ABC Wednesday

W ~ is for Wooden Rings



Wooden Rings, you query?

Oh yes, - they are very beautiful, light to wear, environmentally sustainable, and there is something so romantic about them too, when they are used as Wedding Rings, or Engagement Rings.

To read about the romance associated with them, go here

...and about the exotic and beautiful wood these rings are made from.

These are Rosewood with inlaid bands...



And here are some Eucalyptus with Blue Spruce and Maple...



And rings made from Purple Heart and Hawaiian Koa



But the ones I find most compelling are those made of Kauri Wood. This link will tell you the story of this amazing wood.



'This Touch Wood Ring is crafted from ancient kauri timber that is aged from 30,ooo to more than 50,ooo years old. Ancient Kauri wood comes from forests buried at the time of the last Ice Age, which are located on the Northern Island of New Zealand. It is called the World's Oldest workable timber. Read The Kauri Story on the Ancientwood website. These points are from their pamphlet.
The harvesting of Ancient Kauri is a very ecologically friendly practice.
No standing trees are cut
These incredible trees are excavated from underground and any disturbed land is carefully restored.
Every tree grew for more than 1200 years.
They stopped growing over 50,000 years ago.
This ancient Kauri wood is pretty spectacular stuff and it fills us with a sense of wonder to hold something so very very old.'
'

If you want to see more splendid examples of wooden rings here is a link to an amazing couple who share their artistry from a small off-the-grid ranch in the interior of British Columbia.

And for more interesting stories about the letter W off you go to ABC Wednesday and enjoy the postings, with thanks to Ms Denise Nesbitt, who hosts this site.

Sky Watch Friday



A September Sunset in the Similkameen Valley, 2007

An English farmer may have answered the prayers of priests, by planting the first crops of natural confetti. Charles Hudson has devoted 16 acres of farmland to delphiniums which, when harvested and dried, will provide pink, purple, lavender and ivory petals to be scattered as a biodegradable alternative to paper confetti. (The Week, July 2003)

Charles Hudson's delphiniums - are here at The Real Flower Petal Confetti Company website.

These are the ones that grow in our garden.




If only people got married in churches nowadays instead of on hillsides, in public gardens, aloft in balloons, on the beach in Hawaii, at the bottom of somebody's orchard, underwater with flippers, at the zoo, or any number of other quaint places, then I might consider going into the organic confetti business!!!

ABC Wednesday

V is for V.A.D. (Voluntary Aid Detachment)



This is the story of V.A.D.s in the First World War.

"In 1909 it was decided to form Voluntary Aid Detachments (VADs) to provide medical assistance in time of war. By the summer of 1914 there were over 2,500 Voluntary Aid Detachments in Britain. Of the 74,000 VADs in 1914, two-thirds were women and girls.

Katharine Furse took two VADs to France soon after the outbreak of the First World War. After establishing a hospital at Boulogne, Furse returned to London where she became Commander-in-Chief of the organisation. During the next four years 38,000 VADs worked as assistant nurses, ambulance drivers and cooks. VAD hospitals were also opened in most large towns in Britain.

At first the military authorities were unwilling to accept VADs on the front-line. However, this restriction was removed in 1915 and women volunteers over the age of twenty-three and with more than three months experience, were allowed to go to the Western Front, Mesopotamia and Gallipoli. Later VADs were sent to the Eastern Front.

Some women went to the Western Front as letter writers for soldiers who were either too ill or too illiterate to write their own letters. May Bradford, the wife of John Rose Bradford, Physician to the British Expeditionary Force, later recalled how she educated men on the treatment of women: "To one man I said, 'Shall I begin the letter with my dear wife?' He quietly answered: 'That sounds fine, but she'll be wondering I never said that before."



In the Second World War the V.A.D. system was still in place and 15,000 members of the St. John's Ambulance Brigade or the Red Cross served as either Mobile (posted) or Immobile (Aids who stayed in their own community)

Towards the end of World War 11 I was an Immobile V.A.D. and helped week-ends and some evenings in the Royal Alexander Hospital in Edmonton. We had extensive training before our hospital experience, but in reality our main occupations were making beds, giving back rubs and emptying bed pans...

A small contribution, but one that I enjoyed. Hospitals were different sixty-five years ago. Much more regimented, - Matrons and Head Nurses were pretty impressive looking individuals, and the R.N.s in their starched caps and uniforms gave patients a great feeling of confidence. They looked very swish and glamorous in their navy capes, whereas the lowly V.A.D. looked just like this....

I have now made 400 postings to this blog, - Four Hundred - CD in Roman Numerals.

This is my four hundred and first since July of 2007.

I find this kind of overwhelming, and I wonder, humbly, if I have said anything worthwhile in all those many words. Is a Blog supposed to be full of wisdom and information? Is it more a Diary? One chooses which I guess. Or strives for a combination.

I know it has been fun.

And I have learned a great deal, so much so that I am quite often amazed at the world and all the people in it who contribute wonderful postings to Blogland.

I have expanded my horizons in many ways - geographically, artistically, musically, and perhaps the way I have found to be most surprising and rewarding is the increasing exposure and understanding of different generations.

As one gets older it seems you must guard against becoming encased within your own generation, your own memories, the ways that you consider traditional.

It is not easy to see the values you hold dear seemingly discarded; hard to accept new ways that appear careless to you.

But in the world of Blogland I have found the paths I've wandered are peopled with a younger generation who are principled, open, sometimes terribly entertaining and amusing, apparently imbued with the moral standards that we have treasured, loving of family, intelligent, exuberant and creative. I find these attributes in our own family, so why should I be surprised to find them so abundant in the world.

Is it because we seldom hear the good news? The media thrives on the scandalous, the spectacular, the innuendos and the horrors of the world, when all about us is lying a fair and beautiful land, unheeded.

So I will continue to write, to read and so fill my life with enchanting essays, prosaic records, marvelous photos and endearing peeks into other people's lives and cultures.

It's a great world!!!!

O June!

"Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine
The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights
And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine,
The foliage of the valleys and the heights.
Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights;
The mower's scythe makes music to my ear;
I am the mother of all dear delights;
I am the fairest daughter of the year."
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

"In June, as many as a dozen species may burst their buds on a single day.
No man can heed all of these anniversaries; no man can ignore all of them."
- Aldo Leopold

Indeed, - the first walk through the garden in the morning is almost overwhelming...
Here, and here and here, - look at the new buds, the new blossoms.

June is so generous with her beauty, and the garden, no matter how small, is a constant delight. The fat, busy bees, the butterflies, the worms that wiggle and squirm when you turn over the soil, the meadow lark that greets you in the morning - whichever angel was in charge of the June Show surely must have gone over budget!!!





"Now summer is in flower and natures hum
Is never silent round her sultry bloom
Insects as small as dust are never done
Wi' glittering dance and reeling in the sun
And green wood fly and blossom haunting bee
Are never weary of their melody
Round field hedge now flowers in full glory twine
Large bindweed bells wild hop and streakd woodbine
That lift athirst their slender throated flowers
Agape for dew falls and for honey showers
These round each bush in sweet disorder run
And spread their wild hues to the sultry sun."
- John Clare, June

Sky Watch Friday
June 12th, 2009

Early in the morning the thunderheads began to peer over the mountain tops, and by midday they were sailing across the skies between the Similkameen and the South Okanagan.









A small quick rush of rain in the late afternoon and by evening the great white thunderheads have dispersed, - sailed away to other climes - and in their place long, low clouds stretch their way across a mild sky, touched delicately by the setting sun.

AND what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
James Russell Lowell


We are having coffee on the deck, daughter and I, while Charles scurries down to be amongst the first in line to have his blood tested. The sun is up, but there is still a lovely coolness in the air, and earlier in the morning Caspar and I had 'strolled' down the road, inspecting the dew on the grass and scanning the sky for clouds.

Our talk concerns cooking, - the day's meals (she is doing sweet and sour ribs in the slow cooker; I am still undecided, but leaning towards the easiest meal possible). Perhaps peanut butter sandwiches for lunch; always welcome and a quickie that allows me to make a hasty exit for a one o'clock date at the Care Centre where we (The Royal Purple ladies) are visiting with cake and ice cream and music.

She leaves to go and make magic with the slow cooker. I go inside for the camera, - time for a few shots in the garden before Charles is home for his second cup of coffee. He doesn't mind the wait, - he comes home with news, and just the smallest smidgin of gossip. The waiting room is a gold mine!

Out in the garden the poppies are in various stages of delivering delicate crumpled scarlet petals. The sun is still low, - the petals are translucent and the shadows are long....







and the naughty coutch grass springs up and waves in front of the camera, anxious to be part of the show. Behind the delphinium wait in the wings impatiently, - they are dressing quickly this morning in their blues and whites for a pretty show - next on...



The pink climber and the lavender clematis are both more than generous with their blooms...



I breathe deeply and enjoy the morning fragrance then go back into the house. A lone Quail takes my place in the garden, perches on the garden umbrella and keeps a close eye out for crows and cats.



Charles comes up the driveway, slowly, inspecting his curly willows with a practiced eye. We have a cup of coffee, - he tells me who he saw, what they said, was the nurse competent with his slippery hard to reach veins..the morning progresses. We have our peanut butter sandwiches, - I leave for my afternoon affair, stopping for a quick chat with number 3 son. With a little time to spare I make a clandestine visit to the nursery to buy just a few fill in plants!!

As most lovely June days do the afternoon ended with a great collection of convective clouds, teasing with the possibility of rain, but not terribly serious.



Another lovely contented day.....we had a shrimp stir fry for supper.

ABC Wednesday

U - is for Ubiquitous (meaning everywhere at once; omnipresent)

And when I think ubiquitous (not a pretty word) I immediately think Garden / Yarrow
/ Physilis (Chinese Lantern)/ couch grass / and to this motley crew I am this year forced to add the Sweet Violet who is everywhere at once, - along the garden path, in the midst of the Iris, the Peony, the Delphinium, the Shasta Daisy. The cruel winter that took the roses must have been kind to the violets - I have never seen them grow so tall, so bushy - great mounds of green leaves. And come to think of it, not many flowers in these overgrown plants. In the small violet plants, yes, - they were a delight in the early spring. But where have these ubiquitous violets come from?

Imported by the Yarrow, perhaps? What I have in my garden now is the common variety of yarrow, - the rather off colour white with the ferny leaves. In the lost Garden I had a rainbow variety of beautiful Yarrow, but here, alas - where the Chinese Lantern and the Violets leave room they crowd in every available space, - common and pushy and UBIQUITOUS...





The Coutch grass we take for granted, - it establishes itself at the base of a plant and then reaches slender stalks far above the cherished and cultivated plant, so that when you look at the garden with a photographer's eye, or a visitor's eye, all you see are waving spikes of coutch grass, like a cobweb on what you hoped was a pristine ceiling.

For a number of years I tried to establish the Chinese Lantern in my garden, but they turned their backs on me and shunned the rich loam. However, someone whispered in their ear 'ubiquitous - if you really try you can be everywhere at once'! And so they were, and are - - they have established an underground railway (of which I have spoken before in blogs) that details stations every few feet in the garden and from which passengers alight and push their way through to whatever space is available to them. And yeah, even across the road and field they send out branch lines!



These are the UBIQUITOUS - they come to stay, but they are only visitors. Their true home is in the wheelbarrow, and eventually the compost heap where they will be worth their weight in gold. And as I dispatch them to their rightful place I mutter, ubiquitous, ubiquitous......

An ordinary Day

This morning I woke early, slipped out of bed quietly, put the coffee on and enjoyed a solitary cup whilst thinking how comfortable it was to have cooler weather.

In a short while Caspar woke, and so we quickly got the leash and went out on the morning business run, - a little old dog can't wait too long in the morning for this necessity.

What a pleasure to smell the freshly cleaned air after an early morning rain, and to hear the resident meadow lark singing a morning paean.

We sniffed the damp air and strolled right to the bottom of the lane, waking up the little pigs at the turn in the road, - they were rampaging ruffians from the first good morning! Of course you know that they are the ultimate machine for getting rid of coutch grass. It strikes terror to my heart though to even contemplate them loose in the garden.....

When we returned to the house the Master still slept, and Caspar decided on an extension to his morning sleep while I amused myself on the piano, looking for appropriate pieces to play when we visit the Care Centre on Wednesday.

Eventually we all had breakfast and enjoyed our daily visit with our daughter, who stops in for coffee after early morning work.

This was the day we were to pick up the Earth Machines (2) whose use the Village is encouraging in the name of green environment. Off to town to do a few errands and load these shiny black containers into the truck - in parts. A piece of cake to assemble, the instruction book tells us.

We come home to a welcome shower, and it is easy to convince Charles that a cup of coffee and a short break would not offend the rules of productivity, considering the rain.

I cook him a hot dog with mounds of onions for lunch, and then settle down in the big chair with The Shoebox Bible.

I finish it, but with a number of short pauses for contemplation and to wipe away the tears. Will the book affect everyone in this way?

I found it to be a very touching tribute to a brave but wounded mother, and to a loving relationship. Having had a mother myself who faced a life of physical pain and adversity with sweetness and great courage I was very vulnerable to nostalgia...

Tea-time, and then, so the day would not be totally without merit in the world of accomplishment, we went out and put the Earth Machines together, and they sit in the back yard, awaiting our first offerings of garden debris and kitchen scraps (that we are assured they will quickly turn into fine, rich loam).

Now it is dusk, - the clouds have gathered overhead and it is quite possible we may not see the glorious moon tonight, but here is last night's inadequate effort at capturing the splendour of the golden orb.



And the night before an errant cloud passing in front of the moon cast a Halloween mask on the man in the moon.



How grateful I am for Ordinary Days!

What am I reading???

We are not too well acquainted with the lazy, hazy days of summer, - the kind where you sit out in the garden with a book. Out in the garden where sound is the gentle murmur of butterfly wings, bumble bees and soft breezes sighing.....

We come from the era where 'a thing worth doing is worth doing well' (my father) and where one must squeeze the most productivity from every available moment (the beloved's watchword). The key word here is available. Mornings are available. The earlier the better. But after the morning hours have been squeezed dry of productivity the afternoon activity is best accomplished stretched out flat on the couch, or lying back in the lazy boy chair, I believe this is called re-charging.....

It doesn't include reading, alas. Reading is reserved for evenings, or bedtime.

And so now, at night, I am reading Alan Bradley.



When I first heard of Alan Bradley,seventy years old with a surprise contract for six yet unwritten books, a resident of Kelowna just two hours away from us here in the Similkameen, I envisaged a Grandma Moses type, or a Susan Boyle, - a newly discovered author, a son of the land, a simple, gifted writer upon whom fortune had finally smiled.

However my interest led me to discover that he was a much more sophisticated author 'who has published many children's stories as well as lifestyle and arts columns in Canadian newspapers'. (flyleaf) Click and read more about his connection with the University of Saskatchewan, and his many other accomplishments.

And I did discover that B.C. cannot claim him as a native son, but can only be grateful that he retired to this beautiful province after garnering an impressive CV in Saskatchewan.

I have yet to read the book he wrote with Dr. William A.S. Sarjeant, Ms Holmes of Baker Street, - the book that advanced the theory that Sherlock Holmes was a woman, and 'was greeted upon publication with what has been described as "a firestorm of controversy"'. I can well imagine!

What I have read is his delightful and clever story of an eleven year old mystery solver, Flavia de Luce. Flavia is a unique child, a product of her eccentric family, her penchant for poisons and chemistry, her individuality as the youngest girl, shunned by older sisters, and her sharpness! The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie is delightful and a book that makes it difficult to put out the night light...



What I am reading now is Alan Bradley's earlier book, 'The Shoebox Bible' - a poignant memoir of a family who 'managed' after the father ran away from home, and a mother who stored hope in a shoebox. I am still immersed, having only reached page 45, but I have a lovely eagerness to go to bed early, and read more of the Songs of Solomon that expressed hope, and the gloomy Old Testament
passages full of grief and despair.



P.S. I forgot to say that the writing is beautiful with many imaginative pictures - 'my right arm stretched to the shuddering point', and a fair amount of elegance.

'Often, as we grow older, we forget how keen our senses used to be. We forget the bottlebrush intensity of a caterpillar tickling its way across our upturned palm; the thousand shades of green a leaf can be; the wonder of watching a devil's darning needle touch down weightlessly on a sunflower; the sound of raindrops plopping like little wet meteorites into the dust; the way in which, after the rain, the sky drips with liquid gold, and how it felt to breathe in the rich black odour of the earth itself.'

And in addition the excerpts from the Songs of Solomon and Proverbs add an ageless beauty.

Lovely reading....

SkyWatch Friday

What a glorious June Day!

Not a cloud in the sky, all day long...

Blue skies, smiling at me,

nothing but blue skies

do I see....



A deep blue celestial bowl over K Mountain, softening its rugged face.

And in the valley the blue flax reflects the heavenly colour.

ABC Wednesday

T is for Tattoo

"a beat of drum and bugle-call at night, calling soldiers to their quarters" The word tattoo originated with the closing time cry in the inns of the Low Countries during the 17th and 18th centuries - 'Doe den tap toe' - (turn off the taps - encouraging the local inn-keepers to stop serving beer and send the soldiers back to their barracks).

And from that simple, ordinary part of military life comes all the magnificent pomp and ceremony of the many Tattoos held through the world.

They are all stirring, but none as splendid as The Edinburgh Tattoo, the annual Military tattoo given by British Armed Forces, Commonwealth and International military bands and display teams in the Scottish capital Edinburgh.



"2009 sees Scotland’s colourful military musical spectacular celebrate its 60th season, while paying tribute to the 250th anniversary of the birth of Scotland’s national bard, Robert Burns, and playing its part in Scotland’s first ever year of Homecoming".

The Tattoo is set up and run for charity, and over the years it has raised about five million pounds for service and civilian organizations.

Although the Scottish Regiments and Bands perhaps dominate there have been representatives from over forty countries taking part in this marvelous event. The colours and the music and the pageantry from a diversity of cultures make it a truly global affair, and the Scots are fabulous hosts.

The first overseas regiment to participate was the Band of the Royal Netherlands Grenadiers in 1952, along with other performers from Canada and France.

Each evening traditionally concludes with a flag-lowering ceremony (see Beating Retreat), with the bugles either sounding the Last Post, or the "Sunset" bugle call of the Royal Marines, and ends with a floodlit lone piper playing a Lament from high on the Castle ramparts.

The first lone piper was Pipe Major George Stoddart, who played in every performance for the first eleven years and was followed by his son, Major Gavin Stoddart.

It is a poignant performance, - and the bagpipes are a poignant and stirring instrument.

Music Monday

A great guitarist, Joscho Stephan


and thank you to Steven for making me aware of him!!!

Pentecost/Whitsunday

When I was a child we celebrated Whitsunday in the Anglican church. It was traditional to wear white on that Sunday, which fell fifty days after Easter and commemorated the coming of the Holy Spirit to the Apostles. I have a picture of my sister and myself all in white, - was it taken on Whitsunday??

The Anglican Church of Canada was, in those days, very much influenced by the Church of England. Well, it WAS the Church of England, and many of the priests who served the church were young curates from 'the old country'.

Over the years, while I wasn't looking, Whitsunday disappeared from the Church, and the Feast of Pentecost took its place....

Here is what Wikipedia says about Pentecost (in part)

"
There are many Pentecost traditions. In some churches, baptisms are performed throughout the day. Pentecost is also known as Whitsunday, because of the white garments worn by those who are baptized. In most Pentecost services, priests or church officials wear red vestments. Sanctuaries are decorated with banners depicting flames, wind, and doves. Churches in Italy disperse rose petals from the ceiling to symbolize the tongues of fire described in the book of Acts. French churches blow trumpets throughout the service to suggest the Holy Spirit coming with a violent rushing wind. Both Catholic and Protestant services have scripture readings from the books of Isaiah, Ezekiel, Joel, or Acts.


Nothing so glamorous happened at our church this morning.. there were no trumpets, no rose petals falling from the ceiling, no banners, no winds, no doves.

But the Spirit was there. And we read the scripture from Acts for Pentecost.

We sang Christopher Wordsworth's "Gracious Spirit, Holy Ghost".

(Two weeks ago in this blog I praised his hymn "O Day of Rest and Gladness". Christopher Wordsworth was a Bishop of London, and the nephew of William Wordsworth)

We had red banners wishing Happy Birthday to the Church....and red flowers on the pews.

And we sang a couple of new United Church hymns acknowledging the Holy Spirit which I played to old familiar tunes so that the singing would be robust and cheerful!!!!

From the Reflection...the words of Peter Davison.

The beauty of Pentecost, the second most important feast of the church’s year after Easter, has its biblical counterpart in the story of Babel, in which God counters human arrogance by causing ‘confusion of tongues’ – the destruction of common language, and the creation of misunderstanding, alienation and fear. At Pentecost, we are told, the Spirit of God moves among the people, the ancient barriers come down, and all are enabled to hear the Good News of God’s healing power. That same Spirit, says Paul in his Letter to the Romans, overcomes our own pain and confusion, giving us the words we need to pray and find new life. In John’s gospel Jesus tells his disciples it is good that he is going to leave them, for only then can the Spirit come and guide them into the truth which will be their vindication in a hostile world. All this underlines the basic theme of Easter and Pentecost as a new creation. Just as, in the beginning, the Spirit of God had moved over the oceans of chaos and brought peace and harmony into being, so now that same Spirit breathes new life into humankind.

At one time we were more celebratory about Pentecost. For a few years we had Red Balloons attached to the pews, making an aisle depicting the flames of Pentecost.

On the altar were seven candles, representing the gifts of the Holy Spirit.

The Paschal candle was lit for the last time, and then moved to the font, where it would come into its own again for Baptisms.

But we are a combined Anglican and United Church congregation and the old Anglican traditions are somewhat neglected when we have an eager United Church minister, - laid aside until we are once again served by an Anglican priest.

I miss the ritual.....(sigh)

Whitsun Day

When the Day of Pentecost was fully come'

At sound as of rushing wind, and sight as of fire,
Lo flesh and blood made spirit and fiery flame,
Ambassadors in Christ's and the Father's Name,
To woo back a world's desire.

These men chose death for their life and shame for their boast,
For fear courage, for doubt intuition of faith,
Chose love that is strong as death and stronger than death
In the power of the Holy Ghost.

Christina Rossettii

We are more or less caught up with the spring garden work (well, I haven't finished my demolition project but that seems to be an on-going skirmish, with the Chinese Lantern Company (Inc) continually pushing their underground railway around in an intricate maze. I come across the long, straight pencil thin roots wherever I dig). ....

There is now a little time for books, and I have been re-reading Ex Libris by Anne Fadiman, a charming book (as they would say in reviews) about the precious place books have in the life of those who treasure them. This will be the third or fourth time of reading....

And as a coincidence I found in the library a book she has edited entitled "Rereadings".



From a review by Farrar, Straus and Giroux...

'Is a book the same book—or a reader the same reader—the second time around? The seventeen authors in this witty and poignant collection of essays all agree on the answer: Never.

The editor of Rereadings is Anne Fadiman, and readers of her bestselling book Ex Libris will find this volume especially satisfying. Her chosen authors include Sven Birkerts, Allegra Goodman, Vivian Gornick, Patricia Hampl, Phillip Lopate, and Luc Sante; the objects of their literary affections range from Pride and Prejudice to Sue Barton, Student Nurse.

These essays are not conventional literary criticism; they are about relationships. Rereadings reveals at least as much about the reader as about the book: each is a miniature memoir that focuses on that most interesting of topics, the protean nature of love. And as every bibliophile knows, no love is more life-changing than the love of a book'.

In her Foreward: On Reading, Anne tells the tale of reading 'The Horse and His Boy' by C.S. Lewis to her son, Henry. It is a book she had read when she was eight, - the age of her son at the time of the rereading. His acceptance of the book was the same as her's had been at first reading, enthusiastic and totally absorbed in the adventure.




Anne was delighted at his reaction to the time they spent reading, but gradually her adult self remembered C.S. Lewis's attitude to women, and she was appalled to find it colouring her interpretation of the book which she had once found so enchanting.

Anne says - 'and there lay the essential differences between reading and rereading, acts that Henry and I were performing simultaneously. The former had more velocity: and latter had more depth. The former shut out the world in order to focus on the story; the latter dragged in the world in order to assess the story. The former was more fun; the latter was more cynical. But what was remarkable about the latter was that it contained the former; even while, as with the upper half of a set of bifocals, I saw the book through the complicating lens of adulthood, I also saw it through the memory of the first time I'd read it, when it had seemed as swift and pure as the Winding Arrow, the river that divides Calormen from Archenland'.

I closed the book and thought about this, - the way experience affects our relationship to books we first read while we were still young and innocent; when we didn't know what it is like to be twenty, or thirty-five, or sixty, or even eighty-four.

I remembered reading 'Claudia and David' by Rose Franken ca 1944. And at the same time Charles saw a stage play of 'Claudia and David' while he was still overseas, in London. We were engaged, but not yet married until he returned from the war.

It was a tender, romanticized picture of marriage, and I sighed with anticipation. Sentiment kept the book on our shelves for many years, probably until we downsized just after our 60th year together. I did reread it a number of times, - it was still touching and romantic, but by this time I also knew the realities of a happy marriage.

A few years ago I found a sequel to Claudia and David in a second hand book store.
It will be interesting to reread it. I have never really abandoned romance, but then, the years have taught me to cultivate reality as well.

Will I have a different view of the 'young Claudia' from the one that filled my head with such quixotic fantasies?

And if I don't, what will that indicate?????

Sky Watch Friday

Some evenings the sun slips over the horizon quietly, turns his attention to the Pacific and nothing more is heard from him.

Other evenings he sends an ever changing glorious light show that lingers on and on, until finally dusk steals the colour from the clouds, and the lights go on in town and home.

8:08 P.M. May 3rd, 2009




8:10 P.M.



8:11 P.M.



8:14 P.M.



8:15 P.M.



In the midst of all this splendour the moon appears, - pale, ethereal, a light to guide the way to darkness and hurry the sun on his way.....

ABC Wednesday

S is for Strolling

I have given up the brisk walk of my younger days, and now I STROLL.

I stroll with the dog, and as he is old too, and blind and deaf, he is a suitable companion for such lovely adventures Strolling down the lane.

I stroll at the store, leaning companionably on the grocery cart.

And I stroll around the garden, although a lot of my time there is spent bending over, creating order out of chaos.

Lately I have been Strolling through Cyber Space, stopping here and there to visit Blogs that awe me, entertain me, educate me, inspire me and some that leave me feeling down right inadequate, they are so beautifully constructed and so magnificently articulated.

The pathway leads me to such varied countrysides. A few nights ago I stopped in Fairyland and read the postings of a number of Bloggers who live in the Land of Children's Books and have adopted the Fairies, the Elves and the Trolls into their own particular Blogland. Wonderful pictures of ethereal maidens and handsome princes, - magical golden coaches and Little People who serve the ethereal maidens and the handsome princes. I was enchanted....

I am amused and bemused at some of the extraordinary witty blogs, as I Stroll from one brilliant posting to another. Clever, sharp and humorous, - I immediately bookmark them to retrace my steps and visit another day.

In my Stroll I find literary blogs, travelogues, the use of words and phrases that make me smile with pleasure, pictures of flowers and gardens and far off places, superb descriptions of nature that touch my heart and as a contrast, wonderfully practical and down to earth blogs, comforting in their simplicity and wisdom.

It is not too long ago that I gave up the brisk walk, and it still comes in handy in emergencies, but to Stroll is so relaxing, so conducive to seeing what magical things lie all around you. It is a precious part of growing old(er).....

Do you remember lying on your back in the grass, smelling the fragrance of the earth and searching the clouds for elephants, or angels or any of the other wonderfully imaginative figures that the clouds are wont to form.

Yesterday was such a day, and if it wasn't so hard to get up I would surely have thrown myself down amongst the dandelions and searched the heavens....











Pictures don't really do it, - you have to be there to watch the movement of the clouds as they form and reform all the while providing enchanting entertainment for those who are aware and search....and I think, if I remember correctly, you have to squint your eyes!

Come join Music Monday and share your songs with us.

Here is Louis Moreau Gottschalk's stirring Grande Tarantelle for piano and orchestra.

I love it, - it just seems to carry you along on such a marvelous wave of music.



Gottschalk was an American composer who was born in New Orleans and became a dashing and romantic virtuoso on the piano as he played his own pieces in concert.

Despite his popularity, most especially in South America, he had a tragic career and died at the age of forty. Unfortunately he has never, since his death, received the recognition and acclaim that his music deserves (IMHO). Perhaps because he is much like Chopin, but does not quite make the mark!

Listen in, - it will gladden your heart and set your toes a-tapping.