The Pros and Cons of Looking at the World Through Rose Coloured Glasses

Well, this is a subject that has been passing through my mind for the last few days and I have been wondering about the validity of viewing the world with rose tinted glasses.

It causes me some distress to question this way of looking at life, as it disturbs the roots of my philosophy about living life positively.

I have always believed passionately in the theory that a healthy and positive mind has an important and vital effect on our overall wellness, barring the catastrophes that oft times overtake us. With this in mind I endeavour to steer clear of melancholy thoughts, and keep always to the high road, avoiding the Sloughs of Despair as much as possible.

I realize that there is some naivete in viewing the world through a rosy haze, - not facing up to facts, as it were! And so I make a conscious effort to combine my hopefulness and optimism with a strong, and sometimes bitter, dose of realism.
I may never take the rose coloured glasses off, but occasionally I must admit they slip down to the end of my nose and life looks less attractive and pleasant than when they are firmly hooked behind my ears.

I sometimes think that my pleasure in recalling memories of the past, and the pleasant feelings that arise from looking at old pictures, hearing snatches of music from long ago, or catching a whiff of old familiar scents is a direct result of those lovely rose tinted glasses, - and I am grateful for them. The senses they stir make the present seem more worthwhile.

On the other hand, is this nostalgia really valid? Is my memory accentuating the positive, whilst ignoring the negative aspects of life? But then, are the negative aspects really important if they bring unhappiness and dour spirits?

Ann Landers says rose coloured glasses are never made in bifocals, - nobody wants to read the small print in dreams. That gives one pause for thought! Can we ignore the small print and still lead a life that is based on Truth? Or is there such a thing as "Truth"? I am wandering into the world of relativism now, and I have never been a fan of the theory that positives change to suit circumstances.

I don't expect that my questions about the validity of life viewed through rose coloured glasses is going to change the optimism I arise with in the morning and take to bed with me at night. I believe it might be a genetic thing, and not easily dismissed.

Perhaps this questioning might make me more proactive and realistic about many things, but Husband and I are living now in a more confined environment, and our spheres of influences are surely less than they once were.

There is the two of us, (old Darby and Joan) the comforts of our home, the pleasures of those old friends who still inhabit this earth, the things that fulfill us and the joys our family share with us. We live this life day by day and if it takes rose coloured glasses to view each day with optimism and happiness and hope, then so be it!!!!

Up, up with rose coloured glasses! They will sustain us to the end.

What I saw in the old Lost Garden

Rather than stooping to a midnight raid on the awakening forsythia bush, Husband spoke to the new owner, who is only too glad for us to avail ourselves of any of the poor neglected plants in the old Lost Garden.

It crossed my mind that this might perhaps assuage his guilt at the neglect that runs rampant through the garden, but then I thought, - no, he is too honest a man for that. He truly has too much to do and the old Lost Garden is just not one of his priorities. As it would be mine, alas! If I was younger and full of energy I would hire myself out to him as a gardener for a penny a day, just to be able to care for the beautiful plants we left behind.

Husband has been a master pruner all his life, and he kept the shrubs in the Lost Garden according to all the rules of perfect pruning, so that the trees and the bushes were symetrical where they should be symetrical, - flowing, where they should be flowing, and all was in in order to reach the pinnacle of beauty.















Now, as I entered through the gate, the honeysuckle on one side and the trumpet vine on the other reached out to touch me, - overgrown, tangled and confused.

The Star Magnolia and the Tree Peony have not been pruned, - branches crossed each other in awkward directions. The Forsythia is a mass of unpruned suckers, - and further than that I did not venture. I know not how the KoreanVerbenia, the Hibiscus or the Roses fare.





























The forsythia and I communed a bit, and with Husband's shining pruning shears I snipped off a goodly bunch of sticks, - full of buds and promise.

We brought them home and cut them into branches the right size for vases. They are sitting in the bathtub, soaking up the light from the big window, and will soon be golden butterfly blooms. Miss Callie has developed a fascination for this garden in the bathtub, and unless I keep the door closed she is shinnying up the sides of the tub and in amongst these new additions to the tub.














Meanwhile, in the new garden a few bulbs are poking through the ground, but it cries out for attention and I long for a day that is mild enough to go and tackle the old stalks from last year, - to remove them and make room for the tender young shoots that I JUST KNOW are waiting as impatiently as I am on the other side of the bed, for a springtime reunion!

Late Evening Activities

Depending upon what the Boob Tube has to offer, and whether it keeps Husband's attention at the qui vie and his eyes wide open, the time for opening the Card Game/Cabaret around the dining room table varies. It could be 9:00- it could be 10:00 - or it could be even later. Nevertheless, when the curtain goes up and the cards are shuffled all actors are on tip-toe, - ready for the show.

Age has robbed us of all our bridge partners, so Husband and I are reduced to playing Kings in the Corner as a prelude to sleep.

This is a fairly simple game that two can transform into a devious and crafty challenge - as a matter of fact Husband is so devious and crafty that his actions border ever so slightly on cheating. Certainly on ignoring the rules as explained to us by Daughter (who, it must be admitted, was not too sure of the hard and fast rules. Having learned the game from someone equally as devious and crafty as Husband)

In self defense I have had to adopt some of Husband's tactics. It makes for an interesting late evening activity, - designed to soothe one into dreamland.














Not to be outdone, Calico and the Straight Guy spend the early evening snoozing so that they will be in good form to provide the Cabaret act.

The minute the first move is made towards the card table the Straight Guy is there beside me with his neon tennis ball, talking a blue streak in his own inimitable way and indicating it is time to start lobbing it down the hallway towards the bedroom.



















In the meantime Miss Calico has come awake and is honing her claws for her trapeze act, performed on the backs of the dining room chairs and at mid height around the whole area surrounding the scene of the card game. She flys with wild abandon from one perch to the next, startling herself with foolish embarrassment when she lands on the piano keys. Eventually she settles on the back of a straight chair, balanced on all four paws.



















This is the pose which precedes the main act, where she lays across the top of the chair on her tummy, - head on one side and tail on the other. The trick is to insert the paw through the opening in the chair back, clutching at her tail (which just won't stay still) and I think if she could ever manage this movement with success she would then do somersaults around the top of the chair.




















If this has ever happened it has not yet been captured on film. However, even the attempt can keep her amused for a good long while. The Straight Guy looks on with amazement, having given up the Ball Game to indulge himself in watching the Aerial Cat perform.




















Meanwhile, back where the cards are being used as instruments of frustration, the Grown Ups enjoy the show whilst trying to outdo one another in craftiness (a euphemism if ever I heard one!)

Drop in one of these evenings and join the fun - open until all hours!

The Comic Team of Caspar and Calico


featuring Calico, the Aerial Cat
and Caspar, whose main claim to fame is in being the Straight Guy













So here we have Miss Calico, in full flight, landing on the Master's Chair.




She scouts the territory, - perches at the top in watchful attack position and waits, coiled and poised - ready to leap!

Not terribly well camouflaged, but that's of no never mind - the Straight Guy is old and doesn't see too well.




Besides, - his eye is on the ball, which he has inveigled the Master to throw for him.












The leap is made , - the Straight Guy, surprised and confused by this sudden attack, gropes for the ball.

He has it!!!

He has it!!






Drat it, - says Calico, - temporarily grounded.

Another time, another place......














In the meantime a short snooze, back to back, on the love seat.




The objects of our affection, - their performances are spontaneous and entertaining.

They bring laughter to our lives and we just love them all to bits!!! God bless them.

Sharing the beauty of the Hippeastrum Philadelphia Amaryllis. That wot helps to get me through these gloomy days of February.

Enjoy!!

The willow trees are turning golden, but still the wind is bitter and the valley is shrouded with cloud most mornings.

I remember a ditty from my young days on the prairies when Spring was not expected in February, and we didn't get antsy about it until April.

"Spring, forsooth.

It's all a myth. Winter will stay
Rock-bound forever and a day,
Despite what calendars may say.

And if today the air seems mild
I'm not, I swear, one whit bequiled -
Tomorrow new snow will be swirling wild.

I've stopped my wistful wondering
I'm quite convinced there's no such thing
As Spring!"

Not time yet to be so despairing of its late arrival in this desert clime, - but soon! soon!

We planted potatoes on the 4th of March in the spring of 1988, and with great enthusiam.

(sigh...)

How beautifully leaves grow old. How full of light and colour are their last days.
John Burroughs

I venture to speak today of Light Hearted Aging

Or is that an oxymoron????

No matter, - it is something to set as a goal, albeit one that is a struggle to reach. So many things get in the way. If I were to list them all I would have to include the cheese and the violin in with the whine, so let us look on the bright side - tra la!

My curiousity led me to the pages of quotes on aging that you can find online. The majority were full of wisdom and described situations that I recognize all too well, but not too many of them were particularly light hearted. Which leads me to believe that this may be a fairly serious subject. Especially if you are going to approach if from the light-hearted side!

For instance, - Charles Dickens wrote these heartening and kindly words in a rosy depiction of the aging process.

"Father Time is not always a hard parent, and though he tarries for none of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have used him well; making them old men and women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirts young and in full vigour. With such people the grey head is but the impression of the old fellow's hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life"

When the heart and spirit is young and in full vigour, surely it makes it easier to bear the aches and pains, and sometimes the personal discomforts that growing old thrusts upon us.

John Mortimer - he of Rumple fame - tells us that "when you get to my age life seems little more than one long march to and from the lavatory." Well, on the face of it this may seem funny, and perhaps John Mortimer meant it to be funny, but it has just a shade too much truth in it to be accepted as a joke. It strikes the old with just one more of the realities of life that must be taken uncomplainingly and with good humour.

And Leo Rosenburg remarks - "first you forget names, then you forget faces; then you forget to pull your zipper up, then you forget to pull your zipper down". Now this is not a quandry I find myself in, but I can well imagine it if the gender was different, and it's not funny or light hearted - not funny at all!

I read "don't let ageing get you down. It's too hard to get back up" and "I still have a full deck - I just shuffle a little slower now" - witty remarks, but tinged with a little desperation.....

Eugene O'Neill comments on a characteristic of the old that I have often noted.
"The old - like children - talk to themselves, for they have reached that hopeless wisdom of experience which knows that though one were to cry it in the streets to multitudes, or whisper it in the kiss to one's beloved, the only ears that can ever hear one's secrets are one's own." Can truer words ever be spoken and does this not speak to the loneliness of the old?

And what about the poignancy of Shel Silverstein's excerpt:

Said the little boy, “Sometimes I drop my spoon.”
Said the old man, “I do that too.”
The little boy whispered, “I wet my pants.”
“I do that too,” laughed the old man.”
Said the little boy, “I often cry.”
The old man nodded, “So do I.”
“But worst of all,” said the boy, “it seems
Grown-ups don’t pay attention to me.”
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
“I know what you mean,” said the old man.
- - - - Shel Silverstein

So where is the light heartedness in growing old, and how do you achieve grace in coping with it. - I ask myself?

Is it in acceptance? Is it in memories? But what if the memories are too painful a reminder of years gone by, of regrets for opportunities missed, of diminishing strength, of things not done that should have been done, and things that were done that should not have been done.

That doesn't speak well for memories, unless by some alchemy we can change them into happy reminders of things accomplished, - of joys and beauty and love experienced. And of sorrows that have strengthened the spirit, and brought a quiet confidence in what can be borne.

So having reached the stage where memories are a comfort and a source of happiness, what about the acceptance of life as it is, here and now, on a day to day basis.- - where each day is the present, - where there are no regrets for the past, and no worries about the future. Come what may, we seize the day and make of it all that circumstances allow!

But wait, - how do we relinguish the sense of responsibility for the whole wide world, and particularly for those things that affect us, and those dear to us???? How do we release the passions for what we consider to be right, and of good commom sense? How do we close our eyes to what we consider to be a general drift down the slippery slope? Can we forget that we are of the opinion that the world is going to hell in a hand basket and there isn't a thing we can do about it at this stage of our lives?

Is this where faith steps in, and we leave the world in the hands of God, - or do we take the greater leap and cultivate faith in the generations that follow us???

I have heard it said that the last years of a worthy life are the first years of immortality. Surely if we can get to the point where we consider our lives to have been worthy, we can accept our venture into immortality with grace.

The night grows late, and I am floundering.....

Off to bed, where perhaps I will dream the answers to my questions.

Amaryllis No. 3

Although the snow has disappeared from the valley bottom, the weather remains dismal and gloomy and nothing stirs one to anticipate a quick arrival of Spring.

However, the last of the amaryllis bulbs is making the big bathroom cheery. Along with a few slowly evolving hyacinths it speaks of the particular beauty that late winter brings.

I think longingly of the forsythia in the Lost Garden, and sometimes consider a midnight raid to snip off a few sticks to force into golden bloom. On the other hand, I could always ask the new owner to oblige with some prunings.... By next year the forsythia in the new garden should have lots of bloom, but this year all the shrubs are too small to provide more than a smidgin.

Patience, patience, - it is a virtue that keeps evading me, no matter how hard I try to cultivate it! The days go by so fast when one ages, and time is of the essence, to the nth degree!! Far too many things still left to do and to experience. I will say nothing about diminishing energy in case it discourages me and the spark falters.

I keep in my mind Longfellow's poem on Enthusiasm, A Psalm of Life:

"Let us then be up and doing,
with a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait."

and his quote on aging, -

"For age is opportunity no less than youth itself, though in another dress, and as the evening twilight fades away, the sky is filled with stars, invisible by day."

Some days I am more enthusiastic about these inspirations than I am on others......(sigh)

Some days I remember another verse of Longfellow's Psalm of Life;

"Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave."

It adds a little expediency to life!

And the sun and mild breezes help, - away, away, O Gloomy Days.

Reminiscing

Today Husband and I were enjoying the sunshine, and commenting on a delightful letter contributed to the local newspaper from an old timer in this area.

The writer reminisced about the Stagecoach that went from Keremeos to Princeton, and Penticton, twice weekly. He went on to comment on the old log stage coach barns in the Boundary Country, with doors right in the centre where these coaches could drive in, change horses in a minute or two, and drive out the other side, often on a gallop. He also commented on the possibility of the coach getting to the next stop as fast as some of the present buses.

To further compare the efficiencies of the olden days he described the activities of the old fire hall in Castor, Alberta.

When the fire bell rang the horses would head for the hall no matter where they were and when the door opened, they stood in front of the machine and a rope was pulled, the harness fell on them, was buckled - and away they went!

This led to Husband and I remembering Nichols' Department Store in Penticton, as it was when we were first married.

I was a City Girl, (one who wore white gloves to town to shop) and I was amazed at the intriguing cash register system at Nichols'. The store was rigged out with a traveling belt which traversed around the store and up to the staff offices which were located on a second floor at the back of the store. When you had made your purchases you handed the cash to the sales lady (no plastic, no cheques) and she placed the bill and the payment on the moving belt. It made its way to the cashier in the office, and was returned with any change to the sales lady and the customer, via the same belt.

Our memories continued as we recalled friends from those days, and wondered where life had led some whose names were so familiar to us then.

We thought about some of the idiosincracies of commerce and travel in the early part of the last century, and I remember now how exciting it was to travel on the train and how elegant the dining cars were!!!



Husband's father drove Stagecoach in Washington, with two beautiful white horses, Sam and Mons.

And here are my parents in their courting days.


Is the letter writer bang on when he says that for his money we have been going downhill ever since?

Or is that just a yearning for the old, less complicated days....?

The Canadian Charter of Human Rights and Freedoms

and some pertinent quotes on the 25th anniversary of the signing of said Charter...


"As an instrument in the battle for the hearts and minds of Quebec, the Charter was brilliant. As an article of fundamental Canadian law, it has been a disappointment. It invites every gimcrack judge in Canada, (a large infestation in our court houses, unfortunately), to become social tinkerers, self-righteously empowered to remake society along trendy or idiosyncratic sociological lines. The Charter has vastly increased the volume of litigation and the justiciability of secondary issues, with no discernible increase in individual liberties, rights, or freedoms. Any federal initiatives in the key areas of property and civil rights can be vacated by the vote of a provincial legislature in that province, leaving the rights and freedoms the Charter defends rather moth-eaten." ...Conrad Black

"A new poll on popular attitudes toward the Charter, reported this week in the National Post, reveals a strange paradox. A substantial majority of Canadians broadly support the Charter of Rights and Freedoms -- despite having absolutely no idea of what the Charter does.

But maybe the paradox is not so strange. After all, if more people understood what the Charter did, they might not like it nearly so well.

The problem with the Charter begins with its name. The Charter supposedly protects both "rights" and "freedoms." The trouble is that the "rights" protected by the Charter often contradict the "freedoms."

For example, Section 2(b) of the Charter declares that everyone possesses "freedom of thought, belief, opinion, and expression, including freedom of the press and other media of expression." That seems clear enough.

But wait! Section 15 of the Charter simultaneously declares that every individual is entitled to "equal benefit of the law without discrimination." And while that certainly sounds fair, Canadian courts have consistently interpreted the Section 15 equality guarantee to include a right not to be spoken about in offensive ways.

It is not easy to reconcile your freedom to speak with my right not be spoken about in a way I don't like." .......David Frum

"It's revealing that when classical liberalism was nearing its zenith in the 19th century, outstanding constitutional scholars such as A. V. Dicey (1835-1922) opposed codifying rights and liberties. They maintained that an unwritten constitution, such as Britain's, offered better protection for individual freedom and the rule of law than any written reduction of liberties possibly could. Why squeeze rights and freedoms into a charter and limit them by the very act of listing them, when individuals were intrinsically free and had a natural right to do everything not expressly forbidden by statute and common law, and even those prohibitions could be pitted against the unwritten constitution of British liberties and challenged in court?

n 1885, when Dicey published An Introduction To The Study Of The Law Of The Constitution, this made eminent sense. Dicey's was an age when freedom was genuinely blowin' in the wind. A hundred years later, when Canada's constitution was repatriated from Britain by Pierre Elliott Trudeau, what was blowin' in the wind was statism (with Trudeau himself as one of its trumpeters.)"......George Jonas

I respect each of these commentators and take note of their comments, even while agreeing with the 26% of Canadians who feel that the Charter of Rights and Freedoms is pointing us in a dangerous direction, - straight down the Garden Path.

From the Magna Carta onwards I recognize that Charters are all about Rights and Freedoms, but I think that as they become more liberal the dangers lies in excluding the concept of Responsibility. Conferring Rights and Freedoms on citizens without demanding a corresponding personal responsibility for the liberties and restraints which the Charter bestows is leading us into a slough of irresponsiblity and a general malaise in the field of morality. To say nothing of the loss of a Canadian identity within the chaotic multiculturism our society has become. As a descendant of Empire Loyalists I find myself in a minority when I state that I am a Canadian. What a short time between the requirement for citizens to omit from the census the country of their origin (i.e. English-Canadian, Irish-Canadian) and the present situation where almost all immigrants preface Canadian by the name of the "old country" - which makes one wonder where their hearts lie.

Is it too much to ask of immigrants who enjoy the benefits of Canada to adopt and respect the customs and culture of this country? And while taking advantage of the social largesse to also recognize their responsibility to place this country first in their loyalties?

The lack of personal responsibility for one's own actions, and the expectation that the State will support and carry us through all difficulties is not confined to any one segment of Society, but seems to be a general failing running like a flawed thread through the fabric of the present. God help us if in the face of a disaster we have lost the power to take responsibility and to think and reason for ourselves.

The hysteria about global warming, and the blind and unreasoning adulation given to its Canadian "hero" makes me despair of the strength and intelligence of people who accept these concepts without questioning the history of climate change throughout the centuries, and the ability mankind has had to adapt.

If the consequences of trying to meet the demands that Kyota makes on industrialized countries didn't augur such disasterous effects on the economics of the west it would be almost hilarious to watch the "sky is falling" pageant. But this is a dangerous game we are playing. The billions of dollars that we would pay for credits to meet our Kyota commitments would be paid directly to those countries who are hostile in their regard of North America. In addition, the trading of money and credits does not guarantee any actual lessening of emissions throughout the whole world. In reality, it appears that the scheme will bankrupt the countries who are productive, while filling the coffers of the nations who have little or no industry to clean up. And with no resulting effect in the diminishing of greenhouse gases. It truly bewilders me that intelligent people can be so apathetic about having the wool pulled over their eyes.

How can we take the reports and demands from the UN seriously when it is controlled by countries who have no conscience when it comes to human rights??? And how can we ignore the deniers of this theory of an impending catastrophic climate change and not suspect the promoters of seeking more research funding? Are we all to rush down to the sea, like lemmings, - or like children who follow the piper who plays the fearsome tunes of climate change and catastrophe?

To delve into the problem further, from a psychological point of view, consider the concept of the environment becoming the New Religion, with all that portends. There is a vacuum in our Secular Society, just waiting to be filled, and so many are prepared to sacrifice our economic way of life to embrace the Way of the Pure but devastatingly Poor.

Stewardship of the earth is of great importance, and the control of emissions should be undertaken with the greatest diligence, but the fool hardy acceptance of the concept that cyclical changes in climate are a significant result of man-made industry boggles the mind! How the Sun must be shaking his head at our pious self importance.

Most disturbing of all are the opportunists and their hypocritical political ploys that are being promoted to advance those looking only for power. It is a situation which must make the thinking person sink into cynicism and despair.

And with that I will gather up what hope I have and go and see what luck I have at playing cards with Husband.

WHAT DID I DO LAST THURDAY - THAT FOGGY, FOGGY DAY!


Well, first of all, I pondered amidst the dismal gloom.

After a while I took to my knees, - gazing into the innards of Honey, the loom, and searching for inspiration.

I was not exactly enthusiastic about Husband's idea of tipping Honey up, thus bringing into easy access her nether parts under the treadles, but I had to find some way of reaching the cords which needed to be attached with more precise measurements than had been achieved so far.

It finally occured to me that if I were to lift one treadle at a time with a looped linen cord attached to the beam I could maybe even sit on the little three legged stool I keep beside the loom for such extingencies and reach under the treadles with a minimum of effort. (FOCL) I don't acknowledge "a minimum of effort" any more, - just doesn't exist in my life these days.

When I was at the library today I watched a young woman with a beautiful free and bouncing walk, - full of the joy of living, - and I sighed and thought, "I used to walk like that, and revel in it".

Be that as it may, look at the picture below and imagine the depths to which I had to sink these stiff, sore knees! The pinnacle of effort in situations like this is in resuming your former upright position. Yikes! That surely deserves some kind of golden compensation.


And so it happened! The operation went off smoothly while Husband was out for coffee, and by the time he came home I was ready to take a deep breath and remove the locking rod from the jacks. Nothing moved! The shafts, the lamms and the treadles all stayed in balance.

I said a quick and fervent thank you, took another deep breath and pressed down the first treadle. The resulting shed was a joy to behold- firm and clean and at least 5 inches high. Wowy!!! I have to say that as I progressed down the line of treadles closer to the pivot point the beauty of the sheds diminished somewhat, but it was still a weavable situation and I started off with glee.

Two days later I am feeling that lovely euphoria that comes with achieving a certain degree of success, and I have decided that perhaps I am still up to Honey's demanding ways, and won't need to replace her with the four harness LeClerc just yet. Another victory along life's aging way, - another dilemna vanquished!!!

Life is good, - spring is coming!

Every gardener knows that under the cloak of winter lies a miracle ...
a seed waiting to sprout, a bulb opening to the light, a bud straining to unfurl.
And the anticipation nurtures our dream.
- Barbara Winkler

And so do the puddles in the driveway, and the ice which has coated the road, now in the process of decay.

And the faint fragrance of a promised spring that lends a bit of bouyancy to the step and a smile to the face.

Winter is wonderful, but when it outstays its welcome a little frantic depression sets in, as when one longs for company to leave: company that at first was cherished and entertaining, but after a while becomes wearisome and eye glazing.

From December to March, there are for many of
us three gardens -
the garden outdoors,
the garden of pots and bowls in the house,
and the garden of the mind's eye.
- Katherine S. White

Today I rescued the garden book from where it had been abandoned in November, and tried to envision the back yard, transformed from a tarp covered pile of practical treaures that will soon find a home in the new garage to an inviting spot to nourish the birds, please the eye and look nice and neat and tidy!!!

I know that our efforts must be minimal, considering the limited energy we have to expend, but I can see a wonderful array of sunflowers and grasses - simple but strikingly cheerful.

Ah dreams and fragile plans - they are the substance of our lives and we strive to bring them to fruition.

In the meantime, - while we wait for spring - the struggle continues to balance the treadles and lamms and shafts to accommodate this elegant but skinny warp I have put on the loom with such anticipation. Husband is advising tipping the loom to make it easier to reach the treadles, and be more precise about the tie-ups. I view this with some trepidation, but see the advantages to not lying on the floor reaching under the loom and blindly counting the number of loops in the tex solv before I insert an arrow pin. And besides, Husband has proven over the many years that we have existed together to be most often right! This adds to my security, but it is also a little irritating, if you know what I mean!!!

The Swinging Door

Today Husband and I closed a door on a part of our life that has consumed a great deal of energy, required a great deal of commitment, and has brought with it a sense of accomplishment, a sense of frustration and dismal discouragement, much love and friendship, and finally, - closure.

The swinging door closes, and with an extra little push it opens on a brand new world where the sun shines, mild breezes blow, and the air is fragrant with the scent of freedom - figuratively speaking.

More time for this, - more time for that....with the Ego laid to a well deserved rest the mind gives us permission to frolic (so to speak!) The vista opens on a certain amount of liberty to pursue things that have for a long time been neglected. Visits to old friends, (the number of which seem to diminish with each passing year) so that this has a priority that we ignore at the risk of melancholy regret.

Time and the inclination to pack a picnic lunch and go exploring, perhaps with a fishing rod packed in the trunk in case we find a pleasant stream.

Time to dream dreams and make plans for the back yard - to plant some more trees that we will probably never see come to maturity, but which will give us shade and pleasure for the years left to us.

Time to weave with some kind of serious commitment to it.

Time for music, and reading and irresponsible hours. (Can two depression raised people ever achieve irresponsibility???)

Time for husband to cultivate the habit of casual coffee and lunch visits with friends and to organize his workbench for happy hours of fixing and fiddling.

Most importantly it is time to wake to a day free of fretfulness about dissension. That is a wonderful gift - life is how we perceive it, and a mind freed from dratted worry is a mind alive and open to new adventures.

Perfect days! Happy days! Now, if I can just get the loom to gather herself together and start to work in harmony, - shafts, lamms and treadles all working in sweet cooperation, - what bliss!!!

Silence in these quarters for the last little while.
But that doesn't indicate a lack of activity.

With the arrival of the black silk with which I plan to dress the loom, great enthusiasm blossomed forth, along with prodigious planning of warp and weft.

How to best determine the amount of yarn to put on each bobbin, so that it was exactly what was needed and none of the precious black silk wasted? Without a counter I could rely on I went back to the warping board, - measuring off the lengths of warp, winding them on to a ball, and from there to the bobbin, using the bobbin winder which Husband made so cleverly many years ago. A job that I found I could not do all at once, so it has been spread over a number of days, in odd and pleasurable moments.

At last the moment has arrived to clamp on the tensioner, thread it from the bobbin rack, figure out how many turns of the sectional beam, and start to dress the loom.

Husband has contributed greatly to the practical side of weaving, having made the spool rack, the tensioner, and the sectional beam. A veritable treasure, and well worth keeping I think! Both Husband and the sectional beam with accessories.

The picture is a tea towel warp, and the overseer is Miss Roo. Gone from these parts, but not her spirit. Her grave by the fence is marked, and planted with flourishing meadow rue, and the new little kitten mirrors her image and her friendly disposition.

Winter continues in these parts.....













But Groundhog Day approaches, and then can spring be far behind????? I have not yet given in to scraping away the snow to see if there are any signs of green bulbs pushing through the ground. Certainly the Lenten Roses have not made any signs of forming buds, but they are such little stubs they could be loitering just below the surface. If that is so it must be Hope that is springing around, dropping faint intimations of approaching green grass, new calves, lambs and mild weather.

Amaryllis 2 - even more beautiful and delicate than Amaryllis 1. Almost translucent and an enchanting shade that I cannot quite put a name to.















Today the grocery store had small pots of miniature daffodils in bloom. Gorgeous soft pink mallows and heady violets.

I resisted, - but I am going to town tomorrow as well, to resume our Ladies' Thursday Lunch Date!

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Here it is tomorrow, and it has been snowing since midnight. Lovely Christmas Eve snow, - soft and tender as it falls, but definitely has lost its way timewise!!!

No lunch date, - no town - bad roads- nervous drivers. Spent the day hemming tea towels, playing cards with Husband and saving pictures of the summer garden to CD.

A picture of a little sparrow at the kitchen window bird feeder.


The troop of quail were feathering along in the snow, hunting for the seeds that lay under it, on the ice. The wiser Contingent gathered around the bottom of the bird feeder in the apple tree and snaffled the seed that the small birds spill.

Down in the meadow a squadron of large, black ravens circled the sky, landing and pouncing on the left overs from the recent butchering. The smaller birds pay them no mind as the ravens jump up and down in ecstasy, - dark exclamation marks on the white snow.

A day in the loom room

Good for the soul, but hard on the back.

Remember the green tea towel? Yesterday I finished it, and as I did a great longing came over me, - a longing not to have to do anything more on that particular warp that had eight weights hanging from the back and required constant misting and flaxing to keep it in proper weaving shape.

Whilst in this state of longing and reckless abandon my eyes fell on the scissors, and before one could say "Jack Robinson" (as if he had anything to do with it) I was snipping at the warp, great swathes at a time. The unwoven warp fell away and slipped through the heddles, and the woven tea towels relaxed their grip on the front beam and sighed mightly at the relief they felt at giving up the strain of remaining taut.

What a wonderful feeling of liberty and independance pervaded the room. This is bound to happen when warps grow old and emit a great feeling of anxiety that wafts through the loom room door as you pass hurriedly down the hallway. The chains that warp entwined me with were gone, and in my mind arose great visions of the gorgeous, exotic things I was now free to weave....

Today I ordered some black silk!

Once that was done it was time to minister to the loom, - to pick up all the nuts and bolts that had fallen from unused lamms and were hiding under the treadles. To retie the belts on the sectional beam and replace all the withered elastic bands that keep them in place - so long had they been there since the warp was first put on, fresh and full of promise. To dust and vacuum, and promise the loom the joys of a new and gorgeous warp to cover its nakedness!

A studied survey of the stash stored in plastic containers in the loom room closet revealed a little of this, a little of that, but nothing that excited my imagination. Hence the call for black silk, and the hurried retrieval of the ancient weaving book where all the plans are recorded. Probably the most exciting part of any project, - dreaming dreams and engaging the brain in the math of the warp and weft.

A great day, all around!!!

Tomorrow I will hem the tea towels, apologize for such a long birthing, and pass them on as the housewarming gift they were meant to be.

O Winter! frozen pulse and heart of fire,
What loss is theirs who from thy kingdom turn
Dismayed, and think thy snow a sculptured urn
Of death! Far sooner in midsummer tire
The streams than under ice. June could not hire
Her roses to forego the strength they learn
In sleeping on thy breast.
- Helen Hunt Jackson, A Calendar of Sonnets: January

HERE IS A POIGNANT LITTLE POEM WHICH I THINK IS TELLING US THAT NOTHING GOOD COMES WITHOUT HARDSHIP, - THAT BEAUTY IS BORN OF SUFFERING, THAT FOR HEAVENS SAKES, IF WE WANT THE ROSES OF JUNE WE'D BETTER APPRECIATE THE SNOWS OF JANUARY.

That's all very well, but this snow has been around since November, and we've put up with it long enough!!!

I scan the weather forecast for some sign of encouragement, but there is nothing in the future except more cold weather.

When Spring does decide to favour us, about March or April, she dallies on her way, waving one day from the top of a mountain, and then disappearing from view and sending a storm in her stead. Why am I even thinking so far ahead???

Well, in my heart of hearts I know why. I am drifting through January, oblivious to the resolve that in my imagination saw the warp on my loom finally finished, and a beautiful silk warp in its place.

One can easily see the length of warp that is left on the loom, and the state of the green linen tea towel that I have to stop and minister to with a flax solution to keep it from shredding..... It is five of a series of six, so the end is in sight, but the days are going by, one by one, while I dither and dream.

In the evenings I go through photographs that I need to scan and enter into the Power Point genealogy program that was due for Christmas distribution to family members, but it is a desultory occupation, and my enthusiasm is dampened by the sheer numbers of snaps we have taken, or have had sent to us. Wonderful to have, but where, oh where, is the particular one you are looking for!!!

Am I suffering enough to deserve those roses of June? Not yet, - not yet!

But I am procrastinating, and O, Procrastination,

They name is Blog!!!