By my bedside.....

November crawls on, - through the fog and the mist, the frost and the dismal weather. A most lachrymose month.

A few events brighten up its days momentarily. I get lost in Christmas lists. It is a month of birthdays, celebrating the presence of precious children in our lives, - I rejoice in talking to granddaughters who rejoice in anticipating the arrival of first-borns, and it is good. But still, but still - it is a most depressing month as far as the darkness closing in, the remnants of this years garden, frozen and sad as they stand guard over next year's underground promises. Alack a day....

I turn to books for comfort and distraction.

Tucked into the space between the mattress and the bed stand are a couple of Christmas cookery books and a magazine or two. But when I reach down for some last minute reading before sleep I most likely bring up one of two books.

The first is "What's so great about Christianity" - a rebuff to the atheistic books of Hitchen, Dawkins, Harris and ilk. I seem to be of such an age that I have absorbed all the questions, and the answers are familiar to me as well. On both sides of the fence.... But I read on, hoping that something will convince me that Dinesh D'Souza is right when both he and Alister McGrath speak of the Twilight of Atheism. Is Antony Flew a forerunner of the converted atheist?

Waiting for me at the library is The Spiritual Brain by Mario Beauregard and Denyse O'Leary, a neuroscientist's case for the existence of the Soul. Denyse O'Leary writes a blog that I haunt daily, - the mindfulhack.blogspot.com, for information and inspiration.

What scares me most about this whole subject of Christianity vs Atheism is the increase amongst mainline churches of proponents of the incredulity of Jesus being the Son of God. When I read Marcus Borg on the Jesus Seminar, and when a former Moderator of a mainline church declares publicly that Jesus was ONLY a man (although a GOOD one), I wonder at the inroads that are being made by the secular world into the sacred world..... I understand that there has always been a segment of the Christian world that has had doubts about The Trinity, and the part that Jesus plays in it, but it seems to me it has escaped the bounds of theology and is being promoted amongst people who are at the best apathetic towards Christianity, and quite prepared to accept any startling secular views that discredit it.

Stephen W. Sather, reviewing the Heart of Christianity by Marcus Borg, has this to say:

"Borg is very up front about the fact that his book reflects a conflict between "two comprehensive ways of seeing Christianity as a whole." While Borg claims to reclaim the "heart" of Christianity, this is definitely not the faith of our fathers. Instead, he embraces what can be viewed as Christianity lite. Much, if not most, of the supernatural is rejected. What is retained is social activism based on the non-supernatural teachings of Jesus combined with a vague sense of spirituality. "

I note today that Marcus Borg is a Keynote Speaker at the Epiphany Explorations to be sponsored by the United Church of Canada in Vancouver, in January. Close to home......

Well, if I get too despondent about this situation I can always reach for the second book that lives between the mattress and the bed stand, - another delightful Isabel Dalhousie story by Alexander McCall Smith, whose books I find a joy to read, - The Careful Use of Compliments.

I also brought home an old book of Nora Ephron's the other day, rescued from the shelves at the Bargain Centre. I downloaded a later book of hers - "I feel bad about my neck" - from our e-book library service, and I am looking forward to more of her wit and humour...

And to further anesthetize my brain when it gets too concerned with spiritual matters, I have also made a little note to order from the library some of the books of Terry Pratchett, who says, - and I quote -

"The trouble with having an open mind, of course, is that people will insist on coming along and trying to put things in it."

Compensation for all the dreary days - the curly willow at sunset, with the porcelain moon shining through the topmost branches.

A little November Hiatus while Husband and I said a lingering farewell to those traumatizing colds that kept us confined to barracks for a long while...


and then a week of preparation for,- ta da, the


Everyone who was supposed to help on our table got sick, so Mary and I ended up tending the White Elephants.

I see advertisements in newspapers and magazines for terribly sophisticated big city Bazaars and Christmas Craft Sales, and our traditional Church Bazaar is very small-town by comparison. However, it is an outreach into the community that has been welcomed annually as Christmas approaches for at least the last forty years. Sometimes the ladies who stand behind the tables come to church, and sometimes they are volunteers from the community who come to help and have fun.

There is a great rush of buying after the Bazaar is officially opened, and then everyone settles down to coffee and tea and the same dessert they have been enjoying for almost the last ten years. It is so good, why change?

Here are the ladies who two days before put together this simple recipe that is popped into the fridge where it metamorphs into a wonderful Napoleon type French Pastry with delicious sauce of your choice.
The recipe for this fabulous stand-by.......

Line the bottom of a 9x13 inch pan with unsalted soda crackers.

Pile on one third of a bowl of instant pudding, flavour of your choice.

Smooth over one third of a bowl of softened Cool Whip.

Repeat until there are three layers, - crackers, pudding, Cool Whip. Cover and pop into the fridge for forty-eight hours.

Make a variety of sauces, - strawberry, raspberry, blueberry, chocolate, - (blueberry with lemon pudding is a great favourite).

And voila - a dessert fit for a king and just perfect for a Country Christmas Bazaar.

Or a Christmas Eve gathering, - or a large family dinner, - or just anywhere that you want to earn accolades for a delicious and light dessert.

A Merchant Marine and a Lancaster Pilot talk seriously about their experiences in World War II at Remembrance Day Observances today.

A goodly crowd to pay tribute.....



Standing between the Leader of the Service and the Bugler, Husband reads the names of the Fallen of two World Wars and the Korean War

On a lighter note a Trio performs a tentative rendition of the Whiffenpoof Song.
Wally, Charlie and Gerry

I chatted with the widow of a Veteran who has been dead for many years, and as we reminisced we recalled the rather raucous Remembrance Day observances when memories of the War and Fallen Comrades were still fresh in the young Veterans' minds and hearts,
and it was still within bounds to drink to lost chums.
They were bittersweet parties, and bittersweet memories.

Sick A-Bed, - Husband too.

With our feet on two chairs, - one for him, and one for me.

This is such a mournful month to get sick; it's so dismal outside and I feel quite sorry for us.

Husband is watching TV, - maybe sleeping - and I have tried to distract myself with hot water, lemon and honey, and a few pictures that give a small insight into the way the World Wars affected one family out of thousands.

With a grandfather and a few cousins thrown in as well........

I am, literally, awash - in books. Library books, newly purchased books, e-books - old, used books. The stack of books beside the bed climbs inexorably towards the top of the mattress, - teetering a little when I climb into bed (literally, - we have a very high bed).

I have filched this problem solver from a crazily practical blog with an abundance of creative decorating ideas, and have bookmarked the blog for leisurely perusal.


It does have its drawbacks for a before-sleep reader, - what if you change your mind about what you want to read to put you to sleep tonight? Do you have to lean precariously from the bed and undo those darned straps before you can knock the whole thing on the floor looking for the book that appeals. This strap idea calls to my "company eyes" that I don when I want to make a good impression, housewise, - but to mine own careless self I prefer to go unbound.....

Enough of quantity, - what about content?

Well, first of all I am almost finished a John Mortimer book which husband recommended for a relaxing sleep time book, - "Quite Honestly". The excerpt from The Independent review confines itself to a line about John Mortimer - 'an institution....wise, endearing, quixotic and delightfully entertaining' - and anybody who has read his Rumpole books would have to agree.

The Daily Mail comments that 'John Mortimer's triumph has been to immortalize the supremely dark and dotty world of the criminal justice courts so that some kind of moral order shines through its parade of innocents, fools and evil-doers'. I would like to think that this is a believable description of the courts and the world of crime, but sometimes I think it is darker than John Mortimer portrays, and it is difficult to find any shining moral order. Which makes one wonder if books such as this contrive to an ostrich-like acceptance of what goes on in the world today Is thievery really romantic.? Ah well, I am being too sober and responsible about the whole thing, I guess, - after all, I presume John Mortimer was not writing a Moral Tome, but meant this book to relax and entertain.

Also on the go is an interpretation on the Book of Mark by Richard I. Deibert. It concentrates on the Mystery of Jesus Christ, and the book was assigned as an accompaniment to a Bible Study, leading into the season of Advent. So the book will unfold weekly, - although I am not known for waiting to read from chapter to chapter, or page to page, but am a great 'peeker ahead'. I have even been known to read the last page when the prospect of reading through the whole book looms too dull (not relevent to this particular book).....

Growing more and more incensed with the strident Christian bashing books by such as Hitchen and Hedges, I sent away to Chapters to purchase the book by Dinesh D'souza, 'What's so great about Christianity'. So far I have only read a list of the contents - albeit eagerly. This list brings to mind some of the books that sit on the bedside shelves, and were part of my earlier reading life, - de Chardin, C.S. Lewis, J.B. Phillips, Jane Mossendew and Alan Paton, amongst others, and I am anxious to begin... (in balance I must admit that earlier reading also included Bishop John Robinson and other writers who supported the God is Dead movement, and I also must confess that for a time they had influence in my spiritual life, alas....)

For pure delight I have, from the library, Alexander McCall Smith's new Isabel Dalhousie mystery, 'The right attitude to Rain'. I love his writing, - it is elegant, yet down to earth, - and the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series is charming, and yet profound.

Yesterday, whilst at the library, I picked out two wonderful knitting books by Debbie Bliss'Simply Baby' and 'Special Knits'. Both feature knitting for babies, like new great grandchildren already here, and great grandchidren on the way who make Great Grandma's fingers itch to knit little things for little beings.

I do this while listening to E-books, which brings me to the next area of over-abundance.

My OverDrive Media program is chock-a-block with the five books allowed, and I fear another Hold will become available before I can get one finished and ready to be removed from my computer. Anthony Trollope is fated to go back, unfortunately unread. But you can be sure I will put another hold on the Barchester Tower series, and hopefully I will have enough sense to order it when I am not already overwhelmed.

At the moment I am knitting a pretty fuzzy pink scarf, and listening to 'Anxious Souls will Ask' by John Matthews, and 'I Feel Bad about my Neck' by Nora Ephron. Waiting in the wings is Alice Munro's new book, 'View from Castle Rock'.

John Matthews explores the future of Christianity, and the anxiety with which Christians are beset as they experience great changes in their churches and in the morality of the world at large. It deals largely with the life of Deitrich Bonhoeffer, and his Christ centered spirituality. I am only half way through it, and await anxiously to fully understand Bonhoeffer's reflections, his philosophy and his beliefs regarding the future of Christianity, (which, John Matthews states, he was not always successful in conveying to the lay person because of the theological language he used) and how they relate to present day anxieties..

Bonhoeffer wrote from prison to Eberhard Bethge , on the 16th of July, 1944..

"Anxious souls will ask what room there is left for God now; and as they know of no answer to the question, they condemn the whole development that has brought them to such straits."

His belief that God should be the Centre of our lives, rather than a peripheral Being whom we perhaps consult on Sundays, when we are sick, when we are weak or when we are in dire straits,
presents a challenge to present day Christians and Churches.

On the lighter side Nora Ephron explores the years that women have to put up with scrawny wrinkled necks, or necks with dumpling chins and she also goes on to berate the habit purses have of collecting old stubs, bills, bobby pins, etc. etc. - a subject dear to any Husband's heart, I'm sure.

I know that it will be wonderful to listen to Alice Munro's short stories, and I can hardly wait, - but in the meantime it is eleven o'clock and I haven't even put the laundry on or opened the pantry door with 'good intentions'.

This morning Husband is out, and with Frank's help putting the finishing touches to renewing the paint and fixing the Bell in the Bell Tower he had removed from the roof of the Church to enable the new shingling. A long and convoluted sentence, but it explains why I have lingered so long here babbling on about my literary problems.......

The other night, whilst Stumbling through the rolling green sward that covers Google's treasures, I came upon the Fly Lady.

At one time I was on familiar terms with the Fly Lady, for a period of about three weeks in 2004. It took me about that long to get bored with polishing my sinks, but in the beginning there must have been a chaotic crisis to send me cruising for her advice.

Well, then we moved into a new house, and it is only now that the newness has worn off, - I see the cobwebs faintly, clinging to the corners of the cathedral ceiling. The drawers in the kitchen are all in need of sorting, discarding and re-arranging. The stockings and lingerie have escaped from their prettily lined shoe box compartments in the bureau drawers. The Linen closets (I do have two, but one of them was assigned to Husband as a recompense when the second bedroom became the Loom Room) are stuffed to the gills. Despite a scrupulous Martha Stewart ordering of the Linen closet just a year ago, (I did stop short of the ribbons tied around the towels....) I am amazed at what has found its way on to the topmost shelf and into and on top of the baskets that sit on the floor. I don't plan to take a picture, but you would be amazed too.....

And the pantry - large, large sigh when I consider the pantry. We all know what a pantry is supposed to look like..... Believe me, it is going to take a number of marathon sessions with the Fly Lady before mine bears any semblance to the picture below. Oh well, it's just a picture, and probably staged for the camera, think you not???


Nevertheless, I think there is probably a week coming up soon in which anyone who ventures near this house will find the Lady of Same Abode with her head deep in cupboards and drawers, or virtuously scrubbing lintels and doors and any other woodwork that requires attention.

I have a friend who is moving shortly, and all of her children are coming to help her downsize and clean house. I have considered this solution, but I think I have played that card to its fullest value, not too long ago.

There is nothing for it but to put on some merry, invigorating music, and make like Ethel, the Cleaning Lady, with the occasional peek at the Fly Lady for sanctimonious advice.

We all know this will not be a Swiffer Operation - Deep Cleaning is the name of the game.



Click on the arrow and listen to the merry music..

oops, - I pulled the plug.

I award myself ONE point for having finally brought Procrastination to its knees and finishing my lovely black and white deflected double weave scarf, just as depicted in Handwoven.....perhaps a cowardly way to do it, but it was my first effort at this weave, and I did need the practice. And besides, it is such an intriguing pattern, thank you Madelyn. It has some bitty errors, but it's done. And I'm sure that a blind man going by on a horse would be pleased to see them......

HOWEVER...... I award Procrastination ONE HALF A POINT for having succeeded in keeping me from this accomplishment for a good six months, during which the battle was grim and tenacious, and it was touch and go who would slide first down the slippery slope to the place where the streets are paved with good intentions.

I have no illusions. Procrastination will be back, as I tackle that last part of the warp and devise a different patterned scarf for Husband.



Never mind. I will have him on my side, prodding and pushing for the project to be finished...... and he's a good nagger, in his own sweet way.

Do I hear titters and snorts from errant offspring?

The Similkameen today, as viewed by a couple of wanderers who got distracted and detoured down back roads whilst out for a quick run to pick up the paper.....

Came home brimming with beauty and overcome with glorious colours.

Just a small sample....click on the pictures for a full view.....

Looking down the Similkameen River towards the Cawston Hills from the Bailey Bridge


And here, gazing upstream towards the west.The sun bids farewell to Daly Bluffs. Husband remembers with nostalgia and some regret walking off this hill in younger, more vigorous days, when the legs were strong and sturdy and the heart beat strong and true.The Lombardy Poplars that I see from the front porch, away across the valley, have lost the golden glow the sun lends them.



But just a little way down the road another line of Lombardi's reaches up to catch the last rays.

Brilliant leaves who lead a tenuous life, safe in the stillness but vulnerable to autumn winds.

In the far distance, as we look south down the Similkameen , the Chapaka Peak straddles the border between British Columbia and Washington State. The meadows are still mostly verdant, but along their edges the grasses turn various shades of russet and Naples Yellow.

Here are the Hills of Home that our children cherish, - the gullies they explored, the hillsides they climbed, the caves they crawled into and the waterfall that splashed down intermittently. Such treasures hidden in a little patch of hillside. We farmed the fertile Similkameen Chip Loam for almost forty years, just at the bottom of the hill where the silver water tower hugs the sage.As we wend our way homeward the shadows creep up the Cawston hills. Dinner was a quick stir-fry, but then of course we had fed our souls, as well.

At odd moments during the last week I have been knitting a pretty blue hat and listening to an Audio Book (which recreation I still think is the latest in Bee's Knees ). The book I have been absorbing, muttering over and sometimes agreeing with is Gordon Livingston's "And never stop Dancing".
At times I frowned at some of the Liberalism he expressed, as being careless of morality, and lacking in responsibility.

However, I found myself listening intently to the Chapters dealing with aging and was particularly struck by his quote from Kahlil Gibran when introducing the purpose of these "waiting years" that have been tacked on to the end of life with the reduced mortality that science and good living have brought us.

"We exist only to discover beauty. All else is a form of waiting"

Which leaves us with the question - where do we find the beauty in aging? In "the Golden years"(probably from 65 to 70) which are over in the twinkling of an eye? In the long, lonely wait of powerlessness, and increasing awareness that the old go largely unnoticed?

In my own life I have found that as my senses of hearing and seeing diminish, and I become less supple and mobile, I am more often overcome with the sheer loveliness that surrounds us.

As I let go of busyness, the need for importance, and that old devil "Ego" the room that is left is filled with a rush of exquisite awareness of small beauties that surround us. And large beauties too, of course.

I wait for the moon to rise tonight, knowing that it is closer to the earth than at any other time of the year and as a consequence will be brighter and more beautiful. This morning it was just setting as the small dog and I went for our pre-breakfast walk and it lit up the morning clouds, but yesterday morning darkness prevailed and the stars were amazingly brilliant. Thousands and thousands of them with various degrees of brightness. Venus, that lovely goddess who shone in the West the spring I met Husband, shines now in the East like a spotlight with a halo around it.

This afternoon, while putting the garden to bed, I noted the smallest and daintiest of flowers,- the delicacy of the grasses, the richness of the Scarlet Maples, and the small birds, feasting at the sunflower bar lining the fence.

I wonder if I even noticed these details in the busy years, when life was a constant rush. and the days and the hours and the minutes were crowded with duties and responsibilities (being a First Born I seemed destined to be an Ant, while the Grasshoppers of the World sang and played tunes on their legs...)

Gordon Livingston presented one other occupation for the ultra-mature years, - one that I feel would do much to banish the despair that overtakes so many of the aged.

Besides being conscious and appreciating the wonders around us, he suggested that communication is of utmost importance. He is of the opinion that time would be well spent reflecting on the past, putting it into perspective, recognizing the concepts that have guided our lives, and in the end communicating this life history so that the wisdom that has been garnered shines through.

In order to do this the dear man recognizes that the person who is reflecting on life must do so with satisfaction, and not regret. The wistful nostalgia that lies in wait for those who sift through old photos make the most resolute communicator turn aside in sorrow. One must be strong, - one must be brave, and one must be mindful of (and thankful for) those times that brought us such joy and satisfaction during our lifetime. Letting go is so important.

Well, I thought that was very good advice and there are others who have such wonderful stories to tell whom I wish I could impress with this suggestion.........

"Most people die with their music still inside them" Gordon Linvingston

Sunday evenings, when I am able, I tune into Radio 3, BBC and listen to Evensong. I am comforted to hear the old traditional prayers that I grew up with, (and which are no longer available to us as we worship in an Ecumenical Church).

Husband and I found great pleasure in going to Evensong, - to me it was like a "date" with God along...... This was before Sunday Night TV squeezed in and took priority, so that an evening service in church has been long abandoned. I note that 4:00 p.m. in the afternoon is starting time in the Cathedrals where these services are broadcast. When I am not playing the organ I still enjoy standing beside Husband in church, feeling his good solid presence and hearing his fine voice.

While I listen to the BBC Evensong I sing in my mind the prayers and responses, and somehow all seems right with the world, at least for a short time. The music is exquisite, - the organ soars majestically, and when the hour is over I am filled with the beauty of the old familiar words.

In between Sunday evenings there is much to remind me of God's bounty. Yesterday, a rainy day in the Similkameen, started off with a painted sunrise in the East, reflected as a delicate pink watercolour in the West



The day wore on, the clouds gathered and the rain came intermittently. At last, in the late afternoon, the sun broke through in little patches, illuminating the scarlets and the golds of the remaining leaves.In the pile of brush to the right of centre (which provides a pyre for the Old Year and a welcome for the New Year, come December 31st) a troop of quail find shelter and security. Callie watches them from the window as they make a daily foray through the pasture, across the road and into the neighbours, where the walnuts are thick on the ground. Four or five nutcrackers join them and it is a time of plenty.

The snow creeps down the K of the mountain on the opposite side of the Valley, and up the cut which marks the Ashnola River there are signs of swirling snow clouds.


The fall flowers vibrate with radiance as an errant ray of sun reaches them.


Towards evening the snow skirts the southern mountains and the Cawston hills disappear behind a turbulent slate curtain.




This morning, at seven, the daily show began again. Heaven's got to be pretty good to beat this.

We made the old familiar trip to Penticton again today, up over the Yellow Lake Pass and down into the Okanagan Valley. As we left the first rain drops started falling, and by the time we got to Penticton we were in the midst of a full blown rain storm.

The colours were still beautiful, - more fragile and delicate, - they have lost the robust richness of the colours we saw a week ago. Here and there bare branches stand out against the subdued shades that now seem to dominate. I saw one tree that was a breath catching creamy yellow, so virginal in its last days . And a gorgeous glowing gold against the wet black rock of the roadside bank, - unfortunately in a spot where we couldn't stop.

The snow was only a few hundred feet above the road, and the clouds were sifting down the mountainsides.

Some of the pictures taken in hurried flashes from inside the moving car, in between arcs of the wipers......
There are wild winds forecast tonight, but at the moment all is still, and perhaps this quiet, protected valley will be spared the gusts. However, I do fear the melancholy month will soon be upon us with it's own stark beauty, and the leaves of autumn will be a memory.

No Spring nor Summer Beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one Autumnal face.
--John Donne

"God has promised forgiveness to your repentance, but He has not promised tomorrow to your procrastination." - Saint Augustine of Hippo

Time flies, and so Today is Yesterday's Tomorrow......

Procrastination and I came toe to toe this morning. I retired to the loom room with a tape of Beethoven's Piano Concerto No. 1 in C major (played by Radu Lupu and the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra with Zubin Mehta conducting). Lovely background to my good intentions.

And the results........

Husband had peanut butter and honey sandwich for lunch - his contribution to winning the bout with Procrastination.

Tomorrow is another day........

PROCRASTINATION AND I are old comrades, - we have been together for as long as I can remember. We have a rather competitive relationship. Sometimes I have the upper hand, and things fly as I am imbued with passion and desire. Sometimes Procrastination has me firmly in his grip as I dawdle and dally, invent distractions and look to Tomorrow when all things will be accomplished and I will feel virtuous and in control again.

TOMORROW - what promises it holds today! And as tomorrow passes, without accomplishment, and the new tomorrow dawns, but is filled with idle errands and fatuous pleasures, - and IT is followed by days and days of the same ilk- finally, the Procrastinator, (or THIS Procrastinator at least, becomes bored with lazy days and mindless activities, and is challenged to Seize the Day!

I am hoping that I have arrived at this stage, and that tomorrow when Husband goes off to his singing morning, my body will make a left turn at the loom room, will sit itself down on the bench and commence the lovely, meditative throwing of the weft.

I try not to think about the disruptions that often accompany this activity, - the times I stop to choose a tape to play in accompaniment, - the bolts that become loosened and require me to crawl under the loom and make everything ship shape again, - the bobbin runs out of silk and I must go and wind another, - or perhaps I will wind two or three at the same time, and that can dispose of ten minutes of precious weaving time. Ah me, - I must be strong of will, stiffened with determination, and eventually the passion for what I am doing will conquer the old enemy.

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.