One brave little soul

While my last post was partly about Glorious Birds, today's note concerns an altogether different but nonetheless glorious-in-its-own-way bird.

We're in the midst of a very cold spell, one that's very unusual for where we live. Last time I checked, the thermometer read minus ten. That's Celsius; in Fahrenheit it's 14. 

So when our brave little hummingbird came to the feeder, we worried the liquid would likely freeze. Sure enough, when we brought it in, ice crystals were already starting to form. But then the Dear Man came up with one of his brilliant ideas -- the lamp base from the lava light appeared to be just the right size to hold the feeder. So it, combined with a tiny pie tin (with a few holes punched into it), has turned into a warm spot for the hummer to spend an extended dinner visit. 

And wouldn't you know -- the way serendipity seems so often to play a role in my life -- right now I am finishing a novel that features a group some refer to as Hummers. They're nothing at all like the oversized motor car by that name, but I guess to find out more, you might just have to read the book yourself. 

A golden anniversary

Fifty years. Yikes. How does a charming little movie get to be 50 and still have any kind of presence. 

Endurance, I guess.

According to most sources, Harold and Maude was released on December 20, 1971, although apparently there was a kerfuffle on the 7th of this month when a number of sources claimed that as its anniversary. 

Rude of me, I suppose, but I'm stickin' with today as the date for the observance. After all, I wrote the book on it. Okay, not the only book (so I can't really call it 'the book'), but I did a lot of research in my attempts to be accurate. And my book, Glorious Birds came out earlier this year, closer to the Spring Equinox than to the Winter Solstice. 

I can't help but think the beginning of winter is an appropriate time for the film to have been released, as the plot of it certainly moves from darkness to light. But because I don't want to reveal any spoilers, I'll keep the rest of my comments to myself, at least for now. 

Wintry salad

No doubt you've heard of Urban Farming, where people plant vegies in their yard rather than keeping the mostly pointless notion of lawn -- you can't eat grass. There's even an offshoot of this movement -- called, not unexpectedly, Suburban Farming. 

We don't go as far as using either of these labels, and we haven't considered adding chickens or goats to the mix, but we do grow some of our own food when the weather agrees. 

Our most bountiful crops are blackberries and quince, along with beans and salady greens. But we also harvest raspberries and plums, and even took delight this year in 12 tree-grown peaches. Yum!

However, this December, my brilliant partner has taken the notion of home-grown one step further: you might have to call it Indoor Farming. Obviously, our little set-up isn't anything like the vertical farming models that are easy to find on the Internet, nor is it hydroponic, as our plants grow in soil. 

But truly, whether it's a few leafy greens added to a sandwich, or just a sample torn off as I walk by 'their' window, I take delight in being able to eat food that we've grown, often when it's only seconds 'off the vine', all the while looking outside on weather that's clearly December, and mighty wintry. 

Yep!

Snow happens. And I guess I was right about thinking that change was about to happen.

This eerily blue image is how the world looked from the front door just after 8 this morning -- in other words, only a few minutes after sunrise, which just keeps getting later and later. 

This is the time of year that makes me wonder whether the people who seem to want Daylight Saving Time to be in effect forever whether they've thought about what mornings will be like. Dark. The sun won't come up until 9. Ugh. Hibernation well become the next new norm. 

This also happens to be the day when many observe the Feast of St Nicholas. When I was a kid, and even brattier than I am now, I convinced our mother that we deserved candies and other small stocking-type treats on this date. I suspect the reason she relented was solely because the day was named after a saint. Those kinds of arguments worked more than once on my behalf. Yep. Bratty could have been my middle name. 

As for this morning's snow, it was very wet and heavy and dragged down part of the bamboo 'trees' that provide such nice privacy from our neighbour. Here's hoping that a 'splint' job will help it to stand tall again. 

The big shift

I'm in the habit of having a couple of fresh flowers on the ledge above the kitchen sink. Lately, this little wish of mine has become a little harder to fulfill, as nearly all of the flowers in the garden have come and been. About the only reliable blooms that remain are the little white four-stars (my name for them) that cling to the leggy ends of the arugula -- a hardy plant that's still making contributions to our salads. 

But yes, this morning there was one bedraggled nasturtium in the pot out front -- and where the temps are finally getting frosty, I figured I'd better snip it and enjoy it for the bright spot of colour it provides. 

The weather predictions include the possibility of some snow, which is likely better news for many than the streams of heavy rains we've been experiencing here in BC. Although I'm never thrilled to have a big dump of the white stuff, even someone as grumpy as I can be admits that the first bits of it can be awfully pretty. 

Whatever the next while may bring, it's clear that the big shift into winter is upon us. 

Looks like they're back

                 

...the elves, that is. 

My office has once again been taken over by a couple of crafty types who enjoy making Christmas cards (even though some of those greetings go out to people who don't celebrate that particular holiday). 

It's always kind of a crazy mess, with stamps and stickers and all kinds of assorted papers and pencil crayons and whew! But amazingly, quite a few lovely cards are the result, and all of those go to special friends and family members. 

We've been doing this for quite a few years now -- maybe more than a decade -- but those first few stabs at making something are always a challenge. 

And now it seems, just as I am once again getting the hang of being 'creative' tomorrow will be the day we pack it all up and put it away until next year. 

The power of words

The poppy has likely become the most recognizable symbol of Remembrance Day. And it's all because of a poem written by John McCrae, one so many of us can recite (at least partially) by heart, "In Flanders Fields". 

We don't always realize the power of our words, and I'm sure McCrae had no idea that I (and a lot of other people) would be wearing a red poppy on my lapel all these years after World War I, over a century on. 

McCrae is certainly not the only poet who's written about what was called the Great War. The most famous of these is probably Wilfred Owen, though there are others, including a woman, Vera Brittain, whose poetic contribution was a volume called Verses of V.A.D. She was better known for her prose writings, one of which, Testament of Youth, sounds as though it will be coming out as a film. 

Many others have written novels set during World War I. Two that come to mind are June Hutton's Underground, another is Deafening by Frances Itani. 

But Remembrance Day isn't only about remembering the First World War. It's a day for being grateful for all of those before us who fought for a way of life we too often take for granted. 

And one special remembrance I always keep on this day is the fact that it's the birthdate of Kurt Vonnegut, a writer who certainly solidified his reputation as being anti-war with his memoir-based novel, Slaughterhouse Five. 

Who will I be this time?

 

Part of making a jack-o-lantern is deciding what kind of face it needs. This little guy looks to me like he deserves a smile. But I'm not usually the carver in our house -- I'm usually more the seed-baker. As far as using the rest of the pumpkin, I'm not so good. Weird of me, I suppose, but almost the only food I don't like is pumpkin pie. 

But there's more to Halloween than the pumpkin. Sure, there's the matter of treats -- beware buying items with peanuts -- too many little ones have allergies. Same for paying attention to sugar, sugar, sugar. 

Because I long ago attended Catholic schools, we were lucky enough to get a day off on the day after Halloween, All Saints Day, no doubt giving our teachers a break from us, jumping up and down in our seats. 

Really though, the hardest thing about Halloween is trying to figure out a costume!

My best ones have probably been dreamt up at the last minute -- rat with my friend dressed as a bag of garbage. The main trouble he experienced was that party-goers kept tossing chocolate bar wrappers and other debris into the garbage bag he was wearing. 

The most fun costume I can remember was when I went as 'The Magnetic Poet' with a metal clipboard hanging around my neck where friends were encouraged to create contributions to a poem. The best part (or most fun maybe) was the 'hat' I wore which identified me -- a red metal colander with more magnetic words for 'helpers' to use in making poems on the fridge or wherever else they could find a workable metal surface. 

However you celebrate, be sure to have some fun (and be sure to have enough treats on hand to have leftovers for yourself)!

Shake, rattle, and roll

If you recognize that phrase, you must be nearly the age that I am. In this case, I'm not thinking about classic rock music, but about the annual earthquake exercise called the Great Shake-Out, a practice that's apparently held the world over on the third Thursday of October. 

This year that translates to October 21st, tomorrow. The drill here in BC will take place at 10:21 a.m., an easy enough time to remember, as it matches the date 10/21. 

I've participated in this before (if you have the tv or radio on, it's hard not to -- as they blast a terrible 'warning' sound), but this year I'm more serious than previously, as I've just finished reading a book about earthquakes, On Borrowed Time. Its descriptions of quakes and the often-accompanying tsunamis that have occurred all over the globe might be enough to give anyone shakes of their own, but that's not the author's main intent. His message is really that we all need to prepare so that we're ready when (not if) the inevitable occurs. For more about the book, you might want to read a review I wrote about it.

As part of the Great Shake-Out there's even more than usual it seems available online, including this comprehensive compilation of 'seven steps' from a place one might expect to find such information, the state of California.  

Scary? Yes, it is -- more than a little bit. But sensible to try to be prepared? I sure think so. 

Labour and the fruits thereof...

This has been the week for trying to finish up the autumn chores before the rainy season starts in earnest. That's meant clearing leaves and bits of cedar clicks off the deck (clicks? I don't know what else to call them, the cedar equivalent of fallen leaves). It's a task that needs to be completed before the nighttime bursts of wet, or the deck turns into a mass of gooey orange bits. Seasonal decorations, I suppose, but not particularly desirable. 

Other jobs that need doing? Slicing and drying more fruit -- all of it free. This time, it's apples from the overly bountiful tree at a friend's place. Before those, it was quince from the copious amount of fruits from the tree in our front yard. Little bags of each will probably find their way into Christmas baskets. 

Maybe the least pleasant (though one of the most necessary) is pruning the English ivy that drapes itself along the fence between us and the neighbour. It's thick enough that it helps provide a wall of privacy, but because it's an invasive species, it has to be discouraged -- and definitely kept off of the trees along that same border. Its pollen is horrific (even as I type this, my nose has started itching). A few years ago I did a post where I was dressed in basically a homemade Hazmat suit -- all so I could do a pre-autumn chop. 

This time, as I filled another bucket with debris, I couldn't help but think that the ivy's flowers look an awful lot like images of the virus that's been keeping us masked up and in relative isolation. Maybe all along, the all-too-stalwart ivy was trying to warn us what might lie ahead.

But in amongst all of these tasks, the best remains the tending of the berries -- this time even offering their own small reward -- a tiny bowl of perfectly red, sun-sweetened raspberries. 

Mmmm.

A Tail of Two Countries

Because part of my morning included a drive to the airport, I had occasion to drive along one of my favourite roads, Zero Avenue. 

That may seem like an odd name for a street, but considering where it's located, it makes perfect sense. 

It runs along the Canada/US boundary, a space that for years has been proudly known as the world's longest undefended border. And yes, the trees and greenery on the right side of the road are the USA while those on the left are Canada. As for who paints the yellow line on the road, I'm not sure. 

Sadly, though it may be undefended by military forces, the border hasn't been open for travel for over a year and a half -- at least not to those of us from Canada who might want to head south. And yes, we all know (and are probably tired of) the reason for that. 

But on such a beautiful day as this one, I can't bear to dwell on anything negative. 

Instead I'll just offer a small explanation of the silly title I gave this post. 

Both when I was driving east on Zero and when I was going westward towards home, I spotted a bit of wildlife (okay, just a black squirrel) and who knows, maybe it was the same critter both times, but he (she?) was crossing the border, something I'm still not permitted to do.  

And I must admit, I am looking forward to be able to exercise the same freedom as that squirrel indulged in. 

Long time coming

Today is the first time we in Canada are observing National Day for Truth and Reconciliation. Many businesses are closed, though not all. As is so often the case with a newly introduced tradition, it takes some of us longer to learn than others. 

I was fortunate to be in Victoria, our provincial seat of government, earlier this week. It was good to see the steps of the Legislature Building filled with reminders of the 215 children whose graves were discovered earlier this year. 

Even wet with rain, the memorial to them evokes sadness -- and for some of us, difficult memories of our own, especially recollections of experience with actions taken in the name of religion. 

I was especially pleased when this morning's 'Poetry Pause' from the League of Canadian Poets arrived in my inbox, as it was "Angels: 215" a poem written by our current Parliamentary Poet Laureate, Louise Bernice Halfe / Sky Dancer. Not only is she our country's first Indigenous Poet Laureate, she knows all too well the experience of residential schools. And in case you'd like a poem emailed to you every day, here's a link to the form where you can sign up. 

The message, "Every Child Matters" is important and one we can only hope will soon become universally true, one that will remain true always.  

Aside from listening to different broadcasts today, this little post is about all I am able to do. That and wear my own orange shirt. I did at least do my best to buy a new shirt with a design that was created by an Indigenous artist. 

I felt fortunate to find one bearing the work of Art W. Charlie II, a man from near Tofino here in B.C. 

For the sake of a river

Yesterday was World Rivers Day, but it seemed -- at least around here -- pretty much nobody noticed. 

This seemed a bit odd, especially as Rivers Day apparently had its origins here in British Columbia and was founded by water protector and advocate Mark Angelo. \

I tried to find out about some way I could defend our local river, the Little Campbell, which is threatened by development that's bound to harm it and the salmon who remain there, but my efforts were futile; I was not able to connect with anyone who could help me figure out to show support for protecting it. 

The river in the photo above is the Similkameen, the one that runs behind our favourite campsite in Manning Park, the one we were lucky enough to stay in two weeks ago. 

Maybe I'll have to go back there to find a way to show my honour and respect for one of our rivers.  

C-change, I suspect

The more commonly used term is 'sea change' which means a big shift, and not one just pertaining to the ocean. 

The big shift I am anticipating (and somewhat bracing for) might in truth be more of a C-change, meaning a change in Canada as a result of today's election. 

Oddly, it happens that others refer to such thing as 'C-change' which turns out to be something called an eggcorn -- something that sounds like the word one actually means. 

At least I was able to prepare myself for whatever might be ahead by a week of being offline, camping in the comfort of our funny old RV at Manning Park. We weren't at the resort, but at the same site we'd stayed in last year on the bank of the Similkameen River, under the shade of a very tall cottonwood and a mix of conifers. 

So, I guess I have to say, whatever the votes might bring, bring it on. All we can do is look for brighter days ahead. 

Almost there...

Walking through a pile of crispy brown leaves mostly takes me back in time -- to days when my sister and I would build 'rockets' or 'cars' with piled up fallen leaves, always rounding out two 'cockpits' for each of us to sit in. But even riding around in our wildly imaginative vehicles, there's no way we could have envisioned the world of now. 

A global pandemic, showing not enough signs of being controlled. A society where it seems almost unimaginable to be able to buy a home. And, most threatening of all, a world in the midst of the climate emergency. 

I suppose, barely over a week from now, we'll have a new federal government. All I can do is brace for whatever that outcome might be. Yes, I will still vote, though we're one of those ridings where it's mostly pointless to cast a ballot, as a single party has held a tight grip (except for once) for more decades than I care to recall. I can't even vote by conscience this time, as we don't have a Green in the running here. 

But rather than thinking doom and gloom, I am reminding myself that we'll soon be rounding another seasonal corner, this time observing the autumn equinox a time when day and night are equal, a time of balance, at least of the light. That's also the first day we'll be under the sign of Libra, the ruler of balance. 

Looking forward to getting there. 

What happened??

I'm wondering what happened to kindness. 

Not so long ago, we were banging pots at 7 pm, whole neighbourhoods making noise on behalf of health care workers. We were participating in a small collective action to show our appreciation of nurses and doctors and emergency vehicle workers, whose job it is to keep the rest of us safe. 

Today, I had occasion to drive past our local hospital, only to spot protesters lining the sidewalk, waving signs -- a continuation of the anti-vax contingency's insistence on fighting against protective measures that have been enacted. I wonder how many of them will think it's all a hoax, and a conspiracy against their rights if they get sick. 

It has to be discouraging for health care workers to be faced with dissenters who claim they know better than scientists, though what they are basing their 'facts' on is anybody's guess. Worst story to come out of recent protests in Vancouver was this, about an ambulance worker fearing that her patient would die while the rabble impeded the emergency vehicle's progress as they banged their sticks against it. 

What the heck is wrong with people, anyway. 

Up in the air

That's where we were the other, walking through the tree canopy at UBC's Greenheart TreeWalk. Even though we were high up (several storeys at many points along the route), it mostly felt a bit 'swingy' though the rope handles on either side were reassuring enough for even a chicken like me. 

Something I thought about while I was making the walk was the Wallenda family, who made tightrope walking a multi-generational career. I kept trying to keep my feet walking a line that followed the centre of the walkway. This only convinced me I could never have learned to walk on a rope, especially not one that didn't have a catch-net below. Yikes!

The other thing the walkway reminded me of was Robert Louis Stevenson's poem, "The Swing" with its rocking rhythms, so evocative of actually being on a swing. I tried finding a video of a film based on this poem, but none of the ones on YouTube were the one I'd been looking for. A former student of mine made it some years ago. While I was lucky enough to see it once, as she visited and shared it, but sadly, I can't find it anymore. 

Nonetheless, I still like the poem, and I hope maybe you will too. Here's a link to the print version of it. Imagine yourself on a swing as you read it; you might even feel like 'pumping' your legs! And if you feel like taking a vicarious walk on the one out at UBC, click here for a video experience. 

Standard shift

Even though the peaches aren't quite ripe enough to pick, today no longer feels like summer. It's not even a matter of temperature, it's something about this afternoon's light. Maybe it's the angle of the sunlight dappling the boards of the deck -- whatever the cause, it makes me realize that autumn's on its way.  

The blackberries are thick on the vines, and we're still getting a few raspberries for our desserts. The plums down at Lee Street, where we're always encouraged to pick, are just about ready too. Another year with a bounteous supply of fruits. 

I suppose this overabundance may well mean a harsher than usual winter. We'll wait and see about that. 

For now, I'm heading back to the kitchen. Jars are sterilized and shiny, ready for me to make another batch of jam. 

Is there snow on Mars?

And no, I wasn't on Mars, though the light filtering through the smoky skies was eerie enough to feel like I was on the red planet. 

Even though we're far from the many forest fires currently burning in our province, the smoke made its way here, as if reminding us of our interconnectedness and vulnerability. 

The last time I remember this kind of dusting of ash was when Mount St Helens blew her top in 1980. Yes, that ash was thicker, but this had that same quality to it -- as if it were gritty snow. 

I'm washing the vegies and fruits as we pick them from the garden, not something I generally need to do. 

Nonetheless, considering the horrors going on across the world in Afghanistan, where people are not only losing their rights, but their lives as they try to escape, I can only be grateful for smallish annoyances as the ones I've been given.  

Coulda, shoulda

Once upon a time the City of Surrey had the opportunity to make a park. As you can see from the photo, it looks as though they already had one. 

In actuality, it was the site of a nine-hole golf course. But more importantly, the site had several ponds which served as a home to nesting ducks and other migratory birds who stopped by along their flightpaths.

There was also a salmon-bearing stream, now lost. 

Somehow the City Council decided it made more sense to turn it into a parking lot. Maybe they misunderstood Joni Mitchell's song, and thought that a parking lot meant paradise. 

The photo is from autumn of 2004, and those rolling green hills are long gone and paved, part of a shopping complex with a Walmart at its heart. If they'd moved that centre a mere one block to the east, and declared the site as parkland, the thousands of people who now live in the many nearby townhouses built since then, those families would have had a greenspace park. But no, instead they have a place for buying imported goods. No doubt useful in some respects, but hardly the place for a picnic. 

Surrey is once again planning to pave another environmentally sensitive area. And surprise, surprise, despite the fact that the 'public' meeting (which ran until after 2 a.m.) heard from many speakers who presented science-based reasons for opposing the proposed development, Surrey's Mayor McCallum and his four sidekicks on Council voted instead for construction of an industrial park there. And yes, that term has to be one of the most contradictory oxymorons of our time. 

The area where this construction is proposed contains a river where endangered salmon species still live, and is above an aquifer which feeds the wells of many residences. As one of the presenters put it: "Building a series of warehouses above an aquifer -- whose idea was that?!"

The Zoom meeting for public input began in the afternoon and then ran for just over 12 hours. Because I am a person who cares, I was present for the duration. Yet, as has been apparent at other such presentations in the past, it became clear that the elected officials had their minds made up in advance. 

When the five minutes allotted me for my presentation came up (at 10:30 p.m.), I had the unsettling experience of being interrupted by the mayor -- who basically told me to shut up -- an occurrence that rattled me, I admit. I can't help but think that's partly the reason I've had such a hard time getting around to writing this particular post. 

All that I -- and many others -- had hoped for was that the proposal as currently described would be rejected so that it could be revised in a way that would protect the sensitive areas from having warehouses built on them. Warehouses which are being touted as places for employment opportunities for the people of Surrey, despite the fact that more and more warehouse work is being performed by robots, and not people at all. 

So yes, I think this is yet another error in the making by our municipal government, one that will prove to be regretted in the not-so-distant future. All we can hope is that some higher level of government will pronounce the plan as folly and stop it from going forward -- and, with luck, will determine that it's an area worthy enough of protection to be declared as parkland. 

40 days (and 40 nights)

That's how long it's been since we've had rain. 

The rain barrels have both been empty for weeks. The lawns are parched, too many trees look droopy. Even the ever-fresh daisies are looking tired. 

Water restrictions are in place, though luckily still only at Phase One locally. 

Naturally, we're not supposed to waste water by washing cars (hardly an essential demand). Fortunately, we are still permitted to hand-water our vegie gardens.

Tomorrow will be Day 41, the day we'll tie the longest dry spell experienced here. As for the rest of the province, the forecast -- especially with raging wildfires -- is not looking good. 

Biblical? Nearly. 

Crossing fingers on behalf of the plants, especially the trees, that they'll soon be able to get un-parched. 

So much for social responsibility

This is the way a house in my neighbourhood came down -- all of a piece, in one gigantic mess. 

Even though some days back, when we realized the house would be a tear-down (in itself an irresponsible decision, as the home was likely built in the 1980s), neighbours asked to buy some of the doors and windows. Sadly, their requests were refused. 

So, a bunch of us happened along this morning and watched (some with masks, as the dust was hideous) while a machine methodically knocked it over and over and over. 

Rather than recycling those beautiful French doors and oversize windows, a mass of wood and glass and metal, along with heaps of pink insulation, made its way to the landfill. 

Only in Surrey? Could well be the case. So much for Surrey's slogan, The Future Lives Here. We can only hope not. 

Nostalgia on a summer breeze

At last, the season for reading outdoors has truly arrived. Oh sure, I used to read in the snow fort I’d built in the backyard, but that was a long time ago, a time I’m not all that nostalgic for. Still, such thoughts are somewhat apt, as the book I read yesterday afternoon, Diane Tucker’s Nostalgia for Moving Parts, opens with memories of childhood.

Whether she’s recalling the feel of bare feet on cool floors or sliding on them “in sock feet” or lying down, staring into the heat vents which she describes perfectly as looking like “little venetian blinds” she’s certainly succeeded in transporting me there. Even in her stories of being a very young girl, we see her developing what she understands being a woman to mean, whether that’s disliking a dress your mother wants you to wear, flirting with a cute boy in grade two, or coming to the realization that there’d come a day when “You threw the dice of yourself and hoped you’d win.”

Her poems and the experiences they recount—including the deaths of both of her parents—have taken me to some of the places I realize I still need to pay more attention to. Even my massage therapist tells me that my pains are from holding back grief. As the poet Edward Hirsch reminds us in 100 Poems to Break Your Heart, “The poet is one who…is determined to leave a trace in words, to transform oceanic depths of feeling into the faithful nuances of art.”

And that seems to be exactly what Tucker has done with her poems, which deal with everything from the joys of backyard games:

we smashed the badminton birdie

over the fading net arc after arc

until evening ate the small white thing

 to observations about the qualities of evening wine: 

White wine is not white but golden,

bright lantern to light your aging limbs,

slow lover bathing your solitary throat.

 And from those words I read on yesterday’s summery afternoon (“This afternoon could scour the cool / out of anything…”), I have to say that I am grateful that she has given me words I can use to write about her book, a book that helps me understand why she is nostalgic for certain lost things—and how it is that she has come to write about them. For lack of a better way to express this, I offer a stanza from her poem, ‘The woods are full of poets’: 

As cedar boughs grow down and then

grow up (a double wish, a desire for both

at once), blank paper does two things:

it blocks the light and it lets light through. 

It’s a stanza that in itself evokes a small reminder of (and nostalgia for) Leonard Cohen, and his lessons about light.

For the birds?

July is supposed to be the happiest of months. Or maybe somehow I just have that stuck in my mind. Maybe because it's the first month of no school. Or maybe because I often go to Kansas for the Amelia Earhart Festival (cancelled again this year) and its exciting display of fireworks. 

It's traditionally been the month when I get back down to plenty of leisure reading. Something about warm weather that makes me want to sit outside with a book -- a great excuse for not doing anything more energetic. 

When I used to work in schools, July felt like the time when I was finally free of responsibilities of classroom teaching (marking, ugh) or library work (inventory, double-ugh). So the idea of free reading is one I still associate with this month. 

Again going back to work days, my brain never seemed ready to tackle 'big' books. I'd start off by reading a few of Tintin's adventures, and then gradually go forward to books like David and the Phoenix or The Secret Garden. Before the month would be out, my brain would be back in gear and ready to tackle some grown-up books. 

Even though I no longer have those mega-duties anymore, I still find myself doing 'warm-up' reading with what might these days be called YA materials. This year, it was GG-winner, The King of Jam Sandwiches, followed by the old-fashioned pleasures of a Green Knowe book from Lucy M. Boston. 

Already I've managed to roar through Thomas King's latest, the very timely, Sufferance, much of it actually set on the site of a residential school. Among the residents of this very fine book is a passel of crows, one of whom stopped by on one of our skylights. Not sure if he thought he could get inside or what. Must have been a nice buffet of dead bugs up there. Or maybe he was just looking down onto my current stack of library books, hoping to find something good to read. 

O, Kanata

This year's July 1st has come to mean quite different thoughts than the proudly patriotic ones of the past. The reason, of course, is the sadness that descended on our country over the recent confirmation of the many deaths -- mostly of children -- that occurred at Canada's residential schools. 

For weeks now, nearly all flags have flying at half-mast in recognition of these lost souls. 

Many of us are wearing orange shirts today, a sign that we choose to remember the children who were taken from their homes and who had their culture, their families, and their language taken from them. 

The wearing of orange shirts has its origins in the story of Phyllis Jack, who had an orange shirt she loved when she was only six years old. Excited about her first day of school, she wore the bright orange shirt, a gift she'd received from her grandmother. But upon her arrival, the nuns took away her shirt and never gave it back. Recent years have seen the tradition of wearing orange shirts, many of which bear the reminder that Every Child Matters. 

As for the 'Kanata' reference at the top of this post, it's part of Canada's origin story. Sadly, it's yet another example of how colonizing settlers took from the people they met here. We took a word from a language that wasn't our own -- a word that meant 'village' -- and applied it to the whole country. Stolen words, stolen lands. 

Much to learn, and much to heal from. A time for listening. 

Dog days of June

In truth, it seems a bit unfair to dogs to designate some of the most miserable days of the year as 'dog' days. At least, looking into the history of the name, it turns out to relate to that time later in summer when Sirius, the dog star, passes overhead. And yes, this period of time generally comes must later, calendar-wise, toward the end of July and into August. (Oh, if you click on this last link, you may find yourself as enchanted as I was when you see the fanciful illustration.)

The temperatures we've been experiencing here in BC's Lower Mainland are unprecedented -- even for later in the season. Our little thermometer, which is never in direct sunlight, but on the inside of a post in our gazebo, has never before gone over 40 Celsius, and has certainly never before gone over 100 Fahrenheit. But that's exactly what it did, both yesterday and the day before. 

As might be expected, the news is full of items about climate change. The Vancouver Sun's front page headline story chronicled just that. But really, unless you've been living under some moss-covered rock, this is hardly surprising. 

I'm just hoping that the disquiet, discomfort -- and now, as we've learned, even deaths -- resulting from this latest distress call from the Earth, will help bring our politicians to action beyond their mumblings about reading reports and considering what to do. How convenient though for them (both provincial and federal) to have taken off for the summer recess and no doubt, to their lakeside cottages where soft breezes blow any such thoughts of responsibility and duty away to some other day. 

Anniversaries and fresh starts

Although I knew that today is National Indigenous People's Day, if I hadn't heard it on the news, I wouldn't have realized that this is the 25th anniversary of this observance. Time. Such a strange phenomenon. Sometimes it moves so slowly; other times it seems to be in the blink of an eye. 

One aspect of this year's observance that seems worth noting is the fact that our current Parliamentary Poet Laureate, Louise Bernice Halfe -- Sky Dancer is Indigenous and spent part of her early years attending Residential School. 

Her poem called "Angels" reminds of us of the children whose graves were discovered at the old school in Kamloops. It's posted on the Poet-Laureate website and you can read it here. 

The turning of the tide

Today is the last day of spring, officially, as tomorrow evening (8:32 pm PDT) will be solstice. Really, it's hardly felt like spring of late, more like a long, extended winter. Altogether too many bad things have been happening, including covid deaths. The latest, and we certainly hope the last of these, was the husband of my sister-in-law Sophie, who left us at the end of January. Soulmates perhaps with husband joining his wife. It was a bit as though one might have called the other. 

But yesterday, walking on the beach when the tide was almost exactly at its lowest, along with a glimpse later on of the waxing moon, gave me the feeling that the tide is turning. 

And maybe today, officially recognized as Juneteenth, will really be the start of shifted thinking. 

Statues of colonizing figures are coming down, an action that stirs mixed feelings in many. 

Indigenous people are finally being given the chance to take charge of the forests in B.C. Whether this action will take place in time to make a substantial difference, well, we'll have to see. 

Still, for a change, partly because I and most of my family have now received two doses of vaccine, I am finally starting to feel a bit more hopeful. 

Regrets

I never met her, but I felt I knew her. When news came this week that Shelley Fralic, writer and editor for the Vancouver Sun, had died, a physical sense of loss washed through me. 

Her longtime pal and fellow columnist Pete McMartin was the one who broke the news to me -- on the front page of Tuesday morning's paper. His tribute to her is worth reading to the end, as he uses her own words in summary, and wise words they are. 

She wrote about things that many would consider ordinary, but in such a fresh and honest way they rose above the plane of the mundane. A great example is a column from earlier this year, when she wondered why a worker at Canadian Tire didn't understand what she was looking for when she asked for a crescent wrench. In that same piece she muses further on encountering a worker at another store who didn't know what she meant when she asked about pink flamingo lawn ornaments. Worst was probably the supermarket worker who had no idea about Brussels sprouts. 

Her point in that column was that it seemed to her that people are getting dumber. And maybe we are.

I sure feel that I am. In part because I never wrote to her (though thought of it a number of times). Why? To thank her. For what? Wasn't she just doing a job, one she was getting paid for?

The thanks would have been for writing in a way that always filled my head and made me want to read her column right down to the last word. 

It would have been for making me think, and for occasionally making me explore; I doubt I would have become as accustomed to visiting Point Roberts if it hadn't been for a nudge from her.

It would have been for occasionally pulling my heartstrings and making me nostalgic for some memory nearly lost in time. And it would have been for making me laugh.

In a recent piece she mentioned the small pleasure of eating cookies, but in such a way that I not only laughed out loud (alone, no less) but nearly choked. I was prompted to write to thank her for the laugh, and to say it seemed lucky I hadn't been eating cookies at the time. 

But I didn't. Too many other emails to write, or maybe just the distraction of the day's Sudoku. Whatever, I didn't thank her, and now I can only regret that I didn't. I can just hope that mistake will help me express thanks the next time I need to, especially when it's for something as life-affirming and important as a laugh. 

Glacial Melt

It's true. The glaciers are melting at what seems like ever-faster rates. The latest chunk to fall off of Antarctica is bigger than the state of Rhode Island, or 70 times the size of Manhattan (though without the skyscrapers).  

And yes, old-growth trees continue to fall -- or at least they will if protesters at Fairy Creek don't soon make a difference to our ever-distracted premier. It seems that really all the protesters are asking is that the government honour the standards they've already agreed to uphold. Only they aren't keeping their word. And they've used the power of the courts (an injunction) to hammer their fist down.  

But worst of all is the news that 215 children, some as young as three years old, are buried on the grounds of what once was one of our federal government's residential schools. 

So, with all such terrible news, I can only offer the photo above which gives you a glimpse of my own glacial project -- defrosting the pantry fridge, a luxury (despite its manual defrost needs) which I remain thrilled to own. 

Even though it's now starting to feel like summer outside, the chunks of ice I tossed out into the back yard hadn't all melted by morning -- shades of Newfoundland, but on the west coast!

Truly, things can only improve. 

Traditional and not

Today, as I observe (I didn't say 'celebrate') Victoria Day, I can't help but think about the things I might usually do. 

For one thing, it's traditionally the day for planting things -- thus, the shot of the beautiful black soil, looking as though it's ready for seeding. 

It's also the day I usually put my two hibiscus trees outside, so they can soak up the summery sun instead of being reliant on light that comes in the window, the situation they must tolerate from Thanksgiving and through the winter. Today, because it's rainy, I'm too lazy to drag them outdoors (besides, they've grown for so many years, they're heavy -- I'll wait for better conditions). Maybe by tomorrow. Who knows. 

One thing that doesn't happen very often, but happens to be the case this year is that we're observing it on the actual date of her birth, the one that goes with the old rhyme. 

At least we managed to have an outdoor meal on Saturday -- kind of a picnic -- a way to kick off what we hope we will be a decent summer.. 

What's fer supper?

In 2009, I started a blog that answered that question every night for a year. That first post wasn't very exciting, though over the year (and beyond) I like to think it got better. Heck, how many people do you know who could tell you what they had for supper twelve years ago (even if they are off by a day)? The post for May 17th seemed more appropriate (and looked more delicious too, though maybe I'm just hungry). I'll admit that I've spent a while poking around there, looking for inspiration perhaps, and have to say that one of the days most important to me is a meal that looks, at first glance, pretty ordinary, though the story that goes with it is anything but. 

Though I digress. Today's post is the result of a full-page ad I saw in yesterday's Globe and Mail, the Saturday paper I like to save for reading on Sunday. The ad reminds us of how the restrictions required during these pandemic times have made things so difficult for anyone in the restaurant trade (so I suppose this is my version of a 'Restau-Rant'). 

Costco and Walmart and the other corporate biggies are laughing as always, all the way to the bank with their profits. It's the family-owned, local businesses (so many of which are restaurants) that are suffering. We need to feed the businesses that comprise our local economy by letting them feed us. 

As you can see from the array of takeaway menus on the table, we have a great selection of restaurants nearby. Sadly, none of them are open now -- except of course for takeaway. Because I already had something mostly planned for tonight's supper, I'm not ordering in, though I plan to do so at least once in the coming week -- maybe twice, just because I can. 

The season of green

There are so many beautiful places to take a walk. This spot, in Aldergrove Park, looked so lush I just had to take a photo. It was almost an accident that I even stopped there, but I'm glad that I did. 

Not only because the scenery was great, but also because I found a great patch of still-tender nettles shoots. And luckily, I carry a pair of scissors as well as sturdy gloves in my car. While there are people who pick these without benefit of protection, I'm one who prefers to avoid their sting. 

I only took a small harvest, but enough to make a few packets for the freezer -- either for lasagna or manicotti as a spinach substitute, or else for my version of nettle-kopita (again, instead of the usual spana-version). 

While I poked around in the bush, I even found the first evidence of the season's berries, the always reliable, at least around here, salmonberries. A good sign for more bounty to come. 

Cinema as a public experience still matters

Saturday night at the movies. What a great tradition. Often with a meal at a restaurant beforehand, or a drink at the bar afterwards. 

The photo illustrates how our local theatre, the Criterion, is doing its best to support itself during the various stages of shutdown. 

Even though they've upgraded the seats, established a 'seating plan' so they can sell tickets and have patrons socially isolated according to protocols, they're not allowed to show films to paying clients. 

Last film I saw here was Tenet, a film I could have done without, but which was the only current film offered on the night I wanted to go. At least I got to have some popcorn. Something I have again tonight.

Another theatre facing difficulties is the heritage venue in Powell River, the Patricia, home to the Powell River Film Festival. This year, the festival was virtual, so I at least got to see a couple of films on my list, Zappa and Ammonite. 

And yes, to me, cinema matters. 

If you have ideas to help support it, please act.

Here's to keeping our local cinemas open!

My Own Private Oscar Night

For years, I've been a faithful follower of Oscar night. This year, as things are in oh-so-many ways, it's different. The biggest differences are that I only saw one film in a cinema this year, and I've only been able to see a few of the candidates for the big awards. 

But I have one all-on-my-own disappointment. The short animated film that I'd hoped would not only be up for, but would WIN an Oscar, didn't make the list. 

It's only five minutes long, but I can't think of a better candidate for the winner for animated short this year than one from our own NFB. It's a short created by Andrea Dorfman, of a poem by Tanya Davis called 'How to Be at Home'. It's only five minutes long, and when you're ready, click here to see it. 

A good day to buy some books

There's a little basket on my desk where I keep an assortment of bookmarks. Many of these are souvenirs from independent bookstores where I've shopped over the years. Sadly, too many of them no longer exist, not even in the world of virtual shopping. No more Duthie's, and saddest for me, the loss not only of a bookstore but of a friend when Copper Beech closed. 

But today, the last Saturday in April, is a day for finding ways to support our local indie bookstores. As an incentive they've even organized a contest to encourage us to shop (though weirdly, my remaining local indie is not on the list of shops participating). 

I'd write more, but I think it's probably time for me to grab my wallet and head out to the bookstore -- not just for books, but maybe even a couple more bookmarks. 

Restoration

And looking at that word, restoration, it makes me think: reforestation. 

Exactly what part of my wish is for my Restore the Peace dream. Putting the trees back -- or, to be more truthful, putting in new ones. 

Thinking some more about reforestation, I'm wondering whether the brave souls at Fairy Creek will manage to save those old-growth giants, rather than having them gone, and having to start over again with tiny sprouts that will take hundreds of years to match the Grandfather and others in that grove. 

But yes, it's Earth Day, with its theme of Restore Our Earth, and best news is probably that Joe Biden seems to have shamed Justin Trudeau into making a few more promises (which I sure hope he lives up to this time). Yes, we've heard his song-and-dance before, but maybe with the US holding his feet to the fire, he'll listen. 

Clearly, this is not my happiest Earth Day, as it doesn't seem we're making much in the way of progress. 

Good thing the ferns in the yard are doing the same good job they do every year of coming back into greenness, their own miraculous restoration.

Onward we go, hopefully towards truly Restoring Our Earth before it is too late.   

Countdown...

...to Earth Day, April 22nd. The theme for this year's observance is the all-too-urgent call to "Restore Our Earth". 

Yes, I try to do my small part in looking after the planet. Drying linens on the line means I don't have to use electricity to power the dryer. Instead, it's what I like to think of as backyard wind power. And oh, but I do love the bonus scent of those sheets that have danced in the breeze on a sunny afternoon! 

This year I am hoping for a bigger kind of restoration to begin, one I'm calling Restore the Peace. 

I'm imagining crews of workers employed at what's still called 'Site C' -- only they're not building a mega-dam -- they've abandoned that folly and are working to restore the land as well as the currently-diverted Peace River. 

They're planting trees to replace those that were removed and while they wait for those trees to grow, they've established a 'forest' of wind turbines.

If this sounds like a dream, yes it is. But it's a dream I believe we need to make come true. 

While many of us believe that every day should be Earth Day, the official one is coming soon, so yes, I'm embarking on a countdown and hoping you'll join: Ten, nine, eight, seven...