Keeping score

This rusty little box has been on a shelf in my office for a score of years. I don't remember exactly why I decided to make a millennial time capsule, but it must have seemed like a good idea at the time. Noticing it yesterday, and being on the cusp of a new decade (one with two 20's in it no less), I decided the day had come to open it.

At first glance, it looked pretty rough inside. No critter had been into it, but time had taken a toll on some of the items.

The series of millennial postage stamps look much older than 20 years. But they bring a certain cachet to the treasure trove of items inside. I love the fact that they were issued in honour of humanitarians and peacekeepers, the people whose faces probably also belong on our money.

And yes, the price of a stamp has more than doubled since I stashed these away. These oldies cost 46 cents (and may not have had tax added on back then), while today's basic postage stamp for delivery within Canada is $1.05. With the addition of the 5 cents for tax, they're now a whopping $1.10. No wonder people have abandoned writing letters and sending cards. Email and texting are not only cheaper, but waaaay faster.

I can't remember having any big fascination with Wonder Woman, though I do admit to owning a lamp that bears her image.

Apparently there were several incarnations of her back then, even a Barbie version, one I never bought into.

Yet somehow I got my hands on a Wonder Woman Pez dispenser, so in she went too.

I didn't open her packaging, so can't attest to the condition of the candies, but remembering how unappealing Pez usually were (even when brand-new fresh), I don't imagine these would be very delicious.

As for the 'official' millennial candy, m&m's made a certain sense, especially to me, a person who's always understood (and appreciated) Roman numerals. Where M means 1,000, the choice of m&m's was spot on. It's probably good that I only kept the lid to the container they came in, or critters may well have been tempted to discover my little cache.

While the Harry Potter books had only been out for a few years in December of 1999, they'd already made their mark on kids (of all ages, including me). The Band-Aids with the glow-in-the-dark lightning mark were intended, I am sure, to be worn on foreheads. But yes, here they sit mostly still in their wrappers (except for the one I couldn't resist opening).

Other items in there seem mostly pretty silly -- a CBC medallion in celebration of 60 years, an old library card and even a membership card from our once-upon-a-time video store.

There's also a bunch of quarters, mostly bearing the number 1999, though it turns out they were called 'millennial' coins. It's the same old image of the Queen on the front, though younger by some years, but their verso sides have some interesting designs: Voyageurs, pictographs, even a vintage airplane. The one I like best, which is dated 2000, bears the name "Natural Legacy" with an illustration of a salmon, a tree, and a cloud with falling rain. Little silvery treasures to be sure, though none with much value, as at least one side of each coin is badly tarnished, probably from spending so much time in a cheap metal box.

The item that got me thinking about all of this was Saturday's Globe and Mail, with its article about Y2K because yes, what else turned up in my little time capsule from 20 years ago but several sheets of stickers, bearing fanciful warnings about the much-dreaded (then) Y2K bug -- something that was bound to screw up our banking and send us all back to some pre-techno age.

So much for that worry, at least. I'm sure we can come up with others, probably next will be the further invasion of AI into our lives.

Happy new year, happy decade, and hey, who's keeping score?

Not quite the usual

No poinsettia this year, but when we were walking with Nadia the dog, this little spot of brightness out in the field was impossible to ignore.

People who read this blog will know that this December has been unusual for us, one we won't forget -- ever.

I for one am looking forward to the coming days and new year being better and better and better.

Best wishes for a happy Christmas, or Hanukkah or whatever holiday you observe with those you love.

First day of winter

Last night was the evening the Earth reached that point in the sky where the season officially changed. Winter Solstice, the day the light starts coming back. Even though it's only about four minutes more every day, I'm sure that early in the new year we'll be noticing the change. 

To observe the change of season, and to honour our brother Tom, we hosted a gathering of close friends. Everyone brought delicious treats, along with plenty of great stories for sharing. A highlight was the sharing of music -- so many talented friends in our midst. Chris Birkett's song, "Turning Round the Sun" may have been the most appropriate for the occasion.

But beyond seeing the change of season, our view out the window has also changed. The big broken tree out back came down, thanks to the skill of our neighbour, Paul.

Change everywhere around us, and doing our best to go along with it all.

As my motto through life seems to be, Onward.

A lesson in black (and white)

That's the beautiful Nadia, wearing the saddest face around. She's been missing her master, our beloved brother Tom.

But today, with a new blanket of fresh snow on the ground, when she came along with me on my walk around the farm, she decided to get silly.

First, she buried her snout (probably sniffing out a vole or some other interesting tidbit), then when
she popped back out, this was how she looked.

As is so often the case, it's the dog who has something to say in way of offering comfort.

Morning star

It's taken me a few days to get around to writing this. The photo is from Sunday morning, a bright Ontario sky.

The last time I saw this kind of configuration in the sky was November 2008, the morning after my mother had died.

This time, it was the morning after the visitation and memorial service for my dear brother-in-law, Tom.

We were blessed to know him, to witness his many talents, and to laugh with him. As for that morning star, I guess it was really a mourning star.

So much for democracy

Not so long ago an article came out in The Vancouver Sun with details about Surrey's proposed five-year budget plan. The details were appalling, pretty much excising any monies for the arts. But the arts weren't the only item on the chopping block.

About all I could do was write a letter to the editor; a few days later they printed it.

Since then, there have been other letters, and two meetings at City Hall that were packed with members of the public offering their objections.

Has this outcry made any difference? Not a chance. Steamroller is the word that comes to mind for our mayor's style of 'getting things done.' He insists he has the support of what he calls "the silent majority." That term was used by Richard Nixon as justification for continuing the horror of the Vietnam War. Since then, another person who's used this is none other than Donald Trump. Isn't there also a maxim about 'birds of a feather'?

There's bound to be more on this issue, especially with the final vote on this ill-conceived budget coming up mid-month. And even though he hasn't started listening, it's no excuse for us to give up. We need to keep writing letters, attending meetings, speaking out -- for the sake of our city and its future, we need to push back.

In praise of transit

Yesterday was one of those when I needed to go into Vancouver, a trip that's become more of a task over the years. Traffic has increased, it feels like ten-fold. The only bright spot has been improvements to our transit system.

But over the last few weeks, transit has felt threatened, as the unionized workers weren't able to negotiate a new contract that met everyone's needs. At first, the drivers stopped wearing their uniforms -- letting the public know that things weren't as they should be.

Their actions escalated with interruptions to SeaBus service, making travel from Vancouver to the North Shore very challenging.

The double-decker bus above, despite its 'not in service' sign was merely the driver taking a break, and wasn't a Vancouver bus at all, but one in Victoria. The moustache was their way of promoting men's health for Movember. The day I was over there, the driver who picked us up at the ferry told us all to just get on board. He wasn't taking any money that afternoon, a sign of solidarity with the Coast Mountain workers on this side of the water.

But tensions over here kept rising, with a complete shutdown of service scheduled for the 27th, 28th and 29th.

Fortunately for all of us who rely on public transit, a last-minute settlement came about, granting an almost-audible public sigh of relief.

Yesterday, while I was waiting to get on my bus, I saw a Coast Mountain driver waiting as well. I approached him and said thank you -- I suspect on behalf of many other riders that day. Surprisingly, he then thanked me. He explained himself by telling me that it was the support from the public that had made all the difference, and had enabled a quick settlement. Unlike the long strike in 2001 (123 days), this time social media had raised such an outcry, management pretty well had to pay attention.

Riding home on my standing-room only bus, I tried to calculate just how many cars were not being used because we passengers were using public transit. I'm still working on the numbers, but I know we represented a lot of cars not taking up space on the road. As for transit, I'm just grateful we have such an extensive and reliable system. Zoom, zoom, goes the bus, and sez I: hurrah!

Not just another day

 Not that any day doesn't have its distinguishing traits, this one marks the anniversary of my mother's death. Eleven years. A stretch of time it's hard for me to pin down in my mind. So long ago, it's hard to remember. So recent-feeling, it's hard to believe that it's more than a decade.

One thing she'd like (I think) is that I placed her photo in the golden star dish. The photo is one from before I was born and, while I don't think it really looks like her, I know it is one she was most proud of.

The bowl is a hand-me-down from her, so she'd probably be glad to know that I am using it. Even more so, I'm sure she'd like the 'star' association, as I'm quite sure her life's dream (if she hadn't had me and my sisters) would have been to be a film star. She'd even chosen a name for herself, one that sounded 'better' than her own.

This morning I heard an interview with Margaret Atwood, who's celebrating her 80th birthday today. I think my mother would have enjoyed listening to that too, especially with the many stories Atwood told about her childhood and reading and then deciding to become a writer. Yet another dream of my mother's, one she didn't manage to accomplish.

Still, she did more than I in so many respects -- for one thing, in bearing daughters, a couple of whom in turn gave her grandchildren.

Tonight when I go to my choir practice, I will do my best to sing as beautifully as she did, and I'll try to remember that I'm doing it for her.

Lest we forget

This morning when the big planes did their flyover for Remembrance Day, it was hard to not get teary. There's something about that sound of old propeller planes...

The white stones in the graveyard are all marking veterans, from more than one war, but all of them people who died too young.

I heard a young girl being interviewed about November 11th, and while she wasn't sure what a veteran is, she had a strong notion of what a soldier is. As she put it, someone who fights for peace. While it's kind of an oxymoron, I was glad of her understanding, as at least peace is a noble outcome.

This is tree protection?

Once again this morning, I was assaulted by the angry whine of chainsaws. More trees going down in the neighbourhood. Primarily to make way for bigger and pricier houses, certainly not doing anything towards sustaining our urban forest, as our city's pretty much feeble tree bylaws claim to do.

The rule suggests that only those trees that are growing on the spot where actual building is to occur may be removed. So, I wonder, are they really going to build the new homes on the lot above right down to the curb of the road?

The chainsaws are a miserable sound to have to listen to, more so because I know what they are doing.

Even worse though is the dreadfully woebegone mess they leave behind. So much for supposedly growing new trees as part of our efforts against climate disaster, especially now that the US has given official notice that it is dropping out of the Paris Accord, the agreement which was supposed to make a difference for humanity. But then, maybe the coming asteroid will look after everything for all of us. Cheery thought, eh.

Halloweenish

I'm amazed by the lengths so many people now go to when it comes to decorating their house and front yard for Halloween. So much for carving a pumpkin and putting a candle in it as a signal to kids that there might be goodies at the door.

At first glance, the house above looks relatively modest in terms of its decorations. But wait -- when you walk past, the cat seems to come to life! It turns from side to side and moans, and appears as though it's about to pounce. Yikes!

More and more graveyard sites like this are showing up in all of our neighbourhoods. Some of them seem downright grisly, with bones and amputations, complete with what looks like blood. I think, as a child, I may well have been frightened off if I'd encountered one of these. Must have been an even bigger wuss than I am now.

Whether these graveyards come with ghosts or not remains to be seen. Maybe tonight they'll show up. Who knows.

Boo!

A-scrunching we will go...

What a day for a walk through a beautiful forest preserve -- an amazing site dedicated to students and outdoor ed.

And all the while I was scrunching through leaves here, Greta Thunberg was leading a march in Vancouver, one that followed on the heels of the announcement that a group of students from across the country have sued the federal government for their lack of action on the climate emergency.

Good days for the Earth, our home sweet home.

Who knows?

Election day in Canada, and who knows what the result will be.

The flag out in the field holds its own foggy prediction, encouraging my hope -- that even the wind appears to be sending it to the left.

We'll see what tonight's results reveal.

Quite the pair!

I love these two Buddhas, sharing a laugh. They look to me like the epitome of what friendship means.

Yet today isn't a day when I'm celebrating Buddhism. Rather, I'm thinking about friendship. This is partly because a group of longtime friends celebrated a big birthday last weekend. It's also because today marks the birth date of Eleanor Roosevelt, a best friend to one of my heroes, Amelia Earhart.

The two of them shared many values, especially their vision of full equality for women. They also both hoped for peace, yet another goal I continue to hope for.

Best of all, they shared many good times, and the joy of flying was part of that.

I suppose, in addition to wanting to celebrate Eleanor, I'm getting excited at the thought of the tv show that's coming up just over a week from now. When I was in Kansas this summer, a crew from National Geographic was doing interviews and filming key persons in Atchison during the Amelia Earhart Festival. I suspect that my mentor and friend Louise Foudray should have something to say during that presentation. I sure hope she hasn't wound up on the cutting room floor. To see a preview of the program scheduled to air on October 21st, follow this link -- then scroll down to the words, "Expedition Amelia" for a sneak peek at what's in store.

But now, here's to Eleanor, and to long lasting friendships, wherever and when we may find them. Something to be grateful for always, but maybe especially on this Thanksgiving weekend.

Finding beauty

I'll admit to often finding beauty in odd places, spots where many people might just walk past. That was the case with this colourful assortment of autumny leaves, strewn across the stairwell outside my local library. I'd left my camera in the car, and decided I had to go back for it, as I knew the colours would fade or someone would come along and sweep them away. And yes, I realize they're placed sideways, but there's something I like about the unbalanced balance of the image that way.

Yesterday, with no camera in hand (I was driving, so not allowed, a good thing) I was struck by the sight of a straggly 'v' of geese flying across the afternoon's blue sky.

And then, beside me was a field of pumpkins, looking smallish but bright orange, all aglow with the promise of Thanksgiving and Halloween.

Strange, perhaps, but I love finding beauty in the world, especially when so many aspects of contemporary life seem to insist on being ugly. Better, I find, to look for the bright spots which mostly turn out be elements of nature. Yet another aspect of beauty to consider and maybe meditate on.

Time to listen

This week has illustrated that it's time for politicians to start listening to the people.

The photo is actually from last Friday, the day this week of Climate Action began. I happened to be in Victoria, where the streets around the Legislature Buildings were blocked off to all traffic (including public transit vehicles).

I didn't even try to get into the city to participate today. This post will have to suffice as my 'action' for the day.

It took several years of protests in the '60s (and into the '70s) for government to get the message that the war in Vietnam had to end, but eventually, those who were protesting were heard. I can only hope that with so many people taking to the streets again, those in power will listen. Especially with an election looming in less than a month, the time seems not only right, but urgent.

Water, precious water

Somehow I don't think that it was planned, but it feels right to have World Rivers Day in the midst of this week of Climate Change Action.

Today's photo isn't, I suppose, actually a river, but a tributary to one, so I hope it counts. It's called Early Winters Creek, a name I quite love -- not named after any person, but after the climate of the region. And it feeds into the Methow River, a site that features in my previous post.

I like to think of rivers and streams as the arteries and capillaries of the Earth. The life force flowing onward, always to the sea.

Later tonight will be the Autumn Equinox. Here in the Pacific Zone, it arrives just after midnight. Maybe it will reveal itself in some special dream.

In case you like the thought of listening to a river today, here's a little video featuring the sound of rushing water. The camera work is pretty erratic, but in this case, it's the sound that matters. Enjoy.

Poetry en plein air

One of the many pleasures of travelling through the Cascade Mountains in Washington state is stopping at Washington Pass for a stroll along the paths there. And one of the wonderful discoveries there -- beyond the fabulous views -- is the fact that there are two poems posted along the trail. The one above, "Silver Star" is from William Stafford's chapbook, The Methow River Poems. The other, "A Valley Like This," also by Stafford, is from the same collection.

But these two are only part of a group of seven of Stafford's poems posted at locations along the river.  Apparently, they were commissioned by the Forestry Service in 1993. I've yet to find the others, but plan to seek them out next time we visit the Cascade Loop.

Poetry seemed to be in the air, as even the rangers' station encouraged visitors to create poems of their own.

The display was simple -- just a sign which included the reminder that Gary Snyder and Jack Kerouac (and I'm pretty sure, Jack Spicer and Sam Hamill) found inspiration from time living in the woods.

Beside the sign was a table with some cutouts of 'foresty' words, but what a delight to find them.

And me, of course I'm wishing more of such public poetry would show up around here. There are some small haiku-like writings on rocks at nearby Blackie Spit at Crescent Beach, so I suppose I should be content.

What's yer sport?

Watching all the wonderful tennis this weekend (yes, I've become a convert -- I used to think it was the equivalent of watching a game of 'pong' with its hypnotic blips) has made me wish I were more of an athlete. But like they say, if wishes were horses, etc.

About the closest activity I can claim as a kind of sport is my twice-weekly sessions of deep water running at my local pool. The photo above holds a rack of flotation belts for participants in the class. Only, I'm the odd one out who doesn't choose to wear one.

I'm not sure whether it's the 'built-in flotation belt' I seem to wear around my middle, whether I'm in the water or out, or whether I'm just more buoyant than many people are. Whatever the reason, I don't choose to wear a belt. And since the activity is one that I enjoy, I manage to remain fairly faithful, year-round.

Maybe in my next life, I'll do something requiring more training and skill. But for now, I'll just keep runnin'...

A new way to celebrate

Although the first Monday in September is the day both Canadians and Americans observe Labour Day, many countries around the world celebrate Workers' Day on May 1st.

I'm sticking with the September observance, especially because a friend of mine (and a longtime union worker, no less) has come up with a brilliant new way to mark the date.

She's suggested that it be Jammies Day -- a day when those of us who get to stay home should spend it lolling about (knowing us, probably reading) in our pyjamas.

I'm just having a hard time deciding which of my two favourite nighties it should be: bunnies or kitties. But if that's the most difficult task ahead of me for tomorrow, I'm certainly not going to complain.

Here's to honouring workers of all stripes, especially those brave souls who fought for such basic rights as an eight-hour day or, praise be, the concept of the weekend. Yesss!

Ar-beauty by the sea

We have a very comfortable home, nestled in the midst of a mini-forest it seems. So I wonder sometimes, why is it we go away to take a holiday.

A water view is probably the only element we don't have at home, so maybe getting to see (and smell!) the ocean is part of why we travel.

The arbutus above (okay, madrona if you live in the US), leaning out over the sea, was a bit of a bonus we encountered on our way home.

The trip back was lengthy (eleven hours to go not a lot more than 100 km as the crow flies), as it involves taking ferries, and not all of them offer the luxury of making reservations in advance.

By the time we got to the last ferry (where we did have a reservation, but for a boat leaving in two hours), we took a break and found a walking trail that led us along the shore.

Tired though we were, the walk (and the trees) helped revive us for the last leg of the journey. In fact, this tree in particular, leaning out and reaching, seemed to offer a kind of comfort -- encouragement that we were getting nearer to our destination.

And today, though I don't have ocean or arbutus just outside, I'm happy to be home. Almost September, when surely it'll be time to go on to bigger things.

By the time...

No, I wasn't one of the people who made it to the festival that's come to be known as Woodstock -- an event that opened fifty years ago today. I knew a couple of folks who did make it there, and still know one who managed to get her face into the movie (though she's not thrilled about how she looks -- in the aftermath of the rain, in the mud).

Upstate New York felt too far away from where we lived in Northern Ontario. Besides, we didn't have a car. Oh yeah, and tickets for the three days of the weekend-fest sounded like such a rip-off at a whopping fifteen bucks. Whoo-ee. 

It seems kind of a shame that the anniversary event had to be cancelled, though maybe there'll be some kind of guerilla music fest sprouting up later this weekend, some kind of commemoration of the good vibes of the times. Like the poster says, it was all about Peace (and, of course, love too) -- both items we could use more of every day. 

Stop using their names

If I'm not mistaken, I heard news reporting that the Dayton shooting was the 250th to occur in the US this year. Considering today is Day 217 for 2019, that's not a good stat.

While we haven't had as many of the random-crowd shootings here in Canada, we've still had far too many murders. We even had one barely a mile away last week. Targeted. Some bad guys out to get rid of some other bad guy. Still. Somebody dead. By a gun.

And today, the end of a holiday long weekend, more bad news from Toronto.

In all of these incidents, it bothers me that the name that makes the headlines seems to nearly always be that of the shooter.

And it's convinced me that half the reason these guys (yes, they're still mostly males) do it is for some lame attempt at fame. Kill a bunch of people and you'll be a celebrity. You don't even have to know how to carry a tune -- just a gun.

For over two weeks, RCMP have been on the hunt for a pair of accused murderers -- among their victims an American woman and her Australian beau. The name of woman, Chynna Deese, as well as that of her companion in death, Lucas Fowler, seem to be the names we should be remembering -- along with that of Len Dyck, a much-beloved professor at the University of British Columbia who, while on a solo camping trip, also found himself in the path of the duo from Nanaimo.

Frankly, I'm sick of hearing continued reports on the possible whereabouts of the pair. They've had more than their share of the spotlight of infamy. They've pretty much been Canada's most recent "Movie of the Week" -- only for not just one week. We're now on week three.

Let's quit publicizing the names of these pathetic souls who commit heinous crimes in their desperate grab at fame. Maybe if the Hollywood-style lights don't shine so brightly on them, and we stop glorifying their names, they'll stay home and do something worthwhile.

Summer bounty

These July days are, I suspect, just about as perfect as anyone's time on earth could be. The other day, reading a book outside, I looked up from the page and thought: If there's a heaven, I hope it's as good as this.

Yes, I still go to the grocery store, though every day we eat something or other from the yard. And so much of it seems to just come up on its own -- golden plums, the berries (though I do prune them almost weekly from March through August) and this year, a trio of peaches.

The salad bar takes a bit more fussing, with much of it needing to dangle in hanging baskets to keep the slugs at bay. Still, fresh greens every night (oh yes, beans too) are hard to beat.

And as for those blackberries, they can be pickety. I'm often competing with bees, who still love visiting all those sweet white
flowers, but at least they seem to leave me alone. A few of them might buzz around my hand or head, but they seem to prefer the flowers to me.

It's the thorns that keep wanting to grab, and are the reason I wear glasses when I pick.

Still, a few nicks don't bother me, especially when I know what dessert will be. Blackberries, fresh off the vine, with even one of the last stragglers from the raspberry canes.

Heaven. Who needs it. Not yet anyway.

Some big birthday!

For all of the theories that exist about Amelia Earhart, the one thing I am sure of is that she's no longer alive. If she were, she'd be celebrating a very big birthday today -- her 122nd.

As mentioned in my last post, I spent the weekend attending the Amelia Earhart Festival in Atchison, Kansas, the town where she was born in an upstairs bedroom in the home of her grandparents.

The town makes a very big deal about celebrating their most famous citizen. And I suspect Earhart is one of the main drivers of the town's tourism industry.

Several plaques and statues of her are placed around town -- this one is at the International Forest of Friendship, a site that recognizes many of aviation's pioneers and current heroes. Even our own Julie Payette and Marc Garneau have commemorative stones there. I'm hoping that next time I go back, I'll find one for Chris Hadfield too.

But now, I'll just say Cheers! to the woman whose life continues to inspire people everywhere (including me).

An anniversary for Selenophiles

...in other words, an anniversary for people who love the moon (though there's also a plant by the same name, selenophile). In seeking the word to match this meaning, I also came across 'lunaphile' which I must admit to liking, even though the only reference to it is somewhat buried in a comments section. Initially, I'd wanted to call this an anniversary for 'lunatics' until I found that pretty much the only meaning for that term is someone who's deranged and also that the word's become mostly unacceptable.

The reason for this post is, of course, the fact that today marks 50 years since human beings landed on the moon (at least as far as we know). Although if you're a follower of Tintin, you'll know that he and Captain Haddock were there long before Neil Armstrong touched down.

As this date has approached, there've been any number of memory pieces, but the one I loved most (and, unfortunately, can't remember where) was the man who told about his father going out and buying a colour tv towards marking such a memorable occasion. It's key to remember that not many people had a colour television in 1969. For one thing, their relative newness made them quite expensive. Having one probably seemed like an extravagance, maybe even showing off.

And then, as it turned out, when events of the moon landing came on, the images were only in black-and-white, as that's how they were broadcast. So much for a colourful celebration, at least that night.

I'm not sure exactly what I might do to celebrate, but the occasion does seem deserving of something special. If the weather holds, I will at least be watching fireworks tonight, as they're always part of the annual Amelia Earhart Festival, an event I'm lucky enough to be attending. I'm sure that walking on the moon would have earned Amelia's approval.

As for the photo at the top of this post, that's an item that hangs in my bathroom. After the light's been on it, it glows, casting a light not dissimilar from the moon's -- not really bright enough to read by, but enough to help me navigate my way back to bed.

And regarding my 'occasional' poem below, it's an effort based on a very fun edition of Magnetic Poetry -- moon-themed, no less. The set is full of official moon terms like 'gibbous' and 'crescent' and, of course, full. And even though I didn't use 'crescent' in my poem, 'waxing crescent' is apparently the phase the moon was in 50 years ago tonight -- nearly a quarter full, and growing.

Good intentions, but...

...not quite.

Riding the SkyTrain not long ago, owing to the usual rush hour crush, it was hard to ignore the drink in front of my nose.

I was close enough to be able to observe that the straw wasn't the dreaded plastic, but paper. Hurrah, I thought, but.

What about the cup and dome lid?

Big changes start in small ways, so I can't complain to see at least something changing. And I'm inspired when I encounter projects like the one I found at Lunenburg in Nova Scotia. Their goal is to get the rest of the Maritime provinces on-board, but they're not afraid to start on their own.

The City of Victoria was told this week that they don't have the jurisdiction to be able to ban plastic bags (for now, at least). Vancouver's main actions so far have been ongoing studies, but at least these show that we're improving.

The transition away from plastics is going to continue to be tricky, that's for sure. But all we can do is keep trying, even when it's just eensy baby steps.

A place of contradictions

Sometimes Surrey, the city where I live, can make me want to pull out my hair in frustration -- from day to day, it can be so very up-and-down.

On Friday I attended a workshop in Newton, one of our city's many 'cities within the city' -- I guess a previous township of its own, it's now considered one of the city's town centres. It's an area that sometimes gets a bad rap, as it's had its share of crime occur.

But on Friday, there was no mention of crime, as a group of us were led on a tour of a place that could almost be called a transformational miracle -- an amazing community garden, providing beauty, food, and opportunities to work outdoors for anyone who chooses to participate.

And yes, please click on this PLOT project link, as it's quite an adventure, complete with video of how this miracle came about.

The project embodies an idea that really puts the 'unity' into the concept of 'community'.

But then on the weekend, Newton made the news again -- this time with a dreadful house fire, one that investigators have started calling suspicious. Worst of all, there were injuries, and to children.

Yet, I'd prefer to think back on the workshop -- a project that saw us gathering images to be used in an amazing-sounding exhibit in September by Toronto artist Faisal Anwar. Since part of our task in the workshop was to take photos of the wonderful sights we saw in the gardens, that's what I'll close with -- an image of beauty.

Yes, please, I say, more beauty for all.

Goodbye Personal Servant

Personal servant? That may be a bit much, though truly that little machine, our faithful GPS served in so many ways -- not only keeping us on track to many destinations, but keeping us out of trouble.

He (yes, I have no hesitation in calling him a 'he' -- after all, his name was Simon, and he had a lovely English accent) came into our lives in 2011, part of the acquisitions we made when we set out on our cross-continent tour in 2011. Wending our way through the complicated cloverleaf highways in the US would have been nearly impossible without him. At the very least, the relationship between the Dear Man and me might not have survived my map-reading skills. Call him a subtle peacemaker. Which way do we go? No arguments; just ask Simon.

Sure, there were a few times his satellite connections fed him information that was less than accurate, but generally these errors led us into strange and wonderfully off-the-beaten track surprises. Once we found ourselves not at the campsite we'd been seeking, but instead in the midst of horse-and-buggy 'traffic' in Amish territory.

Keeping us out of trouble came with his speed limit alert feature. So many little towns seem to rely on income from speeding tickets issued to tourists who might happen to miss the suddenly-low speed limit at the town boundaries. The warning sound Simon emitted was, fortunately, enough to get us to slow down from highway speed to the safely low numbers they expected. Whew! He more than paid for himself in fines saved.

This seems like the right day to bid him farewell, as it's the anniversary of when we got home from the big tour, eight years ago.

Despite poking around for better photos of Simon than the 'farewell' shot of him (out of focus, no less), I've failed. Best I could come up with was a link to this shot taken during the big road trip, where it appears we've gone off-road on some parallel trail. I'm pretty sure it was just a construction-induced detour.

It isn't that I took lots of pictures of him, but now and then, it just seemed too fun not to. Best were when we were heading across some body of water in a ferry. The little blue Volkswagen Beetle (his avatar) looked as though it was magically gliding atop the water. Silly, I suppose, but then silly generally is my middle name.

He's gone -- to wherever the electronics recycling items go, hopefully not back to the Philippines where so much unwanted Canadian garbage turned up. I like to think he's gone to where someone or thing gets to guide him for a change -- a bit of payback for all the gentle guidance he gave to us.

Pull of the tides

For years I've had a tradition of trying to see the magical light cast on our front door by the Solstice dawn shining through a little stained glass window. This year, both mornings I tried (even the morning that wasn't officially Solstice), I missed it -- or it was too cloudy for the bright light to do its trick.

Even though I don't quite understand how the 'bulging ocean' phenomenon works, I am a longtime observer of the tides, especially the big ones that we see in summertime (or are those simply because we go down to the beach more when the weather's nice?).

The image above, a bit crooked though it is (apologies, I never make adjustments to the photos I post) gives you an idea of just how far out the tide goes when summer begins. It looks as though you might walk halfway to Vancouver Island. All of this is complicated by the pull of the moon, even though the last full moon was June 17th, days before Solstice.

I'm not the only one who likes knowing when the moon is full. This week I read that Neil Young, one of my favourite songwriter/musicians only makes recordings three days before the full moon. Apparently, he believes that's when his creativity is at its peak. Something more to watch for before the next time it's full.

Like I said, I don't really understand it all, but enjoy paying attention to the interaction between sea and sky. Always something to see, always something to wonder at.

Picky picky

Even though summer won't officially arrive until Friday morning's Solstice, today's ritual -- the annual picking of the strawberries -- made me feel like it was already here.

Because they grow so close to the ground, strawberries are the hardest berries to pick. Good thing they're the earliest berry. The picking only gets easier as the season progresses. All that bending or squatting (or, when desperate, kneeling) gets tiresome pretty quickly.

Still, this year's crop might have been the best (and easiest to pick) in years. Big, ripe, and juicy (I'll admit, I tested), they were so plentiful I was able to be quite selective, choosing only the nicest ones, and able to do so quickly.

So, what's next? Plenty of slicing and freezing and making jars of jam -- and of course, eating!

Becoming a birdwatcher?

While I wouldn't consider myself a birdwatcher, especially not one with any knowledge of species identification, lately I've been seeing a lot of birds.

The baby robin perched in the photo above must have peeped or I'm not sure I would have seen him, as I was lying outside reading a book when he caught my eye. It didn't take long for one of his parents to show up, bearing a mouthful of wriggly-looking worms. Yum.

But there've been other birds catching my eye of late -- some of them barging right up the front walk, looking as though they were sizing up the place, set to move in. In fact, yesterday's pair of visitors may well have been birds I could have said yum to, though I didn't. It would have been rude to treat 'company' so badly, I am sure.

These two ducks came wandering onto our deck, I suspect looking for a place to nest (probably in the very spot where we'll soon be pitching our tent for summer sleeps).

They poked around, looking here and there, pretty much giving us the up-and-down before they seemed to decide our house didn't fit their needs.

And now, barely an hour ago, looking out the back door I spied another bird, this little visitor a 'regular' making her daily path to her 'secret nest' hidden in the periwinkle. She (I have my reasons...) stops, perching on one of the hanging baskets of lettuce, then hops down to a lower one (maybe testing the basil?) and then sneaks down to the ground, where she dives into the thick greenery. The egg I found earlier this spring was probably from this little bird.

Not a pastime I'd ever claimed before, but maybe one of my new hats will have to be birdwatcher, even if I don't always know their names.