grannyfiddler-northofsanity

Thank you for coming by Gfid. Please hold.

2012-01-05T22:10:00.000-08:00

No.... I'm not setting out to offend anyone.... just thought this sandwich board outside the Smart Mouth Cafe in Vancouver was amusing, so I thought I'd share it.

Sometimes life has a way of taking off on its own. With elder care for my father, a very demanding full time job , and an illogical belief that moonlighting in musical performance will will help keep me sane, (not to mention the need for the $ it brings in) there are no minutes left for a life in the blogosphere at present.

I will come by to visit old friends periodically, but any more than that means no sleep these days. Be well, blog friends. I'm looking forward to seeing your contributions to the think-tank in the ether.

May 2012 bring us all more of the things we need (as opposed to want) most.

Outhouses, part II

2011-11-21T20:43:00.000-08:00

coming soon to a computer screen near you

On the subject of Outhouses

2011-11-14T14:40:00.000-08:00

With the advent of the winter's first snow, I'm discovering a renewed appreciation for indoor plumbing. ....so I thought I'd take a short rabbit trail round back to the outhouse, where we'll find interesting details those with a more innocent upbringing than I may be unaware of. I'll amaze you with previously unknown facts about:

stalagtites
a new definition of luxury
flora and fauna
what O.J. thinks of indoor plumbing
paperwork
sound effects
how you can tell the difference between really cold and BLOODY cold without a thermometer
and much more!

but first, a poem from the Yukon's beloved bard, Robert Service

The Three Bares
by Robert W. Service

Ma tried to wash her garden slacks but couldn't get 'em clean
And so she thought she'd soak 'em in a bucket o' benzine.
It worked all right. She wrung 'em out then wondered what she'd do
With all that bucket load of high explosive residue.
She knew that it was dangerous to scatter it around,
For Grandpa liked to throw his lighted matches on the ground.
Somehow she didn't dare to pour it down the kitchen sink,
And what the heck to do with it, poor Ma jest couldn't think.

Then Nature seemed to give the clue, as down the garden lot
She spied the edifice that graced a solitary spot,
Their Palace of Necessity, the family joy and pride,
Enshrined in morning-glory vine, with graded seats inside;
Jest like that cabin Goldylocks found occupied by three,
But in this case B-E-A-R was spelt B-A-R-E----
A tiny seat for Baby Bare, a medium for Ma,
A full-sized section sacred to the Bare of Grandpapa.

Well, Ma was mighty glad to get that worry off her mind,
And hefting up the bucket so combustibly inclined,
She hurried down the garden to that refuge so discreet,
And dumped the liquid menace safely through the centre seat.
Next morning old Grandpa arose; he made a hearty meal,
And sniffed the air and said: `By Gosh! how full of beans I feel.
Darned if I ain't as fresh as paint; my joy will be complete
With jest a quiet session on the usual morning seat;

To smoke me pipe an' meditate, an' maybe write a pome,
For that's the time when bits o' rhyme gits jiggin' in me dome.'
He sat down on that special seat slicked shiny by his age,
And looking like Walt Whitman, jest a silver-whiskered sage,
He filled his corn-cob to the brim and tapped it snugly down,
And chuckled: `Of a perfect day I reckon this the crown.'
He lit the weed, it soothed his need, it was so soft and sweet:
And then he dropped the lighted match clean through the middle seat.

His little grand-child Rosyleen cried from the kichen door:
Oh, Ma, come quick; there's sompin wrong; I heared a dreffel roar;
Oh, Ma, I see a sheet of flame; it's rising high and higher...
Oh, Mummy dear, I sadly fear our comfort-cot's caught fire.'
Poor Ma was thrilled with horror at them words o' Rosyleen.
She thought of Grandpa's matches and that bucket of benzine;
So down the garden geared on high, she ran with all her power,
For regular was Grandpa, and she knew it was his hour.

Then graspin' gaspin' Rosyleen she peered into the fire,
A roarin' soarin' furnace now, perchance old Grandpa's pyre....
But as them twain expressed their pain they heard a hearty cheer----
Behold the old rapscallion squattinn' in the duck pond near,
His silver whiskers singed away, a gosh-almighty wreck,
W i' half a yard o' toilet seat entwined about his neck....
He cried: `Say, folks, oh, did ye hear the big blow-out I made?
It scared me nearly half to death. I hope you w'unt too afraid.
But now I best be crawlin' out o' this dog-gasted wet....
For what I aim to figger out is----
WHAT THE HECK I ET?'

From the yukon Journal - Monday, April 19, 1976

2011-11-01T22:21:00.000-07:00

A guy from Teslin Lake we met at Haines Junction weigh scales and his woman stopped by on their way home from fishing at Haines, Alaska. They caught 5 Dolly Varden.

Gave us two for the cat.

As I recall, the cat got the head and fins. Dolly Varden is good fish, and we weren't too proud to eat someone's bag limit overflow... or whatever they were. The cat's name was Bagheera - named after the panther in Kipling's 'Jungle Book'. This was before I knew my frequent colds etc were due in part to animal allergies. He was a gorgeous fellow, huge, gentle and patient, once he got over his kittenhood belief that he was the most dangerous creature on 4 legs. Unlike every other cat I've ever known, Baggy came when called. He had the famous Siamese yowl, but, for the most part he didn't have a lot to say, unless he thought he was late for lunch. The strong, silent type. A purr like an idling tank. He came into the family just a few months after we got the German Shepherd pup... the one mentioned a while ago, who had porcupine radar. On arrival, Baggy entertained us for weeks at the dog's expense, with his fierce attacks. His favorite skulking hideaway was just behind the woodstove in the kitchen of the house we rented before heading to the Yukon. The dog was half grown by then, so he was too big to fit in the space between the woodstove and the kitchen wall. This became the kitten's private domain, as he was brand new, and hardly more than a pocketful full of creamy fluff.

The dog was Kochise. He loved everybody, without any bias as to race, species or gender. He especially loved that vicious little Siamese kitten. He responded to attack after attack with a smile and a wagging tail, certain that they'd soon be friends. The kitten wasn't convinced. He stalked and pounced, scratched and bit until he learned that the monster dog's most vulnerable spot was his big black nose. Baggy would skulk and peep until he saw Kochise nod off to sleep on the floor near the stove, then skitter out on tiptoe and POUNCE right on that big, black defenseless nose. Kochise would waken with a confused yelp to 20 needle sharp claws embedded in his tender nose. It wasn't a game. Baggy was out for blood - certain he was big enough and tough enough to take on anything. So the poor dog would paw - always gently - and lick and whine until he could dislodge the wretched feline from his injured proboscis. He'd lick the blood off with tears in his eyes, while the rotten cat skittered back to his vantage point to plan the next skirmish.

On a brisk fall day, they were each napping in their favorite spots near the crackling stove. Bagheera woke, stretched, and peered with evil blue eyes from behind his fortress. Aha! The monster slept. Perhaps he wasn't quite awake yet, or maybe he thought he'd try a new angle of attack. Whatever the reason, on this particular day, he leaped, not for the nose, but onto the end of Kochise's tail, sinking claws and teeth into it with fierce delight. The dog, of course, awoke immediately, lifting his head to look over his shoulder for the cause of the pain in his tail..... and broke into a toothy grin. It was his little friend the kitty! The tail began to wag. Thud! With .... thunk.... the kitten... konk.... attached.... whump. Thud. Thunk. Whump. Konk. Thump. Bonk. Clunk. Thud.

Stunned nearly to unconsciousness, the fearless predator lost his grip and tumbled to the floor. He was then scooped up by a careful black and tan paw, held down by another huge black and tan foot, and licked until he was a slobbery, slimy, dripping dog breath smelling mess. A few half-hearted feeble hisses and spits were vanquished by a tongue bigger than his body. They were fast friends from that moment onward. Until the cat got too big for this method of transportation, the dog liked to carry him by the head. He'd take the cat's whole head in his mouth, with the limp and completely relaxed cat's body hanging out the side. There was seldom any complaint about this. If Kochise was less careful than he might be, Baggy would reach up with a paw and poke the dog's nose lightly with a claw as a reminder to be more careful.

As they both reached maturity, they were often found curling up together at nap time, Baggy between Kochise's front paws, or at his belly, and they'd groom each other before they nodded off. When we travelled to the Yukon, at every pit stop, they'd leap out of the truck and rush off to explore. When the time came to hit the road again, at the sound of a bellowed "Kochise!......... Bagheera!" the enormous pointed ears of the German Shepherd and the brilliant blue eyes of the Siamese would appear from the shadows, each above its respective smile.

From the Yukon Journal - Sunday, April 18, 1976

2011-10-18T21:04:00.000-07:00

Mitch skied to Dalton Post. 6 buildings. One was being used but empty of human occupation. Klukshu River and Tatshenshini both running.

Heard a moose

& shot a squirrel.

Found cabins belonged to Charlie Ross. Weather overcast but not cold. Left .22 at trail by Pringle Lake

We at a lot of squirrel back then. They're cheeky and bold, so you can get close enough to them that even a half decent marksman can bag one. Not a lot of meat on them, but it was protein. Not terribly tasty or tender either, but marinated in soy sauce, they tasted similar to teryaki. When you haven't had protein for a while, almost anything tastes good with enough soy sauce or garlic.

Mitch skiied to Dalton Post on the home-made skis. They didn't hold up particularly well. I think he did more wading through hip-deep wet snow than skiing. I know the skis didn't come back with him. That was, to the best of my knowlege, his one and only attempt at making skis.

There's a kind of unwritten law in many wild places, that no door is kept locked, and the shelter of an uninhabited roof is free for anyone who needs it. If you're hungry, and you find food there, there's no shame in eating it. Just do your best to replace what you take. The same applies to firewood. If you need it, and it's there, it's yours to use, but never use all of what you find unless you're right out of options. And always, unless you're mortally ill or terminally injured, replace the firewood you used, with dry, split wood for the next visitor. He or she may need it worse than you did. It's the frontier version of the 'Leave The World a Better Place Than You Found It' philosophy.

In the wilderness, especially in an extremely cold climate, it's hard to forget that your actions could mean the difference between life and death not only for yourself, but for a friend or a stranger, who comes there after you. This is true, not just about firewood or moose jerky for tomorrow or next week or month, but also or things that last for generations or more. Trappers often inherited their traplines from their parents or bought the rights to them from an old-timer. Some wanted to make a living there for a lifetime or more, so they were careful that there were always animals left to live off of. No one who knows he's going to need moose meat again next year kills all of the moose he can find this year. It's a philosophy we could use more of in places and situations further afield. Imagine businesses and countries harvesting minerals and trees and fish with a feeling of responsibility for the next people who came along and might need some?

There were cabins at Dalton Post, used by the fellow who trapped in the area. People who make their living trapping generally have any number of cabins along their traplines. They have to cover many, many miles, sometimes in the worst weather you can imagine. Back in the day, they traversed the miles on cross-country skis or snowshoes or, if they were lucky, by dogteam.... these days they're more likely to have a snowmobile with a heated seat and hand warmers in on the handlebars or in their mitts. A trapper who's really serious about his (or her) job can spend a week or more traveling the trapline, and never go to the same place twice. They build little cabins, spaced a day's journey apart, where they can build a fire, cook some hot food and sleep in a dry sleeping bag on a bed of sorts. Often the trapline trails are cut cross each other at the location of a cabin, so it can serve double duty.

There's usually a tin airtight heater with a flip top lid in the middle of the single, low ceilinged room, and if it's really civilized, there'll be a table and a chair made of peeled poles and a chunk of plywood hauled in from somewhere. There may or may not be a window. The thing about windows is, they're the easiest place for a critter to get into. Bear and wolverine, squirrel and porcupine are really clever at finding ways inside something they know contains food. So if there is a window, it's probably also got heavy shutters that can be closed and fastened down when there's no one home. The bed might be a wooden pole frame with more peeled poles stretched across it, fastened to the wall on two sides in a corner, and propped on the one unsupported corner by a post. Spruce boughs often served as a mattress, cut fresh and replaced every week or so. The dried twigs and needles of the previous bedding made great kindling for the fire. A few nails in the walls served as clothes hangers and a pole hung by snare wire from the ceiling over the wood stove made a drying rack for mitts and socks crusted with snow.

There's often a spitoon. Almost every cabin had a rusty old coffee or lard tin half filled with disgustng brown slime. In a pinch it could also serve as a chamber pot.... not something I even want to try to imagine.... no matter how cold it is outside, I'll choose the outhouse over that every time, thank you very much. Chewing tobbacco is easier to manage than cigarettes when it's too cold to expose your face. And there's the difficulty of lighting a match with mitts on, and making the sulphur ignite in very low temps . Exposed flesh freezes quicly in sub-zero temperatures. When you might be hours away from the next warm fire, you do your best not to get cold. So you chaw your 'baccy. In the winter, the nicotine dribbles formed along the side of your mouth freeze in your beard, till you have 2 brown icicles hanging down, one on each side of your mouth. It's easy to pick out the fellas who chew, even when these extremely attractive sludge colored icicles have melted away. The frozen tobacco juice bleaches the hair downward from the corners of their mouths, leaving blonde or orange or silver streaks. Fetching - most fetching... but doesn't hold a candle to being offered a kiss by a face covered in frost and dripping brown half-frozen slime.

This particular spot was operated by fellow who was more of a gold miner than a trapper. He annually forsook the 'civilized' life of Vancouver, from which his wife refused to budge, when the spring blossoms began to unfold, to spend his summers in the then untouched wilderness along the banks of the Klukshu and Tatshenshini Rivers. Yes, there was gold. Placer gold, washed down the rivers from some unknown source, which he patiently panned throughout the sommer. When it was all cleaned and weighed and cashed in , there was enough to pay for his 'vacation' and take some home to the little woman. His name was Charlie, and he was very proud of his sourdough bread.

He told us he sent a loaf of it home to his wife in Vancouver one summer, as a treat. The next time he went to the lodge for supplies he telephoned her to see how she'd liked it. She told him haughtily, "I threw the horrible stuff in the garbage." She wasn't so haughty when he told her he'd baked several ounces of gold in the middle of it as a surprise to her. It didn't seem to bother him much that she'd thrown the equivalent of a month's good wages out; he loved to tell the story, and he knew there was lots more gold where it had come from.

From the Yukon Journal - April 17, 1976

2011-10-08T14:18:00.000-07:00

Made 2 pair skis to go to Dalton Post. Weather, sunny but cool.

That's what it says.... MADE 2 pair of skis. A little thing like 3 1/2 feet of snow and no skis or snowshoes wasn't going to keep us from getting where we wanted to be. Snowshoes seemed like they might be a little harder, and we didn't have the materials for them, so we went for the skis. We salvaged some lumber from somewhere along the highway, and made harnesses from the strips cut from tanned moosehide I'd brought along to make mukluks and moccasins.

In the trailer we were towing was an assortment of hand tools and materials we thought we'd need for building our cabin. Mitch grew up with a dad who knew what to do with wood, and what tools you'd need to do it with. A real craftsman didn't use power tools. As a result, we had a pretty interesting assortment of 'primitive' wood working tools. By the end of the day we had 4 rudimentary skis cut, planed, smoothed and waxed, complete with moosehide harnesses.

But best laid plans, and all that.... We didn't have great wood to work with. One ski broke the first time we tried them out, so we did a quick evaluation of the plan and concluded that perhaps we didn't both need to go on the first reconnoitering expedition. Pidgeon Hawk and I would stay with the gear, and Mitch would travel to Dalton Post solo.

I don't recall the little offshoot road to the south and west that this map shows, being there when we were there. Dalton Post seems to have become a favorite summer sport fishing spot these days, so there's actually a road most of the way there now. Not so 35 years ago. We were camped along Haines Highway as close to Dalton Post as we could get, and had planned to hike the rest of the way in. We hadn't counted on there still being 3 1/2 feet of snow in April. We thought the snow would be mostly gone - and we were right; it was mostly gone. There was only 3 1/2 feet of it left. The Haines Highway has these poles along either side of the road along there. They're striped, red and white, like candy canes or barber poles 12 or 15 feet tall. They puzzled us for a while.... odd sort of Christmas decorations for the side of an isolated highway. What we learned is, they're markers, so you can find the road in the winter. Some winters the snow gets so deep they're completely covered. 3 1/2 feet of snow is only crumbs, when you started with 15.

Dalton Post was our destination for the next leg of our journey. . There was a trail to Dalton Post, but it wasn't negotiable by anything with wheels. The place we'd chosen was further beyond that, a sheltered valley with a salmon bearing stream running through it and mature forest on the shoulders of the surrounding mountains. According to our research, there was a small area there, a little micro climate where wild crabapples had been found growing on the shoulders of the mountains. Our own little Eden.

We had the summer to locate a spot, build a cabin, catch and preserve salmon for the winter, prepare a garden plot for the coming year, and get to know the neighborhood. We had cases of preserved fruit, berries, veggies and jam, bags of dry goods, pots and pans - including a pressure canner with dozens of canning jars and supplies, nuts 'n bolts 'n screws and nails, and a box with a couple years' supply of vegetable seeds for the garden. In addition to enough clothes, bedding and housewares for a year, we had fabric to make more of whatever was needed, my grandmother's treadle sewing machine to sew them on, and extra needles, thread, buttons, zippers and whatnots. We had coal oil lamps and oil for them, salt for making jerky, widgets and gizmos I can't even remember the name of or the use for anymore. There was even a hand powered cream separator; we hadn't been able to bring the goats with is, but planned to go back for them when we had a barn and corral built for them.

And we had mead. Honey wine, made the winter before we left, and stored in those big hillbilly gallon jugs with the little handle loop thing for easy pouring. I think A&W root beer used to come in those jugs. So when the opportunity arose, we were prepared to entertain. When company stopped by our campfire, we mixed up a batch of sweet, fruity bannock, and poured everyone a glass of mead while the hearty aroma of baking bannock wafted over those lucky enough to be downwind of the fire.

After the evening meal, we'd tuck little snoozing Pidgeon Hawk cozily in bed under the heaviest down sleeping bag ever created, topped off by the hide of an unlucky black bear. I'd tune up my guitar for a singalong. Life was good.

From the Yukon Journal - April 16, 1976

2011-09-28T20:48:00.000-07:00

Set up camp & relaxed. Weather fair - warm and sunny. Mitch went downstream to falls and old building site. Snow 3 feet deep. Saw dippers on the river.

There were no folding camp stools or gas powered barbeque. 'Set up camp' meant digging a fire pit, lining it with stones and clearing the area around it of snow and /or flammable materials. It meant finding tree stumps or deadfalls that could serve as stools. The tailgate of the truck was the food preparation area, with all of our cooking utensils just inside the box of the truck and below our sleeping platform. Meals were cooked in fire blackened pots either set amongst the coals of the campfire, or propped on large pieces of wood which eventually succumbed to the heat and added to it. Mittens served the double purpose of keeping hands warm in the cold air, and protecting them from burning when removing a pot or a tea kettle from the fire. Water for washing dishes and, just before bed, ourselves, was heated over the last of the campfire's embers in an enameled dishpan, while we squatted around the fire to eat. When we first arrived in April, there was still too much snow to get into any of the government campsites, so we found quiet places off of little-traveled roads to camp at.

The campfire was our only source of heat, for both comfort and for food. Fire was life. The morning campfire warmed water for the first cup of tea of the day, and a pot of oatmeal. Lunch was usually leftovers from the previous evening's meal, or bannock with preserves from the previous summer's berries and fruit. I was getting very good at making bannock. Often it was closer to cake than to bread, made rich with dried apples or raisins I'd soaked overnight, honey and cinnamon. There was no need for refrigeration, as nighttime temperatures still dropped below freezing, and daytime temps were not far above it. Long woolen underwear was de rigueur, even for the baby, as were thick woolen socks and hats. He spent much of his time in a corduroy baby carrier on mum's chest, safely tucked and zipped under my coat, with just his hat and bright little eyes showing.

On a walk along the creek one evening, we spotted a winterhawk in the sky, and

came across the remains of its recent meal. The hawk had left a few small, delicately striped feathers behind, so we picked the best one and tucked it in the brim of the baby's knitted hat. We began to call babe Pigeon Hawk, because he was small and not very fierce.

We'd brought non perishable food supplies - flour, margarine, salt, baking powder, honey, rice, oatmeal, etc. and canned berries and fruit. So there was always food, though not much protein. To rectify this, we poached - duck or partridge mostly, hunted by Mitch with a .22 rifle or, if we thought the game warden might be within earshot, a compound bow and arrows. Meat was a treat not enjoyed every day, until we discovered the place was crawling with porcupines.

The dog, in fact, made this discovery for us, by coming back from a ramble with a mouth full of quills.

After some experimentation we learned how to best skin a porcupine without bodily harm. Skinning a porcupine also takes a very strong stomach, as they're crawling with vermin. After all, how 's a porky to groom himself without injury? Once the pelt is separated from the protein inside, you're left with a treat. Small cubes of young porcupine cooked on a stick over the fire proved to be quite delicious, and porky soon became a favorite. It didn't hurt that they were everywhere, and, being who they are, have few predators, so t hey don't seem to make any effort at all not to be seen or apprehended.

The plan was to find out who had the trapline where we hoped to settle, and, best case scenario, reach some 'sharing' agreement. Worst case, we'd reconsider our final destination.

From the Yukon Journal - Thursday April 15, 1976

2011-09-19T20:53:00.000-07:00

Stayed Wed night at Pine Creek. Flat tire on trailer. Arrived [Thursday] at Takhanne River campsite. River running. Set up camp. Lots of snow. Warm weather. Saw our second Mountain Bluebird. Good omen.

http://schumpeter2006.org/images/1968-ford-pickup-pictures.jpg

April in the Yukon is still winter. Everything is covered in snow. Daytime temperatures hover around the freezing point on a good day. And we were CAMPING!

We had this John Deere green, home- made plywood 'camper' on the back of an old red Ford pickup we called Bertha.

Bertha had seen some tribulations. The most memorable one was a few months before The Big Adventure In the Yukon, when my parter... we'll call him Mitch.... had a few days off work, and thought he'd replace her head gaskets. He worked as a 'doodlebugger'. No kidding, that's what they called them. Some offshoot of seismic exploration for the oilpatch, I believe. If you have any history with the oilpatch, you'll know that days off are rare and retractable. Someone didn't tell someone else that there was work to be done, or someone else didn't show up for the job, so Mitch's crew were called back before they'd even had time to change socks.

And I was left with a truck whose entrails were glistening in various locations on the dirt floor of the garage. In a small northern Alberta town about 15 miles from the nearest mechanic. In January. This was an unheated garage, whose only source of light came from the open door, or a trouble light on a 50 foot cord plugged into the kitchen wall.

Trouble light picture thanks to wikipedia

It was -35C that day, in the few hours of sunshine January brings. I swear it was colder in that garage. Certainly, it was colder by the time I had the baby settled for the night, and knew I'd have a few hours to work. But I had help. Yes, being the thoughtful guy he was, Mitch wrote out instructions for me to put the truck together in order to take it

to his buddy, that mechanic who was 15 miles away, so HE could put the new head gaskets in.

Well, I grew up with truck drivers. I can't remember a time when I didn't know what a wrench was, and nobody told me I couldn't do it, so I didn't know any better. I put the truck together, in the blistering cold, in the light of that lone trouble light. I broke a few lightbulbs in the process.... glass is fragile at those temperatures.... but in a few hours I had dear old Bertha back in one piece.... well, two pieces.... I couldn't find the hole in the oilpan, to put the plug back in, in order to pour in the engine oil. It had been a long night. I remembered my brothers talking about oil pan plugs sometimes being in odd places. I'd call the mechanic buddy in the morning; he'd be able to tell me where it was.

The words Mr. Mechanic said to me are burned in my memory forever. After I'd spent half the night putting the #%*! truck together in the dark in 30 or 40 below weather, he said, in a voice of pure condescension, "Diana, if you don't know where the oilpan is, just leave the truck alone." He knew very well I wasn't looking for the oil pan, but for the orifice IN the oil pan. There clearly was no point in continuing that conversation, so I hung up on him. Hard.

He didn't say anything at all to me when I pulled to a screeching halt in front of his shop early the next afternoon, grabbed the baby, slammed the door and handed him the keys. Nor did I say anything to him. The scorn in my eyes said it all, and my ride back home was waiting.

Bertha was a good old girl. After we built the plywood camper for her, she became 'Bertha Box'. It wasn't much of a camper, really. A plywood cube with a small heavy duty plastic 'window' on each side. The entire back side hinged at the top for entry. A ledge was built at the height of the top of the truck box, where we lovingly placed the mattress from our bed, complete with a bearskin souvenir from a previous adventure. a smaller ledge, attached to the wall at the foot was supported by hinges and chains, for the baby. Underneath this, in the box of the truck, were all our worldly goods, cooking and food supplies. In the trailer was our grubstake - lengths of stovepipe, rope, tools and hardware to build ourselves a cabin in the wilderness.

http://www.2020site.org/cabin/images/log-cabin.jpg

We had a spot all picked out. A sheltered valley amongst mountains, heavily forested, rich in wild game and fur, with a salmon bearing river running through it. After a year of practice living in trapline cabins and primitive farmhouses, we knew how to be comfortable without electricity and all that goes with it. We had the hang of heating and cooking with wood, and lighting the winter's darkness with a coal oil lamp. (the rented place with the dark, cold garage was a temporary luxury. We wanted to use power tools to build the camper, so we had to have electricity) We'd spent a year or more poring over maps and reading everything we could find about the Yukon, native land claims negotiations, climate and microclimate, fishing, hunting, and edible native plants. We were certain we could just show up, knock some trees down, build a cabin and move in.

Yukon

2011-09-11T22:47:00.000-07:00

i've stumbled over the journal i started keeping 35 years ago, when my partner of the time and i left northern alberta for our Great Adventure In The Yukon. my eldest son came across it a few years ago when visiting me, and stayed up all night reading it. there's another somewhere, which continues the tale.... the second has drawings illustrating moments that seemed particularly illustragenic. i hope it shows up as well.....

i'm thinking it might be fun to post some of the stories that the journal entries bring to mind, and, should i manage to get my life under control, perhaps i'll have some time to try illustrating them.....

Relax, what's your hurry....?

2011-08-28T17:13:00.000-07:00

click below for some good advice from singer / songwriter Connie Kaldor

Relax by ConniRelax by Connie Kaldor

I am always alone, but at this moment I would prefer to be alone by myself."

thus saith Death to his (mortal) hired man, after having a brief brush with his own unexpected, and temporary, mortality.

in an attempt to remember what it is to relax, i'm holed up in my little row house, puttering in a very minor way, and lazing in a major way. a much anticipated trip to the mountains has fallen through, so i'm holidaying at home.... determined to do nothing responsible for 2 weeks. eat, drink and be merry, occasionally doing a few dishes and possibly sweeping the floor and taking out the garbage. basic maintenance only. no PROJECTS allowed, other than the very serious project of regaining some sanity in a life which has become far too overbooked with projects and responsibilities and obligations and the demands of others.

unfair to be hit betwixt the eyes with profundity when one is trying so hard to be narcissistic.

i'm holed up with a stack of Terry Pratchet novels, having recently abducted one from my goddaughter. i seem to be the only person i know who isn't already familiar with him, but if he's new to you, i highly recommend Terry Pratchett's Discworld books. i've printed off the

Discworld reading order guide for guidance, though there's no need, i'm told, to follow any order, as they all stand freely on their own.

summer is doing her last bright trot around the neighborhood; there'll be hard frost any morning now. thoughts run to inside activities... reading, cooking hearty soups and stews, creative things involving paper and ink and paint.... fabric and pins ..... yarn and finding a place to set up the loom..... honey and yeast.... too many possibilities, really....

and i wonder why i need to re-learn how to rest. even when i'm resting i'm thinking of ways to exhaust myself.

Wonky Robin

2011-08-10T07:19:00.001-07:00

the robins we have here are called 'American Robins'. British Robins are a little chubbier, and, i believe, a little more colorful. ours are lanky and subtle.

well, some of them are subtle. this particular robin was a cheeky blighter with an attitude that would make a rhinoceros proud.

they're very territorial birds, i'm told. and, i'm not sure if it's the norm, but it's fairly common for a male robin to build a nest in order to attract a female. it seems the ladies like some assurance that his intentions are honorable.

but he'll pick the oddest place to build the blessed thing!!! i've seen them glued on the traffic side of a tractor trailer, with the tiniest lip of metal supporting the whole structure he expects his intended to raise a family in. or on top of the carriage light between two electric garage doors. i'm sure herself's first words on inspecting such a dwelling are 'what were you thinking?!' and the second sentence she speaks is probably 'i'm going home to mother till you come up with something habitable'.

this particular romeo chose for his 'home' base the horizontal beam that supported the second story deck of the old church i was renovating. it was on the west side of the building, broadside to the prevailing winds. each joist of the deck above rested perpendicular to this beam, forming a little box which created a mini wind tunnel. were flatlanders here. there IS wind. a LOT of wind.

now, romeo was on his own for some time. i'm not sure if there had been some confusion about where and when the rendezvous would occur, or if he was a magnificent optimist who just knew someone wonderful would appear magically, and find him irresistible. i tend towards the magnificent optimist theory, and here's why. romeo didn't just build a nest. there were something in the neighborhood of a dozen little wind tunnels on that beam. he built a nest in every one of them. or, he tried to..... he drove himself crazy trying to.

remember the wind? in the tunnel? often i'd come home from work and walk under the deck to the front door, in that howling prairie wind. and i'd notice as i strode along, that those once-nest-filled tunnels were empty, or had only tattered shreds of vegetable matter left in them. but the next day (if the wind had abated) there'd be little heaps of new - or possibly recycled - vegetable matter in each of them. if enough windless days managed to cling to each other long enough to become a weather pattern, there'd soon be a little nest in each darling little hurricane chute. till the wind woke up again. this continued from spring till well into summer, and still no sign of a missus.

i mentioned that robins are territorial. i haven't yet mentioned the scaffold. it had been built to facilitate installing the new roof part of the renovation. it worked terrifically for that purpose, and the roof - a gorgeous blue sheet metal with a pitch that a chinese pagoda would envy - had been through its second winter by then. i couldn't see that the scaffold continued to serve any useful purpose, and the horizontal footpath planks were right at eye level from inside the building. as well as being in the direct line of vision, whenever it rained, muddy water splattered all over the windows. i wasn't sure why it even existed anymore, but any effort to discuss the subject with the architect and engineer responsible for the structure - my (now ex-) husband - resulted in long periods of darkly silent glowering and pouting. even the kids knew better than to behave that way, for crying out loud.

turns out i was wrong about the scaffolds not serving any useful purpose. romeo discovered they were perfect for pacing on. perhaps he was relieving sexual tension, what with no missus, and all that nest building. he spent every waking moment that he wasn't building nests walking the plank. back and forth in front of the windows. he must have had drumsticks of steel. his favorite spot seemed to be the kitchen window - glaring at me as i did all the kitchen things one does with 2 teenage boys who can't eat processed food. i spent a lot of time in that kitchen. when he couldn't stand it any more, he'd fly screaming at the window in a fury, with murder in his eyes. so now the windows were splattered with mud & robin guck and covered with robin footprints and feather smudges. bleargh!

this went on for much of the summer. he didn't bother us in the yard, but he seemed to consider the house his turf, and anyone inside it fair game. more than one visitor who dared approach a window from inside was frightened off by his sudden and very angry appearance. several made reference to alfred hitchcock's 'the birds'.

i'm not a 'birder', but i like birds. i like the way they fill my yard with song, and i keep my bedroom window open all summer because i like to wake up to the sounds of their conversations, even if i don't understand the language. i like to keep a bird feeder and feel very proud when i can identify one or two of my dinner guests. i don't want them to be hungry in the winter. at first i thought he was charming. then, amusing. then, though he was becoming annoying, i empathized with his frustrated nesting instinct. by the time july was ripening tomatoes, i'd about had it with him, and i was calling him ugly names and wishing he'd go away. my front step was always full of trash from his bloody nests, and i didn't dare go near any of my blinkin' filthy windows when i was inside my own damned house. i'm ashamed to say, i even told him i could see why he was still single, and i thought he deserved to die a virgin. the sooner the better.

but miracles do happen. one day, he was gone. the wind blew the last of his nests away. i washed all of my windows. my friends made tentative forays over for tea. a new robin's nest appeared on that carriage light i mentioned earlier, between two electric doors on the garage across the street. he'd found his lady love after all, but, though he'd given her a dozen cozy nests to choose from, she hadn't liked the neighborhood, and he had to help her build a new one, from scratch. baby robins grow at a phenomenal rate, and we caught glimpses of them feeding and learning to fly, before the family packed up for the trip south.

i guess my Mr. didn't like the neighborhood either. he left the following winter. one of the first things i did the spring after he left was tear down the cursed scaffold. i wasn't chancing the arrival of any more wonky robins.

May in Vancouver

2011-07-25T21:05:00.000-07:00

After the Habitat for Humanity AGM in Vancouver last May, I stayed an extra week to enjoy the city and visit friends. This lovely lady is someone who first came to me a couple of decades ago as a very small girl, for violin lessons . She's now living in Vancouver, articling to be an architect. She showed me her town. We walked a lot. Van is a lovely city for walking..... through parks filled with forget-me-nots and the last of the spring bulbs,

down to Granville island where buskers have to audition for the privilege of performing, and in designated locations during specific time slots. Kind of an oxymoron... regulated busking.... The mermaid statue got in before they made all of those rules, so she didn't have to audition. i suspect she wouldn't pass the dress code requirements.

We walked along the harbor, where children danced to the sounds of flamenco guitar, and fed the pigeons.

And to Gastown, where the steam clock fills the streets with the breathy voice of a giant pan flute.

A fountain in old Gastown. Fish are a popular theme. These are copper, transformed to an organic looking verdigris by the weather.

A walk along the shoreline as the sun goes down.

And a lucky find! It's poetry slam night at a local cafe'.

Up 'way past my bed time.

Then a few days with another friend at her lovely cottage on the Sunshine Coast, where I lost count of the hummingbirds swarming the feeders on the porch... at 26!!!

It was a gorgeous week

Don't make friends with dinner.

2011-07-18T07:16:00.000-07:00

after graduating from high school, youngest son, Luke chose gainful employment over further education. he was tired of school and wanted a way to finance his love of all things electronic. a regular paycheck was the only honest means of accomplishing this, so he worked for a big box electronics store. seemed like the dream job, working with all his favorite toys, AND getting an employee discount. after locking horns with the real world for several years, he was disappointed to learn that his opportunities didn't match up with his ambitions, (or his expensive tastes) so he has conceded that post-secondary education might be worth his while after all, and has enrolled in university, to begin this fall. meanwhile, his dad had a trip to Africa planned with a colleague from work, and asked the lad to join them. it was all paid for by the pater, and there were no longer any worries about job security, so how could he refuse?

he was a tad worried about traveling with his dad, who is the mastermind behind many many holidays from hell, but his sister and i assured him that even his dad couldn't spoil africa. mama and big sis were so right. and so ensued a photo safari where the boy snapped this, and many more shots of his all-time favorite animal, the cheetah......

as well as lions, zebras, giraffes (oh my!), and numerous hordes of bouncy or galloping ruminants. he loved it most that he was taking pictures, and no one was killing anything. then they helped install water tanks and rain collection gutters in a school in Nairobi.

note the ladder. when he asked "where do i find a ladder?", he was told, "you build one." as there was no hardware store to run to, he did just that, from wood he had to harvest himself. he also made the hole for the spigot in the 500 gallon vinyl water tank with a screwdriver, as there was no drill or cutting implement to be found.

the gentlemen below are responsible for security at the school. hall monitors of a sort. there's a certain faction who consider educating and feeding children to be a threat to the local economy - or at least to their lucrative business selling hootch and drugs. if you look closely, you'll see the business end of one fellow's rifle resting between his feet. their job is less to keep the children in class, than to ensure that outside interference stays outside.

as Luke finished work on the eaves troughs one day, a newfound friend offered an invitation to join his family for a meal, which invitation they were pleased to accept. their time in Nairobi had already taught them that they were sometimes awkwardly ill-informed regarding local social conventions, so they asked another friend if there were some protocols they should be aware of, regarding a dinner invitation. the conversation went something like this:

"Well, it would be polite to bring a chicken."

"Where can we buy a chicken? There is no store here."

"I think I may know someone who might sell you a chicken."

so off they went to the home of this lady.....

Luke waited in the car while, after a pleasant conversation with their friend, the lady agreed on a price for a chicken, of which there were none in sight.

she received her payment, reached inside her house for a tin of something, and scattered a handful of it round her feet. a flock of chickens immediately and magically materialized out of empty air, pecking cheerfully at her feet. just as cheerfully, she reached down and snatched one of them up by its feet, which she bound together with a piece of string found in her pocket. by now the chicken was less cheerful.

it made a terrible racket as her customer opened the back door of the car so she could toss the desperately flapping chicken on the floor at Luke's feet.

i'll let him tell the rest of the story in his own words. "i felt so sorry for the chicken, Mum. i just wanted to pick it up and cuddle it and tell it everything would be o.k..... except that would have been a lie.

.... and i didn't want to make friends with dinner."

shortly thereafter, lad and dad continued on to climb Mt. Kenya, which i believe he said is the 2nd highest peak on that continent - where only 25 non-nationals make the summit each year. he was determined to be one of this year's 25. today i received a note from him via facebook, posted from his cell phone, "3rd person this year to summit point Batain via north face of mount Kenya. Also the 3rd canadian to do it in 6 years. no big deal... :p"

credits for all photos but the chicken (which i stole from a web archive somewhere) go to our intrepid adventurer, Luke.

Badgering a Kiltie

2011-07-11T07:59:00.000-07:00

in a recent post Susan mentioned the Halifax Military Tattoo. though i've never been to one of these events, i was once married to a Scottish-born fellow who went to great trouble to immerse me in the traditions of his homeland. part of this immersion was a requirement to participate in numerous Scottish Country Dance workshops and other related events. one such event was a Scottish fiddling class taught by a fellow whose love of storytelling was second only to his passion for the music of his homeland. some of the tunes i learned from Calum are still among my favorite performance pieces. the story i'm going to share with you is one of his, told over pints of beer at the local pub one evening after class.

but firstly, some cultural background. as the photo shows, what is worn under the kilt (or more accurately, not worn)is considered the test of a true Scotsman. the gents in the photo are, indeed, true Scotsmen. here they are seen marching in a parade somewhere or other. a military tattoo is much like a parade, but it's all done on a parade ground instead of down the streets of town. the groups involved are in full military dress. they're immaculately groomed, attired in perfectly matched uniforms. they perform complicated choreographed maneuvers on the parade ground, marching in time to the music they play, to the admiration of crowds or visiting dignitaries. today's story, boys 'n girls, is about one such true Scotsman - a piper, participating in the Edinburgh Tattoo.

to the unwashed masses, a uniform is a uniform is a uniform. those encased in the things, however, know there are specific, and distinct differences, which serve as identifiers to the indoctrinated eye. there's a lot if available information in a uniform, if you speak the language. from small details one learns the rank of the wearer, where the regiment is from, how important the event they're attending is, etc. etc. i don't pretend to be uniformally literate, but i do have a glimmering of understanding of how much i don't understand.

the uniforms of Scottish regiments are unique even to the untrained eye. the most noticeable difference is the kilt. Scottish men are, we're led to believe, so very certain of their masculinity, that they can wear a skirt into battle. they'll also knock the head off of anyone gauche enough to call it a skirt. another take is that they're so insecure about their manhood that they need to be able to lift their skirts to prove it on a second's notice. the jury is still out on that, and i'll confess to a certain amount of cynicism which i cheerfully blame on the former spouse. The fellows below are at the Edinburgh Tattoo, one of the most famous and extravagant of its kind, performed on the parade grounds of Edinburgh castle each year.

on the front of the kilt, you'll usually find a sporran. this is the original man-purse. (calling it a purse is also grounds for having your head knocked off) the kilt has no pockets, after all, and a fella has to put his pocket knife and coin for beer somewhere. this can be a simple, flat leather bag on a string run round the waist, but it isn't usually. there seems to be some sort of competition to see who can come up with the most elaborate or outrageous sporran. you'll find everything from tastefully tooled leather to grotesque carven ram's heads in 3D. most common are bits of fur and tassels. yes, the Scots assure us, real men can, and certainly do wear tassels. they also wear a wee bit of lace at their wrists, to formal balls, which, i'm here to tell you, looks absolutely smashing. in addition to serving as a container for needful items, the sporran helps hold the front of the kilt down in a breeze, and while dancing. the back, it seems, is fair game for gusts and curious onlookers.

a certain middle aged lady of North American extraction was attending this particular edition of the Edinburgh Tattoo. she was clearly enamored of all things Scottish, and was having the time of her life, snapping photos and chatting with the locals, who described her speech as having a very nasal and high pitched 'twang'. after the grand finale, with fireworks and deafening cheers, the contents of the parade ground swarmed into pubs in the neighborhood of Edinburgh Castle. participants and onlookers mingled, celebrating the great event.

the hapless hero of our story was a strapping handsome young man - a piper in a regiment whose sporran was made from the head of an equally handsome badger. it may have looked something like this. he stood at the bar, with his foot up on the foot rail that is often found in such places. he was a fine specimen of Scottish manhood, striking a most appealing pose in 3/4 view of our lady tourist, as he chatted with a friend. she appeared to be fascinated with him, and most especially with his sporran. as the evening progressed, and she enthusiastically sampled the local brew, she couldn't take her eyes off of him. it took her some time, and many brews, to screw up her courage, but she did it. tottering unsteadily up to the object of her attentions, she laid her hand on his arm. he turned toward her and smiled politely. taking a great breath, in order to speak loudly enough to be heard over the ear-numbing noise of music and conversation, she shrieked, "oh, i just love your scrotum!" she had an excellent set of lungs, so was heard by everyone in the room, which now echoed with silence. all eyes turned to question what the ears couldn't believe they had heard. the poor fellow's ruddy face paled, his foot dropped convulsively from the rail to the floor. in total silence, and to the glee of the hundreds of eyes following him, he bolted from the room.

whether she intended to say what she said remains a mystery. no one else had seen anything but his sporran, and the lady was in such a state of confusion afterward that she required assistance to find her lodgings.

There are Yurts in Heaven

2011-06-10T17:07:00.000-07:00

The yurt, a 'modern' adaptation of the Mongolian ger, is a fabric skinned structure, round in shape, with a conical roof. its skeleton is comprised of overlapping slats of strong wood constructed and operated much like a folding baby gate.

The walls and ceiling are often double thickness, with a heavy layer of insulation between, and they are available with fully operable glass windows and framed doors.

I dream of one day living in a yurt.

on the cusp of summer

2011-05-16T22:03:00.000-07:00

on the cusp of summer the Burnaby sky is filled with colour

and with crows! hard to see in such a small image, but the sky and trees are full of them. i'm told that, decades ago, this was a marsh - crow territory, and, generations later, they have not relinquished it.

we're springing!

2011-05-16T00:48:00.000-07:00

spring.

gentle sighs of green

bravely exhale

and spread themselves

over the discarded remains of last summer.

crushed brown swaths of departed grasses

part reluctantly,

reveal that banshee winter

hasn't altered the circle of life.

trees,

for months stark, naked and shivering

against pewter arctic skies,

begin to soften their silhouettes.

a mist of infant green forms an aura around them.

even the sky

warms from dull to deepest blue.

earth,

only weeks ago rigid and grey with ice,

succumbs.

small energetic wedges of green persistence

thrust through its crust.

we blink,

shake off the gritty residue

of winter's demise.

a miracle has surrounded us.

last month's frozen grip is broken

by the softest of golden touches.

how subtle is a sunbeam,

yet what can resist it?

It's the end of the world as we know it

2011-05-06T12:33:00.000-07:00

For at the time appointed the end shall be. (Daniel 8:19)

May 21, 2011 - Are You Ready?

i heard this on the truck radio today, on the way to get my summer tires put back on, so i looked it up online. it comes along with some weird formatting i don't know how to get rid of.

seems these guys never get tired of being wrong. i suppose if they keep it up long enough, they'll eventually get it right. in the same way that a stopped clock is right twice a day. ..................................................................
if i were Seraphina i'd have a cool 'toon and a great quote for you, but i'm not Sera.
if i were Linda or Susan there'd be a photo of something beautiful i'd made or photographed, but i'm not Su or Linda
if i were Lindsay Lobe, i'd enlighten you with the historical and cultural background of this phenomenon, but i'm not Lindsay
if i were Madcap, i'd have some thing witty and original and insightful to say about it all, but i'm not Madcap
if i were Cicero or Claire i'd help you keep both feet firmly planted on our gorgeous planet's skin with a stunning photo and/or a recipe, but i'm not Cicero or Claire.
if i were Jozien, i'd have a breathtaking wilderness photo or a poem for you, but i'm not Jozien
if i were Gary or Zee i'd give you a global perspective on the subject, but i'm not either of them
if i were Utah Savage, i'd have something really brilliant and insightful to say about it all, but i'm not her either.

in the process of understanding all that i am not, and accepting that, i learn all that i am.

and i am not convinced the world will end in 15 days
at least, my world won't

JUST AS GOD WARNED NOAH BEFORE THE WORLDWIDE FLOOD, GOD IN HIS MERCY IS WARNING US THROUGH THE BIBLE THAT JUDGMENT DAY WILL BE ON MAY 21, 2011.

the Maestro

2011-04-18T22:51:00.000-07:00

ok. so i have no life. the most exciting thing that's happened is my dog is nearly grown up. and very handsome. this was taken just after he'd had his first complete haircut. Last week as we returned home from a walk we passed the backyard of a burly fellow with a handlebar moustache, who was firing up his barbeque. it was a few degrees above freezing, so it felt like spring. Maestro was doing his dolphin dog routine, diving into the snow banks and running with his nose down and tail up, making a trench in the melting snow. i was laughing at his foolishness, when the burly fellow called from behind me, "what kind of dog is that?" i replied "he's a water spaniel". Mr. Burly called back in his deep, gruff voice, "he's beeeyooodeeefull". made my day.

Art for Humanity

2011-03-25T14:44:00.000-07:00

We're gearing up for an Art for Humanity show for Earth Day, featuring sculptures made from recycled materials from our ReStore. I gave 6 sculpture students from the local college $50 each to spend at the ReStore, with the agreement that they would donate the resulting works to a fundraiser for Habitat for Humanity. Here's what they came up with.

fresh baked bread

2011-02-18T12:16:00.000-08:00

i just paid over $13 for a small loaf pan. an empty metal pan about 2/3 the size of a standard loaf pan. textured metal. no teflon or silicone or heat proof glass. plain sheet metal with some bumps stamped into it.

i can't believe the price. but i paid it.

my dad, now living alone, is lonely and unhappy. so last week i baked him cinnamon buns in an attempt to cheer him up and remind him that he's not all alone. i spend the day with him in his home, and bake and visit and putter. this week i thought fresh whole wheat bread might be nice. he likes whole wheat. a full-sized loaf would be stale before he could eat the whole thing alone, and i'm gluten intolerant, so there's no sharing. a smaller loaf was required. i pounded the pavement from one shop to the next. big box stores don't carry small loaf pans; they're not common, so there's no profiting from economies of scale in selling them. the only place i could find one was a 'gourmet' cooking store. $12.99 plus tax.

good grief.

early senility?

2011-01-26T12:21:00.000-08:00

i'm turning into one of those weird old ladies who talks to her dog, and triumphantly practices unconventional solutions to every day problems.

it's this 'air card'.

bought a little over a year ago, so i could have internet service for my laptop wherever i am, as, at the time, i was doing a fair bit of traveling with the job. it's always been a bit twitchy, but now it seems to last only a few minutes before it disconnects itself and i have to reconnect.... which becomes of shorter and shorter duration till it won't connect at all. and, of course, the warranty is up. the thing retails for $300 so getting a new one is out of the question just now. and they don't repair things anymore. if the service provider even cared. i recently had other issues with it, and was told by Telus Mobility (after nearly a week of back and forthing over the issue, with no satisfactory resolution) 'Well, Telus doesn't support Macintosh' (my laptop is a MacBook) but, i reply, you sold it to me specifically for a Mac. you set it up on my Mac. 'Well, Telus doesn't support Macintosh'. robotic response. i guess they don't get paid enough to think.

so.... the stick is not reliable.

i noticed that it's always quite warm to the touch when it stops working. so i tried letting it cool, then plugging it in for another go. and it worked fine.... till it got warm again. hmmm. there seems to be a temperature factor. with time, the warming seemed to happen sooner, till it was all i could do to open my email and get out a reply or 2 before it was shutting down.

hmmm.... maybe if i chill it first. so i put it in the freezer compartment of the fridge for a 1/2 hour..... and it did work a little longer before it shut down. hmmm... chilling it seems to be an improvement.

so, picture this. i'm on bereavement leave, and completely vegging out. doing the hermit thing bigtime. still in my plaid pajamas, barefoot and gritty eyed, with magnificent bedhead, i'm seated in a 30's style big, soft armchair that i've recovered in a floral tapestry fabric. the laptop is on my lap, a bowl of gluten free peanut butter comfort cookies i baked yesterday is near at hand. there's a home made quilt containing ice packs carefully arranged around the air card attached to the side of the laptop. the dog is fascinated by the ice packs, and doing his best to unobtrusively get his nose inside the blanket to lick them.

all a bit ridiculous, but, miracle of miracles, i've been on the air card for nearly an hour and it's working fine.

thankfully, we have wireless at work. i won't need to bring my quilt and ice packs.

in memory of

2011-01-21T14:39:00.000-08:00

Vi.

she always went by Vi, though her name was Violet. Violet Rose. a lovely, delicate name for a petite woman who was quite a stunner in her younger years. she didn't like her name. Vi has been my stepmother since i was 3. in elementary school, my friends called her 'the wicked stepmother'.

she's not smiling because i was the one taking the picture. she didn't like me. the picture on her memorial program thingy is much nicer. she's smiling at the camera in that one. i didn't take that picture.

there will be no funeral. that's how dsyfunctional we are. not even a memorial service. nothing. my father won't have it. i'm told she spent her last days worrying that the wrong person would get her royal albert china. (i suspect her greatest fear was that i had been secretly coveting it all these years) i have this information second-hand, because, being her least favorite person in the world, it seemed wisest just to stay away. as my presence seemed always to be a catalyst for trouble of some kind, i didn't visit her during those days. and i don't want the china.

it seems that the death of an abusive parent is no easier than that of a good 'un. some say, even harder.

Mona Lisa of the frozen north

2011-01-11T22:54:00.001-08:00

i meant to post a picture of the windows. as proof that i at least make an effort to keep new year's resolutions, i'd planned to put an image of the windows i painted in lieu of hanging drapes. (resolution being to make time for creative expression) when i painted the walls i took down the hideous clattering plastic vertical blinds that came with the place. i had to do something for privacy, as my biggest window faces about a dozen other condos. so i mixed some of the same latex paint that went on the walls with liquid dish soap and painted botanicals on the windows, white on white. the dish soap trick was learned years ago when i supplemented my meagre living by doing seasonal window painting for local businesses. it makes the paint spread smoothly on the glass, gives a slightly translucent look, depending on the soap/paint ratio, and makes cleanup much easier.

as i perused prospective painted window pictures i couldn't resist posting this one instead. much more interesting than just a pane of glass with some paint on it....

the lovely mona lisa upstaging my humble efforts (seen behind her) is my daughter, having a glass of wine with me on her birthday, just before joining her spouse and a crowd of friends for a party. the darlin' granddaughter had a sleepover with grandma that night.

Resolution time

2010-12-31T20:27:00.000-08:00

someone gave me one of those 'Chicken Soup for the Soul' books for Christmas.... on a Christmas theme. i was a little low before i read it. now i'm seriously depressed. why did i read it at all? i know i don't like those books. i hate stories of people gushing about how a single random act of kindness changed their lives. and i have a really dysfunctional family, so stories of the perfect family christmas celebration don't do much for me either. i think i was hoping the book would cheer me up, but it had the opposite effect. maybe i'm just jealous of those writers and their family gatherings and longstanding traditions. am i too cynical to appreciate what they're trying to say?

but, much as i regret reading the thing, it has made me face my despondency. since i lost one of my dearest friends last spring, i've been in and out of depression. up and down like a roller coaster. it's not going away on its own, so i guess i'll have to do something about it. working harder hasn't helped. no surprise, but that's always been my first choice for dealing with problems. work harder. in fact, one of the first things my 'executive coach' said to me, in our first session was, "you work too hard. what are you hiding from?"

i replied, "well, life, obviously." but we all know hiding from life doesn't make it go away.

so, be it resolved that granny has some problems she needs to work through; 2011 shall be the year of excavation into the deep and dark realms of the soul. it might get ugly. there's some nasty stuff down there.

one of the deep dark issues is trust. i'm not good at it. and, frankly there are some sound reasons for that. but human beings are wired to trust. we can't have meaningful relationships without it. with anyone. by best relationship right now is with my dog. i love my dog, but he hasn't solved my loneliness.

for me, writing is therapy. writing about things helps me work through them. but there are big trust issues with letting anyone else read what i write. is it enough just to write it, or is sharing the information part of the therapy?

Resolution #1

make writing about emotional issues a priority. regularly, and in a disciplined way.

another issue is marital status. 8 years ago, on new year's day, my husband dumped me. it was never explained, and technically, we're still married. this needs to be cleared up. i need some understanding of what was going on in his mind, and why he did it. and i need a divorce.

Resolution #2

contact the ex. request an explanation. notify him that i want a divorce. begin divorce proceedings.

another issue - i don't seem able to rest, or allow myself leisure time. is this avoidance, or just habit? there are things i used to love doing, that i won't allow myself time to do now. even my music is always related to teaching or an upcoming gig. can i do it just for pleasure?

Resolution #3

remember how to rest, and to play. then do it.

....all very personal stuff, but i guess i'm a bit self absorbed right now.

on a lighter note, i have a christmas story for you.

i call it 'Ada's Christmas Apple'

Ada lived next door to me years ago. She was probably in her mid 90's when she told me this - a tiny bird of a woman with huge, strong hands, clear blue eyes and a thick shock of shining silver curls that seemed to have a life of their own, always in mild disarray.

we were standing outside in the yard chatting, as we often did. it was just a little before Christmas. i must have made some comment about gift giving. that was all the invitation Ada needed to start a rant on the blatant and thoughtless commercialism of the season. then she said, "i'll tell you a little story, about the one of the best Christmas gifts i ever had."

and she did. here's my paraphrase of Ada's story:

Ada was one of 10 children... the youngest, i believe. her father died when she was very small, leaving her mother to provide a home and basic necessities for those 10 children. she worked as a laundress, did sewing and mending, and had a small farm, where she raised some chickens and grew a huge garden.

now, Christmas was a big event for Ada's family. the small clapboard house was always fragrant with baking and pine boughs and secrets for many days before the final festive day. she didn't know how her mama did it, but there was always a special meal, and a gift for everyone, every christmas. the children would also team up to make gifts for each other from bits of wood or yarn or fabric, and everyone loved the giving as much as the receiving. on a prosperous year, there would even be raisins and sugar for baking. this particular year was not a prosperous year, but not one of those 10 children questioned whether there would be a gift from Mother in everyone's stocking on Christmas morning.

when she and her sisters woke that morning, in the big bed they all shared, their thoughts were united. with smiles and giggles, they joined the boys downstairs where everyone had hung a stocking the night before. the stockings weren't anything fancy. just the same nondescript woolen stockings Mother always knit for them all to wear through the winter. some were darned and patched, but all were clean and in good repair. and from the top of every child's stocking a bright new pair of mittens was peeking out. Ada's were the cheeriest red she could imagine. she pulled them out excitedly and put them on. the color alone was enough to keep her warm on the coldest day.

but, wait, there was something else! the toe of the stocking was still weighted down. as she reached her small hand down into the warm stocking she could see her brother, beside her, pulling something up from the toe of his stocking. her fingers closed around the smooth, firm, cool skin of an apple, just as she saw another just like it in her brother's hand. a whole fresh apple! all to herself! where had Mother got them from? none of them had seen a fresh apple in months. even the dried apples in the muslin sack in the pantry were nearly gone by now. a whole fresh red apple - and there was one for each of them! they didn't even have to share!

most of the apples were gone before breakfast even began, crunched up and practically inhaled immediately. a few of the kids saved their apples until after breakfast. one or two even saved theirs for later in the day. but not Ada. she put her apple carefully in the pocket of her apron and carried it with her all day. it was there when she put on her coat and lovely new mitts to bring in the kindling for the woodstove later that day. it was in her pocket as they ate their simple feast later in the day, and it was still in her apron pocket, bumping a gentle reminder against her leg, as she went upstairs to bed that night. she put it under her pillow and slept breathing its sweet scent.

the next morning, Ada's first thought as she opened her eyes was for her apple. she reached for it under her pillow, but it wasn't there! none of her sisters seemed to be awake. had one of them come across it in the night? had someone found and eaten her precious apple? surely no one would be so cruel? no, there it was..... just beyond her toe at the foot of the bed - a cool lump at her feet.

well, that wasn't the place to keep it. she'd have to think of something better for tonight. so, all day, as she did her chores, the apple, once again safely in her apron pocket, bumped companionably against her leg. but she worried about the best place to put it. if she just left it out somewhere in the house, someone would be sure to think she didn't want it. she couldn't put it outside. it would freeze in the sub-zero temperatures. if she put it in the barn, the chickens or another creature would find it, and they would certainly eat it. then, as she placed the kindling in the box near the stove, she spied the loose board behind the stove, on the wall between the kitchen and parlor. behind it was the place perfect for a lovely, juicy apple. not cold enough to freeze, but cool enough that the apple wouldn't spoil quickly.

so that was where Ada secreted her treasure away each night before she went up to bed with her sisters, carefully pulling the board away just enough to place her treasure gently between the studs of the wall. in the morning, as she did her chores, she would retrieve it, lovingly returning it to her apron pocket for the day, to ride along and bump a quiet reminder to her of her delicious secret. and now and then, when she had an opportunity, she went alone to the barn, where she climbed the ladder to the hayloft. she would find a comfy spot in the hay, all the better if there was a sunbeam to enjoy. she'd gently pull her shining red apple from her apron pocket - almost exactly the color of her beautiful new mittens! and she'd breathe deeply the succulent sweetness of it. she'd roll it on her cheeks, feeling the perfect, smooth coolness of it. she'd hold it in the sunbeam and admire it from all angles - top and bottom, all around its delicious firmness.

she did this for more than a week.

well, Ada was not very old then, but she was old enough to know that apples don't keep forever. so she was watching for signs that it was losing its freshness. she knew that spoiled apples are not at all good to eat, and she had every intention of eating this one. when she could see subtle indications that her apple would soon be past its best, she made yet another trip to the barn. she climbed the loft and found her favorite comfy spot in the hay, right where a bright sunbeam liked to be at that time of day. she looked her apple over very carefully, memorizing everything about it. she rolled it all over her face, loving the feel of it against her skin. she took many, many deep breaths, trying to store some of that sweet scent inside herself for the remainder of the long winter.

and she bit into that apple, with the biggest bite her small mouth could manage. she chewed slowly, savoring the juicy sweetness that filled her mouth, and the explosion of apple scent that escaped into the air. another bite, savored slowly, and another, and another, till there was only the core. and she ate that too, licking every finger carefully so no drop of flavor was lost.

for weeks after, every time she filled the kindling box, Ada smiled fondly at the loose board in the wall which had protected her treasure every night, and she missed the weight of it in her apron pocket.

but Ada never forgot the simple gift of a fresh apple on a farm in a northern alberta winter during the first decade of the 20th century. and she couldn't believe that any of the brightly wrapped gifts under any Christmas tree in 1990 could mean as much to any child as that apple had meant, and continued to mean to her.

ice fog

2010-12-06T19:17:00.000-08:00

... tiny ice crystals suspended in the sub zero air. it looks like fog, but it's intensely cold, and the pale rising sun hasn't strength to burn it off.

i've been signed on for 'Executive Coaching'. it's a bit foggy too.... leadership training with a fancy name, really... and a fancy price tag to go with it. fortunately, the national office and my local board are paying for it, and the 'coach' contributes a sizable discount, in support of Habitat. i'm remembering some things about myself, being reminded of things about the society i live in. and i'm getting an uneasy feeling that 'corporate' leadership has some unsettling manipulative qualities about it. semantics become very important. if we are to persuade people to behave in the ways we want them to, we must never make them feel defensive. if we are to channel them in the directions we wish them to go, we cannot 'challenge' them, but must 'suggest' and .... coerce, really.

i was in a meeting earlier today with a 'facilitator' who used exactly that kind of language and behavior modification. and i thought, 'how politically correct her speech is. how cautious, how flavorless and insipid." i don't want to be like that.

but my board DOES need some leadership. we need to do some long range planning, and it's the Executive Director's job (good grief, that's me!) to initiate that and oversee it. so, ok.... i can spell moderation, but i'm still learning how to practice it. there are skills i need to learn. but i'm damned if i'll be some bland mealy mouth with secret motives.

mainstream lifestyle is not something i strive for. i cringe at the SUV's and monster houses, at the latest fashions in luxury lifestyles. i've never owned a new vehicle or had a manicure in my life. i'm not attracted to the artifice that seems to be a requirement for 'respectability'. not that new vehicles or manicures are a bad thing.... but they and their ilk have become the measures by which society judges its members. not that i don't appreciate craftsmanship and quality, but these things too are judged through the grimy lens of artifice, and seem to have value only if they carry a large dollar value, or are 'impressive'. some folk don't seem able even to recognize quality or value without an attending price sticker.

my challenge (oops, not supposed to use that word) is to be respected and listened to in a society whose values, for the most part, i reject. i'm expected to bring about change in this society, for the benefit of an organization i passionately believe is making the world a better place. how do i do that without prostituting myself, and with integrity and kindness?

it's back

2010-11-22T21:25:00.000-08:00

the bloody awful stinking cold is back. already. a couple of weeks ago i was walking along the creekside trails with the dog, shuffling lovely fallen leaves in the autumn sunshine and loving life. but winter has returned suddenly and without preamble. there's already 6 or 8 inches of snow. we're expecting -30 tonight, and it's only November. i was out crawling around under the radiator of my truck in the dark last night, hunting for the cord to the block heater. how does it always manage to disappear over summer, and why is always it black as an oil company CEO's heart outside the first winter's eve when i realize that i have to plug in the truck? i think i plugged it in twice last winter, it was that mild. and certainly not before late in December. my heart quails at the thought of what it will be like in February, after a start like this. and what my utility bills will be like if it's this danged cold all winter.

i hate winter. as my joints get older and creakier i hate it more and more. if we were meant to live in cold we'd have lovely thick pelts.

which brings me to one of life's pleasant diversions. the lovely dog. he's turning in to a very nice boy. he now weighs 35 lb (@6 months old, so some growing to do yet), and had his first trip to the groomer's today, in order to excavate for eyes. as he's a 'non-shedding' breed, his hair grows continually, so he needs regular haircuts. he's so wiggly and friendly, i don't dare go anywhere near his face with a pair of scissors. i can manage to trim his main parts, but i'm fearful of blinding him if i attempt facial hair. so, off he went, and made a whole bunch of new friends there. the down side of the lovely dog, which i should have twigged on long before i did, is that he needs to be walked. several times a day. which has been most pleasant so far. but the thing i didn't foresee, and really should have, was the walking him in the bloody awful cold. i hate the cold. he, however, seems to love it. if i were more like him, and had several inches of thick, curly R40 fluff all over my body, and webbed feet that appear to serve as excellent snowshoes, i might be less grumpy about it, but, no matter how long i go without shaving my various body parts that are inclined to sprout fur, i'll never have an R factor of more than .05, and my matronly physique sinks through, straight to bedrock the minute i place a foot on the wretched white stuff. "think positively", i tell myself. spring is only 5 or 6 months away.... maybe 150 or 200 sleeps. oh god, that's forever. if i don't freeze to death, i'll die of old age before it warms up.

another hopeful diversion was a Canadian Home Builders' Association jury i was asked to sit on, to determine the winners of the annual awards for excellence in home building. i was really excited about this, thinking there would be some innovative, imaginative, exciting homes. well, there might be..... i didn't actually get to see the homes. i got to spend 4 hours wading through several dozen binders full of pictures of homes, in a room in a high rise with a wall of glass that bled every BTU that may have originated in my proximity to the sub arctic outside. kept my coat on the whole time and wished i'd worn my hoody, snow packs and long johns instead of 'official personage' garb. i guess the photos are meant to streamline the process, which used to take most of a week to actually visit every entry. but i couldn't make out anything really exciting from the photos.... and the real disappointment was that the judging criteria made no mention of innovative building techniques, materials or designs. nor any suggestion that there may be value in environmentally sustainable materials or methods. zero mention. in bloody NORTHERN ALBERTA where it's regularly THIRTY OR FORTY BELOW ZERO for grueling months on end, and there's real value in building with energy savings in mind. some builders made mention of energy conscious features they'd built in, but there was no criteria for giving credit for doing it. and, most disappointing of all, they were pretty much all the same. 'higher' categories were just bigger, with more expensive materials. pretty much the same styles, very little variation in floorplan. it was very clear what's 'in' these days, cuz they all had it. my little bitty low budget condo done in discounted and recycled materials is more interesting than any one of them. builders in this town are just plain boring. it's all about the status quo, which is mediocre and conservative at best. certainly not cheap, with granite countertops and exotic woods, but everything looked the same. builders seem to think everyone WANTS their homes to look the same, and i suppose they're right.... they build what sells. blah.

but this isn't just a rant. there's good news too. i've convinced my board (with winter budget control in mind) to reduce my hours to 4 days a week for Dec, Jan & Feb, which is very exciting. i've nearly got all the bits and odds (how can one person possibly have so much STUFF?! i downsized before i moved!!) sorted into their appropriate rooms (except the basement, but we wont go there.... unless laundry needs URGENTLY to be done) and am working on final trim and lights, etc to finish things up. the creative juices begin to flow. will post a shot of windows i painted white-on-white for a sort of frosted glass look, in lieu of draperies when i took the hideous clattering vinyl vertical blinds down in the living room.

once i get the trim all done, and ugly 'boob' lights replaced, i see quilts, watercolor painting and calligraphy in my future. i've already started my first batch of home made soap.

if you tell anyone i said this, i'll swear you're lying, but.... there's a possibility i might even start cooking real food again.

sparklies

2010-10-13T17:53:00.000-07:00

Every now and then we get something really unique at the ReStore. the photo doesn't do this justice. it's about 2 1/2 feet across, and made up of hundreds of hand cut lead crystals. a staff member insisted on taking it home to individually polish every one of those crystals, as it was filthy when it showed up, in pieces, in a cardboard box in the trunk of someone's car.

when she arrived at work a couple of mornings later, she was grinning from ear to ear as she called to us from the door, "Wanna see something really special?"

so off we all toddled behind her, in the bright morning sunlight to see what she was on about. she lead us proudly to the back door of her beat up little car, which she opened with a flourish and a beaming face. +

no kidding, it was blinding. she had somehow carefully balanced it upside down on a pylon to keep it in one piece for the journey, and as the sun hit all those faceted crystals, the whole inside of her car lit up with rainbows.

can't you see this in some funky little place with a patchwork quilt thrown over the couch, and an overstuffed armchair? or maybe in a bright little bathroom with a high ceiling and a clawfoot tub? a teen girl's bedroom with a faux zebra skin coverlet......

when it arrived, we were certain the 'crystals' were acrylic, or, at best, glass. they just looked awful and cheap, all dirty in that cardboard box. but, holy crow! they're the real deal.

Autumn is Subtle...

2010-09-20T08:59:00.000-07:00

...in northern alberta. we don't see the brilliant blaze of red touched with gold that eastern canada gets. there's the occasional flash of red in a tree, but reds this far north like to hug the ground, and are more common in shrubs and undergrowth. gold is the most predominant autumn tree color here, framing the darkening green of spruce and pine. by winter the evergreens appear almost black - a combination of coniferous heredity and failing sunlight.... this photo was taken a couple of weeks ago, just as the leaves began to turn.

the trails through the city centre follow a ravine shaped over the years by a muddy little creek. cyclists, pedestrians and wildlife meander back and forth across it on numerous narrow foot bridges. i haven't counted the bridges, but i'd hazard a guess of a dozen or so. the potential for under-bridge dwelling trolls is huge, but word hasn't reached the trolls yet... maybe they don't like the climate - or perhaps i'm unfairly stereotyping trolls. maybe they don't all terrorize travelers, demanding a toll to cross the bridge. still, i think of trolls every time i cross a footbridge.

the asphalt paved walking trails are strewn with gold. forsaken leaves lay at my feet in the bright, sun like shining pieces of eight on the dark surface of the path. more leaves whisper overhead as the fallen crunch underfoot. an occasional golden offering drifts down. we're at the halfway point of autumn now, with trees still beautifully garbed in brilliant color, and the earth scattered with brilliance.

there's a large, lone manitoba maple on the landscaped lot of an apartment building near me - brilliant gold with trunk and branches of jet. the grass surrounding it is still very green, as we've had rain for most of september. beneath the tree is a perfect circle of gold, a brilliant spotlight on the lush green, and against the upright black trunk of the tree. the maple's solo performance - its season premiere, against the darkening sky.

as summer exhales her last breath, the air redolent with moist earth and ripe berries. so thick and rich and sweet with scent i marvel that i can see through this dense aromatic, invisible olfactory fog.

there's frost every morning now. the world wakes, yawns and stretches. the first morning rays of gold pour over the horizon and prickle the edges of leaves and twigs with sparkling astonishment.

puppy = love

2010-09-16T18:41:00.000-07:00

this small, hairy (i'm told it isn't fur) quadruped is teaching me some lessons. perhaps i learned them once, and have forgotten.... after all, i did raise 4 children, who seem to have survived the ordeal without major psychological damage. surely they taught me some of these lessons.

so far, he's taught (or reminded) me about:

forgiveness - when i get distracted and don't watch him as closely as i should (puppy trainers will tell you, "out of sight = in trouble") and i scold him and put him in his kennel for something that he really hadn't been told was not allowed - he comes out of his kennel wagging his tail, and glad to see me. it may be just the puppy equivalent of 'goldfish memory'. maybe he's already forgotten the incident, and he's merely glad to be let out. but he seems to learn very quickly not to do these things again, so i don't think they're forgotten. just forgiven.

acceptance - though he'd much prefer to be out romping all day, he philosophically accepts that i spend most of every day at a desk or working at the ReStore. he very quickly learned not to complain about it; he takes a nap under the desk until i'm ready to go for a walk. then he's delighted to go for a walk, with no recrimination.

hospitality - he's the friendliest creature i've ever met; always glad to see everyone, regardless of age, race, social status or species. he does, however, have a soft spot for puppies (of any species)

enthusiasm - whatever he does, he does with his whole heart. even in a room full of puppies, he stands out as the one having the MOST fun. he's a blur of motion and wagging tail, racing from one friend to the next.

unconditional love - he doesn't care what my truck looks like, what my clothes look like, or how big my house is. he doesn't even judge me for the kind of food i give him. he just loves seeing me when he wakes up in the morning, always looks delighted when i call his name, and is sad to see me leave without him.

and he's doing a pretty good job of training me.

what next?

2010-09-07T08:09:00.000-07:00

is it september already? yesterday it was july.

the dog sleeps contentedly on his blanket on the ReStore floor. he's a happy little guy. with occasional exceptions (like when he ate 10 inches off the corner of the love seat's cushion while i tried to hang some shelves in the bathroom) it's hard to imagine life without him now. this is a rare moment of calm... no customers at the store (no staff either, but that's another story), the phone not ringing.... a bazillion things i should be doing, that i'll get to.... but first, i'll savor the calm.

August

began with a holiday.... at least that was the plan. but just a few days before the scheduled departure date, for a trip to the Kootenays with a girlfriend, a staff member became very difficult, shouting at me on the sales floor, in the presence of customers and other staff (and my new puppy, who was terrified by the verbal violence and kept me up all night with his crying over it - the night before a live spot on a local morning radio show.... but that's another story). the employee was reprimanded, the situation was discussed, solutions to grievances were sought, and i thought we had the beginnings of resolution.... and the employee promptly repeated the performance in a matter of days. so, as i had suspicions that he was going to quit, and as he was the only remaining management staff while i took my holiday (which was very badly needed.... burnout impending.... was NOT cancelling or postponing) .... i opted for staying home for my 'holiday'. to be available, just in case.

then the fellow who'd assured me that he could do some renovation work on my condo dropped the ball. left me with a heap of old kitchen cabinets piled in the middle of the kitchen because they were too heavy for him to move. so i moved them. had to make room for the new ones. and he left a hole in the bathroom floor which he'd cut to check for dry rot and didn't have time to repair. so i repaired it. and a whole pile of other work that he assured me he'd do wasn't done. so i did it. over my 'holiday. 12 or 14 hr days of drywall mudding, sanding, painting, laying laminate, coordinating plumbers, electiricians, etc. ...and walked the very energetic (read 'psycho puppy') dog. by the end of the 2 weeks 'holiday' i thought, "i'll have to go back to work for a rest".

on my return to work on the 17th of August, there was immediately a series of days dealing with the aforementioned difficult staff member... sort of. he didn't come in to work, didn't answer calls, etc. and the new guy who was working under him came in to say he'd just taken a stick in his leg swimming in the river (12 stitches) and couldn't work. this got infected, and he was off for 2 1/2 weeks. also on the day of my return, my construction supervisor for our Habitat build gave 2 weeks notice. he'd accepted a plum job in Edmonton. and, of course, it was the end of summer, so the summer students would be gone in no time.

leaving me with one 1/2 time employee to run the ReStore (usually 3 staff plus myself) and complete our Habitat house.... organize volunteers, orientations, work shifts, meals, trades, donors, teams, services connections, yadayadayada for a 2 unit semi-detached house for occupancy by the first of December.

then, just as the summer students were leaving, they passed on the killer cold. i've been so sick. but interviews had to be done, new staff had to be hired, volunteers have to be recruited, scheduled, and kept on track. i should be jailed for spreading this monster bug around.... and i know i have......

haven't been to see my very elderly parents for several weeks because i don't want to bless them with this bug.... they've been in and out of the hospital all summer.

and just when i thought things couldn't get much worse, i found a notice in my mailbox telling me the electricity is going to be disconnected.... good grief!! when's the last time i paid the bill?! the summer is such a blur..... i can't remember.... must be a while! so i got it all paid online immediately, called to tell them so, and they disconnected me anyway.... because my bank doesn't give a transaction number for online payments, and they had no proof i'd paid.... i went to the bank personally to get a transaction number, as none was given at the time.... and was told "we don't do that." "what then," i asked in bewilderment, "is the point of making payments online, if i have no proof that i've made the payment?" this was met with stony silence, and will soon be rewarded with a letter to the branch manager.

bloody hell. it's cold here at night now. and dark. the dog - now a boisterous 25 lb of teeth and energy - doesn't like the dark, so i have to carry him up the dark stairs to his bedtime kennel.... it's that or drag him by the collar. he doesn't like those dark stairs. and i'd just bought lots of lovely groceries in celebration of the new kitchen. the fridge was full to burstin' with delicious things.... which have all spoiled. and more than anything else, i want a nice hot cup of tea to soothe my poor raw throat before i climb into my cold bed with my hot water bottle. fortunately, unlike the electric stove , fridge and tea kettle, the hot water is gas powered, so i comfort myself with lots of hot baths. it's a week today, with no power..... i was told 1 to 5 business days.... and of course there was a long weekend in there......

as i walked the dog the other day, i wandered down a new trail, and found myself in a neighborhood sporting houses all in excess of 4000 square feet. beautiful stone and brick work all over the place, perfectly manicured yards, 3 and 4 bay garages with numerous brand new vehicles parked in front of them. and i thought "i wonder how many of these people have ever had their power disconnected. or ever gone without anything at all..... and i felt a wee bit sorry for myself. but as i went a little further, and found myself back among the glorious autumn foliage of the trees along the creek, with the smell of the wild cranberries sweetening every breath, i remembered that i lived for years without power, by choice, in a log cabin along the Yukon River, and didn't consider it a hardship. and i thought of the millions of people in Haiti and Pakistan, whose lives are endangered by circumstances they have no responsibility at all for. all things are relative, after all, and my small inconvenience is, sadly, self-inflicted, and gladly, not life threatening and only temporary.

the fellow with the stitches in his leg is back at work now, but my 1/2 time worker just called in to say she has a Dr's note saying she has to stay home all week.

i'm starting to think i should just stay in bed tomorrow morning. if the power isn't on when i go home tonight, i'll be sorely tempted to do that..... till the dog needs a walk......

Autumn

2010-09-06T13:05:00.000-07:00

you might be a redneck

2010-08-03T08:07:00.000-07:00

if you've driven around with a toilet in the back of your truck for so long that you forgot it was there....

you might be a redneck

so the truth is out. i have to come clean. i guess i'm a redneck. the toilet in question came out of my main floor half-bath.

which is still toilet-less.

but it was cracked, and i had to hire a plumber to change some pipes for the kitchen reno, and the reno of the upstairs bath.... so i asked him to take it and the ratty old sink beside it out. (still sink-less too) there are 2 brand new low flow toilets, still in boxes, stacked in the sink-less, toilet-less bathroom, awaiting installation of the new floors in both baths before they can go in.

so, the toilet. i got the plumber to help me move it from the front step (cuz i didn't want to LOOK like a redneck, and the neighbors might object) to the box of my pickup, for disposal. but every trip to the landfill costs me $10, so i thought i'd wait till i had a full load at least. there's carpet to tear up still.

then all hell broke loose at work, and i nearly fired 2 staff members. probably should have, but i really NEED a holiday (which began today) and they're both disabled in some way, so i try to be .... what? stupid, maybe...... it's an authority issue, so it'll come back, and i may have to fire them anyway. but, first, i get my holiday.

so, with that, and trying to get the kitchen back into functioning state (new cabinets are in) i really did forget about the toilet in the back of my truck. the truck box has a hard cover, so the thing's not sitting proudly back there making a spectacle of itself. it's laying on its side, with the cover almost closed, as the toilet's just a tad bigger than the depth of the box...... cover tied down with a bit of string i happened to have behind the seat. (if you can always find a bit of string or wire or rope behind your truck seat, you might be a redneck) .... and a 6 inch gap through which there's an occasional gleam of white porcelain.

meanwhile, i got a panicky call from a young bride, whose wedding violinist had cancelled. 3 days before the wedding. was i available? k. sure. i can do that for you. i know the repertoire. rehearsal and wedding at the brand spankin' new ginormous catholic church.

on the natal day, off in the furthest corner of the parking lot, if you were looking, you might have seen a rusty little red ford ranger pull in, with the hardtop on the box tied shut with a piece of twine, and a used toilet peeking from under it. as the door opened, a middle aged woman in fromal concert black stepped out, reached back in for a violin case, and strode purposefully to the church.

which is magnificent

she joined the pianist in playing Pachelbel's Canon in D as the gorgeous bridal party made its solemn way up the sun dappled aisle under majestic gothic arches towards the massive stained glass windows, under the reverent eyes of the priest. it was a beautiful wedding.

then she packed up her violin, and strode, in formal concert black, back to the furthest corner of the parking lot, where awaited the rusty little ford ranger, with the used toilet in the back, protected partially from the public eye by a frayed piece of twine. and she drove her toilet home.

some twisted part of my psyche finds the whole thing humorous. though others may not. and, i did try to be discreet, but i couldn't park too far away. it was HOT out, and i can't walk far in those shoes. ..... but i wonder if someone noticed, and if that's why i haven't yet been paid...?

so... the toilet.....i didn't want to dispose of it at the ReStore. firstly, we don't take used toilets, for a number of reasons, and, secondly, we pay for our dumping, and i don't want to set an example, for employees to bring their oversized trash there for 'free' dumping. so finally, as, with all-hell-breaking-loose-at-work, i was getting no further with renovations (and, specifically, tearing up of carpets) any time soon, i asked the maintenance guy at my condo if it was acceptable to put such things in the communal dumpster. he replied, "not really, but everyone does it, so, here, let me give you a hand with that." and after 2 weeks of driving around with a toilet i wasn't sure what to do with, it was gone.

life is never dull. a bit weird at times, but never dull.

thinking of ice

2010-07-21T17:26:00.000-07:00

.... not wishing for more than a few chunks of it in a tall glass, but remembering it. it was very warm here today. the new pup doesn't like the heat. he has such a thick pelt, he suffers in the heat. i give him ice cubes to gnaw on, and wet his belly with cool water. i wish there was a pond i could take him to.... but must wait till he's had his second round of shots (next week) before we can go to all the good places where everyone else gets to go.

ice. i know this will demonstrate just how gauche i truly am.... but i love nearly frozen white wine on a day like today... with ice crystals thickening it... or at the very least, very well chilled wine over ice.

the images are from a pond hockey gig last winter, where the bands play in a big canvas 'beer garden' tent while the sound of skates on ice and sticks hitting pucks punctuates the rhythm of the music. i couldn't resist getting a picture of this fellow playing hockey in a cowboy hat in -15 or 20 C.

i'm not a hockey fan at all, but i love the pond hockey event. it's all about community and outdoor activity and celebrating life in the dead of the coldest month of the year (february)

humor me. i'm besotted.

2010-07-16T19:44:00.001-07:00

new baby

2010-07-13T22:04:00.000-07:00

Meet the Maestro. He's in his finest concert dress for the photo. My new best friend.... if we survive puppyhood. We both need a lot of training. He's a little whirlwind of energy with a very sharp mind. i'll have my hands full with him, i think.

must go... potty time

mixed messages

2010-07-06T02:00:00.000-07:00

a recent weird, convoluted and deceitful conversation with a new employee and her parents reminded me of these photos, taken when i was stranded in Kansas City, MO last november. it's the mixed messages in the landscape that got my attention.... as with the aforementioned people. the 'free abortion alternatives' next to a church, and shop sign with the name 'it's a dream' nearby.... the brewery and big beer billboard next door to a church with very fundamentalist posters/notices on the door. we're complex creatures - have created a complex society. truth is sometimes difficult to find, let alone communicate to others.

i'd much rather take pictures of mixed messages than try to decode them. i hope she enjoys her unemployed summer.

some need a red sports car

2010-06-22T23:38:00.000-07:00

.... for me it's a red kayak. ....with the most beautiful carbon fibre paddle. purchased recently, i suppose this must be my midlife crisis happening....

and a handsome young black haired four legged portuguese fellow to go with it. my kids have named the new canine member of the family (who should be coming home in mid August) Maestro. this is their revenge, after decades of putting up with my musical preoccupation.

just shortly after we put in, the skies opened. son David, in the picture, (though he's handsome, he has only 2 legs, and brown hair) had borrowed my wetsuit, as he had no bathing suit with him. he was cold enough, but i was soaked to the skin and cheerfully hypothermic. we then went home for a nice hot cuppa.

she's a 12 foot Jackson Daytripper. not meant for 2 people, and doesn't exactly turn on a dime loaded up like that, but she can do it when need be, and she'll have no trouble carrying me, some gear, and a puppy. and she's easy for me to load and unload from my little truck all by myself.

from the nursery

2010-06-17T22:49:00.000-07:00

meet Sadie, Portuguese Water Dog and mum of my puppy. one of these adorable little wigglers will be coming home with me late in July, after the breeder has made her selection. my daughter and granddaughter have already named him for me.... Maestro. Porties are one of the 'hypoallergenic' breeds. this was a big issue for me, as i'm very allergic to furry things. they were bred in Portugal (what a surprise) by fishermen, for use as working dogs. they helped set nets, ran errands from boat to boat, and did water rescue. they're now used predominantly as water rescue dogs. very intelligent, males about 65 lb, high energy with long wavy hair. Sadie has had a haircut.

my ReStore is on the edge of an undeveloped area which is popular with homeless people in our city. they have good taste; it's a lovely part of town. but some of my board members worry about my safety during the time i spend at the store alone - opening and closing, and working before and after hours. so, when i suggested that i might have a dog with me at the store, they liked the idea.

it's a bit odd, this sudden loneliness i'm feeling. my dear friend Laurie, who died recently, lived more than a thousand miles away, and there were sometimes stretches of time when i didn't see her for a couple of years. at times we kept in touch only sporadically, over the 30 years we knew each other.... it's not like she was involved in my daily life. but she was always THERE. reliably and permanently connected directly to my heart. i've never felt such loneliness as i've experienced since she died. it's an ache that just doesn't go away. so i want this puppy very badly. unsure what the connection is, but there seems to be one. perhaps i'm expecting too much of this pup. but i think in need something that needs me, and that needs to be exercised and entertained, to bring me out of my funk, as i tend to be reclusive when i'm unhappy.

i've mentioned to my staff that there may be a pup joining us at the ReStore later in the summer, and shown them the pictures. after the 'aaaaaaw's' they stoically assured me that it would be a hardship, but they thought they could tolerate that.

The excitement is BUILDING!

2010-06-14T13:12:00.000-07:00

And, lo, a mighty host appeared, clothed in shining .... denim? and the joyful sound of .... hammering? was heard throughout the land.

Behold, Habitat for Humanity Waynorth's 2010 contribution to breaking the cycle of poverty through enabling low income families to own a home. This is an ICF (insulated concrete form) duplex, with walls rated at R50. Windows and doors are all low E - i'm told you can nearly heat these places with a candle. The folks you're looking at are Habitat for Humanity staff and board members, and some very generous building contractors who are providing their services at very low cost. This was our first 'official' meeting w everyone all in the same place. Not easy to manage, but a lunch meeting with free pizza convinced them to come. We're also hoping to begin a renovation in the fall, of a home built in the 70's, in need of TLC, which we may be purchasing from the city.

These folks all look pretty ordinary don't they? That's the really thrilling thing about Habitat. Everyone IS pretty ordinary. No divas or superstars. But together we make a very big difference.

I was in my granddaughter's classroom this morning. She and i did a little musical interlude for everyone, with our violins. About 15 kids. So far, our little HFH affiliate in north-of-sanity Waynorth has put 9 low income families with a total of 30 children in their own homes. It's been shown that NOTHING breaks the cycle of poverty more effectively than home ownership. That's 2 elementary school classrooms full of kids whose families now have equity in their own homes to help build their futures with.

I love my job.

Life goes on. AKA in memory of Laurie

2010-05-19T21:17:00.000-07:00

o the summer time is comin'

and the trees are sweetly bloomin'

and the wild mountain thyme

grows among the purple heather

there's a chokecherry tree in full bloom not 20 feet from my open window. the air is thick and sweet and intoxicating. it's like breathing sparkling wine. little green heads are butting their way through the earth in lovingly tended flowerbeds as i walk the city streets. on the walking trails along the creek, i smell the trees growing. hear the sunlight dripping like amber honey off their leaves, feel it mingle with the salt on my skin.

there are babies everywhere. puppies and kittens in the arms of children; lambs and calves in the new-green fields; acres of baby plants at the local greenhouse. the very air is pregnant, thick with plant hormones. life is beginning all around me.

i sit, with silent tears washing my cheeks, remembering a garden on the Sunshine Coast, and the gardener who will not return to it. ever. her partner has planted 3 new rose bushes in her memory. i'll plant some here, as well. and lavender. she loved roses and lavender.

Laurie and i met nearly 30 years ago, when she advertised in the local newspaper for female musicians to start an all-girl band. we jammed a bit, and things clicked. then we discovered that we'd both signed on for high school upgrading at the local college the coming fall. i was a single mum with 2 small kids, and she was tired of playing the bar circuit. we both needed to 'better ourselves'. so we were going back to school. though we continued to make music together for all those years, we never did pull the all-girl band together.

once school started that September, we spent almost every waking moment of the next 8 months together, studying our brains out. there weren't a lot of options available to upgrading students, so we had almost identical class schedules. i'd been a complete bomb as a student prior to this. in retrospect, i think as a child i was at least marginally ADHD. it didn't even 'exist' at that time, and it presents differently in girls than it does in boys, so i was just considered a 'troubled child', or 'difficult'. add a gluten intolerance (also unknown at the time) that makes me sleepy and depressed and unable to concentrate, and an extremely dysfunctional family background, and you have a kid all of the teachers pass just because they don't want to have to deal with her for another year. in that 8 months we spent completing high school upgrading, Laurie taught me how to study. i'd drive up to her house every morning in my huge, ancient Chrysler, and pick her up on my way to school, and drive off with her in the front seat, and mountains of school books in the back seat.

we studied. hard. and we both worked evenings as well. all my life i'd been told i was stupid and lazy. until then, i believed it. Laurie wouldn't believe it, so i tried harder than i'd ever tried before. there were times when our social studies teacher would show these filmstrips on history. ....with a recorded male voice droning endlessly on about socialism or communism, then a ping to tell the operator to go to the next frame. the room was a mini ampitheatre, with concentric semicircles of seating rising from a circular area at the bottom, where the screen was. Laurie and i would sit side by side in the front row where no one could look back at us, and set our notebooks on the table in front of us, open for taking notes. we'd each hold a pen in one hand, and we'd lean our heads and shoulders together for support, while we took a nap. we both had jobs to go to after school was out. and i had kids to take care of after that. when we'd been awarded top marks for the program, the social teacher told me, "i knew you two were sleeping up there, but i couldn't say anything, because you got the best marks in the class." we got top marks in every class. when i held that diploma, and that wad of awards in my hand, i thought. "i'm NOT stupid. the sky's the limit. i can do anything i set my mind to." and i signed up for the B. Mu program.

Laurie took us to our first live theatre performance. it was The Hobbit, and it was magical. i'd read the book to the kids. several times. we all loved it. My 4 year old daughter spent the whole time of the play in terrible fear that every time the lights went down or the curtain closed, it was over. she SO didn't want it to be over. i spent the whole time expecting someone to realize that we didn't belong there. waiting in shame for a tap on the shoulder, and an angry voice telling me we'd have to leave. but the tap on the shoulder never came, and this was the beginning of my love for theatre. Laurie was the first person to show me that where i came from is not who and what i am. since that first magical show, i've been in many, serving as musical director for several of them.

when i re-married, Laurie stayed with my kids while we went on a honeymoon, and when, years later, my husband left me, i went into a complete tailspin. Laurie sent me a plane ticket to the Sunshine Coast, where she and her partner had just bought their dream home. it was a total package, also including a detailed itinerary with a bus ticket to get me from the airport to the ferry, and a ferry ticket to get me to her side of the pond, where she picked me up, took me home, and mothered me back to something close to sanity.

after several years of unexplained illness, while she studied for her B. Ed. Laurie was diagnosed with Multiple Schlerosis. it took her 8 years to do the 4 year program. much of the time she was in hospital. at the end of her 6th year, she was in a wheelchair. they told her she'd never walk again. i think it was at this time that she was also diagnosed with ankylosing spondylitis, which causes joints to fuse, and is extremely painful.

but she didn't accept that. over the next 2 years, she progressed gradually from a wheelchair to a walker, to two canes, then one, still working her way through the B. Ed program, and when she graduated, Laurie was not only walking, she was cycling, x-country skiing and swimming. her gift to herself on graduation was a cycling trip through Europe. during that trip, she received a standing ovation from the patrons of a small roadside cafe in Greece, who watched her toil up the side of a mountain as they sipped their morning coffee. as she coasted down from the summit, and through their small town, they rose to their feet, clapping and cheering. they had no idea how much she deserved that, or how much it meant to her.

.... and those are only highlights.... i could write a book about this amazing woman, my dear friend Laurie.

i don't understand how spring can come without her. it should still be winter.

It's over

2010-04-05T22:44:00.000-07:00

This is Laurie. Artist, musician and gardener extraordinaire. Weaver. Philosopher. Educator. Devoted friend.

Laurie died last week in a scuba diving accident on the Sunshine Coast. She was one of my dearest friends. A sister to my soul for over 25 years.

I am broken.

An Old Woodland Cree Story

2010-03-09T16:22:00.000-08:00

meet Flower and Snoopdog, my granddaughter's best friends. Flower looks like a cat, but he isn't really. my daughter found him years ago, a very young kitten, nearly frozen to death (he only has 1/2 his tail as a result) in a parking lot in -35 degree weather. So Snoop, being a gentle little guy, took him under his wing, so to speak, and mothered him. As a result, Flower thinks he's a dog, and they're inseparable.

Seraphine just posted a picture of a much loved, and recently deceased pet, and her usual gentle tongue in cheek commentary on the state of things, which brought to mind a story a friend told me years ago. she was working on a degree of some kind, and studying Cree traditions. most of the first nations people in this part of Canada are Cree. Woodland Cree, specifically, in northern Alberta. So in her research, she came across this story, which she told to me.

it seems that in the days before memory, dogs and cats were very good friends. they enjoyed each other's company and lived peaceably in villages alongside each other. their lodges often stood side by side. on this particular day, the dogs were having one of their clan meetings in their lodge, and the cats went about their business as usual. now, at that time, dogs were very fastidious creatures. not only did they wipe their feet before entering the lodge, keep all of the firewood well away from the fire pit for safety, and NEVER leave their bones laying about the place, but they also removed their bung holes before entering the lodge, and they hung them on a special many-branched pole that was erected just for that purpose outside the door of the lodge.

cats had a mischievous side then, just as they have now. in fact they were well known in the villages as tricksters. on this particular day, one particular cat didn't have enough to do. he'd caught a fish and eaten it, groomed his fur, and sharpened his claws, had a nap in the sun, and there was still a whole lot of day left to fill. he strolled past the lodge where the dogs were meeting, and he heard them all discussing matters of import inside. for a while he watched the patterns the smoke coming through the smoke hole in the centre of the lodge roof made against the clear, calm sky. and as he rubbed against the pole in the lodge entry, he looked up and saw the bung holes. just as he had many times before. just where they always were when the dogs were meeting. but on this particular day, those bung holes gave the cat an idea.

with a delighted flick of his tail, the cat ran to the door of the lodge. he poked his head behind the skin covering the doorway, and shrieked, "Fire, fire, the lodge is on fire!" then he darted out of the way to hear and see the fun. from inside the lodge, the dogs took up the cry of "Fire, fire!" and crashed into each other, and into the support poles of the lodge in their panic to get out of the single doorway. there were yelps and growls, yips and howls such as had never been heard in the village before. by the time the first dog's snout was thrust out the doorway, a crowd had gathered outside. as he raced to safety with others snapping at his heels, the first dog out snatched the first bung hole that came within his reach and put it on. the second dog out did likewise, until everyone was safe and accounted for.

when they realized they had been tricked, they were relieved that their lodge was not harmed, but they were not pleased. and there was a loud hue and cry to find the culprit who had so disrespectfully interrupted their important meeting. of course it was a cat, but WHICH cat? they never found out, because just when they were getting all worked up about a possible conspiracy, they realized that they'd all put on the wrong bung hole.

and they've been checking each other out ever since, in an effort to get their own back.

Frosty says "Farewell!"

2010-03-02T16:36:00.000-08:00

he's shrinking, and his proboscis has abandoned ship. it was actually in the act of deserting as the photo was snapped! winter, usually an evil tempered hag by march, is suspiciously mild just now. no doubt she's in lamb's clothing. it's an ill fit. she'll shed her unwelcome skin any day now. be assured that we'll be seeing the lion bare its fangs before april lifts her sweet face. the streets and pathways are a sheet of ice each morning, and a torrent or a quagmire by the evening meal. the heat of the sun on bared skin is a lover's tenderest kiss. buds of tree and shrub are pregnant with summer-to-come, in the latter, much swollen phase of gestation, where even a cautious sidewise glance brings empathetic discomfort. winter, the deceitful harpy, isn't finished with any of them yet. she'll have one last bite at the naked skin so newly caressed, and do her best to abort the unborn green yearning for life.

but she hasn't beat us yet.

2010-02-21T18:02:00.000-08:00

i've an evening to sit by the little electric fake fireplace i put in my condo in the city, with a glass of northern alberta honey wine close to hand, and my feet up, catching up on friends in blogland. the fireplace is fake electric because the condo assoc won't let a real one near the place, it being an old building.... and i like the house cool, but my poor skinny little granddaughter turns blue before long when she comes to visit. so, as i don't want to discourage visits from the apple of my eye, i found a cute little corner thingy that looks pretty realistic, if you don't look too closely. i turn it on when she comes over, so there's a warm corner for her, and the darlin' girl loves it. sits herself down in front of it to do whatever it is she's doing on a given day, with a happy smile. life is good.

and busy! living in the city, and teaching violin for the local college's music conservatory in my (hysterical laughter) spare time, there are all sorts of musical opportunities popping up like mushrooms. this photo was taken by a professional photographer friend, for me to include in my portfolio. haven't even sent it out, and already i have numerous harp gigs booked over the coming year, on top of the usual ones with the Irish band. we just had the faculty and conservatory recital last night, which was filled to capacity. a little daunting, following after folks with Master's Degrees in Music with my celtic fiddling, but it seemed well enough received. and no one so full of themselves that they look down their noses at the rest of us.

the ReStore is doing well, picking up nicely after the expected lull over the dark of winter. the sun is stronger each day - the worst of the dreary season over..... and our Habitat for Humanity affiliate is planning our 2010 build! we've been approached by the city with an offer to purchase a property they got through a mortgage default, that they've been renting out for years. it's in very sad shape, but structurally sound. AND a local builder has offered to frame and sheet a duplex for us, billing us only for his cost, for us to finish. if it all comes to pass, we could be building, not one, not two, but THREE homes for local families this year. As our average since 1996 has been one home every two years, this possibility is THRILLING!! i'm enjoying being in the thick of it.... which means a lot of time spent away from the ReStore. Fortunately i've managed to snag a very excellent employee, who i've just promoted to Floor Manager, as the affiliate has suggested changing my job description/title to include that of affiliate Executive Director. it's a big vote of confidence, and very gratifying - and exciting. they may be sending me to the national AGM in that capacity in April, if i can convince them that i can be trusted not to loose my passport again.... here's hoping!

spring blessings

so that's what's been happening. hardly been home to do more than eat, sleep and wash my dainties.

warped!

2010-01-18T22:30:00.000-08:00

while on holiday recently, i stayed with friends on B.C.'s Sunshine Coast. one of these friends is a weaver, so i had the pleasure of helping her warp her loom for a batch of rugs she planned to make.

she's the same friend who gave me the loom i have. the loom which i'm pleased to report is now assembled in its own little spare bedroom, surrounded by bookshelves and assorted boxes and bins of various bits of fiber and miscellany. no picture till i get it warped.

so, you see, to some of us, being warped is a good thing. productive, even!

a January morning @ the ReStore

2010-01-11T19:23:00.000-08:00

these days, the sun is just heating the horizon as i come to work @ 9 each morning. for all the cold and snow and darkness in northern alberta, we DO have pretty incredible sunrises and sunsets. and, unlike the tropics, they last a long time here. there's time to pull up a comfy chair, stretch out one's legs, sip a warm cuppa and take a gazillion pictures as the horizon warms, glows, bleeds all over the sky, and gently fades.

this is the southeast corner of my ReStore yard. the tree is a black poplar - considered by many a weed. it's the tree that makes all that high quality pulp for paper for your photocopiers and computer printers. and that nice soft toilet paper with the quilted surface. pulp and paper are second only to oil here. very big business. this is a tree that can be cut down to a stump, its roots mangled, and come back stronger than ever, with dozens of offshoots filling a circle with a diameter of sometimes close to 100 feet. Or be completely denuded of leaves by tent caterpillars several summers running, and make a comeback. they're incredibly resilient. from their unopened leaf buds in the spring, oozes a sticky substance known to herbalists as 'balm of gilead'. good for healing wounds, skin conditions, etc. this one is somewhere between 30 and 40 feet high. a good size for a northern tree, but not half the size they can grow to, given the right encouragement. she's still decked out for the festive season in glittering, frothy hoar frost. in order to show the lace on the tree i had to expose the sky more, and the colors washed out. so i opted for a silhouette of the tree and the full glory of the color on high. the temperature was -32 F when i took this picture.

this is the tree my store mascot, the groundhog, likes to bask in the sun near. i'm considering building a deck or a patio around it, with a big climbing toy for the kids in summer, and a picnic table where ReStore staff can have our lunch and coffee breaks when the weather's good. maybe do some saturday classes for people to make mosaic flower pots and patio stones from broken tile etc. i also got wireless internet for the store when we set up, with doing paperwork, etc outside in the shade of the tree on summer days in mind.

the chain link fence with the prison wire on top was installed by the city, who ran a recycling centre here pre ReStore. the field beyond the fence is the edge of a park that follows the creek which cuts through the city. the homeless people sleep amongst the trees along the creek when the weather warms. the city fathers didn't like homeless people coming in the yard after hours and taking things to build shacks along the river with, so they imprisoned the tree and everything west of it. the deer crawl under low spots along the fence and wander the yard at night. i often see their tracks as i open up in the morning. no doubt the homeless people can do the same, if they have need to. their tracks aren't as distinctive as those of the deer, being the same species as staff and customers. our feet are the same; homeless or not. not that there's any need to track them. not that there'd be any crime in them taking some things if they needed them. housing people is, after all, our reason for existence.

A Green New Year

2010-01-01T02:07:00.000-08:00

There's no snow on the Sunshine Coast. I'm visiting friends there for the week after Christmas. It's been raining today, but compared to the -28C that they're having back home, this feels like spring. The rhododendrons are covered with fat buds, about to pop, the grass is green, the moss is green, there's green all around me, and i can smell things growing. It will be 3 or 4 months till things smell like that at home. We walked down to the lake yesterday. I had to peel off my jacket, down to a T-shirt - I was too warm. Sigh. It's going to be very hard to go home to the cold.

HAPPY NEW YEAR. My resolution is to find ways to be more environmentally responsible, and to take better care of myself. The holiday has shown me how dangerously close I've come to a total burnout/meltdown/flameout.

may you discover two thousand and 10 blessings in the coming year

May angels attend thee

2009-12-25T09:40:00.000-08:00

this was one of the first pictures taken several years ago, when i bought my fabulous digital SLR camera. taken at the annual christmas tree festival, in the small town where i lived at the time. beautifully decorated trees are donated, and sold by silent auction, to raise funds for the palliative care facility at the local hospital. a worthy cause, and a very pleasant event.

my students and i would set up in a corner, and play christmas music for the event. a pleasant gig. i confess to a little nostalgia. the months before christmas were a blur this year, with none of it having to do with christmas, and not a single christmas gig all season. my family drew names this year, so i did my christmas shopping in an hour, after i closed the ReStore @ noon on christmas eve, and before i went home to make tourtierre for the traditional family christmas eve feast. tourtierre is a french-canadian meat pie, best known in quebec. we have no connection to all of that - i tried a recipe one christmas eve on a whim, and we all loved it, so it became a family tradition. i think the name drawing may become a regular thing too.... it was pleasant to have just one gift to come up with. i hate shopping

merriest of christmases to friends in blogland. may your christmas be one of peace and fulfillment, surrounded by those you love. and may we all find new gifts and ways to give them, that we may leave the world a better place for having been here.

When Flora met the Elephants

2009-12-14T09:59:00.000-08:00

i have this artist friend, named Flora. i wrote a story about her a while ago. there are many stories about Flora. she's a fascinating person with a fascinating background. a gifted artist with a constantly questioning mind.

Flora was also a teacher at that time. she taught classes in our local fine arts centre for years. though she's highly proficient in many media, her greatest love is for clay - especially hand built, raku fired clay. some of my most satisfying memories involve standing in the cool and dark of a northern summer evening, gazing up at the stars while warming to the red heat of an outdoor barrel kiln. cautiously peeking in to see if the pieces inside were ready.... then fearfully grasping them with long tongs and plunging them in tubs of dry leaves, grass, newspapers - anything that would burn quickly - to smoulder and transform into magical irridescent and metallic textural colors and bottomless blacks. but that's another story.

on this particular September day, Flora was at the pottery studio waiting for a class to walk the several blocks down the street from the nearby elementary school, for their clay building class. it was an unusually warm day, for September in northern Alberta. she was having a quick smoke out back, finding the inner stillness to face a room of 20 pre-adolescents. there was a tennis court, enclosed by a chain link fence between her and the town's arena, across an alley.

and between the tennis court and the arena was a teenage boy, with 2 elephants. one was standing, the other lying quietly on the grass. elephants, whether standing or lying down, are not what one normally expects to see in the alley behind the local arena in a northern Alberta town. so, Flora, being blessed with an overabundance of curiosity, and no less nerve, dropped her cigarette to the ground, crushed it beneath her beat up tennis shoe to extinguish it, and took a stroll in their direction.

approaching from the opposite direction - from inside the arena, was a man. an agitated man. by the time Flora was close enough to hear the conversation, the man and the teenaged boy were engaged in a heated argument. it went something like this.

"..... that elephant a bath. she's a mess. can't i trust you to do one simple job without...."

at which point, the boy, by now equally, if not more agitated, replied, reaching down to grasp the ear of the prone elephant, who was not in the least agitated. he shouted, "look at these ears! do you see these enormous ears? with ears this size, you'd think she'd hear me, but she doesn't. she won't LISTEN to me, Dad! i've been telling her to get up for half an hour and she IGNORES me, Dad!

so, while the gentleman spoke firmly to the elephant, who immediately, though unhurriedly rose to her feet, Flora, masterfully stifling the grin that she feared would insult the boy, cleared her throat and waited for them to notice her.

it was a circus, of course, that she'd not known was coming to town. run by this family - father and mother, several teenaged sons, some aunts, uncles and cousins. the elephant in question was called Bella, and she had her own ideas about how the universe should be run.

Flora is an amazing teacher. this means she is also a lifelong student. she sees everything that happens around her as an opportunity to learn, and to teach. having real, live elephants in back of the studio was something too good to miss, so she persuaded the gentleman in charge that she could bring the class of kids now arriving at her clay studio to meet the elephants. he made it clear that the children must be inside the tennis court's chain link fence at all times. there could be no risk of injury to anyone on either side. this was agreed on. it amused Flora that the humans were to be in a cage, while the 'dangerous animals' were able to move freely outside of it.

20 pre-teen kids spent an hour touching (through the chain link fence) stroking, smelling and listening to 2 elephants. first they talked to the boy, and his younger brother, who soon joined them. they watched them bathe Bella, asked them what it was like growing up in the circus. when they got more confident, they pelted the boys' father, who was the circus ringmaster, with questions about the animals, how they were cared for, where they lived in the winter, what they ate, how they were trained.... and they learned more about elephants than they thought they'd ever want to know. they were surprised to learn how important foot care is to an elephant's overall health. a small foot injury can mean death to an elephant. they learned about elephant families. these two were mother and child, though both were adults. they timidly touched the elephant's trunk and saw, from inches away, how dextrous and gentle it was. they learned about the intelligence and faithfulness of elephants.

and, best of all, they got to watch an elephant take a dump. bombs the size of cantaloupes.

so, after the kids had all been herded out and sent back to school without so much as opening a package of clay, Flora pointed to a warm and most fragrant lump of steaming green. a monstrous elephant pellet. she asked the gentleman,

"what are you going to do with that?"

he gave her a strange, sideways glance, and replied, "I'm going to clean it up."

"Well, yes, but where are you going to put it?"

"in the garbage bin over there"

"Can i have it? I'll clean it up."

another strange sideways look. "sure, lady. come on back after the show starts."

so, a few hours later, Flora wiped the clay from her hands as she stepped out back for a smoke. she listened to the music and the swell of applause, as she went back inside for some big green garbage bags. there was enough to fill several of them, but she had to use more. the stuff was too heavy to fill a bag with. she didn't to end up wearing it as she carried it to her van.

Flora lives on a quarter section of land outside town. country life was a lifelong dream of her husband, but it was a new experience for all of them. they'd been joined on 'the farm' over the summer by a couple of sheep, a riding horse, and a big, friendly dog. Flora had planted her first garden. it hadn't done well. from all the work she'd put into it, she'd harvested a few salads, a handful of peas, a few carrots the size of her little finger, and enough potatoes to las a week, tops. the beans were a complete bust. the farmer next door told her the soil was depleted. she needed to get some manure.

Flora smiled as she lugged the bags from the van. well, had she EVER got some manure! She dumped the gift from the elephants around the garden, spread it a bit with the shovel still stuck in the ground in the corner of the remains of the pumpkin vines. well, maybe they were pumpkin vines. they hadn't produced anything resembling a pumpkin before the frost turned them to mush. then she went up the hill to the house, got on with things and gave not another thought to the garden till spring.

the first snows came early that year. and the snow just kept coming, month after month. this was good, because the previous year had been very dry. in spring things melted slowly. the thirsty earth took a long, slow, deep drink and there was hardly any runoff. Flora noticed one warm spring evening as she drove up the drive on her way home from teaching, that the neighbor had been by with his cultivator and done the garden for her. "i love living here," she thought. we have the best neighbors. the leaves were just beginning to unfurl along the drive. she'd be planting the garden soon. maybe this weekend.

the phone was ringing when she walked in the house. it was Joe, the good neighbor.

"thanks for doing the garden, Joe. it looks great. is it too early to plant the potatoes this weekend?"

"naw. should be fine. you're welcome. that was one heckuva job, tilling your plot. stunk to high heaven. and there were these huge lumps of stuff. what did you put in there? elephant s***t?"

then she remembered. grinning from ear to ear, knowing full well he wouldn't believe her, she answered, "well, yeah!"

true story.

Our hands describe who we are

2009-12-08T19:53:00.000-08:00

i have a thing about hands. one day, i'd like to do a series of portraits of hands.... fresh, pudgy baby hands, gnarled and twisted century-old hands... and every variation between.

so, i have this friend who's a photographer, and i asked him to take some pictures of me. the thought was, i'll need something professional looking for a portfolio to leave here'n there, in hopes of getting some paying gigs in the city, now that i live here. pleasant work, and on my list of things to accomplish - making a portion of my living through playing music as well as teaching it. after all, i'm getting a bit old to be hauling refrigerators and couches around for a living. much as i love the ReStore Manager job, i know it's either got to morph into something less physical or be replaced by something less physical fairly soon.

and i have these 4 grown kids, raised by a mum who, when outside help was not forthcoming, said, "well, dammit, then i'll do it myself!" so they take me pretty much for granted. it never occurs to them that i might ever need help with anything. and that's o.k. mostly, because i'm pretty independent and i like it that way.... or at least i've become accustomed to it, so it feels normal.

i take most of the family pictures ..... which means i'm seldom in them. not a big deal for me; i'd rather look at pictures of them than pictures of me anyway. but it occurred to me at about the time that i thought i'd better get a portfolio together, that there will come a day when i'm not around, and my kids won't have any decent pictures of me. and they might be sorry about that. we've decided to keep Christmas as down-to-earth and hype-free as we can this year, so i thought a nice gift might be a photo of their mum in a nice frame.

and it's occurred to me that, much as we focus our attention on faces, it's hands that say so much about us, and to us. it's the hands of a parent that comfort and nurture. that provide food and shelter, that write down the stories, draw the pictures and, in my case, make the music. i'm tempted to give them a picture of my hands.

not that i will, because i just don't think they'd get it. but i'm tempted.

November 30

2009-11-30T12:42:00.000-08:00

it's been a blur..... the trip to Kansas City was memorable in many ways. i made some friends, strengthened my ReStore manager network south of the border, ( i was the only Canadian there) and learned some things. one of the big lessons is not to keep all I.D, money, passport, etc. in one place. my wallet disappeared @ the airport moments before my flight, and i wasn't allowed to leave the country. it took nearly an additional week in K.C. to pull it all together with the Canadian Consulate, and get home. my first conversation with them went something like this.....

after explaining that my wallet was missing, with all I.D., money, credit cards, passport, etc. in it, and the airline wouldn't let me fly home, the gentleman on the other end of the line (who was at the nearest Canadian Embassy, which was in Dallas, Texas) said,

"Well we need to see you in person to make a positive I.D. you'll have to come to Dallas."

"how am i supposed to get to Dallas?"

"just take the next plane"

"i'm calling you because they won't let me ON a plane with no passport or I.D."

"oh. well, then, you'll have to drive."

"how am i supposed to drive with no money, credit cards, driver's licence or identification?"

"oh. well, if you could get to the Canadian border, we could probably get you across."

"even assuming i can GET to the border with no money, credit card, driver's license or identification, that still leaves me @ the border.... how many thousand miles from home....? with no money, credit card, driver's licence or identification....!"

"oh. well then, you'll have to get passport photos taken, and have someone verify who you are, and mail them to Dallas with your flight itinerary."

so, K, i did that. this was friday evening, so the consulate wasn't open again till Monday.... after a weekend of fretting, i got a call from the consulate saying they had the photos but they needed my flight itinerary.

"i sent my flight itinerary with the photos."

"no, that's your old flight itinerary for last Friday. we need one for your return trip this week."

"how am i supposed to book that when i don't know when you're going to let me out of the country?!"

it was an entire week of beurocratic indigestion. added to the international beurocracy was the fact that possession of the townhouse i'd bought was supposed to be that monday.... so i was faxing and phoning and this-ing and that-ing with realtors and lawyers and insurance companies on top of trying to get the paperwork together to get home.

but the Habitat for Humanity and ReStore folks in K C incredible, and the hotel put me up for almost an entire extra week, with many hours of long distance phone calls every day, at NO CHARGE!!!!

and while i was there, the Playing For Change bus pulled up right under my window!!! they were staying at my hotel for the KC concert. so i immediately found out where they were playing (at the very cool Uptown Theatre) and took myself to the concert. even got my granddaughter the t-shirt.

but boy, was it good to be home. even with the rotten cold and ice. and i've been moving and unpacking and sorting the new house ever since....

....and getting the final work done on an upgrade to the ReStore that was started before i left. hysteria has it's use, though.... at one point in KC i spoke with my staff, asking if the gasfitter had come to set up the new furnace yet. no, he hadn't even called back yet.... (this had been ongoing for more than a month) i told the fellows.... "here's what you're going to do. you're going to call him right now, and you're going to tell him that if that furnace isn't installed and operating by the time the manager gets back, he'll be dealing with a hysterical woman who's been stranded in the states for a week. it could get ugly." within a half hour i had a call back from them.... "he's here, and he's got a quote for the work." he was finishing it up as i drove into the lot on my return.

i may still be a bit hysterical.... things haven't slowed down since i got home.....

Kansas City MO

2009-11-03T20:20:00.000-08:00

spending this week in Kansas City taking ReStore training. beautiful city, and there was a foot of snow in northern Alberta when i left. no contest

My Madonna

2009-10-15T21:30:00.000-07:00

My Madonna

Robert Service

I haled me a woman from the street,
Shameless, but, oh, so fair!
I bade her sit in the model's seat
And I painted her sitting there.

I hid all trace of her heart unclean;
I painted a babe at her breast;
I painted her as she might have been
If the Worst had been the Best.

She laughed at my picture and went away.
Then came, with a knowing nod,
A connoisseur, and I heard him say;
"'Tis Mary, the Mother of God."

So I painted a halo round her hair,
And I sold her and took my fee,
And she hangs in the church of Saint Hillaire,
Where you and all may see.

i'll call her Flora

2009-09-07T11:21:00.000-07:00

Susan @ Phantasythat posted about a marvelous teacher. i think really gifted teachers are a rare thing. far too often we see people molding our children with hands that are rough and harsh, with no care to the tender matter they shape, nor to the damage they do. a very dear friend of mine is one of the gifted ones. i'll call her Flora.

Flora has been through the wars, so to speak. not the 'great war' or anything involving invading armies. her wars were waged within the walls of impeccable upper class residences. Raised by an aristocratic and cruel mother, she has some issues. Self confidence has never managed to take root in her troubled psyche. Though she has a brilliant intelligence and a sparkling wit, without fail, she defers to the opinions of others. she often recognizes that those she submits to are dull and uninspired. she can even say so, to a trusted friend. but she cannot stand up to them, or stand her ground. she lives in constant fear of recrimination. she cannot bear criticism, and she she cannot assert herself.

what she can do, is art. she's a gifted and prolific artist. what she cannot say in words, she speaks most eloquently in clay. she's especially fond of raku. she loves the unpredictability of it, the excitement of pulling white-hot pieces gently from a fire and nestling them, through clouds of smoke, in combustibles. her life's breath is the suspense of waiting for them to cool, and the miracle of wiping soot-blackened lumps, to reveal hidden secrets - brilliant, gleaming irridescence that can never quite be duplicated.

and Flora is a gifted teacher. she discovered this gift with an after school program for 'problem' kids, run through the local fine arts program. Flora understood these kids, because she was one of them. she could look into their eyes and see their hearts. there were bullies and troublemakers in that class. and in the seat across the table from the bully, was the victim of bullying. how does one spend 2 hours, twice a week, in close confinement with predator and prey, and not let anyone get hurt? Flora knew how. and no one was going to hurt anyone else on her watch. Despite her outward lack of confidence, Flora knew she was an exceptional artist. she knew that there were people who admired and respected her ability. i think it was this knowledge that enabled her to find, somewhere in the folds of self-preservation and caution she wore, the courage to say to those troubled teens, at the beginning of her first class,

"this is an art studio. We are all artists here." she looked bullies and victims alike, in the eye, and said, "every one of us in this room is an artist. real artists treat each other, and themselves, with respect. nothing less than that is acceptable while you are in this room. that means there will be no put-downs, no poking fun, no negative remarks of any kind about the work anyone does here. that includes your friends, people you don't like, and yourself. and that's the only rule here."

it took some persistence to make them do it, but Flora was not backing down this time. she treated them with respect, and gave no indication that she expected anything but respect from them. when they forgot the one cardinal rule, or thought they could sneak some sly retort by, she corrected them, gently but firmly, and made them rephrase the comment. because she sincerely liked them and obeyed the rule herself, because she taught them using the materials and techniques that she used herself, they came to sincerely respect and trust her. and they produced good stuff! parents and teachers were incredulous at some of the results. one teacher accused her of doing the work accredited to a particularly difficult boy herself, and letting him put his name on it. but she hadn't. she would have considered that sort of behavior an insult to him. when the class term was over, they held a show in the art gallery that the clay studio where she worked was affiliated with. every item had either a price tag on it, or a tag saying "Not For Sale. from the collection of_______." nothing was priced at more than a dollar or 2. the day of the opening gala, the gallery was filled with bodies of varying sizes and shapes. siblings, cousins and friends of the artists were delighted to learn that they could afford to buy real art from a real art show in a real gallery. money raised went toward purchase of studio materials for the next session. i think they made something in the neighborhood of $56.25.

Flora's first class, those many years ago, with all of the town's 'bad' kids, was such a success that it evolved into a 10 week session for every grade 4, 5 and 6 child in town. the program continues to this day, as part of the local school system's art curriculum. they all go to a real art studio, are taught by a real artist, and their end-of session show begins with a gala in the art gallery.

the first thing kids taking their first class hear their teacher say is, "this is an art studio. We are all artists here......"

ReStore's funky thing for September

2009-08-24T10:14:00.000-07:00

Since such a lot of really interesting stuff has been coming into the store, i've started a stash. i'm hoarding the really great stuff - especially antiques, for a monthly silent auction. the pump organs will go to a better place next week, and this lovely item will be the next great thing. also donated by the donor of the pump organs. he had a lot of really swell stuff.

there are 2 of them

2009-08-07T20:23:00.000-07:00

a fellow came by the ReStore one day, as so often happens, with a lot of odds'n bits in the back of his nifty little Nissan truck. i have a fondness for small trucks, being a tree hugging' girl with an Oilberta background. i drive a little old ford ranger myself. so i couldn't help admiring his nice little truck. the stuff he brought was all carefully sorted and contained in various buckets, tins, and sturdy hand made boxes. it was interesting stuff that he'd clearly taken some care over. alongside the assorted nails, concrete fasteners, and bits of wood were some bits of old hardware. really old hinges and hasps and things, made from heavy metal that makes the stuff on the racks these days look like it's not really serious about what it says it can do. i like sturdy old stuff. i guess that's obvious to anyone who cares to notice. and he was a fellow who pays attention. as we unloaded the things he was donating, he mentioned that he was moving away, and might i be interested in some doors he had as well? my usual reply to that sort of question is, "well, i'd have to look them over before i could say for sure," so in a day or 2 he was back with some doors. 2 of them he'd made himself, though i didn't know that till later. what i did know, was that they were really well crafted solid wood doors, and i said so. that's when he told me he'd made them. i think that was a bit of a test, cuz not long after we'd unloaded them, and after i'd put the really good stuff in a prominent place in the store, with a fond pat on its satin smooth surface, he brought up the subject of the pump organs. did i know anyone who might like a couple of antique pump organs?

and that's how these lovely things came to be in my ReStore. they're things of marvelous beauty, crafted from glowing hardwood and rich in carven detail. they need a lot of work; he was planning to restore them (couldn't resist the pun) but is now moving to Ontario for family reasons, and couldn't fit everything into his moving van. he figured we might be able to find them a good home.

i hope he's right. i feel responsible for them now, like orphaned children or pets.

the one with the green felt behind the openwork hasn't all of its innards. my summer student is thinking she may just have to take it home and convert it to a computer desk.

since the pump organs moved in, there's been an interesting assortment of very cool old stuff turning up. there's a feeling i get from the folks who bring these small treasures in, that it's an issue of trust. they're giving me things they value, but have no place for, because they trust me to treat them with respect.

i love my job

burning the chaff

2009-07-27T14:24:00.000-07:00

she was 8 years old. in grade 3. not the most popular kid in a small school that considered 'religion' of more importance than the 3 r's. kind of skinny, and sometimes a bit of a smarty pants, but she had a lot of friends.

till the fire.

there weren't many kids, or teachers in the building that early in the morning, but her mum had to be @ school herself, on the other side of town, so she was always early. the fire was in the girls' washroom. she'd just come out of the girls' washroom a few minutes before anyone noticed smoke. it was a major incident, of course, because, on closer inspection, after the fire dept left, and the screaming and wailing died down, it was abundantly clear that this was arson.

there weren't a lot of suspects. the teachers weren't even considered. aside from them, just a handful of kids were there at the time, so it couldn't be too hard to nab the culprit. no one who didn't belong there had been noticed entering or leaving the building.

she mentioned there had been a fire at school, over the evening meal. "nobody hurt, i hope." was all mum said. the school hadn't sent anyone home early, or missed much in the line of classes, and they both had homework to do, so, after they ate, they just got busy doing it. till the police officer showed up at the door. he needed to talk to them. it seems there was no question in the minds of the Powers That Be who the little firebug was. Not that the nice young cop seemed convinced. he was just following up on info from teachers and parents and the principal. he wasn't making accusations. he spoke kindly. he listened carefully. he took notes in a little pocket sized notepad.

after official interrogation, mum sat on a chair, took the hands of her frightened girl child, looked her calmly in the eye, and said, "you need to be straight with me. if you did this, then we'll have to deal with the consequenses, together. if you didn't do it, i will do everything in my power to prove your innocence. but if you tell me you didn't, and it turns out that you did, we're both going to look really stupid, so be straight with me. did you do it?"

"no, mum. i didn't."

"ok then. we need to get to work."

the next week or so was a special kind of hell for both of them. the child learned her real friends were extrememely few. two, to be precise. those two, both girls, and very small for their age, who steadfastly stood by her, came close to being beaten up by a gang of righteous vigilantes during recess one day. 2 sisters, we'll call them Willy and Nilly, members of the 'in crowd,' who the child had thought were her friends, claimed to have seen very incriminating things. they basked for a brief moment in the glory light. the pricipal called this frightened little 8 year old woman into his office and told her she might as well confess; everyone knew she was guilty. ostracised and shamed, but not quite alone, she firmly maintained that she had not set a fire in the garbage can of the second floor girls' washroom. she had not run into her classroom and hidden a cigarette lighter in her desk just before the fire was discovered. and she was, most adamantly NOT lying about it.

mum spent hours cornering teachers and students, cross examining those who were there on 'the morning in question'. she felt like a low caste Agatha Christie. teachers didn't actually refuse to speak to her, but answers were terse and often sarcastic. during her conversation with the principal, he straightened his tie and, looking uncomfortably away when she met his eye, said, in a quiet voice like the edge of a knife, "one can have no respect for someone who refuses to admit their child can do wrong. Parents have a certain responsibility to their communities, to the laws of the land, and to their faith."

that comment didn't score the points he'd hoped it would. having begun the school year, due to being a single parent, at just about zero, she knew all about not being respected by parents of 'proper' families. and she knew, without his advice, that she was now working with a deficit, with regards to respect, from any of them. after two weeks, things had settled to a semblance of normalcy, with no resolution. if you can call being an 8 year old pariah normal.

in time, there was another of those conversations, hand to hand, eye-to-eye. "i believe you sweetie, but hardly anyone else seems to, and we can't seem to prove that they're wrong. it's not right, and it's not fair, and i wish i could change it, but i can't. life isn't always fair. i want you to know how much i admire you for how you've behaved through this. you've been more grownup than most of the grownups, and i'm very proud of you."

"it's alright, mum."

it wasn't alright. it was heartbreaking, and unjust, and cruel, and she was ashamed and angry that she had no power to change that. when the nice young police officer appeared at their door once more, she nearly didn't let him in.

he came to tell them that the case was closed. they both stared at him stupidly. well, he said, with a somewhat puzzled look on his face, they'd caught the culprit.

"who is it?"

another quizzical, awkward glance. seems the school administrators and educators had known this for some time. no one had thought it important to tell the students, or the parent of the wrongly accused child. or least of all the injured party. there would be no repercussions, as the perpetrator was the foster child of a ministerial family with prominent positions on the school board. she was a troubled child, who needed everyone's compassion. no 'official' statement was ever made by the school, clearing the name of the innocent. the purjors were never reprimanded, or even corrected. it was, after all, a small thing. not important.

but these things have a long life in impressionable minds.

"do Willy and Nilly play with you now?"

"no"

"i'm sorry to hear that"

"it's ok mum. i don't want to play with them. they're not nice people. now i know who the nice people are."

work continues

2009-07-26T15:45:00.000-07:00

..... on the ReStore. i'm now filling the 12th rollaway bin with stuff that litters the yard and buildings, that's so useless or damaged or out of date that no one will buy it.

this photo is of a group of volunteers dismantling a shelf that was too heavy to move.... without a forklift. the thing must have weighed 300 lb!! two of the volunteers are high school boys whose parents want them to keep busy over the summer. they get credit toward ReStore purchases for volunteer time worked. so far they've each taken home a cool chair for their bedrooms. 3 more (not all in pic) are summer students hired by a business that supports Habitat. they didn't have a job for the students for 2 days, so 'volunteered' them over to me. not what the kids had signed on for, exactly, as the firm that hired them does accounting.... but they were pretty good natured about it all.

this building currently has a greasy dirt floor and a very old wood burning stove in the corner for heat. i'm beating the bushes for a furnace and donations of building materials to put in a sturdy (and clean!!!!) wood floor. then it'll house the ReStore's appliance and furniture sales.

volunteers have been stupendous, and i have a summer student on staff now.... till fall.... then? ....sufficient unto the day are the troubles thein. i'll worry about that when it comes.

just had a fellow bring in two beautiful old pump organs yesterday.... will post a picture when i have one....

had my first kayaking lesson a while ago... am now the proud owner of my very own wetsuit (no pictures forthcoming... it's not a pretty sight) and am going for a second run this evening.

Summertime, and the livin' is..... complicated

2009-07-13T16:29:00.000-07:00

'twas the most gorgeous day here yesterday. we've had a long, cold spring, and cold windy summer so far. just in the last week we finally started to get the rain local grain farmers have, for many weeks, prayed would come. and it's warmed up to weather that feels like it's really summer. i hope it hasn't come too late for the grain crops and the hay fields.

so last evening, after a lovely, lazy day off, reading a trashy book while the laundry washed and dried, sipping a glass wine as i took my turn cooking the evening meal (butter chicken, with naan bread and salad - ta die fer, if i do say so myself) i took my poor neglected bicycle out for a spin on the walking trails in the city's green space. along the creek valley that bisects the city. initially, it was a business trip. i wanted to know how long it would take me to ride my bike to work. my ReStore is right on the banks of the creek, and my daughter's home, where i'm staying, is also near the creek. fifteen minutes, exactly.

but business very soon melted into pure pleasure. the air was thick with heat and humidity following an early afternoon thunderstorm. sweet and rich with the nectar of rose scent. thousands of wild roses in full bloom, everywhere i went. they're Alberta's provincial flower. they grow everywhere here. many think of them as weeds. gentle honeyed sunlight slanted through the incredibly lush green of overhanging trees... like warm water pouring on my skin. Every person i met, pedestrian or fellow cyclist, smiled a greeting. many commented on what a beautiful evening it was. i think my own smile, as Rudyard Kipling said of the Parsi Man who helped the rhino get his wrinkled skin, wrapped around [my] face. Twice."

so i continued on past my destination, grinning from front to back. i'd begun at the northernmost extremity of the trail, and sailed throught the heart of the city on a warm thermal that stroked its underbelly... to the southernmost extremity. it wasn't enough. i was intoxicated, and wanting more. so, as i turned round to head back, i determined to take the long way home.

which took me through the park @ the city's centre. there's a kind of natural ampitheatre there, where concerts are held. they've built a stage @ the bottom of it. i could hear music from far up the trail. and i thought, "that voice. i know that voice." a dark truffle of a voice, rich and strong and true. i was a moth drawn to the light. and sure enough, there she was, on the stage, belting it out as she strummed her guitar. bongos in the background, a bass guitar and a keyboard weaving soundwaves around her. a highschool girlfriend, moved away years ago, back in town for the reunion her church was holding that weekend. and there were others too! many others! in particular, a very gifted pianist i used to do a lot of gigs with back then, and for years afterward. she now has MS and is in a wheelchair. hasn't been able to play her piano for nearly a decade. as i approached this second friend's wheelchair, pushing my bicycle through the throngs of people dancing, singing, swaying, milling in front of the stage, calling greetings to each other and to me, i felt somehow ashamed that i could ride that bike, and walk alongside it, and push it. my healthy body was an embarassment.

there was a man standing beside my friend's wheelchair.

my hearing, after a lifetime of being in the middle of loud music, is not good. especially with a lot of background sounds, no matter how gorgeous they are. it wasn't till i was right beside them that i could hear what he was waxing so passionately on about, to my friend. it was the same old stuff. she's been hearing it for nearly 30 years now, since she was first diagnosed with MS. the same old fundamentalist Bible-thumper insolence and cruelty.... how she's in charge of her body, and how sickness is only a state of mind, or of spirit, and if she can just get it right, she can be healed. she's a gentle woman, a staunch Christian who rarely says a cross word, but i could see the strain on her face as he poured his poison over her. she was a captive audience. couldn't even walk away. couldn't so much as get a word in edgewise to tell him that she's already heard all that stuff. And poured her heart into believing it, and trying it. to no avail. many times. and beat herself up over it every time, till she was bleeding internally.

i wanted to hit him. if good health was really all about faith, there'd be hardly a healthy person on the planet.

instead, i kissed her cheek and asked her if she'd like to go for a walk. so i pushed her wheelchair off to the edge of the noise, where i could hear her, and we had a long visit. she's still waiting for some understanding of what god's plan in her illness is. still trying to believe in a miracle. and it still breaks my heart to hear, because i stopped beleiving that a long time ago.

some things are beyond our control. and life isn't fair. maybe i'm just old and cynical.

Canada Day parade

2009-07-07T20:17:00.001-07:00

Canadian, Eh?
a gaggle of cute little girls with hardhats, paintbrushes and hammers charmed the crowds. (and there WERE crowds) the sweetie here is my grand daughter

our ReStore float in the Canada Day parade. Shoestring budget. The lady on the left is chair of the board of directors.

How Much Wood Could a Woodchuck Chuck?

2009-06-28T22:18:00.000-07:00

this is my woodchuck, known locally as a groundhog. they're members of the marmot family. she has 4 babies, now about half as big as her. they live in my ReStore yard. i think i'm going to have a contest to name her and her tribe. i usually spot her in the evenings, after the store is closed, and people aren't wandering all over her yard. most of the heaps of stuff that used to cover the yard are gone now, so she doesn't have as many places to hide as she once did, but she doesn't seem to mind too much. i wonder if she likes carrots....?

they're not all happy endings

2009-06-12T00:44:00.000-07:00

Oprah and others of that ilk love to sensationalize reunions between adopted children who search for their birth parents and those parents. not all of these stories are prime time material. here's one i know of:

It happened about this time of year. Maybe even on a day like today, when the world is so bountiful and alive, so fertile, that the very air is heavy with the reproductive cells of plants. Amoeba and behemoth, plant and animal, we all strive to be immortal. To live on through our children.

Did she savor the heat of the sun on her face that day, inhale the scent of her own skin as it browned and glistened with perspiration? It used to be said that women don’t sweat, they glisten. All those years ago, it wasn’t considered laydylike to sweat. And one must behave like a lady. But, no one would call her a lady. Ladies, in the fifth decade of the 20th century, didn’t cohabitate with men they weren’t married to.

After that day, and for many days, many weeks, many months, perhaps even many years, there were few such beautiful days. The shine of summer obscured by clouds - of shame, of accusation and denial. Clouds of anger and of fear. Confusion. Hate and self loathing. Frustration and loneliness. The words she speaks are not believed. Words of one ‘loose’ woman against the words of six men. Six men who arrived on her farm, that day in early June, to ‘persuade’ her that she did not want to live there. There was some disagreement about whether one so young, and so …. female….. should inherit such a place.. The police would not believe one disreputable woman, whose story differed so much from the story of six ‘upright’ men. This is, after all, a democracy.

She didn’t extinguish the spark that began in the darkness of that day. Did she perhaps try, unsuccessfully? The spark became a flame. The flame grew till she felt she was merely a host for this all consuming fire. Did she hate it? Pity it? Wish only to be rid of it? Did she take extra pains to care for her body, knowing another life was dependent on her? Or did she deliberately abuse herself, hoping to put an early end to the humiliation that was more and more evident as time passed. As her frame expanded. Her shame was as big as her belly, which was as big as her shame, which was as big as her belly…. One fed the other. Till the darkest day of all, when she was finally separated from it, in physical and mental anguish such as she’d never before known existed. Now it…. It being a she…. was someone else’s problem. She never saw her child again. Nor did she make any attempt to know who she had become. Why would this unwilling mother choose to be reminded of what was the worst time of her life?

The child of that dark union lives now, wrapped with exquisite care, in layer on protective layer of tenderness. The tiny, fragile infant is enfolded within the sturdy, sun browned body of a woman. Inside, where no eye sees, there are gossamer layers of trial and error, thick layers of caution and of watchfulness. Layers of injuries healed, of hard, lonely lessons learned. Layered upon layers, laid with painstaking care, making her strong. Strong of heart and of body and of mind. Or so she thought, – but nothing could prepare her for the shock of learning her beginnings. In the passing of a few numbers on her digital clock, during the course of one telephone call, she has become someone she doesn’t know. She isn’t who she thought she was. She is no longer sure who she is.

order from chaos, or a ReStore is born

2009-05-25T20:38:00.001-07:00

this vision of loveliness is the yard of my new ReStore.... 2nd hand, really.... the store, and the stuff. the site was subcontracted out by the local landfill operator to a private business, for the purpose of diverting materials from the landfill for the purposes of recycling and minimizing all that un-green waste. so what we have is a secondary landfill, now... only all above ground. we had 67 hours of volunteer labor last saturday, working very hard, and filled 2 monstrous rollaway disposal bins... the 20 or 25 foot long ones that take a big semi to load up and carry. and you can hardly tell....

once we get rid of the stuff that's undeniably trash, i'll have a huge truckload sale. all you can cart off for $100. we have hundreds of old windows, even more doors, dozens of lights, from chandeliers to swedish balls (remember the swedish ball?) bathroom fixtures, bricks, boards, yadayadayada. then we'll cull one more time, and start the store in earnest.

my first meeting with the Home Depot folks is tomorrow. they're huge supporters of Habitat for Humanity, and the manager made a strong point of telling me he really dislikes trashing things when they have to come off the floor. that's the policy. we're 6 hours from the next nearest city, half a continent from the manufacturer. the stuff can't be returned if it doesn't sell.

still looking for a cube van.

funny thing happened on Sunday morning. after wading through this stuff for 12 hours on Sat, i cleaned up real pretty Sunday morning, then went to do some admin work at the store before the long trip to the granny shack for violin lessons later that day. as i was standing by the chain link gate, locking up before leaving, a truck with a couple of fellows came cruising slowly by. we get a lot of that. people are antsy to see the place reopen. so the driver of the truck pulls up beside me, looks me up and down in that arrogant 'what have we have here?.... if i had a moustache, i'd twirl the ends' way some men have. and he says, clearly thinking he's making a very clever joke, "so are you running it now?" i smiled demurely, handed him my business card, and said, "sure am. Come back on the 6th of June and you can fill that big shiny truck of yours up for a hundred bucks."

blessed are the feet of them that bring good news

2009-05-16T21:52:00.000-07:00

a.k.a. don't shoot the messenger

i did some evangelizing today. what began as a seemingly innocent discussion of the local economy with my daughter's significant other today transmogrified into a session on my soapbox.

we live in a small (50 - 55 thousand souls) northern city that has seen a lot of boom and bust cycles. it's in an area that's rich in oil and gas, surrounded by forest that's among the best in the world for pulp and paper production, as well as lumber, first settled by farmers who discovered it's a pocket of rich agricultural land a zone or 2 warmer than other places this far north. during the depression that followed the 2nd world war, this area was not as hard hit by drought, economic downturn and food shortages as were other parts of North America. partly because the climate is moderated by our location between mountains and prairie, with lots of lakes and rivers, partly because the economy has always been so diversified, and partly because the inhabitants were self sufficient pioneer stock who knew how to keep things solvent with very little in the line of cash.

i'm not convinced there are many here today who could manage as well. it seems to be all about money now. so when the gentleman in question, who is head of a fairly large communications company here, asked me if i thought the local/regional economy was in trouble, he probably expected me to agree with his view that things are going down the toilet, and that would be that. he didn't expect a dissertation on how the wealth of the community was being sucked out by the big oil and lumber companies, and the big box stores. he didn't expect to be told that a community's wealth isn't measured in dollars and cents. he didn't expect (or enjoy) being told that the premise that exponential financial growth is the only marker of a business's success, was dangerously flawed. they live in a big house that they bought new about 5 years ago, in a trendy new neighborhood. they drive new vehicles, and trade up frequently. take lots of holidays to the tropics. he didn't like being asked "why? how much do you need?" when he said he wanted to make more money, have a bigger house.

none of this was particularly heated, it was all very civilized and polite. he's a kind man, who is very good to my daughter, granddaughter, and the rest of the family. he's a good neighbor. he recycles, pays all his bills promptly, and is considered by his employees to be an excellent boss. he's putty in the hands of a child, has pets who are treated like they're his own beloved children. he cooks! he cleans! a really sweet guy. just very materialistic, with no social conscience beyond his own doorstep.

i think there's a crack in the polished veneer, though. he's applied for a senior position in the fire department. says he thinks he might want to do something more 'worthwhile and satisfying'.

but i'm not putting the soap box away.

Tally ho!

2009-05-07T08:38:00.000-07:00

one of the really great things about moving to the city is all of the family things i can be part of. this is granddaughter, Brooklyn, at her first riding lesson, with a dainty little quarter horse called Cocoa. Brooklyn is 8, and very much her own person already. she insisted on riding English, though Western is the fashion here in cowboy country. she's a well balanced girl, though, and has a very funky pair of pink suede cowboy boots that she loves to wear to school with her denims.

so grandma was the official photographer for the first riding lesson. then sneezed her brains out all the way home, as she's excruciatingly allergic to horses.

friday, the Alberta Opera Co. is coming to her school. everyone's invited!

the granny shack is finished!!!!

2009-05-02T10:43:00.001-07:00

and listed for sale

living room

kitchen

below are:
dining room
front porch
bath

starting a wish list

2009-04-29T15:26:00.000-07:00

at the top of the wish list is a cube van, something like this one, for picking up donated material for the ReStore. it's also an amazing moving billboard. also on the wish list are things like a forklift, pallet jacks, moving dollies, industrial shelving, and lots of high energy volunteers.

got the word from the local landfill administrator today that they're giving us a location with 3 reasonably good buildings, on trial, for a year - RENT AND UTILITIES FREE!!!! does it get any better than that? i can probably start setting up my office next week.

we do the dance of joy!!

a gathering of friends

2009-04-20T22:37:00.000-07:00

Nancy, on the left, was having a birthday. so Flo, next to her, invited a bunch of us to a birthday feast @ her country cottage B&B. and taught us how to play a card game called Dutch Blitz. Flo was raised in the nearby Holdeman Mennonite community. the Holdemans are a very conservative branch of the Mennonite faith who still are shocked to see a woman's legs, arms or hair!!!! their women wear head coverings, and calf-length dresses with high necklines and sleeves. Flo was single when i first met her, so she made a living selling baked goods at the local farmer's market for years. it's how she financed the B&B, believe it or not! and her rep as a baker got the B&B customers coming. but she's been ostracized by her people, for being an independent, unmarried woman running a business. just a few years ago, she married a man from 'outside the faith'. so now she's not just ostracized, she's actually shunned. shunning is alive and well in some bleak places on the fringes of civilization. but Flo is a strong and courageous woman. she continues to treat the people of her community with respect, and behaves with integrity and dignity. but she's not letting them tell her how to live her life. she's even taken to wearing (shudder) jeans!!!

Come 'n listen to my story 'bout a man named Jedd

2009-04-19T10:26:00.000-07:00

borrowed a truck and a buddy and loaded up, a' la Beverly Hillbillies, to move some of my locks, stocks, and barrels. the grandgirl thought it would be a good place to ride, on back there. i suggested a rocking chair and a shotgun. she didn't get it. the joke's not as good when you have to explain it. she was mildly disappointed when i pointed out there were no seatbelts up there.

signposts along the road of life

2009-04-14T13:37:00.000-07:00

as i make the move to the city, things need to be sorted, gifted, stored and, when all else fails, become landfill. so i took my camera along to the dump with me. there were a few other industrious souls making deliveries there too. and they seemed to think it a strange place to be taking scenic shots. but they'll be great for my Earth Day power point presentation next week, introducing the ReStore idea to the city, and all its associated environmental benefits.... and beginning the campaign to recruit volunteers and contributors. know anyone in northern alberta who'd like to donate a cube van?

wicked stepmother

2009-04-01T21:01:00.000-07:00

just spent the last two days in ICU with my stepmum and my dad. she's been a smoker for 56 years, and her lungs are shot. a lung cancer survivor, she's been packing an oxygen tank with her everywhere she goes for 5 years now. on sunday she stopped breathing and was rushed to hospital. they gave her 48 hours to live. that was about, (quick mental calculation) 72 hours ago. now they're making preparations to move her out of ICU into another ward, to recover more before sending her home. this is the second time she's fooled everyone. today she's angry, bitchy and poisonous. that's how we know she's getting better. i feel like i've spent 2 days marinating in venom.

an interesting fact. there are 5 siblings in the family. none of us smoke. makes me think of a quote a high school english teacher i had years ago had pinned above the blackboard. "there is something to be learned from everyone, even if it is only not to be like them."

amen

coming through pine pass, March 28

2009-03-28T18:47:00.000-07:00

i had an offer, on very short notice, to catch a ride with a friend who was making a business trip to Prince George, British Columbia late this week. as there's a ReStore there i wanted to check out, i threw some paperwork in a duffel bag, grabbed my camera, a change of clothes and a toothbrush, and blasted off! chatted with the ReStore's assistant manager, hung out for a while @ PG's terrific library catching up on some favorite mags, had a great supper, with Guinness on tap at the pub around the corner from the hotel where we stayed, and discovered an incredible pianist entertaining in the lounge next to it, which we closed down. all-in-all, a really great trip.... but it's 6 hours one way, so the driving's a bit of a grind. this was taken near the summit of Pine Pass, coming home through the Rocky Mountains. the spring melt begins to seep through the rock cliffs, and freezes like glacial stalactites. there were even pussy willows beginning to peep out here and there, in protected hollows.... but none at home yet.

spring?

2009-03-25T09:52:00.001-07:00

this is what the fifth day of spring looks like north of 56

the Easter bunny is frozen solid. if his profile looks a bit odd to you, it's because part of him shattered and broke off in the cold. part of one of his ears is missing too.... who knew delivering pretty eggs could be such a hazardous job. he should join a union and complain about the working conditions.

spend your Easter break in beautiful Waynorth! book your reservations now, for Easter egg hunts in the snow, sleigh rides through town to show off your fur-lined Easter bonnet, and snowshoe races to church for the sunday service. the winner gets to sit closest to the heater.

it's not always like this here at the end of March. some years it's all slushy and melting and the pussy willows are beginning to peek out.... and one can, with a little imagination, convince oneself that winter won't last forever.

in the Yukon, now, things are like this right through Easter break. when i checked the weather network this morning, it was minus 20-something C in Dawson City, where eldest son lives..... which reminds me of one Easter when he was small, and we were all still living in Dawson City.

some folks got together and planned a big Easter egg hunt for the kids. it was a huge event. local businesses donated chocolate and candies and tinsel and nest fluff and baskets and doodads and whatnots. early in the morning a group of enthusiastic volunteers drove the long winding road from Dawson City, at the banks of the Yukon River, up the extinct volcano it nestles at the foot of, known as the Midnight Dome. it's called that because it's the place locals like to go to on summer solistice, to watch the sun circle the sky and not go down at all. it's become an annual bash. the view is spectacular. you can see up and down the Yukon and Klondike Rivers for miles up there. you're surrounded by rugged hills and forests, underneath a sky as deep blue as a broken heart.... so the Midnight Dome was the place of choice for the Easter egg hunt.

the volunteers made the trek up the dome, had huge fun tucking away all the booty, and came back down the hill grinning from ear to ear, thinking of what a hoot it was going to be watching the kids find all that glorious junk. the kids, by this time, had all been collected, and were waiting eagerly for the fun to start. into vans and station wagons and various assorted modes of transportation they all piled, and back up the hill everyone went, noise level raising with the altitude, till they all arrived at the top in an ear rupturing explosion of sound.

"Release the children!" someone called, and the extinct volcano poured forth a flow of small bodies, cheering and shrieking with glee. dozens of snow-suited and mittened little people poured from their wheeled prisons and the search was on!

i won't go into details. 30 years later, we're all still too traumatized to dwell on it..... the happy cries turned to wailing and gnashing of teeth, as, one after another, the kids found bits of fluff and tinsel, shreds of cellophane and foil, tattered and ravaged baskets and wrappers, but no treats. there wasn't an egg or a chocolate or a marshmallow goodie to be found. but there were clues. in amongst the shredded and mutilated remains of the feast were footprints. bird footprints. large bird footprints. on every lamp post and tree within sight were very smug looking ravens. dozens of them. it was like something from an Edgar Allen Poe story. all those ravens looked down gloatingly on the crying children and the stunned adults, and they chuckled. yes, ravens chuckle. they have an amazing vocabulary. they're very smart birds who live a long time. they play and they scheme, and they do pranks, and they chuckle. it's more than just a little humiliating being laughed at by a bird. the trip back down was more subdued, punctuated occasionally by the broken hearted sob of a child. somehow, someone found some Easter goodies that hadn't got sold and eaten already, and things were done again, on a smaller, less boisterous scale, and the day was redeemed somewhat.

chocolate doesn't seem to agree with ravens. Dawson City's raven population was a bit out of sorts for some time after that. not their usual carefree selves. and there were reports of really disgusting volumes of vile slime falling from the sky as a raven flew over. like it was our fault they felt rotten, and they were getting even.

bloody cold today

2009-03-10T09:00:00.001-07:00

-36°C
°C
°F
Clear
Wind: 0km/h
Sunrise: 8:22
Sunset: 19:50
Relative Humidity: 60%
Pressure: 103.82 kPa
Visibility: 40.0 km
Ceiling: unlimited
i'm going under cover for a while. it's too damned cold for March.
this is my new identity

Current Weather Updated: Tuesday, March 10, 2009, 9:00 MDT - Grande Prairie

on religion

2009-02-28T09:03:00.000-08:00

Our Lady of Peace. Carved from marble brought from some far off land, she stands @ the site of the Dunvegan Trading Post on the banks of the Peace River in northern Alberta. i love statuary, and marble is beautiful all on its own, without human intervention. so last spring i asked her to pose for me, and she graciously consented.

i'm not a particularly religious person. spiritual, i think, but organized religions have had their way with me and left me a skeptic. as a single mum i was frequently 'taken on' in the way well-meaning Christians 'take on' a fundraiser for the hungry or a mitten knitting blitz for the homeless. people become projects, and it's impersonal, demeaning and humiliating. there were some who sincerely cared about my kids and me; those few i still count among my dearest friends, but most were more religious than caring, and we didn't find much common ground.

so, though i believe with all my heart in the mission of Habitat For Humanity, the fact that it's essentially a faith based organization was cause for some apprehension. there is, indeed, some of that 'people as projects' orientation there, by affluent Christians who have ulterior motives for being connected, but i find it far less rampant in HFH than in the general churchy population. and the ReStore folks are even less so. they're with the ReStore because they genuinely endeavor to live in a way that reflects a faith and a lifestyle that respect all human beings and the planet we inhabit together. my kind of folks.

in the pre-move prep phase, as word gets round that i'm leaving, things i've loaned out (and forgotten about) are returning. one is a book by Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy author, Douglas Adams, that i'd loaned to a very special teen student when he mentioned his interest in the author and his works. it's called, Last Chance to See - about endangered species, written about this very serious issue in Adams' quirky, self-deprecating, thoughtful style. i highly recommend it. ...and a bit from it prompted this post. he and his accompanying expert, Mark, find themselves on a plane to Zaire with a flock of missionaries. here's what he says about them, and about religion in general. as their plane takes off:

".... i then became rather tense myself as the plane started to taxi out to the runway, because the preflight talk from our pilot included a description of our route, an explanation of the safety features of the aircraft, and also a short prayer. i wasn't so much disturbed by the 'O Lord we thank thee for the blessing of this day', but 'We commend our lives into Thy hands, O Lord' is frankly not the thing you want to hear from a pilot as his hand is reaching for the throttle.

..... i don't like the idea of missionaries. in fact the whole business fills me with fear and alarm. i don't believe in God, or at least not in the one we've invented for ourselves in England to fulfill our peculiarly English needs, and certainly not in the ones they've invented in America who supply their servants with toupees, television stations and, most importantly, toll-free telephone numbers."

i haven't quite sorted out what i do believe yet, but i'm very sure of what i don't. every time i see a magnificent church building, i'm, i confess, impressed, because i do appreciate architecture and beauty, but my next thought is often, "the cost of that could have fed, clothed, and housed a lot of deserving kids." and, like Albert Schweitzer, i believe we are our brothers' keepers. the affluence and decadence we're surrounded by, when there are hungry and homeless people who have done harm to no one, is a blot on our society, and on our humanity.

the argument that one person can't make a difference is a self deceiving lie. everything we do, no matter how small, has an impact, and makes ripples that have impact. we need to give careful thought to every facet of our lives - what we model for and teach our children; the kinds of homes we choose to live in; the kinds of foods we choose to eat, and where they come from; consumer choices about who we buy from, what we buy, and why we buy it; the way we treat our neighbors and our communities, near and far. each facet has an impact. our circle of influence may appear to us to be small. we may never see the cumulative effects our small acts of responsible stewardship and kindness have. this doesn't mitigate the importance of doing them.

home cookin'

2009-02-27T08:17:00.000-08:00

while he was here helping prep the house for sale, eldest son asked for a lesson in bread making. his first batch of 3 loaves of whole wheat bread was perfect. and he was justifiably proud of his accomplishment.

still dreaming

2009-02-23T08:50:00.000-08:00

i got this picture of the Saskatoon ReStore posted, then got interrupted before i managed to say anything about it. i wish this was my store, but no such luck. our first store will most likely be much smaller and less impressive. i've been working with my son, who's been visiting from the Yukon for 2 weeks helping with finishing the house and getting it ready for sale. when it's cleaned up and de-constructioned, i'll post some pictures. but not much has been happening on the ReStore front as a result. i wish there were 3 more of me.

the Saskatoon ReStore is a renovated curling rink. back where the kitchen and viewing areas were, there are now 9000 sq Ft of offices for Habitat and other not for profit groups.... not accessible from the ReStore, and treated as a separate building, with separate entrances, etc, for fire code reasons. the building is super insulated, and has a floor that's perfectly level & smooth. without a crack or a bump throughout.... you could... well, you could curl on it! all very well organized and busy. very impressive.

on a different track, the visiting lad has confessed to an interest in domestic things while here, so he's taking the pressure canner and a few useful things back with him when he goes home on Thursday. and, in the process of packing up books, we came across an old journal from the time when he (age 6 months), his dad and i left alberta for the yukon. stories of his dad taking 20 shots to shoot a squirrel (we ate a lot of squirrel for a while) and notes about brining and drying salmon, finding a cabin to winter in, etc. it's the closest he'll ever have to the 'baby book' many parents keep of their child's first years. i think i'll post some of the stories from it here, when there's time.

7 sleeps

2009-02-06T17:42:00.001-08:00

this is the finished side of our current Habitat for Humanity duplex, and the family who now own it. taken the day of their home dedication cerimony. a certain grannyfiddler/harpist we know provided the music.

today, a team of 9 of us from the evil oil company i work for spent the day on the other side, painting, installing light fixtures and emptying the basement of unneeded construction materials. so, obviously, the people working for the evil oil company aren't evil. they're actually mostly a really terrific bunch of people, and there are very few of them that i'm not going to miss, when, in 7 sleeps, i'm finished there. but i won't miss the corporation. and here's why.... after months of hearing boasts from the bigwigs in the headshed about what a phenomenal year the company has had, (record breaking profits) and how well positioned it is relative to others in the industry, first, annual employee bonuses were cut, then the BIG CRUNCH was announced. this is an old field. it's expected to produce well for another 15 years even without major new exploration. we're very far from the centre of the universe, where the head office, and all the 'important' people are, so, by oil compay standards, we run pretty lean. oil exploration has been cut everywhere in alberta.... mostly a political response by the big corporations to drive home the point that they are very unhappy about the new royalty regulations initiated by the current government. so even without new wells to develop known reserves in the area, this field pours money into their coffers faster than they can count it. for those who aren't in on oilco jargon, reserves are those quantities of oil and gas that are known to exist in land the company in question has the mineral rights for. it's like money buried in the back yard, left to you by very rich, Great Uncle Fred who thought of you as the child he never had. you know it's there. you know it's a LOT. all you have to do is go get it.

so, when i handed in my resignation, my area superintendent was astonished to be told that they couldn't afford to replace me. they could have afforded to keep me, but they can't afford to hire someone else to do the same job. now i'm not young enough, or pretty enough that they just kept me around because i was so ornamental, and there's no slack in the department where i work that can be taken up to make sure the work i do gets done when i'm gone. and if it doesn't get done, the maintenance department in a field where most of the work done IS maintenance, will have some serious trouble getting its bills paid (cuz i'm the one who paid those bills for them) ...and if the bills don't get paid, people sending those bills are going to make damned sure no more bills are run up. and i'm not the only one this whole chain of events has occurred to.... no one's very happy with me in that office right now. i really am counting the sleeps till i leave. trying not to feel guilty, but of course i do anyway, because the mess is left in the laps of people who, for the most part, i've enjoyed working with.

so, after spending a day painting doors and playing gopher to a crew of 20 volunteers who're all there to help a single mum with 4 kids have her own home.... after explaining the philosophy of Habitat For Humanity to those who came, who'd never heard it before, seeing the delight in their faces when they heard it.... after a day of hard work, watching them all trudge through the snow to their vehicles, tired and dirty and smiling, some asking when they could come back..... i came back to my daughter's place, where i'm staying the weekend, had a long, hot, delicious bath, and checked the email and the blog. Lindsay Lobe had posted about Albert Schweitzer and his philosophy "Reverence for Life"..... and i thought, "how appropriate; the perfect ending to the perfect day." and i knew i was doing exactly the right thing trading the oilpatch for the 'philosophy of the hammer' as HFH's principles have been called.

and i'm happier than i've been in many years.

15 sleeps!!

2009-01-29T11:38:00.000-08:00

till i'm through with the evil oil company, and changing the world, one recycled board at a time.

i've been memed

2009-01-18T20:47:00.000-08:00

by Susan of Phantasythat. so, from page 64, approximately the 5th sentence, of The Ingenuity Gap, by Thomas Homer-Dixon, here goes:

page 64 is a graph, entitled: CO2 Concentrations and Temperature Have Varied in Lockstep.
this shows temp variations and CO2 levels running almost exactly parallel over the past 450,000 years, as show by Vostok ice core sampling.... so i've cheated a little and given a quote from p. 65

"Experts can't say for sure what effect this increase in carbon dioxide concentration will have on the planet's average temperature. But the Vostok ice cores suggest temperature will rise, and perhaps rise fast. And one thing IS certain: with each incremental ton of carbon we emit from our cars, power plants, and logging operations, we are producing, inexorably, an atmosphere that is significantly different from the one that influenced human civilization in the past. In fact, in the next two hundred years we may produce an atmosphere with carbon dioxide levels that Earth hasn't seen in hundreds of millions of years."

i'm dropping the ball, as my neighborhood is rather small, so am not tagging anyone. if anyone would like to volunteer, i'd love to have a peek at what's on your bookshelf

the funny thing is, i've been thinking a good bit about my books lately. i'm deliberating over what books to move to the ReStore office, and which ones to send to my girlfriend, who's adopting most of them. i need to pare down my possessions. Again. i plan to live very simply. i want my lifestyle to reflect the things i claim to believe in. this means less stuff, which includes, gasp! books! .... and more responsible consumer choices. deja vu! didn't i do this 30+ years ago, when i went to live off the land in the Yukon bush?!

the future looms

2009-01-17T19:21:00.000-08:00

i spent the early morning today dismantling my past.... it's really the past that looms.... or did - pardon the pun. my weaving days are on hold for now. i won't have a place for this beautiful thing soon, so it'll be packed away somewhere - hopefully safe. this loom is over a century old. built in BC (that's the province of British Columbia, on Canada's west coast) near the end of the 19th century by a gentleman for his wife, it has been passed on to 2 others before me. the rule is, it cannot be sold; it must be given away. if i knew someone who'd use it, i think i might give it away now. i hate the thought of putting it in storage for an unknown length of time, but i'll soon have nowhere to keep it. my eldest son is coming for a 2 week visit in early February to help me finish the trim and final renovations on the house. i'm getting my cute little granny shack ready for sale... beginning the decluttering process, finding people who'd like to borrow my furniture - one girlfriend and her kids, who all love to read, are very pleased to be babysitting all my books. possibly even adopting them.... i'm dowsizing once again, and moving to the city.

i gave my notice at work last week. my last day is Friday, Feb 13... good thing i'm not superstitious. as of last Thursday, i'm the official manager of the ReStore the Habitat for Humanity affiliate i belong to plans to open in 2009. there's a lot of work to do to make that happen, and i won't see a paycheck from it till that's accomplished and there's cash flow. but it's something i'm passionate about, and i've always been a bit of a risk taker. i may continue with the oil company part time for a while, till the ReStore can pay me a wage. another ending, and another beginning. both thrilling and terrifying.

Wars and Rumors of wars

2009-01-03T20:44:00.000-08:00

http://www.last.fm/music/Stevie+Wonder/_/Heaven+Help+Us+All

this won't show up as a hyperlink, so i'll just give you the address to copy and paste.

Zee posted a bit on the ongoing Israeli / Palestinian situation.... he's much more articulate and well informed about these things than i am. i'm just left with the feeling that the more things change the more they remain the same. maybe war is a guy thing. there seems no logic to it, however long and hard i ponder the question. it seems abundantly clear to me that violence only perpetuates more violence. When has it ever ended anything? and yes, i think it really is that simple. just stop the violence. if as much effort was made to get along, as is made to get even, or to get ahead, or to get the advantage.... etc, the world would not be in the state it's in.

i think Stevie Wonder says it very well in the utube clip above. i remember it done by....? Joan Baez? but still the same powerful song, and the images, though not pretty, are, i think, appropriate

A Toast to all my Friends

2009-01-02T12:56:00.000-08:00

happy new year, and a raised glass to all of you in blogland who come by the neighborhood periodically. it can be cold and lonely up here. you're all a breath of fresh air, and a word of wisdom in what sometimes feels like a social, cultural and intellectual vacuum. so, in keeping with the spirit of the picture, i'll leave you with an Irish toast and blessing

May those that love us, love us
and those that don't love us
may the good lord turn their hearts

and if he can't turn their hearts
may he turn their ankles
so we'll know em
by their limping

many blessings, and all good things in 2009

then and now

2008-12-21T16:10:00.000-08:00

sunset, some time around midnight, June 21

sunset, some time around 4 p.m. Dec 21

the north is a place of stark realities. endless night, vs endless day. a complete cycle of life in a few short weeks vs -40 C (the temperature today), where it seems nothing can survive.

rush hour

2008-11-30T10:47:00.000-08:00

the christmas season is the musician's 'rush hour'. my students had 3 gigs in the last week. this one was at the annual Festival of Trees, where local businesses and philanthropists donate decorated christmas trees, gift baskets, etc for silent auction to raise funds for the hospital's palliative care facility. a couple of days before that it was a concert of music by canadian composers, and last night it was a local pot luck banquet, which was packed... and gave them a standing ovation. we all left with a warm glow and full bellies. now it's sunday afternoon and i'm kicking back with my feet up, recharging till next week's blur of activities.

i'll call her flora

2008-11-25T11:20:00.000-08:00

i stopped by zee's 'place' earlier. he says he's going to be a teacher. i suspect he's already a teacher and he's just going about getting the official paperwork. some people just get other people thinking about things, and are good sources of info and suggestions. natural teachers. he seems to be one of those.

despite the current day job doing books for an evil oil company, i've been a violin teacher for most of my adult life, and i don't see any likelihood of that changing for the rest of my working life. it's a rich part of the whole. sometimes it's been the sole thing keeping all the broken pieces together. zee's plans got me thinking about the arts, and making a living in the arts, and attitudes about all facets of art. there's this perception among many people whose passions are not about originality and espression, that these things come easily, and are thus of little value. i've noticed that creativity comes naturally to some, and not to others, but i would never say it comes easily.

those who become skillful in the arts have put uncounted hours into learning to do what they do, just as those who are skillful at more 'practical' things have worked and studied hard to achieve their competence. yet, i've lost count of the number of artists and musicians i've known, who chafe in frustration at the inferrence that because they love what they do, and because this thing that they love, and do so well, is artistic, they shouldn't expect to make a decent living doing it. we should be grateful if someone invites us to do it for them, for free. or maybe for the leftovers of a free dinner, after we've entertained the other diners. there's no recognition that the beauty they're seeing or hearing didn't just take the few hours needed to physically produce it. there were years of study and labor, successes and failures poured into developing the skills that can produce the product so 'effortlessly'. i've never heard it suggested that a lawyer who has passionately practiced law, and become brilliant at it, should be paid peanuts.... or an engineer who has devoted a lifetime to finding the details of how something can be made to work should just be grateful for the opportunity to try.

.... lunch hour is nearly over.... must continue later... then 'll tell you about my friend, the art teacher.... i'll call her flora.

playing for change

2008-11-20T19:40:00.000-08:00

there's supposed to be a hyperlink here

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_A_ma2h0idk

this is a recording of street musicians all over the world playing John Lennon's Stand By Me, together. Playing for Change is a movement that believes music has something important to contribute to world peace.... something only non-musicians didn't already know. they're building music and arts schools in south africa, just for starters.

check them out @ www.playingforchange.com

more than 25 years ago, when i was studying music 'seriously', i came across a quote by the great cellist, Pablo Casals. he said, "perhaps it is music that will save the world."

he was a very cool guy, Pablo. another of my favorite quotes is from him. he worked very hard, practicing hours every day, even when he was considered by some to be the best in the world. when one of his friends chided him, saying, "Why do you still practice so much, Pablo? Nobody is better than you?" Pablo Casals replied, after a moment's consideration, "..... i think i've noticed some improvement."

what's in a word?

2008-11-18T11:51:00.000-08:00

or in a name?

years ago, i was told by a friend who'd served in the swedish military that my last name was used on the swedes' latest and greatest tank. it was an ultra modern killing machine, all sleek and black and deadly, named after the vikings' war chariots. so for years i thought my last name meant 'war chariot'.... not terribly feminine, but i learned to live with it. hmmm, i thought..... as my first name is that of the goddess of the hunt....

Greek virgin Goddess of hunting. Many of her characteristics were transferred to Christian Virgin Mary. She is Goddess of young girls. Her father is Zeus, king of the Gods, and mother is Leto. Her brother is Apollo, God of hunting and healing.

... i guess it's fairly appropriate. then the other day i got meandering online, and thought i'd look up the literal translation. turns out it's not a swedish word, but a norwegian one, which translates....

bicker, bickering, competition, conflict, contention, contest, controversy, feud, fight, manor, polemic, strife, wrangle

the swedes added 'vagon' to this, for the war charriot.

so i mentioned this in passing to my lovely daughter the punster, who quipped, "hmm, the huntress and trouble. Mum, you're just looking for trouble."

took what little bit of romance was left in the whole thing right out. nothing keeps us humble like having kids.

for Susan

2008-11-16T09:01:00.000-08:00

as promised some time ago, a picture for Susan, of her beautiful silk scarf, which was the prize for a draw on her blog. lucky me, i won it. i wore it to a harp gig i did some weeks ago, and promised a picture then, but the light there was very poor, and it was a very hectic evening, so the photo shoot never materialized. a visiting friend took this shot for Su, in my teaching studio at home. once again, thanks Su, for the beautiful wearable art. it makes the morning walk to work through the snow a celebration of all the lovely things in life. i've also been promising a sound bite of the harp, which isn't forgotten.... my digital recorder isn't agreeing with my Mac about how to bring this to fruition.

Pilgrimage

2008-10-31T21:46:00.000-07:00

this is the ReStore in Camrose, just outside Alberta's capital city of Edmonton. i did some primary research there when i took my son back to the city to settle into his new digs prior to beginning his 3rd year in engineering @ U of A. the managers of this and several other ReStores have given me the grand tour of their stores, and each has let me pick his or her brain for several hours about staffing, budgets, operations, policies, etc. it's an incredible network of supportive and knowledgeable people who are passionate about making homes affordable for working class people.

ReStores are the retail outlets that sell recycled and donated building materials in support of Habitat for Humanity. Our local affiliate is planning to start a ReStore in 2009. in only 2 sleeps i fly to Regina for the Western Canadian ReStore managers' best practices convention, where i will represent northern alberta and glean all the information i can towards that end. this is the beginning of the realization a longstanding goal for me. i'm like a kid just before christmas.

yorik and i

2008-10-06T21:21:00.000-07:00

yorik and i did a photo shoot. the local library and amateur theatre co. are doing their bi-annual "friends of the library" fundraiser, on the weekend before hallowe'en. the play is called Dinner At Eight, Dead By Nine. i've somehow been trusted with decorating (mwahhhahahahahahahaha). so yorik, good buddy that he is, agreed to pose for promo photos. the white candles have been dripped with the wax from red candles for a gory look ( i got that idea from Martha Stewart, believe it or not) and i added some gloops of red glitter glue/paint for a little more intense color.

the fundraising dinner theatre is the weekend before hallowe'en. so i get to bring the gory goodies home and have them on hand for my students' last lesson before the feast of souls, and i'll have the candles all lit up amongst yorik and his bones in the window by the front door, for the neighborhood kids as they trick and treat on hallowe'en night. i'm not crazy about hallowe'en, but i do like the kids, so i try to make it fun for them, and just creepy enough to feel adventurous.