, but we will cherish the chance to hold her and marvel at each tiny perfection, - the little baby fingers that grasped her Daddy's thumb so tightly, the lovely little three cornered smile of content, and the tender gassy smile of delight.













Happy, happy Great Grands.....

Tripping Along....


Well, yesterday Daughter and I were on the road again. The little red car had been to the hospital and discharged with a clean bill of health. It chortled down the highway with the promise of getting us to where we were going this time. And back again!

Our journey followed a three-legged route, each leg with it's own charm and devilish drawbacks.

The road from Keremeos to Princeton follows the Similkameen river, - somewhat twisty and windy but also very scenic and pleasant. It take about fifty minutes, if you are doing the speed limit and watching for deer crossings.

The second leg jogs through a valley, rich with lakes and campsites but the road is positively serpentine until it climbs up on to the Nicola plateau. It then presents a view of satiny hills, crisscrossed with evergreens and deciduous trees, just beginning to don the colours of autumn.















The approach to the third leg of the journey takes you past Aspen Grove, and suddenly you are shoveled on to the Coquihalla highway, and funneled down a road that has only a speedy trip to recommend it. The traffic whizzes by and not even the timid who cling to the 110 k speed limit have a place to cower along in comfort, - their slow lane is taken up by trucks probably doing 130kph. It is a relief to be dumped at the other end, into a sane and sensible traffic pattern. More or less.

We found our way to the Thompson River University Campus, - unloaded the trunkful of Care Packages for the erstwhile students we had come to visit, and were suitably impressed with their most practical and attractive digs.

After a lunch that I enjoyed immensely (good Onion Soup and fun to be with young people) and a walk around the campus, threading our way through throngs of local and international students, it was, alas, time to hit the road again and retrace our steps. I was terribly envious of the youthfulness and the wonderful opportunities. I remembered that when I took the courses that these girls are taking now I was middle-aged, and although the learning was wonderful, the sense of community amongst the young extended in only a limited fashion to include the older students. Which, of course, is perfectly understandable.

Today I am stiff from a six hour journey in the little red car, and very much aware of travel limitations that persuade Husband and I to enjoy being homebodies.

But I wouldn't have missed if for anything, and thanks to DD for braving that frightening highway, and being so sweet about the twists and turns that took us through the approach to it.

Lord, it is time. The summer was very big. Lay thy shadow on the sundials,
and on the meadows let the winds go loose. Command the last fruits that
they shall be full; give them another two more southerly days, press them
on to fulfillment and drive the last sweetness into the heavenly wine.
- Rainer Maria Rilke

September, - such a beautiful and ambivalent month......

The garden catches its breath, and lo, the delphinium, the roses and the shasta daisies send forth blooms that rival summer's show.

As September comes into its own the Aster puts forth tentative shaggy flowers, while all over the dark green bush, buds promise a glorious tribute to fall, later in the month. Same with the Chrysanthemums, but they are both content to graciously bide their time while summer flowers give us one last tender retrospect - a sweet goodbye to hot and hazy, lazy days.

Husband's sunflowers make a trip down the road a cheerful, sunny adventure. One of them bows in obeisance, but another bends even further, to see if perhaps her shoelaces are undone. Cool mornings, sunny afternoons and early evenings refresh the spirit that laboured under August's heat. It is a renewal and a new beginning, - and yet the second flush of summer flowers have a frailty to them that speaks of coming shadows. That the shadows are preceded by the glorious shades of fall cannot deter us completely from thoughts of melancholy November days. If we are wise we enjoy the ambiance of autumn. We revel in the golds, the scarlets, the subtle shades of green and umber yellows, and we put away from us the greying skies of November, - the mists that cover the mountains and the cold winds that drive us indoors.

In the meantime we have the "Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer"

Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.
The grasshopper's horn, and far-off, high in the maples,
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn, broken,
Tired with summer.
- Sarah Teasdale, September Midnights

So here we are, stretching it somewhat to say we are still in the autumn of our lives, but still reveling in the glories of September and October. And trying not to be overshadowed by the thoughts of November, yet to come...........

I have come to a still, but not a deep center,
A point outside the glittering current;
My eyes stare at the bottom of a river,
At the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains,
My mind moves in more than one place,
In a country half-land, half-water.
I am renewed by death, thought of my death,
The dry scent of a dying garden in September,
The wind fanning the ash of a low fire.
What I love is near at hand,
Always, in earth and air.
- Theodore Roethke,

Early in the morning faint Venus keeps watch over the most slender silvery crescent moon - worth rising before the dawn......

A melancholy day, with the loss of Luciano Pavarotti and the voice that can move me to tears.

I distract myself by looking through old pictures, and of course some of them provoke a sad nostalgia as well.

But here is a picture I love. Our First Dinner Party, held in the dappled shade of a huge cherry tree growing at Husband's parents' orchard home. It was probably late June or early July of 1945, just a few months after we were married.

I don't recall the menu, but the guests have lived in our hearts a long, long time. They were also newly married.

I blow up the picture as large as I can, and study faces and expressions, and the memories come flooding back. There is my darling new husband, and I am smiling at him with delight.

George, with the curly hair, was a childhood friend of Husband's. He and Kay had just graduated from Vancouver Art School, and we ran into them by chance on the street in the City, whilst on our honeymoon.

They soon returned to Penticton, and began constructing a wonderful home/studio from the old barn on George's father's orchard. For a while Charles helped him. They were neighbours and lived in a small house on the top of a hill above the barn-cum-home-studio while it was being renovated. We shared many meals after this first one, but apart from the friendship I learned to value the things they both taught me. To see and absorb the gorgeously subtle colours that are so prevalent in the Okanagan rocks and hills and grasses, and repeated here in the Similkameen - a wonderful introduction to music and art, - and conversation that opened up my rather limited and naive world.

A fond recollection that lightens the melancholy and makes me grateful for the things that come one's way.

Here are the street pictures as we were in those dear old days of long ago.

The Great Adventure - Loose, and out on the road....

Daughter and I rose early this morning, full of vim, vigour and vitality. Eager to set off on our adventure to travel to Kamloops and attend daughter/granddaughter's family orientation barbecue at Thompson University.

We met for an early morning cup of coffe (no breakfast, - that was to be a treat on the road) and set off, down the driveway, turn right out on to the highway, and down the hill into town. As we crested the town hill Daughter noticed the battery warning light was on. We got out the cell phone and consulted Husband.

Worry not, said Husband. That light must be defective, it has been on since time immemorial!

And so we went on, watching the rest of the gauges carefully, but all seemed well, and eventually we stopped worrying about the baleful battery light and gave in to a feeling of light-hearted pleasure and adventure.

We had instructions to add oil in Princeton, a forty minute drive away, - but when we arrived there we found no service stations open, and so blithely continued on the next leg of our journey to Merritt.

I will inject here that Daughter has had a bad experience with deer jumping off hillsides on to the road, and in her particular case, right on to her car. Consequently she is nervous driving during the hours when deer are most prevalent crossing the highways. We proceeded cautiously, and I have to tell you she behaved admirably and with coolness and aplomb (also quick reflexes) when a small deer rose up from the ditch along the highway and darted immediately in front of the car. She slammed on the brakes, and the deer gave a little leap and bounded away.

I looked at her with admiration, but I'm sure her heart was pounding, and shortly after she remarked that she would like to pull over when we reached Dry Lake. Which we did, within about ten minutes.

This is a lake with many memories of fishing expeditions with grandchildren. Daughter left the car running as she stopped to relax, - as she got back in the engine of the car stopped running - permanently. Gauges still looked normal, except for that "defective" battery warning light, but the engine was hot.

Alas, our little adventure was taking on somber tones. I tried to call with my cell phone, but in this neck of the woods you are out of range almost all the time.

Walking back to the pay phone at Dry Lake we started the ordeal of finding a Tow Truck on this busy Labour Day Week-end. After a number of frustrating tries, and Daughter's anxiety that Mother would not keep her cool, (as has happened before) finally the answer was Yes, - the people from Princeton could come out, but it would be a long wait, - so we phoned Granddaugther and Husband to bring them up to date on the Great Adventure, Loose on the Road. And then returned to wait.

I got a whole heel knitted on the new pair of striped socks, and the hours went by. Just at the end of the second hour Daughter saw a man across the lake get into his rowboat and come across the water to where we were stranded. He beached the boat, climbed the hill to the roadway, and asked if we had help coming. I thought that was right neighbourly of him, and it lightened our distress somewhat.

Shortly after the Tow Truck arrived. What a splendid vehicle, and driven with such aplomb by a pleasant and burly young man. It was like no tow truck I have ever seen before (I have a limited knowledge of tow trucks....)...a splendid snub nosed vehicle with a sliding deck that the driver appeared to slip under the car and then hitched the car onto the deck of the truck. The little red Grand Am looked as if it was in a parade, and just needed a few ribbons and balloons to look quite festive. It was blushing somewhat and I'm sure it felt quite shame faced at having not lived up to expectations.

Wayde, the driver, called the cab his "fish bowl" and so it was. All glass, front, back and sides, so we had a great view of the highway and the hills, and rills and other scenery while gliding down the highway some eight feet off the ground.

A pleasant young man, - he had two or three stops to make as we marked our return trip to where we had started out so full of cheer and optimism.

He had to stop and get a bun to eat, and some gas to take to a stranded motorcyclist, and you will remember that we had had no breakfast. I kept my eyes studiously averted as he ate that Danish, but my stomach grumbled a little about food so near, but yet so far.

As he finished eating we were hailed down by a fellow tow truck driver, who said, plaintively, that "this was his first time and he didn't know how to do it" - get the wheels under the back of the car he was trying to lift, that is - (the lady with the dog on a leash, who was a passenger in the car, giggled). He was not fortunate enough to have one of these new fangled tow trucks, but our intrepid driver, Wayde, was quick to give him instructions, and called out to him as we drove off to be sure he hooked on before he did whatever it was he had told him to do. I silently wished him luck and a good performance with his "first time".

Husband was at the outskirts of town to meet us. He followed along behind and consulted with Shaun, the mechanic/owner at our destination garage. I paid the Tow Truck Company enough money to buy a new monitor (almost), Daughter bit her tongue and eventually we said farewell to the recalcitrant Red Grand Am and came home to EAT and have some coffee.

The final diagnosis was a wretched alternator that has been on the brink for many months, but never received the final push until today. Daughter was exonerated at being firm about not continuing, even if the car would start, as that would only have resulted in us breaking down and being stranded farther away from phone contact with anyone, in the wilds of the Princeton Merritt road country. And with a steady stream of motorists and semi's passing by, oblivious to our distress.

The Red Grand Am is spending Labour Day Weekend in the compound at the garage, but we are already planning a trip to visit Granddaughter/daughter on her first day without classes.

Anyone for Rose Hip Jelly? Tea? A Rose Hip Oil Wrap, or a Rose Hip Facial ($89.00 for 50 minutes at an unspecified health spa).

I have the perfect source, but have to wait for the October frost to come along and soften the berries, - and I wonder how many others are doing the same thing.

An absolutely stupendous crop of rose hips this year, - as a matter of fact an absolutely stupendous crop of everything. Bud told me this morning he had 100 bins of pears compared to his usual 80, - the ditches along the roadways are overgrown with grasses, wild clematis, goldenrod and a myriad assortment of late summer wild flowers.

Even the Poison Ivy lies in abundance beside the roadside, its early fall colours inviting the unwary to pick a colourful bouquet of leaves.

Today we made a return trip to Ginty's Pond, that in July was so fresh and verdant, - we found
the pond covered with scum, and although the leaves of the water lilies were still vigorous and green the flowers that in July were so abundantly beautiful have faded away.













A couple of large, old logs are mired in the shallow water, and the green manes which have sprouted along their backs are gradually taking on the colours of fall.

Across the road, stretching to the easterly end of the pond, the scum forms a whitish grey cover over the still water, but the bull rushes which surround it are reaching a lovely, chocolate brown maturity.

We drive on along the road that is lined with Christmassy decorations, - dark green leaves, scarlet rose hips and garlands of wild clematis.













Here is the recipe for Rose Hip Jelly

4 quarts ripe rose hips
2 quarts water
1 package pectin crystals
5 cups sugar
1/2 cup lemon juice

Simmer rose hips in water until soft. Crush to mash, and strain through a jelly bag. This will produce about 4 cups of rose hip juice. Add lemon juice and pectin crystals to the rose hip juice Heat and stir until mixture comes to a hard boil. Stir sugar in at once. Bring to a full rolling boil and boil for 1 minute, stirring constantly. Remove jelly from heat and skim off foam with metal spoon. Pour into hot sterilized jars.

Crumpets and honey and rose hip jelly, - sounds delicious.

Sitting on the back steps having coffee with Husband this morning, and the sky is bright blue and cloudless.

A slight breeze stirs the leaves on The Man's sunflowers and scarlet runners, lining the roadside fence. The neighbour's windmill can be seen above the tree tops, spinning lazily. A cool, quiet morning.

Husband goes about his business, and I deke into the kitchen to make applesauce muffins.

By mid-afternoon a change of scene. At tea time I venture forth to test the waters, - and find a garden luxuriating in the heat of the day. The hot sun elicits a most delicious fragrance from the roses and alyssum. It wafts around as you brush past on the shaded garden path, but out on the sunlit patio tea in the breakfast room seems like a good idea.

Caspar wanders off into the meadow and is burying his nose in the cool, freshly watered grass. He turns over and rolls in it with intense pleasure, smiling all the while.

Callie, the cat, is investigating what grows in the barnflower jungle, but comes at Husband's call.













I linger to take a few pictures, - pick some ripe sweetpea pods, then gather up the animals and we go in to have tea where it is cool.













After tea we go for a drive, and the Wild Clematis almost envelops us as we drive along the back roads. What a year it has been for this lovely wild vine that brings to mind the Sweet Autumn Clematis that grew in the Lost Garden.

It covers the fences, creeps out on to the roads and provides a gorgeous foil for the yellows of the Goldenrod that promises autumn is just behind the highest hill.

After supper I trudge out the back and take a picture of our own little bower of Wild Clematis.

















The evening progresses, - the clouds in the sky thin to long white sheets. The windmill still turns desultorily, behind the trees, and the sky is illuminated by the setting sun. The valley is bathed in a rosy light as the moon rises, silver against the pink background.

Eventually dusk deepens the colours of the sky, and we all go indoors, - me, and the jungle cat, and the sweet old dog.