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...

Poetry all over the place

National Poetry Month -- is, as far as I'm concerned, one of the great reasons (besides the gradually improving weather) to be glad it's April. This year's theme, resilience, seems right for the year we've had (and seem to be continuing to have) under various stages of lockdown and social distancing. 

As a constant reader, I tend to poke around in genres. And it seems, even when I'm putting my focus on poetry, more than one genre insists on being present. The three books above serve to illustrate this. 

The one on the left, Scratching Initials, is a self-published homage to the author's sister. It's a blend of poems and black-and-white drawings, quite a lovely little book that contains a nice range of poetic forms -- prose poems, ghazals and haibun. 

The one on the right, burninghouse, is a taut collection by a writer whose work feels firmly grounded in Atlantic Canada. Feminism is the guiding principle in these poems -- a book worth taking the time to find -- or at least that's my opinion. 

The one in the middle, 100 Poems to Break Your Heart, does much more than the title suggests. Each of the 100 poems in this anthology is accompanied by a short essay that enriches anyone's reading of the poem. And it isn't so much that the author, noted poet Edward Hirsch, offers ongoing heartbreak; his words -- and the poems -- provide solace, something I suspect so many of us are now in need of. 

And if you're ready to celebrate National Poetry Month with poems of your own, here's a link to a list of inspirations that might get you started. Or, for more detailed instructions (note: they change, day to day) here's a blog for NaPoWriMo (which has added 'Glo' to its name, indicating it's now National Global Poetry Writing Month) with amazing suggestions -- including one, for a 'deck' of word cards which seems actually to have been part of the method Linda Pearce used in Scratching Initials. 

Once you've started writing poems, I hope you might work up enough courage to enter this year's 2-Day Poem Contest, an adventure that's always interesting (to put it mildly -- try it and you might see what I mean). Although the event takes place April 23rd to 25th, the deadline for registering is April 16 -- soon. 

The choice of how to celebrate is yours, and no doubt there'll be more poetry-themed posts during this glorious month that celebrates this dear-to-my-heart art form. 

It's hard to imagine...

 

..just how the City of Surrey managed to wangle its recently-announced designation as a "Tree City" as when I look around I see small forests and big trees coming down, down, down.  

One of the most reliable spokespersons for the trees -- for years now -- is a woman named Deb Jack. When she speaks, our know-it-all mayor offers his usual lip service and then votes in a way that shows he's yet again ignoring the things she says.  

The photo above shows one of a batch of trees that bordered the edge of a property where a little old house was torn down, no doubt to be replaced by a giganto, absurdly big one. 

I'd have thought that trees that close to the property line would not have had to be chopped, as there are some limits (too small, but they're officially there) as to how much clearance there needs to be between the building and the line. Besides, the next door 'neighbour' is an elementary school, so the 'natural fence' provided by trees would have meant shade, privacy, and a cushion from the noisy play outside of a school.

The "Tree City" designation requires a city to show a plan for evaluating specific trees, for having a policy that requires replacement of trees that have been removed -- and yes, Surrey has these, but they're plans as thin as the paper they're written on. They're often ignored, and as for replacements -- huh? How does a 3-foot cedar shrubbery replace a tree that's over 50 years old. 

I'm not the only one who feels our Council's approval of trees falling everywhere is unacceptable, but with the current 'representatives' sitting, neither we nor the trees seem to stand a chance. 

Surrey: good for making promises as hollow as a tree gone rotten with disease.

Share a poem today

Sometimes it seems that there's a designated 'Day' for just about everything. 

Yesterday was (and it came as news to me) the International Day of Happiness. That seems like a day we could use more often than once a year. 

Today is another such observance. In 1999 the United Nations declared this date World Poetry Day. Some years, a specific theme is declared. In 2017 the theme was 'Freedom'. 

This year, while there's no specific theme, the preservation of languages plays a role. 

Since I don't write much in anything but English, the best I can offer for a poem today is a small piece particular to this challenging year we've been enduring. 

Haiku in isolated times

sitting at the table

so many days together

we remain in love

They're heeere!

It's always a glorious day when a box of new books arrives. Especially when they're my very own latest, Glorious Birds. 

Looking back over this less-than-glorious year, with its various stages of lockdown, I feel lucky that I found myself engaged in a project where I'd not only learn so much, but where I'd have such a great time. 

And now, on to the launch event, happening later this very day. 

Maybe it's time...

...that God needs a new pronoun too. 

My uncle often used to lead a prayer when we sat down to eat. And I loved that he generally began, "We thank thee, blessed Father/Mother..." an opening that acknowledged a being beyond the boundaries of a single given gender. 

On this day when we recognize one of the most intense complexities of mathematics, pi, it seems like a good time to grant a broader expansiveness to that most complex of all human constructs, the idea of God. 

And, if we're the sort who sometimes offers thanks to such an entity, we need to be grateful for Their (rather than Her or His) generous ways.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow is International Women's Day, a day when I'll be celebrating with a reading from my book about Amelia Earhart, Flightpaths. 

Her accomplishments as an aviator would be enough to make her a worthy mentor, but I admire her as well for her courage, especially in the many ways she stood up for and spoke out for the rights of women.  

Even though she was speaking about opportunities (or rather, the lack thereof) for women in the field of aviation, this statement of hers from 1934, sadly remains somewhat relevant today: "If and when you knock at the door, it might be well to bring an ax along; you may have to chop your way through." [from Susan Butler's excellent book, East to the Dawn]

The photo above is one of the monuments to her in Atchison, Kansas, the town where she was born. They like to celebrate their most famous citizen by having a festival in her honour every summer (every summer except 2020, of course; fingers crossed for this July). 

This weekend's edition of the Globe and Mail offered an interesting idea for a way to celebrate Women's Day. The article made the suggestion to read a book by a woman author. While that doesn't sound too radical a thought, the article reminded me that men don't always read books by women writers. 

This is something I've wondered about before, as women and girls certainly aren't afraid to read the works of men. Is this just another of those double-standards we continue to live with?

Tomorrow -- and by that, I don't mean only tomorrow, March 8th -- but all the tomorrows on into the years when things can only continue (we hope) to improve for women around the world. Onward!

And the beat goes on...

Earlier this week, news came that Lawrence Ferlinghetti, whose name has long been associated with the "Beat Movement" had died. Almost 102 years old, he certainly had a good run. 

In addition to being known for his writing, he and a partner started the famous City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco, a shop I can vouch for as being an almost magical place. Apparently, a memorial for him was held in the laneway adjacent to the shop, a short street known as Jack Kerouac Alley. 

Sadly, Ferlinghetti is not the only poet who's died during this long and lonesome winter. 

The wonderful Ontario poet, Michael Dennis left us on the last day of 2020. Poking around on his blog, "Today's Book of Poetry" where he was constantly reviewing books, is sure to lead you to discovering someone new. 

Earlier in the year, Vancouver lost d.n.simmers. If you click on the link for him, you'll see, in amongst photos of him, a shot that was taken at City Lights Bookstore -- the one with the 'Door' sign. 

Lost to us, though at least we have their books. So yes, I suppose the beat does indeed go on. 

Read -- it's still free

Usually, I observe Freedom to Read Week by participating in an event specifically geared to celebrate it. Often, that means doing a reading from books that have been banned or challenged. For fun, this link will take you to a quiz about literacy and the freedom to read. 

This year, like just about everything else in our lives, that observance is different. 

Yes, I'm in an event where I get to mention Freedom to Read Week, but the only challenged piece I'll be presenting is one of my own poems. It's one that a local environmental group posted on its website a few years ago, when a whole lot of poets banded together in efforts to save a forest from becoming yet another faceless development. Fortunately, this effort, the Han Shan Project succeeded, and that chunk of forest is now protected and available as a public park. 

My poem, which was based on the Beatitudes found in the Bible, stirred the wrath of certain folks. They not only complained that my poem was blasphemous, they threatened the environmental group, demanding that they remove my poem (and even, for a while, wanted the environmental group's entire website taken down). I was fortunate in that the group who'd posted it held its ground and honoured my poem, and also that the complainers gradually went away. 

This year, when it comes to censorship, freedom of expression, and access to information, my biggest concern is the repercussive wave that's swept the internet over Australia's decision to protect journalism in that country. The big guys, who seem to think they rule the world, don't want to have to pay for content.

It's going to take a while to sort out this mess, but it's a situation that deserves the attention of all of us who value responsible journalism and news that's true.  

Oh, and if you're curious about the photo with its message to Read, it's a piece of origami book art I came across at my local indie bookstore -- a business I'm doing my best to support by shopping there. I hope you can find ways to shop local too. 

O Canada...

Today is "I Read Canadian Day" -- a day that for me is probably not much different from most other days. Not that I read exclusively homegrown books, though looking at various piles around the house, it's pretty clear that those are what I mostly read. 

The ones in the photo at the top are non-fiction, poetry, and even a magazine. Looking at them, I see an odd kind of interplay among their titles. Unintentional, I promise, but kind of a fun treat providing a bit of comic relief, as the two hardcover books are about disasters that occurred in Newfoundland. 

The books in the photo below are novels I've read recently, and both come, as Vancouver reviewer Tom Sandborn might say, "highly recommended."

Speechless concerns the plight of a young woman accused of adultery. Punishment for 'her crime' (actually a rape) is to be a public stoning. There's a review of it (one I wrote) in the most recent edition

of sub-Terrain Magazine, though I guess you'll have to buy the magazine to read it, as it isn't (at least, not yet) posted online.  

The latest novel from Helen Humphreys, Rabbit Foot Bill, came out last fall (and I bought it right away), but I saved it, as I admit to being a fan of hers. I knew I'd want to savour it, like a treat you save for some special occasion. Wherever she sets her books (this one, in Saskatchewan), her writing transports me there. And even though I didn't write a review of it, I'll admit there are quite a few orange stickies marking passages I want to go back to. 

I hope you'll remember that today isn't the only day to Read Canadian. It's a pleasure -- at least for me -- any day of the year. 

The start of a lucky year?

Happy New Year! Or, as many of us have learned to say (perhaps mistakenly), "Gung Hay Fat  Choy!"

While that greeting may no longer be quite the right thing to say, the ideas behind the greetings at Lunar New Year remain. Those sentiments range through all sorts of good wishes -- for good health, prosperity, success in ventures undertaken (especially studies), and peace.  

The lucky red packets traditionally hold money. The ones in the photo above contain chocolate in the shape of coins. As far as I'm concerned, not a terrible substitute. 

Here in the Lower Mainland area of British Columbia, this day is generally observed with parades and fireworks and plenty of public celebrating. Naturally, with the pandemic in full bloom, those events have been cancelled, replaced with several virtual observances. Not the same, but at least safe. 

The plan here is to have an array of dim sum treats for supper. Most of those are purchased, pre-made frozen treats that don't require much more than a ride in the steamer. But because this year is unique, we've taken extra steps and are preparing (actually, we started yesterday) special beef tendon and even chicken feet. 

The Year of the Ox (the Metal Ox, no less) sounds, at least to my Western ears, much easier to welcome than last year's Year of the Rat (which, not too surprisingly, links in my mind to 'plague').

Do you know which animal rules the year you were born? Finding out might (or might not) help you learn just how lucky you will be this year. 

Not quite right

The number that is. 

It's been announced that the TransMountain Pipeline extension will require the removal of 1308 trees from several spots in the city of Burnaby. 

Although I tried finding a local address that matched that number, 1310 was the closest I could find. Considering that the 1308 applies only to the biggest trees in this cull, the slightly higher number seems close enough. 

The citizens of Burnaby elected people they believed would protect the environment to serve on their City Council. Those councillors in turn enacted bylaws that were meant to protect their city's trees. 

So I'm a bit dumbfounded at the fact that the courts -- established, I'd always thought, to protect laws (and even bylaws) decreed that Burnaby's bylaws could be so blatantly put aside. 

If you, like me, find this outcome to be more than 'not quite right' please write to Justin Trudeau -- quick, while the trees are still standing. There's a form on the 1308 Trees website which makes it very easy to do exactly that. 

Yes, it's real.

The other day, walking home from an appointment uptown, I passed a building with a multitude of tiny roses clinging to the branches of one of the bushes there. 

I couldn't resist taking a couple of photos, and must admit, I couldn't resist the temptation to steal one. 

When I got home, I put it into a little vase and set it on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. I figured, with my pair of my brass swans standing guard, it could serve as a little reminder of hope. 

But the little rose wasn't quite enough to bring the miracle I'd been hoping for. 

My sister-in-law, a New Yorker for many years, was hospitalized with the virus on January 8th. Shortly thereafter she was put on a respirator and moved to the ICU where she was monitored. 

She had no underlying conditions. Was never a smoker.

With help from her son (and Zoom), at least we were able to say I love you, I love you. 

But yesterday we received word that her heart finally gave out. 

If only the people who claim this disease is a hoax could be part of our story, they might be able to let the truth sink in. 

This killer virus is real -- sadly, all too real for us. 

 

Which one?

No, I'm not trying to decide which Nancy Drew Mystery to read (though that might be fun too). I'm trying to decide which jigsaw puzzle to do. Why? Because today is Puzzle Day!

I'll admit that I have quite a few choices, and that might be one of the reasons I'm not sure which one to do. 

One of my favourites is an old wooden puzzle I found at a second-hand store many years ago. Even when I bought it, I knew it was missing a couple of pieces. I didn't care. 

There's something about the way the thick pieces click into place that is much more satisfying than the non-sound that comes from putting cardboard pieces together. 

I suppose if I get desperate, I can open one of my precious Beatles' puzzles -- ones I've kept sealed in case they ever get valuable... this one, which is not only of my favourite of their films, but might well be what I'm asking for: Help!  

Shifting gears

Events occurring over January 20th and 21st make for an interesting glimpse of meanings for the term 20/21. 

Wednesday gave us an inauguration ceremony that was dignified and of and for the people. Respect. Diversity. Calm. Such guiding words. 

Dana Bash, one of CNN's commentators said yesterday that it was clear that now there were suddenly "adults in the White House" for a change. 

Even the tulips in the window box seem to be bathed in a rosy glow. 

Truly, a time for going forward. Onward. 

He got his wall

There used to be a cartoon character called Tweety Bird. As far as I can tell, this creature had nothing to do with the contemporary icon, the Twitter Bird. That one is apparently named Larry T.[The] Bird after the Boston Celtics' basketball star, Larry Bird.

The Twitter Bird that holds court on all things Twitter, the platform that no longer allows Tweets from Donald Trump. That account's been closed, we hear permanently.

Strangely, the little bird in the photo, which to me at least looks a lot like his cousin on Twitter, no longer has a voice. The gizmo inside him that used to make a 'tweeting' sound when you moved him has worn itself out. Something like the way that president's voice has worn itself out. 

Oh well, at least he got his wall. He must be disappointed that it's currently around the government buildings in Washington, D.C. and not quite the kind of wall he'd promised. 

Three more days. 

Entering a new phase

This vine-entwined portal opens onto a path that doesn't seem all that clear. But then, that's pretty much the way the world is feeling to me these days. 

The virus continues to rage, and so do the terrible-sounding plans for rebellious events in the US. Frightening, and hard to say which seems worse. 

Tonight's new moon is the first of this still mostly-new year, though its skinny fingernail of light will likely not be visible here. We're still experiencing more rain than usual, which makes for obscured skies. Still, that moon symbolizes another new beginning. 

And obscured, hard-to-know-what-comes-next days are how things feel, especially in light of the many changes occurring on the political scene.

Really, all I figure I can really ask from our elected officials is honesty. 

So, in that light, pale though the light of a new moon might be, I say to our premier, Mr. Horgan, please face up to the massive mistake that is Site C. Stop it now, so we can move towards actions to remediate the disaster the site has become -- quick, before it gets any worse. 

Christmas Redux

We must love Christmas more than most people do, as today we're observing it again. Why? Because today is Orthodox Christmas. 

The day started with a big breakfast, one that's lasted us long enough that we can wait 'til supper for a Christmas dinner.

Presents aren't a part of this celebration. In fact, tomorrow we'll be packing away any gifts still sitting under the tree (not an evergreen, a decorated hibiscus). That's when we'll also be taking down the lights and other decorations. 

The amaryllis, now on its second branch of blossoms, can stay for a while. Its beauty helps dispel the mostly rainy days we've had of late and seems to offer the promise of spring. 

A fresh start

The blank page of a new calendar always feels like it means the chance for a fresh start on things. 

One of the matters we always settle up for the beginning of the year is our bills. 

I've long called our method a marriage-saver, as it's meant we've never needed to argue about money. 

When I buy something, I tear a small rip in the top of my receipt and put it into what we call 'the jar' (even though it's actually a drawer, and not a jar at all). When the guy buys, he puts his receipt into the same place, but because it's un-torn, we know he paid. 

At the end of the year, we separate the chits and make our totals. We figure out the difference, divide it in half, and that's how much the person who spent less pays to the one who paid more. 

Once we've got that figured out, we burn all those supermarket and produce store and home repair shop and pizza place receipts. 

Because it's been raining so much, we had to wait for our annual bonfire. But yes, here it is -- a fresh start on 'the jar' and on a new year. 

Here's hoping we're not the only ones heading into fresh territory, especially after the horrific events in the US today.