Hardly any tricksters this year, just over a dozen.
About all I can think to do with the remainders is give them to the Food Bank. And considering my own good fortune, I'll have to accompany those little juice boxes, goldfish crackers and chips with a cheque.
I've been looking at photos from my recent visit to Ontario, and it's nearly been nearly impossible to choose an image to use here. Sooo much gorgeous scenery, magnified by being there during the most colourful season.
The idea of beauty and what it constitutes -- how does one define it? I think of the old chestnut, "I don't know much about art, but I know what I like." Even without knowing formal rules or schools of art, each of us knows what stirs our heart.
And heart-wise, mine was broken a bit this morning by a few words I heard in an interview. The person said that art is no longer an offering in US high schools, as school boards have deemed such classes as too expensive.
Speaking for myself (and many other of my peers in oddity, I am sure), I would not have been able to endure high school if it hadn't been for the acceptance of my art teacher and the mental (and probably spiritual) break that class provided. The companionship of other oddballs meant a lot too.
So today's blog offers two small samples of things I find beautiful -- the brilliant colours of the changing leaves, and the gathering of birds as they prepare for the long trip to southern climes. To me, breathtaking. I can only hope that you also enjoy the beauty of these kinds of 'natural' art.
This morning looked like heavy fog, only it wasn't fog. Everything was still shrouded in smoke, mostly from fires in Washington and Oregon states, our neighbours to the south. Air quality warnings remain in effect.
Clearly the autumn crocuses are feeling the effects of no rain, and probably from the smoke as well.
At least there's a bit of rain in the forecast. I can only hope the weather predictions are right, as everything could really use a drink of water.
quiet pink sigh
the last breath of summer
before the rains
Based on the memory of an ultra-delicious meal at a diner long ago, they're a tradition the members of our family love to carry on. As with so many 'recipes' -- in this case, more of a formula than an actual recipe -- it's all a matter of the right ingredients, every one of which seems essential:
Turkey (of course!)
Sourdough bread (white and soft, but with steadfast crusts)
Swiss cheese
Avocado
Alfalfa sprouts
Mayonnaise and salt and pepper, to taste
Whether you slice the turkey (or cheese) so it's thin as paper, or chunkier to give some real chew to the sandwich, those decisions are over to whoever plans to eat this extravaganza.
In the meantime, I am grateful for the many blessings in my life, including (but not exclusive to) reliably wonderful leftovers.
As for the little turkey in the photo, he rode the top of yesterday's dessert -- not pumpkin pie (an unwelcome guest at my table), but a molasses-y little ginger cake.
This is a day to think about the many -- mostly Indigenous -- women and girls who have gone missing, and who too often, when they're found, are dead. One such was Tina Fontaine, who was killed in Winnipeg and whose body was dumped into the river. When I was in Winnipeg, I tossed a special rock into that river, a sad little farewell to her, that went with hopes that no more women would meet such a fate.
Sadly, the situation in Vancouver's Downtown Eastside has recently escalated with stabbings and rapes occurring with increasing frequency.
All women everywhere must do all we can to look out for each other -- wherever we may live, as Sisters in Spirit. In the meantime, I suggest you consider watching the NFB film called The Red Dress. Even though it's less than half-an-hour long, it's not an easy film to watch. Despite that, I think it's an important one to view.
My observance this year is quieter, staying home, but with the suggestion of a new book to read (along with a glimpse of my little 'orange shirt' pin given to me as a gift by a longtime dear friend).
If you'd like a nudge to read this novel, here's a link to a review of it.
At the very least, we must all remember the past, or we are doomed to let it play out again.
Because a purse is quite a personal matter, I suspect the bags may have been of her own choosing.
But what I'm really wondering about is what the heck would be in one of them?
Did she carry a lipstick, a comb? Did she need ID -- a passport when she travelled? Did she have her own credit card (gold, of course, I'm sure). What about a driver's license?? After all, she was famous for driving herself around in the Range Rover, though maybe that was only on her own property.
And money, what about that? Consider what it would be like to pull out a bill and have your own face on it.
The mystery of the queen's purse. Will that question ever be answered?
There's something about the last day of August that makes me feel that way.
Maybe it's just because I worked in schools for years, and the very word 'September' carried a weight not borne by other months.
I can't help but notice the way the angle of light is different in late August -- how even its hue is more golden.
With luck, there's maybe even the scent of coming rain, or is that too only a matter of my imagination?
As if readying for the 'true autumn' that's no doubt coming soon, I not only picked more blackberries today, but I gave the bushes a hard prune -- mainly cleaning up the spent vines, the ones where only the stubs remained where berries had once been.
With a long weekend ahead, I am grateful knowing that we'll be spending it at home, and not out racing down highways or lining up for ferries with others hoping for a final kick at the holiday can.
Blackberries, tomatoes, and fresh green beans sound like plenty to me.
After a few reports were registered, a man from the water department came out, assured us that it was NOT the beginning of a sinkhole (which some of us in the neighbourhood had feared), but then, aside from placing an orange cone on the curb, pretty much nothing happened.
Last week they came out again and finally deemed it worthy of further inspection. This had a lot to do with the fact it hasn't rained in over a month, but the water on the road hadn't abated. In other words, it wasn't some kind of drainage problem which they'd been offering previously as an explanation.
In truth, what they discovered today gave us all a few exciting moments -- it looked a lot like water I'd seen at Yellowstone, though fortunately, this water wasn't hot and steamy.
The excavation took a while, but when they got down far enough below the roadway, they discovered that one of the city pipes was leaking and they replaced the corroded 'saddle' that was allowing water to constantly seep out.
Five months of wasted water, and this in the midst of drought conditions. Less than remarkable, but at least it's now repaired. And not too surprisingly, we've discovered the water pressure here in our house has improved. So, better than any sinkhole would have been -- a story with a nicely happy ending.
I was lucky enough to have a girlfriend whose family had a drawer filled with amazing wooden puzzles. Often, the scenes they depicted were battles aboard old-time ships, sails filled with smoke and flame.
This one, a much calmer scene, a mega-bargain from one of my best-loved thrift shops, may be my all-time favourite. Not only were all the pieces there, the precision of the cuts and the marvel of their varied shapes sets this puzzle apart from any other I've ever done.
There were a number of pieces that had very specific shapes. The two resting outside the image looked like a little house and a derby hat. There was also a complicated curving bishop's staff, as well as two plumb bells a surveyor might use.
I'm not sure exactly how the jigsawing might have been done -- with a laser maybe?? That would almost have to be the case, as the pieces are mostly quite tiny.
And yes, I've already taken it apart. Sadly the photo below is a bit fuzzy, but if you look carefully, you can probably see the cutest of the pieces, the bunny waiting his turn to join his friends in puzzle-land.
That was just one of the days from this past week, being part of a film shoot in Vancouver.
Because long ago I'd had work published in a magazine called Branching Out, I was contacted by a woman from Toronto and invited to participate as an interviewee for a film that's being made by Marusya Boicurkiw. It's a documentary, Before#MeToo which explores the second wave of feminism (though I suppose I must have missed the first, who knows).
It was a busy morning with takes and retakes, but was mostly a matter of good chat among friends, old and new.
And I'll admit I'm looking forward to seeing the results, though I doubt I'll be there for more than a glance or perhaps, a 20-second comment.
There've been many times I've sat beside my friend Louise (whom everyone else called Lou), oohing and ahhing as the pyrotechnical show entertained us, lighting up the sky above the Missouri River to the sounds of the 1812 Overture.
This year, there was no Louise. After a long life she left us, but her absence wasn't the only thing that had changed for me about the fireworks.
Ukraine, and specifically Odesa (which I've at least learned to spell the non-Russian way), where a man I've met -- in Atchison, no less -- still lives, in an apartment with his aged parents. Every time I hear about Odesa in the news, I can't help but worry about him and his family. His emails have reported the shriek of missiles flying overhead, on their way to some hideous destination, not long ago, a mall where he'd often shopped.
Last night we were invited to a friend's place to get a strategically great view of the local (White Rock) fireworks display. And again, I admit to a few inward shudders when I heard their boom-booming noises. I know the fireworks we watched were strictly on display for entertainment, but because I've probably watched too much news coverage of this hideously destructive war on Ukraine, hearing those crackling sounds and deep booms has lost some of its appeal. I can't help but think they sound just a little too much like the sounds of machine guns and exploding bombs.
The house in the photo above is the building where she was born. Once the home of her grandparents, it's now the Amelia Earhart Birthplace Museum.
The people milling about in front have been partaking in this year's Amelia Earhart Festival, a long-standing annual celebration in the town of Atchison, Kansas -- a celebration that was only resurrected this year, after two years when it was cancelled (on account of that pesky virus whose name I don't even want to use). And yes, I was lucky enough to be there again this year, along with my book based on Amelia, Flightpaths.
One of the reasons I love Amelia is that she wrote poetry. Sadly, much of it was lost when Amelia and her husband George lost many of their belongings due to a house fire in the home they shared in Rye, New York.
Her accomplishments went well beyond poetry and even flying. Feminist, promoter of peace, mentor to many, heroine.
But I suppose I was reminded that I'd said something to the effect that I'd write about the bears we saw when we went up the coast last month.
And now bears seem to be everywhere in the news! There was one in Alberta that must have freaked out a couple of tourists from Thailand. Another report cites how many black bears are being killed here in BC. But the crummiest of these has to be the killing of a bear that wandered onto a golf course in a park in the city of Burnaby. I really don't understand why it wasn't tranquilized and relocated.
When I raised this question with my husband, he figured it had everything to do with costs. And yes, I reckon it's a lot cheaper to shoot and kill a bear than to hire the transport to take it someplace safe.
If every decision in our contemporary world is based on money, well, I give up and we're all screwed.
But to take your mind off such negative thoughts, here's a video I took when we were on our northern tour. Yep, those are mighty big claws, but all they're doing is digging for clams or other tasty bits along the shore. As for the shakiness, that wasn't fear. It's simply the fact that I was standing on a boat and small waves were rocking us a bit.
Besides the horrors going on in Ukraine, North America has had its own share of dark days, with mass shootings spanning the US from Buffalo to California and Texas.
Today comes yet another body-blow, though no guns were used.
This time the weapon at hand was the mind-blowing decision by the US Supreme Court to overturn the longstanding Roe v. Wade, which granted women the right to make decisions about our bodies.
I can only share the concerns of many others when I ask, What's next? The cancellation of same-sex marriage (would all those couples find their marriages have been annulled?)?
It will be interesting to see what happens in this autumn's coming elections, whether people will stand up for these important human rights. Although who knows, the next move might be to again take the right to vote away from women.
Looking for light...
Main part of the trip saw us combining ferry rides and driving our car so we could get to Prince Rupert. Our province is huge, so even though the main ferry ride was almost 18 hours in duration, our destination was only about halfway up the coast.
As far as pandemic restrictions went, most people seemed to have become good at distancing, though we were encouraged to wear masks when indoors. I liked the placement of the caution sign, between photos of the beautiful traditional masks.
One thing that surprised me on our "Northern Expedition" was the number of berries already out -- everything from the salmonberries (above) to thimbleberries (still in bloom, forming berries) and even wild strawberries. Even though these strawberries are barely the size of my pinkie nail -- nothing like the gigantic GMO ones often for sale in the supermarket -- they pack a powerfully sweet punch of flavour, and we did a bit of sampling. Mm-mmm.
Besides seeing water, water, water, there must have been a couple of million trees on view. We also saw quite a few species of birds, from eagles to the odd turkey vulture, and even managed a glimpse of a humpback whale, showing off, flicking his tail in our direction.
One of the major highlights of the trip was seeing grizzly bears in their undisturbed habitat. Next post will be some of those images. For now, I'm still putting away the last of the items we took along, and dreaming about where we might go next.
And really, it would be hard to find a prettier place to work than in the heart of a full-blown rhododendron blossom.
Luckily, some of the bee's pals have been poking their way into blossoms on our fruit trees, as there are now a few eensy plums and peaches, as well as heaps of quince -- the promise of autumn bounty.
It was a year ago that the announcement came, telling us that 215 graves had been found on the site of a former residential school here in BC.
This morning, poking through a stack of books in the living room, I once again opened a book that tells a story of life in such a school. Called The Ledgerbook of Thomas Blue-Eagle, it's a contemporary re-creation of just the kind of books children were given to keep their lessons in -- leftover ledger books donated by the local bank. No matter that the paper was lined for keeping accounts; children kept their own accounts, in this case, with details of a boy's young life.
Text accompanying the image above reads in part:
At night we had to wear long red suits that scratched our skin. We slept on iron beds. It was very different from sleeping in my warm tipi under buffalo robes with Two Painted Horse nearby. Each boy was allowed only one keepsake to remind him of home...
This book and its story comes from the US, where things were somewhat different than here in Canada. For one thing, I don't believe children in our residential schools were allowed to keep anything, not even their long hair.
Because I've been away (and offline), this blog has been empty for a few weeks. But with an observance as important as this one -- with even our Governor General in attendance -- it seemed like the right time to come back to the big limb.
