A Day of Surprises

Surprise No. 1

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

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

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

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

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

Second Surprise..

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













Happy, happy Great Grands.....

Tripping Along....


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

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

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

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















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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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













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

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

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













Here is the recipe for Rose Hip Jelly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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













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













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

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

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

















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

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

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.......