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.