Ginty's Pond

Late this afternoon Husband stopped by with an invitation to go for a picture taking drive. I gathered up the little old dog, and the three of us went down the road to Cawston, - our first and dearest home here in the Similkameen.

We took the back road, down by Ginty's Pond, a natural habitat that is home to nesting ducks, yellow headed blackbirds, orioles, Marsh Wrens, beavers and other small water creatures, - frogs and toads and dragonflies, turtles, and the occasional Heron.
The lower portion of the pond is a green expanse of bull rushes and water lilies, lined with willows and grasses. Above, closer to the village of Cawston, the water is more open, and it is a favourite spot for photographers, bird watchers, loungers and dreamers, and small fisherfolk.

Ginty's Pond was named after Alfred Hamilton Cawston, a pioneer son of the family for which Cawston was named.

Ginty was the last son born (in 1892) to an English Settler and his Irish wife. In the days when the gender of a baby was still a surprise at birth Ginty's father had rather hoped for a girl to augment the family of three boys, and said if the baby should be a boy he would call it McGinty. It was, and he did, and Alfred Hamilton was known by the name of Ginty all the years of his life.

He lived close to the land and the forests. I remember typing an essay for him, entitled John Chinaman, in which he reminisces about the Chinese who were in the Similkameen during the time he was growing up. Ginty was an integral part of this area, fondly esteemed and full of stories. It seems very fitting that this pond, that skirts the Cawston property, should be named in his honour.
Here are the great broad leafed water lilies that clog the bottom part of the pond, and the grasses that grow along the edge of the roadway that crosses the pond as it nears the river.























Across the river the hills come down in folds and next door, as we continue down the road, Wes Stewart's cows enjoy the verdant meadow
.

Congratulations to our latest graduating granddaughter!

What an exciting time, a kaleidoscope of emotions as young people say farewell to childhood and childhood friends, and hello to a new life, new responsibilities, new adventures, new opportunities.

My wish for them is that they say "YES" to life. Cherish and seize each day and all it has to offer with an enthusiastic and positive spirit.

Carpe Diem, my dear one.

Frustrations, frustrations! Weeping, and gnashing of teeth.

Vista appears on my computer screen, looking pure, ethereal and delicate with it's veil of pale, diaphanous green.

I am beguiled, and after Grandson Guru has installed the basics I am enthusiastic and eager to get all in order. Everything where it belongs, - no qualms about lost information or missing addresses. After all, I've had experience!! Never mind that at the age of 82 some of that experience escapes my memory!

In 1982 #1 son gave me a Timex Sinclair. WOW - what an interesting time that was. Did Timex use Fortran or Dos? Whichever, it was a challenge and an absorbing experience to create small programs that astounded me and all whom I seduced into watching.














Shortly after I acquired a Tandy, and for a number of years kept books on it, composed newsletters, and kept in touch with hundreds of sheep breeders.

There was a time after that when we did not give house to a computer, and the time was good and fair.

But this period of calm didn't last and soon Bill Gates had me in his clutches and I was a lost soul

Computers have opened up many new paths for me, - I have found knowledge, inspiration and creativity hiding behind the monitor, - it has puzzled me how much more information is available in that small space the thin monitor sports in comparison to those big bulky affairs of early years!! And where is there room for the little men who are built in to astound and confound old ladies!









This betrays my lack of computer science, but I am learning. And learning fast.

Monday was spent acquiring knowledge slowly and painfully, but after having downloaded drivers for the scanner and the sound device I felt it would be a cinch to bring the printer up to date. Monday morning I was bright and confident .


By Monday night I had a jaundiced eye. I was totally devastated and bewildered that a strict and careful attention to instructions could result in so little success.

Husband has always maintained that you are born with a feeling for machinery, - and if this is so that gift was evidently not bestowed upon me.


and so I continue to tear my hair, wipe the tears of frustration from my eyes, and plod on stalwartly, - onward and upward.

But I look forward to the day when the Guru Grandson returns and creates order out of the chaos my printer is spewing out.

I am left with the feeling that experience is no match for natural aptitude!

The vagaries of memory

I go about the regular business of the day, and occasionally I wonder how I will remember this day - or IF I will remember this day. Will it join in my memory the thousands of days that have made up my life, but have left no indelible impression apart from vague recollections that spring from the sea of memory like the flash of the sun on a wave. Something, - a scent, a spoken word, a phrase of music, - brings back momentarily a sense of presence, a moment in time, and then it is gone again.

I have heard in the past ten days two stories that I know have been dis-remembered - I have the facts to prove that so. And yet I know the narrators sincerely believe their memories of the events in question to be perfectly true. I listened, and wondered, and mentally shook my head, but said nothing. However, as I ponder the problem I have come to doubt my own memory, and I have been googling the science of memory, most especially as it relates to its vagaries and illusions.

I have long felt that there is something in the storage and retrieval system of the brain that causes some people to remember the positive things in their lives, and some to despair as they remember only the things that have made them unhappy.
This is only from personal observation, and I find nothing in my research to support this idea.

What science does say about retrieved memories is that they are reconstructions, rather than exact reproductions.

Science compares the fragments of memory that are retained and retrievable to a few threads on a loom, with the brain weaving in whatever recent stuff it can find. So the tapestry of memory is a random picture of the old and the new. Does the old thread stand out as a golden thread of memory, or is it beaten into the weft of modern times, lost amongst the threads of the ongoing adventure and coloured by recent experience.

Science also says we remember the unusual, and perhaps that is so, but many of the snatches that return to me are of humdrum times, - little vignettes that are really quite ordinary.

And some of the things you would expect to remember are buried deep - I have no recall of the bedroom my sister and I slept in, and yet I remember the rest of the house in vivid detail.

A mystery, and a puzzlement, but not one that I am going to fret about.

I cherish too much the comfort that my memories bring me, be they true or flawed. I am one of those who remember the happy times!

What is this life if full of care

We have no time to stand and stare?

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep, or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this, if full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

William Henry Davies 1871 - 1940

One of the most delightful advantages of aging is an awakening awareness that probably hasn't been felt so strongly since childhood.

Do you remember the intense kinship you felt with all of nature when you were a child? The awe that little things inspired? A wiggling worm, a tadpole, the green grass growing, and the passion for four leaf clovers? What a precious affinity we had with GRASS, embracing time in guiltless idleness as we lay on the lawn, imagining shapes in the white clouds of summer.

And the little girls who romanced with the flowers in their mothers' gardens, making Princesses out of hollyhocks and sweet heads of clover, - all dressed for the ball and Prince Charming.

Now, as age steals busy activity, it leaves in its place the time to recapture some of the awe of childhood.

The "trailing clouds of glory" that Wordsworth saw surrounding the very young child seem to return to us, and surround us, as we reach the final years.

Some are lucky (or wise) enough to carry the sense of wonder throughout their whole lives, but for others it is a surprise gift bestowed by a sense of infinity and appreciation.







Here are the small birds that gather outside my kitchen window,










- and the magnificent eagles that soar upwards with the currents that are born in this valley.















Here are the simple, endearing daisies,













- and the complex roses with their tightly curled petals, slowly enfolding themselves into splendid maturity.














Here are the flowers of our childhood, the descendant seeds of the perennial sweet peas that Husband's mother planted around the orchard in the early days of the last century



















- and the more exotic lilies, that never grew wild in anyone's field.

If we consider them all, and enjoy the beauty they lend to the days we spend aging - they add to the bonus time that enriches all of living. If we are wise enough (when we are younger) to make time to stop and stare and wonder as time sweeps us along in our busy lives, - how much richer we are for that!!

Down the garden path.......











Centre stage, and it's the delphiniums taking a bow as the June breezes blow.

While on the other side of the pathway the roses continue their first flush of bloom, and a few volunteer poppies uncurl their tight red tutus.

Beyond, in the background, the shasta daisies throw open their petals and call "hello - we're here for the summer"!



























The Abraham Darby, heavy laden with beauty, and smelling mighty lak a rose!!















A single crimson rose, and down at the big house the Catalpa Tree blooms for the very first time.

A sharp eye on the Dealer

After abandoning her nightly hunt for moths, flies, beetles, spiders or the teeniest creature who crawls or flies, Callie put in a request to join the card game.

Having kept her eyes and ears open whilst scanning the ceiling for prey, she is well aware that at least one of the card players is pretty sly and crafty. Armed with this knowledge, she keeps a sharp eye on the Dealer!!

As to the rest of the game, I have to admit she soon lost interest after the effort of holding the cards proved too complicated and frustrating for a mere cat.

We are working on a device that will allow her to spread the cards and display her talents as a card shark, - amongst other things!

Garden Gossip

It was mid morning, and I was out in the garden playing coffee vendor to Husband and the dear Dog (he gets a biccie).

On my way back in I was waylaid in the garden (as usual - a weed here, an overabundance of sunflowers there). Once I am bent over tending to weeds I have no concept of time, - just pure enjoyment and devilish satisfaction!

Miss Callie, the cat, lay at my feet, drowsing with one eye partly open, just in case. All seemed quiet until I became conscious of a small bevy of rosy breasted finches chittering and floating around some seeds that had escaped from the bird feeder above them when the wind blew the top off it. I stopped to watch, delighted with the way they swooped and rose, all the while chattering to each other.

While I stood watching and listening a gorgeous butterfly flew around me and landed on the beautiful red Europa rose.


Did I have my camera? Of course not, - but the butterfly seemed to be resting and I took a chance on creeping back to the house for it - when I returned he had not moved!
After about five minutes he stirred himself, flew to a neighbouring peony, and began to feed vigorously. Well, I guess that's what he was doing... The peonies are not doing well this year, - did I plant them too deeply when we brought them from the Lost Garden?














Continuing along the garden path, (which I noted was sprouting all sorts of weeds and was badly in need of more mulch) I spied two large bumble bees visiting amongst the delphinium.

I suppose one might call this the Delphinium Cafe and Delicatessan, catering to butterflies, bees and the occasional humming bird (oh, not likely, - wrong colour) With camera in hand I continued taking pictures, noting that the first shasta daisy has opened its petals, and that the perennial sweet peas are forming buds. These sweet peas are descended from the ones that Husband's mother started in 1918. on the original orchard that his grandfather planted on the Penticton Upper Bench.

Watch for pictures, - glorious pinks and mauves and whites.....

The Abraham Darby rose has some particularly beautiful emerging buds... and at that time of the morning the blue flax was still enjoying the early sunshine. Soon after noon they have all closed shop and spend the afternoon preparing for next morning's splendid display.















The Oriental Poppies did not fare well in this week's wind and rain, and some are looking rather blowsy, doncha know. But there are fresh young buds opening each day to keep the dance hall open.



And Joining them in the Dance are the Poppies that came surreptitiously from the Lost Garden, hidden amongst a peony bush, or in the Shasta Daisies. They have multiplied all through the garden, and promise a gay show.

The seeds for these poppies came from my Sister's garden, and this is
what they looked like the first year we planted them in the Lost Garden.














The one remaining Iris blooming in the garden sighs its last goodbye, as beautiful as all its cousins gone before it.


Beside it the Mock Orange is blooming in delicate splendour, surrounded by one of the ubiquitous hollyhocks!!!!


























When I went out tonight to see how the garden fared all was quiet, except for one small goldfinch supping on Nyger seed, too shy and quick to have his picture taken.

A miniscule patch of volunteer Evening Scented Stock perfumed the night air and beckoned me to linger within its fragrance.

Watching the footage of the catastrophic storm in Calgary last evening, I was taken back in memory to the spectacular summer storms of my childhood in that same country.

From there I reminisced about other fond memories of those summers that I spent in Calgary with grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins, and I recalled a small essay I had written about them thirty-five years ago, when I was taking a workshop in creative writing.


An excerpt......

...........Sometimes at night when I cannot sleep I move in memory through my Grandmothers' houses. Between the two I divided each long summer of my middle childhood. I linger at each room, each corner, each shrine of memory, and gradually the aura of those days secures me as a child in childhood's safe, warm bed. The nasturtiums that grew along the paths at my Town House Grandmother's; the cool damp refuge from the heat of a summer's afternoon under the small back porch where the chickweed grew; the hallowed spot where the beloved cocker spaniel found eternal rest under a constant bed of cosmos. Surely those cosmos lay fresh and sweet even under winter's frosty blanket, which I never saw. To me it was a place of summer; of love and tenderness, among loving, tender, sentimental kin.


I remember the joy of meeting my gentle, white-haired grandfather on his way home, laden with treasures from the ice cream department of the dairy where he worked. It was childhood's enchantment to wait eagerly through the day for his nightly treat, and childhood's awe and delight at the amazing butter sculptures my uncle carved for exhibit at the summer fairs; the three bears in golden, buttery indignation; Cinderella in a shimmering yellow coach.

I remember the mysteries of my maiden auntie's dresser - the creams and perfumes and the lovely oaken chest that held her hopes. And I wonder what became of the filmy pink negligee my mother knitted for her to beguile an errant sweetheart, alas turned fickle.

At my Country Grandmother's I travel through the upstairs bedrooms where all the aunts and uncles grew up in friendly confusion. I remember tea beneath the covers, between the grandparents, early in the morning. And I wonder how many people start the day so delightfully now. And if they do, who brings them their fragrant cup?

I remember the orderly stacks of wood, the pails of cool sweet well water which stood together upon the table in the corner, my grandmother's treacle pudding, the feeling of the prairies in the thirties. Frightening dust storms and gorgeous, splendid displays of lightening such as I have never seen since. I remember catching the enormous, great grasshoppers to milk them of their tobacco; waiting patiently for a curious groundhog to pop up between the noose so carefully laid around his entrance. And I remember turning cartwheels for incredible distances across the prairies, with my cousins.

The memories crowd warmly one upon another, pressing me gently into sleep and sweet forgetfulness of present problems. They lie there, a background to my life, until I once again recall them to mind with pleasure, or until a sudden flash of memory is triggered by a fragment of music, or scent of flowers. The Skaters' Waltz brings a tear, inevitably, - the hundreds of frosty, Sunday afternoons that the band played, the skaters twirled and glided, and the memories gathered softly in the corners of the soul.....................

I think I warned you that this was sentimental kin, and I have inherited the gene! Also, these are memories written thirty five years ago, when I was Mid-life and Menopausal with three teen agers. Life was much more complicated than it is now.

P.S. Here is the House on the Prairie ca 2000.
My Grandfather built this house almost a hundred years ago, and when it was ready to be lived in he sent for my Grandmother and their seven children, who had stayed behind in England. My mind boggles at an ocean voyage at the beginning of the last century, with a family of seven, - and then a long and arduous train trip across Canada to Calgary.

My Town Grandmother followed Grandfather from Ontario with a family of five. Grandfather had taken the oldest son with him to help establish a home in the west.

What brave and sturdy creatures these pioneer Grandmothers were!

Unfolding of a scarlet wonder....

Early Saturday morning I wandered the garden path, watching for new blooms, measuring with my eye the overnight growth of the Shasta's, and noticing with dismay the weeds that appeared to have usurped precious garden space, seemingly full grown in the night hours!

I came across the Oriental poppies, and the little pregnant bud that graced an earlier blog.

Her time had come and I quickly scanned my inner time clock, - did I have time to take pictures before the day began in earnest, - would it be a quick unfolding, or would the poppy be slow to release those silky crinkled petals that now light up the garden with their fiery, scarlet dance.

I have heard the poppy called a "coarse" flower, not long lived, - and I know its significance as a flower of sacrifice and remembrance. But to me its ephemeral beauty can be the epitome of gaiety as it nods and dances in the summer breeze.

Here is what I saw as this particular poppy bud opened its scarlet petals to the morning sky.







































































And all before breakfast!!!