In memory of a kindly, loving, gentle Dad

Cline Thompson
Born December 13th 1898 in Roxborough County, Ontario
Died July 27th, 1970 in Edmonton, Alberta

Cline served in the First World War and was wounded at Cambrai, October 11th, 1918



After a year's recuperation he returned home to Calgary.

And then he met our mother, Dolly!



They were married on Christmas Day, 1923.....

And in the years that followed the memories they created for my sister and myself, and the devotion they felt for each other, have lingered with us and set a standard that has influenced our own lives, and those of our children, and our children's children, and their children after them.....

The past cannot be forgotten while memory lasts and love preserves.
Janette Hospital

Early in the morning. The pure fresh snow that lifted my spirits and brought sheer delight to the little dog when we set off on our walk. He has a passion for eating snow, - I have a passion for the memories of snowy Christmases on the prairies, - the nostalgia for simpler times.

I struggle to keep focused on the deepest meaning of Advent, - the waiting, the anticipation and the preparation of the heart. I seem to fail miserably as I try to keep up with Christmas Past, when my energy was boundless and baking and wrapping and planning for the celebration filled me with enthusiasm.

I remember Christmases when things were much simpler. I remember when we didn't have the means to multi gift. In the early '60's we made toy soldiers out of detergent bottles, and knightly swords and shields from scraps of wood. The children were thrilled with them and the time we spent making them with dear friends added to the love and closeness of Christmas.

I am reminded of the need to be meaningful about every thing I do, and to keep my heart (and my disposition) sweet and loving, and patient.......

Check in after all the parcels are mailed and I'll let you know how things are progressing, - heartwise...

Well, now that one can take a long breath of relief after the ridiculously insane Federal developments in Canada it is time once again to enjoy December.

We woke to a nippy morning, and even though the sun came out and shone its mighty heart through the windows, illuminating every bit of dust that had been hiding in the gloom of November the frosty day remained a reminder that Christmas is near.

Tonight I have a Scottish Fruit Cake in the oven - filling the house with that lovely scent of Christmas - it needs only the smell of the pine to mingle with it and bring the feeling of Christmas even closer.

At noon, the first of the Christmas luncheons, - this one to express our great appreciation for the volunteers who come and help us in the Church thrift shop.



Husband's calendar is full of singing dates with the Senior Group whose members warble for fun, and are available to entertain all sorts and conditions of merry makers at Christmas and through the year.

I have been playing 'Christmas with BoneyM' at every opportunity. 'Daughters of Zion' and 'When a Child is Born' make me a little giddy with plans for Christmas that are now beyond me. But at the end the gloriously happy strains of 'Joy to the World' just touch my heart and bring the most contented smile to my face. It has such incredible joyous energy!

I have been shopping, - the ribbons and bags and tissue paper are all organized, - the Christmas letter is written and awaits the added notes of love and friendship.

At Handbell practice all our pieces are sweet old carols,in deference to our new players, - but in church on Sunday I play some of the beautiful new winter and Advent carols as a prelude.

It is a simply a splendid and absolutely satisfying time of year for old romantics like me!!!!

And now the timer bell tells me the cake has been in the oven for two hours and I'm off to find a tooth pick to test it.

Advent - the Season of Preparation and of Anticipation. (http:\\fullhomelydivinity.org/articles/advent.htm )

The Season of Actively making a warm place in our hearts for the sweet Child who is coming.

I ponder on the Advent candles of Hope and Love and Joy and Peace and look for ways to be mindful of incorporating these Advent blessings into all the busy things that lie between me and Christmas Eve.



I remember a homemade Advent candle holder, a pine branch, with holes drilled in it that sat on the dinner table each Advent Sunday for all the years the children were at home.

The children took turns reading the Advent prayer and lighting the candles, and in a mother's hopeful effort to promote hope and love and joy and peace all through the week each child drew the secret name of another with the promise of doing some small good deed for that sibling each day, cheerfully and without a lot of fanfare!!!

I was never sure if the end results met with my hopes, but at least the seed was planted.

There was an Advent Calendar on the wall and the children counted down the days until Christmas with small doors that when opened displayed pictures of the nativity story, until at last, on Christmas Eve, the angels sang, the shepherds and the little lambs, the cows and the other animals knelt in adoration.



It is almost impossible to find an Advent Calendar now that doesn't promise treats behind each evening's door, - Santa and the Elves go gaily about their business and the true meaning of Advent, the preparation in our lives for the miracle of the Birth, is lost.

Or perhaps in some ways the mystery has disappeared, but the power of love remains in the community turkey dinners, the Christmas hampers, the gifts of sheep or hens or cows to those in needy countries, the many active ways that Hope and Love and Joy and Peace are distributed in the spirit of the Christ Child.

It is a comforting thought....

Sunday we will sing the old, familiar Magnificat, and in the following Advent Sundays perhaps a few discreet Winter Carols will creep into the music that sits on the organ. A way of spreading Joy and Love in the face of Tradition.

Advent Song
Lady, what songs are bending
The tall grasses of your mind,
What secret music whispers down your veins,
What wax-leaf ponderings, O Virgin Mary,
Waken our little shouts of expectation?
Our thoughts have lumbered down a treeless highway,
Have sputtered their heavy loftiness, have wept
Their protest. Now we hear the distant birdcall
Oh, dimly! but the woods have heard it well.
The stars are singing in their stupefaction,
The giddy little hills are clapping hands.
But Lady, what songs sway
The supple grasses of your thoughts,
What secret music whispers down your veins?
Glorious things are said about this city
Where the small citizen Christ moves in the lanes
Of so-brief arteried comfort; but what songs
Drift through this templed alabaster town?
We see the windows lighted, Virgin Mary,
City of God, by every hymn we raise
With chipped and broken voices, and our feeble
Vision guesses sacred silhouettes.
But when the little Seed fell in the furrow,
The warm and spotless furrow of your heart,
Tell us what pure songs stirred your delicate wonder,
What secret music whispered down your veins.

Mother Mary Francis, P.C.C. [late Abbess of the Colettine Poor Clare monastery in Roswell, New Mexico]

He addressed Charlie in Scots. "Whisht now, barn. Dinnae greet." Hush, child. Don't cry.
Charlie was calmed.
"You see?" said Jamie.
They drove off, in the green Swedish car, with the castle towering above them, and above that a sky from which the clouds had drawn back to reveal an attenuated blue, cold and pure.

And as I came to the end of the chapter I laid the book on my chest, closed my eyes, and with a smile on my face drifted off to sleep, contemplating what comforting pleasure it was to read Alexander McCall Smith.

I had worked all morning, baking and packaging the results for the Christmas Bazaar. Baking is not the snap it once was, say twenty years ago. It takes a little more concentration, and after a while my back aches a bit, and my legs complain bitterly.



But now it was done - lunch was over and it was time for a little rest. The small dog came alongside the couch, appealing to be lifted up. It is only in the last two weeks he has not been able to manage the small stool and then the step up to the couch. We have reached the same stage in life, and so I have a great understanding of his needs - I circle my arms around his back legs and his chest so that he feels secure and lift him tenderly up beside me. He snuggles into a pillow, and I pick up my book to lull me to sleep.

I napped a little, but then the wind came up, tearing around the house in wild abandon, and rattling the chimes and the hanging pots on the deck. It woke me, and so I read the last chapter of the book - 'The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday' - reluctantly. I hate to come to the end of a McCall Smith book, - it means I have to wait for the next one to be written.... His stories are so civilized, and his humour so wry and gentle. There is an enduring goodness underlying his writing, - his characters are not saints, but they recognize their failings and feel morally responsible for them. A sense of responsibility! It seems to be a quality that is diminishing, one that has lost its importance in keeping us clear of the jungle.

Well, before I take the book back to the library I will have the delight of reading once again the pages that I have marked with little slips of paper, lengths of wool or old grocery slips. And admiring once again Isabel's spirit, the quality of her life, and McCall Smith's unexpected twists and turns in the telling of this story.

The Autumn Skies

Some years the autumn skies are wild. The sun comes up in a blaze of glory, shattering the dawn with gorgeous luminous shades of gold and scarlet. And in the evening the clouds appear to be reflecting a burning global fire that sets the whole world alight with wild, bold colours.





This year has been mild, and the skies benign. October was dry, - no storms to stir the clouds. The days were quiet and the valley bathed in gold as November approached.

And then their was the time of steady rain when the gardens drank gratefully, and the sky was lowering and gloomy, - no sun to touch the sulking clouds and brighten their spirits.

Eventually November slipped into a less sombre mood, and here is Saturday's splendid sunrise.



And Sunday's more subdued and pastel daybreak.



Before the show Casper and I went walking in the half light where the leaves and the orchard grasses glowed softly and spread a special kind of beauty to begin the day.

Remembrance Day in a Small Town

Late afternoon on the 10th of November when Husband starts looking for the new can of Never Dull, brings out the old toothbrush, the sliding thing he slips under medals to protect the ribbons, and last of all the Medals and the small and precious silver wings.

While he shines and polishes (the spitting comes later when he does the shoes) I re-sew the Squadron Emblem on the pocket of his jacket.

This is all in deference to our slower pace, - time was when Remembrance Day morning was a whirlwind of activity, but we move slower now, and find it best to start a day early.

As we prepare, the loss of Husband's two brothers in France and in Holland is ever present in our thoughts.





And I think of my father who was wounded at Cambrai a month before the signing of the Armistice in 1918, and how the effects of that wound left him walking with a cane for the last twenty years of his life.



Shortly after ten o'clock on the 11th Husband is looking pretty handsome and spiffy for an old Vet. He has received phone calls, e-mails and loving hugs from children who know how important this day has always been to him, and never fail to express their love and understanding.

We leave the house, hoping to get a parking spot close to where Husband will take part in the Remembrance Day service by reading the Names of the Fallen and citing the Act of Remembrance.

There is a cold wind blowing. People begin to gather, well scarved and hatted -= many of them carrying wreaths. Friends and family stop to chat as we wait in the SUV for the first signs of the Parade. The crowd grows thicker (the owner of the town's grocery store says 400)

The Legion members who will conduct the service test the sound system and attend to last minute details around the Cenotaph.

There - we hear the music which accompanies the parade and led by red coated RCMP (no horses this year) the Colour Party, the Army Cadets, the Veterans who are still able to march, the Legion members, the Brownies and Guides and Cubs and Scouts, the Elks, the Royal Purples and other Service Club members all right turn on to the grass
and march across the park to the Cenotaph.

At one time the row of Veterans was long, and stretched for over a city block. Now there are only a handful in the Parade, a few more in wheelchairs and on crutches, but all intent on honouring those of their dead comrades who once, in the now distant past, were like brothers to them, still enshrined in their hearts.

The wind scatters leaves and causes collars to be raised. Everyone takes their place, and the service begins.

A wonderfully strong voice leads the singing of O Canada. There are prayers, and a poem written by a young student in the high school.

The Army Cadets who stand at each corner of the Cenotaph raise their Arms and Husband reads the Names of the Fallen Comrades.

The Bugler plays the Last Post.

The two minutes of silence is poignant, and heavy with emotion.

And after the Lament and Reveille,

The Act of Remembrance.

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, or the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we shall remember them.


The tribute to the Fallen, the Laying of the Wreaths, the reading of a Remembrance poem and the singing of 'O God, our Help in Ages Past'.

The wind comes in gusts and chases the clouds around the sky, creating small gaps that allow a little sunshine through. Fingers and toes grow cold but people remain to the end, as they honour lost loved ones and those who died to make the present moments possible.

After 'The Queen' the parade marches off, - the crowd disperses and makes their way to the Legion Hall. Husband and I linger to talk to family and old friends.




When we arrive at the Hall we find a great long line-up of shivery people waiting for Hot Rums....

There is Beef Stew and wonderful warm Chili provided by the Legion.

Four long rows of tables are crowded with adults, - next door at the Elks Home the children have cookies and cocoa. People linger, talking, exchanging memories, up-dating news. Gradually the crowd thins. Some people go home, - others make their way downstairs for an afternoon of comradeship, old time tunes, dancing, a little Karaoke and a wonderful air of good fellowship.

During the afternoon the Legion Brass visit, the Mayor says a few words, - unfortunately there are no pipers this year, but often we are included in their rounds of various Remembrance Day services.

Years have passed since our first Remembrance Days in this town, when the Veterans were young and plentiful and glasses were raised to comrades just a few years dead.

In later years Husband and others took rum and comradeship during the afternoon to veterans confined to their homes, coming back if not three sheets to the wind, at least two and a half.....

Now the Veteran finds himself a little 'out of the loop,' - honoured, and thanked, - questioned and perhaps even held in awe in some cases, but very conscious of being of another generation. Our appreciation is great for the Legion members who make this Day so special, and for all who Remember....

Well, this is how it is in one small town, and probably to a great extent the happenings would be familiar in hundreds of other small towns.... a people expressing their sorrow, their love and their need to pay honour to the Valiant hearts. And in doing so gathering closer together.....

Dream Angus (the lullaby - http://www.polopop.com/kaye/sleEP/dreamangus/index.html)

Dreams to sell, fine dreams to sell,
Angus is here wi’ dreams to sell o
Hush my wee bairnie an’ sleep wi’ oot fear
Dream Angus has brought you a dream my dear

Can ye no hush yer weepin’
A’ the wee bairns are sleepin’
Birdies are nestling, an’ nestling’ the gither
But my bonnie bairn is waken yet

Hear the curlew cryin’ o
An’ the echoes dyin’ o
Even the birdies are cuddled up sleepin
But my bonnie bairn is weepin’ greetin’

Soon the lavrock sings his song
Welcoming the coming dawn
Lambies coorie doon the gither
Wi’ the yowies in the heather

Dreams to sell, fine dreams to sell,
Angus is here wi’ dreams to sell o
Hush my wee bairnie an’ sleep wi’ oot fear
Dream Angus has brought you a dream my dear

A lovely Scottish lullaby about Dream Angus, a young Apollo, a dispenser of dreams, a mythical Celtic god of Youth, Love, Delight and Wonder.

'Myth is a cloud based upon a shadow based upon the movement of the breeze.'


So begins a wonderful book by Alexander McCall Smith, written in his light and gentle hand. He varies the mythical tales of Angus, son of the god Draga and a water sprite, Boann, with vignettes of modern times.



Draga, the rather indifferent god, is enamoured of Boann, and desires to have a son by her. He immobilizes her husband until such time as the boy is born and he has spirited the child away from his hiding place in a basket hidden amongst the rushes.

Drago is not interested in having Angus around, and the child is brought up by another of his sons. He grows in beauty and grace, inspiring love in everyone he meets. Around his head he is accompanied by a bevy of small birds, - grace notes - who apprise him of danger as he dispenses his light and lovely dreams.

Alexander McCall Smith (whose writing I find so engaging - and endearing) intersperses a modern interpretation following each of the mythical stories of Dream Angus. Reading the book has helped to raise the melancholy clouds of these first gloomy days of November, and I can hardly wait to go to sleep to experience the sweet dreams that Dream Angus inspires......

At the end of the Introduction we find these words -

"Angus puts us in touch with our dreams - those entities which Auden described so beautifully in his Freud poem as the creatures of the night that are waiting for us, that need our recognition. But Angus does more than that: he represents youth and the intense, passionate love that we might experience when we are young but which we might still try to remember as age creeps up. Age and experience might make us sombre and cautious, but there is always an Angus within us - Angus the dreamer."

It touches a chord.....
Alexander McCall Smith

Guy Fawkes Day

Please to remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder treason and plot;
We know no reason, why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot!
Holla boys! holla boys! huzza—a—a!

A stick and a stake, for king George's sake,
A stick and a stump, for Guy Fawkes's rump!
Holla boys! holla boys! huzza—a—a


Treason, intrigue and terrorism, - all running rampant in the early 17th century.

And four hundred years after this attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament in London, England still acknowledges the anniversary of the plot in traditional ways.

On the night that the conspirators were foiled and poor Guy Fawkes was found in the basement of Parliament with 36 barrels of gun powder, great bonfires were lit to celebrate the safety of the King. Still today, as we speak, (to paraphrase Hedy Fry) Guy Fawkes effigies are burning in England and the people are making merry with firecrackers.

Well, some of the people - many of them could very well be still celebrating the results of the American Presidential election.

The monarch still enters the Houses of Parliament only once a year for the State Opening of Parliament, and before this event the Yeomen of the Guards inspect the basement of Westminster for explosives. Things being as they are in the world today it is probably a good idea, apart from traditional reasons......

Having had an English mother this holiday was quite familiar to me in my childhood.



Does anybody else 'remember, remember the 5th of November'????

Alas, no bonfire here tonight. It has been a busy day, but a spectacularly beautiful one for the 5th of November. Tomorrow the month will once again indulge it's damp, morose mood...

November Roses

As sweet as any other, though fragile and faded.
Spiced with valour, tattered with love, blessed with hope.

Next to the Poppy November's sweetest boutonniere.

Oh Halloween, oh Halloween......

First, in my childhood, there were the cold, dark nights when Granny Green provided costumes for our foray into the neighbourhood, looking for 'Halloween Apples'....a luxury in the Depression Days. I can't ever remember receiving candy on those ghostly nights, but there was always an air of excitement and adventure.

In answer to an old Winnipegger who queried the origin of asking for 'Halloween Apples' this is the response he received.

"In Ireland, great bonfires were lit throughout the breadth of the land. Young children in their guises were gladly received by their neighbors with some 'fruit apples and nuts' for the 'Halloween Party', whilst their older male siblings played innocent pranks on bewildered victims."

When I married and came to the Okanagan Valley it would have been carrying coals to Newcastle to go around the countryside pleading for apples, and so our children grew up gathering candy and treats, and the only apples they received were the ones that Verna Sladen candied.

Husband tells tales of pushing over outhouses, booby-trapping mail boxes, leaving parcels in the middle of the road and snaking them off with a rope when a car would stop to investigate.....

If our own children threw eggs or got into mischief I have yet to hear about it, but sometimes it takes many, many years for mothers to become privy to the details of such escapades.

When we moved to town and the grandchildren were Trick or Treating age we really became involved. Black candles, lots of Jack o'Lanterns, the witches cloak, hat, boots and broom lying across a verandah chair while she was in refreshing herself with a bath - Husband dressed as a wizard and I as a witch, and thoroughly enjoying the little pirates and princesses and ghosts who came to call on us.

When the grandchildren had finished their Halloween wanderings they came for hot chocolate and the great investigation of loot! They were grand evenings.......

We went to a dress-up Halloween party last night, and as a group of children and parents passed us on the street one little girl with pink tutu dragging, holding tight to her Dad's hand, caused a small lump in the throat.....

Husband is no longer as eager to 'dress-up' and so he was happy to wear his Air Force cap and a sweat shirt with an Avro Lancaster on the front and a sign saying 'in for refit' on the back. I dug out the old familiar witches hat and we had a lovely time for a little while. Until we got tired, and it was time to come home to the dog, the cat and our nightly game of cards, - good place for the old folks to be on All Hallow's Eve.



Some spooky pictures - we are happily related to the green faced witch!!!!!

The hills are more sombre now, and the colours more subdued.

The flaming reds have faded and the golds have lost their glow.

The transition is gentle as the garden sighs quietly, turns over, pulls up the covers and closes her eyes.

When we walk in the morning it is still dark and the clouds shutter the dawn light that just a few days ago lit the tops of the hills. It is so calm, - so still. The leaves drift breathlessly. It is almost as if the world is waiting to start breathing again.

A few days ago we went down into the orchard and picked some abandoned Golden Delicious that were ripe and mellowing on the bottom branches. I took the camera, and strolled contentedly through the trees.

The small red apples from a pretty yellow seedling were nestled at its feet in the cool grass. The sun shone through the shadowy tunnel of trees, intensifying with light the shades of the leaves and lending a sweet translucence to them. Above, the top branches sketched wine and plum tracings against the bright blue of the October sky.

A precious cameo to take into the coming winter.....

A Mouse, - a mouse....

I have no inkling of what is happening in the nether parts of the kitchen pantry. I am happily a-bed, relishing the thoughts of a day with no great demands.

A leisurely breakfast, a visit with D over coffee, some time in the garden - lovely!!!

The other occupant of the bed rose quietly (as is his sweet wont) about half an hour ago. I lie dozing contentedly, with only the smallest of 'get-up' nigglings.

Eventually I slip out of bed,- wash, dress, open the bedroom door and start down the hall, completely at ease in my mind and happily looking forward to the day.

BEHOLD!

Half way down the hall I realize all is not well. There are mounds of boxes, the bread machine, soup pots and bowls for mixing bread and cookies, glass jelly jars (some full, some empty, the big coffee maker - all the things that reside in storage on the pantry floor, now piled in the middle of the kitchen floor.

So - Husband looks a little sheepish, but determined. A little anxious, but defiant in the face of my fire cracker reaction to this mayhem in the kitchen.

The cat has caught a mouse. The cat does not eat mice, but plays happily with them - the game of cat and mouse, and occasionally the mouse wins....

Out of her paws, skittering across the floor, under the pantry door and along the wall to safety in the far corner behind a box of old and treasured recipes that moved here from the old house and now await sorting.

I screech a little - not at the mouse, but a fair amount of adrenalin accompanies my response to all this early morning activity and the disheveled state between me and the coffee.

A box with old silverware clatters to the floor. Voices are raised (a trifle) and the dear old dog awakens, startled. A major distraction that requires immediate attention.

Husband keeps the mouse at bay and barricades the door to the pantry, all the while calling the cat. Now sweetly, now in great frustration!!! I take the dog out into the early morning darkness. The stars shine brightly. The young moon tenderly carries the old moon across the sky in her arms. Calm descends upon me, and dog and I return to the house.

Together Husband and I man the pantry door, - he armed with the broomstick and with determination in his heart. The pantry floor is cleared of all boxes except the one behind which the mouse has found shelter. Heart pounding, - puir wee beastie...

The sortie is successful, and the mouse removed to the outdoors. The lazy cat is nowhere to be seen......

I sweep the pantry floor. Husband and I discuss the whys and wherefores of some of the stored items. He is successful in banishing the wet garbage pail and one box of empty jelly jars, but I am victorious in the matter of the old, precious recipe box.

I fill a pail with hot water and soap, - wash the pantry floor, return the bread maker, the various pots and bowls and coffee makers etc. etc. to their rightful places. By SIX THIRTY A.M. the kitchen area is secure and serene again. The excitement is over and breakfast about to begin.

It all keeps life interesting and marriage sharp and sweet.

"Come said the wind to
the leaves one day,
Come o're the meadows
and we will play.
Put on your dresses
scarlet and gold,
For summer is gone
and the days grow cold."
-  A Children's Song of the 1880's

And from the windy meadow where the scarlet and gold of the leaves are a twirling kaleidoscope I speak of the tenderness of these warm autumn days that lead us gently into the morose and melancholy month of November.

The wind blew wildly last evening, and my expectation was a valley denuded of all the vivid golds, the ambers and the rich reds of nature's funeral clothes. Sometime in the night it became calm, and here, - another day of tender and heart breaking beauty.

I love the feelings that the word evokes, - 'tenderness'. Passion is a whirlwind, but tenderness, I have read, is passion in repose. It speaks of comfort, enduring love, kindness and compassion.

'What seems to grow fairer to me as life goes by is the love and the grace and tenderness of it; not its wit and cleverness and grandeur of knowledge - grand as knowledge is - but just the laughter of children, and the friendship of friends, and the cozy talk by the fire, and sight of flowers, and the sound of music.' (Unknown)


Somehow, at this time of my life, I have an ever growing affinity with autumn. And with tenderness, - the quiet love for all that is beautiful in my life, and as well for many things that may not be beautiful, but still are dear to our hearts and a part of our lives.

When death, the great reconciler, has come, it is never our tenderness that we repent of, but our severity.
George Eliot (1819 - 1880)

That old Great Reconciler has been hovering around, probably enjoying the loveliness that we breathe in, but still about his business. Five funerals and memorial services within the span of six days, which, I guess, is inclined to turn one's thoughts to our eventual and inevitable mortality....

Ah, but in the meantime, ain't life wonderful !! And tender........

The Valley fairly shimmers with the light reflected from golden trees......

A friend was buried today.

One of our children's generation.

A neighbouring child who grew to be a tender, loving, vibrant adult.

I thought as her funeral cortage passed down the valley to the family cemetery what a glorious path the angels had arranged for her earthly farewell.

Hard to stay indoors these days.....

There is a splendid glow around the Scarlet Maples when their leaves tremble in the wind and the sun shines bright upon them in the afternoon. My heart takes a small leap when I catch sight of them.....

Early in the morning the sky was cloudy, but when Caspar and I went walking the wind moved a small drift of clouds and the moon floated behind them, a large pearly button, almost translucent.

It was a housekeeping day outside, - we pried up the sunflower roots and shook the dirt off them, remembering how tall they grew and what a lovely haven they were for the little birds.

The stalks that we had removed a week ago still lay in piles by the pasture fence. Now they are interlaced in the fence wires, and what seeds the feasting quail left in them will be available for the winter birds.

Along the driveway fence, where the curly willow are establishing themselves, we tied and staked and promised a bucketful of good top soil around each one.

Lovely day, - the middle of October, and still the flowers in the garden are a kaleidoscope of colour.



And the skies of October - so blue, - so fabulous!

There was ice on the sprinkler lines this morning, but the sun came out and warmed things up a little - made it appear like a nice sunny day, but the nip was in the air....

After taking bucket's full of Chrysanthemums down to the church to mark Thanksgiving Husband and I got the car out, filled it with gas, and made our way to Osoyoos for the annual Donna Fishwick Ensemble Concert, given in honour of her century old father.

Here are the participants in a Palace in Prague this summer, - photographed on their European Tour.



And today, they arrived in their classy red bus and gave an amazing performance in the Osoyoos United Church.

Getting composed for the picture....



And now more or less ready for the photo op - so many of their parents were there and anxious for pictures... The guest of honour at the front.



A wonderful musical experience, and to share a part of it with you.....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XTer6HOZKu0

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TB8Qt3FqLQE

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=I65WOMYcgDg

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=LsQOfUv5TKk

There was a little nostalgia involved with this concert as well, - when Donna first began to teach she had a few pupils, - amongst them some of our own children. And myself..... I listened to Maggie Li playing the second and third movements of the Pathetique today, and I was moved almost to tears as my mind and my fingers followed her lovely rendition of the Cantabile second movement.

We came home in the sunshine. I, desperately trying to catch a few snapshots out the side window of the car, in between telephone poles.



A very heart filling experience to start the Thanksgiving week-end - I marvel at the talent and enthusiasm of these young people, and the easy way they have about them as they perform. And I am so delighted and amazed at what Donna has accomplished since she was part of our lives so many years ago.