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.

Sitting on the sidewalk,

Eating my Cherries,

Floating my Balloons,

And just watching the

Parade pass by.....



The action is all with the young crowd these days, - new babies - new venues - new adventures - new directions - shedding old habits, taking up new ones and just generally Living the Parade of Life.















Husband and I watch, as sadness and disappointment are followed by happiness and joy.
















We note the grasshoppers and the ants, the paraders who are about to step into a manhole and the ones who soar above the Parade, in search of a goal.

I may sit on the sidewalk, rejoicing in those who are skipping through the roses, and sighing for those who have strayed into the weeds, catching my breath at those who court disaster and smiling with happiness for those who embrace joy and contentment.

But beyond a VERY occasional, small, quiet whisper, "Watch Out" my role in life is to gather together the memories and stories of my own Parade, holding them close to keep me warm as I sit and watch the ones I love finding their way.

And just being a warm receptacle of love, cheering them on as they pass by....

I want to tell you though, - it's bloody frustrating.....

YouTube - Leon Redbone - Melancholy Baby

YouTube - Leon Redbone - Melancholy Baby

Yesterday we went to a party!

Not our usual Funeral Reception type of Party.

This was an honest to goodness happy day party, - although it shared the nostalgia of the usual funeral reception.

It was a 65th WEDDING ANNIVERSARY PARTY - and I put that in bold capital letters because it is such a rare and lovely event.

Firstly because two people who have made a commitment to love and honour have done just that, - not for a year, or ten years, but through sixty five years. And Love has been the vehicle that carried them through the joyous times and the times of tribulation. And Honour is what is due to them now..

And secondly, because they have had the good fortune to survive the years, and are both physically present to celebrate this wonderful achievement.

While the familiar tunes of the 40's swept around the celebration one of the great granddaughters danced with her Daddy, perched on Daddy's shoes, and I smiled to see them, and to think about that great tune sung by sweet, old Leon Redbone, Dancing on Daddy's Shoes.

No. 3 Son introduced me to Leon Redbone not too many months ago, and when I play his music I am right over the moon.....

I read a little blurb while looking for this picture, and it says so beautifully what I feel about his voice.

"It is hard not to smile when listening to a Leon Redbone record. Redbone is graced with a voice as deep as the Pacific and as smooth as butter. He continues a real love affair with tunes from the turn-of-the-century, flapper-era radio ditties, Depression-spawned ragtime and folk-jazz. Yet there is something oddly modern about this musician. His lyrical satire and cynicism tend to wear well with any generation. Leon Redbone’s live shows are just pure entertainment. His front porch manner, impeccable musicianship and relaxed stage aura create a family-like gathering around the fireplace, with the audience right there next to his armchair. "

And how about his rendition of the Walking Stick....

Excuse me while I go and search him out of the Media Library and put in my ear phones - bliss, - pure bliss.

I have my happy face on.......

FRIDAY NIGHT and I have spent the evening delving into the mysteries and delights of downloading e-books.

You may take these things for granted, but when you are REALLY mature and your first memory of things electronic is your father's crystal set in the basement, then you continue to be amazed and confounded by all the little cyber miracles taking place around and about.....

I am keeping up as best I can. IPods and MP3's have not entered into my life yet, and I am pretty amateurish when it comes to texting. I am wide-eyed when I watch our granddaughter sending messages, - how can the brain keep up with those flying fingers????? I just shake my head, roll my eyes, and acknowledge that I was just born seventy-five years too soon to be "hip" in this day and age.


Nevertheless, I am enthralled by the idea that I can download ebooks from the library and see great possibilities for multi-tasking (an appealing concept at this advanced age, - how else is one to get everything done that one wishes to do???).

I have discovered another modern invention, dear to my woolly heart. Space Dyed Yarn! Husband sat in the car on a sweltering afternoon while I scurried into Molly's Quilt Shop in Oliver where I had heard that such yarn resided. I quickly (oh yes, I was quick, contrary to Husband's stories) bought five balls of this miraculous yarn, and am on my second pair of socks.

(These are not my socks, but they serve the purpose to illustrate what jolly footwear can be easily produced just mindlessly knitting away- no planning stripes or joining wool. I have come to the conclusion that there are some truly creative people around.

Now I can spend my evenings knitting striped socks and listening to e-books and feel not only relaxed, but virtuous about all that is being accomplished.

Important to someone with Good Intentions but not the discipline to put them all into action.

Husband is also being creative as he watches TV through sleepy eyes and plans a new ledge for the organ to hold the enormous church hymnbook, bringing it to eye level so that the organist doesn't play with her head tilted back and her nose in the air.

Time to gently shake him and get the nightly card party underway.

Good Intentions

and the Road to Hell.......















I look at the calendar and am shocked to find that less a half a day we have reached the exact middle of August.

And what's a half a day to a dilitente like me.....

I was so full of Good Intentions as I tore July's heated pages off the calendar. I made rough lists on big lined stick-ems, put them up on the wall above the computer and resolved to try my best to follow the path which would fulfill the aims and goals I had set for myself.

Ah, - Ha.....here is where the plan became so badly skewed. I have had a considerably long time to fine tune the art of procrastination, and a list (unless it is an absolutely final desperation list, designed to meet an impending deadline) seems to set off within me a laggardly chain of neglect that manages to put the carefully constructed list right out of my cotton pickin' mind.

Now, this is not just a list scribbled out in the heat of a moment of determination, - ah no. I found a nice leather bound Journal that I had been saving for a special occasion, and quite elegantly copied into it the AIMS and GOALS that once achieved were to make me feel virtuous and well ordered.

Alas and Alack, a lifetime of finding inspiration from deadlines has left me dallying and drifting whenever the pressure is off. And why, at the age of 82, do I feel no pressure to prepare for the inevitable? Denial? Or just too full of living.....

August has been hot, - traditional "dog days". Not the kind of days that inspire full steam ahead activity.

September will be cooler, - always my favourite month, and one that I find filled with Good Intentions.

Will it be another pothole on the Road to Hell, I muse - it will unless I improve my paving skills, and transform my Good Intentions into furious activity.

I am so easily distracted, - an evening on the computer, - a morning in the garden - a little nap after lunch and a good book to read.........tut tut and oh, dear me

O Happy Day - O Happy Day

Another beautiful great-grandchild to brighten our lives.

This time a wee girl, - Cadence. Reminds me of melodies and lovely lilting tunes.

Father, - our grandson - sounds elated, and I'm sure that Mother is just thrilled to have the baby in her ARMS.........

Makes up for the current black cloud that hovers over us in the form of a dead mouse in the air conditioning in the car. Oh, yuck, yuck, yuck......

October skies are most spectacular in the Valley, but the serene skies of summer can sometimes set the heavens ablaze with a gentle fire. And sometimes they are polka dotted with pink chiffon.

Enjoy a quiet moment.

We get a varied selection of donations at the Bargain Centre....

The volunteers who work there on behalf of the Church get quite adept at recognizing the rarest of objects, from old fashioned tools to new fangled gadgets whose uses sometimes seem hardly plausible, so frivolous they be.

When most of the donations had been sorted and hung up this morning there remained on the table a small tin from Winnipeg, labeled Water Glass. This object certainly qualifies as a most practical commodity, and as I picked it up and read the label memories of my childhood engulfed me.

The crock which contained the Water Glass (Isinglass) lived down the stairs and off to the right.

It sat on the basement floor, and despite it's goodly contribution to the household it was a vile and slimy concoction to any small child who had to plunge her hand in it to retrieve the eggs that were being preserved therein.

Baking day had its ups and downs, and one of the downs was being asked to go and put your poor wee hand into that gelatinous mass, and then having to carry the eggs quickly up the basement steps with who knows how many monsters behind you in the dark.


















Eggs PLUS Waterglass PLUS basement steps all added up to a scary experience.

My Sister remembers this part of childhood with as much horror as I do, except she may not have been afraid of the monsters that lived in the coal bin in the far corner of the basement.

I have to say that the results of baking day were worth the dangers and the revolting insult to the senses.

If you have it in your mind to strengthen your child's character and are looking for novel ways to do so, here is a receipt from our Agricultural Past...

In the Spring of the Year when the hens are laying well, put aside the surplus to preserve for that time of the year when the produce found in the nests is liable to be less lavish Try not to use fertile eggs (alas, poor Rooster, - banished from the henhouse).

Obtain a medium sized Medalta stoneware crock. manufactured in Medicine Hat, Alberta (not too large, - one doesn't want small children to fall in). Trudge on down to the pharmacy and purchase a pint of Sodium Silicate, which is a thick liquid about the consistency of molasses. Boil TEN QUARTS of water and allow to cool.

Place the eggs, narrow end down in the crock - mix the waterglass (Sodium Silicate -oh devilish brew) with the cooled water , and pour the mixture over the eggs in the crock.

The eggs should keep one year - to the day. The mixture may become cloudy and resemble soft soap, but do not let that deter you, - the more glutinous it becomes the better suited it is to forming and strengthening character in the young and impressionable. This amount of mix should be enough to preserve 12 or 13 dozen eggs, which eggs should be used mainly for baking.

And that brings up another consideration, - if you, as mother, are used to buying your baked goods from the deli, you are going to be in line to have your character strengthened too. You are going to have to suck it up and make time to bake the cakes and cookies and puddings and cream pies to use the eggs that you are going to send the innocents to retrieve.

Well, good luck to you and to all the little children who get to benefit from this brave adventure.

P.S.......Husband contributes a story of his own childhood demon, - his brother whispering to him "frog's legs, frog's legs" whenever Sago Pudding was served as dessert, - but he didn't actually EAT the Sago Pudding. His brother enjoyed every last spoonful, so I'm not sure that this could be the cause of the strengthening of his backbone?

Early this morning - out in the garden with my trusty machete, harvesting the Hollyhocks.........and watching with dismay as a trillion seeds escape with glee into the fertile soil, readying themselves to spring up next April to confound me again.

I also put my back to reducing the size of the clump of mint.....

Plucking all the baby sun flowers that have sprung up where the birds have spilled the sunflower seeds.......

Tugging at the cool, green chickweed, where the domestic tiger likes to lie........

Admiring the turtle flowers which have started blooming while my back was turned......

Dead heading the roses, and pondering the sea holly, trying to decide what to do about all these great, huge plants that are drunkenly leaning on the standing hollyhocks and sunflowers.....













Noting that the volunteer seed geraniums bear a few buds, and wondering if they will remain true to the brilliant red their Mama was...

Along the edge of the little patio a small hollyhock has persisted all summer, and has finally blossomed with a beautiful peach coloured flower.














The dill is past time to harvest, and the little grocery store rose is once again covered in buds.

I have stopped dead heading the heritage sweet peas, giving them a chance to produce more seeds to fill the demand from friends and family.

My eye catches a flash of sky, down on the ground where it shouldn't be, and it is the blue delphinium, adding a little spot of glory with a second blooming.

Towering in splendour over all - of course, the sun flowers....


In the meantime Husband is tending to his fence screen, tying up scarlet runners and sunflowers, ready to burst into bloom.


















Time now to take him some cool water, and some coffee, - the sun grows warm as the morning advances, and it is time for a break.

Husband and I have been discussing the circumstances which led to my father's wounding at Cambrai, on the 11th of October, 1918.

I am putting away the file which contains an account of that particular battle, along with my father's military records, when my eye is caught by a small faded book on the next shelf up.

It has survived the general dissolution of the library which we downsized when we moved, mainly because of great sentimentality. It was among the few books we have that belonged to Husband's mother , and contains within its pages some of the poetic clippings which she saved during the war years, when her three sons were Overseas.

It is many years since I took the book in hand, and this afternoon I have been re-discovering its treasures.

The book, - well, really the April 1936 issue of "An Intimate Magazine for Garden Lovers", edited by Theo. A. Stephens of London, England, is enchanting in many ways. Just the era during which it was produced is enough to beguile me. Those simpler years, when hard times produced an appreciation for the basics of life, and joy could be found and engendered in small things and cherished relationships. The English are such ardent garden lovers, and I hope this venture of Theo. A. Stephens was a success. Seventy years later it is still bringing pleasure and information to those who read its pages.

One of the plants which traveled with us from the Lost Garden, - unbidden, but welcome in small doses, was the Chinese Lantern. A plant of fiendish invasive ways, but a delight in the autumn garden as the brilliant orange lanterns herald the close of the season and cry to be picked and dried for a prolonged life amongst the other dried grasses and blooms.

F.C.L.S. (Devon) has a little page about the Chinese Lantern, but it is entitled "Physalis" and reads in part:

"What do you call it, Physalis - how do you spell it? The querist was a man, just a mere man, and perhaps I should not have expected him to know what it was though I believe he is a gardener - of sorts. We were looking at a very large bunch of Physalis Franchetii which had been cut and dried last year and had now been put aside for spring greenery......... anyone who has a love for honesty with its satiny seed covers must also love the glowing orange lanterns that hang on the long stems of physalis."

With that I could agree, but then she (for she must be a SHE, judging by her snide remark of the gardener-of sorts) remarks that the plant may be considered rather rampant in its habits. Ah, there's the rub - it comes up in the midst of Iris, through the centre of peony bushes, amongst and around the white Phlox, even in the middle of the raspberry patch - anywhere the speedily traveling roots will take it. And I must tell you that it can appear right on the other side of the garden, with no hint of its presence in between that and its source. Rather rampant is a kind understatement!

However, F.C.L.S. goes on to comment that the green leaves of physalis are pushing up amongst her oriental poppies, but that "it will perhaps be rather nice to think that when the poppies have died down the glowing lanterns of physalis will be swinging over them as they sleep."

A nice and redeeming thought.

There are pages and pages of lovingly written stories about cherished gardens and plants, and I will be off now to spend a little time before supper losing myself amongst the article on "Choise Flower of Delight" (the violet) by Mrs. Stanley Wrench.