Picnic by firelight

Because it gets dark so early now, it's easy (and fun) to have a 'campfire' at home. 

Last night, with a fire in the chiminea and no rain (for a welcome change), it seemed like a good night to have a picnic supper. 

Nothing very fancy -- buns and sausages along with a pot of beans. Homemade quince cider in big metal mugs. 

I suppose this is a post that should likely show up on the old "What's fer supper?" blog, but the celebratory feeling from eating outside by the fire made the meal feel like something better than just 'supper'. 

These days, we keep seeking (and luckily, finding now and then) ways of bringing a bit of spice into the restricted lives we're all now leading, even if tonight that 'spice' was mostly raw onions on what some would dismiss as 'hot dogs'. 

Every now and then, some silly idea comes along, delivering some joy to break up the dullness. 

The wonder of the light

Today is the 12th anniversary of my mother's death. The little angel in the photo is an item she gave to me -- a gift I am pretty sure was something 'regifted' -- but I'm thinking that makes it all the better. 

I heard part of an episode of Tapestry today, a CBC show that deals with matters that might be called spiritual. Author Richard Van Camp was doing what he does best: telling stories. I loved the one he told about heaven (being like the West Edmonton Mall). But even more, I liked his idea about a full moon practice -- giving things away, which is why I like the idea of regifting, especially of things we love. 

It isn't full moon yet -- not until month's end. But what I'd like to give away today is the idea of forgiveness.  

In truth, I don't think it's all that easy to hold a grudge, but some of us seem better than others at this. 

I'm in the process of writing a letter to someone I love, and I'm hoping that his heart will soften enough that we can be close again. 

But the person I'm sure my mother would most like to see in my life again is my youngest sister. The last time she spoke to me was at our mother's funeral. That seems like an awfully long time to lug around whatever transgression she believes I committed against her. And yes, it would help if I knew what it was, as it would make an apology so much easier.. 

But maybe that's the little miracle I can hope for today (or soon). In the meantime, the little angel stands guard over the tealight candle in the kitchen.  

New traditions, old remembrances

I love that even our buses help us remember, especially where this is a year when we can't have any gatherings to observe Remembrance Day. 

We listened to the ceremony from Ottawa with its speeches and haunting bagpipes, and even managed to catch a glimpse of the old planes doing their flyover here. 

And a new tradition (one that won't be repeated) is the fact that this is the day I send off my manuscript so review copies can be printed. It certainly feels right, being that the book is about Harold and Maude, a film with such strong anti-war sentiments. 

But that's not all I plan to do today. Our local arts council has set up a number of online activities to help us observe the day. My favourite is an excellent demonstration of watercolour technique. I think I feel inspired enough to try painting my own. 

And beyond the traditional poppy, I've started my annual amaryllis bulb, and hoping it will bloom in time for Christmas. And yes, that will be the day of Alex Trebek's truly final Jeopardy, so the bloom -- in addition to brightening up our home -- will serve as a kind of virtual gift to him, one of both remembrance and of gratitude. 

Awww, Canada...

It was a weekend when two memorable Canadians died. 

The first reported was the much-loved host of Jeopardy!, Alex Trebek. Tributes and remembrances have been on every news outlet. My kind-hearted sister expressed concern over how sad I might be, as I'll admit to having been a fan of that show for years. In truth, I remember the first series with Art Fleming, as my gramma watched it, with me by her side, probably pitching as many answers (er, questions) as I could come up with. 

Less notice or fanfare went to the passing of another Canadian, Howie Meeker -- not only a great hockey player, but a longtime feature on Hockey Night in Canada, a program that was a Saturday night tradition in so many households. Meeker had a unique style as a commentator, overly excitable, and with a high-register voice (brought to our attention by the satirists at SCTV). News reports reminded us not only of his many accomplishments, but (as was also the case with Trebek), his humanity. And really, it seemed all too appropriate in this morning's NYT crossword puzzle (one of my addictions) to have a clue, "Golly!" with its three-letter answer -- completing a phrase used often by Meeker -- "Gee". 

Both men were recipients of our country's highest honour, the Order of Canada. Two of our greats, Adieu.

Whew!

This has been a difficult week, filled with uncertainty and worry. There've been a few personal concerns too, but those were mostly overshadowed by the unsettled (and unsettling) results of the US election. 

The other day I was down at the beach, mostly I suppose, seeking some kind of solace. 

It was only for a moment, but I managed to catch a part of it -- beneath a sky filled with glowering dark clouds, a band of sunlight broke through. 

It brought me the comfort of a small bit of hope. And now with this morning's news, I'm feeling that the whole world can finally exhale. 

Ghostly

That's kind of how it felt on Halloween. It was the first time in just about forever that we didn't celebrate by handing out goodies to Trick or Treaters. There were quite a few houses decorated for the holiday, but I don't think we were the only ones holding out with the treats. 

And here it now is already November, the day I was raised to believe in as "All Souls' Day" -- a day when we were told we could say a certain set of prayers, and a soul would be released from the agonies of purgatory -- sort of a 'get-out-of-jail-free' card is how it seemed. 

The traditional Day of the Dead (Dia de Muertos) is the celebration in Mexico today, though it doesn't seem anywhere near as grim as the day of kneeling and praying I was supposed to observe. 

And tomorrow, well who knows what that will bring. I can only hope it means a change for calm, respect and peace. Otherwise, it's hard to say what the rest of this long winter might bring. 

As for me and my love of holidays, I can't help but wonder about Christmas -- probably not a long table full of friends and family sharing the traditional Swedish meatballs. 

Still, we can only hope for the best, can't we.

What's a bigger word than disappointment?

I suppose those little posies above the kitchen sink will be the last bouquets for the year, as we had a flash of frost the other night. As always, the brass swans seem oblivious, but the little pie crow looks like he's happily singing to them (no one ever told him he's not much of a singer). 

Today, especially, I am needing a splash of colour, as I learned some devastating news. The Peace River diversion at the Site C dam site (damn site) occurred on October 3rd. Sure, BC Hydro put an announcement on their website, but how many of us monitor that corporate hype. 

It was only by a small accident, communicating with someone not in government, that this tragedy came to my attention. Surely this will now provide the excuse that indeed we have passed the point of no return on this project. 

Worst of it all is that it took place while we were in election mode in this province. And even though Sonia Furstenau, our wonderful Green Party leader, raised a question about Site C during that forum, she didn't receive much of an answer -- and the premier certainly didn't reveal that the diversion had occurred (which surely he knew). 

Disappointed is too small a word for all that's going through my mind right now. I can't help but feel that the people of BC have been betrayed by a smarmy kind of avoidance I never expected from our public representatives. 

A peaceful and green anniversary

Reading the news this morning, I realized that I knew where I was fifty years ago tonight. At a Greenpeace (or as it was apparently then still thought of, as a name composed of two words, Green Peace) concert with a friend. 

Unlike some of the people mentioned in the article, we both knew about James Taylor. That somewhat-raggedy looking album cover in the photo is the first one I had by him, though more are stacked in the pile of LP's I still have. 

Taylor was the surprise guest of the event, something I am pretty sure owed to the fact that he and Joni Mitchell were supposed to be an item at the time. 

In the semi-darkness between performers, a tall lanky fellow came onto the stage and moved from amp to amp, apparently checking settings and such before he picked up a guitar, walked to the mic and said something like, Hey there, I'm James Taylor. 

The Greenpeace button in the photo isn't (I don't think, anyway) the one that was sold the evening of the concert. Still, it's been around for nearly as long as that album. 

I just wish the friend I'd gone to the concert with that night were also still around. Sadly, he's the one referred to in a not-too-long-ago post, the one about the empty shirt. 

Never again...

...at least not in this life of mine. 

One of those numerical sequences I can't help but noticing. 

Today, October 10, 2020 translates into 10102020, so how can I ignore something so elegant?

Next time such a pattern will occur is November 11, 2222 -- or, 11112222, a date I'm quite sure I won't be here to notice. 

Oh, the goofy things that make me attention... 

P.S. The next group of sequential numbers holding major significance will be happening soon: January 19-20, 21. Fingers crossed!

Foraged

Autumn can be one of the most enjoyable seasons -- not too hot, not too cold, and sometimes not even too wet (an important consideration in this part of the world). 

We spent a day wandering through forests, mainly on the lookout for edible mushrooms. As always, most of the ones we spotted were either not safe to eat, 'pre-chewed' by slugs or other forest residents, or sometimes just gone at the stem to some other mushroom-seeker who beat us to a particular patch. 

Because luck was with us, we found enough for a big panful fried up (with butter, olive oil, garlic and chives) that made their way to the top of a pile of fresh linguini. 

Yum!

The rest have been drying and are almost ready to go into jars where
they'll wait for special occasions when I'll cook with them (and put them into our Christmas stuffing for sure). 

Yet, it isn't just mushrooms that get found in the forest. Walking almost silently (except of course for the intermittent tinkle of the bear bell I wear) over the deep carpet of moss makes me think I'm in the land of The Lord of the Rings or maybe on another planet, like in Avatar. 

One of the most important 'foraged' items I bring home with me is an awareness of that quiet place within, maybe the spirit, that takes such comfort and solace there. 

Just about a perfect day

After last week's heavy rains, which seem to have cleared the smoke from our skies, today feels just about perfect. 

Temps are warm enough to not need a jacket or sweater, and the sky couldn't be bluer. 

The quince are now getting ripe. In fact, I can smell the scent of them wafting through the house as the Dear Man is making a big pot of quince-ade, a delicious and refreshing drink that I associate with this time of year. 

Yesterday was World Rivers Day this year dedicated to the salmon, our wonderfully important (and delicious) fish whose stocks have become so sadly depleted. 

But today I am happily celebrating World Rivers Day again, albeit a bit belatedly, as it seems I'm no longer so alone-feeling when it comes to questioning the sense of going ahead with the Site C project. A letter from people who matter cites many of the reasons it's time for this project to stop. It seems that our beloved Peace may indeed soon get the respect (and the reprieve) it deserves. This is a cause I've been concerned about for quite a few years. 

As part of my wanting to celebrate and to belatedly pay tribute to World Rivers Day, here's a short video with yes, the sound of a river, always such a comfort to me -- something to enjoy, a little piece of memorabilia from our recent camping trip, this time the sounds of the Similkameen.  

Change-o-rama

Just back from a week away -- off-grid and offline -- what a pleasurable way to spend time! Out in the forest, with ravens and plenty of ground squirrels in evidence (not sure what's in the image above -- kitty? big squirrel?) and fortunately, despite cautions, no bears. 

Most of the time we were camping in Manning Park, a great place for hiking easy trails and just plain

relaxxxing. 

Nearly everywhere, I kept finding interesting rock art. As I so often do, I took waaaay too many photos of these, but it was hard not to, as every time I saw one, it just seemed too fun to ignore. 

One of my favourites was this 'abstract' one which may well have been an 
accident, or might have even served as someone's painter's palette or drip-catcher. I'll never know. 

Coming home serves as a change -- back to the nice, big queen-size bed and of course, electricity and water on demand (hot even!). 

Tomorrow marks another change: the autumn equinox occurs early in the morning when I trust I'll still be sleeping. I doubt that the day will look much different, as leaves have been turning and temps have been cooling down for a while, but the new season will be official. 

But oh -- an even bigger change is coming here in BC. We're having an election. And I think quite a few of us aren't sure it's a great idea. 

One constant that we've been told will endure, even if our government is changing, will be the steadfast reporting of updates from our provincial health officer, Dr Bonnie Henry. One point of continuity will be her regular updates when she always includes her oh-so-quotable mantra, which even showed up on yet another example of rock art in the woods. 

Not quite an eclipse

Not a solar eclipse, there isn't one coming this way for a few years, but light from this afternoon's sun is definitely occluded. These smoky skies are the result of fires to the south of us, in Washington state, and probably from Oregon and California as well. So much of the West Coast is burning -- yet again, only this time worse than ever. 

Among reasons for this season's mega-fires is, of course, climate change with its much drier summers. Another contributing factor may also be the fact that when we replant a forest after it's been logged, we generally plant a single species (a monoculture) to replace what was probably a more natural, mixed forest. 

Earlier today, when the sun was directly overhead and shining through the skylights, it cast an almost orangey glow onto the wood floors. 

About the only word that comes to mind for it? Eerie. 

Then and now...

Today's the first day of school in our province. It's just teachers today, with students heading to classrooms on Thursday.  

Because I used to work in schools, those first-day jitters still have an effect on me. And last night I had the dream of being back there -- only not in a way that was fun (seeing colleagues and students, happy to be back together). This was definitely a nightmare. 

Similar to other anxiety dreams I sometimes have, it was all about not being prepared. 

I was in the high school library where I spent my happiest school years, but I was teaching an English (or maybe Socials?) class, and I completely lost any sense of control. The kids were definitely the ones who were in charge, and the situation was complicated by a few senior students who'd decided that, since it was the library (open to all), they could sit in the midst of the other students and talk as if they were the only ones around. 

When I woke up, I was relieved at it being a dream, but it made me think how much times have changed. 

Students used to take pencils and notebooks to class. Now the 'notebook' is a laptop, and they're also packing hand sanitizer and packets of cleansing towelettes. 

As for the calculator, if you look closely up top, there's a pencil box with a sharpener tucked into one end. Looking even more closely, you might see a sliding 'bar' along the ruler that tops the box. It served as a non-mechanical calculator of sorts, back in the dark ages when I was in Grade Three. You slid the bar along the ruler and could find answers to the times tables, numbers we eventually had to memorize. 

Not quite a 'slide rule' (an object I never mastered), and certainly not something today's students would have on their list of school supplies to keep in their backpacks. 

There but for the grace, etc. go I during these challenging days. And hallelujah, just about three o'clock -- time for the bell. Bless 'em all, and may they be safe. 

The empty shirt in the empty chair

Those of us who live in British Columbia have much cause to observe Overdose Awareness Day. Over the past months, more people in our province have died from using drugs than from the much-more-publicized COVID-19. 

During July of this year, 175 such deaths were reported. That's over five a day. If a similar number of deaths were the result of car accidents, plane crashes, or drownings, everyone would be screaming at the government to do something about it. 

But no, too often the person who died is someone who lived in poverty, eking out the best they could to get by, one of the people who have become invisible. 

For the most part, I prefer to call these deaths what they are: deaths by poisoning. Too many of them are the result of a person using drugs that have been cut by unscrupulous entities, often with fentanyl or carfentanyl or their even deadlier cousin, isotonitazine (iso).

Yes, Vancouver has long been home to safe injection sites, but during these 'virus days' with rules about social distancing and staying home, too many people are using in isolation and as a result, not only using alone but dying alone. 

The city has several memorials to those who've been lost to this latest spate of drug-related deaths, including murals in the Downtown Eastside, and an array of shoes fastened to the Burrard Bridge. 

While I don't have anyone's shoes to mark the day, I do have a shirt from a friend who died a few years ago. To the best of my knowledge, his case was not yet one involving fentanyl, but was blamed on a batch of overly powerful heroin that had made its way into the city. 

Because I recently had to write a piece about grief, I did a fair bit of research. One of the expressions I kept coming across was that of 'the empty chair' -- the place at the kitchen table that will never again be filled by the person who has died. 

And yes, the green shirt hanging on that empty chair is in fact a shirt that once belonged to my friend, he of the unexpected death one Easter weekend. Yet another person who erred in thinking he could use alone. 

Over five deaths a day?? That's completely unacceptable. Our laws need to change -- and soon. 

Small perfections

Okay, it's just a little plate of tomatoes. But they're still warm from picking. Come winter, I'll be grumbling, and probably ready to pay whatever it takes for just about any kind of tomato I can find. For now, they're free gifts from the garden. And yes, the yellow and orange ones are exactly the colours they're supposed to be. Golden and delicious. And just right to eat right now. 

Berry hopeful

That's how I've been feeling this week, even on those days when it rained. This has much to do with the fact that I spent at least two of those rainy evenings watching the Democratic Convention from the US. Wow, some speakers!

And because I am, in addition to being hopeful, feeling pretty lazy, the link above not only tells you about the event, but provides links to excerpts from some of those outstanding speeches (see especially those by Michelle and Barack Obama). 

Besides, I've just spent nearly an hour picking some of those wonderful blackberries -- now at their peak of sweet ripeness -- so I reckon I now need to do something with them. Maybe even make a pie to keep in the freezer for a wintry day when we need a shot of summer, even if it's only a taste of it. 

Lazy days of turning pages into new worlds

Summer days can be an excuse to be lazy (though I'll admit, I can probably find an excuse to be lazy during any season). 

One of my happiest ways to be lazy is to hide myself away in the pages of a book. And this summer has brought me some fine hiding spots. 

I suppose the string of great reads started some weeks back, with Marion Toews' powerful novel, Women Talking. It's not a happy book, but the facts behind it were important to reveal. From there, quite by accident, another library book came my way and, oddly enough, it seemed to link up to the Toews' book, even echoing small details. That one, The Grace Year, though classified as YA didn't really seem to be very YA -- just a terrific and memorable book. 

Without really meaning to, I moved into books about trees. The atmosphere for reading was probably enhanced by the fact that our house is surrounded by a miniature forest. I keep meaning to post something on Goodreads about these (more of that laziness keeps winning out), but they are The Overstory and Greenwood. 

The Overstory by Richard Powers won the Pulitzer Prize, so I'm not the only person who wants to sing its praises. It's broken into two main parts -- the first introduces readers to the cast of characters, the rest unfolds all that happens to (and with) all of them. It's very much related to The Hidden Life of Trees, but the humans and their complicated interactions make the science so much more real. 

Likewise, Michael Christie expresses a similar deep understanding of the nature of trees in his novel, Greenwood. It's a sprawling book, spanning the breadth of our continent, time-travelling to the past and into the future. There were times I wasn't quite sure who was who, but it gradually unfolded, like leaves on the page. 

And now, I'm doing another kind of time-travel, as I've just started David Mitchell's Utopia Avenue, a trip into the Sixties and its music. No comments on that one yet, as I've only just started it, though I suspect I'll enjoy it, as I've read and liked all of his other ones. 

I've got a nifty outdoor living space, with a comfy old couch, a great place to curl up with a book. 

I hope your summer reading has been as pleasurable as mine. And remember, I love hearing recommendations. 

Midsummer Bee-yoo-tee

Perhaps it's just part of being a contrarian, but I can't help wondering why today (or maybe tomorrow) isn't the day called 'midsummer' as in Midsummer Night's Dream. After all, August 4th is pretty much midway between solstice and equinox -- in other words, the middle of summer, i.e., midsummer. 

The midsummer festival is apparently a very big thing in many places, especially in Sweden, with much in the way of eating and drinking and even doing a sort of 'froggy' dance as part of their celebrations. 

This year, as part of my trying to learn more about this observance (as truly, it has puzzled me a long time, at least as far back as Woody Allen's A Midsummer Night's Sex Comedy), I poked around and even found a novel The Hidden Beach. 

The book is set in Sweden, and the festivities feature prominently. Unfortunately, I only made it about halfway through, as the sub-plot proved to be overly romantic for me. Maybe I gave up too soon, but really, an awful lot of other books are always calling to me. 

As for me, I think I will do my own celebrating tonight. The moon is nearly full, and we're just about exactly halfway along the path from summer solstice to the arrival of autumn on September 22nd. Until then, I'll keep picking blackberries while the bees buzz their work-songs in my ear, and be glad that we're all still able to spend so much time outside. 

More of what we're calling the 'new normal'

This is the way authors now go about promoting their books -- with a virtual reading and conversation. 

I can't really say that I'm complaining, especially not today, when it's hot outside (at least for here, 28 degrees), so travel into Vancouver (had he been present, and not online) would have been miserable. I would likely still be caught in traffic or riding a train or bus, trying to get home.

Though really, for a chance to hear David Mitchell, a writer I quite love (having read all but one of his novels), I may well have braved the travel, especially where this latest one, Utopia Avenue, is set in the 1960s, an era I know all too well. There was talk of the "strange convergence" between much of what's happening now, and all that was happening then -- change, change, and more change.

The conversation was meaty (and fun) enough to keep me feeling I've had a small fix of literary entertainment, something I can never quite get enough of.

Part of signing up for this particular Zoom event included the option of buying the new book, but drat, it hasn't arrived yet. I can only it's going to be here soon. An in-person event would have meant I could buy one on-site, I am sure, and who knows, maybe even snag an autograph. Ah, the stuff of groupie dreams.