When times were busier, when I was trying to be all things to all people, and when I spent life on the run and stayed thin because of the fifteen steps I ran up and down a dozen times every day - that's when I abandoned lists for mind mapping.

I am fifteen pounds heavier now, and live life at a slower pace. I no longer Mind Map, - I am content with a daily Journal that sometimes gets neglected for days at a time.

But - now I am at the point where I can move things from the big garden to the new beds we have made this year, I am all flustered about what should be moved now, what should wait for spring, where should we put the Europa rose that somehow got stuck at the back of the garden, - what spot will welcome the little lilac bush that hasn't done well where it is and is getting crowded out. Do I have the heart to trash some of the Shasta daisies, and the Sea Holly that took over about 25 square feet next to the curly willow.... Am I brash enough to pass these invasive but pretty plants on to my friends????

I remembered how very practical it was to make a Mind Map that planned a week ahead.
Or divided some daunting chore into small do-able chunks.

Mind Maps are practical and creative, and if you have the time to design them artistically they can be colourful visual reminders of what life's all about.

I first started to practice mind mapping in a small way when I watched a Distance Education Class on television twenty-five years ago. It was not until fifteen years later that I put my big red day journals to rest and started a loose-leaf book of
intentional scribbles that laid out chores and dates and small details in a way my mind could absorb.



I think this was probably Christmas Week 2004, - now how could I have remembered all this stuff without a reminder that my eye could look at and the image was immediately imprinted in some available and retrievable spot in my brain.

I'm all for Mind Maps - hurrah and three cheers for them, no matter how fancy or plain they should chance to be. And often when I went shopping my errands were on a tiny mind map on a scrap of paper. They very seldom ever achieved the splendour that you see on samples of Mind Maps, - sometimes they were done in pencil, but occasionally, when I had time, they were crayon bright and encouragingly brilliant.

Here is one I retrieved from a 'free web page' courtesy of Paul Foreman at www.mindmapinspiration.co.uk. I think it is intriguing and inspiring, and tells it just like it is......

Just for fun, and to keep the toes a-tapping....

Music a gift from the loved ones on the Meadow.

Love those piano roll tunes! In his hey-day Husband used to play Alexander's Ragtime Band - delicious memories.

We went to a funeral today. Left home early to insure that we didn't have too far to walk, and that we were able to find a seat close to an entrance (exit).

It was a Roman Catholic Funeral Mass, but held in the Cawston Community Hall, - full of family and friends. As we sat and waited for the Hall to fill and for the family to arrive I looked around this old building, full of memories and nostalgia. Remembering dances and May Days and playing badminton and the old barrel stove that served to keep us warm.

So many changes over the years. Alec, who was being buried today, was a young boy of eight when we first came to this Valley. He was the oldest son of our neighbours who lived on an adjoining ranch - a separate Reservation granted to them when Victoria was Queen. I remembered watching the funeral cortage of his Grandmother as it wound up the valley floor, accompanied by two circling eagles.

The friends who came to say farewell were school chums, range riders and fellow cowboys, all of the people who form close attachments in a small community. They filled up the space around us, and one of the pluses in approaching antiquity is that you see these friends of Alec's generation as they were when our own children were young, and as they have grown to maturity and now approach their own retirement age. It does give one a pressing feeling of passing time!

The Mass, so like our own Anglican Communion Service, was comforting and familiar, and the lovely, sweet a Capella singing that accompanied the arrival and departure of the coffin touched my heart and brought tears to my eyes.

Alec's mother died a few months ago, and as at her funeral it is the beautiful participation of the whole native community that fills me with awe, and we value our friends amongst them.

Part of the eulogy was this poem, read by one of Alec's young relatives.

The Cowboy's Prayer

Our Heavenly Father, we pause at this time, mindful of the many blessings you have bestowed upon us

We ask, Lord, that you will be with us in the arena of life.

We as cowboys do not ask for special favors.
We don't ask to draw around the chute fighting horse, the steer that won't lay, or to never break the barrier.
We don't even ask for all daylight runs.

We do ask Lord, that you will help us live our lives here on earth as cowboys, in such a manner that when we make that last inevitable ride, to the country up there, where the grass grows lush, green and stirrup high, and the water runs cool, clear and deep,
that you'll take us by the hand and say -
"Welcome to Heaven cowboy, your entry fees are paid.".


>

Great timing for our morning constitutional today. Out the door and down the steps just in time to catch the morning sunrise.

This is the sky that made the walk spectacular, and caused me to wonder once more why we are so wont to take for granted this eternal gift of beauty.












The camera captures the gorgeous flamboyance, but not the glow, - the sweet tenderness of the very air you walk through. It takes a Turner to interpret the glory of the skies.

Old Autumn roams the tops of the hills before descending into the valley, and everywhere his mantle touches the colour changes so very subtly. Above the line of the pasture fence the longer grass begins to turn a naples yellow, and if we were on the hillside and able to see it closely it would create a sea of soft yellow as the wind winnows through the grass.

Down here in the valley the odd leaf is turning yellow, and the cool nights are sending signals to the Sunset Maples that it is time to start the show!


>
They respond with startling colour and clarity against the bright blue sky.



This morning Husband went singing, and I was left to my own devices. After taking care of lunch by putting on a hearty veggie soup I turned my back on all the things I had thought I might do and was shamefully lazy.

It was cool on the deck, and I sat there with my knitting and a cup of coffee and quietly watched and listened as the small birds flitted through the sunflowers, carrying on a conversation as to who was first in line and thus first served, and ignoring the fact that there was enough to go around - seeds galore for everyone.

Can you find the dozen or so little lady goldfinches lunching at the Sunflower Bar?



Or the ones who are putting up their feet and gossiping in the curly willow lounge - such chattering and twittering.....



Well, all whimsy aside, it was a quiet, serene and restful morning.

Sometimes the little old gentleman dog wakens at the most inconvenient times, but in deference to his needs one leaves the cereal to get soggy and the toast to get cold, and goes to retrieve the leash. The cat saw us to the door, and we set off.

He was in good form this morning. The sun was not yet up, - the air was cool and invigorating and yesterday Husband had clipped the overhanging eyebrows that interfere with his shadowy eyesight.

We stepped smartly down the road. At the turn we stopped to visit with the dogs from the Big House who had raced up to meet us. Caspar touched noses with Simba, who is getting pretty ancient and arthritic too. They may have discussed how they slept in the night, - who knows. It seems to be a topic of conversation quite important to the elderly. After a short chat we got about attending to the business of this morning meandering.

While I waited my thoughts wandered to the stage of life we now inhabit, where the circle grows more and more intimate. Husband and I, the dog and the cat, hold hands together and care tenderly for one another. Well, sometimes the cat is aloof, but for a cat she is amazingly friendly.

At one time the circle was a broad, bright band, encompassing so many other souls, and I felt such responsibility for all who resided within it. Now I cast my lot with faith.......

I suspect that eventually the ring becomes, as it was at the beginning, a silver circle to hold one solitary soul.

Tonight I picked from the shelf the Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke and it opened at the old familiar page whereon is printed 'The Waking'.

The Waking

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
Theodore Roethke

I read it again, feeling all its circular mystery, and on an impulse googled the poem, hoping to find some interpretation which would enhance the feeling it engenders in me of birth and fate and death and the importance of experiencing all of life.

I did discover that the form of this poetry is called a 'villanelle' and that it originated about three hundred years ago in France. It is made up of a pair of rhyming lines which, with additions, form a circular and meaningful repetition.

Here is a lovely example of this form.

Musical and sweet, the villanelle,
like light reflected in a gentle rhyme,
moves to the ringing of a silver bell,

its form creating soft and tender spells.
Like the singing of distant silver chimes,
musical and sweet, the villanelle

flows through the heart, and builds a magic spell
from sunlight and from shadows, and, sublime,
moves to the ringing of a silver bell.

It never arcs into the sharp loud yell
of vast pipe organs. Soft its climb.
Musical and sweet, the villanelle,

like a tiny and translucent shell
catching sunlight in the summer time,
moves to the ringing of a silver bell.

Soft and gentle, tender and so frail,
like light pouring through petals of the lime,
musical and sweet, the villanelle
moves to the ringing of a silver bell.

Sondra Ball

September Rains - a precursor of Autumn


Raining tonight, and the joints are aching somewhat, but still, but still, - here is a lovely combination we saw yesterday - Golden Rod and Rose Hips lining a Cawston road and heralding the arrival of Autumn..



I know it is true that fall is not officially here until the 21st of the month, but I anticipate its beauty right from the first cool evening, - the first scent of apples ripening on the trees, - the first gathering of birds who, having raised their young, are now preparing for the winter season.

Do the ones who migrate have to have a little orientation before they take off? It would seem that way as we watch the flocks of starlings that circle the meadow, rising and falling, gliding and grounding, only to take off again in wonderfully graceful adagios - (in my mind this seems like the right word to describe their movements although technically it might be incorrect).

All the little Finches are finding great delight in the maturing sun flowers, - feeding their tiny
tummies and gathering energy for their southward journey. Some of them migrate, and some of them don't - but it's always a good idea to prepare for the winter storms, and the times when the snow comes.

In the garden the Sedum grows ever more beautiful and the newly planted climbing rose reaches the top of its supporting arbour.


The barn flower plant has had it's yearly hair cut, and is now a much more moderate accent in the middle of the beds.

Already the pink chrysanthemums are in bloom, but the rust and gold ones hoard their blossoms for late September and October. A few new flowers on the Heritage Sweet Peas, and each day we gather the brown seed pods, put them in a covered container where they can safely snap and pop without scattering seeds all over the house.

This morning Husband and I worked on preparing the new Peony bed to house those plants that made the journey from the Lost Garden but need to be replanted less deeply in order for them to bloom. I think this is why they are not blooming - we will replant them this fall and see what the spring brings.



I say it again, - with feeling. Life is good and we are blest.

SUMMER ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks arise
Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour
Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier
Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies?

- Gerard Manly Hopkins, Hurrahing in Harvest, 1918

Here is another of Hopkins' exulting interpretations of nature, with the sprung rhythm and the appealing alliteration which are signatures to his poems. And the wonderful exuberance that marks his spirit....

We saw today the 'lovely behavior of silk-sack clouds' as a wild wind blew them willy-nilly across the bright blue sky.



Summer ends now, - the garden quietens, but in the orchard the apples will soon be ready for harvesting, and the voice of the pickers will echo over the meadow.


All up and down the valley the sunflowers bend to and fro in the wind as they reach for the sky, looking and listening for signs of autumn and the wild geese flying.

Never has wilder wilful meal-drift moulded and melted across the skies - say not that some would mistake this lovely sight for Chemtrails.......

Summer Skies

I was appalled to read an item in last week's issue of our local weekly newspaper wherein the Editor repeated and gave some validity to a tale told by a visitor to the Review Office concerning
the Chemtrail conspiracy theory. If he printed the item tongue in cheek it was difficult to discern the slight bulge.... Oh fiddlesticks, thought I.

I was even more disturbed to find two letters in this week's paper, supporting this theory. One unsigned, and the other from New Mexico.

I admit that in some there is a tendency to be gullible about the inherent 'goodness' of people, but I also see all around me the same naivety that allows people to accept that global warming is a result of our careless greedy ways; and the inherent 'evil' behind the 911 Conspiracy stories; and this latest interpretation of the HAARP Program. It is credited with being a secret missile tracking system; high altitude spraying to control minds, weather, crops; biological warfare experiments, and the reason why the sky is no longer blue and the stars no longer shine.

Well, out here in the country, the skies are sometimes the colour of the babies' blue eyes, sometimes delft, sometimes cornflower, occasionally violet or delphinium. And they range from these soft shades to the most brilliant lapis lazulis.



And all this summer Jupiter has been a glowing light in the south. In the spring Orion's Belt seemed almost close enough to buckle it around your waist. I see no sign of the stars becoming dimmer, here where there are no artificial lights to obscure their brilliance.

How sad to be so paranoid.

post script: It came to me in the night that sometimes the sky is periwinkle blue, a heavenly bowl of the softest, sweetest blue of all......

The days are shorter.
The nights are cooler.
The apples redden
and the corn is sweet.
The roses are regrouping for a final autumn show.
The sunflowers take centre stage
and the blood quickens as September relieves us of August's heavy heat.

A heart warming visit today with one of Husband's favourite nieces and her husband. A time of memories, quick exchanges of family activities over the last year whilst enjoying lunch, - remembrances of Grandparents, Aunts and Uncles, Cousins and youthful times, - lots of little quirks and happy anecdotes. Tales of travels as they enjoy the 'golden years' of retirement, before journeys are a chore, rather than a joy.



Life is good, - the days are crisp and invigorating, and the eyes search diligently for the first signs of fall's alchemy.

A magical time in the valley as nature prepares to make a glorious spectacle of herself before retiring beneath winter's white coverlet.

Champagne time......

They are an unruly bunch, the books that live in the tower beside my bed - a motley crew and each one vying for occupancy of the Penthouse.

I have heard it said that the local Library refuses donations of any book published before 2005. My word, I wonder what next!!!

Down the street the Bargain Centre (sponsored by the Anglican and United Churches) has no such ridiculous policy. What a splendid array of books they have, and their publishing dates reach away back into the mists of time to almost the beginning of the last century.

Whilst volunteering at the Bargain Centre I get a wonderful chance to peruse the shelves, and in the last few months have brought home an illustrious list of authors.

Arnold Bennett's 'Riceyman Steps' published in 1925,

Josephine Tey's great mystery series, and in particular 'Man in the Queue' published in 1953,

'Memento Mori', - that wonderful novel by Muriel Spark in which the characters are all in their 70's and 80's. (It is said that she was the finest living Scottish novelist, but now that she is no longer with us I would pass that honour to Alexander McColl Smith). I am intriqued with her life
and her interpretation of truth as it applies to fiction. (http://www.galloway.1to1.org/Spark.html) - link is not working???

I brought home also, 'Instrument of Thy Peace' written by Alan Paton in 1968, - a reflection on the poem of the same name.

And 'The River' by Rumer Godden, published in 1946, as well as Joanna Trollope's 'girl from the south' ( 2002).

To read again, with great delight, 'A Hebridean Omnibus' by Lillian Beckwith (1976) and for reference and fun 'stitch and bitch' by Debbie Stoller, (2003).

Last but not least, 'The October Horse' by Colleen McCullough, that fine Australian novelist - a nice, long story about Caesar and Cleopatra to remind me of our continuing humanity.

You know that this constitutes months and months of reading, and I think that I shall start with 'Memento Mori' to ensure that all the elderly characters still inhabit the book by the time I am finished!

Life is short, Art is long,

My webbed toes don't wiggle any more.

Time was when they were a parlour act, but they are no longer a double jointed wonder.

My ring finger leans intimately against my middle finger.

they are like an old married couple growing ever more fondly together.

I can no longer screw the tops off pop bottles.

Especially after the grandchildren have been around and nonchalantly put a lock on everything they open and close.

The doctor called a small growth on my back a mere bagatelle

I can't remember his exact phraseology, but it included the word 'senile'

Sometimes I smile a lot in the midst of rapid fire conversations

Well, sometimes you don't want to hear everything that's going on.....

Once I picked fruit with aplomb, but now the top of a 12 foot ladder appears to be a dizzying height

and so is the top of the kitchen step-stool

I can remember the music I learned when I was in my early teens and play it passably as long as my brain doesn't get involved

but for the life of me I can't memorize the notes and the phrases and the order they come in

I understand this is all a part of becoming ancient, but I give grateful thanks that there is just a little part of us that never grows old, and I nurture and count it as precious.

Leisure Activities for the Octogenarian

Yesterday afternoon. A little post lunch nap, but we were confined to the air conditioned house for the rest of the day as temperatures soared to 36C outside. What to do?

'You and I could do it this afternoon,' said Husband, seducing me with visions of pleasurable achievement. Well, why not.....

The new elevated toilet for Husbands little cubby hole bathroom arrived the other day. A piece of cake to take the old wee child's facility away and install the manly equipment in its place.

And so it seemed at the beginning - a piece of cake and a nice companionable activity as everything progressed smoothly. Removed the old bowl and tank and man handled it out to the lift for disposal (no, I will not plant it with flowers in the garden!)

Did the necessary cleaning up and brought the new bowl into the bathroom, laid it gently on the floor, opened the new wax seal and set it down carefully. Nothing to it!! Husband examined the flange bolts and decided they would do to secure the toilet, so we lowered it carefully into place, wiggled and pressed it, and when all seemed firm we retrieved the tank and bolted it to the bowl.

Things didn't seem quite as jolly, suddenly. Because of post polio syndrome Husband does not kneel and rise with ease, and if he has to get down into a prone position to deal with nuts and bolts it may take him five minutes to get back up. So I was appointed the task of screwing the nuts on to the bolts that hold the tank firmly atop the back of the bowl.

This required that Husband reach down inside the tank, holding the head of the bolt firm with a screwdriver, while I squeezed down beside him and twirled the bolt (clockwise, anit- clockwise?- how's an apprentice to know?)

That accomplished we had still to secure the flange bolts. 'Go and get the three legged stool that Fred made for you' said Husband. Placing it on the shower floor and lowering himself on to the stool with some difficulty, he continued his instructions. 'Hand me the nuts' said Husband. 'The new ones or the old ones?' said I?

I handed him the old ones first - after all, they were to go on the old bolts. No joy, - they didn't screw on. So I handed him the new ones, - and still no satisfaction. (After supper I was told I had handed him the tank nuts, instead of the flange nuts, and that I was in danger of losing my job!!!!)

Well, from here on the afternoon's entertainment took some bizarre twists.

First we had to remove the tank bolts, and then the toilet, thus ruining the wax seal.

It became apparent that we had to try to remove the old bolts and replace them with new ones....

Whilst working on the flange bolts and quietly cursing the idiot who had put them in so that they were not removable in the usual manner, suddenly the three legged stool slipped and slid, and husband was jolted to the floor.

At the same time he was so unceremoniously dumped the screw driver flew out of his hand, sailed through the air, and down the waste hole!!! (later retrieved with a magnetic stick)

The afternoon's entertainment was certainly taking on unforeseen heights of amusement as Husband inched himself across the tiny bathroom floor to where he could get some leverage to lift himself. At that point we did laugh at the ridiculous positions we found ourselves in, -and the dog turned away and went down the hall with a smirk on his face!!!

All these jolly events had made time just fly by, and we were well into the happy hour. Time to have a drink, a peanut butter and honey sandwich and a little Scott Joplin.

This morning we are on our way to town to buy a new seal, and Frank is going to come and help conclude the project. So I may not get my plumber's assistant papers after all.......

I am sorry I have no pictures to help depict our adventures in the bathroom. I asked husband if he would care to re-enact so we could record for posterity, but he was not so inclined...

After the heat of the day a cool summer evening...

The garden glistens with a welcome sprinkling...

- the moon, a pearly button at the top of a pink jabot, tucked into the folds of the coming night.

Over the hills and down into the Okanagan valley on the most pleasant of summer days.


Mare's tails twitching in a blue delphinium sky.....



- a little cauldron

-and off into the west vapour trails mix with the clouds to make a criss-cross pattern.

...past the little lake where a small community now surrounds the water where Husband fished with his father when he was a lad


..home again to find a busy butterfly intensely working on a pot of geraniums.



and the garden, waiting patiently to be weeded and watered.

A lovely day, - only dark cloud was finding the Wool Shop closed. ....a favour to my bank balance.

A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in."
--Greek proverb

We have this lovely little circle of ground in the back yard now, devoid of all big stones and ready for a layer of top soil and good fine manure, thanks to a grandson's youthful vigor and generous spirit.

Let me tell you, before the story commences, of the wonderful experience of removing the rocks and stones, and the time it took to examine each interesting and beautiful stone that has lain here undisturbed since the great upheaval that left the land in the Similkameen with a huge, enormous glacier pressed to its bosom. The little basketful that we selected from the hundreds and hundreds that caught our eyes are destined to sit in a quiet place where they can be examined and wondered at over and over.

And what shall we do with the lovely little circle of ground, once it is layered with top soil and manure?

Husband has claimed the ground beside it for a place to park The Tractor, and besides his fascination with the planting of trees, he yearns in his soul for the shade of a large and leafy tree to provide shelter from the hot summer sun while he and The Tractor commune, and he tinkers with the beloved's aging innards.

As I age
in the world it will rise and spread,
and be for this place horizon
and orison, the voice of its winds.
I have made myself a dream to dream
of its rising, that has gentled my nights.
Let me desire and wish well the life
these trees may live when I
no longer rise in the mornings
to be pleased with the green of them
shining, and their shadows on the ground,
and the sound of the wind in them.
- Wendell Berry, Planting Trees

I can relate to his wishes, - I too love the sound of the wind in the trees, the rustle of the leaves, the play of the shadows and the comfort of its shade . I had envisioned a nice little flower bed to nourish the over flow from the front garden, but I can go with a tree, gladly. How pleasant it would be outside the kitchen window, - a resting place for little finches, and in the nighttime, quail.. Perhaps an Oriole would come and build an elegant swinging nest to live in. I haven't seen an Orioles nest since we left the farm....

Trees are the best monuments that a man can erect to his own memory. They speak his praises without flattery, and they are blessings to children yet unborn.- Lord Orrery, 1749

Husband has planted hundreds of trees, - the latest a lovely line of curly willow saplings that hugs the edge of the roadway leading to our home. In three years, or five years, they will be a sweet approach.

But the shade tree in the backyard is another matter - life is tenuous, and grows more so with age, so that if it is to be a shade tree I would like it to be an instant shade tree. I would like it to be tenderly and professionally transplanted into a spacious and well dug basin, so that as it is gently placed there it's roots will sigh and say, - ah, home at last, and will grow with vigor and vitality.

All it has experienced, tasted, suffered:
The course of years, generations of animals,
Oppression, recovery, friendship of sun and - Wind
Will pour forth each day in the song
Of its rustling foliage, in the friendly
Gesture of its gently swaying crown,
In the delicate sweet scent of resinous
Sap moistening the sleep-glued buds,
And the eternal game of lights and
Shadows it plays with itself, content.
- Herman Hesse, 1877 - 1962

In the meantime, the fate of the lovely little circle is a subject for discussion, and I leave you with one last observation....

Of all the wonders of nature, a tree in summer
is perhaps the most remarkable; with the possible
exception of a moose singing "Embraceable You" in spats.
- Woody Allen

Well, perhaps I will add just one more.....

Look at the trees, look at the birds, look at the clouds, look at the stars...
and if you have eyes you will be able to see that the whole existence
is joyful. Everything is simply happy. Trees are happy for no reason;
they are not going to become prime ministers or presidents and they are
not going to become rich and they will never have any bank balance.
Look at the flowers - for no reason. It is simply unbelievable
how happy flowers are.
- Osho

The conversation at the breakfast table started off as a trip down memory Lane, and somehow drifted to trips we have taken and hotels we have stayed in during the years that Husband gave his time to volunteer work in the fields of Education and Agriculture.

And I, coming later to service in both fields, hit the years when a miniscule honorarium was the custom.

We mused about an occasion in the 1960's when we first started to travel in support of secondary education in the province, and were novices at traveling on an expense account. Last minute farm and family business had caused us to barely make the last ferry to Vancouver Island. We arrived at the Empress in Victoria to find our reservation time had run out, and all that was left in the way of accommodation was the Bridal Suite. As I recall it was located high up in the hotel, and for the few hours we slept there it was just splendid.


The huge marble bathroom, the luxurious spaciousness, the delicious bed and the elegant furnishings, - all a delight. But we were appalled at the price (which, incidentally, would be only an infinitesimal percentage of the cost of today's accommodation) and ever conscious that the public was paying for all this luxury. We rose early, breakfasted in the basement cafeteria, and made our way up Island to the new College Husband was going to visit.

We were not always this lucky, - there was the little hole-in-the-wall rabbit warren we overnighted in when we arrived in London ca 1985.

In 1995 we stayed a few days at Petwood House while at a Squadron Reunion, - an historic home that in the 1940's was requisitioned by the RAF, and in 1943 became the Officers' Mess for 617 Squadron, better known as 'The Dambusters'. That was a lovely contrast. The hydrangea there were spectacular.


As we lingered over coffee Husband and I recalled these many hotels, one by one. The Georgia the Devonshire, the Grosvenor and the Bayshore in Vancouver, along with the various airport hotels, the MacDonald in Edmonton, the Canadian Inn in Kamloops and in Victoria and Ottawa a plethora of hotels on the waterfront or side by each with the Parliament Buildings.

During the morning my thoughts wandered through memories of the times and events associated with all this travel, and I thought eventually of how life expands and contracts.

From sheltered childhood where we holidayed at nearby lakes or made summertime visits to relative our worlds suddenly opened to a great variety of new experiences. Husband's in particular, with his World War 2 experiences as a Lancaster Pilot at the tender age of 20.

The busy years when we were establishing the farm and family gradually blossomed out into the years of public service that brought their own rewards in friends and colleagues, some wisdom and maturity and a great deal of satisfaction that swallowed up the inevitable moments of bitterness and discouragement.

But now the years advance - we give up one activity, then another, and another, and another - so that gradually the calendars which were overwhelming in their record of meetings, travel times and social events, now are given over to reminders of family birthdays, doctor's appointments, ladies' luncheons, a date at the local Legion, a potluck, or a small party.

Our world is shrinking, and that is good in that Husband and I enjoy a nice balance in each other's company (well, mostly). We play cards at night, we work together, we talk and plan and we reminisce.

I have friends who are not this fortunate, - whose lives now are encompassed by the four walls of one room, a minimum of possession and the confines of a Care Facility. I am reminded that eventually there will be only the Spirit.

Which inspires me try hard to keep it polished and gleaming, and above all, - serene.

SATURDAY MORNING and Husband and I tackled the LeClerc (loom) which has taken up residence in the trailer we have not used for travelling for lo these many years, - since we got older (than we were) and the little dog got Ancient and past his days of 'oh good, we're going somewhere'.....

The loom is a little cramped for space, but perfectly happy to be out and about in the sunshine and feeling loved and wanted again.



This was my first floor loom. It came new to me in the late sixties, and we are so comfortable together. We've been through a lot of learning experiences and a few frustrations, but on the whole our adventures have been happy and productive. In the house we left the space I had for weaving was enormously generous, and the LeClerc sat beside the much bigger Glimakra, and she was never neglected until we downsized and there was no room for her.

Saturday morning Husband and I removed her sectional beam, which he had built with great innovation about ten years ago. Alas, there was no room for all the accessories, and so we are winding warps and using the back to front traditional warping we learned at the beginning.

There are so many happy memories associated with this trailer, - camping and fishing with friends and family, and that lovely freedom and energy you have to wander in those first retirement years.

Now, where once all the paraphernalia we needed for these adventures crammed the cupboards, boxes of yarn and shelves of books and shuttles and heddles keep company with an enthusiasm which I hope is not too unrealistic...
In anticipation of putting the old trailer to this wonderful new use Husband built a little flower bed along the front of the trailer which I planted with wild flowers. And a sunflower wandered along and put down roots just at the doorway....


Ah - perfect contentment. And a great rush of enthusiasm!

When morning gilds the sky.....

and the tops of the hills are touched with light


Mornings at five, and all's right with the world.

In a little while the sun shines, the breeze is cool and refreshing, the day passes, and the evening bids a gentle farewell..........


The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night. Alexander Smith

Sweet repose...

Post Script.....
And the night passed, and morning came again.

Somebody up there was making beds (is there a housekeeping angel in charge) - shook out the pillows too vigorously and scattered the sky with goose feathers.