Superb Owl goes to the Super Bowl

...and takes an actual 'super bowl' along.

The bowl has quite a history. It started life as a prop in a play, but remains as an item in my kitchen. And yes, that's coloured tape on the side of it. The effect was supposed to make it look like Mexican pottery.

The bowl's theatrical background made it seem like the right container for treats brought back from Cuba, even if the geography's not exactly right. (There'll be more on that visit in coming posts, I am sure.)

The 'treats' are a range of junk foods, but ones that seem perfect for nibbling with beer at a Super Bowl party with friends. Garlic flavoured puffy balls, cheesy ones too. Another that I think is mostly potatoes.

Whatever, they should be a good conversation piece, even if they aren't the hit of the potluck table.

(Go, Eagles!)

Bluper moon?

By now most people probably know that the second full moon occurring in the same month gets called a blue moon.

This one was even more than that, as it was one of those occurrences when the moon is close enough to the earth to earn the title 'supermoon'.

And then, to make things even crazier, there was a lunar eclipse at 5:26 am, which led to last night's/this morning's moon to qualify as a super blue blood moon. Impressive titling, to be sure. Makes me think of British uppah-classes or worse, that hateful little rich boy in Monty. 

I was too lazy to get up at 5, so I didn't get to see the eclipse or the moon turning red. Still, I was pretty happy to get this shot of the just about perfectly full moon last night -- probably just before the clouds took over the sky.

A wee bit late

I suppose any die-hard traditionalist would find it terrible to be observing Robert Burns' birthday this late in the month. But it turns out this was just the first day we could manage.

Even as we bump along in our non-traditional ways, we try to keeping a few of the 'auld' rituals. One of these is celebrating with a homely version of the Burns Night Supper that isn't exactly what true Scots might be serving.

At least the centrepiece of the meal was the traditional haggis, a food that is apparently illegal in the US.

I admit to cheating, and to buying this haggis from our local butcher shop -- and I even admit to quite liking it, though I probably wouldn't want it all the time.

As for the accompaniments, they weren't exactly what they were supposed to be, but made up from ingredients that were in the fridge, the pantry, or the garden.

The pantry and fridge elements lent themselves to the "MacRoni" and cheese -- made with a nicely respectful Cheddar (aged) at that. And the other side dish wasn't exactly 'neeps and tatties' (turnips and potatoes), but a pretty good facsimile with freshly-dug Jerusalem artichoke, one of the items remaining in the kitchen garden.

Burns Night celebrates the life of a poet, so I probably need to cite a few lines of his that befit the occasion:

Some hae meat and canna eat And some would eat that want it. But we have meat, and we can eat. Sae let the Lord be thankit. 

To that, I can only add an after-dinner Amen.

Finders keepers

I'm pretty sure it was Stephen King who impressed me with his recommendation to read Dickens. He may have even said he often re-reads particular books by Dickens, including the tome of tomes, Bleak House. It isn't one I've ever tried.

Great Expectations was a novel we were expected to read in high school. Memorable in its own ways (at least parts of it linger in memory), it wasn't enough to push me into wanting to read the rest of the Dickens library.

But today (not rainy, hurrah!) might mean that I have to screw up my courage (and clear my calendar?) to take a run at this 1,000+ pages classic. As I entered a building where I had an appointment, there it was, standing near these mossy bricks, extending an invitation to me. For someone who's a believer in 'signs' it's hard to ignore this new addition to my bookshelves (especially where it takes up what seems like more than its fair share).

I'm not ready to start it yet, though I am sure over the course of the year, it will beckon me. When (if?) I manage it, I'll let you know.

Gosh though, if only the title wasn't so grimly discouraging.

A new leaf?

Yikes, we're already into the double digits of January in what I'm still thinking of as a new year. And what a new year it is turning out to be!

I'm still trying to get used to the sound of it: 2018 -- a number I am sure I once believed would mean flying cars. Too bad about those, especially when you consider the traffic congestion we contend with.

But not everything is as bad (or getting worse) as traffic congestion.

Anyone who doubts that some things aren't getting better didn't see Sunday night's Golden Globe Awards, where so many people spoke out on behalf of change. And oh my, there was Oprah, putting a president to shame with her eloquence.

A new leaf? Let's hope so. It's time.

Good intentions

It was a rainy night in Vancouver and maybe a time when city workers were on holiday. While it looked as though plenty of people did their best to put their trash where it belonged...somehow this was not exactly the way it was supposed to work. I guess it was a case of good intentions gone awry.

This is a time of year when most of us look back -- whether on what we've accomplished or what we've lost -- and it's also a time for looking ahead, usually with good intentions. Resolutions are often part of the plan, though they often fall aside before long too.

Looking back, it's hard to ignore the near-fiasco that was Canada 150. Well-intentioned, I am sure, but it's leaving very little beside still more debt in its wake. After Canada's Centennial, back in 1967, nearly every little town came away with a legacy, often in the form of a new sports complex. Our local example of this, White Rock's Centennial Arena, still attracts skaters of all ages, whether for hockey, figure skating, or plain old fun.

But what's to show after this year's extravaganza? I'm not sure. Certainly nothing I can cite locally, especially not something we'll be able to point at in another 50 years. Sure, there were gimmicky gizmos, flags and shirts and hats -- even coins that glow in the dark -- though the one of these I liked best doesn't have fireworks, only the glow of the beautiful Northern Lights.

Even the weather seemed to frown on the celebrations. Canada Day in Ottawa saw a downpour of rain. Year-end celebrations with the whopping expensive no-fun skating pond also fizzled, thanks to temperatures deemed too cold, complete with safety warnings. 

Best memento I came across was one that we had for dessert not so long ago. A delicious dark chocolate bar, that came in a box a few sizes too big for the bar. Yummy, yes. But kind of like the celebratory year itself: not quite up to expectations.

And I haven't even mentioned the elephant in the room: the fact that Canada is way more than 150 years old. People have lived here for eons.

I'm hoping for better from our government(s) in 2018, and hoping as well that I will be able to live up to some of my goals and not have them dribble off into the Land of Good Intentions. How about you?

The power of believing

Over the years, it's been a bit of a tradition for me to write about some of our family's traditions as we celebrate the return of the light at Solstice and, of course, the things we do to observe Christmas.

One of the oddest of these has to be our "Christmas Pig" -- the one in the photo above. It's hard to remember when he began taking up position, playing guard at the end of our walkway each December. But there he sits, year after year, on a complicated bicycle sculpture that's always illuminated by many coloured lights.

This year, he got an added topping of snow. As it melted, it turned to ice, giving him a decidedly punkish coif. Just as Charlotte wrote in her magical web, I have to agree: "SOME PIG!"

But believing in Christmas magic is what's been on my mind. Best of all was the experience I shared with my sister, when we looked out the window and saw (yes, we both swear to it -- and we were way too young to drink) the magical sleigh, flying through the sky, pulled along by that famous team of reindeer.

And even later, another Christmas miracle: this time when I was (still) an adult. One Christmas morning, my kids and I went out to the backyard and were amazed to find parallel marks gouged into the snow, surely the tracks of a sleigh.

Although the kids pestered me, accusing me of making the marks, I knew positively that I hadn't made then, nor could I have been as precise if I'd tried. Besides, no footprints accompanied the tracks.

A prank by a neighbour? I doubt it, as we had only lived in that particular house for about two months and really didn't know anyone who lived nearby. In fact, our next door 'neighbour' was a lumber yard -- an unlikely source for elfish tricks.

I attribute these sights to the power of belief. And if you're lucky enough to have someone in your life who is young enough (or young-at-heart enough) to have such strong beliefs in the Magic of the Season, you are truly blessed.

As for the rest of us, I can only suggest that we all try -- even for just a few minutes -- to believe. Because, if we do, who knows? Maybe tonight, even pigs will fly.

Sending Happy Christmas greetings to friends and family near and far, with hopes that you indeed find time to believe.

Thirteen bananas

...that didn't get eaten, somehow made their way to the freezer. This morning, when I saw that we were getting some snow, it looked like a good day to thaw those and put them to better use.

So, thirteen loaves of banana bread are cooling on the counter, waiting for plastic wrap and a bow. Edible gifts for friends.

Ho ho...

Two out of three -- not good enough

Thankfully, there were a few rays of good news this week. In the US, Democrats scored a victory -- both political and moral -- when voters in Alabama elected Doug Jones to represent them in the Senate, the first time in more than 20 years for such an occurrence. This marked a huge shift in thinking. Or, perhaps it meant simply the beginning of thinking: not choosing the 'same old, same old' candidate from the Old Boys' Network. Mind you, voters there had plenty of reasons to not vote for the incumbent, but that's another story or two.

Locally, voters in the riding where I live also made history by coming out to support the federal Liberal candidate. In doing so, they gave us our first Liberal Member of Parliament in 64 years. We've had nothing but conservatives of one stripe or other heading to Ottawa on our behalf for way too long. And even though I am not always fond of the federal Liberals, I'll admit that I was part of this sea change. For the only the second time in all my years of voting, someone I cast a ballot for has won a seat. I can only hope that with proportional representation becoming a stronger possibility -- at least at the provincial level -- my vote will count more often.

So, two good news stories, but counterbalanced by one very bad one: On Monday, the provincial government came down with its decision on the fate of the Peace River Valley -- in essence, damning it by going ahead with plans to dam it. This Site C decision is bound to have many negative repercussions for the provincial NDP, the party currently in control (by a hair) here. As for the other negative outcomes -- disregard for farmland, First Nations claims and heritage, and of course the overall environmental losses (forests, fish, birds and a slew of wildlife), those will echo far into the future. Although our premier's statement was thoughtful, it's hard for me to not be suspicious of political ties that may have weighed on him. But, that's only speculation, and not something that's going to change anything -- especially not for residents of BC, in particular, those who live in this region of the Peace, whose homes and land will be flooded.

So, two out of three reasons to celebrate; one to cry over.

It's interesting that the two positive outcomes were brought about through the voice of the people, while the Site C decision was made by a group of politicians sitting around a table. Had there been a referendum, with our province's citizens voting to decide, might the result been different?

All I can hope is that come Solstice, we'll start seeing more change for the better. 

No two the same

Hmm. Looks as though I must be on another of my kicks to keep Canada Post in business -- all on my own. That isn't really the reason I still send cards, mostly it's because I love making them.

Many of them are made from bits and pieces of cards that people have sent me. Some of them are more involved -- layers of stamps and stickers -- or my favourite: getting out the pencil crayons and colouring.

Luckily, my friend and I started early this year. We closed up our 'crafts shop' early in November. But now, here it is, almost mid-December, and I'm still deciding who gets what and sending them out.

Oh well, there'll be plenty of other things to do this month. But then, aren't there always?

Breaking the silence, breaking the cold

These past two weeks have been silent, I know.

Silent, blog-wise, but not silent here. The sounds in our home have been anything but pleasant: sneezing, nose-blowing, cough cough cough coughing. But today, that is finally changing, thanks to what I will have to call My Healing Tree.

Long ago, at a point when I was filled with a grief so harsh I felt completely lost, I took comfort in the arms of one of the cedars in our yard. Weaving my way through the fronds, almost to the centre -- the trunk -- of the tree, I pretty much collapsed into the branches. Without complaint, those branches cradled me, supporting me firmly enough that they kept me from falling to the ground. They held me and kept me safe while I wept myself dry, a turning point in healing from the sadness I'd been overfilled with.

And last night, this same tree offered help again.

Blustery. A Winnie-the-Pooh word for the sort of night it was. But when I woke in the night, I felt that I was being called. Opening the front door, the branches of the cedar seemed to be reaching out to me. This time the branches were whipping in frenetic bursts of wind, but it was a wind that was filling me with sharply scented air, offering what felt like a cleansing for my lungs.

I can only trust that the neighbours weren't watching as I stood outside on the deck, taking in huge gulps of air that seemed to be pulling phlegm and spew from me. I cast it out in spasms of coughing, projectile sputum hurtled into darkness. How long this went on, I'm not even sure.

But finally, once back inside, I managed to sleep. A deep sleep, one that was filled with dreams of summertime, swimming and light. And somehow buried in those dreams, I was handed a vial containing a precious essence. It was small, and in a container that reminded me of the slim darkened glass ampoules of royal jelly I used to buy from the Chinese store.

But this one, singular, held what I was told I needed: cedar oil.

So today I selected tips from the tree, the greenest and freshest ones. Snipped them into a pot and brewed a tea. Tenting myself over the pot, I breathed in the foresty steam, held it deep and long. Then took the smallest cup of it, sipping and taking in its vapours until it was gone.

Almost immediately, I could feel the clearing in my chest. What I had pictured as white fungus (like the white mould that might grow on the soil of a fouled houseplant) inside of me was now gone.

While this sounds as though I must still be well in the grip of fever dreams, I can only say that an Internet search for cedar oil has only suggested caution -- not to drink very much of it, so I am paying attention and doing that. But I also see that indeed cedar oil has, among a number of its other uses, the clearing of fungus.

So maybe the crossover between dream world and reality isn't as great as we may sometimes think, especially when there's a healing tree that serves as a messenger between those two worlds.

Reclaiming lands, reclaiming lives

Before the Site C dam project goes any further, we need to consider another option -- one that would protect all those hectares of farmland (equivalent to about eight Stanley Parks), one that would preserve the sacred burial sites, one that would see the land put to better use than as lake bottom in a lake that nobody needs.

A lot of work has already gone into the site, so abandoning the project will be costly. But re-purposing it could make sense. My vision sees it as a prison farm. 

The nearest correctional centre (a facility designated for offenders serving less than two years) is in Prince George, pretty much a five-hour drive away. The rest of BC's prison facilities are on Vancouver Island or in the Lower Mainland and are, for the most part, over capacity. In other words, there is cause for British Columbians to build another such institution.

Although Oakalla Prison in Burnaby had a dark history, it also had a more positive side, as it was the site of a productive farm. Kingston Ontario was also home to such a facility, but thanks to the Harper government, it was closed down. There are still groups who are working to have this policy rescinded. There is even a herd of cows ready to 'go to prison'. 

A small city already exists on the banks of the Peace. Why not stop building a dam that doesn't make sense and build something else? If mistakes have been made, so be it. That isn't a good reason to dig further into the mistake. 

A prison farm would make use of the threatened agricultural land (even BC Hydro's reports predicted the land could feed a million people) and would give meaningful employment -- not only to inmates, but to farmers from the Peace region who could be employed to manage the prison farm. 

Such a plan would also ensure that sacred sites and burial caches (many of them thousands of years old) of Indigenous peoples from the region would not be flooded, but would be protected. And who knows, a tourist industry might well arise; certainly an interpretive centre could provide work for members of local First Nations. This could be yet another step forward in our efforts at Reconciliation. 

And no prison runs without a large staff -- personnel who range from guards to social workers and medical experts. 

It isn't too late for us to find the courage to proceed along another path in this precious waterway, a path that would preserve the land and heritage while still creating jobs -- and maybe even rescuing some who might have become just another batch of lost souls in the world of gangs and crime.

PS For an easy way to get a call into your MLA, click on this link and fill out the form. They'll phone you right back, putting you through to her/his office. 

Icing on the cake?

Last night, past midnight but well before dawn, light crept into the bedroom, waking me. Outside I discovered the reason. No flash on the camera, just reflected light from the glow of the unexpected white stuff, thus the spooky glow.

I admit to not being a big fan of snow (okay, it can look pretty for a few minutes, especially if it's Christmastime). And even though today is a friend's birthday, the icing on the cake I'm talking about isn't exactly the bonus kind.

Last week broke temp records here.

On Tuesday I was still wearing sandals.

This morning I need to find the shovel and figure out something saucey for those little yellow dots still there shivering on the vine.

Or, I suppose I should just think of all this as icing on the tomatoes.

Eeeek!

Our neighbourhood has some pretty wild decorations. This is one of the tamer ones, though they seem to have all the bases covered -- witch, skeleton, ghost, spider with webs. But Halloween decorations aren't the scariest things hanging around these days...

Whales and ...

I don't usually write about books on this blog, especially not ones that have my work in them, but this book is somehow different.

Maybe it's just that so many things seem to be on the cusp of change -- politically, decisions are soon to be announced regarding both the Kinder Morgan pipeline proposal and plans for Site C. Anyone who knows or follows me understands that I don't support current plans for either of these going forward, and it tuns out I'm not alone in my thoughts about the Burnaby Mountain project. Today the City of Vancouver has put out a court challenge to review the approval process that took place. There are also several organized protests today, highlighting the dangers of the plan. It looks as though we'll have to wait a few more weeks to know any outcomes.

But back to the book, Refugium: it's an amazing collection of works that honour the Pacific Ocean. Edited by Yvonne Blomer, Victoria's Poet Laureate (that's her in the photo on the left), it brings together poems that celebrate, that praise, and that warn.

It seemed significant when I traveled to Victoria to be part of the launch on the island that, on both legs of my journey across the water the ferry's captain announced the presence of humpbacks nearby. On the trip over, though I dashed to a window, all I managed to see was the roiling water left by their deep dive. But when the same announcement was made on the way back, I got see part of a long, long body curling across the surface, and even got a glimpse of the tail, complete with its own distinctive white markings.

At last week's Vancouver launch one of the presenters, Stephen Collis, startled many of us by mentioning that humpback whales (that's the species pictured on the book's cover) have been known to come to the aid of other sea animals. He called them 'peacekeepers' -- that wonderful term that once, not so long ago, was applied to Canada and its military. And then, as if to back up that tidbit, the next morning's paper had a piece on the social awareness of whales.

With the crazed and crazy ways we (and some of our world's leaders) have been behaving, it's hard to be positive about outcomes for the future. So it's good to know that if we blow ourselves up, perhaps the whales, swimming deep in the oceans will remain. And even if those whales and dolphins don't have our opposable thumbs which have enabled us to create buildings and technologies, we'll be leaving the planet in 'good hands', probably better than the ones it's currently in.

Eat well, eat local

Today is the first day of an "Eat Local" challenge. It runs through early November, perfectly in tune with the final harvest of autumn. It's all about eating well, and cooking with locally-produced food.

All the foods in the photo are ones that were locally grown. This particular batch of eggs, a product I usually buy at my local Farmer's Market, were a gift from a friend who raises chickens (and other critters) at her farm. I love the range of their colours, a mix from the different varieties of chickens she keeps.

The rainbow of tomatoes and sprigs of basil (even in a photo, they want to be near each other, just the way they do in a salad or sauce) are the most locally grown of all, as they're among the last survivors in the back yard garden.

Besides having an excellent market every week, I'm lucky enough to be able to choose among several excellent nearby produce shops, where local food is always identified, making it easy to decide what to buy.

More and more people are choosing to pay closer attention to the food they eat -- all part of staying healthier, eating food that tastes better, and also about using the land better. A number of my friends now proclaim themselves to be urban farmers. A great way to start making this goal a reality for next year is to get a copy of Digging the City. No snobbery here; it proclaims itself as a "manifesto for omnivores" -- a group I'm still proudly a member of.

While I doubt that I can make it through to November without wanting an avocado or banana or orange or lemon or... (Oh dear, I am still too reliant on too many foods from 'away'), I have joined the challenge, as I like its awareness factor.

If you'd like to try the challenge too, follow this link and click on the 'join' button. And even if you don't join, here's to good eating!

Winter wonderin'?

No, it isn't snow edging up to the blackberries -- it's just the result of crazy weather -- hail from a thunder-and-lightning storm we had this morning.

When I first moved to the west coast we didn't seem to have thunderstorms. In fact, they were one thing I missed, and I always loved it when I went back east and got to experience one. While they haven't become exactly common here, they do occur now and then, though usually on a hot day in summer, not on a cool October morning.

Oddly (the way my world so often seems to go), I heard a piece this morning that mentioned the passenger pigeon, a bird whose numbers were so great, its flocks numbered possibly as many as five billion (yes, with a b, billion). Yet by 1914, they were extinct.

Something I hadn't realized was the effect these birds had on forests. The weight of their landing in trees would knock off leaves and even branches, in effect, opening the canopy so light could make its way to the forest floor. This meant the forest environment a century ago was much different than today's. I can't help thinking that maybe the passenger pigeons' disappearance could have something to do with the disastrous fire situations our woodlands -- and even neighbourhoods -- are experiencing.

And really, if flocks of them were so massive they could take hours -- sometimes even days -- to pass across the sky, maybe those clouds of birds were large enough to have an effect on the weather.

The white stuff has melted, but still I wonder, if we hadn't killed off all those passenger pigeons, might our weather be less crazy than it is today?

Gorgeous "grassitude"

As the weather starts to change, the winds announce themselves, reminding us that colder temps will soon be here.

But that chill also serves to bring us together, to bask in the warmth of friends and family in this time for giving thanks. One of the things to be grateful for is the fact that our holiday has shifted from the narrow definition its origins bore.

A big meal with plenty of leftovers, along with a walk through the now-changing colours -- when it comes to celebrating, that's plenty for me.

Nonetheless, I'm still left wondering, Who paints these gorgeous leaves when I'm not looking?

Nosing into a new month

Even the tomatoes from the garden are pointing the way to October.

In another week, Thanksgiving -- then Halloween, and yikes -- not long after that, Christmas.

And then we'll nose our way into yet another new year.

Time has a way of...

...disappearing, it seems. One minute, the National Research Council Time Signal is beeping ten o'clock (Pacific time), the next thing I know, it's turning into afternoon.

Salvador Dali knew a thing or two about time and created so many pieces exploring its flexible nature. I felt pretty lucky to have heard about an exhibit of a few of his works -- in of all places, a mall.

The piece at the top is his interpretation of Alice in Wonderland. I love the freedom of its fluidy, dancing lines.

One kind of crazy thing I couldn't ignore was the accidental (I am sure) juxtaposition of Dali's dancing clock, and its placement just outside a shop with a clock in its name. Even their times were somewhat in sync. Something I think that Dali might have liked, might have at least winked an eye at.

The show is on at Oakridge Centre until October 1st -- better hurry, before time runs out.