A fall haze lies over the Cawston Hills in the Sunny Similkameen Valley,
the larger locale for a Grand Garden Party being held
in the jam packed garden on the hill.

Invitations were sent out to all alumni who have made the garden
the great success it has been since the first blooms
made their appearance back in March,
and acceptance has been spectacular.

The Maples, in the process of donning their Scarlet Coats
stand garden over the celebrations

and keep a stern eye on some alien creatures marching across the meadow
with an eye to crashing the party

in the meantime, the gathering makes merry, - all in colourful garb and elbow to elbow in a garden that is going to have to be severely divided, and the extra plants moved into new beds

come Spring

Miss Callie has no formal invitation, but being a frequent familiar in the garden click on the picture and see her tail seeking admittance.

The lavender made a special effort to make a return appearance, smelling so pretty and old-fashioned. Together with the Alyssum they lend a fragrance to the air that the sweet warmth of mid day intensifies.

A lone blue delphinium

sends greetings to the last of the sunflowers.

a few gaily coloured lanterns converse amongst the Iris stalks

and the Europa Rose blooms on, oblivious to its out of the way place along the fence.

The Marigolds enjoy the cooler weather and show their appreciation with a wild display of golden buttons.

Next door are a few Shasta Daisies that came to lend a certain daintiness to the riotous colour.

A little pot of geraniums, nestling amongst the blueness of their neighbours

and the pot marigolds, that stay right to the end, even after the last dog is hung (where did that dreadful phrase come from???)

Some late snapdragons

brighten up the pots around the patio

and they all give shelter and make eyes at this sweet little giraffe
who found his way to the party.

A delicate montana

and a second blooming of pinks

keep the prairie Princess rose company, as they gather round her feet.

The Mums have finally come into their own, and the wise old owl keeps watch for the arrival of Jack Frost, whose destiny it is to end the party with his silvery rime.

A perfect day for taking pictures - mellow, mild, calm and cloudy.

So after tea we started off, - first to get the National Post, without which this household would not flourish. Then our destination was Ginty's Pond, but on our way we took a little detour across the river, to see what surprises nature had there, and to capture the gold and orange copses far off in the heights of the mountains and spilling down the hillsides following the trail of the creeks and leaving them brushed with brilliant colour.

We found the lower part of Ginty's Pond almost dry. The grasses and the bullrushes wore their mature fall colours, and as I got out of the car a pheasant flew up from the depths of the rushes, across the pond to the far side. Along the road were the rose pips that looked so fresh and firm in July, - still crowded on the rose bushes, and at their feet and entwined amongst the roots a goodly crop of poison ivy, in its guise as a harmless, colourful vine.

A little way off the road a sturdy grey stump towered above the foliage, with four or five woodpeckers' holes marking it as a place called home.

We continued to the East end of the pond, where the water still flowed and the colours and the calmness bespoke a gaudy peace.

As we drove home the clouds parted somewhat, and the day ended with enough blue in the sky to make a sailor a pair of pants, as my Grandmother would have said.

Enjoy..... click on the arrow to start or pause.

This morning I was having a little trouble getting copacetic with the day, but when I raised my head from my Rice Krispies what did I see? O, what did I see......

The whole valley was suffused in a luminous pink light. The camera is never very far from the breakfast table, and we, the camera and I, rushed out to drench our spirits in this ethereal splendour and see what images we could capture.... I thought I might have died and gone to heaven, but there were no pearly gates around, so I went about my picture taking business, in great awe. Husband tells me it is the angle of the sun deflecting off the clouds, which have to be at just the right height, etc., but no matter what the physics the effect on the soul is pretty stupendous.



The delicate pinks were in the East, but to the West the sun caught the clouds and turned them into a medley of fruit colours, - soft apricot, fuzzy peach, served up in a dish of palest blue.


But wait a millisecond, - the sky deepens, the clouds fold in a delicious froth, but still the air is bathed in tenderest rose.

This afternoon I hope to take a picture of the metamorphose of the neighbours row of pear trees.

Someone has laid a line along its length, lit the fuse and turned the pear trees into a row of golden torches.




Back over in the corner of the pasture the sumac competes in a blazing display of pyrotechnics.

The day ends with dour, grey skies, but they only emphasis the Autumn colours, and make them glow. Husband and I returned from a drive to get the perennial paper, suffused with the beauty of the day, and happy with what we had accomplished.

Wisdom

When I have ceased to break my wings Against the faultiness of things, And learned that compromises wait Behind each hardly opened gate, When I have looked Life in the eyes, Grown calm and very coldly wise, Life will have given me the Truth, And taken in exchange--my youth. Sara Teasdale I went looking for this poem by Sara Teasdale, to try to express a truth about the loss of innocence when we gain - finally - a realistic view of life. In the process I found all the poems of my youth amongst Teasdale's Love Poems. The Beloved, the words of which have always spoken to me of the endearing qualities that Husband brought to my life. It is enough of honor for one lifetime To have known you better than the rest have known The shadows and the colors of your voice, Your will, immutable and still as stone. The shy heart, so lonely and so gay, The sad laughter and the pride of pride, The tenderness, the depth of tenderness Rich as the earth, and wide as heaven is wide. - Sara Teasdale - And Barter, LIFE has loveliness to sell, All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings, And children's faces looking up Holding wonder like a cup. Life has loveliness to sell, Music like a curve of gold, Scent of pinetrees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold, And for your spirit's still delight, Holy thoughts that star the night. Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost; For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstasy Give all you have been, or could be. Sara Teasdale For a while I was caught between April and October, remembering the romance of the youthful years, - the eternal optimism, - the wonderful careless acceptance of the vitality and brightness of life. But eventually I turned again to the mellow months, - and the poems that express the mix of somber acceptance of reality, and the splendid colours of the dying season. A Prayer UNTIL I lose my soul and lie Blind to the beauty of the earth, Deaf though shouting wind goes by, Dumb in a storm of mirth; Until my heart is quenched at length And I have left the land of men, Oh, let me love with all my strength Careless if I am loved again. Sara Teasdale In a Burying Ground This is the spot where I will lie When life has had enough of me, These are the grasses that will blow Above me like a living sea. These gay old lilies will not shrink To draw their life from death of mine, And I will give my body's fire To make blue flowers on this vine. "O Soul," I said, "have you no tears? Was not the body dear to you?" I heard my soul say carelessly, "The myrtle flowers will grow more blue." Sara Teasdale A quiet October stream, hedged with the beautiful golds, the subtle greens and the Naples yellows of the grasses of Autumn.

In Loving Memory of Dolly

B Feb. 16, 1902 - D Oct. 4, 1957












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

October Journey by Margaret Walker


I want to tell you what hills are like in October

when colors gush down mountainsides
and little streams are freighted with a caravan of leaves,
I want to tell you how they blush and turn in fiery shame

and joy,

how their love burns with flames consuming and terrible
until we wake one morning and woods are like a smoldering

plain--

a glowing caldron full of jewelled fire; the emerald earth a dragon's eye the poplars drenched with yellow light and dogwoods blazing bloody red. Travelling southward earth changes from gray rock to green

to velvet. -

This affinity I have with the Fall has been a life long affair, and if it were not so I would suspect it of springing from the chronology of my life, and where I am in that respect. I am hoping that is where my life is, - part of the mellow months of September and October. It is possible I may have slipped over into melancholy November, but I think not yet.....

Today Husband and I journeyed to Penticton, and as we sped over the pass I took moving pictures from the window of the car.


















On our way home the slight breeze had died and the waters of Yellow Lake mirrored the jewel like foliage that lined the shore.


We stopped at the side of the lake and marveled at the clarity of the reflections in the water.



















Here is a little love song to October, and to those we hold dear as we leave the summer of our life behind.

Now Blue October


Now blue October, smoky in the sun,
Must end the long, sweet summer of the heart.
The last brief visit of the birds is done;
They sing the autumn songs before they part.
Listen, how lovely--there's the thrush we heard
When June was small with roses, and the bending
Blossom of branches covered nest and bird,
Singing the summer in, summer unending--
Give me your hand once more before the night;
See how the meadows darken with the frost,
How fades the green that was the summer's light.
Beauty is only altered, never lost
And love, before the cold November rain,
Will make its summer in the heart again.
ROBERT NATHAN

Well, there are piano recitals, and then there are Piano Recitals Par Excellence... (click to enlarge)

Today Husband and I answered an invitation to a Piano Recital presented by the students of Donna Fishwick's Piano Studio when we attended an absolutely splendid musical afternoon in Osoyoos.

Donna is the daughter of our dear friend who is approaching his 100th birthday in December, and in his honour she filled a shiney wine coloured coach with twenty students and their families and brought them from Vancouver to the Osoyoos United Church to perform for him.

What a wonderful birthday gift..... we are filled right to the brim with the most marvelous piano music. This is a group of students who are dedicated and inspired, and no doubt supported all the way by their parents. They have visited Europe three times on concert tours, and besides spectacular piano solos they play two piano duets and have a DVD entitled Forty Flying Fingers.

Most amazing performances, - four fourteen year old boys, with the most relaxed and bequiling smiles, playing the "Poet and Peasant" Overture, and then Sousa's Stars and Stripes Forever, stirring two pianos with such spirit that they sounded like a full orchestra.

And a young boy, just turned twelve, leaving us in wonderment at the dexterity and vitality with which he played "The Juggler" by Toch.

Another quartet played Schubert's Marche Militaire, and Husband bemusedly remembered playing this same piece at a Piano Recital, but somewhat lacking the same aplomb.

I noted the wrist positions and the arm and finger movements, and recalled how Donna had taught our two oldest children when she first began her career, and the various touch techniques she recommended for practising.

These were wonderfully appealing young people, - disciplined, at ease, happy and enormously talented.

When the Recital closed with the Grande Galop de Concert by the same quartet who opened the program, presentations were made to Sterling, our friend, and everyone enjoyed birthday cake and conversation.

Tonight I delight in remembering thirty beautiful piano renditions, twenty young people for whom music is so obviously an important part of their life, and a dedicated teacher who inspires and guides them with such easy grace.

A simply stupendous afternoon, - wish you could have all been there.

September is fading fast, - this morning the Valley is socked in and the Autumn rains are with us.

But the cheery faces of the sunflower still linger...and the melodies of Bach are always soothing.

Ahh, this Moon stays very much with us.

Riding the clouds before midnight,


and still lingering in the western sky at six a.m., when Caspar and I go walking with an eye out for wild critters who might be browsing by the moon's bright light.









At the same time, the rising sun illuminates the eastern clouds with Monet shades, sweet roses, tender blues and for emphasis the lovely slatey colours.

Boys and Toys

A question from the Valley...


Answer me this - how many grown up boys do you know of who have reached the age of 83 and still have a backyard full of dirt to play in and a tractor to move it around from one place to another?????

Here is Husband, doing a wheely on the old and faithful Tractor.

And pushing that dirt all up hill to fill in around the garage and tamp it down.

This is a part time job, - he only works mornings in case you were thinking of hiring the Man and his Machine.













A fine job, - well done. I'd recommend him to anyone. He's a Keeper........

Last night, in the twilight, as the pink of the setting sun slowly faded from the sky
a pale porcelain moon rose in the East, over the Cawston hills.

Later in the evening, as dusk deepened and the night grew dark, a halo gathered around the moon, and whereas before it had appeared elegant and ethereal, it became a dramatic beacon that bathed the valley in light the whole night long. Husband and Daughter attest to that - both being up at three a.m. - I slept on......

I thought it was terribly romantic, but alas, we are at the age where romance touches us lightly with memory, and then passes on to more mundane evening affairs.

Things carry on much as usual under the light of the silvery moon.....

Nevertheless it adds a certain sweetness to the evening.

As I am slowly coming back to consciousness after my precious afternoon nap the ringing of the phone brings me suddenly to my feet. Wrong number, but I am awake now.

I go to the door, and am seduced outside by the stillness and beauty of the autumn afternoon.

It is quiet, - the faint sound of traffic does not disturb my reverie as I sit on the step in the soft September sunlight and lazily survey the garden.

With pleasure I observe the little birds enjoying afternoon refreshment at the sunflower seed bar stretched along the outside fence. The wings of the honey bees and wasps make gentle whisperings as they whirl around the autumn buds of Mum and Aster.

In the distance I hear the faint conversation of apple pickers. The breeze stirs my hair and the leaves of the hollyhock as it wafts the sound of voices through the trees, but I cannot catch the form of the words.

I gaze across the valley at our original home here, - the farm where we spent our youthful married years, and where our children roamed the hills and creekbeds, the water fall and the small caves that are found along the side of the canyon above the house. I note the rills that mark the Cawston Basin hills, and reminisce about the cloud burst that fifty years ago sifted them down to bedrock so that they shone in the sunlight.

I see the barn, standing out in the clear September air, high on the hill. I think about the nightime hours we spent amongst the quiet warmth of contented sheep, - our attention focused on the ewe(s) who had chosen that particular time to lamb, and the memories are happy.

The sounds of Husband stirring from sleep in the house, anxious to be about his afternoon tasks, give me pause to think of putting on the kettle for tea.

As I leave my stoop I see a large hawk crossing the valley, up, up against the blue, blue sky, into the hills that form the northern slope of the valley. A small quail, perched on a fence post as a look-out for a troop of quail that are skittering across the meadow, sounds the alarm

Off to make tea, and to look for my bell ringing gloves that have hidden themselves away since the last time they were used in May.

The Season changes, and although I woke this morning in a blue Monday Morning funk, my spirit now is soothed and I close my eyes momentarily to give thanks.

O when, O when will my ego let me rest and prepare myself for the rocking chair and the knitting needles.

When I think Knitting Needles do I think "cotton dishcloths" ?

NO, - I immediately am drawn to knitting socks on two circular needles - a mystery to me now.

But also a Challenge.

I could do that.......

What fun........

Where, and How Soon can I get instructions and the necessary needles.
Being the shame faced owner of a 60 year old stash of needles and yarn, taking up space in the second walk-in closet that is sorely needed for other things, finding the necessary tools to take along on this Knitting adventure is really not a problem.

What really is a problem is that I promised Husband and myself that I would finish the warp on the Glimakra and prepare the loom for storage, so we could reclaim the room it dominates.

The Promissory Note comes due on the 30th of September, and it is blatant evidence of an ego out of control that I should even be thinking of taking on another project, - let alone sitting here writing about it.

I shall slink away to the card table and put all thoughts of circular socks out of my head while I strive to beat Husband at the nightly game of cards.

The wringer washer and its place in my life or a little nostalgia (a very little)

I have to confess it has never held a very LARGE place in my life, - the wringer washer. It was not exactly a priority, - something I could just not live without.....

But an awareness of the wringer washer did arrive fairly early in my childhood.

I have mentioned the Water Glass container that lurked in our basement, and whose main purpose in life (besides preserving eggs in a most fiendish manner) was to scare the living daylights out of small children.

As small children grew a little older and more capable they were introduced to the wringer washer, which I was told we were really fortunate to have. It was one step up from the scrubbing board, - which was one step up from pounding with stones and mashing with feet..... It was accompanied by a slatted foldable table on which sat two rinse tubs (sometimes used for bathing children or giving them a treat on hot days - pre-plastic swimming pools). We were fortunate in that we didn't have to heat water, but could rely on a hot water tap and hose to fill the washer and the tubs. However, our nemesis was the wringer that moved around from tub to tub.

The washer we had was a vile beast that lay in wait for whoever was chosen to be washer woman this week. It had a wringer that periodically went berserk, whirling around and around at a furious pace, catching anyone who was unaware of impending doom and was within the radius of its mad circling. Its secret weapon was surprise, - it didn't always act up, - sometimes it was docile and cooperative, lulling one into forgetfulness and complacency. So that when it DID indulge in its wild round-a-bout the danger was particularly sudden, and resulted in shrieks and screams and frantic dancing to and fro as one reached for the plug to quieten its madness.

I have discovered that a " Berserker" was a furious Scandinavian warrior of heathen times, and it describes our wringer washer to a T. The dictionary tells me it was, in fact a "legendary Norse warrior whose frenzy in battle caused their transformation into a wolf or bear, made them howl and foam at the mouth (hence ‘to go berserk’), and granted immunity to sword and flame. Such warriors were an elite associated particularly with the raging war god Odin ". (if you click on Odin you can probably find out more about this subject.)

I think because I had a Scandinavian name (meaning noble woodcutter's daughter) it was especially drawn to inflict its machinations upon me. Although I do consider that my sister would probably challenge this statement, having enduring many a frightening flight from the Mad Wringer herself.

I had a milder version of the wringer washer when I was first married, and also a scrub board, - the day the automatic washer entered our house was certainly a celebratory one. But I still have the washboard.......... I use it for felting and cherish it as an antique.

Theodore Roethke and Ogden Nash
Sit side by each on my library shelf

If you examine the following rhymes
Can you randomly choose who penned which after being inspired by a hippopotamus???

The Hippo

A Head or Tail - which does he lack?
I think his Forward's coming back..
He lives on Carrots, Leeks and Hay;
He starts to yawn-it takes All Day

Some time I think I'll live that way.

THE HIPPOPOTAMUS
Behold the hippopotamus!
We laugh at how he looks to us,
And yet in moments dank and grim,
I wonder how we look to him.
Peace, peace, thou hippopotamus!
We really look all right to us,
As you no doubt delight the eye
Of other hippopotami.

Such widely divergent poets - Nash, the light hearted humorist, whose verse almost verges on the ditty, but who, nevertheless, was widely acknowledged in literary circles.

And Roethke, whose dark spirit caused him such mental anguish during his lifetime, and who, besides his nonsense poems, wrote such poignant lines -

"Eternity's not easily come by.
When opposites come suddenly in place,
I teach my eyes to hear, my ears to see
How body from spirit slowly does unwind
Until we are pure spirit at the end."

And his words from "The Waking" so often quoted - "I wake to sleep and take my waking slow. I learn by going where I have to go."

And yet some of his poetry rivals Ogden Nash for light-heartedness and breakthroughs in the use of language.

They were peers, Nash and Roethke, - both of them affected by the depression of the thirties in that they did not have the necessary money to finance their educations.

Roethke, much more serious, won many awards for his writing.

Nash made his way into the hearts of people dealing with a difficult time in the thirties and forties of the last century. His books have been with me for over sixty years, - well thumbed, and much of his verse is imprinted on the inner pages of my brain. They make me smile and lift my spirits, and besides that I admire his wit and his wonderful comments on reality.

The Parent
Children aren't happy with nothing to ignore,
And that's what parents were created for.

Family Court

One would be in less danger
From the wiles of the stranger
If one's own kin and kith
Were more fun to be with.

And, of course, - "Candy is dandy - but liquor is quicker!"


Roethke is later coming to my book shelf, but I value him equally for the beauty of his language, and the poignancy of his thoughts.

"Come littlest, come tenderest,
Come whispering over the small waters, Reach me Rose, sweet one, still moist in the loam,
Come, come out of the shade, the cool ways,
The long alleys of string and stem.
Lean from the tiers and benches,
Cyclamen dripping and lilies.
What fish ways you have, littlest flowers,
Swaying over the walks in the watery air,
Drowsing in the soft light, petals pulsing."

His father's greenhouse, with its benches and greenery and warm fragrance, comes alive for me, and I am in awe of how he perceives......

Roethke wrote "The Hippo" - a dead give-away is the last line.

Nash wrote "The Hippopotamus" - a nice little bit of reality in comic verse.

Thank you to Mrs. Morrison...

Mrs. Morrison was my Grade 4 teacher, and I owe her a huge debt of gratitude. I thought about this when I was rummaging through old music and came across my father's favourite, " Charmaine" and also a copy of Ketelbey's "Monastery Garden".

Who could resist Ketelbey, - that wonderfully showy music that gives young students heart that some day they will be able to WOW their audience. That and the "Flower Song" of crossed hands fame.

I was alone in the house, and I sat right down and indulged myself in a dramatic frenzy of arpeggio's, deep chords and bell notes, and it all came flowing back through my fingers as if I had played it yesterday, rather than fifty years ago! The birds trilled in the garden, and the Monks chanted the Kyrie Eleison and I marveled at the way fingers and brain (and probably neurons) worked together to bring such satisfaction. (I must look for the Persian Marketplace, and Husband reminds me of Nevin's Narcissus which he used to play with great dexterity)

I owe it all to Mrs. Morrison.

She it was who approached a piano teacher, recommending that I have piano lessons to "broaden my education". What a gift that was.....as a result my soon to be piano teacher, Mrs. Shillabeer, offered my parents the opportunity to send me to her for lessons each and every Tuesday, for the sum of fifty cents. Hard to believe in this day and age, but the combination of her generosity and the economic times of the Thirties made this a price that was just barely affordable.

Before Kathleen was married she taught from her studio, upstairs in her parents' house. You waited on a bench at the bottom of the stairs while she finished with the student before you, - either marveling at that student's proficiency, or feeling buoyed up if you felt you had your lesson up to scratch and wouldn't disappoint.

One of the really excruciating experiences was the semi annual Piano Recital.

I didn't mind the yearly exams so much, and by the time I was ready to compete in Music Festivals my confidence was a little steadier. But Piano Recitals, - ah, I shudder when I remember. Always dressed to the nines, with parents present, and the eternal fear that you would forget your notes and mess up your performance. Even the goodies that followed didn't compensate for the butterflies.

Until their deaths a few years ago Kathleen and her husband, Walter, were good and cherished friends. When they came to B.C. they visited the farm, and letters flowed between us sporadically.

I miss seeing Kathleen's writing on a Christmas card, or note, but I treasure the memories I have of her, as a teacher and a friend.

However, my most profound thanks must go to the teacher who saw the potential and acted out of kindness to bring music into my life. I have only a vague memory of what she looked like, but I am in awe of her perception. I never did get beyond the proficiency stage, but the many joys I have had, and the little bits of teaching I have been able to pass on, have made my life much richer.

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.....