October skies are most spectacular in the Valley, but the serene skies of summer can sometimes set the heavens ablaze with a gentle fire. And sometimes they are polka dotted with pink chiffon.

Enjoy a quiet moment.

We get a varied selection of donations at the Bargain Centre....

The volunteers who work there on behalf of the Church get quite adept at recognizing the rarest of objects, from old fashioned tools to new fangled gadgets whose uses sometimes seem hardly plausible, so frivolous they be.

When most of the donations had been sorted and hung up this morning there remained on the table a small tin from Winnipeg, labeled Water Glass. This object certainly qualifies as a most practical commodity, and as I picked it up and read the label memories of my childhood engulfed me.

The crock which contained the Water Glass (Isinglass) lived down the stairs and off to the right.

It sat on the basement floor, and despite it's goodly contribution to the household it was a vile and slimy concoction to any small child who had to plunge her hand in it to retrieve the eggs that were being preserved therein.

Baking day had its ups and downs, and one of the downs was being asked to go and put your poor wee hand into that gelatinous mass, and then having to carry the eggs quickly up the basement steps with who knows how many monsters behind you in the dark.


















Eggs PLUS Waterglass PLUS basement steps all added up to a scary experience.

My Sister remembers this part of childhood with as much horror as I do, except she may not have been afraid of the monsters that lived in the coal bin in the far corner of the basement.

I have to say that the results of baking day were worth the dangers and the revolting insult to the senses.

If you have it in your mind to strengthen your child's character and are looking for novel ways to do so, here is a receipt from our Agricultural Past...

In the Spring of the Year when the hens are laying well, put aside the surplus to preserve for that time of the year when the produce found in the nests is liable to be less lavish Try not to use fertile eggs (alas, poor Rooster, - banished from the henhouse).

Obtain a medium sized Medalta stoneware crock. manufactured in Medicine Hat, Alberta (not too large, - one doesn't want small children to fall in). Trudge on down to the pharmacy and purchase a pint of Sodium Silicate, which is a thick liquid about the consistency of molasses. Boil TEN QUARTS of water and allow to cool.

Place the eggs, narrow end down in the crock - mix the waterglass (Sodium Silicate -oh devilish brew) with the cooled water , and pour the mixture over the eggs in the crock.

The eggs should keep one year - to the day. The mixture may become cloudy and resemble soft soap, but do not let that deter you, - the more glutinous it becomes the better suited it is to forming and strengthening character in the young and impressionable. This amount of mix should be enough to preserve 12 or 13 dozen eggs, which eggs should be used mainly for baking.

And that brings up another consideration, - if you, as mother, are used to buying your baked goods from the deli, you are going to be in line to have your character strengthened too. You are going to have to suck it up and make time to bake the cakes and cookies and puddings and cream pies to use the eggs that you are going to send the innocents to retrieve.

Well, good luck to you and to all the little children who get to benefit from this brave adventure.

P.S.......Husband contributes a story of his own childhood demon, - his brother whispering to him "frog's legs, frog's legs" whenever Sago Pudding was served as dessert, - but he didn't actually EAT the Sago Pudding. His brother enjoyed every last spoonful, so I'm not sure that this could be the cause of the strengthening of his backbone?

Early this morning - out in the garden with my trusty machete, harvesting the Hollyhocks.........and watching with dismay as a trillion seeds escape with glee into the fertile soil, readying themselves to spring up next April to confound me again.

I also put my back to reducing the size of the clump of mint.....

Plucking all the baby sun flowers that have sprung up where the birds have spilled the sunflower seeds.......

Tugging at the cool, green chickweed, where the domestic tiger likes to lie........

Admiring the turtle flowers which have started blooming while my back was turned......

Dead heading the roses, and pondering the sea holly, trying to decide what to do about all these great, huge plants that are drunkenly leaning on the standing hollyhocks and sunflowers.....













Noting that the volunteer seed geraniums bear a few buds, and wondering if they will remain true to the brilliant red their Mama was...

Along the edge of the little patio a small hollyhock has persisted all summer, and has finally blossomed with a beautiful peach coloured flower.














The dill is past time to harvest, and the little grocery store rose is once again covered in buds.

I have stopped dead heading the heritage sweet peas, giving them a chance to produce more seeds to fill the demand from friends and family.

My eye catches a flash of sky, down on the ground where it shouldn't be, and it is the blue delphinium, adding a little spot of glory with a second blooming.

Towering in splendour over all - of course, the sun flowers....


In the meantime Husband is tending to his fence screen, tying up scarlet runners and sunflowers, ready to burst into bloom.


















Time now to take him some cool water, and some coffee, - the sun grows warm as the morning advances, and it is time for a break.

Husband and I have been discussing the circumstances which led to my father's wounding at Cambrai, on the 11th of October, 1918.

I am putting away the file which contains an account of that particular battle, along with my father's military records, when my eye is caught by a small faded book on the next shelf up.

It has survived the general dissolution of the library which we downsized when we moved, mainly because of great sentimentality. It was among the few books we have that belonged to Husband's mother , and contains within its pages some of the poetic clippings which she saved during the war years, when her three sons were Overseas.

It is many years since I took the book in hand, and this afternoon I have been re-discovering its treasures.

The book, - well, really the April 1936 issue of "An Intimate Magazine for Garden Lovers", edited by Theo. A. Stephens of London, England, is enchanting in many ways. Just the era during which it was produced is enough to beguile me. Those simpler years, when hard times produced an appreciation for the basics of life, and joy could be found and engendered in small things and cherished relationships. The English are such ardent garden lovers, and I hope this venture of Theo. A. Stephens was a success. Seventy years later it is still bringing pleasure and information to those who read its pages.

One of the plants which traveled with us from the Lost Garden, - unbidden, but welcome in small doses, was the Chinese Lantern. A plant of fiendish invasive ways, but a delight in the autumn garden as the brilliant orange lanterns herald the close of the season and cry to be picked and dried for a prolonged life amongst the other dried grasses and blooms.

F.C.L.S. (Devon) has a little page about the Chinese Lantern, but it is entitled "Physalis" and reads in part:

"What do you call it, Physalis - how do you spell it? The querist was a man, just a mere man, and perhaps I should not have expected him to know what it was though I believe he is a gardener - of sorts. We were looking at a very large bunch of Physalis Franchetii which had been cut and dried last year and had now been put aside for spring greenery......... anyone who has a love for honesty with its satiny seed covers must also love the glowing orange lanterns that hang on the long stems of physalis."

With that I could agree, but then she (for she must be a SHE, judging by her snide remark of the gardener-of sorts) remarks that the plant may be considered rather rampant in its habits. Ah, there's the rub - it comes up in the midst of Iris, through the centre of peony bushes, amongst and around the white Phlox, even in the middle of the raspberry patch - anywhere the speedily traveling roots will take it. And I must tell you that it can appear right on the other side of the garden, with no hint of its presence in between that and its source. Rather rampant is a kind understatement!

However, F.C.L.S. goes on to comment that the green leaves of physalis are pushing up amongst her oriental poppies, but that "it will perhaps be rather nice to think that when the poppies have died down the glowing lanterns of physalis will be swinging over them as they sleep."

A nice and redeeming thought.

There are pages and pages of lovingly written stories about cherished gardens and plants, and I will be off now to spend a little time before supper losing myself amongst the article on "Choise Flower of Delight" (the violet) by Mrs. Stanley Wrench.

Now isn't this a gorgeous green!!!










It's "Yellow" Lake, located on the pass between the Similkameen and the Okanagan (Keremeos and Penticton) - a lake of renown in our own particular memory album, - the scene of lots of fishing expeditions, both winter and summer.

Four or five little mud hens were battling the wind and white caps as we came back from Penticton just before noon.

Today "Yellow Lake" is "Green Lake" - perhaps in the process of "turning over" but nevertheless a lovely sight.

The hills are brown, and many of the trees are showing the stress of the summer heat they have been enduring for the past while. The elderberry bushes, which were dressed in white such a short time ago, now bear splendid clusters of purple berries which require just a bit more ripening before they are perfect for jellies and wines and bears and other berry eating animals.

As we passed by along the road I caught a quick and welcome sight of a small patch of rabbit brush, and a little clump of golden rod, - promise of cooler weather to come.

It may be an illusion, but I am sure I could detect through the hot August sun, the faintest hint of autumn. In the meantime the beaches are crowded, - the weathermen encourage the sun to shine, day after day, and holiday seekers speed their way to and fro, to and fro, making the highways in this lotus land a place where only the hardiest locals venture.

Sarah Orne Jewett said it with feeling over a hundred years ago....(was there Climate Warning then, forsooth)

"This was one of those perfect New England days in late summer where the spirit of autumn takes a frist stealing flight, like a spy, through the ripening country-side, and, with feigned sympathy for those who droop with August heat, puts her cool cloak of bracing air about leaf and flower and human shoulders."

And even Jane Austen, before that, grew disillusioned with the midsummer heat.

"What dreadful hot weather we have!
It keeps me in a continual state of inelegance."
- Jane Austen

Isn't it great how GOOGLE makes one appear to be so amazingly well and widely read!

Husband frets that the hot weather keeps him from the many things he feels compelled to do outside, but I tend to the garden in the coolness of the early morning, and revel in the air conditioning the rest of the day.

The sun has gone down now, - I will join the Little Dog on his nightly walk.

August - mid-summer, - and July is just a lovely memory.

While sitting in church yesterday, I was listening with one ear to Bud, (the member of the congregation who was conducting the service, and preaching a very good sermon) - nevertheless, only one ear was listening, and the other was hearing voices from the past.

Beside me, on the window frame, was a small brass plaque in memory of Ada Kirby, an early pioneer in this valley.

The organ I play in church was donated by her grandson, in memory of his mother and father, - the first couple to be married in St. John's.

When you have attended the same church for 56 years the memories abound - you feel the presence of the people who occupied the same pew year after year, recalling their faithfulness, their humanity, sometimes their laugh or the seriousness with which they worshiped.

The names come flooding back, and I think what a glorious host they would be if they were all there, sitting in their accustomed spots. attending to their accustomed duties with the reverence that was so prevalent in days gone by. I remember the graciousness of the gentle man who even when he was in the early stages of Altzheimers took up the collection facing the altar as he stepped backwards down the aisle from pew to pew. And the kneelers who provided an opportunity for the talented sewers to provide cushions for reverent knees. Why is it that prayers said on one's knees are so much more meaningful than those murmured whilst in the Anglican Crouch.

I remember all the children who were a part of the church when we were young and not long married, - the wonderful energy that was imparted by young parents. Some of those same children still live in the valley, but they have abandoned the church, even though they remember with great fondness the marvelous Christmas pageants, - what it meant for them to play Gabriel, or Joseph, or Mary - or to be one of the Kings. And they still refer to the church as "our" church. Well, it is one of the mysteries of life, where society has led them, or where the church has failed to fulfill them.

Those Christmas pageants, - what a grand performance they were. The wonderful costumes, that mothers sewed, - the music that the choir had such fun rehearsing and the heart touching rendition of O Holy Night by Auntie Joan, the memory of which still brings tears to some of our children's eyes.- the great host of winged and haloed angels, - at least a dozen sweet cherubs, led by Gabriel who appeared from behind the pulpit with his Greetings of Great Joy! The Kings with their crowns and carefully constructed chests of Gold and Frankincense and Myrrh, - and they all had Pages. And the shepherds, who came to worship and adore with their crooks and their burnooses. It was considered an honour to be chosen, most especially as Mary, but Joseph had a pretty high rating as well. And Gabriel - I hear elderly mothers talking about when their son was chosen to Gabriel. Me among them. Even the STAR had a heavenly place, crouched behind the altar until his cue came loud and clear, - "and lo, the star which they saw in the East went before them"

Husband made the manger for the Baby Jesus, and the present Sunday School Pageant is now using his second creation of a place to lay the Baby's head.

Alas, where once the Sunday School Room was crowded with Pageant Participants, these days it is a slim cast, indeed. Where there was always room for one more angel, now it is a triumph to have even a very small band of the heavenly creatures. Last year we combined with the Roman Catholic Church across the street to attain a respectable number of shepherds and angels.

Sometimes we even have modern versions of the Christmas story, and that is O.K. too, except that the young parents who threw their hearts and souls into the 1950's productions are now the elderly people who remember with such nostalgia the wonders of the Christmas Pageants of old.

Well, I have to make this observation as well. The congregation was more dedicated, but so were the Clergy. In those times Ministry was a calling, which one fulfilled, rather than a career, which one pursues. I think it was the last gasp of Christendom as we knew it, and whither goes the life of the spirit now, who's to say - or to judge!

Bud finished his sermon, and it was time to recite the Creed and play the Offertory hymn, so my companions of the past slipped silently away into the shadows, but I remember them with love and affection and admiration, - even the curmudgeon's amongst them.

A Few Words on Time. -Time Passing

Time Standing Still

Time to Go - Time to Stay

Wasting Time - Coveting Time

Making Time - Remembering Time

which brings to mind.......

TIME, you old gypsy man,

Will you not stay,

Put up your caravan

Just for one day?

All things I'll give you

Will you be my guest,

Bells for your jennet

Of silver the best,

Goldsmiths shall beat you

A great golden ring,

Peacocks shall bow to you,

Little boys sing.

Oh, and sweet girls will

Festoon you with may,

Time, you old gipsy,

Why hasten away?

Last week in Babylon,

Last night in Rome,

Morning, and in the crush

Under Paul's dome;

Under Pauls' dial

You tighten your rein --

Only a moment,

And off once again;

Off to some city

Now blind in the womb,

Off to another

Ere that's in the tomb.

Time, you old gypsy man,

Will you not stay,

Put up your caravan

Just for one day?

I had always associated this poem with Bliss Carmen, so imagine my surprise when I discovered it was written by Ralph Hodgson, who also wrote that lovely, poignant poem "Eve"

EVE, with her basket, was

Deep in the bells and grass,

Wading in bells and grass

Up to her knees,

Picking a dish of sweet

Berries and plums to eat,

Down in the bell and grass

Under the trees.

etc. etc. (look it up!)








And the equally haunting "After"

"HOW fared you when you mortal were?

What did you see on my peopled star?"

"Oh well enough," I answered her,

"It went for me where mortals are!

"I saw blue flowers and the merlin's flight

And the rime on the wintry tree,

Blue doves I saw and summer light

On the wings of the cinnamon bee."

It seems to me that TIME must surely be much on the minds of those who are, well, growing older. I was going to say "mature" but I think you have to be past mature and into the "past shelf date" era before you begin to think seriously about time, and the things that are still left to fill it.

There are the exciting things, which may or may not take place. And there are the things of immediate concern, like organizing the family pictures, going to see the lawyer, little instructions to leave behind, pasting labels on the things one wants to pass on to individual loved ones, being kind to children and setting out wishes in no uncertain terms so that when one says do it like this, and another says, do it like that, mother will have got her bid in first to avoid all disagreement......oh, and when all that gets too morbid, feeling satisfied that it is done and one can relax and enjoy Time Left!!!

How our commitments change as time passes, - once I was committed to nurturing - now I am committed to making each precious moment, day, month, year count in the most splendid and comfortable way possible.

And often in my mind do I contemplate the connection between body and spirit, and between spirit and this lovely earth.....

So why did I attribute the Gypsy Man to Bliss Carman? Perhaps I got him mixed up with the Vagabonds, which Bliss Carman DID write.

We are the vagabonds of time,
And rove the yellow autumn days,
When all the roads are gray with rime
And all the valleys blue with haze.
We came unlooked for as the wind
Trooping across the April hills,
When the brown waking earth had dreams
Of summer in the Wander Kills.
How far afield we joyed to fare,
With June in every blade and tree!
Now with the sea-wind in our hair
We turn our faces to the sea.

etc. etc. - another poem to look up!

And speaking of Time - I have only until Sunday Evening to read the Deathly Hallows before I must return it to the Granddaughter who kindly loaned it to me. I'm off, for

quite evidently, Time is of the essence......!

New Neighbours

just moved in, over the fence, towards Cawston.

They are proving to be quiet and well behaved (no Neighing or Whinnying at inappropriate times.) horsey people! They come and go with equinimity, occasionally stepping out for a refreshing drink in this hot weather. (No local Bar in the pasture, as yet.)

True to tradition, I have been observing from behind the curtain, - noting the pecking order. They wander the lush pasture and keep their noses to the ground, intent upon their own business with just the occasional glance at the garden that lies over the fence.

It is nice to have horses close by. On the property where the Lost Garden lived for many years we rented out pasture to a local rancher, and their horses lent a romantic and pastoral beauty as they grazed in the shade of the trees Husband planted there. Alas, all gone......

I am sure these particular horses are glad to be back in the pasture we usurped when we built our home up here in the corner, and even, to add insult to injury, used their shelter as a temporary garage.

However, they seem forgiving and friendly, and I would be glad to lend them a cup of sugar cubes any time they need it!

Reading Rose Macaulay
(1881-1958)








A few years ago my sister-in-law sent me a copy of Dame Rose Macaulay's book, Personal Pleasures. I was delighted with it, and it inspired a search for more of her books.

Not an easy task, - the Okanagan Regional Library carries only the Towers of Trebizond. I immediately ordered it and read it with great satisfaction.

Having nothing new to read the other night I reintroduced myself to Rose Macaulay, where her Personal Pleasures was tucked into the shelf on the nightstand, along side other books that it gives me great pleasure to re-read.

"Chattery, chittery..lean as a rake. wispy; and frittered" was Virginia Woolf's comment about Rose, but I have read elsewhere that Virginia's comment was perhaps tinged with jealousy and cattiness.

In any event, Rose Macaulay was very much a part of the London literary circle in the first part of the last century and although her first books were inclined to be light, comic pieces, her later work had a haunting quality, - most especially her post-war novel "The World my Wilderness" which I am longing to read.

One of the excerpts from Towers of Trebizond reflects my own thinking as I ponder the real, honest to goodness meaning of TRUTH.

"Nothing in the world, for instance, could be as true as some Anglicans and Calvinists and Moslems think their Churches are, having the faith once for all delivered to the saints. I suppose this must be comfortable and reassuring. But most of us know that nothing is as true as all that, and that no faith can be delivered once for all without change, for new things are being discovered all the time, and old things dropped, like the whole Bible being true, and we have to grope our way through a mist that keeps being lit by shafts of light, so that exploration tends to be patchy, and we can never sit back and say, we have the Truth, this is it, for discovering the truth, if it is ever discovered, means a long journey through a difficult jungle, with clearings every now and then, and paths that have to be hacked out as one walks, and dark lanterns swinging from the trees, and these lanterns are the light that has lighted every man, which can only come through the dark lanterns of our minds."

That appeals to me.

As does her quotation "At the worst, a house unkept cannot be so distressing as a life unlived."

She had a lovely and imaginative way with words.

A random quotation from a small essay on the Pleasures of Bathing:

"The sea's warm edge sways lisping on hot sand, curling into tiny ripples, hissing, creaming, running delicately back. Wade in, take five steps in water as warm as a tepid bath, and the sharply shelving beach fails beneath your feet and leaves you swimming. Lapping in the clear, thin stuff, so blue, so buoyant, so serene, you can conceive no reason for ever leaving it."

I am off now to read to Husband (who has difficulty becoming somnalent) her delightful pages on the pleasures of Bed.

A Little Experimenting here, and an expansion of a previous posting on Ginty's Pond.

Turn on your speakers to enjoy the music!
(apologies for the abrupt ending - just learning)

CLICK on the little arrow, sit back and relax.

My thoughts have been much in the distant past today.

It is #1 Son's Birthday.

I suppose the past is not so distant really, just relative to our time together, and the beginning!

It was a long process, this birthing business that we undertook. He was a brave boy.........

And persistent!!!!

There were a couple of years when we were a threesome - Husband, #1 Son and me.

He was a precious little guy, and when I took him to town he was the darling of the shops we visited.

The sweetest smile, the bright and eager eyes - and he has them still...

Happy Birthday Love......

Another Prayer which I find to be particularly pertinent to Aging with Grace!

Heavenly Father, accept this prayer we offer in Christ's name.

Forgive us, we ask, for our lack of joy as we insist on taking things too seriously
We waste the few days of this life in disappointment and conflict.

For the coldness in our manner and eyes when we have so much to be thankful for,
help us to smile again.

Let us not miss the simple pleasures of this life that make us laugh
and give reason to praise your creation.

With a seriousness of purpose and a spirit of fellowship in our hearts,
restore our lives, forgiving any contagious gloom we may inflict on others.

Amen

Posted by my computer for lo these many years,
and also in my heart.

A
Clutch
of
Sunflowers



Towers of gold, but for this one I needed a ladder!













Now, - everybody shine together!!!















Another elegant blossom, out of reach of the camera, even on tippy toes.














Six maiden sisters planning their escape over the fence, as twilight fades and night time adventures beckon. They made it back to greet the morning sun.





Shades of yellow - the Barn Flower, out of place beside the garden path, makes paeans to the sun as well.

In Church this morning.....

The Prayers of the People ended with this prayer, which I found particularly fitting, lovely and appealing. A different perspective on sweltering weather...........

Creator God, thank you for summer sun which reminds us that your creative breath is still alive and active.

For this beautiful valley that we live in, the orchards that bear a plentiful harvest, long warm days,

The pace of life slows....Lord, help me to rest a while in the cooling shade of your presence.

Slow down my restless heart and fill me with gentle compassion for all your people. Amen

Those Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Summer are upon us.

The haze is coming up the valley from a fire just over the US border at Nighthawk.

The laze is a direct result of 40C temperatures which effectively put a stop to all activity after noon in the House on the Back Pasture. Everyone sleeps, - Caspar the dog, Callie, the Cat, and Husband and I snooze along with them.

To make up for it we are up long before the sun rises. There are windows and doors to open wide to the comparative coolness of the early hours. And it's the only time to garden seriously.

Evening hours aren't conducive to the same kind of activity, - they are more a wandering, snipping, camera snapping time.

And the craze??? Somehow we manage to avoid that, having passed the age of beaches and wild parties long, long ago.

The days drift by, - we recall picking apricots when the temperature was 117F, and the years when our only air conditioning was a sprinkler on the flat roof of our house. The water falling and swirling outside the windows gave an impression of coolness, and we were young and quite willing to believe that it cooled the house and the shade trees surrounding us.

Now that we are "older" we are happy with the air conditioning that keeps the house at a mean temperature of 72. Spoiled, spoiled, spoiled!

Having finished Rutherfurd's mighty tomes on the Princes and Rebels of Ireland I do a little light reading. My trip to the wool shop resulted in the purchase of some space dyed wool, and in odd moments I knit a few rows, delighting in the constant change of colour. On the loom the warp (oh yes, still the same warp for silk scarves) lies relaxed and indolent.

The music we listen to is light and airy, and I am practising Handel's Water Music to play pianissimo on the organ in church tomorrow.

Heavy is a word that is banished from my vocabulary whilst we are under the weight of the summer sun.

On Tuesday we make another trip to Penticton, and the weatherman, whose word we take with a grain of salt, promises that the weather will be a little cooler.

Here is the Abraham Darby rose in the morning, - a lovely symbol of Summertime.

I rise early, and am met at the bedroom door by Miss Callie and Caspar, eager for the day to start. After turning on the coffee and the computer, and opening up all the doors and windows to the cool morning air, Caspar and I venture out for our morning walk. We peer into the jungle as we pass and assess all the piles of deadheaded flowers and stalks that are a result of last night's orderly march down the garden path, snipping and shearing as I went.

After returning Caspar into the house I retrieve the wheelbarrow and start clearing the debris. What is left gives me some pleasure, and here are a few pictures I took before the sun came up and the temperature suddenly rose from 17C to 30C at eight o'clock.

The pots that surround the little patio are refreshed by their morning watering.




The sweet peas that climb the fence on the other side of the patio are growing ever more robust, and although they don't have the fragrance of the annual sweet pea that I remember growing so tall and beautiful on the prairies, they do have an air about them that is pleasing and subtle.


Here is a sunflower with an interesting face, - the gorgeous green in the centre is a wonderful foil for the colours that surround it.

This baby is a reasonable size, but as we move into the back border the jungle takes over, and here are the sunflowers that grew too fast for me to thin, splendid as they tower over the more civilized flowers in the garden.













Like the roses, that are just now into their second flush and looking fresh and pristine in the coolness of the morning.

By afternoon the garden will bear a rather harried look as it tries to cope with this intense heat we are having.

While I wander around I mentally note the Europa Rose and an especially fragrant lily lost among the shadows of the sunflowers and the barn flower, - why did I think that the barn flower which only grew about four feet high last year would stay at that unnatural height. I make a note to move it to a spot in the back garden and let the Europa have its place beside the pathway.

And that Sea Holly that was such a modest and well behaved plant last year has spread its children around its feet and grown at least five feet high.

A garden is a lovesome thing, God Wot, - but it is also a humbling teacher, even as age is supposed to bring you Wisdom.

Never mind, even jungles are inspiring, - especially if the lions and tigers that lurk there are just a little tortoise shell cat and a dapper old dog. And an "older" lady with her hoe and snippers!

July in the Jungle (er, Garden)

Early in the morning, just after the sun came up, Caspar and I went out to test the morning air.

We skittered through the door, safely enclosing Callie the Cat indoors. This was her morning for no breakfast, no water, and a quick trip to the Veterinarian where she now sleeps away the afternoon after having had surgery this morning, of the most personal kind!

It was cool in the garden, - the flowers looked refreshed after yesterday's attention to watering. Still looks like a jungle out there, with the fertile growth that summer has brought. The sunflowers, just coming into bloom, are at least ten feet high, but they are dwarfed by the volunteer hollyhocks who somehow crept into the garden to delight my soul with memories.

The perennial sweet peas have outgrown their headboard climber and are reaching their pretty pink blossoms to the blue sky above.

The flax still adds tender blue flowers in the morning, but in the evening, when the nicotiana is at its most fragrant best they have closed up shop, back in the workroom preparing for tomorrow's greeting to the sun.















The new day lily, Strawberry Candy, which took up residence this spring, is occupying a highrise between the Stella D'Oro and a great clump of Shasta Daisies.

And the white Winchester Cathedral Rose is tentative about beginning a new flush of blooms.













Soon it was time to gather up the patient and leave for the trip over the pass to Osoyoos and the Veterinarian. After a few miles of plaintive meowing Callie seemed to accept the inevitable and settled down to enjoy the pleasant early morning trip. The air was fresh, the highway was deserted, and we arrived at the Clinic in good time to deliver Miss Callie to her Fate, ever to be a Miss - never to be a Missus.

On the way home we stopped to take a picture of the medicinal Spotted Lake.

After a time I gathered up my machete and my trusty clippers and went about my business of restoring the jungle to a garden again. The borage, with it's lovely blue flowers and bumblebees, was reduced to half its size. The delphinium are now cut right back, to give them room for a later blooming. Found some stakes to help the sea holly remain erect and on guard with it's spiky blue flowers and deadheaded zillions of white bloom on the Shastas.

Caspar was with me, searching up and down the garden path for his pal, Callie. He will have to wait until tomorrow morning when we make the trip again and bring home a somewhat subdued cat, - I'm sure!!!!