Prayers which it behooves the Aging to earnestly consider.....

LORD, Thou knowest better than I know myself that I am growing older and will some day be old. Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject and on every occasion. Release me from craving to straighten out everybody's affairs. Make me thoughtful but not moody; helpful but not bossy. With my vast store of wisdom, it seems a pity not to use it all, but Thou knowest Lord, that I want a few friends at the end......

Keep me reasonably sweet; I do not want to be a Saint - some of them are so hard to live with - but a sour old person is one of the crowning works of the devil. Give me the ability to see good things in unexpected places, and talents in unexpected people. And, give me, O Lord, the grace to tell them so. Amen

Oh, it is a continual struggle - my sister tells me it is the result of being a first born...

And another prayer, which I carry with me, but to which I have not been mindful lately...

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 contageous gloom we may have inflicted on others. Amen.

These thoughts haunt my morning hours today, the anniversary of the birth of our truly sainted mother who accepted all of life with a courageous and loving spirit, and spread tenderness and inspiration amongst all who knew her. Generous with giving of herself and never missing "the simple pleasures of this life that make us laugh and give reason to praise our creation" .
Remembered with love and gratitude -Dorothy Emily Grace - one with the angels.

This morning's sunrise - much to hold in awe and be thankful for...

Caspar and I are preparing for our mid-morning walk. He leaves his swank green turtle neck tucked into the closet, and I abandon my boots, my scarf, and the red stretchy gloves, in anticipation of the mild weather.

I open the door, and Caspar steps bravely out on the deck, but then hesitates at the top of the stairs. His blindness causes him to take a "leap of faith" every time we go out that way (sometimes we use Husband's lift at the back door). I speak to him encouragingly, and pat his little bum, and down he goes, skimming the steps until he lands in the driveway.

We sniff the air, - despite the dreary skies there is just a small, tantalizing whiff of spring.

Down at the bottom of the orchard the "giraffe" that carries the pruners aloft makes spring-like noises, and the ground is covered with fallen branches. We investigate the branches for signs of buds, but we avert our eyes from the trees. When Master Pruner drives down the road he cannot bear to look at the newly "pruned" trees as the current mode of shaping the trees, opening them up to the sunlight and encouraging the new crop is beyond his ken and offends his sensibilities.The small birds are back. February is full of false promises and frail fulfillment, but the heart of the little bird is brave, and willing to take another chance on warmer weather. Caspar is slightly deaf, as well as being blind, and I doubt that he hears the cheerful twittering of the birds, - none the less he trots jauntily down the road with his tail in the air, headed for the corner of the fence where the dogs from the big house come to meet him and rub noses.

On the way back we detour into the pasture and go to inspect the small trees we planted here two years ago. The buds on the Sunset Maples are beginning to swell, and I go on to the Russian Olive and scratch a bit of outer bark off, - delighted to find it green underneath. A happy indication that it may be recovering from the malady that dried up all its leaves mid-summer last year.

We circle the little pussy willow tree, where the fat white velvety buds are just beginning to develop.
Alas, the little Star Magnolia seems scarcely to have grown in the last two years since we replanted it from the Lost Garden. It is wan, and pale and looks like a little stick man - but the rest of the small trees flourish. I find the cutting shears to snip away at the forsythia and bring a few twigs and branches into the house. We search in vain for a violet or two, - only the Lenten Rose flourishes in the garden now.

Tonight when Caspar and I skittered down the steps again a small sifting of snow lay over the road, though the stars shone and there were gauzy clouds against a navy sky. Fickle, fickle February......

The signs of Spring are still pretty sparse on the ground, - and not too plentiful in the trees either.

But I remain optimistic, and in spare moments I study the hills with my small spy glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of errant Spring. If we were still on the farm I could walk a few yards up the hill and search for buttercups and yellow bells - well, if we were still on the farm I would have small (and sometimes large) children to bring them home in moist and loving hands.

Be that as it may, if we were still on the farm the big barn would be full of new spring lambs and their mothers. Those who were old enough to be out in the barnyard would be bounding, gamboling and springing up and around the yard whilst ma had her dinner.




There might be a calf in the small barn, occasionally a filly or a colt, and when spring was far enough advanced the meadowlarks would call an invitation to come and join them outdoors.

When I, a city girl, became acquainted with farm animals, I mistook this invitation to also include Daisy the new milk cow. She had been in the barn all winter. The spring breezes wafted, the sun shone gently and a few wisps of cloud floated aloft. A perfect day for Daisy to make her debut on the sage brush hills. We had a lovely stroll together, until she got too friendly and stepped on my foot..... Remember, I was a city girl, young and foolish but full of concern, - and it wasn't too long until I was much more intimate with Daisy, via the milk pail and my vigorous administrations to her teets.

While Caspar and I ambled down the road tonight we saw the ranchers' lights down by the river, checking the fields for new born calves. And in the distance we heard the hungry howl of the coyote pack.

Here and now on the pasture the snow is patchy and the green of the grass is promising. A few more sunny days and winter's coverlet should be gone. The small birds who frolicked amongst the trees a couple of weeks ago will come back from where they retreated when the cold weather came again.

And I will be in seventh heaven with the shears and the wheelbarrow, making way for next year's growth in the perennial garden.

Callie the cat will be ecstatic too, - she is definitely a garden cat who prowls the little pathways and hides in cool and fragrant spots.

When I was researching my father's family I came upon Great Aunt Mary Anne who was born on April 17th, 1823, and married Thomas Johnson on September 5th, 1845. It is said of Mary Anne that the countryside knew that spring had truly arrived when she painted her door a flaming yellow, and started housecleaning. According to the information I received her husband, Thomas, was an outside man, and the comment was made that he cultivated the outdoors for his own peace of mind during housecleaning time. Delightful to come upon such tidbits that make ancestors truly living, breathing people with all the foibles that still beset us.
Yellow doors, yellow daffodils, a branch of golden forsythia and a buttercup or two, - all sing the season.

Too Soon Old, Too Late Smart by Gordon Livingston, M.D.



Before I take Gordon Livingston, M.D. and his book, "Too Soon Old, Too Late Smart" back to the library I want to once again re-read his chapter on memory, and the legitimacy of the memories we retrieve.

As a matter of fact, this is a book I would be happy to re-read many times, and to share with any number of people. I am leaning towards Indigo........

The insights which he writes about in this book are presented with sensitivity and kindness, but even more with an abundance of common sense.

The flyleaf states"full of things we may know but have not articulated to ourselves, Too Soon Old, Too Late Smart, is a gentle and generous alternative to the trial-and-error learning that makes wisdom such an expensive commodity. For everyone who feels a sense of urgency that the clock ticks, and we still aren't the person we'd like to be, it offers solace, guidance, and hope."

Every chapter in this book caught my attention, but as I seem to have reached a point in life where memories bring great comfort I was especially intrigued by the title of this chapter. "The Only Paradises are Those we have Lost"

Is this true? Do we consistently lie to ourselves about the past? Livingston starts the chapter by pointing out that our conviction that things were better when we were young is not really valid. I have suspected this for some time, - that actual events were not better, - but I have always thought that the way we coped with these events and conditions showed a little more moral stamina than that found today. Am I wrong? (sigh - I wouldn't be surprised....)

Livingston explains that "what happens as we try to come to terms with our pasts is that we see our lives as a process of continual disenchantment. We long for the security provided by the comforting illusions of our youth. We remember the breathless infatuation of first love; we regret the complications imposed by our mistakes, the compromises of our integrity, the roads not taken.......our yearning for the past is fueled by a selective memory of our younger selves."

Well, after some profound thinking I agree with that to a certain extent. Surely our memory is selective. But the mystery is, what causes me to remember sitting on the sidewalk with Jim and Barry Cooper discussing the merits of apples, oranges and bananas when I was about four years old, and yet not being able to remember how the furniture in my childhood bedroom was arranged. I will watch carefully to see if the modern day scientist discovers which portion of the brain lights up over these trivial memories.

And, in addition, I question the conclusion that postulates "when the past takes on the illusion of satisfaction, excitement and romance, it must necessarily make us disenchanted with the present". Different people view the past in different lights, depending upon where they lie on the "positive-negative" scale, and if you are lucky enough to be an optimist, than the present is indeed just an extension of the happy past.......

A little more thought may cause me to change my mind, but at the present this is what I'm thinking.

I do recommend this book to all who are still searching......

Once upon a time....

Husband and I had a fairly large library, accumulated over sixty years of marriage.

When we moved from the farm into town the Handy Man had installed a wall of shelves at the bottom of the stairs, and these expanded into book cases in the weaving studio, and the spare bedroom, and our own bedroom, - under coffee tables and in little stacks in various corners!!

When we moved again, from the big house in town to this nice retirement home on the back pasture, we not only left the Lost Garden, but also found we would never again have room for such a large collection of books. We sorted through them, keeping those which we couldn't bear to part with. The rest we put on shelves which we opened to family and friends, As long as they went out of the house without us seeing them, we were content. What was left we donated to the Bargain Centre, and probably some of them are still on the shelves there, awaiting the discerning reader.

Once more this week I sorted again, looking for books which would be appropriate for a Church Library. What a fine morning I spent at this task, - dipping into books that have been sitting on the bedside shelves, some untouched since we moved into this house; putting aside those that demanded to be re-read and handling with care those that have been opened and read intermittently over the last sixty some years.

The books of Teilhard de Chardin have sat unopened for some years, and I wondered as I fingered them what light Teilhard de Chardin would shed on the present day battle between the Materialists and the Spiritualists.

Alas, I found de Chardin to be labelled a dreamer, whose visions are viewed as impossible by the majority of modern researchers, and by some even derided as foolish. Stephen Jay Gould, before his premature death, appears to have struck the mortal blow which has branded de Charin as naive and outdated.

His dream of a reunion between materialism and religion lie in tatters, with perhaps only his vision of the "noosphere" claiming any legitimacy in the vast network of communication that covers the globe. Radio for the masses had only been available for some thirty years, and TV was in its infancy when Teilhard de Chardin died in 1955. The world wide web was not to be developed for another thirty-five years. And yet de Chardin had this vision of a world wide communication system providing ideas and inspiration, and in the end the remarriage of the material world with the spiritual. Perhaps he was naive, but I will still re-read the coffee ringed book by Bernard Delfgaauw entitled "Evolution - The Theory of Teilhard de Chardin" that I first underlined in the years when I was deeply enthused about philosophy.

Amongst the other books that I set aside to revisit are the following:

Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, - a favourite which has guided me over the years.

Language and the pursuit of Truth by John Wilson - a wonderful book for anyone who loves words.

The River - by Rumer Godden, about whom the New York Times says "She uses the English language with the precise artistry of a miniature painter working on ivory, but always with such a sure touch, such firm restraint, that her prose never becomes artificial or precious". And I do fear at all times that I may fall into the error of being "precious".

Tickets for a Prayer Wheel, by Annie Dillard. "He kissed me when shadows were long on the path to the orchard; he promised to meet me again when the apples were in; now when the wind parts the curtains, now in the city when the cat won't come, I sleep with only one eye shut, keeping a weather eye out.".
-
And for fun and entertainment - "A window over the Sink" by Peg Bracken (full of memories) and "The English Gentleman's Wife" by Douglas Sutherland. A comment from the book "A Guernsey Charlady: A lady called when you was out-no, I didn't come to 'er name - but I know she was a lady as she was covered in joolery and smelt of sherry".

And for sentiment "Those who Love " - love poems by Sara Teasdale.

When will I get any knitting done?????

BTW - the Groundhog did not see his shadow here in the Similkameen today. Call me a gol darned optimist, but I do expect to see Spring lingering in the folds of the hills, spying out the land, - all about next week!

The flowers of January, and other matters.....

Groundhog Day grows closer, and although the flowers of January brighten our lives it is inevitable that they will soon fade and we will have to rely on that little furry varmint to predict when we will see the bulbs of spring herald the "yellow" season in the garden.



In the meantime we count our blessings here in the Similkameen that this particular part of Canada is not being visited by "wacky" wicked winter weather. The days are calm and still, - we have the occasional flurry of snow but the chill is invigorating and pleasant. Husband recalls his days on Guard Duty at the Manning Depot in Edmonton during the winter of 1942/43, when the temperature dropped to 60 below zero and the wide Edmonton streets resembled snow tunnels that made way for traffic and street cars (remember street cars?). It was winter, - just winter on the prairies - nothing "wacky" about it. And the spring that followed was as sweet as ever.....

This morning I have enjoyed watching the quail, as they come from their perches in the big burn pile, up the fence and into the orchard. I noted particularly the guard who perches on a fence post and watches carefully for danger to the flock, -sounding the alarm when hawks or cats or other creatures who would make prey of those lovely fat quail make an appearance. The quail are on the qui vie and respond immediately to the call for action, scattering into elusive feathery targets, moving every which way.

Would that our somnolent society had not lost the awareness of danger and the need for watchfulness......... There are still people who remind us of the need to be vigilant, but we are so comfortable in our fat-cat existence that we could be gone in a "pouf" , never knowing what hit us. When we share our greatest fear with Chicken Little" that the sky is falling, how vulnerable that leaves us to the real danger of fanatical terrorism.

We are so complacent, so self-satisfied, and as Lorne Gunter says in his article in the National Post(Jan. 28th, 2008) tolerant to the point of suicide.

Honey...sung to the tune of 'Annie Doesn't live here any more' (with feeling)

Honey doesn't live here anymore
she's always been the loom that I adored -
We spent a zillion hours together
Made a thousand things.
Tea towels, rugs and table cloths
Blankets fit for kings..
Age has caused our love affair
To fly on plaintive wings
And Honey doesn't live here anymore.



It's true. Honey (the loom) has moved to the big house at the bottom of the hill.

Still accessible for visits =)......

And if the truth be known (truth has a way of hiding under a cloak of sentimentality) I have no regrets.

Yesterday afternoon, as Husband and I patiently and lovingly disassembled the loom in preparation for her journey we were moved to remember the excitement of putting her together. And the wonderful ingenuity with which Husband created a sectional beam and all its parts and accessories.



We were much younger then, and tying up treadles in Honey's nether parts was challenging, but not impossible. Now it is challenging, and all but impossible.....

I am happy that she is going to a home where she will cause the same excitement all over again.

I am relieved that each time I pass the loom room I will not be seized by guilt and remorse that the warp remains pristine and unwoven.

I look forward to new uses for the room that Honey commandeered when we moved here.

And most of all I look forward to introducing someone else to the joys of weaving, and a wonderful future for Honey, that gorgeous Swedish loom, - as the treadles and shafts go up and down and the weft goes back and forth, and she produces lovely cloth for years to come.

I will revert to my old and much loved four harness LeClerc that I started to weave on fifty years ago, and we will enjoy ourselves with music and the windows open to the breezes of spring and summer, - out in the travel trailer that has become the new loom room...All is not lost.



The last warp - the last scarf - farewell and Amen.

This and That

Early morning, and Caspar and I have donned coat and sweater. We open the door, - the cat scoots by us, but Caspar hesitates on the top step, not just sure where the next little leap is going to take him. He is blind, but a brave little dog, and eventually he skitters down, playing leap frog over the last step.


There is no wind, but a pleasant chill in the air. A fleeting sunrise bathes the Cawston Hills.

Southward the clouds end at the border, over Chapaka.


As Caspar and I start our walk, and Callie the Cat disappears into the remnants of the garden, I hear a horse cough in the distance, - a plaintive complaint about dry hay which yet contains a dream of the lush pastures of spring.

Later in the day I drive home from town, up the lane and past the orchard, (listening to some toe tapping Cafe Jazz on the new Sirius Radio which arrived under our Christmas tree).

I note that the notorious Orchard Bar has re-opened it's doors to a raucous band of starlings, imbibing on frozen fermented apples and indulging in other decadent pleasures. They were looking very sleek and spiffy, even without their yellow summer bill. I stopped the car to watch the shenanigans, and they were having such a gay time not one even took notice and flew away. No startled starlings amongst the chattering assembly, but lots of table hoppers, going from tree to tree.



This morning a great flock of these bar dandies flew up from the orchard and over the pasture. It was remarked at the breakfast table that 'from where we sat they appeared to be somewhat hung over'.

Time, in January, seems stretched out forever. It has its compensations. and they make the lingering days pleasant and comfortable. Husband braves the cold weather first thing in the morning, but when his hands and feet get chilled he and the little dog come back in for hot coffee and a little read until lunchtime. Well, Husband reads, - dog curls up in his basket if Callie the Cat hasn't staked out her claim there first...

Crisp, blue skies and frosty hills. Four days of sunshine now - we're being spoiled rotten, and it's lovely, lovely, lovely.....

Here is the little old dog, enjoying his late afternoon outing. He keeps me hopping - first thing in the darkness of the morning, and last thing at night under the midnight moon. We are preserving our young spirits together...
These are the trees that create such magic in the moonlight, casting the shadows of branch and twig on to the crystal carpet.. ..

Inside the amaryllis take pleasure in each other's company, and life is good.....

The last two nights, on our late evening walks, Caspar and I have been bewitched by the delicate tracery pattern of the apple trees; shadows cast by the moon directly overhead. As we peer into the orchard from the lane it is a place of mystery filled with little labyrinths of grainy black shadows on a sparkling carpet of snow. Even the smallest twig is etched on the snow.

This is nippy nose weather. The snow has reached the crunchy stage and there is no dilly dallying when we are out walking. However, if the moon cooperates tonight I plan to try to take some pictures of the etchings in the snow.
In case I am not successful (being a pretty amateur photographer) here is a variation on a photograph taken by B.G. Lewandowski which illustrates so well the scene that captures my imagination out in the beautifully cold moonlit night.......

When we have satisfied our soul dog and I turn for home and the nightly game of cards - with entertainment provided by Callie the Cat.

Amaryllis Wonderland



So amazingly delicate and beautiful. And so magnificently enthusiastic .....

Out in the garden the first little greening of the season - the Hellebore (Lenten Rose).

Do you have the January Blahs???? Me too....

Close your eyes and imagine...
The sky is blue, - a few clouds drift lazily in the south. The sun shines gently, and a small breeze wafts the perfume of the garden your way......

Double Click on the picture below, - come and lose yourself in the mid June garden.... believe it, - it is only five months away. All that wonderful, lush green growth.....



The bees are a-buzzin' and the small birds sing. Would you care for a glass of lemonade?

I find that aging involves a certain alchemy with Time and Memories. What happened three minutes ago when you laid your car keys "somewhere" dissolves into the mists of time, - and yet out of those same "mists of time" come the memories of long ago.

I sometimes imagine a library of memories, with a fairy file clerk wandering the stacks, pulling off a file randomly and bringing it back to present it as the "memory for the day".

Something like the Nene Thomas Memory Fairy.

Today I thought about cooking salmon for supper as a nod towards dietary needs for both Husband and myself.

I immediately remembered the marvelous salmon we used to buy from First Nations People who caught them in the Coastal waters and brought them into the interior to sell. And then I thought of Alex Hold, a good and complex friend from our younger days, who taught me how to prepare a delicious baked salmon dish, along with Cherries Jubilee and Peaches Flambeaux-a-la-Hold. Alex was a Master Chef who plyed his trade in the logging camps of B.C. and in the Canadian Army during World War Two.

We were still quite young when Alex came into our lives, and Husband and I were discussing the things we learned from him, and from other friends.

We were bridge players at that time, but Alex was a Master. We both loved music, but Alex's knowledge of music far surpassed ours, and he was generous about sharing - perhaps a little condescending, but at that point in our lives we were eager to expand our experiences. We were young and eager and confident, and a little condescension was acceptable, especially when we recognized the value of the culture he offered.

It was Alex who advised me to learn just one flamboyant piece of music well, and when asked to play the piano that would be my 'repetoire'. And I did, - I studied Beethoven's Pathetique Sonata and played it with style and aplomb, - and I wish I could still. He eventually married Elizabeth, loved by everyone in the family and his equal in elegance.

Here is Alex's recipe for Baked Salmon.

Select a lemon, or two - depending upon the size of the salmon. Stud it with rows of cloves, so that when the lemon is sliced each slice has little knobs of clove encircling it.

Place the salmon in a well buttered dish, - dot it with butter and sprinkle it with salt and pepper.

Slice an onion with two diced green peppers and one to one and a half cups of celery, one bay leaf, five or six pepper corns and a little garlic and place around the salmon.

Lay lemons on top of the salmon, pour a cup of white wine and juice of one half a lemon over it, and bake in 350 degree oven for forty-five minutes to one hour. Baste every fifteen minutes.

Fillet (a tricky maneuvre which I remember doing with great care) and serve.

When I was thoroughly familiar with Alex's Baked Salmon I felt confident enough to make changes and additions, and used to dice some of our wonderful Similkameen tomatoes and mix them with the onions, green peppers, etc.

Fit for a king - as was his Trout Recipe... Dictated as follows.

Decanter top oil from butter after melting.
Clean trout, leaving head on, and don't take out liver.
Dip in mixture of egg yolk and water, half and half.
Make Melba Toast out of fresh bread, crumb and roll trout in the crumbs.
Fry the Trout until golden brown.
In remaining butter fry almonds and when they are a pale golden pour juice of one half lemon and wine glass of wine into the fry pan. Pour quickly over trout.

Delicious......

On the front page of Elizabeth's own cookbook was the following rhyme...

He May live without books - what is knowledge but grieving?
He may live without hope - what is hope but deceiving?
He may live without love, - what is passion but pining?
But where is the man who can live without dining? Lord Lytton.

The first recipe in this handwritten book was for 'Oeuf Marie Antoinette'

Hard boiled eggs sliced in casserole with butter, chervil, parsley, french mustard, cream, grated cheese over.

As written.....

Wouldn't it be wonderful if you could carry these old friends into these last years with you?

I guess that is what the Memory Fairy is for.

In Consideration of Strawberry Jam




A plaintive message from a Grandson tonight told me of the wonderful fluffy biscuits he had just made, and the fact that he had run out of Grandma's Homemade Strawberry Jam. A disaster of fairly large consequence in the scheme of things.... Especially when Grandma has no jars of Strawberry Jam in her pantry to replenish her own supply........


June is far off, - this blustery January day drives home that fact with great swirls and gusts of southern wind. The closest I could come to comfort food today was Bread Pudding and Meat Loaf, - a far cry from the delicious taste of strawberry jam, the delights of which make you close your eyes, run your tongue around your lips, and sigh - deep sighs.

It calls for a foraging in the freezer, to see if there might be a bag of frozen strawberries, lonely and forlorn and overlooked.. ..... a bag of chilly gems that could end up as soul satisfying jam

Bits and Pieces

As a result of Chapter's After Christmas sale - (oh, much too good to be ignored) the Bedstead Library Shelf has expanded to hold a bit more choice reading material. 'The Gathering' by Anne Enrigh, 'Atonement' by Ian McEwan, 'Divisadero' by Michael Ondaatje, and two books for re-reading by Alexander McCall Smith. I have read them as library books, but now it is a joy to own them and to be free to pass them on....'Lover over Scotland and "Friends, Lovers, Chocolate'.

"Alexander McCall Smith once again proves himself a wry but gentle chronicler of humanity and its foibles." (The Miami Herald) and how comforting and settling it is to read him in these unsettled times. I am thinking that it may be necessary to spend a great deal of my time in bed in order to absorb all these wonderful stories....

And if I were to do that I can see a number of difficulties, not the least of which would be a querulous reaction from Husband.

And another would be a nonchalant disregard of the pressing knitting deadline that an up-coming birthday inflicts upon me. The reason for the Fearless Knitting icon on my Blog is to remind me I have only a limited time to finish a pair of stripey socks, and this is as far as the stripes go on the first sock. (These socks are for a two-legged granddaughter.....)

And the third little 'bit' that delights my day is the result of a curious inspection of the Lenten Roses. Brought about by the fact that Lent arrives in about three weeks, and I am expecting that spring will be aware of this and hurry along with her arrival...... Sure enough, - two lovely green knobs peeking through the ground, - one even showing a smidgin of a little white petal curled tightly within the green sheath.

A great flock of probably 100 small black birds circled the pasture a number of times this afternoon, eventually stringing themselves out in a ribbon on the telephone wires. Husband and I had to admit that they flew like starlings, but hoped that a closer inspection would prove them to be blackbirds. Alas, no opportunity to confirm this, as they flew off to Cawston where the sun was shining!

Yesterday we made the journey over the pass to Penticton. The roads were slushy and the clouds were dour and heavy, but on the way home, as we drew closer to our own favoured valley, the sky lightened and I took some pictures of K mountain in the distance. A feat that required considerable dexterity and cooperation. We were snapping pictures through the window - a truck passes spraying us with slush and water - Husband activates the window washer, momentarily and with great speed - he turns off the wipers - I snap the pictures - another truck comes splashing down the road... and so it goes!

The first of the after Christmas Amaryllis. This is Exotic Star, - a medium size flower, but what is exotic is the length of the sepals. Very pretty, tucked in with the last of the Poinsettias.

Peeking out the window to the south are the remaining Amaryllis, - stretching out tall with lovely, fat buds promising exquisite blooms.

They are keeping the languishing Paper Whites company. Poor Paper Whites, - they were banished to the loom room because their fragrance was just too much for Husband to contend with - but I went in and sat with them whenever the spirit moved me, and they grew tall and elegant. If the room was kept closed I must admit their scent was pretty over-powering on first opening the door.....

Moderation in all things - I must remember that.

Greed and Generosity.

There are two books tucked into the sideboard of our bed, - two books about widely divergent subjects, and I am reading them in tandem. This serves to keep me in a constant state of flux, as I try to determine just where I lie in relation to each subject (well, I lie on the bed, but that's beside the point...)

Phyllis Tickle has written the book entitled 'Greed' as part of a series on the Seven Deadly Sins. The reviews state that it is an elegant little book, and I can't disagree with that. Its contents send me scrambling to a dictionary (and beyond) as I am woefully unfamiliar with some of the literary and historical references. But the facts of the matter are well understood, and I am familiar with greed and all its many disguises, - avarice, miserliness, covetousness, acquisitiveness, - and even, in its more noble aspect, thrift.....

The book refers to Greed as the Mother of all Sins - or to put it more elegantly 'Greed, by any name, is the mother and matrix, root and consort of all the other sins'. It is not only western civilization that recognizes this primacy of Greed, - it is equally abhorred by Buddhists, Judaism, Hinduism and hopefully, by Secularism in this day and age. In that it leads to all other 'Sins' (or activities that damage the moral fibre of civilization) should we not be aware of its presence in each of our lives?

Which, of course, leads me to poke around in every nook and cranny of my own life, looking for symptoms of unacknowledged Sin. I think I am not Lustful, - nor can I be accused of Gluttony. I am not Envious, being greatly contented with my life - but I do suspect there may be some Greed lurking. Not for material things, but I must admit to being greedy for approval. I think it is one of the pistons that drives my engine, and results in slavery to Ego! A vice I am desperately trying to bury deep. It keeps popping up, and I keep pushing it down, but there... (sigh) I still strive to achieve.

The other book I am reading is "Being Generous (The Art of Right Living) by Lucinda Vardey and John Dalla Costa. A simpler and more comforting book. It caught my eye in a book store while I was shopping for Christmas gifts, and I thought of any number of people I could give it to, but it is still with me. I will give it away, but in the meantime if it is the night I read about the Art of Right Living, that is the night that I am inspired.

I quote from Chapter Seven - 'Generosity embraced becomes the defining aspect of one's character, permeating and unifying all that we are, all that we do, think, speak and feel. Integrity lives within our generosity, a wholeness that is consistent, reliable and humble;...'

I hope that I strive to be generous. I try to be conscious and mindful, without the ego 'being the head of my ( personal) household...' I know that I am not always successful, but to be generous with time, with love, with grace, with patience and service, - that surely is the true achievement.

And to be humble...

Holes

Two "new to me" phrases have popped up in the last couple of days, both concerning "holes".

The first I found in a Blog I really like to frequent - 'Willoboe" -wherein the Blogger speaks of cleaning out a 'ghost hole'. I was immediately intrigued and went googling... Found all sorts of references to 'ghost holes' - some pertaining to fishing, some to radioactivity, and one to Holy Ghost Holes in churches at Whitsuntide.

Well, it was evident that it was none of these that was being referred to, and from the context of the Blog it was apparent to me that it was probably a place like a corner of the garage, or the basement, or the attic - or any other place that accumulates things that have lost their place in our hearts or our lives. In any event it gave great satisfaction to have faced up to the task of sorting and abandoning, and the Blogger then slept the sleep of the righteous. I must try this exercise someday soon - I'm sure I have Ghost Holes aplenty if I did but go and look.

Today I was drawn to an interesting column on losing your past to the "memory hole" (written by George Jonas in the National Post Dec. 28th and I would love to be able to link you to it, but there is a glitch somewhere) This I am even more familiar with. Things that I remembered with some clarity ten years ago may still be available to me now, but that is because I had the wit to write them down, - otherwise they would have joined the blurs that "make up one's recollection of a life'.

Of course there are a lot of things I didn't write down, - there are whole years when our children were growing up that I remember only in scattered moments, - small events that are so unimportant that you could never imagine them being remembered, and returning to consciousness at a phrase of music, a scent or even just the atmosphere of a summer's day or a winter's walk.

Things so recent as the reason for going down the hallway, or up the stairs, are the ones that escape you first. I do get tired of "aging" jokes that have far too much reality attached to them to be even funny..... Don't ever pause on the stairs, or you might forget if you are going up, or coming down.

It's true, there are lots of funny anecdotes about memory and aging, - but there are lots of scary ones, too. My sister tells me that if you can draw a clock and add the hands you are still safe, and that the loss of memory, as well as both mental and physical facilities are not imminent... I cling to this, and draw a lot of clocks at regular intervals. Just checking....

I can remember being amazed at the things that my Grandmother remembered about her childhood, and the early days of her marriage, and thinking then that it was miraculous that she should remember so long. I am now just short a year of the age at which she died, and somehow it doesn't seem so miraculous anymore. Just a fact of life. Not one that I can explain, but one that I am thankful for. Those early memories are precious - the ones that stayed with us. I look at my granddaughters who now are experiencing the wonderful sensation of falling in love, having first babies, moving into new homes and it all comes flooding back. All the endearing emotions that accompany that time of life. The highs, and the lows, the agonies and the ecstasies.

Well, now it's time to go and play cards with Husband, - our nightly time of companionship and stirring up of the brain......just a little insurance. Is it his turn to deal first, or mine???? Or is it the cat's turn?

New Year's Eve day, and in the early morning we were bathed in a lovely translucent pink light as the sun rose. What a sweet way for Old Man Time to say good-bye....


In the evening we went for a birthday dinner to welcome our grandson, David, into his second decade.Husband tinkled the ivories while we waited for dinner....
Then we all retired to the fabricating shop to listen to the band, and see the New Year in. Husband was allowed to sing along with the Lead Singer as he warmed up the revelers .....no bonfire this year to edge up to - and that makes the quail happy. They escaped their usual January 1st eviction from their home in the pruning pile at the bottom of the pasture.....Husband had a great time, - all that great shop to scoot around in and visit with people. It made table hopping (which has always been one of his favourite pastimes) a veritable breeze!

One thing that Husband and I found curious is that not everybody now seems aware of the old customs of Auld Lang Syne - the crossed arms, the circle of friends, the singing and the hugs and kisses, and the tender words whispered in a loved one's ear.

I have a spiffy new Journal to in which to record the events of the New Year - and to keep track of the long list of resolutions and goals that I strive for. Ah well, I have a feeling it's going to be a ho-hum kind of year, given to relaxing and enjoying ourselves........comes with the territory.

For some gorgeous and intriquing pictures of the world in miniature click on my new link - Coyotes Crossing - No. 4 son is taking some fine photos.

P.S. - one of my new resolutions is to find out why, suddenly, and without warning, lines start to appear under the words I am typing. If anybody knows I am here to be enlightened...

I am starting to write this post early, as I'm sure I must have something profound to say about the passage of time, even if it is just a matter of discarding the old and pinning up a new calendar, full of hope and promise and good intentions. A little mundane catalyst.....but one that springs eternally and with great hope.....

"For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning."
~T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"

Profound thoughts do not always come easily, - they float around like vaporous clouds for some time before taking shape and form. And sometimes the end result is not as profound as one would wish.

Memories keep confounding any attempts at serious speculation about 'how times change', 'where are we headed', 'what is truly important as we skid along, day by day' and 'who is in charge of this wild ride'?

New Year's Eve has always been a special time in our lives. Christmas was for the children, but New Year's Eve was for parents, partying and compatriots. With six children we had to make a stand somewhere and strike out on our own.......

When we first came to this valley almost sixty years ago we settled on a DVA project along with forty or fifty other veterans of World War Two. We were all poor, - the fellows had spent the early years of their young manhood in Europe, and by today's standards the compensation was very sparse indeed. But we were rich in friendships and community, and our memories of those years are sweet (well, sometimes bitter sweet - it was an adventure, but also a struggle).

We partied in half built homes, - we organized dances (the old fashioned kind) - we went on scavenger hunts and played bridge at every opportunity. And New Year's Eve was important to us in many ways, - a relaxation, a time of hope that next year would bring good crops and markets (the orchardist's perennial optimism).... Sometimes New Year's Eve extended well into New Year's Day - always it was an expression of friendship and good fun.

In later years New Year's Eve was quieter. A game of bridge, some reminiscing, a drink or two, always crab sandwiches, - and always the same fondness for the dear friends we celebrated with. Time has a way of changing the things we would like to cling to. Death intervenes, and now we have come full circle, and New Year's Eve is usually spent with our children and grandchildren.

Precious moments, but still we are overcome with nostalgia for old friends and Auld Lang Syne. Midnight finds us tender and maybe teary-eyed.

So where are the profound thoughts? Awash in a sea of sentimentality I reach for the words to express the direction the world seems to be taking.

Two poems come to mind... the first one written by Minnie Louise Harkins and quoted by George Sixth in his 1939 Christmas address to a world so recently embroiled in war.

I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year
'Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.'

And he replied, 'Go into the darkness and put your hand
into the hand of God
That shall be to you better than light and safer
than a known way!'

So I went forth and finding the Hand of God
Trod gladly into the night
He led me towards the hills
And the breaking of day in the lone east.

So heart be still!
What need our human life to know
If God hath comprehension?

In all the dizzy strife of things
Both high and low,
God hideth his intention."

Words that brought hope and kindled feelings of faith and trust and courage in those dreadful times, but I wonder if today they seem merely 'quaint' (at best) to a majority of society.

The other poem I puzzle over is 'Invictus" by William Henley. "Invictus" I have read, is "...the culmination of a long and torturous struggle for life and truly as an epilogue to all the poems Henley wrote". His life was a struggle, - economically in his younger years and as a result of tuberculosis in his youth he lost one of his legs, and suffered immense pain all during his life. In spite of this he contributed greatly to the lives of young writers in his role as an editor, but I find so many of his poems melancholy and despairing.

Therefore, "Invictus" seems to be a triumph over all the vicissitudes that he bore, and it has been an inspiration to many who suffer hardship. It inspires a stiffening of the spine, a determination to maintain integrity, and to cope with whatever life sends us.

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

So why does it puzzle me, when it is clearly an admirable poem?

It is the last two lines.... I know that Henley meant them to express his courage in overcoming adversity and fate, and that in this context they have helped many to deal with despair and seemingly hopeless hardship.

And yet, and yet - they almost seem like a rallying cry for those Darwinian scientists who place their belief in genes and neurons and a natural progression from the slime of the ocean to the art, the music, the culture, the search for knowledge, the altruism and the faith that has, alas, faltered in the last four hundred years. And while they nurture their belief it seems to one who was brought up in a more innocent and moral age that the world is careening on a hand-cart to hell.

It is a paradox, indeed, that Christianity allows mankind the right of self-will and conscience, whereas the modern scientific outlook chains one to a theory of evolution which controls our actions, our thoughts, our mind and our very soul (if they but admitted that the soul exists...)

Then, I have to ask myself, how can those who accept their version of evolution as gene-controlled be "master of their fate" or "Captains of a soul" that they deny, - and I end up more perplexed than ever....

But there, after all these memories and musings I finally wish you all a blessed New Year - keep the faith, whatever it may mean to you, and strive for goodness.......

Another sweeter poem by William Henley...but still with a hint of the inevitable............

O, gather me the rose, the rose,

While yet in flower we find it,

For summer smiles, but summer goes,

And winter waits behind it!

For with the dream foregone, foregone,

The deed forborne for ever,

The worm, regret, will canker on,

And time will turn him never.

So well it were to love, my love,

And cheat of any laughter

The death beneath us and above,

The dark before and after.

The myrtle and the rose, the rose,

The sunshine and the swallow,

The dream that comes, the wish that goes,

The memories that follow!