Realities of the Bedtime Hour


After a friendly game of Kings in the Corner, (which I have to tell you we play according to our own rules) around about eleven o'clock, we stack up the cards and go leisurely about the business of retiring for the night.

Husband turns on his computer and brings up the National Post News which he reads with only the occasional comment, but it is bound to be a pithy one with biting overtones.

I turn on the kitchen light, and at that moment the cat and the dog come instantly awake. Treat time!!! Treat time!!! Treat time happens after all the going to bed chores are accomplished, and it enables me to get down the hall and into the bedroom while the cat is still busy, daintily picking at her small biccies. Otherwise she passes me on my way, in lightening fashion, and bounds from the doorway, up on to the bed, under a pillow or down between the sheets.

Requires fast work on the part of an old lady! At this ancient age I have learned to hustle!

Once the bedroom is mine alone, mine alone, I do the ablutions, brush the hair and climb into bed with my bedside book. The time it takes me to fall asleep is not in direct relation to the interest I have in the book, but in the time it takes my eyes to unfocus and the lines of print to blur into each other. Then the eyes close, the book slips down, and when Husband arrives a short time later, (having finished his analysis of the news, made appropriate comment on said analysis, and played a number of games of Free Cell) he removes the book, turns off the light, settles himself for the night, and all is quiet!!

It was not always this way......


When we were young and full of vigour, and life was bounding in endless chores, endless projects and eternal plans, the nightime chores were more numerous. Bedtime was different in many happy ways, but the final descent into sleep was preceded by a litany of thanks for what the day had brought in the way of blessings and eager plans for the following day. With six children, a farm, ties to a myriad of organizations and our fingers into many delicious and varied pies, life seemed to be lived on a continual high.

Now we have mellowed out, - the days blend into each other. My plans are for a week, - not a day - (it takes me a week to accomplish what once I did in a day, alas). All that remains the same is the silent litany of thanks for the chance to live life just exactly as we have, with no regrets.



This week-end we celebrated 62 years of marriage, Husband and I.














Enduring Devotion!! --- Devoted Endurance!!




















What a wonderful mixed bag of tricks it has been!!!

Here is the Man with the Machine that he cherishes - the one practical link he has to the busy years that preceded this Golden Age of Retirement.

Happy is the man who can retain even a small portion of that part of the past to which he has had such an affinity.

Can you see the smirky grin he has on his face!!


And here is the crop of Golden Dandelions he is in the midst of reaping. A beautiful stretch of sunny pasture that we have enjoyed for a few days, but it is time now to store the picture away in memory before it changes into a waving field of white seeds flying hither and yon, spreading this golden glory all over the countryside.

It causes one to ponder about what distinguishes a "weed" (I hesitate to call Dandelions noxious) from the flowers we nurture in our gardens, and if somewhere Someone is scratching His head at our ingratitude for the beauty that abounds in the wild places of the earth.


Tomorrow when we go to Penticton I will take pictures of the Balsom Root (Sun Flowers) which are so beautiful on the mountainside, but which harbour the pestilent tick that is so dangerously persistent when it invades our bodies.

Off to have a game of cards with the happy reaper!

Walk in the Garden in May

Drifting along a new and adventuresome path, - learning as I go.

Click on the title and hopefully something will happen????

After the Rain




Husband went out and took pictures of the thirst quenched valley, green and refreshed after a day of intermittent rain. Not just showers, - honest to goodness rain!!! April's parting gift to May....



He was a little premature in thinking that the precipitation had moved on. Soon the clouds gathered again, and we had another hour of rain in the valley and snow on the surrounding hills.

A little clear sky emerged to make way for a gentle sunset, reflected in a puddle in the back yard.








And in the sky a blue backdrop for sunlit feathery clouds.














The orchards and the green, green grass present a picture of spring beauty as daylight fades in the west, and the clouds gather once again in the east.















The forecast for tomorrow is for more showers, and one wonders how the river fares....

A Potpourri of Thoughts and Comments on this, the first day of May!






I woke this morning, conscious that this was the first day of May. Not only that it was May Day, but also as I awakened further I remembered from my childhood that if you spoke certain words on the first day of the month, before you said anything else - you would be favoured with pleasant days and good fortune all during the month.

Unfortunately I couldn't remember what the words were! My sister enlightened me (she is younger than I am, and hasn't had quite as much time to forget....) The words are WHITE RABBIT WHITE RABBIT. I caution you all to remember these words, and this practice, - we need all the pleasant days and good luck that we can accumulate in this frosty old world, by fair means or foul....

We went on to discuss another tradition from our childhood. We lived kitty corner from the Rectory when we were growing up, and the Rector and the Rector's wife were close friends. The Rector's wife informed us that if we were fortunate enough to catch the Rector asleep, and then to give him a small kiss on the cheek, he would be obliged to give the kisser a pair of gloves! No doubt this tradition has an English background, but my research hasn't revealed anything, so we just cherish this as one of the sweet remembrances of our childhood.



By the time I got to the breakfast table, and had caught a glimpse of the newspaper, and George Jonas's comments on the ridiculous aspects of present day politics, my musings had turned to what, in my simple mind, would be the Ideal Democracy.

In such a Democracy there would be two parties. The one, who through good ideas, honesty and trust-worthiness had won the most votes from the citizenry (who, I hasten to add, all voted) would be the governing party who would devise the minimum number of laws and regulations required to keep the country in good order.

The other party would exist to contribute constructive criticism, and harmony would prevail. Also politeness, consideration. honour and regard for each other.

After a decent interval the Parties would once again go to the polls, and if the constructive criticism seemed more reasonable than the laws and regulations of the governing party, then a contemplative and well informed citizenry might cast their ballots in favour of the parties changing sides.

One goes to the end with the sun in their faces. The other goes to the end with the wind at their backs. And the process of civilized governance begins again.

However, all this is innocent speculation, - perhaps even fatuous naivete. It appears to the discerning voter that Democracy has degenerated into the lust for power, - a race for the biggest piece of the cake, the biggest sphere of influence and that cooperation has given way to the desire for one side to hypocritically embarrass the other. It seems that even the most sensible of ruling parties can be drawn into a vortex of inane concepts, launched on a sea of silliness and maintained by what appears to be a pack of howling baboons, if one listens to Question Period from the House of Commons. Nothing more guaranteed to disillusion a voter with any sensibilities. The saddest thing of all is the lack of discerning voters!!!!

Luckily I had to go and prepare the porridge for breakfast, so these thoughts were replaced by mundane affairs of the kitchen.

Later in the morning we left to travel to a nearby town to go for lunch with a dear friend who is approaching his 100th birthday. Although I consider myself "aged" - and Husband is "aged" too, - neither of us is as aged, or has taken as good care of his health, as our good friend has. Nevertheless time is taking its toll and as we see him gradually fail we resolve to see him more often, and try to assuage some of the loneliness that comes to people who have lost most of their peers.

Apple Blossom Time

Almost the last day of April, and I go out into the cold april wind to capture the beauty of the valley in apple blossom time.

The sun is shining, and the sky is a benign shade of blue, but it is only April, up to her old tricks. The wind is sharp, and straight off the distant peaks where the snow has not yet submitted to the spring sunshine. The river runs fast and begins to turn murky, but it is saving its serious threats for when the weather turns warm and the streams from the high mountains race and tumble down into the rivers that descend into the valley.

That is the future - today the apple blossoms have passed the pink shade and are beginning to open into all their tender splendour and fragrance.

With them the dandelions spread a carpet of gold across the meadow, - beautiful in their own right, and so maligned. Poor Dandelions.

I'll Be With You in Apple Blossom Time - A song which Husband and I carried through the war years from the time we met until the May we were married - it could so easily have been I'll Be With You in Dandelion Time. But somehow it is not so redolent of romance.... Perhaps because the beautiful fragrance is lacking in the fields of dandelions, and even more because the apple blossom holds the promise of a bountiful fall harvest, whilst the dandelion can only promise a puffy white ball of seeds to blow away, and tell time by, according to ancient lore. Or if you are especially in tune with nature you might pick some tender new dandelion leaves for salad, for tea or for wine.

Pale little Dandelion/In her white shroud/Heareth the angel-breeze/Call from the cloud;
Tiny plumes fluttering/Make no delay;/Little winged Dandelion/Soareth away.

Helen Barron Bostwick [1826- ? ]

I digress here, - back to the fragrant tender apple blossom and its special meaning in our lives, - Husband's and mine.

The young are quick to believe and think positively, and it was my belief that we would be together in apple blossom time, although I'm sure Husband had many more minutes and hours of danger that might have caused him slight doubt. (an understatement)

Fate smiled upon us, and we were married in Apple Blossom Time, starting our lives together. Sixty two years later Apple Blossom Time is with us again, - still with its same magic.

Exploring new Paths

A few days ago we received a talking head video from No. 2 Son and Highly Favoured Daughter-in-law. We were so pleased, surprised and intrigued. Kept nodding our heads (Husband's head and my head - no two- headed people around here) smiling, and answering back. This was something I had to learn how to do! It opens up lots of possibilities of communicating with friends and relatives in remote places, and is so wonderfully personal.

Sometimes I can hardly fathom the marvelous ways we have of communicating. A little cameo - I am visiting at a family friend's when I was possibly about six, and listening to a radio program while we were having lunch. Did we have a radio at home at that time? Certainly my father had a crystal set in the basement that I remember, and shortly after I was able to catch a little bit of Ma Perkins at noon while I waited for a friend so we could walk to school together.

Now this amazing technology allows us to perch a little webcam on our smooth and skinny monitor and capture the pictures it takes and the sound of our voice as we talk. My webcam is not terribly sophisticated, and it looks like a little alien peeking over the top of the monitor, smiling with its one discerning eye.

I am easily distracted by new things and soon I was making one video, and then another, and another, and another.

Then I discovered that the recipients did not have the software to open these loving billets doux!

So I was off to scan the many programs that reside in my computer, unbeknownst and unused. When I found Window's Movie Maker I was surprised and elated to discover how easy it was to make a video that can by opened by Windows Media Player.

It came upon me that I could make a video of the garden in April, and when that was done I was inspired to make one of my parent's romance from the few pictures I have of that era. It is accompanied by a tune that has tender reminders of them both, - but especially my mother. I have a vague memory of her sweeping the floor, and singing Ramona. (My father's favourite of that period was "Charmaine")

I am restricted to small videos, - e-mail will only accept a movie under 10 mgb. Thus my search for a way to publish on the net, - in a small way. Not YouTube, - much too public for private videos, made for a select and limited audience.

So I am looking for answers.....

How perfect to be entranced and intriqued as we age, and as this wonderful new technology enfolds.

While I wait for answers (or inspiration), here is a picture of the Garden in April.













And the opening picture of Cline and Dolly's romance.


















with the picture it was extracted from.....










Circa 1922....

SPRING AND THE ARTIST

Nothing is so beautiful as spring - when weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring the ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.
Gerard Manley Hopkins - the POET

















Claude Monet - the PAINTER - "Spring"




















Vivaldi - the COMPOSER

What is more beautiful than the Spring Allegro movement of The Four Seasons played on the violin by Nigel Kennedy, the PERFORMER












And then there are the GARDENERS - Artists in their own right!!



















Although most assuredly they rely heavily on the Master Gardener, and the gifts the earth gives so bountifully to we who travel through space on this beautiful planet. What a complexity this growing situation is, - the rest in winter to gather strength for the spectacular greening of the spring, - the years involved in composting the remainders from other seasons that results in the richness of the soil that nurtures the seeds, - the intricate positioning of the planet in respect to the sun to provide for the warming that wakens the seed, and the rain that brings sustenance and moisture to start the whole growing process.

Hairy Potter and the Horticulturist's Apprentice have nothing on the mysterious ways of the CREATOR.

The birds that come to this valley in the spring of the year delight and amaze as they go about their yearly season of procreation.
















The cheery Robins who chatter with excitement at the prospect of WORMS to be found in the wake of the sprinkler on the garden - and the Clarke's Nutcrackers, who call in their crackly voices and eat up last year's walnuts that are left in the new sprung grass.
















The Mourning Dove, whose yearning call reminds me of spring on the farm, where they were so prevalent and nested in the trees which surrounded the farmhouse.



















And the Meadowlark - everyone in the family listens for the first call of the Meadowlark, - a true harbinger of spring. I sometimes muse and wonder if the Meadowlark will sing his song above my grave .



















High above the valley in the springtime a lone Eagle flies, - or sometimes a nesting pair. And the Osprey swoops down river, looking for a good breakfast.















The BIRDS are poetry in motion, and music at its most pure.

Our hearts should burst with gratefulness.......

Tip Toeing through the Tulips
and other early blossoms


There was a welcoming mildness to the air this morning, and I rushed through the laundry and other things that seemingly demanded attention before slipping out into the garden with the snippers, the rake and the camera.

In the short time I was able to enjoy the stillness (before the wind came whistling off the snow on the high mountains) I was able to admire the lovely golden tulips that opened for the first time today.

Further along the path the perennial allysum and the elephants ears bloomed together, side by each, in perfect harmony.





























The flowering almond that we rescued from the Lost Garden after it suffered a hit and run and lay around with badly broken trunk has now made a marvelous recovery. It is only a little shrub that needs the touch of the Master Pruner to make it into a tree again, but the blossoms that it bears are as lovely as ever.

















The daffodils in the roadside bed are beginning to rest for next year's show, but the little grape hyacinths that circle the bed are growing deep and are the bluest of blues.






















These nights one goes to bed with great anticipation for what the morning will bring!

BOMBER COMMAND AND ITS MISSION

There is nothing in my head, and there is too much in my head, so it is difficult for me to choose a comment or a subject for a blog that will entertain or enlighten.

I have been talking to my Sister tonight, and told her about an e-mail I had sent to Don Martin, Journalist, who ended one of his recent columns (dealing with the infamous plaque in the National War Museum that criticizes the morality of Bomber Command) with the following quotation.

"There is something seriously warped when their National War Museum is demonized by a country's veterans."

In my e-mail to Don Martin I paraphrased his own words, -

"there is something seriously warped when a county's veterans are demonized by their National War Museum. For Shame!"

I spoke to him as the wife of a Lancaster Pilot who played a valiant part in the effort to maintain a "Second Front " - one which made it possible for Allied Ground Forces to conclude an earlier end to the war than would have been possible without the efforts of Bomber Command.

I mentioned to him the loss my Husband and his family sustained when his two brothers were killed in World War Two, fighting to maintain the Freedom that allows these new age historians to be so morally righteous without any sense of time, place and circumstances, - or any credentials to make judgments.

I did not expect a reply from him, - indeed, I do not expect my words made any impression upon him at all, but I somehow felt better for having written them.


Both Husband and I were heartened by a rider to the film which was shown to the High School students he spoke to at the beginning of this week. The rider spoke of the effect of the bombing of targets in Germany that were contributing to the Nazi war effort, whether by direct troop involvement, munitions and factory involvement, or administration. The aim of Bomber Command was to shorten the war and save as many Allied soldiers' lives as possible. The effort expended was in direct ratio to the intransigence and determination of Hitler to continue fighting, no matter the cost to his country or its civilian population.

It spoke also of the insult to the integrity of those members of Bomber Command who risked their lives nightly to ensure an Allied victory, and most especially to those airmen who lie buried in the cemeteries of Europe.

Hopefully the opinions of those who experienced these years of struggle will help to contradict the re-written interpretation of history which is now being politically vaunted in an effort to make Canada into something it is not.

Or at least this generation of young people will know of the insult which is being perpetrated by certain segments of society, making the few veterans who are left angry, disillusioned and despairing of the future of this country. A War Museum which does not laud its country's veterans for the service they have rendered, but instead points an accusing finger, is a shameful institution.

This history which is being re-written and re-interpreted is over sixty years old, but it is still of the utmost importance that the generations that follow are not fed political propaganda by young ultra liberal historians who would change the whole complexion of a Canada which did not falter and did not fail in its responsibilities.

Climbing down off the Soap Box now, but still feeling passionate about Bomber Command and the way it is being vilified.

Spring

an outrageous flirt and a seductive minx




After her shameful abandonment yesterday I little expected to find her languishing outside our bedroom window when I woke this morning.

She seduced me into rising and after a hurried breakfast leaving in the early morning light to accompany Husband to Penticton, where he was speaking to a Grade 11 Class of Pen High about the part the Airforce played in the last war.


How could I resist another chance to cross the pass into the Okanagan at this special time of year - (and how could I resist the chance to visit Knapps' Plantland, all on my own, while Husband enlightened the current generation!!!!)

How many hundred and hundreds of time we have made that trip into Penticton, - each time it is familiar, but different, all at the same time and depending upon the season of the year.

The first time we traveled this road was while it was still a gravel trail, up and over Yellow Lake, and in the first year we were married. The road bore little resemblence to the Highway today, and it passed Yellow lake midway up the north side of the lake.

We took a picnic, and we traveled in George and Kay Angliss's old truck, a bumpy ride but a nice way to spend a Sunday afternoon with good friends.



















Old and somewhat tattered pictures, full of happy memories.

We did a lot of"Firsts" with the Angliss'. They were our first dinner guests when we dined a la fresco under the cherry trees. George designed our first house. And it was the Angliss', as Artists and friends, who first opened my eyes to the beautiful colours to be found in both the Okanagan and the Similkameen Valley. The greens, the sages, the rose coloured rock, - the gold, the steely blue and green coloured rock, the copper and the garnet shades. All so breathtakingly beautiful.

This morning these colours were especially spectacular as the morning sun brightened them, and created long shadows as we drove through the pass and down into the Okanagan Valley. The garnet coloured rock wall just above Kaledan shone as though burnished.

On the way out of Keremeos we took pictures of the Olalla bushes, dancing like so many tutued fairies amidst the evergreens.















We came home to find the animals indignant at being left two days in a row, despite Daughter's caring visit to hand out treats and attend to business trips.

As we drove up the road we took pictures of the neighbour's peach trees, in full bloom.
















And the Plum Blossoms at the bottom of the road, just past the Big House.

















I tenderly unloaded the flat of yellow pansies that are going to brighten up the front steps, once Spring has settled down and decided to be a constant companion.















Alas, she was not in a constant mood this afternoon, - wandered off to rest a while, and in her place sent wind and clouds and the hint of snow in the Upper Valley.

From the Library.....

When I left the Library today Husband looked askance at the armful of books I carried, - and well he might. When will I find time to read four pleasurable books and one that requires concentration, as well as listen to the tapes I have at home - two boxes of Edward Rutherford's "The Forest" and six tapes of Nevil Shute's "Trustee from the Tool Room" The tapes are designed to keep me glued to the loom as I listen and weave, - and I must say they fulfil their purpose most successfully.

So what made me order all these books in addition to the tapes that await me in the Loom Room?

Well, from somewhere memories of the books of Gladys Taber came to haunt me. I think they were recalled when I happened upon Elizabeth Goudge, who wrote much the same type of book as Gladys and at much the same period in the 20th century.

Old Fashioned books - but books that bring back memories of life as it was then, - before TV, before computers, before morality loosened all her stays.

Glady Taber's Stillmeadow books centre around the old home that she and her friend, Jill (Eleanor Sanford Mayer) escaped to from the bustle of New York, in order to provide a country upbringing for their children. Jill's husband had died in 1943. and Gladys and her husband, Frank Albion, were divorced in 1946. Jill and Gladys were childhood friends, who had also roomed together in College and maintained a close and loving friendship through the years until Jill died in 1960.

I think that Gladys was the original "Blogger" - Stillmeadow Road, the book I am reading now, is a collection of short essays that she has written through the year, as the Seasons pass.

I can remember when I was a young mother reading first her columns in The Family Circle magazine, and the pleasure and encouragement they gave me. The stories about Stillmeadow, - the struggle they had to bring the old house which spoke to them when they first discovered it - "Here I am, What took you so long" into the home it was as depicted below.

Her gardening tales, her cooking comments, and the graceful way she had of describing the times as they were then, in the forties and fifties, keep me in a delightfully nostalgic haze.

Of the 59 books that Gladys Taber wrote, only a few are still in print, so it is not easy to come by them. Hence my haste in ordering what the library does have, in case they end up in the discard bin.





Here is an excerpt from The Stillmeadow Road, - writing which appeals to my own enjoyment and appreciation of the changing seasons.

"Now the light lengthens as the season moves toward May. Dusk is violet, night cool and tender. Sunrise is luminous. Daffodils star the hill by the pond and bloom in the Quiet Garden. Violets begin to open their pointed buds. We have the tiny white violets in the meadow and the dark purple around the house, and the Confederate violets are ivory white streaked with true blue. And by the pond, the dogtooth yellow violets hang their delicate trumpets. In fact, violets love our soil so well that the vegetable garden has hundreds of the purple ones and Jill has to spade them up before planting. I save as many as I can, and must have carried in bushels and bushels to be set around the giant maple trees, along the picket fence and around the terrace.

At night the peepers sing away in the swamp, a flutelike sound. This is the beginning of a new cycle of growth, a quickening of the earth which will only end as the harvest is gathered in the autumn. And as Hal Borland says "Spring is one thing that man has no hand in."

When I go out with the dogs, I feel a quickening in my spirit too. The season of bloom is upon us, and then the green summer days, and at last the ripeness of autumn, all ordered and unchanged by the world's dissensions. It is something to count on.

Humbly I thank God for the eternal miracle of spring."

And here is advice from Gladys on the importance of touching the quietness of nature, and drawing from it the spiritual strength to keep things in proportion. How often things get away from us, - we lose perspective in our day to day lives, and the disturbances which result can be heartbreaking.

Here is a small way to regain peace....

A time of quietude
brings things into proportion
and give us strength.

We all need to take time
from the busyness of living,
even if it be only a few minutes
to watch the sun go down
or the city lights
blossom against a canyoned sky.

We need time to dream,
time to remember,
and time to reach toward the infinite.

Time to be.