September 19th, 2001

I am out cutting the little side lawn, enjoying the pearly fall crocus and the few delicate pink roses that have deigned to provide a small but exquisite autumn show.  The hand push mower makes a lovely whirring sound and there is the faintest aroma of freshly cut grass as I enjoy the blue sky and the summery clouds in the crisp, cool September air.

When I am finished I go to measure the length and width of the raised garden bed in which I plan to plant the peonies and delphinium, the scarlet bergamot and pristine phlox, a couple of iris, a few roses, some pearly everlasting, a bit of coral bell and probably some sage - stop, stop!  It is only 24 feet long and 3 and a half feet wide.  I must be content with small snippets...... but I will smother the composter in the far corner of the back garden with day lilies, some Stella d'Oro and the big red streaked ones that are so showy.

It is very hard for me to admit to myself that I am now eighty-six, and the day-long sessions I once enjoyed in the garden have shrunk to an hour or two in deference to aching muscles and failing energy, but for those shortened hours I am incredibly grateful, and I can always dream on a grand scale!

This afternoon I will go up to our house on the hill that stands, empty eyed, gazing over that lovely vista to the Cawston hills, and I will delight in the garden that continues with its business of creating beauty while it procreates, - making seeds, pushing the Chinese Underground Railway a little farther into the suburbs, swelling corms and bulbs and  rosehips.  I will gather the dried pods of the heritage sweet pea that will crackle and burst in my hands, scattering more progeny at its feet and bring home roses and the second flush of delphiniums to sweeten the house and reflect in the mirrors and our memories.

Life is good.....

Saturday, September 17th, 2011

1. The Witch's ball finally hangs in the dining room window

      and as the Witch gazes through its magical blueness

she begins to feel more and more

that it is time

 to park her broom

and take up permanent residence.

Time to shake away

the cobwebs of uncertainty

and unsettledness.

Turn to her knitting

and learn once again the intricacies of

the Long Tail Cast On

ABC Wednesday
September 13th, 2011

I is the letter for this week.

I is for Iris, and although it is not the least bit original I hope you might enjoy this picture of an Enchanting Iris from the June Garden.

Since Iris is the Greek goddess for the Messenger of Love, her sacred flower is considered the symbol of communication and messages.  

Greek men would often plant an iris on the graves of their beloved women as a tribute to the goddess Iris, whose duty it was to take the souls of women to the Elysian fields.

For more interpretations of the letter I  click here to visit ABC Wednesday.

September 12th, 2011

I wait impatiently for the days to cool, for the garden to show signs of sleepiness as it gets ready for bed -  but summer lingers on.  By mid-morning it is too warm to be out in the garden, and by late afternoon, when there should be a cool September breeze to make happy hour on the verandah a welcome break it is still and heavy - no lightness in the air that speaks to one of September when the garden catches its breath and the delphinium and the roses send forth blooms that rival suimmer's show.

Usually, by this time in September the Aster displays tentative shaggy flowers, while all over the dark green bush buds promise a glorious tribute to fall later in the month, but this year both they and the 'mums are content  to graciously bide their time while summer flowers give us one last tender retrospect.

We wait for cool mornings, mild afternoons and early evenings to refresh the spirit that laboured under August's heat.

I go up the hill to the garden we left in mid summer and dig up bits of lavender, the Christmas rose and the purple hellebore that is just now coming into bloom.  I have replanted the astilbe and this week I will cut back the peonies, - the white ones and the pink ones and the brilliant red - and bring them to plant in the long raised bed in the back garden.  And then I will go to the nursery and hopefully find an Abraham Darby and a Prairie Princess and a white Winchester Cathedral to plant between the peonies and delphiniums.  And at the back, against the fence, we will plant the heritage sweetpeas and some sunflowers, and place the lady fountain somewhere amidst the shade with some forget-me-nots around her feet.

And then I will be able to get my knitting out, and finally feel at home and contented.

Thursday, September 8th, 2011

I go to the library.  It seems such a long time since I've been there, - the summer has not been conducive to long lazy spells with a book in my hand,and not much else on my mind but the enjoyment of a leisurely summer afternoon.

I come home with Wendell Berry's Essay, 'Life is a Miracle' and I can hardly wait to put everything aside and take it to bed with me......

Wendell Berry is a good antidote to Marvin Minsky.

He is of the opinion that "the most radical influence of reductive science has been the virtually universal adoption of the idea that the world, its creatures, and all the parts of its creatures are machines - that is, that there is no difference between creature and artifice, birth and manufacture, thought and computation.  Our language, wherever it is used, is now almost invariably conditioned by the assumption that fleshly bodies are machines full of mechanisms, fully compatible with the mechanisms of medicine, industry, and commerce, and that minds are computers fully compatible with electronic technology"

Berry contends that we must go beyond empirical knowledge to imaginative knowledge, - to knowing things "intimately, particularly, precisely, gratefully, reverently, and with affection."

There, that makes me feel much better, - I really didn't like the idea of being a machine and giving up my old traditional ideas and the faith which supposes that life is full of unpredictable mysteries.

This evening there was a pale moon rising as the sun turned the western sky a lovely apricot colour, and as I dug a nice moist spot for the lavender and astilbe plants I brought down from the garden-on-the-hill.

Of course  no matter how I aimed the camera there were still wires to remind me that the moon shines with equal elegance on town and country.

and the Cawston hills still glow with the setting sun.

ABC Wednesday

H is the letter for this sunny week

H is for Vilhelm Hammershoi.

Of an exhibition of this celebrated Danish painter's work

entitled, " The Poetry of Silence"

it is said

"Hammershoi\s most compelling works are his quiet, haunting interiors, their emptiness disturbed only occasionally by the presence of a solitary, graceful figure, often the artist's wife.

Painted within a small tonal range of implied greys, these sparsely-furnished rooms exude an almost hypnotic quietude and sense of melancholic introspection.

In addition to the interiors, the exhibition also includes Hammershoi's arresting portraits, landscapes and his evocative city views, notably the deserted streets of London on a misty winter morning.  The magical quietness of Hammershoi's work can be seen in the context of international Symbolist movements of the turn of the last century but the containment and originality of his art makes it unique."

Besides the quiet greys and blues Hammershoi occasionally used subdued yellows in his paintings.

Follow the open doors into the heart of Hammershoi's magical paintings, and click here for more wonderful interpretations of the letter H, with thanks to Mrs. Nesbitt and her helpers.

Living in Town

Here we are, behind the white picket fence, still hanging pictures, still shelving books, still opening boxes, still looking for the pink USB, the clock that hung in the breakfast nook, various bits and drills, things that got stowed away when we first arrived that we haven't seen since, and what we really search for is that sense of settlement that probably won't appear until the last picture is placed just so, and the book shelves have been sorted into some semblance of order and when we grow used to gazing across the street at the neighbour's pretty garden

rather than that lovely vast expanse of mountains and sky and the distant valley, stretching out into meadows and blue haze.  How lucky we are to have spent most of our married life in that environment.

And now, how lucky we are to have neighbours who come to visit and welcomed us with baking, and supply us with tomatoes and cucumbers and freshly picked carrots and beans out of their town gardens.

And how wonderful it is that Charles can get up and shower and dress and steer his cart up the road, around the corner, and arrive at the Senior's centre where they are always looking for a fourth for bridge and his social life has expanded just as wide as that lovely vast expanse of mountains and sky and distant valley.

We pick up the mail just around the corner and the library is a short stroll down the road.  A nice clear area of undeveloped parkland opens up to the benchland that rises behind us, and there are those mountains and bluffs and white clouds and  blue sky that we see now from a different direction, but they are as lovely as ever.

I look out my kitchen window into what seems like a deep forest of pine and fir, lightened by the sunlight on the leaves of nut trees and great long bamboo like shoots that slide their huge and glorious leaves through the fence into the side path that divides us.

Life doesn't always have compensations as fine and comforting as those we are enjoying in our ancient days, and so we are grateful for what each day brings, and maybe next time Charles makes a Grand Slam he will have been brave enough to have bid it!!!!

ABC Wednesday
August 31st, 2011

The letter this week is the auGust G

G is for Gratitude

Here is a litany of gratitude written by Anne Porter, poet, born in 1911

In Publishers Weekly David Shapiro observed that 'Porter writes what might best be called plainsong: short, unadorned works that, like gospel or folk music, cut directly to the ambiguous heart of things."

A List of Praises

by Anne Porter
"Give praise with psalms that tell the trees to sing, Give praise with Gospel choirs in storefront churches, Mad with the joy of the Sabbath, Give praise with the babble of infants, who wake with the sun, Give praise with children chanting their skip-rope rhymes, A poetry not in books, a vagrant mischievous poetry living wild on the Streets through generations of children. Give praise with the sound of the milk-train far away With its mutter of wheels and long-drawn-out sweet whistle As it speeds through the fields of sleep at three in the morning, Give praise with the immense and peaceful sigh Of the wind in the pinewoods, At night give praise with starry silences. Give praise with the skirling of seagulls And the rattle and flap of sails And gongs of buoys rocked by the sea-swell Out in the shipping-lanes beyond the harbor. Give praise with the humpback whales, Huge in the ocean they sing to one another. Give praise with the rasp and sizzle of crickets, katydids and cicadas, Give praise with hum of bees, Give praise with the little peepers who live near water. When they fill the marsh with a shimmer of bell-like cries We know that the winter is over. Give praise with mockingbirds, day's nightingales. Hour by hour they sing in the crepe myrtle And glossy tulip trees On quiet side streets in southern towns. Give praise with the rippling speech Of the eider-duck and her ducklings As they paddle their way downstream In the red-gold morning On Restiguche, their cold river, Salmon river, Wilderness river. Give praise with the whitethroat sparrow. Far, far from the cities, Far even from the towns, With piercing innocence He sings in the spruce-tree tops, Always four notes And four notes only. Give praise with water, With storms of rain and thunder And the small rains that sparkle as they dry, And the faint floating ocean roar That fills the seaside villages, And the clear brooks that travel down the mountains And with this poem, a leaf on the vast flood, And with the angels in that other country." I follow a friend on Facebook, and each day she lists five things she is grateful for. What a lovely habit, and one I think we should all cultivate. Visit here at ABC Wednesday for a wonderful variety  based on the letter G.

As August draws to a close a last entry in August Break....

Lush, ripe apricots lie on the roof of the neighbour's shed, dwarfed by a towering walnut tree.  

Sunlight dapples the leaves and I wait for the birds to discover this bounty.

What am I reading, - and even more important, when am I reading it?

Were there ever days when I had the time to indulge myself with my nose in a book and the world far away?

Of course there were - just not lately....

Nevertheless I came across Marvin Minsky once more in my travels on the net and was moved to get two of his books, - 'The Emotion Machine' (Commonsense thinking, artificial intelligence, and the future of the human mind)  and 'The Society of Mind' (270 brilliantly original essays on...how the mind works).

I am hoping that these essays are short one or two pagers, as I can only stand so much brilliance at one time before I get confused and my mind wanders off on different paths.


Neither of these two books is hot off the press, - The Society was written in 1985, and the Emotion Machine was published in 2006.


I open the Society of Mind randomly, and here is an essay on The Roots of Intention.  (pge 196)


I read the foreword.....

The wind blows where it will, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know whence it comes or whither it goes;  so it is with every one who is born of the Spirit.    St. John

Marvin Minsky takes these words and applies them to language and words we utter with no conscious sense of where they come from or how they influence our further thoughts and what we might do as a consequence of them.

I mull this over and have to acknowledge that I probably never know exactly what words I will use to express an idea, or, in fact where either the idea or the words come from.  Marvin Minsky questions whether ideas evolve from two or more partial states of mind, or between signals that represent these states, which leads one into his theory of the Society of Mind.  Minsky contends that " there is no difference between humans and machines, because, he believes, humans are machines whose brains are made up of many semi-autonomous but unintelligent 'agents'  (who mistakenly consider themselves intelligent individuals" 

Now that gives me something to think about, or if his theory is correct it will set the cat amongst the pigeons in the brain that contains all these semi-autonomous agents.  

Because the 'words we think seem to hover in some insubstantial interface'. and we have no idea of the origin of them, or the destinations  they lead us to, or the action or accomplishments which might result,  they have a certain magical quality.  Does that explain some people's love of words?  Are they equipped with the right signals and crossings that are found within the brain? 

I do not mean to sound facetious, - I would really like to know but it appears that there has been little advanced work on Minsky's theories in the last couple of decades.  It is said that he has disturbed many of his co-researchers by insisting that what we think of as consciousness or self awareness is actually a myth - a convenient fallacy which allows us to function as a society.

There is a rather lengthy video of a talk given by Melvin Minsky here, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.  He is a most pleasant and down-to-earth fellow and his talk is peppered with many pithy asides and humourous comments.  If you have an hour to spare do listen, and tell me what you think!

She has taken to wandering the corridors, continuously, - shuffling in her blue slippers and speaking in whispers, - a long journey that she seems compelled to make, around and around, her hand following the railing, her blue eyes bent to the floor.

Her caregiver urges me to find a place to sit and settle with her, and so we sit in a quiet corner,  hand in hand, my arms around her shoulder, and I talk of the days of our long, long friendship.  Her eyes brighten.  She breathes a question that I strain to catch, and I tell her of our move, and of Charles, whose friendship with her husband was so close.  She tells me in broken phrases how she longs to join him....  We talk a little of her family, - of the girls, who come to visit when they can, and of the son she leans upon, and waits for through the long hours of each day.

We sit for a while without talking, silently, but I am surrounded by the love that her friendship has brought me over the last sixty years.  And it has come to this, for her.....

When it is time for me to leave we seek out the Caregiver and he walks a little with her while I punch the buttons that release me into the world she no longer inhabits.  I am in tears as I drive home, and when I tell Charles of her distress his voice thickens and tears spring to his eyes as well, as he remembers his promise to her husband to watch out for her.

Who can protect from this most dreadful disease that steals, as you watch, the precious talents of living learned so eagerly in childhood.

I pray for her to soon realize her heart's desire, as my heart breaks.

ABC Wednesday
August 24th, 2011

Let's hear it for the formal letter F


F is for Alfred William Finch, who was born to English parents in 1854.  


His parents had moved to Belgium. where "Willy" was born and trained at the Academie Royale des Beaux-Arts in Brussels.  He became a founding member of Les XX, a group of twenty Belgian painters, designers and sculptors who rebelled against the prevailing artistic standards and outmoded academism


He changed his own painting to the Pointillist and Neo Impressionist style, and became one of the leading representatives of his style in Belgium, along with Theo van Rysselberghe. 

The Cliffs at South Foreland in the Finnish National Gallery at Helsinki

Box at the Theatre in the Belgium Art Museum

Landscape Sunset at the Turku Art Museum in Finland

Eventually  he determined that he could not make a living as a painter and moved to Finland in 1897 at the invitation of Count Louis Sparre to become a Ceramist in the Iris Ceramics factory, but when the factory closed he went back to painting.


The Pointillist style of painting, though laborious and difficult, lends an amazing sense of movement to the painted landscape.


For more great F's visit here at Mrs. Nesbitt's ABC Wednesday.

ABC Wednesday
August 17th, 2011

E is the letter this week

E is for Eeyore, the Endearing, gloomy-doomy friend of Winnie the Pooh.   An old grey donkey with a long detachable tail around which is tied a lovely pink ribbon which he loses quite regularly.  The pink ribbon, I mean.  Owl once found it and used it as a door pull, making Eeyore even sadder than usual.

Eeyore lives in the southeast corner of the Hundred Acre Wood where he has a house of sticks which is continually falling down.  This area of the  Hundred Acre Wood is called Eeyore's Gloomy Place: Rather Boggy and Sad.

Of course he has a repertoire of rather despondent quotes arising from his anhedonic outlook on life and his  poor opinion of the other animals in the woods, describing them as having 'no brain at all, some of them' 'only grey fluff that's blown into their heads by mistake'.

From Winnie the Pooh, a poignant quote - "The old grey donkey, Eeyore stood by himself in a thistly corner of the Forest, his front feet well apart, his head on one side, and thought about things.  Sometimes he thought sadly to himself, "'Why" and sometimes he thought, "wherefore" and sometimes he thought, "Inasmuch as which?" and sometimes he didn't quite know what he was thinking about".

At such times he was probably eating thistles, his favourite food.

Christopher Robin and the other animals tried to cheer Eeyore with a Birthday Party.  He was given an empty honey jar from Pooh, a popped green balloon from Piglet, and a note from Owl.  Piglet and Roo seem to be having a merry time while Eeyore looks quizzical and not sure what to think about the Happy Birthday cake.

Be that as it may, Eeyore's birthday party lives on in Austin, Texas on the last Saturday of April each year.

It started in 1963 as a spring party for students of the University of Texas but after a few years it morphed into a full blown Festival, a tradition in Austin's hippie subculture.  The original event featured a trashcan full of lemonade, beer, honey sandwiches, a live flower-draped donkey and a may pole.

When the festival moved to Pease Park in 1974 Austin area non profit Friends of the Forest began arranging for food and drink vendors, public services and scheduling live music and family-oriented games and contests.  Although family oriented in some parts of the Park it is also known for its adult entertainment, - drum circles, scanty costumes, sweet smoke, modern hippies and an annual attendance in the thousands.

Eeyore would switch his tail slowly and mutter 'I wonder what next!!!!'

For more great E's visit here at ABC Wednesday, with thanks to Mrs. Nesbitt and her wonderful helpers.

The August Break
August 13th, 2011

'A broken down sentinel'
the original picture taken by a
hiker/photographer in the hills
around Summerland.

We hung a few pictures today.

The picture of a Pathfinder Lancaster
guiding a crippled buddy home,
which reminds Charles of the day when
he and his crew, returning from an operation,
flew around and close by a
badly damaged ship until
they reached an emergency drome.

We hung some water colours
and my mother's petit point

Tomorrow I will put up a hook and hang the bewitching ball

and perhaps I will feel less in need of
the August Break.

The August Break
August  10th, 2011

My favourite rose

the Abraham Darby

one of the nicest of the David Austin apricot roses.

It has a strong fragrance 'somewhat fruity mixed with a traditional

old rose scent'  and I love it.

This one grows in the garden we have just left, but I plan to replace it in the new garden - soon!

ABC Wednesday

Here we are at the darling letter, D

D is for Dimple

At one time I was quite sure that the angels in charge of baby making bestowed dimples upon certain people in order to make them appealing, totally adorable and the most favoured of people.  Same for cleft chins!!!

However, Wikipedia now informs me that dimples may be caused by variations in the structure of the facial muscle known as zygomaticus major and that this bifid variation of the muscle originates as a single structure from the zygomatic bone which, as it travels anteriorly, then divides with a superior bundle that inserts in the typical position above the corner of the mouth.  An inferior bundle inserts below the corner of the mouth.

That most attractive cleft chin also has a structural origin, - it is a y-shaped fissure on the chin with an underlying bony peculiarity, apparently resulting from the incomplete fusion of the left and right halves of the jaw bone, or muscle, during the embyonal and fetal development.  Or it can develop over time, often because one half of the jaw is longer than the other, leading to facial asymmetry.

Or, for those who are into this kind of thing, the same result can be achieved by surgery!!!!!!!

So much for my angel theory, but however the dimple and the cleft chin are arrived at I still find them very sweet and feel that those who possess them have definitely an advantage over those of us who are bereft of such an appealing feature.....

Do not despair if you don't have dimples in your cheeks.

Perhaps you have Dimples of Venus, - not so apparent but equally bequiling.

For more daring and delightful Ds visit here at ABC Wednesday, with thanks to Mrs. Nesbitt and her dear helpers.

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Sunday, August 7th, 2011

I picked up my fancy cane with the butterflies on it, tucked my music into my carpet bag and while the air was still fresh and cool this morning I walked the half block to church.

  Across the street and down the sidewalk (we only have sidewalks on one side of the street) I tapped along, feeling rather unfamiliar with this walking aid as it is the first time I have used it since Charles bought it for me a couple of years ago.  I passed the long line of parked cars belonging to Catholic communicants attending 8.30 mass and crossed to the other side into the shade of the trees surrounding the Church where, I have to admit, parked cars were much less prevalent.  The Roman Catholics are staunch in their faith and customs, while we, half Anglican, half United Church, waver around from one tradition to another trying to find a way of worship acceptable to all.

What assists us more than anything is the sense of community and family and a true fondness for each other.

It was a lively service, - I had chosen hymns that were alive with rhythm and syncopation  - a fast paced version  of Psalm 24 based on an Israeli Folk Melody and arranged by John Ferguson, 'Lift up the Gates Eternal', - a real swinger.

And  'I the Lord of Sea and Sky' which the congregation loves and sings the refrain with great gusto - 'Here I am, Lord'!!!!!

We sang 'Praise the Lord with the Sound of Trumpets' which has some lovely bass vamping, and a new hymn that the congregation has taken to their hearts and voices, 'Jesus, You have come to the Lakeshore' which fitted in quite nicely with the story of Jesus walking on the water and calming the disciples in the midst of a storm, and Peter, brave in the faith which sustained him as he joined the Lord, but faltering and sinking when doubt assailed him.  And I thought how true that is of our everyday lives!!!

After a little time of conversation and coffee I swung along home with my butterfly stick, told Charles all the  little bits of news and gossip, - we had lunch, a small nap and then sat out in the shade on our little front lawn and enjoyed the birds and the people passing and each other's company.

A nice Sunday!

August Break

The neighbour's delectable apricots hang across the fence right by our garden gate........

I haven't yet laid eyes upon the snake, but temptation is strong!

"Is not the action of nature like the stretching of a bow?

The high, it pulls down; the low, it lifts up;

it takes from what is in excess

in order to make good of what is deficient.

Who can take what they have in excess and offer it to others?"

Tao de Ching

Friday, August 5th, 2011

Sitting on the porch in the cool of the evening, watching the mourning doves and the quail perform their evening rituals and admiring the delicate willow that grows in the front garden, a haven for dozens of small song birds.

I don't know the name of this lovely tree that bends and sways in the breeze (that has thankfully arrived to blow away the heat of the day).  Charles thinks it would be perfect for making baskets, so for the moment it is the Basket Willow.

Summer has truly arrived in the Similkameen, - a time for doing chores early in the morning, - running over town before everyone is mopping their brow and complaining about the heat, - well, what can you expect.  It's Summertime, summertime, - the days are hazy, the hills are blue in the distance and nobody is moving at a very fast pace, - including the person unpacking boxes.

Today I tackled the den, where the computers live and where at one time I had a wall of shelves and a desk of drawers, filled to overflowing.  The things that are important will eventually find the perfect spot, and the rest of the 'stuff' that seems to gradually accumulate, will be gone, gone, gone, and I will feel happy and cleansed.

In the meantime, think of me......

ABC Wednesday
August 3. 2011

The letter this week is the curly  C and first of all the many interpretations of Clementine!

A traditional rendition of the song 'O my darling Clementine' by Pete Seeger



But Clementine is not only a song, - behold the beautiful Mandarin Orange, - the Clementine.

wonderful to eat, - great in salads

There is a NASA  mission to the moon that mapped most of the lunar surface, named Clementine;

but also  known as the Deep Space Program Science Experiment.   This mission was launched from

Vandenberg Air Force Base on January 25th, 1994. Clementine tested a small spacecraft subsytems and 

sensors in deep space and returned a vast amount of scientific data from the Moon.. 

How many of you are old enough to have seen the 1946 movie 'My Darling Clementine'

starring Henry Fonda, Linda Darnell and Victor Mature, (sigh).

(I am, but unfortunately didn't ever see it)

and then, of course, there was the love of Churchill's life......... Clementine (Hosier) Churchill

He wrote to her.....

January 23, 1935

My darling Clemmie,
    In your letter from Madras you wrote some word vy dear to me, about my having enriched yr life. I cannot tell you what pleasure this gave me, because I always feel so overwhelmingly in yr debt, if there can be accounts in love. It was sweet of you to write this to me, and I hope and pray I shall be able to make you happy and secure during my remaining years, and cherish you my darling one as you

 deserve, and leave you in comfort when my race is run. What it has been to me to live all these years in yr heart and companionship no phrases can convey. Time passes swiftly, but it is not joyous to see how great and growing is the treasure we have gathered together, amid the storms and stresses of so many eventful and to millions tragic and terrible years?... 

    Your loving husband, 

I am sure there must be a Band somewhere named 'The Clementines' - there usually is.

But  I wasn't able to find it.....

Do go over to ABC Wednesday to see what other classy C's are there.

ABC Wednesday
July 27th, 2011

Here is the letter B

B is for Banjo

And a wonderful banjo rendition of  ' All the World is Waiting for the Sunrise'  by Ken Aoki.   I love his smile, his happy enthusiasm and the marvelous attachment between performer and instrument.  Hope you enjoy it as much as I have.  It makes my eyes sparkle and my heart smiles too.



For more interesting B's visit here at ABC Wednesday, with thanks to Mrs. Nesbitt and her band of merry helpers.