tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64199913308104536632024-03-05T18:06:46.060-08:00Crow: Day OneCrow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.comBlogger249125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-28118870548072798702023-01-13T11:50:00.000-08:002023-01-13T11:50:47.403-08:00How long?<p>Three years ago, the art group I belong to, Fibre Art Voices, made plans to put on a show at our local community art gallery. The theme would be “In My Garden.” That was before Covid, before social distancing, show cancellations, gallery closures. <br /><br />This week, the show finally opened. It was worth the wait. It is beautiful! (IMHO). I think most viewers will be delighted. You can visit it virtually at this address: <a href="https://pearlellisgallery.com/fibre-art-voices-2023/">https://pearlellisgallery.com/fibre-art-voices-2023/</a></p><p>Now I’m steeling myself for the one question that is asked every time I display some work: “How long did it take you to make that?” The short answer is, “Maybe a day or two of actual work.” The long answer is much more complicated.<br /><br />I started out well. It was fall, so my first piece would feature seed heads from the many varieties of flowers we grow in our garden. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh88ns9QkCD9qYt6MLliCrsq6b_a5xNi7h6HIzEyjYwqoLcOpQ2r0NA71wzLbd9xK6xlis2eXcd7U-6os09b6MAu1VCby9kIRFRpXxCVhBCjQg-3i3utNfJkuYmg398dK1nzE4WjBZGk-UjYYkuROfxgMRuHmgyk9QlmHOO_sWpkZZjXqReUgoiS-7pJA/s4000/20221024_165448.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh88ns9QkCD9qYt6MLliCrsq6b_a5xNi7h6HIzEyjYwqoLcOpQ2r0NA71wzLbd9xK6xlis2eXcd7U-6os09b6MAu1VCby9kIRFRpXxCVhBCjQg-3i3utNfJkuYmg398dK1nzE4WjBZGk-UjYYkuROfxgMRuHmgyk9QlmHOO_sWpkZZjXqReUgoiS-7pJA/s320/20221024_165448.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>But before I could do that, I would have to create a background on which to place these flowers. It took two or three days of trial and error before my fuzzy vision came into focus. I found a background that pleased me: a table cloth fashioned from a lace hanky; a sheer organza curtain, a nubby loosely woven background. How long did it take me to make that, you ask? Days and days of muttering, and then an hour or so of sewing. Maybe too long, but it feels good: I’m on to something.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4GsOZb7GWp-I9SZAvZ4QzdfBgbg2e69xuGCWwrTT0dx5qzBpKzCf38NgReN3FeDgYyk-EJwfxQ7KMrREY237PHpqETJFrA62nW5VmfvLqlBloim38QSYzEYvYIrV8jYr2XrPOiGCxlhXkVqRB2uXCRpauqktVf33s9b_3jWfHmpsksDGRgiEpzb7OMw/s800/how%20long%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4GsOZb7GWp-I9SZAvZ4QzdfBgbg2e69xuGCWwrTT0dx5qzBpKzCf38NgReN3FeDgYyk-EJwfxQ7KMrREY237PHpqETJFrA62nW5VmfvLqlBloim38QSYzEYvYIrV8jYr2XrPOiGCxlhXkVqRB2uXCRpauqktVf33s9b_3jWfHmpsksDGRgiEpzb7OMw/s320/how%20long%202.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Every day for the next 10 days or so, I thread sketch a new stem with my sewing machine on to the background, using a real winter bouquet as my model.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2f1b7kqbY5GvXRhwq_mHoOQ1VP6e6-DPu35sQM6qf0SxBTNzUWYQuNXzNC9eFUrDVOw9KnQ4Pm62pxURCxHyITpQBeCuJBwYWqDtbIDb5Gq0OIjrhn0xNOyzvBk2Xjz6TYjX9MxuRW7FaKSWc5tKxUhuYamAwIryQ7x4LuJZw-Hg98brxl8pIPsTMgQ/s800/how%20long%205.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2f1b7kqbY5GvXRhwq_mHoOQ1VP6e6-DPu35sQM6qf0SxBTNzUWYQuNXzNC9eFUrDVOw9KnQ4Pm62pxURCxHyITpQBeCuJBwYWqDtbIDb5Gq0OIjrhn0xNOyzvBk2Xjz6TYjX9MxuRW7FaKSWc5tKxUhuYamAwIryQ7x4LuJZw-Hg98brxl8pIPsTMgQ/s320/how%20long%205.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>I like it! I add a see-through blue chiffon vase, and we are done. Sort of. Okay, it’s not laying flat like it’s supposed to, but maybe I can fix that later. “I’ll fix it later = many, many more hours.<br /><br />I echo the background composition in the next piece, a big one that I call Homage to Holland. It will feature a Delft blue vase of tulips, a lace curtain, and a nubby table cloth. It’s a piece full of nostalgia, recalling elements of my growing up years in a Dutch immigrant family. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlCuMIow_NcDyVSb7zgJ705VFKBlOFzKkciVcUWnhxqLBsW1UmgdGXqSe0F6Fe9MmM7fMsAl0ptBU1TDpQ7yzyU-eiqgH1MgvTisWHVIP6NCyQV_6T7UV6FUsW0kUONHOkM1mFt2Wq8MxTIsaAIFCej0taOO1vJS0kEocHJ6LOBvFeZVa4fWXGZGCrIA/s800/how%20long%206.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlCuMIow_NcDyVSb7zgJ705VFKBlOFzKkciVcUWnhxqLBsW1UmgdGXqSe0F6Fe9MmM7fMsAl0ptBU1TDpQ7yzyU-eiqgH1MgvTisWHVIP6NCyQV_6T7UV6FUsW0kUONHOkM1mFt2Wq8MxTIsaAIFCej0taOO1vJS0kEocHJ6LOBvFeZVa4fWXGZGCrIA/s320/how%20long%206.jpg" width="240" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I add tulip after tulip after tulip to the bouquet – seems like it will never get done. And how long did that take you, you ask? Literally years, before I finally felt it was done. In between creative spurts, it hung on my design wall waiting for me to see what was missing. Finally, the “aha!” moment arrives: more tulips, and, of course, a cup of tea. Now when I look at it, I can feel like I am sitting down with mom having a good visit.</div><br />By now covid has invaded our world. You’d think with all those hours of isolation, I’d be producing big time. But that’s not how it works. Knowing that our show would be delayed, I worked on other things. (Check my blogs for April 28, 2020; Nov. 7, 2021, and Jan. 7, 2022.)<br /><br />But the Garden pieces niggled at me, so I began creating pieces depicting four seasons in the “Garden in the Woods.” I created a big piece, but after a week or so of work, I knew it wasn’t what I’d envisioned.<p></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr1MheYlNTWCbusTv81aaaEG12ktHC7ieTsklJ81831eVoLUgk70pQMZCdZ94ABzGxAd-imcWed7GjVnN9HEt6NkDVPo0cIPPx_4CIHPVdWYJiFph17IpIiKgX_U5kw1I3d3O44_hIsW-g2CwXTZ3RASJNR8KIILC-hou8FaOJ9SHGq6doZES9LwhhLw/s4000/20230110_170854.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr1MheYlNTWCbusTv81aaaEG12ktHC7ieTsklJ81831eVoLUgk70pQMZCdZ94ABzGxAd-imcWed7GjVnN9HEt6NkDVPo0cIPPx_4CIHPVdWYJiFph17IpIiKgX_U5kw1I3d3O44_hIsW-g2CwXTZ3RASJNR8KIILC-hou8FaOJ9SHGq6doZES9LwhhLw/s320/20230110_170854.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Start over again, this time in a small format, using the same trees in each piece, but changing the background and foreground to depict the seasons. Better! It involved handwork and embroidery, which I did while watching TV. If I’m working as I watch Wheel of Fortune, is it okay if I count those as work hours? But when I knew these pieces would probably work, they too were laid aside “for later.”<br /><br />We finally got the dates for our show: Jan. 10- 28, 2023, almost a year away. No rush, lots of time, and besides, we have a road trip across the country planned. The Garden in the Woods pieces accompany us across the country and back again, but I am never interested in taking out my embroidery threads and beads to complete them. How long did it take to make those pieces? Does languishing in the back seat of an overstuffed car for two months count? Every time I saw those pieces, it activated my creative juices. Does that count?<br /><br />Suddenly, it’s the middle of October, and now the pressure is on. I know December is crowded with other commitments, and I give myself a deadline. Finish 8 pieces by the end of November: four Woodland pieces, and four bouquets of garden flowers, including the winter bouquet. Those six weeks of being in the studio every day for at least a three or four hours is how long it took to get the fabric versions of the 8 pieces close enough to done that I can see the finish line. Unfortunately, I’m prone to running down rabbit trails that lead nowhere...at least not right now. But maybe someday?<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF7KhCy_YPRQRHDsx0p691mz1ACbK9c1gPre4bcxlIQijqYfafg1c1D_jJqIH-nXx4ys5JAxhRpxHG0etvgIqs7bb1J2d-RGfu4sUfeBwjMLyvm65_MrAfXyHkAK3hW033wwWedHKc2OV6YnhSgRnAMZ-SmOftGjRCG3iGWSbLSlkO21zUw5tl62boMA/s800/how%20long%207.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF7KhCy_YPRQRHDsx0p691mz1ACbK9c1gPre4bcxlIQijqYfafg1c1D_jJqIH-nXx4ys5JAxhRpxHG0etvgIqs7bb1J2d-RGfu4sUfeBwjMLyvm65_MrAfXyHkAK3hW033wwWedHKc2OV6YnhSgRnAMZ-SmOftGjRCG3iGWSbLSlkO21zUw5tl62boMA/s320/how%20long%207.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p><br /><br />Then it’s December, and I stuff it all in the closet, again.<br /><br />I
surface again in January. The pressure is on. I am in the studio fixing
up those “I’ll do it later” details. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT-J1XN_rHntZ1VI4yNKwz0-zr9iQu6duGUQTU6LhYTRWA37fWoV8c1iYCCoOHPBpcfZ71sH9EgqRslbUZ4derBAFILY9CEZ6tsbsXY72Gh_QvuS7LrcB7Q9xpdIb5wiBpk5lcTJTcm_toVCVgaz694XpJTuAfCiM7mA22VWNbRCK3nABHvQQpt6PZig/s800/how%20long%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT-J1XN_rHntZ1VI4yNKwz0-zr9iQu6duGUQTU6LhYTRWA37fWoV8c1iYCCoOHPBpcfZ71sH9EgqRslbUZ4derBAFILY9CEZ6tsbsXY72Gh_QvuS7LrcB7Q9xpdIb5wiBpk5lcTJTcm_toVCVgaz694XpJTuAfCiM7mA22VWNbRCK3nABHvQQpt6PZig/s320/how%20long%203.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>The resident sweetie and the
daughter step up to the plate. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1-rzWWEIZsBRQ7fgj9vtDX6k2kXXZnMLhaAUMr3eCAhbBnxrrR_VkjLtCWtB02ztpTBO1UMPppa-Z6t0wB_MtU8aoLmJgtK3GKXDHSjdb2gMYdOGWHIVMfyd39JVENNhx-XJgB0u18v5kKo0KPPwduPWbse-yiDYfNrPaz6CGNzexObUgYMfzHOH3w/s800/how%20long.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1-rzWWEIZsBRQ7fgj9vtDX6k2kXXZnMLhaAUMr3eCAhbBnxrrR_VkjLtCWtB02ztpTBO1UMPppa-Z6t0wB_MtU8aoLmJgtK3GKXDHSjdb2gMYdOGWHIVMfyd39JVENNhx-XJgB0u18v5kKo0KPPwduPWbse-yiDYfNrPaz6CGNzexObUgYMfzHOH3w/s320/how%20long.jpg" width="240" /></a></div> <p></p><p>We need to make frames. We need backing.
We need business cards and hanging hardware and staples and glue. And
patience and kindness as we work together. Several hours every day are
spent measuring, sawing, measuring again, sawing again, fiddling,
hammering, sanding, wiping them with tung oil, and finally putting the
whole shebang together. This is the business end of the creative
process, and it is not my thing. At all. Thank goodness for my dear,
dear helpers.<br /><br />And now all the pieces are hung.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ9RXROhvxChbxSr-v9kUfsKpBNQkI2ux9-9GBJ1xRTV3rmcLM6oT6UoaOxosnzGAu6l-4Zlj0JGE7zfCrYXzGDZSYMOyx72Wh9EaKpeO82fftf1JUtunDvHCzX7igBCh9UGn5yyAsed6n9GLv9WZpZiD000FfwUm4aeKtRnvETTzdsG0RMqksTqIzdQ/s800/how%20long%208.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ9RXROhvxChbxSr-v9kUfsKpBNQkI2ux9-9GBJ1xRTV3rmcLM6oT6UoaOxosnzGAu6l-4Zlj0JGE7zfCrYXzGDZSYMOyx72Wh9EaKpeO82fftf1JUtunDvHCzX7igBCh9UGn5yyAsed6n9GLv9WZpZiD000FfwUm4aeKtRnvETTzdsG0RMqksTqIzdQ/s320/how%20long%208.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>It’s up to the
viewers...and I know I’ll get asked THE question a few more times. I’ll
hand them my business card on which I’ve included my blog address, and
they can read the answer for themselves.<br /><br />Really, it takes a
lifetime of gazing at beauty, dozens of years of quilting experience,
weeks and months, sometimes years of cogitation, imagination, and
rumination, and a few hours of sewing, unpicking, and sewing again until
it’s pretty close to right. With a lot of help and encouragement from
friends and family, that’s how long it takes.<br /></p>Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-77911502931790601632022-10-14T14:34:00.000-07:002022-10-14T14:34:12.405-07:00Great Canadian Road Trip: Debriefing<p>After 9 weeks and 3 days on the road, 18,000+ km., 30 different beds, 9 provinces coast to coast, we are home again!<br /><br />In my last post almost a month ago, I was wondering what the future of this journey would look like. Could we maintain it? Would it be the zesty adventure we’d been hoping for? We were tired. <br /><br />But we got our second wind! </p><p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwEQVgCxz442mn-FEzI1edNBjF17n6J9jE7nWUuqOEgPHTB_qdXJqCPwvIhJPc-dNOK61bWCVQ6vSwkkudj9IIuV8v-2Sty4xuOj9spMOxYQ-23KfvVe88LzNpByWqakAVIEvEDCK3mR_icsAuPDim6wppCTkZGE-V0TfMNaj8qKifGj0_besEmYMiQA/s933/you%20know%204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwEQVgCxz442mn-FEzI1edNBjF17n6J9jE7nWUuqOEgPHTB_qdXJqCPwvIhJPc-dNOK61bWCVQ6vSwkkudj9IIuV8v-2Sty4xuOj9spMOxYQ-23KfvVe88LzNpByWqakAVIEvEDCK3mR_icsAuPDim6wppCTkZGE-V0TfMNaj8qKifGj0_besEmYMiQA/w300-h400/you%20know%204.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset at Cheticamp, location of my last post.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>I posted lots of photos on FB about our journey. (For those of you not on FB, I've posted photos down below the rest of this posting.)</p><p>Yes, we’d do it all over again. (But I don’t think we will.) On our last evening on the road, the RS said to me, “It’s kind of too bad that it’s over,” and those words were music to my ears. It’s no secret that I’m the one that has the itchy feet, and he’s the one that is content at home. He won’t say, “Wow, wow, wow! What a trip!” but he’s glad we did it, and so am I. Driving coast to coast we watched the country unfold from one region, one landscape, into another, and we saw it as a whole. We live in the midst of beauty all around, if we but have eyes to see it. <br /><br />I thought immediately of writing a blog post to answer the question we get most often these days: “What were the highlights of your trip?” There are many that I’ll probably share over time, but this photo is a favourite, and makes me smile. It seems to capture the spirit of our adventure.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdywzDfgg9JjoPL2CuNEn-3OF4zBQ-Py1nPzNgzMMrzq98FEcrHHJtL5sv2kP7qB7X20gvR4biC4d03DDjSno6Z-tpHP9cVmp_83GgIi948EFKF5XR-ij2XFPD3pEmTGjHWWvASr_hwBdUe036_3Ul16_flL5XH5mxxBWSyj9ziVJTCx75a6mfNRoVWw/s4608/you%20know%206.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdywzDfgg9JjoPL2CuNEn-3OF4zBQ-Py1nPzNgzMMrzq98FEcrHHJtL5sv2kP7qB7X20gvR4biC4d03DDjSno6Z-tpHP9cVmp_83GgIi948EFKF5XR-ij2XFPD3pEmTGjHWWvASr_hwBdUe036_3Ul16_flL5XH5mxxBWSyj9ziVJTCx75a6mfNRoVWw/w300-h400/you%20know%206.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> Yes, that’s me behind the wheel of a U-Force 1000 side-by-side (I
call it a 4x4 or dune buggy, but what do I know?) It’s advertised as
having “mind-blowing power and heart-stopping speed.” This granny’s
gonna go, ho boy! Here’s the story behind that photo.<br /><br />We
were visiting my cousin’s daughter’s family who live on a pig farm east
of Charlottetown on Prince Edward Island. Amy and Joel invited us to
join their family for a traditional boiled lobster dinner. We were
pumped! </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtLMlaDzej4hn2ncXDewA0JmEos0iTA_ENRroq4YqQlMZcTxVLrPcQcgkxnFa8TBVfCiA3aAh2uVlxBAR-dupsCFMxX_9bxxokTBgCb-SsPnm8Ia8W_YclpwZgnhCmL2RQEB2O2735xgJePx63QeYUGZ9NuWlIJ9td0AqbrZvAC-8kvrqEHeQIWu9DEw/s933/you%20know%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtLMlaDzej4hn2ncXDewA0JmEos0iTA_ENRroq4YqQlMZcTxVLrPcQcgkxnFa8TBVfCiA3aAh2uVlxBAR-dupsCFMxX_9bxxokTBgCb-SsPnm8Ia8W_YclpwZgnhCmL2RQEB2O2735xgJePx63QeYUGZ9NuWlIJ9td0AqbrZvAC-8kvrqEHeQIWu9DEw/s320/you%20know%202.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> But before we could get started on the eats, they took
us on a tour of their farm, their truck bumping over fields recently cleared, showing us the huge eagle’s nest, visiting the pens where the young
pigs were kept, admiring the small abbatoir for which they have big
plans, checking out their amazing garden full of flowers and vegies. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbEDc0Vfz-jdZFYsrIdYXpxvoVy9EOWYPGfZ0Dhk8ALUgV0f2l0aIC_BcaFx-oIZkvzOiKqmi6Knd7tM_SGjogDyXYDSlJRuNORtw5GOZ_4ncsBLVdeCo8BckPu0yj4UQAzGuSf0x5Jq2oIJt99J5EDdbNBBJe3UP0DlmWMXHWq9LzwATxlIBrMNiW3Q/s933/you%20know%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbEDc0Vfz-jdZFYsrIdYXpxvoVy9EOWYPGfZ0Dhk8ALUgV0f2l0aIC_BcaFx-oIZkvzOiKqmi6Knd7tM_SGjogDyXYDSlJRuNORtw5GOZ_4ncsBLVdeCo8BckPu0yj4UQAzGuSf0x5Jq2oIJt99J5EDdbNBBJe3UP0DlmWMXHWq9LzwATxlIBrMNiW3Q/s320/you%20know%201.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br />Their
5th grade son was riding around on the U-Force doing some chores for
his parents. I was intrigued. A 5th grader driving a motorized brute?
Amy saw me looking at it, and she said, “You want to try it out?” <br /><br />Who,
me? Nah. Too many “what if’s” attached to that adventure. What if I
make a fool of myself by showing I can’t do what a kid can do? What if I
tip it and end up in hospital? And honestly? I’ve often disparaged
those noisy buggies driven by yahoos messing up pristine woods and
pastures. Taking one for a ride is kind of against my core beliefs ...
isn’t it? And besides, I’m a 74-year-old granny who should be acting her
age. Shouldn’t I? I turn down the offer.<br /><br />Amy grins. “Aww, come on, you know you want to do it! It’s easy. Try it.”<br /><br />She’s
right. In spite of my doubts and objections, I’d really like to try it.
And I do! It is easy, just not perfect. The initial slow crawl
escalates into a jerky ride down the gravel road and into another field
where I screech to a stop and inspect Rose’s Roadside Boutique, where
her 12-year old daughter sells lemonade and flowers during the summer.
She uses the U-Force to get there.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbyscAZQ60-b8uKFvc0pHyT3S3FWV-bnNqxXTPluGHL93e5BmKCM6jeW9lxbAjm9SXREx6LWn0--W5QUmRXKsKkXHGtZPEwbQeZxSbNlMNXKk91khrOpJcV9P7amacKb48w2Ar6buIY3QgkDao9MprxzyKZmRDxL_XKVdx1uegBMgZQgHc-zE8VsOnvg/s2048/you%20know%2010.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbyscAZQ60-b8uKFvc0pHyT3S3FWV-bnNqxXTPluGHL93e5BmKCM6jeW9lxbAjm9SXREx6LWn0--W5QUmRXKsKkXHGtZPEwbQeZxSbNlMNXKk91khrOpJcV9P7amacKb48w2Ar6buIY3QgkDao9MprxzyKZmRDxL_XKVdx1uegBMgZQgHc-zE8VsOnvg/s320/you%20know%2010.jpg" width="320" /></a><br /></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN_AV7Lk5kEzLmn6KAivFnaQsoPP3IulMR2W587cXRnjT2f-DyJ7nhfRoHu_USCu7eBTw4s5NSsrN24kqWgPsXk0teV5_bVk-pKQlRnHR9nousghIgfBWWbayezYwMumjio216J3vviFjmKGk6bgX1HHz_F6gftk38iI8KaYjqMn644ooq64Ruv0F9AA/s2048/you%20know%209.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN_AV7Lk5kEzLmn6KAivFnaQsoPP3IulMR2W587cXRnjT2f-DyJ7nhfRoHu_USCu7eBTw4s5NSsrN24kqWgPsXk0teV5_bVk-pKQlRnHR9nousghIgfBWWbayezYwMumjio216J3vviFjmKGk6bgX1HHz_F6gftk38iI8KaYjqMn644ooq64Ruv0F9AA/s320/you%20know%209.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(unfortunately, the hurricane knocked over the "bouitique", but knowing Rose, it'll soon be on its feet again.)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br />That was fun! And doesn’t life
need to have fun moments to spice up what can easily become hum-drum,
same-old, same-old? Don’t we sometimes have to ditch the “what-ifs” and
try something new? (Like a coast-to-coast trip with the resident
sweetie? Or, more low key, buy that bright red dress, or add a streak of purple to your grey hair, or jump into the river fully clothed on a hot, hot day... ) You know you want to do it, so why not? <br /><br />Fast forward
to this weekend. We accompanied kids and grandkids on a walk around
Courtenay’s Air Park, a paved trail circling a landing strip for small
airplanes. It’s perfect for scooters, and widely used. Grace and
Mitchell were having fun racing against Uncle Jonny. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9TKIdkYjB7qrM9Nuqk9n7KXHX4OlpaXlWkRZAUdP836OyCT36NY15wKqovIafSe7ar_Oewggq42DlfTm-GfoXjzjhgPWwK1g-ceVPwRXMsAOzqldapQdzab6KNQpxq7AH_M8dXZf29BQ92dgsIHrlthmqIa82nDhdmHt3xk5lcPc_-L8V37ZYd8P4ZA/s1020/you%20know%208.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1020" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9TKIdkYjB7qrM9Nuqk9n7KXHX4OlpaXlWkRZAUdP836OyCT36NY15wKqovIafSe7ar_Oewggq42DlfTm-GfoXjzjhgPWwK1g-ceVPwRXMsAOzqldapQdzab6KNQpxq7AH_M8dXZf29BQ92dgsIHrlthmqIa82nDhdmHt3xk5lcPc_-L8V37ZYd8P4ZA/s320/you%20know%208.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>We took a quick
break and sat on a bench for a photo op. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpfEyq_Ye4DiB0SOEPOoGUlNHLzQo9avsPl1lkoNjk15diXjzUaJISNhnDpE3QkUotFUsWSdDeliOLjuBUdFvfcvYngzqF1AU3Ng8m1Y5FcnLwgQJefN7q_kflkcIMXs1JDsIjvDMx9wsmyx3WiU_vPZxzfh9UdNGVeRxT7ASgbTRs4JPo_vZyHiMlYA/s1000/you%20know%205.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpfEyq_Ye4DiB0SOEPOoGUlNHLzQo9avsPl1lkoNjk15diXjzUaJISNhnDpE3QkUotFUsWSdDeliOLjuBUdFvfcvYngzqF1AU3Ng8m1Y5FcnLwgQJefN7q_kflkcIMXs1JDsIjvDMx9wsmyx3WiU_vPZxzfh9UdNGVeRxT7ASgbTRs4JPo_vZyHiMlYA/s320/you%20know%205.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>"Uncle Jonny" caught me eyeing
the adult scooter and asked, “You want to try it, mom?” <br /><br />You know
you want to do it, so why not? And I did. They made me wear a helmet,
and I couldn’t keep up with the grandies, but ... hey, that was fun<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvcCVVMzCLxJo8zgOAuGKyhvmEYzzjBgdSArNBBUVoksXb3VW1GG2Nk9-dSnEyFuupsfCKG36MoD1x1nZRaWbMTQfqbcVn1LcY-8JK_EcS_HiLFuNhmmwoXpGCmUGBPzkoYEOu4DFot4OFlEmmuPbmC3ROV9-jtZYn69KLpoE4GPnv6H95S29apA9Psw/s568/you%20know%207%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="393" data-original-width="568" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvcCVVMzCLxJo8zgOAuGKyhvmEYzzjBgdSArNBBUVoksXb3VW1GG2Nk9-dSnEyFuupsfCKG36MoD1x1nZRaWbMTQfqbcVn1LcY-8JK_EcS_HiLFuNhmmwoXpGCmUGBPzkoYEOu4DFot4OFlEmmuPbmC3ROV9-jtZYn69KLpoE4GPnv6H95S29apA9Psw/w400-h276/you%20know%207%20(2).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /><i>To find out more about the U-Force: </i>https://cfmotousa.com/side-x-sides/uforce-1000 </p><p>And here are the rest of the photos of our trip:</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLG7H9_sSs97m0Ug-m4FPo3r4UX499DZVza3gF1MmaSILTV7NGVgp0fYPqqkDGhvMT-W4rX7S37LZy7enpZ0qaZrnqfPUCKbt5XYHaRJEOSduwNXcmwNu-zbzVji_fy8qQ2rCqE0mwlyXL3xNPJ89lXSs7PYzNT-SOZFo70yIIgiK-hmxu_ROoo1-UQA/s933/GCRT1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLG7H9_sSs97m0Ug-m4FPo3r4UX499DZVza3gF1MmaSILTV7NGVgp0fYPqqkDGhvMT-W4rX7S37LZy7enpZ0qaZrnqfPUCKbt5XYHaRJEOSduwNXcmwNu-zbzVji_fy8qQ2rCqE0mwlyXL3xNPJ89lXSs7PYzNT-SOZFo70yIIgiK-hmxu_ROoo1-UQA/w300-h400/GCRT1.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">PEI seashore -- note the sandy red water. We camped in Amy and Joel's 5th Wheel, visited Green Gables, had supper with nephew Mike and his family. Great times!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibD2YMzQim1hEjdsrut9QR0LC7FcuUwUn49iGoFtEvmyoyLd53oLOpPUEjrKk84YJE8FnjolYPTZeN3kDVf_UvRtP94ujn6mR6KJTs7cxRhCZ7GiHsxrBWpOy84Xs8eKiUc7v3infir_3fun30gsrypylapsGElSD4FLFD_w7iuXijMmwIfVN61UYVgw/s1000/GCRT2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibD2YMzQim1hEjdsrut9QR0LC7FcuUwUn49iGoFtEvmyoyLd53oLOpPUEjrKk84YJE8FnjolYPTZeN3kDVf_UvRtP94ujn6mR6KJTs7cxRhCZ7GiHsxrBWpOy84Xs8eKiUc7v3infir_3fun30gsrypylapsGElSD4FLFD_w7iuXijMmwIfVN61UYVgw/w400-h300/GCRT2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We whipped through New Brunswick on 4-laners, but did get off the beaten track to visit the longest covered bridge in the world at Hartland.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUI6WDncRQuqWTAA19--pjhoUvht-9LGaW0D_0E4RtG8l6NaPMdSQxyd1ngmfwsANFowEdkZ1lqWfdQVvsgquxhbiZABbt92OM4c4IO_OIfxj2zEYYeqHt30vWkEs9WY91RH3wXlT6hcFvOO4Qg-_tbcOImTHcoq_Os9PsiaNSblTlSPKOKJrmd7eTzg/s933/GCRT3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUI6WDncRQuqWTAA19--pjhoUvht-9LGaW0D_0E4RtG8l6NaPMdSQxyd1ngmfwsANFowEdkZ1lqWfdQVvsgquxhbiZABbt92OM4c4IO_OIfxj2zEYYeqHt30vWkEs9WY91RH3wXlT6hcFvOO4Qg-_tbcOImTHcoq_Os9PsiaNSblTlSPKOKJrmd7eTzg/w300-h400/GCRT3.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our stay in Quebec included 2 nights at B&Bs, where we met lovely Quebecois folk who advised us to take the route through Kamouraska. Beautiful! Also stopped in Magog in the Eastern Townships.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ2cvTzr-jNpFX9Zsh54J9E-F61jOkDm1VfNwG8gcu7Fi2uR1gk6t-TLotKeogMT9i5surPIrVLeHl87_5XnChO51at918XmPiDlMs-52w-OrGTsGJqu72W31TgXKa-uj9risaJQZIHRbe5xxSI5L30UQ8G9quOvaGEeXx-873vMugBt-dwg54s1KrBw/s933/GCRT4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ2cvTzr-jNpFX9Zsh54J9E-F61jOkDm1VfNwG8gcu7Fi2uR1gk6t-TLotKeogMT9i5surPIrVLeHl87_5XnChO51at918XmPiDlMs-52w-OrGTsGJqu72W31TgXKa-uj9risaJQZIHRbe5xxSI5L30UQ8G9quOvaGEeXx-873vMugBt-dwg54s1KrBw/w300-h400/GCRT4.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our stay in Ontario included a visit with family near Ottawa -- so good to catch up! And we stayed four nights with my sister and husband at their cottage near Peterbrough, gearing up for the long push home.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7aXCK0HaNcdGWDvrPkwZCb5C1V-NtsKkw3IhoHSyjBR3tq-yHxiFrHZxZl6ZwZmGpfVbGmt7DgumZicYjbuRdDgT3235luH4ScuyKNmKScqpDhwU7K_Jb-MSRtYXUNpaC53V0TiPK7GrDr2s9c28TZlB9D7XJR5uX1MuHDNKJ_olWA1CBy9w2YxJakA/s933/GCRT5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7aXCK0HaNcdGWDvrPkwZCb5C1V-NtsKkw3IhoHSyjBR3tq-yHxiFrHZxZl6ZwZmGpfVbGmt7DgumZicYjbuRdDgT3235luH4ScuyKNmKScqpDhwU7K_Jb-MSRtYXUNpaC53V0TiPK7GrDr2s9c28TZlB9D7XJR5uX1MuHDNKJ_olWA1CBy9w2YxJakA/w300-h400/GCRT5.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Northern Ontario, our first stop was Sault Ste. Marie, visiting the locks and International Bridge. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk0oNwCwmeEqNHLZsvM5Mzqo0QRo4A-vHwcY1K0VNXTNO9Sx5ptF6S7nZTJlsisrjf8OR4qNqiLhm1OYBEbQ2_ndidsbxJhpqhaeu9wdoPs3yu8Ar4xQoG0kIgfvWvjkbziXEY6d57C5e8S0D6iMKvlsP83f78x-tDGKF2E3x1e7hZWTzZtdEtvCaODA/s933/GCRT6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk0oNwCwmeEqNHLZsvM5Mzqo0QRo4A-vHwcY1K0VNXTNO9Sx5ptF6S7nZTJlsisrjf8OR4qNqiLhm1OYBEbQ2_ndidsbxJhpqhaeu9wdoPs3yu8Ar4xQoG0kIgfvWvjkbziXEY6d57C5e8S0D6iMKvlsP83f78x-tDGKF2E3x1e7hZWTzZtdEtvCaODA/w300-h400/GCRT6.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">North of Superior was spectacular, even though the maples were not quite turned yet. This is Chippewa Falls, inspiration for the Group of 7 Painters. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65REOWZeW-DSJw7982WwiGcg8xygdlOjySuoMPWzIbWnPw5K9LKFMR3AGLEYmY9JPqAO75fYu8360hhN1RvPYrPGRBz3ut_I2tvCR47s_MfXtM3VtGXDfzOfaCcvhVkNnlNEphIPBn403AtordQfuThblZUfCpQRJqwqpN-ZufrdhkkzGMmM9hfkaQA/s933/GCRT7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65REOWZeW-DSJw7982WwiGcg8xygdlOjySuoMPWzIbWnPw5K9LKFMR3AGLEYmY9JPqAO75fYu8360hhN1RvPYrPGRBz3ut_I2tvCR47s_MfXtM3VtGXDfzOfaCcvhVkNnlNEphIPBn403AtordQfuThblZUfCpQRJqwqpN-ZufrdhkkzGMmM9hfkaQA/w300-h400/GCRT7.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We hardly stopped for photos on our drive through Manitoba, but it was beautiful too, especially the river valleys brushed with early morning fog. This is Happy Rock in Gladstone, Manitoba. Get it? I'm thinking a dad came up with that one.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzQXM0sjxuRZVN9t7cdATkZRK7929Ju-tPW-vDGyHR9jNosHZe3jOpn_BAuJUhPu3Cn4IEZ9sEKy4aCvkCBePFYgeE6oDpv9RXomW8QUk3w5B89YIKCEki3BNUGV0V7cHI0XDEmbqOOPMJeZqYuLO1RqBFpaUWOs_rb574EQiBlBYPPXaFuSVyKFHLrg/s933/GCRT8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzQXM0sjxuRZVN9t7cdATkZRK7929Ju-tPW-vDGyHR9jNosHZe3jOpn_BAuJUhPu3Cn4IEZ9sEKy4aCvkCBePFYgeE6oDpv9RXomW8QUk3w5B89YIKCEki3BNUGV0V7cHI0XDEmbqOOPMJeZqYuLO1RqBFpaUWOs_rb574EQiBlBYPPXaFuSVyKFHLrg/w300-h400/GCRT8.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We spent two nights in Saskatoon after four long days of driving. We visited the Western Development Centre, a marvelous museum. Bucky, Parka and Chippy liked it too.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3F0gVFUIgMaASY51-Jk9Vpak_DqlsUkLmpnqNibSG5oObRyoc7qIG5eCwlQhX08CrffCUqRNH2HsSd7tvkg174zEut5Ct_gyFjKV6ASZLGbgyqtBsuzHKIHPtRa0GYTQgyR8U4oW3f_-rMiat4ONFs8mZDo8v9MZYDj7kUBs-uUuSf56kE8YhQ1S6ZA/s933/GCRT9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3F0gVFUIgMaASY51-Jk9Vpak_DqlsUkLmpnqNibSG5oObRyoc7qIG5eCwlQhX08CrffCUqRNH2HsSd7tvkg174zEut5Ct_gyFjKV6ASZLGbgyqtBsuzHKIHPtRa0GYTQgyR8U4oW3f_-rMiat4ONFs8mZDo8v9MZYDj7kUBs-uUuSf56kE8YhQ1S6ZA/w300-h400/GCRT9.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The South Saskatchewan River Valley was clad in glowing gold. We could hear the chattering and clacking of a flock of Sandhill Cranes somewhere out of sight. Afterwards we had supper at the neighbourhood pub. It took us about 2 minutes to figure we were the wrong demographic...everyone was about 40 years younger than us. But the waitress reassured us that they regularly have a 96 year old man come in, so I guess that puts things in perspective. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDdC1AJuWaT1pDyOCH69Jq9bMo6LVkxvsZ5JXlH4mwG4LLFzyyG4hEOTzq25JUFf57GWN1j8eysu6px8ZOw5ekAkcj9PmHt9Lu3j593S5fTZF2CTcL6LgI5_jNwWnABCSiy5VjqBvn88N6-AOfWVR6mI2GPiyg64Js5f5kicnGJXwxdx9El1vPYAPlNg/s933/GCRT10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDdC1AJuWaT1pDyOCH69Jq9bMo6LVkxvsZ5JXlH4mwG4LLFzyyG4hEOTzq25JUFf57GWN1j8eysu6px8ZOw5ekAkcj9PmHt9Lu3j593S5fTZF2CTcL6LgI5_jNwWnABCSiy5VjqBvn88N6-AOfWVR6mI2GPiyg64Js5f5kicnGJXwxdx9El1vPYAPlNg/w300-h400/GCRT10.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We had amazing weather throughout. This is the Edmonton River Valley from one of its many bridges. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY3hYlbb-XvwX-a0dIRY-QTkFgxgdVL_cyAxy-83P_yauPOxo1aigHmim1VoY_7KTebQ9vJSTjy0LIWN1T4-IKFXLYPzpdW3i54LoP8uKJTD-9mbqiB_91Rqx4YrBpavhRZ0EZTp7GZvDA9qzm9YxrsuCevSjYTR0M-NZieymwXwoP8h1B2Yrpl3DHnw/s933/GCRT11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY3hYlbb-XvwX-a0dIRY-QTkFgxgdVL_cyAxy-83P_yauPOxo1aigHmim1VoY_7KTebQ9vJSTjy0LIWN1T4-IKFXLYPzpdW3i54LoP8uKJTD-9mbqiB_91Rqx4YrBpavhRZ0EZTp7GZvDA9qzm9YxrsuCevSjYTR0M-NZieymwXwoP8h1B2Yrpl3DHnw/w300-h400/GCRT11.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It had been 14 years since we visited the Rockies together. This is Athabasca Falls south of Jasper. Mountains, we missed you and we're determined to return and spend more time there, hopefully next year. Perhaps you've noticed that we seem to be wearing the same clothes in most of our pictures! We found out that you really don't need much, and that we had packed an awful lot of unnecessary stuff.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe89ztmUDagChkmpiydrtbcwWNVlxhCCC901SBvB92GgSJzUIO3ei4XljXnwCCOXCb2PRYd2Gw8pDpMtAtM66Md2LOVSR4_R4gOENGT_8tFzpgdzYDY2jesn4NsEe4ugK9Ey4IPNzx779QY0iTtYmEG-Yzfl8AIjBmyuHvw2Yqj9vFqCu8k6HfCZ-jxA/s933/GCRT12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe89ztmUDagChkmpiydrtbcwWNVlxhCCC901SBvB92GgSJzUIO3ei4XljXnwCCOXCb2PRYd2Gw8pDpMtAtM66Md2LOVSR4_R4gOENGT_8tFzpgdzYDY2jesn4NsEe4ugK9Ey4IPNzx779QY0iTtYmEG-Yzfl8AIjBmyuHvw2Yqj9vFqCu8k6HfCZ-jxA/w300-h400/GCRT12.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There are no superlatives good enough to describe the glowing aspens in the mountain regions. I took bzillions of photos of them, but the photos don't do them justice. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyso4Du9W75NPznQNSlSZKiAqeudzoKHM3y-imd-Tji8w-wTCtxxgO0Fe2v_3RNoeJ8FHIlfdHY-3Qu1Ve4WwookLhpOrIdWazDeqQqvjBg4dtmYEULMHqwvjj7ECLjBnLdAZme-YZ9zqRFBaa1zHbbMIKQe_tFXqTBJc1pK7Pw2zdV7gtjCt9aIhQhg/s933/GCRT13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyso4Du9W75NPznQNSlSZKiAqeudzoKHM3y-imd-Tji8w-wTCtxxgO0Fe2v_3RNoeJ8FHIlfdHY-3Qu1Ve4WwookLhpOrIdWazDeqQqvjBg4dtmYEULMHqwvjj7ECLjBnLdAZme-YZ9zqRFBaa1zHbbMIKQe_tFXqTBJc1pK7Pw2zdV7gtjCt9aIhQhg/w300-h400/GCRT13.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last picnic as we take the last leg of our journey through Rogers Pass and down to Abbotsford to have a visit with friends and family there. Lunch picnics on the road are the best!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6J05uuUCg1Lnxl66bKjVIzZCC8NWEQ4zhi6l6zYMuu7UBJgupj2mOpxCTYG9f6bza5Tz2P878h-zNV1huqPUAJokqRLDOkp7Fj4RZ07YUWdOp9nPHk6qADqGEKqiu_9axnQ0sUWjUicBiGCFXK1r3aY4bHIVGCcvaHILryZCcH8m5hHQYZy-Rk5BX6A/s933/GCRT14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6J05uuUCg1Lnxl66bKjVIzZCC8NWEQ4zhi6l6zYMuu7UBJgupj2mOpxCTYG9f6bza5Tz2P878h-zNV1huqPUAJokqRLDOkp7Fj4RZ07YUWdOp9nPHk6qADqGEKqiu_9axnQ0sUWjUicBiGCFXK1r3aY4bHIVGCcvaHILryZCcH8m5hHQYZy-Rk5BX6A/w300-h400/GCRT14.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And this is how it's done! A cooler, a picnic basket, a bin for food, a bin for shoes, a bin for cooking stuff (which we didn't use at all), some games for evenings, two lawn chairs, and two suitcases. Our picnic basket consists of an old computer case that holds two of everything plus place mats, a tea towel, dishcloth and soap. Hey, it works! The Beavers were stuffed wherever there was room, and were very happy to be delivered to their new owners, our grandies.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioBst1Fe1mege__ABMODxMH93mOErFSLO1Y6mBritiigDTT92MtcFHDqgp5R9jhUBhZzFakguUi-Tx61REDCwuOCtfNdNkxkPy3aJwjNGNUr81OaAFwf5h7L7Yz4s3mn6A_p9dv0i7z7rcftEO77od3vXxBBGnwuHrRO5hcu7_6bqzJfcmpzJW29NH4Q/s1000/GCRT15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioBst1Fe1mege__ABMODxMH93mOErFSLO1Y6mBritiigDTT92MtcFHDqgp5R9jhUBhZzFakguUi-Tx61REDCwuOCtfNdNkxkPy3aJwjNGNUr81OaAFwf5h7L7Yz4s3mn6A_p9dv0i7z7rcftEO77od3vXxBBGnwuHrRO5hcu7_6bqzJfcmpzJW29NH4Q/w400-h300/GCRT15.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our final "cruise" to Vancouver Island. We're already feeling nostalgic! What kinds of adventures can we dream up next? <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-8660432271793904012022-09-12T18:12:00.000-07:002022-09-12T18:12:46.134-07:00Three Days<p><i>I ended my previous blog with news that our brother Hank was dying, and so we had put our travel plans on hold while we did what was most important. For those who do not follow me on FaceBook, I posted more news there: that Hank had passed away on Sunday August 28 and was buried the following Friday. On Saturday we resumed our travels. </i></p><p> Day One: </p><p>As I’m writing this, we are in St. Anns, Nova Scotia, a tiny hamlet about 15 km. North of Baddeck on Bras d’Or Lake. The motel is situated at the end of St. Ann’s Bay and from the window of our room, at night we can see the lights of ships going by on the ocean. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi6LBew_5gvzUOWZ9hFg7RKo597mQmJ7j2JLkjUZjDCd30dDGRAhhOYjKX0eleUElZGP6ADkf3hyzEODB6HNF67fdXi4ClJsngnZrcEnVSDB-gclkVWOhFhkawhKpkV5N75y7IDQyPfCPw39YfmWTEcRHoZOnCJF1yQ_prmY5S-OYVXqwCIGE0LEibHQ/s4000/20220909_092015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi6LBew_5gvzUOWZ9hFg7RKo597mQmJ7j2JLkjUZjDCd30dDGRAhhOYjKX0eleUElZGP6ADkf3hyzEODB6HNF67fdXi4ClJsngnZrcEnVSDB-gclkVWOhFhkawhKpkV5N75y7IDQyPfCPw39YfmWTEcRHoZOnCJF1yQ_prmY5S-OYVXqwCIGE0LEibHQ/s320/20220909_092015.jpg" width="240" /></a></div> This morning, we had our coffee and breakfast on lawn chairs outside, watching the cormorants dive and play on the calm waters of the bay. The sun has been shining all day. Doesn’t that sound idyllic? <p></p><p>“What’s wrong, babe?,” asks the resident sweetie. “You look sad.” He’s being kind: I’ve been cranky. The wheels have fallen off for me today. </p><p> Perhaps this was bound to happen. We’ve been through a lot in the last two weeks. It was a sacred time, a time when we were surrounded by family. And it was an emotional time. One moment we would be filled with gratitude that the three brothers had been able to spend a splendid last week together, that in some mystical way we were supposed to be there that week. But the next moment, we’d be stressed by the uncertainty of the situation. </p><p>When we resumed our travels, we put in some long days to catch up with
the parts of our journey that we didn’t want to miss. We were carried
along by adrenalin, high on the beauty of the St. Lawrence river and the
villages of the Gaspe. <br /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUykbBXcqCZ9cIemyYqRcLmgLIpxJv9GbFxFwoRZuJAb1DYi1ImghhGky-ltz-hGXHbnffWesdFhQKSsxvTqYu_PfP8NB7VngPVZ3coEqoZKfKLePHR2mlLjd-7URTvEdk_P9OrglgFd6bcVbol-E8Kyxk_E336Q2i40bTTaNIleyop2LDMKGOzXE6g/s1672/gaspe%20shoreline%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1672" data-original-width="1254" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUykbBXcqCZ9cIemyYqRcLmgLIpxJv9GbFxFwoRZuJAb1DYi1ImghhGky-ltz-hGXHbnffWesdFhQKSsxvTqYu_PfP8NB7VngPVZ3coEqoZKfKLePHR2mlLjd-7URTvEdk_P9OrglgFd6bcVbol-E8Kyxk_E336Q2i40bTTaNIleyop2LDMKGOzXE6g/w300-h400/gaspe%20shoreline%202.jpg" width="300" /></a></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQk-wKmxhoTPbMf9CIOrmrDCqBZGh8W0NY0ckoIkbEsfAtwHdnn_ENaQaLPPr6hEuDQOURrghuEtu3b6eaXWSDVYnapOQKEA8ofjkBGmwxxQWrOe6swga41AJq0yePgu_eikr-WXpwa_QQOmkbhaaTdPyYKi_nH5uzI7jEcliirvlA3yUhxGRcKik2VQ/s1672/perce%20boat%20ride.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1672" data-original-width="1254" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQk-wKmxhoTPbMf9CIOrmrDCqBZGh8W0NY0ckoIkbEsfAtwHdnn_ENaQaLPPr6hEuDQOURrghuEtu3b6eaXWSDVYnapOQKEA8ofjkBGmwxxQWrOe6swga41AJq0yePgu_eikr-WXpwa_QQOmkbhaaTdPyYKi_nH5uzI7jEcliirvlA3yUhxGRcKik2VQ/w300-h400/perce%20boat%20ride.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>But somewhere along the way, the adrenalin ran
out and we began to run on empty.</p><p> “Be kind to yourself,” advised a friend. “You’ll need to rest, to take time to process all that has happened.” </p><p>How do you process the highs and lows of a road trip, and all the experiences that entails? How do you stick to an itinerary and still find rest? How do you come to a place of peace, and how do you rekindle your zest for adventure? </p><p>I think about things I would normally do in times of turmoil. I turn to my writing. When I write, I figure out a lot of truths about myself and my life. But the insights don’t come. I don’t know how to finish this blog, so I stop writing. I’m still cranky. But it’s a start. </p><p> Day 2:
We are on our way to Cheticamp – a short drive, but packed full of stunning sights, as well as enticing craft shops, funky eateries, and charming villages. This was the final destination of our road trip, before we turn around to go home again. It’s the road we travelled 51 years ago on our honeymoon. It is a good day. We stop often. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0AXoqN9IDZIAAbDtsR-pENiw4bunLJOQG_Xdw7wQu2Ui3y0cned8WaFS1w6F-KDd6AQD7fN_2XMFZwVJk_nvLKXvd1VrtLlZt-PlKc8VlzU7x3LZbB1F7Jkj4LUjObCUOKSewaVkYKQ_eo32bt_04pHEhzypkCOktlKoLFanM1PrIdGN2ghEWOiT5gQ/s1672/fifty%20one%20years%20later.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1672" data-original-width="1254" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0AXoqN9IDZIAAbDtsR-pENiw4bunLJOQG_Xdw7wQu2Ui3y0cned8WaFS1w6F-KDd6AQD7fN_2XMFZwVJk_nvLKXvd1VrtLlZt-PlKc8VlzU7x3LZbB1F7Jkj4LUjObCUOKSewaVkYKQ_eo32bt_04pHEhzypkCOktlKoLFanM1PrIdGN2ghEWOiT5gQ/w300-h400/fifty%20one%20years%20later.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGwQTtCJDHHNx9boCNWo5v4zc309TVfiSYH0aPUTGvQ-963H9HZcRol5yD2QzE6Mcq3Mzrw6FgeSV91WTTbRy1DLmq48oCcnyuf7UVjLqmKzJeXOpzE1DTE5DlTKN_7YUQDiMvu43FZFLvdrcVFGwCupgBjhHEKoL44tZg1IS9bAi1gjXkMO2CSQgBLg/s1672/cape%20breton%20shoreline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1672" data-original-width="1254" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGwQTtCJDHHNx9boCNWo5v4zc309TVfiSYH0aPUTGvQ-963H9HZcRol5yD2QzE6Mcq3Mzrw6FgeSV91WTTbRy1DLmq48oCcnyuf7UVjLqmKzJeXOpzE1DTE5DlTKN_7YUQDiMvu43FZFLvdrcVFGwCupgBjhHEKoL44tZg1IS9bAi1gjXkMO2CSQgBLg/w300-h400/cape%20breton%20shoreline.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>We reminisce. We talk a little about the way we’ve changed. This morning I had read an article about the ins and outs, ups and downs of a long marriage – the petty annoyances, the frustrations, the misunderstandings, the grey and gritty times, as well as the highs and joys and blessings of knowing you are joined in heart to someone who loves you. The psychologists who wrote the article says it’s like life: anything worthwhile takes a lot of effort. We agree. </p><p> Then we arrive at our destination. What a disappointment! The upgraded motel room we sprang for is a spartan affair. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD_EIToEZ-yT8-V7xWwN-o2RronsypiRR2spf6i3cR7zk2dr1VRMW5Po3hIfHsBIZbAY3GUbjEZaIEji8grvRGJSUiTPpKm6o3CWOiwNVfRyI9e8Rp94_ZfASA1K-JLxVkZNJh0yTfn9xbbznJ5V1JfQ5BnxMs51i9O5WtVtFSgkuTFy_0ahBZomquFQ/s1672/chalet%20Cheticamp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1672" data-original-width="1254" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD_EIToEZ-yT8-V7xWwN-o2RronsypiRR2spf6i3cR7zk2dr1VRMW5Po3hIfHsBIZbAY3GUbjEZaIEji8grvRGJSUiTPpKm6o3CWOiwNVfRyI9e8Rp94_ZfASA1K-JLxVkZNJh0yTfn9xbbznJ5V1JfQ5BnxMs51i9O5WtVtFSgkuTFy_0ahBZomquFQ/s320/chalet%20Cheticamp.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb8tRmFYY9a36aRGrJmMK054NWusbvaWIReSKGZn4WI6TJ0JsEZdTBHdFJ-SGo99exVNZW-k-IPJL2ClyfaxFR-rdQ-2QpPyLNxDbyN3K9tTU6srYv2IAMLp3BFLxPL611TyRRetOzyxBGpg_Au4WOLieCmie2D9Im8BhnrNeuAw6f9zd9k0S21-jYLw/s1672/cheticamp%20chalet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1672" data-original-width="1254" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb8tRmFYY9a36aRGrJmMK054NWusbvaWIReSKGZn4WI6TJ0JsEZdTBHdFJ-SGo99exVNZW-k-IPJL2ClyfaxFR-rdQ-2QpPyLNxDbyN3K9tTU6srYv2IAMLp3BFLxPL611TyRRetOzyxBGpg_Au4WOLieCmie2D9Im8BhnrNeuAw6f9zd9k0S21-jYLw/s320/cheticamp%20chalet.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Only one burner on the stove works. We can’t connect to the internet. There's a list of rules -- beware if you don't obey, you'll be heavily fined. (Of course, we were planning on fish cakes for supper that night.) There’s a howling wind that makes it hard to be outside. Now it’s Al’s turn to feel down, to doubt whether this trip was a good idea, after all. His back hurts. We have to plan the rest of our trip, but we have no internet to book anything. And the prospect of the long drive back home is daunting.
]</p><p> I walk alone in the wind, and see a marvellous sunset. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqgAbXBOp1WT39SwepNmoeGUQB5wfmjSSuZRLyKdBSRCEkzyMfNjTdawZcBB8JbbEmOtcb6TDxUQoEw_jpJ3q_JdBEmDz___zu0XdkbDqF3zr6q9uHvzCtRWs9qQohlEKCs-31TilnZhK1ODVU_T1fr77fuEnYSpgVNK0iQiGlI_z_xXvSOS1vbB1q-g/s4000/20220910_190139%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqgAbXBOp1WT39SwepNmoeGUQB5wfmjSSuZRLyKdBSRCEkzyMfNjTdawZcBB8JbbEmOtcb6TDxUQoEw_jpJ3q_JdBEmDz___zu0XdkbDqF3zr6q9uHvzCtRWs9qQohlEKCs-31TilnZhK1ODVU_T1fr77fuEnYSpgVNK0iQiGlI_z_xXvSOS1vbB1q-g/w300-h400/20220910_190139%20(2).jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPRPMMXw3etwyxY4Tak4h9yscyWRP5Zf98VQV2GQeqfGQZIxk4IuaMarPABlQNj70Q-P795jbbDscCIUDUlhI4KmrZohGyQHxocTIqqyNuSJRZ682eqyf77fOZCuThrX2DhUwaV_Ko3TvFeGTIibAo1uF0LY4C6kDsTOabQKzVytzOBR2NJE2fcLUNcA/s4000/20220910_192315%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPRPMMXw3etwyxY4Tak4h9yscyWRP5Zf98VQV2GQeqfGQZIxk4IuaMarPABlQNj70Q-P795jbbDscCIUDUlhI4KmrZohGyQHxocTIqqyNuSJRZ682eqyf77fOZCuThrX2DhUwaV_Ko3TvFeGTIibAo1uF0LY4C6kDsTOabQKzVytzOBR2NJE2fcLUNcA/s320/20220910_192315%20(2).jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Maybe it will be okay, after all. It’s like life: anything worthwhile takes a lot of persistence and effort. </p><p>Day Three:
It’s Sunday. I use precious data allowance on my cell phone to check out my email and facebook feeds, looking for my favourite spiritual posts by Father Richard and Diana Butler Bass. They will be my Sunday morning devotions. </p><p>As I wait for the phone to connect, I look up and around. Just outside the door lies the ocean – wow! And something in me shifts. Wow! We are here! Wow! (Al says I am a “three wow” person. He is a “one wow” kind of guy, and a mild “one wow” at that. Just one of the ways we are different.) </p><p>And here’s what I find – a blessing by John O’Donohue on the Contemplative Monk website: </p><p>When you travel, </p><p>A new silence goes with you </p><p>And if you listen, </p><p>You will hear what your heart would love to say. </p><p>A journey can become a sacred thing. </p><p>Make sure, before you go, </p><p>To bless your going forth, </p><p>To free your heart of ballast, </p><p>So that the compass of your soul </p><p>Might direct you towards </p><p>The territories of spirit </p><p>Where you will discover </p><p>More of your hidden life; </p><p>And the urgencies </p><p>That deserve to claim you. </p><p>(Excerpt from the blessing “For the traveler” found in his book “To Bless the Space Between Us”.) </p><p> I read it aloud to Al, and he agrees: it’s time to dump the ballast, the petty annoyances of this journey, and free our spirits to explore what lies in store. I think we're going to be okay.<br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgno5h7HRHbeuNlq44xDvozwG4EpVV9XylUUo6yMjNa1Ccb_-DLhuia0aXsKunv99VrXIUVCBAkvi_aPwvoW2gdvhVpJ492qA50J5BoIS3ru9n30kqYgJv4T1Z6qCL51cVCU05OSTLx3uq1LmJkruyoFQ0lnhRSFG2Ii9YOysgbrB2fNMgEWpoJ1cjtaA/s1672/we're%20ok.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1672" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgno5h7HRHbeuNlq44xDvozwG4EpVV9XylUUo6yMjNa1Ccb_-DLhuia0aXsKunv99VrXIUVCBAkvi_aPwvoW2gdvhVpJ492qA50J5BoIS3ru9n30kqYgJv4T1Z6qCL51cVCU05OSTLx3uq1LmJkruyoFQ0lnhRSFG2Ii9YOysgbrB2fNMgEWpoJ1cjtaA/s320/we're%20ok.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> Later that evening, we park our lawn chairs by the ocean and watch another sunset. Wow!Wow! Wow!<br /><p></p>Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-77512681097290080732022-08-27T11:08:00.000-07:002022-08-27T11:08:12.142-07:00A Detour on the Great Canadian Road Trip<p>Some time ago, one of the kids said to me, “Mom, we know quite a bit of your family’s story, but not so much of Dad’s side of the family.”<br /><br />Well, since our travels have taken us to Woodstock, where much of the Schut family story plays out, and since the Resident Sweetie and I have been poking about the back roads of Oxford County, and since we’ve been hanging out with his brothers a lot and listening to their stories, I figured maybe this blog could begin to remedy that omission – a family story for our children, and a story about a family for the rest of you readers.<br /><br />It starts with a woman, a strong and determined woman, who lost her husband to encephalitis when she was just about 40, two weeks before her youngest son, my RS, was born. Her husband – the father that Al never knew – owned a shoemaker’s shop in the town of Emmen in the Netherlands. They had been partners in the business, with mom behind the counter and "Pap" making and repairing shoes. Now she was alone<br /><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGxPSJXDibzqFxXKWzdA7qGR6wMCKpeqQH7fShWj9BBFS6Fiq4OQ0dNBYCB1fUKZODh9sMgnvzOBFuOme5maMKJMEbosFyhPdL_cPRdO6hoVVrzMjeS_YON0j9tVCrGL0Y5P85OmiQChh1lS77cIxGRrko3qg1xnBNZirTggt78uZJqDPpZmH6XwTROA/s4608/Europe%202015%20388.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGxPSJXDibzqFxXKWzdA7qGR6wMCKpeqQH7fShWj9BBFS6Fiq4OQ0dNBYCB1fUKZODh9sMgnvzOBFuOme5maMKJMEbosFyhPdL_cPRdO6hoVVrzMjeS_YON0j9tVCrGL0Y5P85OmiQChh1lS77cIxGRrko3qg1xnBNZirTggt78uZJqDPpZmH6XwTROA/s320/Europe%202015%20388.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The shoe shop where Al was born. It has since become a cafe.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaGdo_WpqU2AjhBM7SHy9Jd238pNQBkPuv00S5KDvMSgRtMfvnIxAqHz1BNCZBMUuyct2fXHxHA3FYgOefi5te14oJsFhB_SAPMz5tLV3SRnCBVRZzp8w2Emh8rrR2kb-xMJIkthfsNa42uKtxkJbpEszRgSHHeMe2F2n5964FOC3sfDBGgy28ggC9fQ/s4608/Europe%202015%20397.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaGdo_WpqU2AjhBM7SHy9Jd238pNQBkPuv00S5KDvMSgRtMfvnIxAqHz1BNCZBMUuyct2fXHxHA3FYgOefi5te14oJsFhB_SAPMz5tLV3SRnCBVRZzp8w2Emh8rrR2kb-xMJIkthfsNa42uKtxkJbpEszRgSHHeMe2F2n5964FOC3sfDBGgy28ggC9fQ/s320/Europe%202015%20397.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Al visits his dad's grave and poses with his children and grandchildren in 2015. Such a special moment.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>And it starts with her four sons, aged 16 down to newborn at the
time: Ralph, Hank, John, and baby Albert. Ralph at the age of 16 had to
take on his father’s role and job. It was a year after the war had
ended, and times were tough. There was a shortage of almost everything –
supply chain issues, they’d call it now -- and nobody had money to
spend. Mother Schut wondered what the future held for “mijn jongens” –
my boys. She took in many boarders to make ends meet, and she was tough
on her kids – Hank remembers peeling potatoes for all those boarders
when he was just ten. But with the support of the extended family around
them, they were making a go of it.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTcMsML8CfXbOpDuv8ytif3JUVn5_L7QhlZD-peDfFLouG_T28DVG61Avuuearyd9L24hlq9ARS3pJuJmQolx1ba8iaCvdApyMrPWNKFbKFg9P_GS09n_1We9qJDjEW1moEn0CvtiTs4MAHtfwT3iEOubRbt85MrYwP38eLjHDDPLqBrZJSBmsZSoBA/s676/195010002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="676" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTcMsML8CfXbOpDuv8ytif3JUVn5_L7QhlZD-peDfFLouG_T28DVG61Avuuearyd9L24hlq9ARS3pJuJmQolx1ba8iaCvdApyMrPWNKFbKFg9P_GS09n_1We9qJDjEW1moEn0CvtiTs4MAHtfwT3iEOubRbt85MrYwP38eLjHDDPLqBrZJSBmsZSoBA/w640-h412/195010002.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><br />And then, in 1954, Ralph fell
in love and wanted to get married. Not only that, but he wanted to
immigrate with his bride Tina to Canada to seek a better future. My
future mother-in-law could not fathom this. Her family had lived in the
villages surrounding Emmen since the 1600s. However, if Ralph was going,
they would all go. Who knew – perhaps there would be a better future
for her boys. She knew nobody in Canada, she could not speak English,
she was a 49 year old widow without any marketable skills, but – come
hell or high water – the family would stay together. Her brother-in-law,
who had been a surrogate dad for the boys, said he and his family would
come too.<br /><br />Ralph and Tina left for Canada right after they were
married. Ralph dreamed of starting a business, but in the meantime
worked in a brick-manufacturing plant to amass some capital. The shoe
shop in Emmen was sold, and Mom Schut and her three boys, aged 18, 14,
and 9 got ready to go. Two weeks before they were to leave, the
brother-in-law backed out. Mom said, “We’re packed now, we’re going.” <p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_m4giq2tcnSx_kcd4Gw9lcfZ9bP1wmhYXQ7DKdHqiak7DLXqR7-xotvsJxx4eyxJYFi4xV86MuFuvdVRwiQECxzfMimn5h1yi2eZYdkP7vmu8TiNzNu_0KxMM83cJdrfCR6vnlDb8QSCdqlcLpbg5_-LNAQzFFwS2TyIgHILNNfQ0HS3M3KBEHAYcnA/s1349/195504001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1349" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_m4giq2tcnSx_kcd4Gw9lcfZ9bP1wmhYXQ7DKdHqiak7DLXqR7-xotvsJxx4eyxJYFi4xV86MuFuvdVRwiQECxzfMimn5h1yi2eZYdkP7vmu8TiNzNu_0KxMM83cJdrfCR6vnlDb8QSCdqlcLpbg5_-LNAQzFFwS2TyIgHILNNfQ0HS3M3KBEHAYcnA/w426-h640/195504001.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br /><p><br />On
April 15, they boarded a turbo prop airplane in Amsterdam. In the photo
they are smiling, but on the inside, there was much turmoil. Hank, at
18, was apprenticed to a gardener with the parks department. He loved
his job. What would await him in Canada? John, 14, was a scholar; his
teacher had begged Mom to leave him in Holland, where he was sure to get
into a university. What was there for him in Canada? Al was too young
to feel much of anything, but he didn’t like change, and this trip would
mean change.<br /><br />The plane landed in Montreal, and from there they
boarded a train that took them to Brantford Ontario. They arrived at 3
o’clock in the morning. Ralph was waiting with a pick-up truck. And life
in Canada, with its many ups and downs and surprises, began. <br /><br />Mom
climbed into the cab of the pick-up, the three boys climbed into the
back bed of the truck, the luggage got piled in, and they were off into
the frigid Ontario spring air, bouncing over 35 kilometers of dark
country roads to arrive at their destination, the village of Drumbo.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWBUJnPED9GMMlpNoi0NSsEc-JzVIkD5ETlp1n9S8xKN-VcFp5mjtpZnKELsu9bdemWteiG_qddWGvkTgtSBJOg2SQmdrzcf6Tds8ZZC8iMCIcK5DfRd9_WCByv5s7aHDKKVYSau_FR5dPWKaGEk01wG9Fr4oACzvPtPpRzPrxhx1kJA2huW2ViVnZIw/s4000/20220823_154953.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWBUJnPED9GMMlpNoi0NSsEc-JzVIkD5ETlp1n9S8xKN-VcFp5mjtpZnKELsu9bdemWteiG_qddWGvkTgtSBJOg2SQmdrzcf6Tds8ZZC8iMCIcK5DfRd9_WCByv5s7aHDKKVYSau_FR5dPWKaGEk01wG9Fr4oACzvPtPpRzPrxhx1kJA2huW2ViVnZIw/w400-h300/20220823_154953.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The farmhouse in Drumbo is still there. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p> </p><p>Within
a day or two, Hank and John were sent off to work for farmers, even
though they had been city boys all their lives. Hank went to work for a
tobacco farmer and came home every day with tobacco tar smeared over his
hands and arms. John remembers that year like this: “Imagine: one day I
was a 14-year old high school student, and a day or two later I was
crouching on a milking stool beside a cow. If I could have, I would have
crawled back to the Atlantic Ocean and I would have swum all the way
back to Holland.” Albert was sent off to school; it was a mile away, and
on the walk there every day, he passed some nasty geese that set his
heart to beating anxiously. His teacher gave him an Eaton’s catalogue so
he could learn the English words for common household items and
clothing. And mom tried to make an old farmhouse into a home. In Holland
there’d been indoor plumbing – but not here. In Holland, she knew the
names of the milkman and baker but here she hid behind the door and
pretended nobody was home when they came calling. In Holland, she’d
lived in an urban neighbourhood; now she was by herself all day out in
the country, unless she walked into the village and hung out with her
daughter-in-law and the new baby. John said, “Mom never told us, but I
think there were buckets of tears shed in that lonely farmhouse
everyday.”<br /></p><p><br />Was it worth it? Some immigrant stories do not have
happy endings. Life is too hard, the high hopes that inspired the move
dashed to smithereens. The immigrants either return home with their
tails between their legs, or they become hard and bitter as they tough
it out. But many stories do have a happy outcome. </p><p> The first year
was hard, but then the family moved into town. Mom Schut watched
proudly as her boys fulfilled her hopes for a better life. Ralph began
his own side-line business of shoe repair, which became a full time job,
with shoe sales as an extra.. Soon he was operating a men’s clothing
store in small town Ontario. Hank began working for a bricklayer, which
really suited his skills for precision. John says, “After a year of
farming, I was apprenticed to a carpenter. This suited me so much
better. I learned the skills, and then began working for a house
builder. By the time I was 22, my boss was taking off for Florida for
three months and leaving me in charge. A little light went on in my
bean: why should I be doing his work, when I could have my own company
and get the profit.?” Hank joined him in this, and H&J Schut
Construction was born, a company that built about 350 homes and owned
numerous apartment buildings.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd0mgi5qm2CRWKZZxdln5hWO9iE_5ElxEx-XyXYkaKZ-fmt8gFDrKC88gJAUQpHsOJzkACcXzdVDGvAWhWSMm4D3DkNrsBMaI7g9pCReQGFjH0T4fdcpDC6WFp1gYfaamz_GlXtIWv5LkcdYv_gIkjUYVX3ZGXI3OA1IoTMzrAQsJxaReizEEAm7VNzg/s4000/20220823_161003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd0mgi5qm2CRWKZZxdln5hWO9iE_5ElxEx-XyXYkaKZ-fmt8gFDrKC88gJAUQpHsOJzkACcXzdVDGvAWhWSMm4D3DkNrsBMaI7g9pCReQGFjH0T4fdcpDC6WFp1gYfaamz_GlXtIWv5LkcdYv_gIkjUYVX3ZGXI3OA1IoTMzrAQsJxaReizEEAm7VNzg/w400-h300/20220823_161003.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT0aPB1Z19EuqAlumLDloD2CbLdtohcGA4_QwobxOtD7fnekq1igA815N8ezoTKWJJhs00VWoE5qxBjjGTBqB9FyhqlDFPi_KHh8JYEO_Oq5tfCYvvQyYry1CacyNRrURblbU8btUFcrbPusKPATZFqKOtnKYzTjbsqET_eLAvfls8eXBeqX725W0wrw/s4000/20220823_161042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT0aPB1Z19EuqAlumLDloD2CbLdtohcGA4_QwobxOtD7fnekq1igA815N8ezoTKWJJhs00VWoE5qxBjjGTBqB9FyhqlDFPi_KHh8JYEO_Oq5tfCYvvQyYry1CacyNRrURblbU8btUFcrbPusKPATZFqKOtnKYzTjbsqET_eLAvfls8eXBeqX725W0wrw/w400-h300/20220823_161042.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two of their own homes that Hank and John built: their own, when they had young families.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> And my RS completed high school and
university, and became a computer professional. </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwlGq73hUUMtlgI5IFOjDlriOmpr1v-_2Mw_jc_DESY-lP5CaxaJ7G2TREpwZdWKWmM4rFDsqcRZXxzFRoKc0YLbgL68WlsCzyRYUC517K-lEcwy2NyLVkyFrmyL3oBpXhpVsOR9L2aHubM-WSRIMm9L7ggxHzvxlr9BakPNQCcA6PtEb6j0ysGeta-A/s1253/196904001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1253" data-original-width="1253" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwlGq73hUUMtlgI5IFOjDlriOmpr1v-_2Mw_jc_DESY-lP5CaxaJ7G2TREpwZdWKWmM4rFDsqcRZXxzFRoKc0YLbgL68WlsCzyRYUC517K-lEcwy2NyLVkyFrmyL3oBpXhpVsOR9L2aHubM-WSRIMm9L7ggxHzvxlr9BakPNQCcA6PtEb6j0ysGeta-A/s320/196904001.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Al and his mom when he was a university student.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p> </p><p>They all got married.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXzgMGEwcfK4Q5vSc-UvPg8pSaPjDPXvSRCzCA0ecq3rHvDOi3g98GjEjYTVYFtRWjHmHQAkKNQ4P18oLA27MTPGXVjifC1eRKDwZikYCnz0q29I-eGDLrpkVBDNKKywFMULQMFCGFII7vHq5XM63pP_gmB_D1X1TGQVcdYUnegHlDW8Iu2BuMRvuIrA/s938/197107013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="742" data-original-width="938" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXzgMGEwcfK4Q5vSc-UvPg8pSaPjDPXvSRCzCA0ecq3rHvDOi3g98GjEjYTVYFtRWjHmHQAkKNQ4P18oLA27MTPGXVjifC1eRKDwZikYCnz0q29I-eGDLrpkVBDNKKywFMULQMFCGFII7vHq5XM63pP_gmB_D1X1TGQVcdYUnegHlDW8Iu2BuMRvuIrA/s320/197107013.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>14 grandchildren graced
Mom’s life, with lots of great-grands to follow. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMRdOFfz9FMroVq3IM84OuVPPitVNGjayOMceiYNwFlB4LS-VFleOuqANXM-ruQ8Tm73FmpxPyclI1dwbwIeeNYfE5bAX78XB5jiBS187qW-QicsvU_BeI1MuGzwEFFQ9ZCyVmEmbSH_30y7KVWCiHUnHuVS-WIK-lMTioRKmId8r5rar50fX7f4Z8zQ/s1164/198605014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1164" data-original-width="797" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMRdOFfz9FMroVq3IM84OuVPPitVNGjayOMceiYNwFlB4LS-VFleOuqANXM-ruQ8Tm73FmpxPyclI1dwbwIeeNYfE5bAX78XB5jiBS187qW-QicsvU_BeI1MuGzwEFFQ9ZCyVmEmbSH_30y7KVWCiHUnHuVS-WIK-lMTioRKmId8r5rar50fX7f4Z8zQ/s320/198605014.jpg" width="219" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>And we all grew older.<br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBcrsyY-Fqm8ECA6rsDlep6hpQFqs5KO8ub4_P2FNQ9WcJfzCGKBRtFWf80ACZEsc79KEwfMVVk2B32R4Ye_4gIKqDXW_RFzXvNtZAy9Md4hy8oOD8owExAur_ws8JRA3VAJfvxaBxlcmrLto8Tp4yVV7ImC1hsB_VhbR3pv5hzpx7xAT9UwI_1YSVKQ/s1167/198605002-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="1167" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBcrsyY-Fqm8ECA6rsDlep6hpQFqs5KO8ub4_P2FNQ9WcJfzCGKBRtFWf80ACZEsc79KEwfMVVk2B32R4Ye_4gIKqDXW_RFzXvNtZAy9Md4hy8oOD8owExAur_ws8JRA3VAJfvxaBxlcmrLto8Tp4yVV7ImC1hsB_VhbR3pv5hzpx7xAT9UwI_1YSVKQ/s320/198605002-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKSmYt1h4nhj9Ag6nbSY-yz0qFDGcXFDcJ0ij8RgWEpAib8jkrahwzE3KdHGHd_fy75mM_Tao4uds8hdCKvW_qERMdEu-6vN7Nulq1camg8oPt6GWMJP5208NBVlpsoZphsppUZJ_AWIsz1wpFbhVcnGy6kU3SnlPDATA8CyduGYktU2LBEOzDWilQNQ/s4000/IMG_1418.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKSmYt1h4nhj9Ag6nbSY-yz0qFDGcXFDcJ0ij8RgWEpAib8jkrahwzE3KdHGHd_fy75mM_Tao4uds8hdCKvW_qERMdEu-6vN7Nulq1camg8oPt6GWMJP5208NBVlpsoZphsppUZJ_AWIsz1wpFbhVcnGy6kU3SnlPDATA8CyduGYktU2LBEOzDWilQNQ/w640-h480/IMG_1418.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>“Her boys” and their
children were her life, and she kept a tight hold on them. She was still
tough on her boys, expected much from them, until the day she died in
June 1999 at the age of 93. On the night that she died a white dove sat
out in the courtyard of her nursing home, an angel come to guide her
home.<br /><br />Of course, the story is not over. The oldest, Ralph and his
wife, have died. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbrqbp1sfpWWfznBraLC-KBcGoBHore_QqdvVHTkDAPY58ALUCEBzH4tZzTb2-L1e8Valhv1-7UXtJLfNoSfZiw1DdYRbqQGW1CHVcopcpErT0_T2J5mwEHGaKq40fyS0VSWiLFWU5MlcBYlYMz-IKyhojczMjZ24eDIOzRL_Hmtz2Mrp_1Mg17QhNHw/s800/Schut%20bros%20Thanksgiving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbrqbp1sfpWWfznBraLC-KBcGoBHore_QqdvVHTkDAPY58ALUCEBzH4tZzTb2-L1e8Valhv1-7UXtJLfNoSfZiw1DdYRbqQGW1CHVcopcpErT0_T2J5mwEHGaKq40fyS0VSWiLFWU5MlcBYlYMz-IKyhojczMjZ24eDIOzRL_Hmtz2Mrp_1Mg17QhNHw/w400-h300/Schut%20bros%20Thanksgiving.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Hank’s wife died unexpectedly two years ago. The two
older brothers have memory issues now, so all the time spent with them
this week, every country drive we take with them, every outing we take
them on, every story told, is a precious jewel to add to our memories.
One week ago today, despite a bad medical report about Hank's latest blood tests, we had a wonderful road trip to the Farmer’s Market
in St. Jacob’s – I shared that experience on FB.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJdmtuOypyfvEwNmnXhVGEqtjnD0Havme114Ek_tj9SjWqBNTyb44Qt0g7FWhpx_nfJR-jpXzd9uQlP5iqNIVVNFbNR6F-ryy_cJCDfzD7jEPXBuERU7wEuvSffUg85AE6ur116uDRsCEZqDKZ_LKexJBpEGQ_IrweqPhcSvMrIKuNxOfqLUV5zjhFWw/s4000/20220820_093236.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJdmtuOypyfvEwNmnXhVGEqtjnD0Havme114Ek_tj9SjWqBNTyb44Qt0g7FWhpx_nfJR-jpXzd9uQlP5iqNIVVNFbNR6F-ryy_cJCDfzD7jEPXBuERU7wEuvSffUg85AE6ur116uDRsCEZqDKZ_LKexJBpEGQ_IrweqPhcSvMrIKuNxOfqLUV5zjhFWw/s320/20220820_093236.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>One never knows
how much time is left on our life clock, and so it was important that we
make this trip sooner rather than later. When we started out, we knew
that unexpected things could happen. All our well-laid plans might not
work out. And that is what did happen. As I write this, Hank is on
life-support in the Woodstock General Hospital as a result of a bad
reaction to a blood transfusion, followed by a heart attack. After all
the grandkids have had a chance to say goodbye today, the life-support
will be removed. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAusuG1evJ6J8ERNw8E_u9Q8XQBvOyn7Xv8mUvcmBhz2GLyngWBvBa3HREBjuqBYaD7FQmovM8rjx-36NtxspQupn67qQmWtdaG6xEFL5KpbGquFUuWrvW-2LBC9-M2xhsBWgTq11ymcQWPty3a3BAAll-m-nxq5xCddGYhefI_rtR3JYPh7o3EG4zOw/s4000/20220819_142800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAusuG1evJ6J8ERNw8E_u9Q8XQBvOyn7Xv8mUvcmBhz2GLyngWBvBa3HREBjuqBYaD7FQmovM8rjx-36NtxspQupn67qQmWtdaG6xEFL5KpbGquFUuWrvW-2LBC9-M2xhsBWgTq11ymcQWPty3a3BAAll-m-nxq5xCddGYhefI_rtR3JYPh7o3EG4zOw/s320/20220819_142800.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>We have put a hold on our travel plans for now, doing
what is important for us and for the rest of the family. <br /><br />Mom
Schut, you were a gutsy lady; because of your move, I’ve become part of
the Schut family story, and my children and grandchildren, too. Thanks
for raising my RS to be such a special guy. Brothers, you’ve been rocks
for your own families, and for us too. It’s an honour to share this
story today.</p>Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-71960898169445498642022-08-21T11:05:00.000-07:002022-08-21T11:05:28.678-07:00The Great Canadian Road Trip, part 2<p> We’ve been on the road for 19 days and 5500 km. We’ve slept in 10 different beds, crossed several time
zones, and done laundry twice. We’ve moved from Lethbridge to Regina,
from Regina to Winnipeg.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpK0cBwOXWvM17jU8SqocfGLUNsPukrGwti01cOAgs_zksFeWlgE2iAK3y5bnojL22tGy90TNn-tHx07RwunST6K5TS8H7XdqrFoWGcT9tcH3MO6jUSg537X_xRsoIBtrcJ0wGWsuzZvgSARCpi6mIP96vwtKQ1FsdBFLIZdmh3wVBR0idRp4slJ5d2w/s4000/20220812_102936.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpK0cBwOXWvM17jU8SqocfGLUNsPukrGwti01cOAgs_zksFeWlgE2iAK3y5bnojL22tGy90TNn-tHx07RwunST6K5TS8H7XdqrFoWGcT9tcH3MO6jUSg537X_xRsoIBtrcJ0wGWsuzZvgSARCpi6mIP96vwtKQ1FsdBFLIZdmh3wVBR0idRp4slJ5d2w/w300-h400/20220812_102936.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We picked up Bucky in Regina. He was hitch-hiking. He is posing in Kenora.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> Then on and on and on and on to Thunder Bay, after which came Wawa, and Little Current on Manitoulin Island. We stayed two nights in Bothwell (where my sister offered her empty home for a rest – hallelujah!).</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh03PAT8k9MJkPmXqOXfoQXGe-hi9ji-S1ksXI89hFJPKClPWawdjY0qmycU_UwrlLYsQZTAnIZg8YmzywnRwj2xafhYfVI75FUqnPslIE7XUxO4XceR3QtIO4tuWX41IgqPsecvOlvYpuEkPxcPdwHM5ERQvuToNZZvKYg7znYf1UEYLAUEXIDV3W5gw/s4000/20220816_195810.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh03PAT8k9MJkPmXqOXfoQXGe-hi9ji-S1ksXI89hFJPKClPWawdjY0qmycU_UwrlLYsQZTAnIZg8YmzywnRwj2xafhYfVI75FUqnPslIE7XUxO4XceR3QtIO4tuWX41IgqPsecvOlvYpuEkPxcPdwHM5ERQvuToNZZvKYg7znYf1UEYLAUEXIDV3W5gw/s320/20220816_195810.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> Now we are in Woodstock, where we plan to stay for a week to visit family. Woodstock is where Al and my stories joined up 51 years ago; it deserves a little more time and attention.<br /><br />Now our friends are asking, “Are you enjoying it?” That’s a valid question. <p></p><p> A few days ago, as we were driving along north of Superior, I rhapsodized to the RS, “Oh, I’m just so glad we did this, Al. I’m really enjoying it,” to which he replied, “Yeah, some of it’s okay, but boy, this is a lot of driving.” I think the truth lies somewhere in between. This road journey is like life – there are highlights and wonderful things, and then there are the hard realities and the difficult parts. You’ll read a bit of that in this blog as I share some of the things we've experienced:<br /><br />1. If Google tells you that getting from point A to Point B will take 5 hours, don’t believe it. Construction, heavy traffic, and pit stops mean that the 5 hours turn into 7 quite easily. If we decided to spend an hour at a lakeside rest area, it got even longer. As a result, we now sadly realize that all the little byways, unusual sights, and back door experiences we hoped would be part of this trip will not happen, especially not on long driving days. But we are also having some wonderful, serendipity experiences that we had not expected at all. So we are learning to be open, to live more in the moment, and to appreciate what is happening right now, right here – that’s on our good days. But on that long stretch between Winnipeg and Thunder Bay – not so much. That’s just an experience of endurance.<br /><br />2. Some experiences have strongly impacted our emotions. The Nikkei interpretive center in New Denver, BC, tells the story of the internment of 12,000 Japanese during the 2nd world war. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid-_cdDLZnmkCSM0oDUwlOjWYqqrZTEcCwMmArRszSnD8y_8ITg5QUoAYk5U7iQ4GtVBBQtLAYAsjEQ-Pe4V6TNKCaS0XFZxFAYxPcCdjH-JPBhxqc-p7qXdPfNj9YOaMG1wBkahs7oo7cFPrRG8JikHXM10sByfTRCLcw8wMHb4v8L-K2JAAE5AjXaQ/s4000/20220805_131210.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid-_cdDLZnmkCSM0oDUwlOjWYqqrZTEcCwMmArRszSnD8y_8ITg5QUoAYk5U7iQ4GtVBBQtLAYAsjEQ-Pe4V6TNKCaS0XFZxFAYxPcCdjH-JPBhxqc-p7qXdPfNj9YOaMG1wBkahs7oo7cFPrRG8JikHXM10sByfTRCLcw8wMHb4v8L-K2JAAE5AjXaQ/w300-h400/20220805_131210.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>How should we react to such a sad story, where the rights of Canadian citizens were trampled, their possessions taken away, and their families often separated? We knew the facts, but seeing how they lived and listening to the stories moved knowledge from head to heart. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHB_8DXRng7uuoiWegA6CJwhyFqrvZFQcN-E-jzgcTjlCFNXTOU91RkkQaPraLVwQmi8I88sMawcXVNwx1ldNbKcetmEBYr1zp488OZd9VW0Vdj3YsePNKtAav-nkWH2wT7j0kU5Px9r7PfxhmpD890qwl4hG5d5Mt9f_nFFgX0Iyx5PgpmKbgUHXhnQ/s4000/20220810_194520.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHB_8DXRng7uuoiWegA6CJwhyFqrvZFQcN-E-jzgcTjlCFNXTOU91RkkQaPraLVwQmi8I88sMawcXVNwx1ldNbKcetmEBYr1zp488OZd9VW0Vdj3YsePNKtAav-nkWH2wT7j0kU5Px9r7PfxhmpD890qwl4hG5d5Mt9f_nFFgX0Iyx5PgpmKbgUHXhnQ/w300-h400/20220810_194520.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>The Museum of Human Rights in Winnipeg asked us, “What are universal human rights?” Freedom, dignity, respect? Land, water, clean air? I was moved by the stories of unsung heroes who stood up to fight for these rights, who spoke truth to power and often paid the ultimate price with their lives. How can we make sure their sacrifice is not in vain? </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9W229mIsXTY3Yx-6Nnd2b0b6H6rTi9PIg7dUzxqbemwJyjxdBQY5n31WvQ8lyzTaGq_UTdknvhnFI71qKOFKk3lYdu3TPmBWaVVFh3fh-VD0ODNQHqtRu4t-qv7r805p58VJPDW3jVuGbuOL5vAY0EHDxDAzbPd5vq1VUfMoR7Ssf_yvEhQ_xqzswfQ/s843/head%20smashed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="843" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9W229mIsXTY3Yx-6Nnd2b0b6H6rTi9PIg7dUzxqbemwJyjxdBQY5n31WvQ8lyzTaGq_UTdknvhnFI71qKOFKk3lYdu3TPmBWaVVFh3fh-VD0ODNQHqtRu4t-qv7r805p58VJPDW3jVuGbuOL5vAY0EHDxDAzbPd5vq1VUfMoR7Ssf_yvEhQ_xqzswfQ/s320/head%20smashed.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX5nEI6g62fKlX8mHDzTUIgjmg8Qaydqf38l-PXk62RbkC8snrk4N_OnaSJgHA7_cSFHx1uE1RUBK2KhO9cGKLksxpVtyYk6U1H7YmtSa9rxMvE4BfgAXhP7vfx5iKwaYlCWW61W83GTUT12WBlcMeLay_VFLn01S4DcVNSwWeOIn4oc9ihWX5cpvqZw/s720/head%20smashed%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="457" data-original-width="720" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX5nEI6g62fKlX8mHDzTUIgjmg8Qaydqf38l-PXk62RbkC8snrk4N_OnaSJgHA7_cSFHx1uE1RUBK2KhO9cGKLksxpVtyYk6U1H7YmtSa9rxMvE4BfgAXhP7vfx5iKwaYlCWW61W83GTUT12WBlcMeLay_VFLn01S4DcVNSwWeOIn4oc9ihWX5cpvqZw/s320/head%20smashed%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>At Head Smashed In Buffalo Jump, we learned the story of the Plains indigenous people. Buffalo were the center of their lives and well-being. It’s estimated that 100 million buffalo roamed the plains before Europeans colonized the West. In a short space of 100 years, they became almost extinct, many victims of predation by those same colonizers. How easy it is for us to arrogantly assume that we can do as we wish, and how easy it is to trample on the rights of others. We feel sad, mad, humble, guilt-ridden ... and hopefully, more self-aware and open to considering our impact on others.<br /><br />3. Some days are just plain fun. After that long tiring day from Winnipeg to Thunder Bay, we were expecting more of the same as we set out the next day for Wawa, known as home of the big goose (but not much else.) </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-iDBqNDSjQ0bdN00G6_oq9ItOtPTZS3QrJ3cyZeutZDENP26JZoRXYPoLjeI5hKiBTiORc7nFegxwXVkEVENUSLZ6NSahp4F3oDjPKSXAtSWSvUlyq9m5W8byJ7ssKgkZOw1h7b6-j-EJr09S3kFBwDuInUJ-_gk0phjzWEK-XSZAuAsVwzg3uZu8VA/s4000/20220813_195531.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-iDBqNDSjQ0bdN00G6_oq9ItOtPTZS3QrJ3cyZeutZDENP26JZoRXYPoLjeI5hKiBTiORc7nFegxwXVkEVENUSLZ6NSahp4F3oDjPKSXAtSWSvUlyq9m5W8byJ7ssKgkZOw1h7b6-j-EJr09S3kFBwDuInUJ-_gk0phjzWEK-XSZAuAsVwzg3uZu8VA/s320/20220813_195531.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <p></p><p>I was driving, and we were looking for a pit stop. Jokingly, I said to Al, “I’m putting this out to the universe. I want a pit stop with flush toilets, a beach, and a nice place to picnic.” Within a few miles, a sign invited us to Terrace Bay Beach and I took a hard right and followed the road down, down, down past a golf course, right down to a wonderful Conservation area with ... yes: flush toilets, a beach, and picnic tables. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZr6qY8Re4huq404JcPOJjl3iLTZKRDI_d-rbsmVycTr1BnFvFNPnsVSAvZgG0VGWxlcRJJsjVtB_grCnJ_Xfuy1FJcVLE4SHopTDkuElqUkLb1bM13U3WiM7LjiVa9NZtH7jytQmPvOei1iZokPn84RlqW3gKMOdrKGYT7aye1iwMB0um9yYPM83feQ/s4000/20220813_114927.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZr6qY8Re4huq404JcPOJjl3iLTZKRDI_d-rbsmVycTr1BnFvFNPnsVSAvZgG0VGWxlcRJJsjVtB_grCnJ_Xfuy1FJcVLE4SHopTDkuElqUkLb1bM13U3WiM7LjiVa9NZtH7jytQmPvOei1iZokPn84RlqW3gKMOdrKGYT7aye1iwMB0um9yYPM83feQ/s320/20220813_114927.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirl6a7uPjbYKz3Qr6i1AXh9iWeW42OzaGMevE51_BRad8EokW7mHmqa_0wtjbSR4RKYMCLkPmSze0Yj-7Lnwbcj0XWuMICunRGAXG9Rr5vHbOwtpcxfaEvOKkdyWD8teaMD_2xhujWtOurrqnYTIfbkp0ReCpZ2NrlnpFq1GYC3Npad8NF8ZLRvGDVKQ/s4000/20220813_120440%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirl6a7uPjbYKz3Qr6i1AXh9iWeW42OzaGMevE51_BRad8EokW7mHmqa_0wtjbSR4RKYMCLkPmSze0Yj-7Lnwbcj0XWuMICunRGAXG9Rr5vHbOwtpcxfaEvOKkdyWD8teaMD_2xhujWtOurrqnYTIfbkp0ReCpZ2NrlnpFq1GYC3Npad8NF8ZLRvGDVKQ/s320/20220813_120440%20(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>And more! An interpretive center, a boardwalk, a view of a waterfall, trails, a gift shop where we bought another little stuffed beaver to keep Bucky company. Ahhh, bliss! </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDzv73uVnv71uXn201RDd1rv-W6x7lkmQvc87MC-2yUajY6kTWaJJxyi2j01uHsl8RGTpLw3wmTAC5EbYHlfmV-qYOIfAYU5YreMxkM6GntLR49xVf8xDFMJ1E9TnUAaRONlQmx3H8cT2F-Sxv0lCglFXIm3ACZn9fbypt4sJAU3JLl-pxem0NUYeJ1g/s4000/20220813_134229%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDzv73uVnv71uXn201RDd1rv-W6x7lkmQvc87MC-2yUajY6kTWaJJxyi2j01uHsl8RGTpLw3wmTAC5EbYHlfmV-qYOIfAYU5YreMxkM6GntLR49xVf8xDFMJ1E9TnUAaRONlQmx3H8cT2F-Sxv0lCglFXIm3ACZn9fbypt4sJAU3JLl-pxem0NUYeJ1g/s320/20220813_134229%20(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Later, after a shorter than normal driving day, we arrived at our motel. It was one of those roadside affairs run by mom and pop (in this case, mom and son). Those motels are often iffy, but not so this one. Our first clue that this would not be a run-of-the-mill place was that the driveway gravel was raked! All the furniture in the lovely rooms matched, and it wasn’t dark-brown arborite! The bathroom had been totally remodelled. There was a gazebo with a barbecue. <br /><br />Then came the icing on the cake. We’d been looking for a simple restaurant for supper, and were told about a family-owned eatery a mile down the road. “Great,” said Al, “Maybe I can get liver and onions.” The parking lot was full – a good sign. The tables were full. Not so good. But then a table opened up and oh, wow! The menu offerings were amazing. Not a speck of liver and onions, though – more like pan-fried whitefish, spicy Caribbean pork, varied stir-fries. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUqKA0P5TF2JUab80Vpb4ZBDeH4rRPX2mb9dn4dG7_PM4_l1IVplmPTNqIH6L5dQL97hjWeizSArRZrKC43CwvkjYfZ4Zb_BIwAT3cRuecnTmyNfIhMyPZn1FR6ughvi2zx_yr6-xf_geVsKPIe0kRT1LQt1yQGhFXHo3DvTh53WyULsJAZb_HtIcckw/s4000/20220813_190920%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUqKA0P5TF2JUab80Vpb4ZBDeH4rRPX2mb9dn4dG7_PM4_l1IVplmPTNqIH6L5dQL97hjWeizSArRZrKC43CwvkjYfZ4Zb_BIwAT3cRuecnTmyNfIhMyPZn1FR6ughvi2zx_yr6-xf_geVsKPIe0kRT1LQt1yQGhFXHo3DvTh53WyULsJAZb_HtIcckw/s320/20220813_190920%20(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>I asked the waitress (the "mom" in the operation) about the eclectic menu. “Our Mom was from Trinidad, Pop was from China,” she explained. Okay, then. We enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. <br /><br />It had been a good day, we agreed.<br /><br />To be continued -- because I haven't told you yet about drawbridges, sandhill cranes, being serenaded at the ferry, the villages on the coast of Lake Erie, and "coming home." And more.<br /></p>Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-64449227924495544982022-08-11T18:59:00.000-07:002022-08-11T18:59:32.667-07:00Great Canadian Road Trip part 1<p> The pandemic put the kibosh on a lot of travel plans, including ours. We had wanted to go to Europe one more time, this time to research our family roots. But Covid reared its ugly head in 2019, so we postponed the trip in 2020, then postponed it again in 2021. <br /><br />In 2022, a lot of people like us are making up for lost time, taking all those postponed trips. But we were discouraged by stories about airport delays, lost luggage, another Covid wave in Europe, the war in Ukraine, rising gas prices etc, etc. so instead, we decided on a two month journey across Canada. Call it The Great Canadian Road Trip. <br /><br />This would be a nostalgia trip. We had already crossed the country on wheels many times, travelling from the west coast to the east, including Newfoundland. In fact, we’d sworn we’d never do it again in a car. And yet, here we were, pulling out the maps, finding travel guides, booking motels and begging beds from friends and family as we planned our trip from Courtenay, on Vancouver Island, where we now live, to Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, which we’d last visit on our honeymoon 51 years ago. And back again. Why do it? Well, why not? Maybe we’re a little bit nuts, but making crazy decisions isn’t only the prerogative of teenagers, is it? We’re not getting any younger; so, do it now or do it never! We would revisit our memories, relive some of the adventures, and in the process say hello to some folks we haven’t seen for a long time.</p><p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_4TyWWQdHh0f0BgNRqjuTDKE8TmvIWyAOkoAEd8Jfz_mr_WdEF8bwx9Zxem2FnXArGlXryzgU2-eCGbm_IIAuBOfaCtC-RtPR98sPV0vfNacfRvXRzMMGIOZ7WPi8ipwXeP1Ux0pSPzAAa5aVap5kV8iYeWF7hkv2bfXCF-WKiKF6vX0920DrwM5DLA/s4000/20220802_084408.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_4TyWWQdHh0f0BgNRqjuTDKE8TmvIWyAOkoAEd8Jfz_mr_WdEF8bwx9Zxem2FnXArGlXryzgU2-eCGbm_IIAuBOfaCtC-RtPR98sPV0vfNacfRvXRzMMGIOZ7WPi8ipwXeP1Ux0pSPzAAa5aVap5kV8iYeWF7hkv2bfXCF-WKiKF6vX0920DrwM5DLA/s320/20220802_084408.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />And along the way, I would revive my blog for a while, sharing my stories and reflections. <br /><br />Well,
we’ve been on the road for 10 days and covered about 2500 km. We
stopped in Abbotsford for one night with our kids, then spent four
nights in a cabin in Castlegar, then two nights with a cousin in
Lethbridge, one night in Regina, and now we are in Winnipeg. All of it,
so far, has been great – well, except for the stone that hit our
windshield just outside of Swift Current, Saskatchewan. On the bright
side, we now know that there’s a Speedy Auto Glass in Swift Current that
does a speedy job, and while we waited we got our walking steps in
trekking to Timmie’s for lunch. Here’s some things I have discovered.<br /><br />1.
We are not as young as we used to be. Duh! After sitting in a car all
day, you’d think we’d be eager to do something a little more exciting
than watching Wheel of Fortune re-runs and taking naps. But getting the
luggage out of the car and into the motel is work, after which a cuppa
tea and putting your feet up sounds like a good idea. One thing for sure, a day of driving does not leave a lot of time or opportunity to poke about and discover new things. I thought writing a
blog to fill up those long evenings in a rented room sounded like a
good idea, but here it is, 10 days later, and I’m finally posting!<br /><br />2.
This is a BIG country. In Texas, which is also BIG, there’s a little
ditty that goes like this: “The sun has riz, the sun has set, and here
we is, in Texas yet.” The same could be said about BC. It’s big. It has
BIG mountains, BIG rivers, BIG lakes and glaciers and trees,</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp1NEO4E3p0IN5k3nQYzcZVqO3W5OVknOrnHkwVPMnaJHHRxKYOEPM3euyFS-LSK32riPA395I1YI___IkGAQ7RfE_0q1LBQU5bQ3B-pBceloQLLXRjGEg7lCujb_VG2_xQVJ2JHHYFxDKfEP5TWYO7t3oNoxO8rk60Ds2jZntfwAlMbPUQitxjFU7fA/s4000/20220805_120709.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp1NEO4E3p0IN5k3nQYzcZVqO3W5OVknOrnHkwVPMnaJHHRxKYOEPM3euyFS-LSK32riPA395I1YI___IkGAQ7RfE_0q1LBQU5bQ3B-pBceloQLLXRjGEg7lCujb_VG2_xQVJ2JHHYFxDKfEP5TWYO7t3oNoxO8rk60Ds2jZntfwAlMbPUQitxjFU7fA/s320/20220805_120709.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>BIG valleys
and roads that take you way up high and way down low. It’s beautiful,
too. When you are in BC, you might think, “Ah yes, this is what Canada
is.” But of course, you would only partially be right, because there was
a whole lot more to come. You cross the boundary between BC and Alberta, and suddenly the trees are scrubby. You see a whole lot of wheat fields and grain
bins, wind turbines and trains loaded with containers as you zip along
the four-lane Trans Canada. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2up2zCLRY6nGszNeY00-lJK1FXhZPJrcWKTRSso7ZCHPar4ECEyLj-G16WmwFWEIUgTKI6xcUs5rwuvNEndwYXzT01nKNl6bxtjZX4FHuzRW5w4pQM0t8Wf2OarT_Q6lG_FgFpFQr6nYOOsOj0XKloNAGYPqkJlIbZhrh2fEkVfk5HIoI2k7y7DSjgw/s4000/20220809_092833.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2up2zCLRY6nGszNeY00-lJK1FXhZPJrcWKTRSso7ZCHPar4ECEyLj-G16WmwFWEIUgTKI6xcUs5rwuvNEndwYXzT01nKNl6bxtjZX4FHuzRW5w4pQM0t8Wf2OarT_Q6lG_FgFpFQr6nYOOsOj0XKloNAGYPqkJlIbZhrh2fEkVfk5HIoI2k7y7DSjgw/s320/20220809_092833.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>No big hills or valleys, just lot of BIG views. As they say on the prairies, if your dog runs away, just step on a tuna tin and you'll be able to find out where he went. A lot of people think it's boring, but to me, it’s all just amazing and beautiful. <br /><br />3.
It’s the little things that make some of the biggest impressions. I
loved watching the flowers in the roadside ditches: Queen Anne’s Lace
and yellow Hawkweed on Vancouver Island, the spikes of fuschia fireweed,
drifts of mauve knapweed, white yarrow and daisies in the mountains,
mini golden sunflowers lining the roads in Alberta and Saskatchewan. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMW80f6UCK1lvklNVSaQaDTo8jEqMzzNIxEjlpM0q7CSdGPzdgz_pxi58zJBc4rpijj-o62xs3PRjxcz11UG9xBSHKMkffTyPYERsdmcZJ66NyQ__kbQwgYdjv1KteB1cM2pmdWn0mTLOhz4b0MqLJfvXWCIPyBY4OSYJmBm4I5Achk2d8sSxmmsqnuw/s4000/20220810_204014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMW80f6UCK1lvklNVSaQaDTo8jEqMzzNIxEjlpM0q7CSdGPzdgz_pxi58zJBc4rpijj-o62xs3PRjxcz11UG9xBSHKMkffTyPYERsdmcZJ66NyQ__kbQwgYdjv1KteB1cM2pmdWn0mTLOhz4b0MqLJfvXWCIPyBY4OSYJmBm4I5Achk2d8sSxmmsqnuw/s320/20220810_204014.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Birds flit through the shrubbery at the rest stops. Poking along in the
Slocan Valley, we passed a homestead that was picture perfect: a
glorious flower garden, a huge vegie patch, a flock of brown chickens
running about in the yard of a cozy-looking house and rustic barn,
surrounded by a cedar fence. We didn’t stop to take a photo, but the
image is lodged firmly in our memories, to be reflected on whenever we
need a moment that spells peace. </p><p>We sat at a little café in an out-of -the-way village; patrons sat at picnic tables in the yard, tossing a frisbee to the resident dog, sipping homemade lemonade and nibbling on fresh-baked cookies. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl6tdiVN1IqaXl2UIGZxjkehv2hKG5vPv_4BO1fzEFk_C3LpvZCgPRYTaeHMjhfGS8OFYj8bQsJWwCD2FSN8NAL7AimU-MGbEE0J-_Cw4zGJdSVUmi3Oa4AeMZ_2HLKDHcF9ef1yS8c2kLX5wJyQ6RpJvvevk0PzysIwmGfoYQE8_-kG9RgXLcYfwpuw/s4000/20220805_153916.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl6tdiVN1IqaXl2UIGZxjkehv2hKG5vPv_4BO1fzEFk_C3LpvZCgPRYTaeHMjhfGS8OFYj8bQsJWwCD2FSN8NAL7AimU-MGbEE0J-_Cw4zGJdSVUmi3Oa4AeMZ_2HLKDHcF9ef1yS8c2kLX5wJyQ6RpJvvevk0PzysIwmGfoYQE8_-kG9RgXLcYfwpuw/s320/20220805_153916.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>We saw a young boy crossing a park on his bicycle, a fishing rod balanced on the handle bars; he was singing a song to himself as he passed us on his way to the lake. It was a picture straight out of a Norman Rockwell calendar. These little moments are just as important to our enjoyment as the grand scenery that surrounds us. <br /><br />To be continued....</p>Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-38767555077709798132022-04-16T15:19:00.000-07:002022-04-16T15:19:55.968-07:00<p><i> It’s Easter weekend as I write this, when Christians celebrate the victory of life over death. Whatever your faith or philosophy, may resurrection – new life bursting forth, life triumphing over death – mark your days, and may you cherish the gift of life, grabbing it with your heart and hands wide open.<br /></i><br />It’s been quite an eventful few weeks for the resident sweetie and me. It started with a trip to Ontario, where we both grew up. It involved lots of visiting and trips down memory lane. Finally, after 2 1/2 years we could hug and hold our loved ones. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLoyfUiUKUVWER26Vb0CCN1uihYtI1jQzD_ORK-uhrEg66q3eX2KMVZzC_z7VEIUQFXw6sPULtbajg2ywLBJONvoUJK4iv15ncoeAX8amNiGy7Km46aYuCGXlELXjo9bRhtE6tb-5OBFl8a-kGCI1GgqGo-8mYWKQyr8ro3gGN8gLB-Nz4eCPM7qAwGQ/s4000/20220331_103342.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLoyfUiUKUVWER26Vb0CCN1uihYtI1jQzD_ORK-uhrEg66q3eX2KMVZzC_z7VEIUQFXw6sPULtbajg2ywLBJONvoUJK4iv15ncoeAX8amNiGy7Km46aYuCGXlELXjo9bRhtE6tb-5OBFl8a-kGCI1GgqGo-8mYWKQyr8ro3gGN8gLB-Nz4eCPM7qAwGQ/s320/20220331_103342.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>And then, our visit came to a screeching halt.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvxmKIg8vN18yW-_LUbtviWAByUsdHQs2LcyIGqr9FXK6jnDmS9bxnV3z7GqEicCteImL5CcamMDvIOJrReczqhbHKF8NHcbUKiVsSvaFrew7YcjmROCcjHNXiRDGmyfB2rSJs3Vy39P-XYzxKx0XAM5VPaqbQ_wYo_zSNk3X1vVPksPvOF5kiC7JQ5A/s4000/20220406_103139%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvxmKIg8vN18yW-_LUbtviWAByUsdHQs2LcyIGqr9FXK6jnDmS9bxnV3z7GqEicCteImL5CcamMDvIOJrReczqhbHKF8NHcbUKiVsSvaFrew7YcjmROCcjHNXiRDGmyfB2rSJs3Vy39P-XYzxKx0XAM5VPaqbQ_wYo_zSNk3X1vVPksPvOF5kiC7JQ5A/s320/20220406_103139%20(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>(I bet most of you could see that coming, eh? The common opinion now is that it’s not IF you get Covid, but WHEN it happens.)<br /><br />Instead of mingling and enjoying and catching up, we were isolated in a single room that was the guest suite in brother John’s apartment. A guard was placed at the door of our prison to make sure we didn’t try to break the rules (not really, but the superintendent was super vigilant and let us know in no uncertain terms that we were grounded.) Our holiday was now dead in the water. <br /><br />We are home again, and I’m trying to process the whole experience. Dead is a good word to describe those days of isolation. We weren’t feeling well, so we napped a lot, watched TV, and read the books that I’d brought along. We were not part of the living world going on outside our window. We could see people coming and going, bringing in bags of groceries, walking the dog, pausing to chat. Cars drove by on the road, going here and there. Voices drifted by outside our door as neighbours exchanged news and views. But we were not part of it. Surprisingly, time kept ticking away the minutes and hours, even though our world stood still. <br /><br />This concentrated experience of being “dead to the world” is not something I’d like to repeat. And yet? A Facebook post by Parker Palmer that arrived on my computer today reminds me that being “dead to the world” is a state in which I often exist. Sometimes, I walk through the days with my head down and my ears stoppered, oblivious to the sights and sounds of the world around me. Sometimes, I build my own little prison walls to shut out rampant injustice and greed. I skitter into my hidey hole where nothing is asked of me. Sometimes, we grow thick shells around our hearts so we don’t feel the pain that much of humanity suffers. Sometimes, we deaden our senses with large doses of entertainment, drugs, alcohol – whatever works so we don’t have to feel all the emotions and think all the thoughts that happen when we experience life as it really is. It’s so much easier not to feel anything, not to be spurred to action.<br /><br />Unfortunately, when we are “dead to the world” we won’t see the actual miracles that are happening all around us – miracles of compassion, sacrifice, support, beauty.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht1hrHucJMyEBj6ndCj4Buk4sZG3DS0isRaDu6Uzk3TtSujTjNOHQfW-VcRT30eMNv9griBnBT0zDJdEccsjMKRSXlLaHPLo3HC6eF6Kc2armHZfqKOnngPmdXJclYUiasbBGnNyCB4S5Enph4N20Uz4jpQTBPvaGWBs3oPfEGtUo8cOKJmeGJcafSTA/s259/resurrection.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht1hrHucJMyEBj6ndCj4Buk4sZG3DS0isRaDu6Uzk3TtSujTjNOHQfW-VcRT30eMNv9griBnBT0zDJdEccsjMKRSXlLaHPLo3HC6eF6Kc2armHZfqKOnngPmdXJclYUiasbBGnNyCB4S5Enph4N20Uz4jpQTBPvaGWBs3oPfEGtUo8cOKJmeGJcafSTA/s1600/resurrection.jpg" width="194" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>We won’t feel the caring web of community that surrounds us if we but reach out. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYZdJK7pvEMnc74_WKPGInbvMHtGb0sJSbMTetvdN2beDu85PMMIY4Qlu94aVsY5RmrvNVw91wgnwwThOrXFD76Td2bloLJ31yN6k-zBg2wzcqTehtzrWqMwtJejTJZV_GQnrEpwY1OokMWM9PD5fALacCo00P_gPyug28kg8gspgmij9ORLMV8KjirQ/s400/resurrection%205.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="400" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYZdJK7pvEMnc74_WKPGInbvMHtGb0sJSbMTetvdN2beDu85PMMIY4Qlu94aVsY5RmrvNVw91wgnwwThOrXFD76Td2bloLJ31yN6k-zBg2wzcqTehtzrWqMwtJejTJZV_GQnrEpwY1OokMWM9PD5fALacCo00P_gPyug28kg8gspgmij9ORLMV8KjirQ/s320/resurrection%205.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>We may not see the alternate paths we can walk that lead to healing and new life. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqvGO5r_NUYacp-OLIaxX0Dz9G4_cnhnuukjYd6Llei-5SLOhYB0lTvswF7on5vtKWoAjNhXUzdyfTxYeDAKsb7A13xGk9JX9Ewok_a0A1GsUGbQPWeiMccoOqFcHVyclTHkwHF-8Dvuj5jA4Cyxa7siX9XkA6n8P30L54YTtB3s46-gbpxDk3R54VUg/s1600/resurrection%204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqvGO5r_NUYacp-OLIaxX0Dz9G4_cnhnuukjYd6Llei-5SLOhYB0lTvswF7on5vtKWoAjNhXUzdyfTxYeDAKsb7A13xGk9JX9Ewok_a0A1GsUGbQPWeiMccoOqFcHVyclTHkwHF-8Dvuj5jA4Cyxa7siX9XkA6n8P30L54YTtB3s46-gbpxDk3R54VUg/s320/resurrection%204.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p><br />For sure, there are times when we have to retreat into darkness
and wait until a light appears to guide us out. Resting quietly is
important when you are overtired, anxious, panicky, depressed, grieving,
isolated with Covid. Sit quietly in the dark when you have come to the
end of your rope. But then it is time to look for the light that is
surely there; this kind of little death is not the end of the story.<br /><br />So we came out of Covid isolation. We were resurrected. <br /><br />It
wasn’t easy. We felt vulnerable, a little shaky. But we slowly
re-entered the world, a little hesitantly and timidly, knowing more than
we did when we began that journey. Coming back into the world allowed
us to experience the love of family and friends that surrounds us every
day. I walked in the woods; after the deadness of winter, nature had
rebounded with a great burst of growth and life. Al began working in
the garden again – the garlics are up! The blueberries are ready to
blossom! I did a little sewing, a little art, a little writing. Slowly,
creativity is unfolding again.<br /><br />Yes, I know: the dead times will
happen again. We’re going to get battered and bruised by life, we’ll
have doubts and sadness, we’ll say goodbye to precious people, we’ll be
disappointed and angry. That’s because life is ... well, life is life. <br /><br />But it is also a precious gift, and the realization of that is perhaps the gift that dark times, dead times, brings us.</p>Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-46815626686674208442022-03-18T12:23:00.000-07:002022-03-18T12:23:38.735-07:00Just Around the Corner<p> So this happened...<br /><br />Number 1: A couple of days ago, a friend asked me, “Any new blogs percolating?” My mind was blank. My muse the crow wasn’t poking me. Nope.<br /><br />Number 2: Yesterday, the mail delivered a newsletter for us old retired folks that featured the theme “Around the Corner,” based on a quote by Cher: “If you can’t go straight ahead, you go around the corner.” Interesting concept, I thought. What’s around the next corner? The crow began stirring.<br /><br />Number 3: Today I opened my Facebook page and the first thing I saw was this quote:</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitwotYXdGI3Dpis1DuzK7w-xaZNrOzf3TRpZTwKBNHRTrka0mFOqiYESx3gapWhp2_G0xybQdJHnOlFtInjZ51tcwV3VYQnKOCjaZ8KKgwc0sAErA2ZTRQ2Pu3GVFphsjXpK6AdvrR2boUH3DADWm-H_enGaHvnWmb11IGETRO_dYwft0JRf575sMJtg/s228/around%20the%20corner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="221" data-original-width="228" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitwotYXdGI3Dpis1DuzK7w-xaZNrOzf3TRpZTwKBNHRTrka0mFOqiYESx3gapWhp2_G0xybQdJHnOlFtInjZ51tcwV3VYQnKOCjaZ8KKgwc0sAErA2ZTRQ2Pu3GVFphsjXpK6AdvrR2boUH3DADWm-H_enGaHvnWmb11IGETRO_dYwft0JRf575sMJtg/w400-h388/around%20the%20corner.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Well. It just so happened that yesterday was also the day of “Mystics and the Mundane,” a course I’m taking via ZOOM. “Synchronicity,” said the teacher, “is the simultaneous occurrence of events which appear related but have no discernible connection. Pay attention when that happens. Maybe there’s a message for you in it.”<br /><br />The crow squawks. A new blog is percolating, after all. But what is that message? <br /><br />I think when I was younger, “around the next corner” held great appeal. Whatever was around the next corner, it was probably going to be good. It smelled of adventure, new opportunities, learning experiences, striking out into the unknown. Around the next corner meant I’d leave home and go to college, that I’d get my own apartment, my first car, my first job; I would become a wife and mother. Yahoo, bring it on, world!<br /><br />The quotes I research are almost all in that vein: “your breakthrough is around the corner ... prosperity is around the corner ... romance ... better things ... success ... a brighter day. The sun is always shining around the corner.” </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dhHR0In46G_P46KDGwEtcWvW9i8_tToEf06bOwyMH_7k-A-z5m6mCgOHHEM-eEdq-K5kVRzR0nbLBDkFsntvtSlRQYseA4G3IB6MczvDzPB08_3c-kYjElCl4wlxnr67WkfbLI818vctDq6cMKtIW2MyxrQF469Zci-ZSeB9ayWurMButiHNTYwNPA/s225/around%20the%20corner%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dhHR0In46G_P46KDGwEtcWvW9i8_tToEf06bOwyMH_7k-A-z5m6mCgOHHEM-eEdq-K5kVRzR0nbLBDkFsntvtSlRQYseA4G3IB6MczvDzPB08_3c-kYjElCl4wlxnr67WkfbLI818vctDq6cMKtIW2MyxrQF469Zci-ZSeB9ayWurMButiHNTYwNPA/w320-h320/around%20the%20corner%203.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Well, I grew up. I found out that leaving home and going to college had its drawbacks. And true romance was not just around the corner – there were disappointments before I found the one for me. There were days, weeks, months when raising children, blessings that they are, was a tough go. Learning experiences weren’t just “aha” moments; they included many hard lessons that hurt. People you loved turned a corner and were gone, leaving you alone and mourning. I learned – and you probably have too – that there is no “straight ahead” in life, you will always be turning a corner into the unknown, and while that unknown will have wonderful times, it could also be scary, sad, and difficult. <br /><br />So, what to do about those corners? <br /><br />I suppose, the smaller you make your life, the less corners there are to navigate. If you do the same thing over and over, the track you’re walking on will have a nice deep rut that keeps you safe – but it could be disastrous when you hit the dead end and can’t find your way out. Or, you could put on your body armour of cynicism and pessimism so that the "slings and arrows" that life sends your way don’t hurt so much. Less pain, but also less delight. You could put on blinders and earbuds, so you don’t have to see or hear the bad, hard stuff that surrounds you. But life as Pollyanna in Lala land is kind of lonely, isn’t it? You could focus only on the positive things in your life, turning every disaster into a moral lesson – there’s value in that, but honestly? You will likely be watching your friends’ eyes glaze over as you drone on about your lofty views. "Get real," they may say.<br /><br />This week, the resident sweetie and I have been talking about turning a new corner sometime in the future when we transition to a less independent life. Friends of ours, just 5 years older than us, who are decluttering their home before moving to a smaller place that offers assisted living, told us, “Don’t put this off too long! It’s so stressful!” I can empathize as I picture cleaning out my studio, handing over my significant stash of sewing supplies to Sally Ann. Tears will fall, I'm sure. We look at our beloved home and yard, the trailer that’s given us years of camping enjoyment, the traveling vacations exploring the world, and we know we too will be sad when we turn that corner and leave these riches behind. <br /><br />And yet, we trust also that there will be new adventures that await us, if we but look for them. Hopefully, there will be new riches, new experiences to add to our life story. Could that be the message, the secret to successfully navigating the corners in life? <br /><br />And in the meantime: <br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJoFv_51_-QRJr34lhCQFbBnf1imCnAIZR4FR8lgI0GDJpAdAYRfTMLjEmAceRiQhMWUPOjm-e4FKjqdGeDxylaaCqtNhM6J8MoYn9h0wRa4zyBPK02d5tHwF8iUKPUoQuHtUdYBQDVgeOHt_fNtvBsP_mPYSeY_9tr0-LeBlPd0AULlGn-r89Vi9Xeg/s425/around%20the%20corner%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="425" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJoFv_51_-QRJr34lhCQFbBnf1imCnAIZR4FR8lgI0GDJpAdAYRfTMLjEmAceRiQhMWUPOjm-e4FKjqdGeDxylaaCqtNhM6J8MoYn9h0wRa4zyBPK02d5tHwF8iUKPUoQuHtUdYBQDVgeOHt_fNtvBsP_mPYSeY_9tr0-LeBlPd0AULlGn-r89Vi9Xeg/w400-h283/around%20the%20corner%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p> </p><p>Yes! <br /></p>Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-7680615797589496372022-02-16T12:00:00.000-08:002022-02-16T12:00:33.145-08:00Fifty Ways to say I Love You<p>I began writing this on Valentine’s Day, and love was in the air. The media was full of ideas on how to proclaim your love to your sweetie, your friends, your family, and significant others. Hearts, flowers, balloon bouquets, chocolates, a getaway, sexy lingerie – all tokens of love.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpZHMm4ahhdyv0QaXmHdyBlLQNRDwqH0I1kA762JlNcANwNlc2qd-EbZt4FuI5Dty5X4vE1cj8_bBSo7tcWJLAcEe8a49YfB6Bb5NjbLplm1UF2d2J6u-A5Prt8h7rKNV7D6UhyV8OP6kMw_Gu2isEFJxJg7bfOnEoi2_TEUKgKG5LIhzOnalQZuadvg=s669" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="669" data-original-width="563" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpZHMm4ahhdyv0QaXmHdyBlLQNRDwqH0I1kA762JlNcANwNlc2qd-EbZt4FuI5Dty5X4vE1cj8_bBSo7tcWJLAcEe8a49YfB6Bb5NjbLplm1UF2d2J6u-A5Prt8h7rKNV7D6UhyV8OP6kMw_Gu2isEFJxJg7bfOnEoi2_TEUKgKG5LIhzOnalQZuadvg=s320" width="269" /></a></div><p>But really, love is not in the air, is it? The airwaves and newspapers are full stories about people shouting at each other, uttering threats, challenges, curses, and worse. Covid was bad enough, but mostly we pulled together to defeat this enemy we held in common. Now we feel as though we have been sucked into a centrifuge, whirling round and round, with little bits of us flying off in every direction. A box of chocolates or a bouquet of flowers isn’t going to solve this growing vortex of bitterness and anger. <br /><br />It was my intent, when I began writing the blog, to share the noodlings I’d written in my journal. You see, the resident sweetie doesn’t believe in Valentine’s Day per se. He says, “Every day is Valentine’s Day,” and he’s right. I don’t get the hearts and flowers, but I get lots of love, and I have no complaints. But perhaps there are others who do. So I asked myself, “Who needs to hear a loving word today?”<br /><br />Who needs to hear a loving word today? Those who mourn, those who are lonely, struggling, depressed, worried, hungry, displaced, anxious, grieving: a loving word can make a difference. We don’t necessarily need to say “I love you,” (although, would that be such a bad thing?) but we can say words that show we care. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQx7mwkHh6Q0sIHPZ9DzcqvnKdBJ8a-Dd3NHsFcrg5GoYkTbpJXpKFBGDxY98H1O27Vs8wpBBZjGMkhZgz266u3_OoRAStDkCpvqZje2VAUIHadUIWP9Tqu2h04Dtcmt5N_-f2b32GuOqGWDe5VMYprXwjzzB4vhGQ7DcL_6rhIdCMXFIk74a2oRDWVw=s846" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="846" data-original-width="564" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQx7mwkHh6Q0sIHPZ9DzcqvnKdBJ8a-Dd3NHsFcrg5GoYkTbpJXpKFBGDxY98H1O27Vs8wpBBZjGMkhZgz266u3_OoRAStDkCpvqZje2VAUIHadUIWP9Tqu2h04Dtcmt5N_-f2b32GuOqGWDe5VMYprXwjzzB4vhGQ7DcL_6rhIdCMXFIk74a2oRDWVw=w426-h640" width="426" /></a></div> <p></p><p>And those who are doing their best to make this world a better place, they too may need to hear a loving word – those who have good news to share, the ones who brighten our lives and have taught us important lessons, kids who make us smile, the friendly store clerk, the police officer who doesn’t give us a ticket, but just a warning (that hits close to home, doesn't it, sweetie?). Kind, complimentary words can encourage them and inspire. <br /><br />And could it be that those who are angry, nasty, vindictive, mysoginistic, and racist are the way they are -- twisted and broken -- because they’ve never heard loving words? Could words like "Talk to me, I'll listen" begin to soften their hearts and heal their pain?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQJv1DeELkgJYTUcLvES5K3gnHkTeDLbqsatvr1wp3rGBAcSqeJSuvJN8ZZD-3dTrCnTRIZKAftem2KS-dXgEBiVlYDxO4M1J1F5j28EOjEvXbXqN7c1vs31U6CMZZR0jtxEqz1nGrnnRvFltkGQMcaVyGCnjX--7quZhbFcQ9Spr8GGpldWj67ooPsg=s3840" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2160" data-original-width="3840" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQJv1DeELkgJYTUcLvES5K3gnHkTeDLbqsatvr1wp3rGBAcSqeJSuvJN8ZZD-3dTrCnTRIZKAftem2KS-dXgEBiVlYDxO4M1J1F5j28EOjEvXbXqN7c1vs31U6CMZZR0jtxEqz1nGrnnRvFltkGQMcaVyGCnjX--7quZhbFcQ9Spr8GGpldWj67ooPsg=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></div><p>We all need to hear loving words, no matter what our
circumstances. We are all connected to each other and what does one
person good will also do others good. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8DdwD8tGHJQwIbtvYtDj9Op5oxXUkLX_ZNXo78vgwe3-CPmwe6slJA6VJJUaN_9-NjkOALHXtnxZ8VOdVd4U1xBl1-otTyz6AM-nLf2igx0jhF21MnVRUXhRN6f9sbRWy5r-sr1bNJqTkEwb3H5q_wgiBvZO1wxwZUg5sxb78eNjSFcGNTjJfN9WFoA=s938" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="938" data-original-width="474" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8DdwD8tGHJQwIbtvYtDj9Op5oxXUkLX_ZNXo78vgwe3-CPmwe6slJA6VJJUaN_9-NjkOALHXtnxZ8VOdVd4U1xBl1-otTyz6AM-nLf2igx0jhF21MnVRUXhRN6f9sbRWy5r-sr1bNJqTkEwb3H5q_wgiBvZO1wxwZUg5sxb78eNjSFcGNTjJfN9WFoA=w203-h400" width="203" /></a></div> <p></p><p>To work together to make a world
that is more just, beautiful and nurturing takes loving words and deeds.
Are we contributing to that, or standing in the way?<br /><br />In 1975, Paul Simon wrote “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover” ("<i>Just slip out the back, Jack, <br />Make a new plan, Stan..</i>."). But maybe in this day and age we need a new song: 50 Ways to Say I Love You.<br /><br />That’s
as far as I got in my blog writing, and then I quit. Surely a
commitment to use caring words is way too simple, I chided myself. It’s
new age woo-woo, an airy-fairy solution to a complex problem. It can’t
be that easy. <br /><br />It isn’t...but it’s not a bad way to start. We
have seen, and continue to see every day, that angry words and
conspiracy theories can spread their poison very quickly and
insidiously. It is “the madness of crowds” – those angry words quickly become dangerous sparks which begin a conflagration.<br /><br />"It is better to
light a candle than curse the darkness" says an ancient proverb. It’s
better to do something about a problem than just complain about it. A
candle is a small answer to a large problem, but it is still a worthy
step in the right direction. <br /><br />Everyday could be Valentine’s Day. Who do you know who needs to hear a loving word today?</p>Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-21078582560271765452022-01-22T11:47:00.000-08:002022-01-22T11:47:03.780-08:00Tree Thoughts<p>Trees are woven into the background fabric of my life. I remember the shady old maples that lined our driveway when we lived on our farm in Ontario. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjokQ4A1EuMMYrdNHSiBczVvvGpFdE72FwfdWi-Cbbwe67fLrdcEc5DmbJGx_9md4Hb08v46jc2RBTK4UMbO4tbuYF4PZe7TB-83dr-7TwMlC8KcJ6qnA5Hsmlml_d1dteZkhQpV6tEW-RJVqmedahmNSAberkruOshOdqTPVn9pzOkCXJju46-pzPDSQ=s856" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="489" data-original-width="856" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjokQ4A1EuMMYrdNHSiBczVvvGpFdE72FwfdWi-Cbbwe67fLrdcEc5DmbJGx_9md4Hb08v46jc2RBTK4UMbO4tbuYF4PZe7TB-83dr-7TwMlC8KcJ6qnA5Hsmlml_d1dteZkhQpV6tEW-RJVqmedahmNSAberkruOshOdqTPVn9pzOkCXJju46-pzPDSQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>I remember the spreading branches of the catalpa with its heart-shaped leaves growing in the yard of our apartment in town, and the ash saplings we dug out of a friend’s woods and transported to our new home on the bumper of our little Volkswagen Beetle. I climbed trees, hung by my legs from their branches, played house in their shade, rested against their trunks as I daydreamed. For my tenth birthday, mom and dad gave me a little Golden Field Guide to the Trees. At school, we memorized Joyce Kilmer’s poem, "Trees."<br /><br />Trees were always there, always lovely, always in the landscape of my life, no matter where I lived or what stage of life I was experiencing.<br /><br />But one day, when I was a middle-aged woman, a speaker at a conference in Vancouver added a whole new dimension to my concept of trees. He told us about nurse logs. A nurse log, he said, is a tree that has died, and then fallen down in the forest. As it decomposes, as insects and microbes break it down, it slowly turns into soil. The chemical action of decomposition creates warmth, and much like an incubator, it creates a safe and fertile environment for new little trees to sprout and grow. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7FAyzRugWH8vN_f_t0Ox8DjAglR8HZn37szA_81_ru3R6LWUw-9h4QsQfbtEebgU95yxX0rlvs1CxP6Hh-Q4VI0A-JB8aVjfeAtqzcdbigSzaivt7Wf1LuMCNQAEId6xsQkNIN2ItXFbXJX29mqEg3bKDINgE9g9Y-_6NCNFDfM1sHmVPSDxJsZLRVw=s869" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="869" data-original-width="550" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7FAyzRugWH8vN_f_t0Ox8DjAglR8HZn37szA_81_ru3R6LWUw-9h4QsQfbtEebgU95yxX0rlvs1CxP6Hh-Q4VI0A-JB8aVjfeAtqzcdbigSzaivt7Wf1LuMCNQAEId6xsQkNIN2ItXFbXJX29mqEg3bKDINgE9g9Y-_6NCNFDfM1sHmVPSDxJsZLRVw=s320" width="203" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>With this lovely image, our speaker was making a point about change, which is all around us – not only in nature, but also in beliefs, institutions, even in our own personal and family lives. New growth comes from old forms that no longer live, but create an environment that nourishes the growth that comes from change. The death of these old forms is not a waste, but can become an incubator for growth. <br /><br />And what’s true for trees is also true for humans.<br /><br />This was an eye-opener for me, an “aha” moment. The insight was comforting, but also challenging. Change happens – that’s inevitable. So how do you use the past to promote healthy growth? <br /><br />Fast forward to 14 years ago, when we moved to Vancouver Island after spending 33 years in Alberta. We were sure this is what we wanted to do, but all changes are hard. One day, feeling disconnected from everything we’d left behind, I walked in the woods and found peace in the trees. I felt gratitude for the past, but realized that in it were the seeds of our future. This began my art quilting journey. I created a little quilt to express my feelings of disconnection.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjoT-a4tFE03fNJkiSQxnrLmw5BZr0F_LXUzS7evaHSvTgDxMzzmt5L_Ut38zovggg9gq6PqU4mTJt2qNB2Wy_LiIgEx4e8ymd-yVsOejKCBEpKjR_tWVL4U8ysFYnB_r5biFoG8EvC16vLqDDaYSv8SJznbbgZI32k0ljX7v_pdV4BEY0fZKA_qCGyTg=s2272" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1704" data-original-width="2272" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjoT-a4tFE03fNJkiSQxnrLmw5BZr0F_LXUzS7evaHSvTgDxMzzmt5L_Ut38zovggg9gq6PqU4mTJt2qNB2Wy_LiIgEx4e8ymd-yVsOejKCBEpKjR_tWVL4U8ysFYnB_r5biFoG8EvC16vLqDDaYSv8SJznbbgZI32k0ljX7v_pdV4BEY0fZKA_qCGyTg=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>A month later, feeling more settled in my environment, I created another, featuring a healthy tree beside a flowing river, to document the journey of change. I created more tree pieces, based on what I saw on my walks in the woods. And so it went. </p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGwvhGpr2wgGIpSsi3RU4HVMBEH7fcJ82osfFUobBvR_UWjqgH4a63DmiUa5K_Bd4qG0J1i6_vBxQRlqseMrEM0glAZeGGZOgyIcjrNtBmq0OBPdjGZVYoxtQtDXdb0BgCAERsXHg3T-wdakmaJd-CN0ZpJHNcb0Hg5xfOQJ1n1XvsRC1dP0snwElciw=s800" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGwvhGpr2wgGIpSsi3RU4HVMBEH7fcJ82osfFUobBvR_UWjqgH4a63DmiUa5K_Bd4qG0J1i6_vBxQRlqseMrEM0glAZeGGZOgyIcjrNtBmq0OBPdjGZVYoxtQtDXdb0BgCAERsXHg3T-wdakmaJd-CN0ZpJHNcb0Hg5xfOQJ1n1XvsRC1dP0snwElciw=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This tree beside the Puntledge River was still vibrant when I created this piece in about 2010. It has since fallen down and is gone. I miss it. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table> </p><p>Soon, there was a “tree wall” in our home, a gallery of art pieces that features trees in all kinds of formats. </p><p>A more recent piece also features trees. It is entitled “New Growth from Old” featuring a nurse stump (which I’ve written about before on this blog “What a Wonderful World, May 25, 2019). </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmnroqlp46s7RYi5JOC_SIOYZnDv4vGMyiETmNjzU8ER5xlFcZv59GwJsc6DmZxUsJPNv3SoleWb-c4wi2fq70Ogf7KBxvF68IJMF9nLlBllIAsxo-m2aIhZUH6rXTbiEYPrAu7zUfU9c92LX0ZoFJzF29JdoSJPPgSnWG8Pyvaj5cJCQvZle5lLhA-w=s3205" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3205" data-original-width="2304" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmnroqlp46s7RYi5JOC_SIOYZnDv4vGMyiETmNjzU8ER5xlFcZv59GwJsc6DmZxUsJPNv3SoleWb-c4wi2fq70Ogf7KBxvF68IJMF9nLlBllIAsxo-m2aIhZUH6rXTbiEYPrAu7zUfU9c92LX0ZoFJzF29JdoSJPPgSnWG8Pyvaj5cJCQvZle5lLhA-w=w288-h400" width="288" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> This is another one, which I named “Three Sisters.” </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNGHgbUKUueBpjikKs8nBg34uf5wYGSdB76bViv4b9-jubss8rKQZGrvh890_IipGO1JQbNf9XYbFlzCMel41l9Z4UC0EwzSd9pxT6sCxYfoc4FELP14LWnRjo14oHXDHTBucHeYFngsI4b-ZbinKjphkH2_67geZDW7bbH95ZlFeiBQN5zUo92lsoFg=s4608" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNGHgbUKUueBpjikKs8nBg34uf5wYGSdB76bViv4b9-jubss8rKQZGrvh890_IipGO1JQbNf9XYbFlzCMel41l9Z4UC0EwzSd9pxT6sCxYfoc4FELP14LWnRjo14oHXDHTBucHeYFngsI4b-ZbinKjphkH2_67geZDW7bbH95ZlFeiBQN5zUo92lsoFg=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>This year is a momentous year for my two sisters and me. Two of us celebrated 50 years of marriage, and the younger one celebrated 30 years. This calls for some new fibre art, and so I created three identical “Three Sisters” tree pieces, one for each of us. The nurse log at the bottom of the piece has grounded us as sisters, and has provided rich soil for our physical, mental, emotional, spiritual and social growth. It’s the ground of our being.<br /><br />But there’s even more significance to these tree nurseries. The sibling trees grouped together create a supportive environment in which to grow. Their roots intertwine and communicate with each other. Their roots also receive distress calls from each other, and the sibling trees will adjust their feeding patterns to help the one in distress, even sending out nutrients to the struggling sibling tree. (I’m not making this up; the latest scientific research supports this.) These trees – and we as sisters – have each others’ backs.<br /><br />My journey with trees is not finished yet. Those nurse logs have not only provided a place for young trees to grow, but also inspired thoughtful growth for an older woman like me. <br /></p><br />Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-9127920439358869232022-01-07T12:37:00.000-08:002022-01-07T12:37:09.603-08:00Postcards for a New Year<p>The crow woke up on the first day of the new year. “Hey, get busy,” she scolded me. “You’ve been lollygagging around long enough. Get your rear in gear.”<br /><br />I didn’t need a scolding – I’ve been missing the flow of creative juices. This fall wasn’t a great time for me. Now I wanted to see what would happen if I went into the studio and just started doing something, anything at all. </p><p> I had a new journal - all those blank pages. I wondered if I could sketch my way through the year, or at least do something different from the boring drivel I’d jotted down in 2021 – stuff like, “leftovers for supper,” “played crib with Al and lost,” and “raining again.” Maybe I could make a fabric post card today, then sketch it and write about it in my journal.<br /><br />I pulled a few pieces of fabric from my scraps – some sparkly white, a freckled blue, and a modern abstract print. I looked out the window, and these words came to me: “Sun sparkles on snow.” It was a beginning. <br /><br />An hour or so later, this was the result: a postcard with a poem stitched on the back:<br /></p><p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiKE2XXl8LzJX3rWeYNcL5beWOdN9_xAnoP-KOgzrjbc2bVW7ca9Vv0atZuOnDRha2bndgYQEmnhQvRjSBV_jAwafRFZ4Zfrz0pD5MNh7q8FohfpeRrLj2BEma-zh1OwEvSFGm5lVdMhVDhwgLMP1khFH5GWmDfgxUCGVsL5boCngU8v8wy7m9TmdGMwA=s1757" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1193" data-original-width="1757" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiKE2XXl8LzJX3rWeYNcL5beWOdN9_xAnoP-KOgzrjbc2bVW7ca9Vv0atZuOnDRha2bndgYQEmnhQvRjSBV_jAwafRFZ4Zfrz0pD5MNh7q8FohfpeRrLj2BEma-zh1OwEvSFGm5lVdMhVDhwgLMP1khFH5GWmDfgxUCGVsL5boCngU8v8wy7m9TmdGMwA=w400-h271" width="400" /></a><br /><br />Maybe it’s a bit grandiose to call it a poem, but this is what is stitched on the back: </p><p>“Sun sparkles on snow. New paths to follow. New trails to break. Where will they take us?” <br /><br />Now the juices really started flowing. Could I send the postcard to someone anonymously? Could I do more postcards? Might I do a postcard a day? Could I follow this thread and take it wherever it might go? Well, why not?<br /><br />I find that when my mind is open to an idea, suddenly all kinds of words and images appear that seem to be related to that thought. Sort of like “Field of Dreams”: if you build it, they will come. If you keep your mental ears open, you will get new insights, you will see new visions.<br /><br />So sure enough, on Jan 2, my friend sent me a poem related to this idea, a little ditty that she remembers reading in her autograph album (remember those!!!). It goes like this:<br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">“The future lies before us like a field of snow,</span><br /><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Be careful how you tread it, for every step will show.”</span><br /></p><p><span style="color: #3d85c6;"></span><br />Rebel that I am, I wanted to do a different take on those words.<br /><br />So January 2, I produced this postcard:</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjr3Cft7TqJDRfvcgwDyMIqBRAn7zNvoEEXSDJ8G7R0eEPoWEvZiSE_dGPxa-8bpL82KmwigTGfuO5fFSesP6-OioSby40CJCP2IQzff184AuF1R7bDOvZwpLpHWkPCUhwat0uaQEpt3LQ6kF359vmXLcNjgqHokx82W4Z_UdnObCQZQxiH9wPa44hQUQ=s1744" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1202" data-original-width="1744" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjr3Cft7TqJDRfvcgwDyMIqBRAn7zNvoEEXSDJ8G7R0eEPoWEvZiSE_dGPxa-8bpL82KmwigTGfuO5fFSesP6-OioSby40CJCP2IQzff184AuF1R7bDOvZwpLpHWkPCUhwat0uaQEpt3LQ6kF359vmXLcNjgqHokx82W4Z_UdnObCQZQxiH9wPa44hQUQ=w400-h276" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>The words on the back read:<br />“Where the path well-traveled ends is where your adventure begins. Be strong and of good courage. Take that first step and venture forth into the great unknown.” <br /><br />There was no room for more writing, or I might have added, “Don’t worry what those footprints look like, they’ll probably be messy and you may go off in the wrong directions, but that’s what life is all about. It takes a lot of mistakes to figure out the right thing.”<br /><br />January 3: I began thinking about how striking out on your own into uncharted territory is scary. <br /><br />That’s when I read a story in the NY Times about an 85 year old man who had just recorded his first album of original music. He said, “Do something that involves other people. Even one other person. Getting out of a groove — sometimes you just need company. There’s this fantasy that creativity is something you do alone, by candlelight. No! Do something with other people who are as genuinely interested as you are.”<br /><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2022/01/01/style/new-years-resolutions-quotes-tips.html?smid=em-share">https://www.nytimes.com/2022/01/01/style/new-years-resolutions-quotes-tips.html?smid=em-share</a><br /><br />He’s right – knowing that I will share these postcards with others here in this blog and perhaps in the mail or in a show is part of the joy of creating. So here is postcard #3:</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhnCL4zQ1uQgfWEud_-MtmWOkQHQgnGhO100gIFL57Bv01ymsfLphwxx7OpKO7BVanhmH6texqatd42weAViiHqUmt4gywECmKjZI4FHlcElnBopxkeTDZdqgyTcRoqEVljlX_7YqRO9Xi1q0m9p3q1umoLuLxjU2dCgtdIbGbdibqbI6tNMN0U0qbjlQ=s1757" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1192" data-original-width="1757" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhnCL4zQ1uQgfWEud_-MtmWOkQHQgnGhO100gIFL57Bv01ymsfLphwxx7OpKO7BVanhmH6texqatd42weAViiHqUmt4gywECmKjZI4FHlcElnBopxkeTDZdqgyTcRoqEVljlX_7YqRO9Xi1q0m9p3q1umoLuLxjU2dCgtdIbGbdibqbI6tNMN0U0qbjlQ=w400-h271" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>The back side records the words of a well-known song: “Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart, and you’ll never walk alone.” <br /><br />January 4: As I was sipping my morning coffee, I read the following poem in Mary Oliver’s book <b><i>Devotions:</i></b></p><p><b><i><br /></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicmJho99zkidTErZCb0wcrqR-sFKFIxX4wWjuOlqoMlwCYgydwJngGcHh1s-adFcvDKQ6kfXaNLuo4VxtzOw7uS4sjzkwIQDsdiKLPN012jUYZKfEaA2uvV_Wnck9iepTei3uP7QUu-qf9CENihmhPZEMnAEu2Vvi1B0ZqjPQqu-tj3Ou-qElas5Ybvg=s1939" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1939" data-original-width="1500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicmJho99zkidTErZCb0wcrqR-sFKFIxX4wWjuOlqoMlwCYgydwJngGcHh1s-adFcvDKQ6kfXaNLuo4VxtzOw7uS4sjzkwIQDsdiKLPN012jUYZKfEaA2uvV_Wnck9iepTei3uP7QUu-qf9CENihmhPZEMnAEu2Vvi1B0ZqjPQqu-tj3Ou-qElas5Ybvg=w310-h400" width="310" /></a></b></div><b><br /></b><br />Oh, what fun! Dancing crows – yes! If you’re having an adventure, do it with a smile on your face and a spring in your step. <br /><br />Here’s postcard #4 – from my studio to your computer, and wishing you a grand adventure as you step into the unknown in 2022.<br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiugzmhCvIQbfo2nffrHOsBi3aAKTBYSISfeU4VOne58kfwRU5q5ZvVZk67FK5IcON2wxRA9mtSztLCyYkEwKrBIi4Gb91KNDxrfBDvjRO71fF8hcfaYaep_VogbaLT2zq-PvQbvGlv22rh5bKksyIJ6gdk1rSGdQyk10ItJe-4pWGYvS9n7gkUW7eI4A=s1735" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1208" data-original-width="1735" height="446" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiugzmhCvIQbfo2nffrHOsBi3aAKTBYSISfeU4VOne58kfwRU5q5ZvVZk67FK5IcON2wxRA9mtSztLCyYkEwKrBIi4Gb91KNDxrfBDvjRO71fF8hcfaYaep_VogbaLT2zq-PvQbvGlv22rh5bKksyIJ6gdk1rSGdQyk10ItJe-4pWGYvS9n7gkUW7eI4A=w640-h446" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></p><br /><br />Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-36711678799200558252021-11-30T12:52:00.001-08:002021-11-30T12:52:22.131-08:00 "Los Litte"<p><i>The meaning of the title will become apparent further down in this blog</i><br /><br />It was gratifying to get so many responses to my last blog featuring my Covid Crazy Quilt. One friend emailed me, “In these times of Covid and restrictions, it is interesting to hear what people are up to. Quilting is your way of remembering these many days. Your blog made me think of my way of coping ...”<br /><br />Coping is a big word these days, and no wonder. Covid isn’t the only thing we’re dealing with. Here in British Columbia, a massive storm has wrought devastation to many people in our province. It’s destroyed homes, farm animals, transportation routes, taken lives, and left us bewildered and anxious. After record heat waves and forest fires this summer, now this. What’s next? </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc4lUzrwUlLDzFNeONYnpIVCcKvEL2uN8mk0nvmIgTKZlanQHRmORoJZjuVTAKaU743s3xUtLoCMTTaSP4ADztZZawXlCQ5-zAglpJJnWYKBciJV7U14hsd-7fPurMeO_UaiUo_7qsg7eI/s340/BC+strong.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="340" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc4lUzrwUlLDzFNeONYnpIVCcKvEL2uN8mk0nvmIgTKZlanQHRmORoJZjuVTAKaU743s3xUtLoCMTTaSP4ADztZZawXlCQ5-zAglpJJnWYKBciJV7U14hsd-7fPurMeO_UaiUo_7qsg7eI/s320/BC+strong.webp" width="320" /></a><br /><br />When I checked the dictionary, I found this definition of coping: “Something a person does to deal with a difficult situation.” We need to find ways to deal with these difficult situations, or they will destroy our hope and our emotional health.<br /><br />And if I dig around a little deeper, I find lots of advice and tips. They all sound so good: <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKsyQd-FTKO2PAj6-uaPBHo6-CFGsV7lriZdWpqSyN32a3uCu8bFObED1B7T-_yIpSRIr8aNqDmTdyXci83ANJNy8Twkx5n2y5DsjgNPoQE1vBVS5JTQTu1Hbe7rpx4fRpROV46P4FBYIa/s814/coping-skills_orig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="814" data-original-width="564" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKsyQd-FTKO2PAj6-uaPBHo6-CFGsV7lriZdWpqSyN32a3uCu8bFObED1B7T-_yIpSRIr8aNqDmTdyXci83ANJNy8Twkx5n2y5DsjgNPoQE1vBVS5JTQTu1Hbe7rpx4fRpROV46P4FBYIa/w445-h640/coping-skills_orig.jpg" width="445" /></a></div><br /><p><br />In my recent post, I wrote about one method of coping, which took up about one hour a week. If you subtract about 50 hours for sleeping, there were 167 other hours left in the week to fill with other coping mechanisms. And the truth is, that didn’t always go so well.<br /><br />Those walks I planned to take? The projects I started? The intentions I did not fulfill? The kind words I wanted to always speak to my resident sweetie? The positive thoughts and affirmations I wanted to fill my day with? Ha. Often the wheels have fallen off my coping mechanisms. I loaf around on the sofa, eat too much, doom-scroll through my phone for bad-news stories ... and just listing my shortcomings isn’t helping at all.<br /><br />I’ve been pondering this. Why is it that I feel I need to be so much better at coping than I often am? Shouldn’t I be in control of my feelings, not have these blue days (or weeks) when nothing goes right? At my ripe old age, shouldn’t I have figured out “the secret?” <br /><br />That’s when I realize that I’m equating “coping” with “control.” Coping methods often help us get through or around or over anxieties, sadness, frustrations and anger, but these methods cannot remove the situations we are facing. </p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPhnt9JJAJdFr0MlSjiJqWSnt0xlgPzFZ5BlaAkIgUUikRX0J3dudbs0mIu7EBdcrcloc-7mdfjgkT0yzZRsXQqL_Q3ITaXdyJ_IhFEn1OWZGBT4H-QC23Y-D_0N0xo-jSplnTof5ZgbYI/s227/coping+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="227" data-original-width="222" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPhnt9JJAJdFr0MlSjiJqWSnt0xlgPzFZ5BlaAkIgUUikRX0J3dudbs0mIu7EBdcrcloc-7mdfjgkT0yzZRsXQqL_Q3ITaXdyJ_IhFEn1OWZGBT4H-QC23Y-D_0N0xo-jSplnTof5ZgbYI/w391-h400/coping+2.jpg" width="391" /></a></div><br /><p> </p>Whatever the situation you are dealing with – Covid, natural
disasters, losses, root canals/toilet training/empty shelves at the
grocery store/gasoline rationing, disease, __________ (fill in the blank
with your own personal mountain to climb) – coping methods cannot
change that. <p><br />As long as I am fighting against things I cannot control, I am fighting a losing battle. The limitations on our lives right now? That is Reality. The imperfections we carry within ourselves, so that coping mechanisms don’t always work? That is Reality. <br /><br />I think back to my dad, as he struggled with the disabilities of old age; he, who loved to read and write and explore new places, was blind and in a wheel chair. “Ik mat los litte,” he told us, using the Frisian dialect of his youth. “I must let go.”<br /><br />It’s what I need to do, too: let go of the mistaken belief I can control everything, that if only I could learn to cope better, all would be sunshine and light. It won’t be...and yet, as my dad did, I can find a measure of peace and equilibrium. I can be easier on myself and others, knowing we’re mostly doing our best, and (as Rumi said) “We are all just walking each other home.”<br /><br />This blog finally found its legs when I read this, written by recovering alcoholic Holly Whitaker and posted at this site: <a href="https://cac.org/category/daily-meditations/2021/">https://cac.org/category/daily-meditations/2021/<br /></a><br />“I’d always considered the word surrender to be blasphemous. Surrender was never a possibility to consider; it wasn’t something self-respecting, self-reliant folk like me do—we scheme around and bulldoze through whatever stands in our way. <br /><br /> ... [But] Surrender is the strongest, most subversive thing you can do in this world. ... It’s a way of existing, a balancing act. For me, it looks like this: I pick up the baton and I run as far as I can, and I hand it over when I’m out of breath. Or actually maybe it’s like: I’m running with the baton, but the Universe is holding on to the other half of it, and we have an agreement that I’ll figure out the parts I can and hand over the parts I can’t.”<br /><br />"Los litte," my dad would say. Let go.<br /><br />Whittaker continues, “By surrendering to whatever is unfolding and by accepting what is ... you not only get a break from the exhaustion of having to control everything, but you also get to experience life, instead of what you think life owes you. <br /><br />And, she ends by saying, “Hint: what life wants to give us is infinitely better than what we think it owes us.”</p><p><i>I've sewed the squares of my covid crazy quilt together, and will share the end result when I've figured out how to finish it. Don't hold your breath! Things take a little longer these days, and that's okay.</i></p><p><i> </i> <br /></p><br />Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-17274316122802978302021-11-07T16:25:00.000-08:002021-11-07T16:25:40.509-08:00One Strip at a Time<p>February, 2020: that’s when we started hearing about “that virus in China”. March 2020: Yup, it’s here. Social distancing, self-isolation, and hand-sanitizing become part of the lexicon. April 2020: Debates about masking begin...remember that? </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpqEEcgsWmrnuu7kJBc7wdOK5OXWXaXstoBdbNbLfd-J1oLxQcABG8HWO9coffFVGlMFBCHZCSsPQKVVrLTZAh8wPNckpZTZBFfx3ta2VK4FJIzmX8M4YPd5cezqTSh2wadr1QT5BDDojO/s300/small+steps+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpqEEcgsWmrnuu7kJBc7wdOK5OXWXaXstoBdbNbLfd-J1oLxQcABG8HWO9coffFVGlMFBCHZCSsPQKVVrLTZAh8wPNckpZTZBFfx3ta2VK4FJIzmX8M4YPd5cezqTSh2wadr1QT5BDDojO/s0/small+steps+6.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>We tore off the calendar pages as the story unfolded and our knowledge grew. We got the vaccine. And yet, now it’s November 2021, 19 months later, and we are still struggling. November is the beginning of the grey times. How will we get through another winter?<br /><br />Last year, when all this started, I optimistically decided the days would go faster and better if I counted them off, creating a concrete reminder of each day to bring me closer to the end of the pandemic. Sort of like an advent calendar counting down to Christmas. After all, how long could Covid possibly last?<br /><br />In April 2020 I counted off the days by creating little 2x3" fabric snapshots of something that brought me delight. I called it my diary of daily delights. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzaYzqNx4yPCVRvZGDx-OunjVqAj879KNEtjY6uA8xpt_LY0yEVCW_4zGQVjMPZezkx_zaLaWOUq9R8ApPHDYqlOKnUIRWuIqeJvHIessA_HB1GD7VOUkODFViMwxg6lPoXMvtYHLwABh_/s1066/small+steps+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1066" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzaYzqNx4yPCVRvZGDx-OunjVqAj879KNEtjY6uA8xpt_LY0yEVCW_4zGQVjMPZezkx_zaLaWOUq9R8ApPHDYqlOKnUIRWuIqeJvHIessA_HB1GD7VOUkODFViMwxg6lPoXMvtYHLwABh_/w360-h640/small+steps+5.jpg" width="360" /></a></div> <p></p><p>In May 2020, I shared my journaling thoughts with you. In June, I counted off the days by walking every day. And then the wheels fell off. From July to October 2020, whatever good intentions I had, evaporated. But in re-reading blog posts from those months, I find a repeated theme: left foot, right foot, breathe. Repeat. This is how we will get through this. Keep on keeping on. And I did. I hope you did, too.<br /><br />Then, at the beginning of November 2020, I decided to create a quilt square every week; I had so many scraps that needed to be used. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN0BEuVAHKTqybLAPnpfgW_EwzW6uBc2lstj56sO9wjKD1lRaSmExJZ-DpGBkn7_8g-KnZ-5Ib-1TVooC44aAyYwNnta1K5IjlMAk-RFnthA6w6jbUmnqVXQLrbgs0WdhA_bKu91EQFJX5/s1574/small+steps+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1574" data-original-width="1331" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN0BEuVAHKTqybLAPnpfgW_EwzW6uBc2lstj56sO9wjKD1lRaSmExJZ-DpGBkn7_8g-KnZ-5Ib-1TVooC44aAyYwNnta1K5IjlMAk-RFnthA6w6jbUmnqVXQLrbgs0WdhA_bKu91EQFJX5/s320/small+steps+4.jpg" width="271" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> Each square would consist of 7 randomly cut strips in colours that summarized that week’s events. For instance, 7 grey and black strips to represent a full week of rain; 7 gold and orange strips for the week when the temperatures were blazing in mid-summer; and 7 pink and green strips for the week the tulips began blooming in our garden.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA1_DFWv-JFu2xEmqWb2dygtAs3rrk6fv0XhULxD1vV39h09zrkwbKNnFtWnt-BCtUrrmcVbDeuQgnTixdqAMozcr3zbGzr9y49WeFrLTD47oPLJNknpJIPAUEj4FW5NEp8kTk2jpdCjJc/s800/small+steps+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA1_DFWv-JFu2xEmqWb2dygtAs3rrk6fv0XhULxD1vV39h09zrkwbKNnFtWnt-BCtUrrmcVbDeuQgnTixdqAMozcr3zbGzr9y49WeFrLTD47oPLJNknpJIPAUEj4FW5NEp8kTk2jpdCjJc/w300-h400/small+steps+3.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>So that’s what I did. The year is over, and I now have 52 squares of 7 strips in a huge variety of colours, all of them together representing one full year, 365 days, of a Covid-dominated life. I just finished the last square on November 1, 2021. </p><p></p><p>This practice...of doing one little thing a day, or one little thing a week ... works for me. I may be cranky about the pandemic, upset with the political shenanigans all around the world, angry about the rich getting richer while the poor get poorer, worried about climate change, frustrated that we are hemmed in by Covid, but when I am working on this one small thing, I get lost in the process of creating, and for a little while, I forget about the ugly. Perhaps I’m creating hope. And that hope stays with me.<br /><br />Now I have 52 squares. When I started, I had no idea of what I would do with these squares, so I didn’t worry about the rules of design. There’s no unifying colour to tie these squares together. I did not use the colour wheel to ensure nothing clashes. I did not map out a design to follow. There was no big picture. These squares were about getting through the pandemic, one lovely strip after another, one day at a time, one small step at a time.<br /><br />Yesterday I laid the squares out on the floor in the order that I had created them, a bright orange square next to a subdued grey next to a vibrant green, and on and on. Lo and behold, what I saw then was the Big Picture. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsVKLJ_E95G0L4Im4zV-aWcOlfBcTjdKjaB0Ce9kezoztEx32GT-pZDFoBHbquBtG8012UGXL44jaoWwg3CjG5WriuBp8MI3nBdkHEZ_i2qPlL9ikrbilLiOYUWx9qt7mAVYqMBUo99BVl/s860/small+steps+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="860" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsVKLJ_E95G0L4Im4zV-aWcOlfBcTjdKjaB0Ce9kezoztEx32GT-pZDFoBHbquBtG8012UGXL44jaoWwg3CjG5WriuBp8MI3nBdkHEZ_i2qPlL9ikrbilLiOYUWx9qt7mAVYqMBUo99BVl/w597-h640/small+steps+2.jpg" width="597" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>One strip at a time, I had created a picture of life. My blanket of many colours is what life is like: the hours make up a day, the days add up to weeks, and one week at a time, we live through a year. Good days and not so good days, bright weeks and dark weeks, one leading into another. Each fabric, portraying just one day, is beautiful in itself, just as each day has some moments of beauty. Each square is beautiful/interesting/evocative in itself. And when you put them all together, what you have is a picture of this past year, a picture in riotous colours that don’t match, don’t create a pattern, aren’t nice and neat and orderly -- just like life. <br /><br />And beautiful, anyway. </p><p></p><p><i>If you are a stickler for details, you will notice that there are actually 53 squares here, and that one of the squares is a picture of a tree. That's the week when we got together with our whole family to celebrate our 50th anniversary on the edge of the ocean, where the full silver moon rose every night over the water. I think I will sew all these squares together and create a covid quilt as a keepsake. </i><br /><br /> </p>Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-61942949052595963372021-06-21T12:56:00.000-07:002021-06-21T12:56:17.229-07:00<p><i> </i></p><p><i> </i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgixRgr1YFsrSNLTO_gjr2Fz57VEV9-U6x3Q7VUl1J3HlpQ4UC9p7u5sxEfynIGa6vRWMvf1StUv4l9-jN3bvujJomLmiHJyX4JNf6Npfxj-ATZ13h2nrR0khDpK_O6nWOSKKJ5ytiqolSS/s1632/mouse+camp.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1632" data-original-width="1224" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgixRgr1YFsrSNLTO_gjr2Fz57VEV9-U6x3Q7VUl1J3HlpQ4UC9p7u5sxEfynIGa6vRWMvf1StUv4l9-jN3bvujJomLmiHJyX4JNf6Npfxj-ATZ13h2nrR0khDpK_O6nWOSKKJ5ytiqolSS/s320/mouse+camp.JPG" /></a></i></div><i><br /></i><p></p><p><i>We've been camping for the past few weeks. A friend, who knows that I never go anywhere without my computer, wondered if I might be spending my time “boiling down the sap of my life stories”. And I have been. But I won’t post them until I’m sure I’ve boiled them down enough so all the sweetness is revealed. <br /><br />In the meantime, because it’s raining (again!) I thought I might share a little story.<br /></i><br />Just before we left on this trip, I’d received an invitation to rent a writer’s hideaway retreat for a week in September. I was excited about the opportunity: a charming oceanside cabin off the beaten track at a very reasonable price. What could be bad about that? Then I read the fine print: there was a warning about bears and cougars, and the road to the cabin was very steep and washboardy, and might not be navigable in the rain. But the clincher was this: are you comfortable with knowing that mice enjoy the residence as well? <br /> <br />Mice. There’s a big difference between the occasional errant mouse checking out the premises, and a family of mice making themselves at home, running over your bed at night. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy_0Lz3_UDXsEATr2tX75tIwxN0U-ZPv3sBSFg2Pkhg4ganV0zX1DwW8CupOWRVaSG-IGgdA7EAcmoPGqCOTRX8VRe52m1S5m0Hm8s0MLzrlWTkBp5C_gkoJXzExS4OjR4bPotGoF30q6T/s300/mouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy_0Lz3_UDXsEATr2tX75tIwxN0U-ZPv3sBSFg2Pkhg4ganV0zX1DwW8CupOWRVaSG-IGgdA7EAcmoPGqCOTRX8VRe52m1S5m0Hm8s0MLzrlWTkBp5C_gkoJXzExS4OjR4bPotGoF30q6T/s0/mouse.jpg" /></a></div> Which would this be? Just in case it was the latter, I regretfully I turned down the offer. <br /><br />Well, the gods must be laughing now, because guess what? A few days after setting up camp here, late one evening while I was quietly reading, a mouse scurried into my line of sight. I jumped up, and of course, he disappeared down some mouse hole that we couldn’t find. But overnight, he left his trail of calling cards behind. The next morning, we bought a few mousetraps, baited them, and then went to bed.<br /><br />In the middle of the night, Al heard something and got up to check. Poor little mousie was running across the floor with a trap hanging from one of his appendages. Fortunately for him, as he frantically ran down his hidden exit, he was able to leave the trap behind (and no, there was no amputation of any part of him left behind.)<br /><br />You would think this would be enough of a warning that he would never make another appearance. But no, he showed up again the next night. Unfortunately (for him) that was the end of that story. He died happy, though, chewing on a piece of extra-old cheddar. Mousie was dispatched into the underbrush. Perhaps an owl would find him. And that was that, we thought.<br /><br />But the saga continued. Mousie must have had a friend, because the next morning we found more evidence of mouse visitations. Not only that, but our friend who was camping next door was very annoyed with us. She’d had her own visit while she was quietly reading, and she claimed we’d sent him over. We lent her a few of our traps and that night we waited with baited breath (ha ha) for the night visitor to make another appearance. <br /><br />Our friend won the mouse lottery. Another mouse was dispatched into the underbrush. This is really the end of that story. <br /><br />But not quite. When I told the story to my daughter-in-law, she said, “I wonder if the mouse appearances have a message for you.” Was there something I needed to learn from the possible mice in the cabin and the real appearance in our trailer?<br /><br />Well...maybe. I’ve been reading a bit about “living life on the edge” in a book called <b><i>This One Wild and Precious Life</i></b> by Sarah Wilson. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaaHFB9dN8JyV1iSNGLjeGZqtqTPkyQVZpaDI6_9WV1QJPfpl0aIFPmX6kXGlUWFgoxvZ_XPo4qE3bnGSXGOgKYcyfVxacLGjAoayTsqeq_i9DQUSAnOq90v1qxgakZQd9kuhCtYLuegt2/s1632/sarah+wilson.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1632" data-original-width="1224" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaaHFB9dN8JyV1iSNGLjeGZqtqTPkyQVZpaDI6_9WV1QJPfpl0aIFPmX6kXGlUWFgoxvZ_XPo4qE3bnGSXGOgKYcyfVxacLGjAoayTsqeq_i9DQUSAnOq90v1qxgakZQd9kuhCtYLuegt2/s320/sarah+wilson.JPG" /></a></div> <p></p><p>She says when you move away from the safety and security of your everyday life and move out to the edge of your life, where the boundaries are less defined and you’re not sure what’s going to happen next, you will find that you are more alive. You pay attention more closely, and you begin to grow towards the edge. Eleanor Roosevelt famously said, “Do something everyday that scares you.” When I turned down the writing retreat, was I avoiding mice, or was I avoiding challenges to my safe life? Was it more than just mice that had me rethinking the invite? Was it that I suddenly realized a week all by myself (except for the mice) might not be the idyllic experience I’d imagined? Perhaps in my quiet times, I’d be confronted with issues I needed to address. Maybe it was easier to stay home.<br /><br />How often do we choose the safe path, the one that causes the least anxiety, and thereby forego the thrill of discovering new perspectives? How often do we worry about issues needlessly, and thereby miss the blessings of fresh visions? I’m glad Emma challenged me to to pay attention to the mouse appearances. It pushed me towards the edge, and that’s a good thing. <br /><br />One can overthink this, of course, spending your life questioning your decisions and worrying about lost opportunities. So I also listen to another voice: that of my 6 year old granddaughter Grace, who wrote a song for me on my birthday. Here it is – you can make up the tune yourself. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB3vh61zUUxSiVG65Jt8lHlgAKzDP5wZVctO3efGSxpAkcCrttgk1Mzzczn2ta2Uw4fAPfxtTIwtHF9J1nI5CgmeovUFlciO8LrHNAmU6NVITi7yssXmRlEo7QAV36TxEHcKgcWFRPSnBg/s4608/mouse+worries.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2107" data-original-width="4608" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB3vh61zUUxSiVG65Jt8lHlgAKzDP5wZVctO3efGSxpAkcCrttgk1Mzzczn2ta2Uw4fAPfxtTIwtHF9J1nI5CgmeovUFlciO8LrHNAmU6NVITi7yssXmRlEo7QAV36TxEHcKgcWFRPSnBg/w640-h293/mouse+worries.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><p>In case you do not read "firstgrade-ese" English, here's the translation:<br /><br />“Wories, wories go awai<br />Wories don’t bug me aneymore.<br />I don’t like you aneymore.<br />I don’t like the way you treat me aneymore.<br />Goaway wories goaway. <br /><br />This song you can sing wen your worede then your wories will go away.”<br /><br />Thanks, Grace. And no more worries about mice, kiddo. I’m over that!</p>Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-87646530179944723122021-05-23T13:37:00.002-07:002021-05-23T20:23:02.149-07:00Your Life in Pictures<p> The other day, I came across this meme on my Facebook page: </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiezHOUr8DfFdSySmxiqIDDhpC2h6NARFRCYHMLhIjQrSFZRaszDCrtrX-B5mJrvtAMhNWLg-hCRGfdZyHugJOBVK0jwYGm1SVAVQ_tJG-rXXax1IYi7An_kawu0mesOZxqgSgAEFW4PO1M/s960/Love+your+life.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="705" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiezHOUr8DfFdSySmxiqIDDhpC2h6NARFRCYHMLhIjQrSFZRaszDCrtrX-B5mJrvtAMhNWLg-hCRGfdZyHugJOBVK0jwYGm1SVAVQ_tJG-rXXax1IYi7An_kawu0mesOZxqgSgAEFW4PO1M/w294-h400/Love+your+life.png" width="294" /></a></div><br /><p>Often memes are cliches, and perhaps this one is, too, but it somehow grabbed me and stuck with me for the day. Perhaps it stuck with me because in my last blog, I wrote that it was time to leave the deep thinking behind and just use my blog to tell stories for a while. Perhaps it’s because I am currently working on family history and digging up many stories and sorting through boxes and boxes of pictures. And this meme is telling me to love my life, take lots of pictures and make my life the best story possible. <br /><br />I’ve had a few problems writing my family history/memoir. The biggest one is too much material. I have written 100 single-spaced pages, and at this point I am still only 6 years old. This is not a memoir, it is verbal diarrhea. At this pace, I’ll have 1,000 plus pages, and even my dearest friends and family will be loath to read it. The story needs a ruthless edit. <br /><br />But the meme gave me an idea: what if I summed up my life in 10 pictures and 10 chapters? What would I choose to show and tell? I wondered if this might be good fodder for Crowdayone: each blog a picture and the story behind it. The picture would portray a foundational part of my life, but it would also need to mean something to the reader. If this exercise of mine inspires you to wonder what 10 photos you might use to illustrate your life and make it “the best story in the world,” great! Let me know how that works for you.<br /><br />But only ten pictures? I'm going to cheat a bit -- I'll use one main photo, and a few others that are secondary. This photo, taken in 1949 when I am about 1 year old, is my first choice and main photo. Even though it is out of focus, I love it. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Rv0PLD6NB8Sv7myXRC433TxnqO8LteOsVBe1DZHGIFdjzVdklQgqrftwF5CcJJngd_kkGL9XyJ_-mOBPiokQASwc3keM6hzfp8VX93WgIaMHnXQoRbpxfR76YsKtlLFMT4FNEObnw5hU/s670/194904001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="456" data-original-width="670" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Rv0PLD6NB8Sv7myXRC433TxnqO8LteOsVBe1DZHGIFdjzVdklQgqrftwF5CcJJngd_kkGL9XyJ_-mOBPiokQASwc3keM6hzfp8VX93WgIaMHnXQoRbpxfR76YsKtlLFMT4FNEObnw5hU/w400-h272/194904001.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br />That’s my mom and dad relaxing in the grass, looking adoringly at me,
their first child. Behind them is their first home, a houseboat. After
the war, a severe housing shortage pressed almost anything livable into
service. Appropriately, this houseboat was named Oeral Thus, meaning
“At Home Everywhere.” When this photo was taken, it was parked on dry land on my grandfather’s farm
outside the little village of Stiens in Friesland, the Netherlands.<br /><br />I
love this photo because it tells a happy story about my beginnings. Mom
and dad had had a long, drawn out courtship – 7 years of an on-again,
off-again relationship. He was 30, she was 29, and they were both still
living at home. She was her mother’s helper, and he was a bachelor, living during the week in barracks in the Polder where the government was draining swamps and turning them into farmland. Mom finally said
yes, and Dad was ecstatic. They were married on July 9, 1947.<br /><br />Perhaps
the dream of a home of their own, where they both felt they belonged,
may have been behind that pursuit and the resulting yes. Mom – Jetske
Hofstra – was the oldest of 10 children. Her own mother had died in the
Spanish flu epidemic when mom was less than a year old; her dad
remarried when she was 7, and so all the children that came after that
were her half-siblings. Her youngest brother was only just 2 – she could
easily have had a child of her own that age, had she been married.
Perhaps Dad’s final proposal – “This is the last time I will ask you. If
you say no, then it’s over forever,” – made her realize that time was
running out. <br /><br />Dad – Foppe de Jong – was the long-awaited first
son in his family, born after three older sisters. But he was not
exactly the kind of boy that his father had hoped for. He was a dreamy,
inquisitive child who enjoyed wandering the fields alone, too smart for
his own good. His father needed a practical, decisive and hard-working
heir to whom he could pass on the farm. The second boy, Otto, proved to
be that son. Dad knew that if he took over the farm, he would always be
at odds with his strong-willed father and his equally strong-willed
younger brother, and so Dad made a decision; he told his dad he would
seek his own fortune, and Otto could be the heir. At the time, Dad was
working in the NoordOost Polder, reclaiming land from the sea. The
government had announced that workers in the Polder would be the first
to get a farm. When mom and dad married, dad moved out of the barracks
into Oeral Thus, which was floating on a canal.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT0RpN8RQcY1rPOkFfK97RD-WZNFFys82upBmfHHl09MlR60sJeCEywQHGDg6Zo3ItnU0s0_7UeEI3JQCTIrZ_qdFb6js_-MaamoJtTfgfUKbD_vIE7NBwlmLPVxAQsRdpWBm2VRGIsjJw/s1024/woonboten-Emmeloord-12-september-1946-1024x768.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT0RpN8RQcY1rPOkFfK97RD-WZNFFys82upBmfHHl09MlR60sJeCEywQHGDg6Zo3ItnU0s0_7UeEI3JQCTIrZ_qdFb6js_-MaamoJtTfgfUKbD_vIE7NBwlmLPVxAQsRdpWBm2VRGIsjJw/s320/woonboten-Emmeloord-12-september-1946-1024x768.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An example of the houseboats that provided accommodation in the NoordOost Polder.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>But alas, the dream did not come true. Dad was far down on the list of people who would get a farm of their own. Mom, dad, and Oeral Thus moved back to
the family farm and dad began working as a hired man for a neighbour.
You might think this would be a very hard time for them – the end of a
dream before it was even begun. But look at them! They are happy – they
have each other and a baby and a place to live with family nearby. Mom
and Dad often referred to Oeral Thus as “Het Arkje” – a little ark.
Noah’s ark had sheltered his family and the animals from disaster when
floodwaters covered the earth. Now this little arkje was a safe place
and a shelter for them. It was where I was born and where I experienced
my first 15 months of life. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQp4aFGVR1KFL88hS3EHzjN5yh0arKYHict6RtPeIRPe-Tlsau6i6x-SGvYcMj3v-bWwo0Wnyb6RE3iDRpj5wzwB_uqW7JeZPtq8NHueCda0JxyK4PPpm2iZBssEmMpny5NVXcwO_zHn14/s1470/img023.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="603" data-original-width="1470" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQp4aFGVR1KFL88hS3EHzjN5yh0arKYHict6RtPeIRPe-Tlsau6i6x-SGvYcMj3v-bWwo0Wnyb6RE3iDRpj5wzwB_uqW7JeZPtq8NHueCda0JxyK4PPpm2iZBssEmMpny5NVXcwO_zHn14/w640-h262/img023.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My grandfather's farm. You can see Oeral Thus parked on the left.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>And mom and dad were young enough to
think about immigrating to Canada to pursue their dream of a farm of
their own, where, apparently, farmers were begging for workers. <br /><br />“We
finally applied for emigration to Canada,” writes my dad. “But that
required a down payment of 100 guilders as a guarantee that our plans to
go were serious. Thus, this became the moment of our final decision!
After discussing the matter once more, Jet said, ‘You make the
decision.’ And I replied, ‘Here is the 100 guilders. If you send it away
with the mailman tomorrow morning, we’ll go. And if you don’t, we’ll
stay!’ When I came home the next day at lunch time, she greeted me with a
smile. That told me enough: our application and the money was on its
way.”<br /><br />“Take your life and make it the best story in the world,”
says the meme. Thanks, mom and dad, for making this first chapter in my
life a great story.</p><p> <i>This is my textile art version of the farm, with the church where I was baptized in the background.</i></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOe1Lp2MbAg0xafQLyRWYSdRTSZAGBNezVipJWoXphtBxkKekmvO1CxgvvWyOROvmDoUPa4lV4Vz-DYQm2723P-W0aWnG7V0phSgyurMDJnfnb0L-NciIeSRy9hFkHfEm9jz8c5auLF6yD/s799/001a+%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="335" data-original-width="799" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOe1Lp2MbAg0xafQLyRWYSdRTSZAGBNezVipJWoXphtBxkKekmvO1CxgvvWyOROvmDoUPa4lV4Vz-DYQm2723P-W0aWnG7V0phSgyurMDJnfnb0L-NciIeSRy9hFkHfEm9jz8c5auLF6yD/w640-h268/001a+%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></i></div><i><br /> </i><p></p>Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-63172651370950244122021-05-08T14:38:00.000-07:002021-05-08T14:38:22.079-07:00Do it Small<p>Do you wonder why you are not all perky and energetic as we enter the 14th month of the pandemic? </p><p>According to psychologist Adam Grant, it’s because you are languishing. Languishing, it turns out, is a recognized psychological term referring to the mid-point between crippling “depression” and good feelings of “flourishing” -- the peak of well-being.<br /><br />“Languishing is a sense of stagnation and emptiness. It feels as if you’re muddling through your days, looking at your life through a foggy windshield. And it might be the dominant emotion of 2021,” says the Times in an article posted below.</p><p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8UnOY4TYJcvuigzzvA2mjd5KN7O3sv7RAtyWpVgK_BxRL8MlT-Z7RVHAEd5clWP28N2LRDboGNDpz_W4_-iXuoNE-GPRQlPxj1j5dntWbn0V-k9-_aELE4b1Bp0PvapgFb5xCCqSldc49/s259/blahs+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8UnOY4TYJcvuigzzvA2mjd5KN7O3sv7RAtyWpVgK_BxRL8MlT-Z7RVHAEd5clWP28N2LRDboGNDpz_W4_-iXuoNE-GPRQlPxj1j5dntWbn0V-k9-_aELE4b1Bp0PvapgFb5xCCqSldc49/w400-h300/blahs+4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br />I’ve diagnosed myself, and I think I am in that state. I’ve tried blogging, making art, reaching out, but the energy is not there to carry through. I wondered how to get myself moving again along the road to flourishing. <br /><br />Self-help articles with ideas to help you combat languishing are fine – and you can find a link posted below. What struck me as I read further was the emphasis on “small” – small steps, small goals, small projects. Immerse yourself in something small, and see where it takes you.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNlARrNN5pretbQ0mVdPxJrvk7ONWj_5bXsfunOU7EtHZrVVl5sWfEYMYI8U2dLw2-bjDqZo3Lkq_QTfkmjXQpSYixXPA_MZHRvJ6db_LFNb8mZr8XOrighSB4cdVIt-OgV6FjrJuj2vqf/s552/small+things.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="519" data-original-width="552" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNlARrNN5pretbQ0mVdPxJrvk7ONWj_5bXsfunOU7EtHZrVVl5sWfEYMYI8U2dLw2-bjDqZo3Lkq_QTfkmjXQpSYixXPA_MZHRvJ6db_LFNb8mZr8XOrighSB4cdVIt-OgV6FjrJuj2vqf/w400-h376/small+things.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br />I’ve tried writing blogs in the last few months, but they were not
successful. Now I realize I was trying to say BIG things in them. The
news of the world is full enough of big things: big tragedies, big lies,
big numbers, big needs. It’s almost too much to take in. What if I
tried a smaller story, one that doesn’t have a big lesson for you to
absorb, but something just to enjoy, just because it is a story? <br /><br />That’s
when the YouTube story of Canuck the Crow appeared on the resident
sweetie’s Birds of BC Facebook page. One of the techniques Al uses to
keep his “languishing” at bay – besides enjoying the birds outside our
window – is to listen to short “feel-good” stories on YouTube, and this
one was right up his ally. He called me over because he figured I’d be
interested, too. And I was, because it’s a story about a crow. Since
crows figure big in my first blogs, inspiring me to think about my place
in the world, it makes sense that crows might just teach me a thing or
two now, as well. And maybe this story might give you a boost, as well. <br /><br />You
can watch it here on the link below – it’s about 18 minutes long.
Spoiler alert: This film was made in 2017. Canuck the Crow disappeared
shortly after, and has probably gone the way of all flesh now. Take the
story for what it is worth – of course, some wildlife enthusiasts would
disapprove of making friends with this bird – but I love how Canuck
helped his human climb out of depression towards flourishing, and all by
just doing little things. As the song says, “All God’s creatures have a
place in the choir, some sing low and some sing higher...”<br /><br />Documentary: Canuck and I: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=flU0rDDGtHU">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=flU0rDDGtHU</a></p><p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_olm_z3EzFqyFMSowUamFBJp_Zo5scgQLkG08ZPV9feEtOaZLWHh_nNbOtOR_gobsj6-wYSt2Kq4zhdjI1ld3kyXzgxGY954xlIc_hMcelH3exH6NuqaCRBhEiaeapniZFMHSE46tKk3p/s512/birds+on+wire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_olm_z3EzFqyFMSowUamFBJp_Zo5scgQLkG08ZPV9feEtOaZLWHh_nNbOtOR_gobsj6-wYSt2Kq4zhdjI1ld3kyXzgxGY954xlIc_hMcelH3exH6NuqaCRBhEiaeapniZFMHSE46tKk3p/s320/birds+on+wire.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <br /><br /><b>Youtube version of “All God’s Children</b>”: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-iP27eatYxE">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-iP27eatYxE</a><br /><p></p><p><br /><b>Article about Languishing</b>: <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/04/19/well/mind/covid-mental-health-languishing.html">https://www.nytimes.com/2021/04/19/well/mind/covid-mental-health-languishing.html</a><br /><br /><b>Questionnaire:
Are you Languishing?</b>”
<a href="https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2021/05/04/well/mind/languishing-definition-flourishing-quiz.html">https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2021/05/04/well/mind/languishing-definition-flourishing-quiz.html</a><br /><br /><b>Article about ways to move on from languishing to flourishing:</b><br /><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/05/04/well/mind/flourishing-languishing.html?action=click&module=RelatedLinks&pgtype=Article">https://www.nytimes.com/2021/05/04/well/mind/flourishing-languishing.html?action=click&module=RelatedLinks&pgtype=Article</a><br /></p>Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-76201828014553519612021-03-27T18:04:00.001-07:002021-03-27T18:04:50.446-07:00The crow looks for beauty<p>It’s been a while since I’ve posted; that’s because I had nothing to say that didn’t sound like a sermon. But I’ve been through an experience this week, and it gave me pause for reflection.<br /><br />Last week a quilting friend of mine posted a piece of quilt art, and introduced it with approximately these words: “I’ve been nominated to share a piece of my art on Face Book for 10 days running. No comments, no explanations. I am also nominating someone each day to carry on with this challenge.” She nominated me. This sounds like the chain letters that we used to participate in when were naive 12 year olds, promising all kinds of good luck, or recipes, or even dollar bills. We ended up laboriously making 10 copies (by hand!) and sending them off to 10 friends, and were inevitably disappointed. I’ve grown up since then.<br /><br />But I was surprised at my reaction: I wanted to do this. Why? Perhaps because I enjoyed seeing the work of others who were participating – their work added a dash of colour to these grey, rainy days that all seem to run together. Maybe by displaying my work, I could do the same for someone else. The friend who nominated me confessed that she was dragging her art out from under the bed where the pieces had been stored for years. I know from experience that there are more artists than there are buyers out there, and only so many pieces you can hang or give away. So there’s a lot of art stored under the beds of the Comox Valley. It was time to bring them out to see the light of day.</p><p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUKfyojV5qgd-_bsqLqWp-USK88a-VQ2Fq4FnY6fVoFPSMZwWz4S9FMiz4Fiy_3AFimhyphenhyphenDM1Td036sBw7bxSkE4fWXnF1EHquEgl7MHE7dAGPpi6Wvj17SZb77LKIaDSg_r3pg0yX68HwT/s800/Jessie+Still+Marching.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUKfyojV5qgd-_bsqLqWp-USK88a-VQ2Fq4FnY6fVoFPSMZwWz4S9FMiz4Fiy_3AFimhyphenhyphenDM1Td036sBw7bxSkE4fWXnF1EHquEgl7MHE7dAGPpi6Wvj17SZb77LKIaDSg_r3pg0yX68HwT/s320/Jessie+Still+Marching.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Still Marching" -- Self portrait at 70. Still under the bed. <br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Ah, but when you put yourself out there, that’s a big step. I heard a number of voices in my head...in fact, there was a real chattering going on in there. “Hmm. Tooting your own horn, eh? (Fishing for compliments?)” “What makes you think anyone wants to see these?” “You may think your work is fine, but they’re just amateur compared to X, Y, and Z.”</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiJNSkd97vn3JIpjFVgrFe7QMUGj6FXCylMVx4PtK105dUqiXuSh9QLMpAwtorynlddD-kmzVHs_yZ4mmAHx-qqd9rg_berc_GnHtN1S8PvyiS0PDzCBqwuK9S6EGWGnM05AfVZrZF7e4F/s2798/newfoundland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1124" data-original-width="2798" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiJNSkd97vn3JIpjFVgrFe7QMUGj6FXCylMVx4PtK105dUqiXuSh9QLMpAwtorynlddD-kmzVHs_yZ4mmAHx-qqd9rg_berc_GnHtN1S8PvyiS0PDzCBqwuK9S6EGWGnM05AfVZrZF7e4F/w400-h161/newfoundland.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Memories of Newfoundland. I haven't finished this one...still under the bed! <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p> </p><p>What’s with those voices? Do you hear them too when you step out? The voice that suggested I was tooting my own horn had a Dutch accent, belonging to an older gentleman whose family had hired me to write his life story. He was reluctant because he did not want to toot his own horn. The voice that said nobody would be interested belonged to people who, when I showed them my work, said, “Oh, that’s nice,” and then changed the subject. And as far as my being an amateur...that was probably my own perfectionist streak, comparing myself to others. Sometimes it’s very hard to believe in yourself. Do I hear an “Amen, sister?” I hope so, because I do not think I am alone with these feelings.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6uEYA1YVEJtpUSs3we-KpwZ6C0JVFAIrCvdl0ps02kIrOatHz72OLboicQexdGAX5A_hsD8SljNNrrqJKcKlYXhdkZR46cVjAAblg_lxTR-lS-mmOslMGSZTAMq9Sp6Pk5qEo6wGE12Yn/s2048/springtime+in+the+woods.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1622" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6uEYA1YVEJtpUSs3we-KpwZ6C0JVFAIrCvdl0ps02kIrOatHz72OLboicQexdGAX5A_hsD8SljNNrrqJKcKlYXhdkZR46cVjAAblg_lxTR-lS-mmOslMGSZTAMq9Sp6Pk5qEo6wGE12Yn/s320/springtime+in+the+woods.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Woods in Spring...not done, still under the bed.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>It’s been said that putting your work out there for all to see is like dancing naked in public. You are very vulnerable. All your imperfections are on display. And so I tend to downplay my work ... “oh, it’s just something simple” or “I learned this in a class with so and so, but of course it’s nothing like her work,” or “everyone is creative in their own way.” <br /><br />Well, I put my work out there. The feedback was amazing and heart-warming, enough to make me blush at times. (If you aren’t my friend on Facebook, you can check out those posts at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/jessie.schut.9">https://www.facebook.com/jessie.schut.9</a>)<br /><br />So when I say, “I’ve been through an experience this week” this is what I am talking about. As I reflect on the experience, I’ve learned again that yes, creating is what I love to do. Writing and making art is who I am. I should – as should we all – be happy to name and claim my gifts. And your response has showed me that my gifts can add a splash of beauty to this world. I need to get over myself, ditch the negative voices, and be who I am. Your gifts too can add beauty to this world, and hiding those gifts under the bed does the world no favours. <br /><br />I reflect on how integral beauty is to our experience of happiness. Psychologists say we are hard-wired to need beauty in our lives. We are drawn to it every time we notice it. Plato thought that merely contemplating beauty caused “the soul to grow wings.” Mmm...I like that idea! “All beauty and art evoke harmonies that transport us to a place where, for only seconds, time stops and we are one with the world. It is the best life has to offer,” says author Andre Aciman. <br /><br />“Beauty will always have the power to inspire us. It is that enigmatic, unknowable muse that keeps you striving to be better, to do better, to push harder. And by that definition, what we all need most in today’s world is perhaps simply more beauty,” writes designer Lazaro Hernandez. <br /><br />We all have it in us to contribute beauty to the world, not just works of art, but beauty in doing kind acts, in really listening to someone who is hurting, in allowing children to express their creativity, in exercising hospitality, in playing or singing music, in writing a note to a shut-in or doing errands, in speaking a word of gratitude or encouragement, in treating a customer or client with respect, in handing out smiles ... <br /><br />It’s all Beauty, eh?<br /><br /><br /></p>Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-22452612443243142142021-01-18T13:42:00.002-08:002021-01-18T13:42:47.726-08:00 Sweet Memories<p>I began a writing course at the beginning of January. It’s about writing Creative Non-Fiction – essays, memoirs, biographies, travel stories, etc. A lot of creative non-fiction relies very much on the author’s memories.<br /><br />Memory is such an amorphous thing. Somewhere in your brain you store up a picture, or a smell, or a sound. Then, when you experience something in real life, like the soft fur of a kitten, the smell of bread baking or tomato soup simmering on the stove, or the sound of the wind in the trees or a train whistle in the distance, suddenly you are carried away, over to that part of the brain that has stored that little snippet of colour, touch, smell or sound. And surrounding that snippet is a whole story.<br /><br />The smell of onions simmering in a pan, for instance, makes me think of hachee, a dish my mom sometimes made at the end of the week, when the roast that began at Sunday dinner was reduced to a few scraps in the bottom of the pan, along with a cupful or so of rich brown gravy. She would slice half a dozen onions very thinly and throw them into the pan, letting them simmer for hours. Half an hour before supper, she peeled a big potful of potatoes and put them on to boil. There would probably be some green beans taken from the freezer cooking in another pan. The whole house was filled with the aroma of simmering onions, and the windows steamed up from the cooking. Hachee was a winter dish to warm your bones after a trudge from school through the snow and icy cold (uphill both ways, of course!) A steamy kitchen and delicious smells created a warm welcome home. Later, around the supper table, we would ladle those beefy onions over chunks of potato and tell mom she should make this every day... it was so delicious. Mom was smart, though: too much of a good thing doesn’t make it special anymore. <br /><br />And then there’s the memory that arose last week when I spilled a little bit of strawberry jello powder on the counter. Without even thinking about it, I licked my finger, then stuck it into the little hill of flavoured jello and popped it into my mouth. My brain lit up: it’s Lik-m-Aid all over again. I am 9 years old, living in a neighbourhood with lots of kids. We travel in packs, seeing what kind of interesting adventures we can get into. Mr. B is working in the garden, and when we show up, he unexpectedly pulls a quarter from his pocket and tells us to go spend it. A quarter is a huge treasure; sometimes parents will let us take an empty little pop bottle to the store and spend the 2 cent refund; on a really good day, we might get a big bottle, which will give us 5 cents, but that usually means you have to share the refund with your sister. But a quarter, a whole quarter, to spend amongst the four of us? Unheard of. <br /><br />Of course, we head down to the Fat Man on the Corner. (I think his name was Allen, but we all called him -- not to his face -- the fat man, because he was.) He has a tiny convenience store in what should have been the living room of his house, and on the counter by the cash register, are big bottles of candy: jawbreakers in a vast array of colours, jelly beans, suckers, humbugs, wax lips, candy necklaces, double-bubble gum, taffy individually wrapped in wax paper, Twizzlers in black and cherry, and packets of Lik-m-Aid, which was nothing more than flavoured coloured sugar. Unfortunately, I have no photo of that store or the Fat Man, but this scene looks a bit familiar.<br /></p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPF4HyfLBCgG2IsfyVZVfX-FXGJKG3_VLU5veD1jKZvb5CkUuqiUkdG0W4JmuRsjMazFcWObgNjyp5GbAIKbY9hV8S0A0hdrMMsqTtoV5kAWTLX6KXxRZxVje9_tzBQPELCd4pSTuhGkIb/s235/sweet+memories+candy+store+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="208" data-original-width="235" height="354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPF4HyfLBCgG2IsfyVZVfX-FXGJKG3_VLU5veD1jKZvb5CkUuqiUkdG0W4JmuRsjMazFcWObgNjyp5GbAIKbY9hV8S0A0hdrMMsqTtoV5kAWTLX6KXxRZxVje9_tzBQPELCd4pSTuhGkIb/w400-h354/sweet+memories+candy+store+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>The Fat Man pulls out a tiny brown paper bag for each of us while we hem and haw over the choices. He never seems to be impatient, but once we’ve picked something, we can’t change our mind, so it’s important to get it right the first time. Do we get a one-inch jawbreaker for 2 pennies, which will last for a long time – the bonus is that layers of different colours are revealed as you suck on it – or do we get 3 much smaller gumballs for the same amount of money? Lik-m-Aid was a good choice because it could last for a very long time and it was sharable. It was often sold in packets of four flavours, side by side, so 4 friends could buy one packet and each would get a flavour: grape, orange, lime or cherry. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0xMExCiH_YhNdfZCW8DRTIph8-BYdgUncV5DUzDNGZG4plfisGpcCYDKqS2n23MBL3bpwv_9RDr9ov1T5Tpkt7hO3Dg0I_wmdJ7V5uAxnGNL5Yt9UEe-rqS6ih7vXrf4nIMESy5Am5pX8/s367/sweet+memories.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="137" data-original-width="367" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0xMExCiH_YhNdfZCW8DRTIph8-BYdgUncV5DUzDNGZG4plfisGpcCYDKqS2n23MBL3bpwv_9RDr9ov1T5Tpkt7hO3Dg0I_wmdJ7V5uAxnGNL5Yt9UEe-rqS6ih7vXrf4nIMESy5Am5pX8/s320/sweet+memories.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <p></p><p>Once you’d argued or traded your way to your favourite flavour, you all ripped open your packet, licked your finger, and stuck it in. Before long, your finger and your lips revealed your choice – green lips and fingertips were pretty spectacular! Later, Lik-m-Aids came in single packets which included a stick to lick. Your fingers stayed flesh-coloured.<br /><br />Clutching our bags, we’d make our way to a back yard or playground and check out our riches, savouring the goodies one at a time. A trip to the Fat Man on the Corner could keep you out of an adult’s hair for many hours, so there may have been a method to Mr. B’s generosity. <br /><br />After a jello-inspired trip down memory lane, imagine my delight a few days later when I walked into The Windmill, a store carrying Dutch supplies, and found a box of Cherry flavoured Lik-m-Aid on the counter. “Postdated,” read the sign. “Free. Help Yourself.” I did not need a second invitation, and in my favourite flavour, too. They’ve changed the name and the graphics, but in fine print, it tells you they used to be called Lik-m-Aid. They’re new and improved: now the stick is a candy stick, so after you’re finished licking up all the sugar, you can chow down on the stick. I must confess, I did use my finger for a while, for old times sake!<br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgduBRaVU9YEnij8Xv9j36Cm_wz46uQ-ZYK0Q94l4_pV9b9kDGx3LyIg3W9q60DA16sYRhR-FZFEO0wzhP4VRYr1tjZY3ZTVKIzj0XAo-bT_hjL-ddquLVzGgWu3JciSsmDo0hMBU4-SXsl/s225/sweet+memories+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgduBRaVU9YEnij8Xv9j36Cm_wz46uQ-ZYK0Q94l4_pV9b9kDGx3LyIg3W9q60DA16sYRhR-FZFEO0wzhP4VRYr1tjZY3ZTVKIzj0XAo-bT_hjL-ddquLVzGgWu3JciSsmDo0hMBU4-SXsl/s0/sweet+memories+3.jpg" /></a></div> One thing I learned in my course is that memory is notoriously unreliable. You are so sure of something that lives in your memory, but it turns out that you have actually created a story around the little snippet stored in your brain and the story may not be true at all. <br /><br />I’m pretty sure that in the case of Lik-em-Aid, I’m not making it up. I have the red finger to prove it!<p></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP6bhG5YyuVt0qgmndLvGelINH_vud8t6hbqzdMHbb6z9DlSUV0WaM5GQTDZEGlXe3-GuQ7kzB6GZwwoURFa694oRzOwWJ8q707QHQ_c1xSfyk-h4iBj51UYTcmFl0hSrLOE1UeJXk1CJi/s2898/Sue+and+I%252C+1955.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1085" data-original-width="2898" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP6bhG5YyuVt0qgmndLvGelINH_vud8t6hbqzdMHbb6z9DlSUV0WaM5GQTDZEGlXe3-GuQ7kzB6GZwwoURFa694oRzOwWJ8q707QHQ_c1xSfyk-h4iBj51UYTcmFl0hSrLOE1UeJXk1CJi/w640-h240/Sue+and+I%252C+1955.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">PS: I found this photo of my sister and me licking giant suckers gifted to us by visitors. We were living on the top floor of an old mansion that had been converted into apartments. It was steaming hot that summer, and we used to sit out on the fire escape outside our kitchen window, where this photo was taken. Oh, the memories! I'm glad I have the photos to confirm what I think I remember.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><br />Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-16904867169409690482020-12-29T20:57:00.000-08:002020-12-29T20:57:10.932-08:00View from the Crow's Nest: Looking at Normal<p>The week that follows Christmas and Boxing Day may just be my favourite week of the year. The busy-ness of Christmas preparations, which often flows over into Boxing Day, is finished. On the calendar, there is nothing marked as “to do” – just enjoy each day with the gifts that it brings. <br /><br />At our home, Al, Danielle and I are doing just that. A giant crossword puzzle with over 300 clues hangs on the wall in the hallway. We pause as we pass it and try to fill in a few more clues. The 1000 piece Christmas jigsaw is laid out on a table; it may get finished by the end of January! I indulged my enjoyment of baking by making cinnamon rolls one day, and Apple Coffee Cake another. We ordered a platter of Greek food for Danielle’s birthday dinner (my baby is 39! Can you believe it?) and there’s leftovers enough for another day. A grab-bag of books from the library keep me reading past midnight in the delicious quiet of a sleeping home. Phone calls and emails remind us that we are blessed with friends and family, and with the wonder of Zoom we are able to connect and see them too, playing games together as we would if they were all here.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDo6DP8mkmeQFBz3bIKgR5uZfBJaTuOkzogdCJPaKLb4PeT4ontKh9VsiF_TJW2pY-Q9x7PRaoUNnxdERL9kdm9sHIZpCZqN4UKDk1KICRwzb-h4qgyluA1JI45ybZ4dkqCdnr1rQ3B0b4/s799/zoom+screenshot+%25232.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="799" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDo6DP8mkmeQFBz3bIKgR5uZfBJaTuOkzogdCJPaKLb4PeT4ontKh9VsiF_TJW2pY-Q9x7PRaoUNnxdERL9kdm9sHIZpCZqN4UKDk1KICRwzb-h4qgyluA1JI45ybZ4dkqCdnr1rQ3B0b4/w640-h368/zoom+screenshot+%25232.png" width="640" /></a></div><p><br />Which they aren’t. That’s the hard part of this year, isn’t it? I
miss the hugs, the spontaneous laughter, the visits with friends, the
family walks through our wonderful forest next door. I miss the freedom
of making a spur-of-the-moment decision to eat out, or go to a movie, or
go bowling. I miss snuggling up with a little one to share a story book
or two or three. But to be honest, not all is sweetness and light at
any Christmas, with its attendant busy-ness, or when a big family
gathers in an enclosed space for several days...there may be tension,
noise, messiness, the disappointment of unrealistic unmet expectations,
frustration and utter weariness that leaves one longing to retreat to a
place far away, and stay there forever. Those are the trade-offs. I know
whereof I speak. I’ll take the trade-offs in a heartbeat, but that’s
not possible.<br /><br />So here we are, at the end of another year, a year
like no other in our recent memory. We have had to learn to act
together, to take care of each other by masking, distancing, staying
put, if we are going to survive. We must be calm, be safe, be kind, as our Dr. Bonnie keeps reminding us.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAAikLjZcdAMfl0le47KsoI8E4gga1_dnn-NDXOBUuR2jC7TqvO4oT47uf9M8na17dYRyqjU9KyHTbihu2cBH_VChtkwozp_XQ5mwoMgQGdPX0cq9yd1xHSzbozoc0k3DS9UE6mouw8j0Q/s1885/painted+rocks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1885" data-original-width="1060" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAAikLjZcdAMfl0le47KsoI8E4gga1_dnn-NDXOBUuR2jC7TqvO4oT47uf9M8na17dYRyqjU9KyHTbihu2cBH_VChtkwozp_XQ5mwoMgQGdPX0cq9yd1xHSzbozoc0k3DS9UE6mouw8j0Q/s320/painted+rocks.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These rocks were piled together as a tribute to our health care workers.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table> </p><p>We would like to have everything get
back to normal, but, then again.. “Normal led to this,” as Ed Yong
wrote in <i><b>Atlantic</b></i> in August. Our current model of economic growth,
with deforestation, monocultures, rampant materialism and more, has led
to lethal viruses moving around the world, jumping from animal hosts to
human with ease. In our panic to control the virus, we haven’t thought
very carefully about what led to it. We can’t return to business as
usual.
(<a href="https://www.isglobal.org/en/healthisglobal/-/custom-blog-portlet/a-pandemic-year-in-10-quotes/3098670/0">https://www.isglobal.org/en/healthisglobal/-/custom-blog-portlet/a-pandemic-year-in-10-quotes/3098670/0</a>)<br /><br />It’s
not over yet. In my optimistic moments, I get excited about the
vaccines that will soon help us be safer, that will eradicate the virus
once and for all. In my pessimistic moments, I mutter that we’re in it
for the long haul, that when this virus is beaten into submission,
another will pop up, and like a game of whack-a-mole, we’ll be in a
constant state of war against insidious enemies. In a news story posted
today, Michael Ryan, a senior W.H.O. official, warned that although the
coronavirus pandemic has been “very severe,” it is “not necessarily the
big one.” There may be more to come, unless we, as a world, change.
Normal led to this. <br /><br />What it means is that I have to rethink
normal. We all do. What will this new normal look like? What do we have
to give up, and what can we keep from that old pre-pandemic life? As a
society, this will not be easy terrain to navigate. We love our creature
comforts, our travel plans, our varied diets, our conveniences (order
today, have it tomorrow), and everything else that goes with affluence
and a global economy. <br /><br />But perhaps we are looking at our
post-Covid life from the wrong end of the telescope, magnifying what we
will have to give up. Perhaps we have to minimize that view, and focus
on something else. Maybe we need to put first things first. Instead of asking, “What do we have to give up?” perhaps we need to ask, “What can we keep?
What are the givens that we don’t want to part with?” </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3A2YZeiN8L2ZFg0hb9prtcfoDHcatJkRqHkyxUo-bTw0K4gTKUR-KrYU7hz7KVKkNov0SZR8jMQFBubXwpeWAps1u3rvLgvaFl_Ku1mIWU4lYifWHvJYgyH_X1kUmztDZkUK9lPwTJEOP/s400/kindness.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="312" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3A2YZeiN8L2ZFg0hb9prtcfoDHcatJkRqHkyxUo-bTw0K4gTKUR-KrYU7hz7KVKkNov0SZR8jMQFBubXwpeWAps1u3rvLgvaFl_Ku1mIWU4lYifWHvJYgyH_X1kUmztDZkUK9lPwTJEOP/s320/kindness.png" width="320" /></a></div>I googled
“what are the most important things in life?” and found a plethora of
results: Health. Purpose. Passion. Wellness. Education. Peace. Goals.
Work. Family. Friendship. Love. Compassion. Community. Faith. Hope....
the list goes on. I wonder what’s on your list? I wonder if we could all
take a step back instead of rushing ahead to “normal the way it used to
be”, and figure out what’s the most important thing as we move on. I
wonder what the world would look like if everyone did that. <br /><p><br />And I know that “everyone” in the world begins with me.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgArnhUKsKgtvjih94QMhWLoxXYcvzHQHqT5yR0YhsL7hxB29wm3v19yZlXjtBRaYLj28Bqbwg2gO357f1Li9rVRxkew3zq5FoNMMWF6PM4ADc-4ZOrnblRDnrXqam8NWQs08Xe9GXu3TYs/s720/o+donohue+quote.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB6psPsBOTxH_8QaTxeWZa7_60-JCtci1jWR7a_LCGWgoj1JiFTWCmF30SzIFMXqxatsLAX5V2OqxTbuXP6MGwPucQZkS_zsQ-mTGPIlofiXLylf10H81GcH7EntGXqJP45JqfwNoDlwLq/s720/o+donohue+quote.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="627" data-original-width="720" height="558" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB6psPsBOTxH_8QaTxeWZa7_60-JCtci1jWR7a_LCGWgoj1JiFTWCmF30SzIFMXqxatsLAX5V2OqxTbuXP6MGwPucQZkS_zsQ-mTGPIlofiXLylf10H81GcH7EntGXqJP45JqfwNoDlwLq/w640-h558/o+donohue+quote.png" width="640" /></a></div><br />Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-58187377466252612020-12-09T17:40:00.000-08:002020-12-09T17:40:04.772-08:00 View from the Crow’s Nest: We mark the days.<p><br /> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLqvZbedXGjso6if7mUC3hG7BNSjmz0qMGv-5bNMNm4_ICcGoXuSd6Q3_RXCwR-WkyF1xEs8qzltqQguBQ3AOvbYIdWAF9H6Wa9rX1g103TNDGUSFVFllth8Fy5T5WRWQHoVN1g-ex5-T8/s2048/advent+candles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLqvZbedXGjso6if7mUC3hG7BNSjmz0qMGv-5bNMNm4_ICcGoXuSd6Q3_RXCwR-WkyF1xEs8qzltqQguBQ3AOvbYIdWAF9H6Wa9rX1g103TNDGUSFVFllth8Fy5T5WRWQHoVN1g-ex5-T8/s320/advent+candles.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p>The Advent candle wall hangings are up on the wall again. It's that time of year.</p><p><br />The word Advent comes from the Latin adventus, meaning “coming, arrival.” It’s a part of the church year that marks the time until we can celebrate Christmas, Jesus’ birthday. It’s a period of waiting. <br /><br />And for those of us who are in the midst of the pandemic – which is the whole world, really – the word has a double meaning.<br /><br />We are also waiting for the arrival of normalcy, when this pandemic is over. We are waiting for the arrival of the vaccine and holding our breath, hoping that Covid will not touch our family and our friends before then. We are waiting to feel the arms of those we love around us once again, when we can hug and kiss freely, when we can rock that newborn grandchild, or hold the hands of our beloved elders. We are waiting.<br /><br />But until then, how do we pass the time? In the centuries before Jesus was born, the people of Israel were also waiting for the Messiah who had been promised by the prophets. How did they pass the time, marking off the days, weeks, months, years, centuries, and millenia? <br /><br />From what I can tell, they kept on keeping on. Right foot, left foot, march. Breathe. Repeat. They sowed their crops, harvested the grapes, tended the sheep and goats, pressed the olives. They got married, had children, celebrated feasts, studied and learned at the feet of the teachers. They shared stories and encouraged each other – “just a little longer,” they said. “This is the day that the Lord has made. We will rejoice ... just for today... and be glad in it.” They had a life. <br /><br />And so do we. It may not be the life we would like, but it is the life we have. And so we keep on keeping on – mask on, mask off, 6 feet of distance, washing hands over and over, staying put and waiting.<br /><br />There are times that we are tired of it all. We experience the darkest hour of the night, when we cannot see any glimmer of light and promise. We are at the bottom of the covid coaster, and there doesn’t seem to be any way up. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhGOU66JH7H3s60aZ-aTBTVZCft-JciF9U5xN3fsyfcDd6HyeIX5j8yhjKDp0jhuaCWVANN88-YLbxKCSYmrsnBzvTBwY28DISg_Kl0n3MeiPgxe6J1rLqYYGo6PkXFb3qt12TFnFr2joX/s259/advent+light+in+darkness.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhGOU66JH7H3s60aZ-aTBTVZCft-JciF9U5xN3fsyfcDd6HyeIX5j8yhjKDp0jhuaCWVANN88-YLbxKCSYmrsnBzvTBwY28DISg_Kl0n3MeiPgxe6J1rLqYYGo6PkXFb3qt12TFnFr2joX/s0/advent+light+in+darkness.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Ah, but there are other days when we put one foot in front of the other, and all goes well. We finish a project, have a great conversation over Skype with a grandchild, pick up a good book at the library, listen to "The Messiah" curled up on our sofa all afternoon, see a dear friend coming up the sidewalk to have a distanced conversation outside. Now we are riding high on the covid coaster. We experience brightness, a lightness that keeps us going for a while again.<br /><br />And that, dear ones, is how we will get through this. “This is the day the Lord has made, we will rejoice and be glad in it.” And we will encourage each other, make the phone calls that give someone joy, tend our houseplants and scrub our floors (not too often, though!), decorate for Christmas even if nobody is coming. We will remember that in less than two weeks, the longest dark day will be past and we’ll be heading to the light. We will finish half-forgotten projects, share books, send each other funny cartoons on FB, give generously to those who are less fortunate...well, the list goes on. If you are so inclined, please share in the Comments section how you are marking off the days and I will pass on your stories in future blogs.<br /><br />There are two things I want to share with you, that have helped me mark the days this fall. For years, the Resident Sweetie and I have been involved with a committee that organizes a display of Nativity sets at our church, usually held at the beginning of December. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwWNA3amHZ44f7-uLrKciBLdIdRCg-hdenwoxQB9JD8VAASs1cfBAC04Qw7piXjZX2ek9GAHJOEHNCWqJ39Bm9Y4psLb_0-UMHKRL0YyfS2pW3HnlYmIwF5n2PHzYXIujMZI3xhpr6-9b2/s4608/IMG_20191206_122831724_BURST001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwWNA3amHZ44f7-uLrKciBLdIdRCg-hdenwoxQB9JD8VAASs1cfBAC04Qw7piXjZX2ek9GAHJOEHNCWqJ39Bm9Y4psLb_0-UMHKRL0YyfS2pW3HnlYmIwF5n2PHzYXIujMZI3xhpr6-9b2/s320/IMG_20191206_122831724_BURST001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>We tried to make it work again this year, but rising cases of Covid put the kibosh on that. Instead, the church encouraged us to create a YouTube recording of a virtual visit to the display. You can view it here by accessing our church website at <a href="http://www.cvpc.ca">www.cvpc.ca</a> You’ll find a link there. Enjoy the photos, music, stories and more. Covid, it turns out, has a silver lining: now we can share this event with an audience that stretches around the world. If you enjoy this virtual visit, please share the link with others who might enjoy it too. <br /><br />The second project I’ve been working on is a fun one. Our granddaughter Grace turned six in November, and we gave her a Playmobil nativity set as a gift. </p><p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj225-fDdhyb01HMFvLTDwpOGsDxo1F5zLW3dJnmLXx4vdy7HSBEG1I-2XU97jPsivGL44jPbjK3pgmTD2e-KUSIIZdJwm5n9Y000pdSy4KRk_d81IlvSnKUBf1isopar2MOByHqml1GngY/s4608/IMG_20191206_130350130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj225-fDdhyb01HMFvLTDwpOGsDxo1F5zLW3dJnmLXx4vdy7HSBEG1I-2XU97jPsivGL44jPbjK3pgmTD2e-KUSIIZdJwm5n9Y000pdSy4KRk_d81IlvSnKUBf1isopar2MOByHqml1GngY/s320/IMG_20191206_130350130.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />(Of course, we would!) But we kept the wise men and the camel back. Now the wise men are making their way to Bethlehem (aka Nanaimo, where Grace lives), and we are photographing their journey every day, and telling a story to go with it. If you wish to follow Gaspar, Melchior, Balthazar and Miranda (the camel), check out the FB page Wise Men’s Quest for the Star. (<a href="https://www.facebook.com/Wise-Mens-Quest-for-the-Star-105763731375753/?view_public_for=105763731375753">https://www.facebook.com/Wise-Mens-Quest-for-the-Star-105763731375753/?view_public_for=105763731375753</a>)<br />You’ll have to scroll down all the way to Nov. 29, when I posted for the first time, and then work your way up. If you have grandchildren who might enjoy this story, pass on the link. Grace’s parents share this ongoing story with her and her 2 year old brother Mitchell every second or third day, and Grace often wants to hear the whole story from the very beginning. That makes me smile, and it keeps the covid coaster traveling on the upside. <br /><br />Blessings to you as you mark the days traveling through advent to the light. <br /><br /><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhGOU66JH7H3s60aZ-aTBTVZCft-JciF9U5xN3fsyfcDd6HyeIX5j8yhjKDp0jhuaCWVANN88-YLbxKCSYmrsnBzvTBwY28DISg_Kl0n3MeiPgxe6J1rLqYYGo6PkXFb3qt12TFnFr2joX/s259/advent+light+in+darkness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhGOU66JH7H3s60aZ-aTBTVZCft-JciF9U5xN3fsyfcDd6HyeIX5j8yhjKDp0jhuaCWVANN88-YLbxKCSYmrsnBzvTBwY28DISg_Kl0n3MeiPgxe6J1rLqYYGo6PkXFb3qt12TFnFr2joX/s0/advent+light+in+darkness.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br />Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-12948714932372697682020-10-05T21:25:00.001-07:002020-10-05T21:25:50.540-07:00View From the Crow's Nest: I remember the most important thing<p>October? Already? Nooooo! It’s going to be a long winter. How will we survive? <br /></p><p>My mom and dad were post-war immigrants who survived and thrived even though they were isolated from family and friends. In my previous blog I wrote about how they survived tough times, hoping they could give me some pointers on surviving and thriving in this Pandemic. </p><p>For them, communication – in mom and dad’s case, letters – was key. It reminded them of the people they loved, who supported and encouraged them. I also noted that mom didn’t complain much – instead, she focused on what she did have. She turned trash into treasure. I read a tone of triumph in these letters – hardships would not defeat them. People who have survived tough times have lessons to teach us. </p><p>As I wrote that blog, I felt very close to my parents, especially to mom, as though she were looking over my shoulder. Usually, after I’ve written a blog, I let it sit for a day or two before I posted it, but this time, I felt so good about it that I posted it right away. The RS read it and said it even brought a few tears to his eyes. I was pleased...but I should have known better. </p><p>I was getting ready for bed when I “heard” Mom’s voice. I guess she wasn’t done with me yet. “Jessica!” (It’s not even my real name, but that’s what she called me when she wanted to draw something to my attention.) “You forgot to write about the most important thing.” I could almost see her finger waving in my face.
Oh boy, I was in trouble. </p><p>She was right. Mom and dad would have agreed that communication and creativity were keys to their thriving in a new land, but first and foremost, it was always about God. “God has directed our paths,” a frequent phrase in her letters, was a variation of the text they’d chosen for their wedding sermon: “God will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.” (Psalm 121:8.) </p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_NcR2IqSngApePG7RwJsXjLX8yiAyxk6fP5SGovM9jKWCdlglpvB1P7sVpXDyUzZLXls5oyyriWr60Yf6u_0o-pTIBu1UYq6AhGVWwzLj2VYUJq-v1hhbBbYUex_Zp0YjGx0h6l6bv2DU/s2048/20201005_200114.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_NcR2IqSngApePG7RwJsXjLX8yiAyxk6fP5SGovM9jKWCdlglpvB1P7sVpXDyUzZLXls5oyyriWr60Yf6u_0o-pTIBu1UYq6AhGVWwzLj2VYUJq-v1hhbBbYUex_Zp0YjGx0h6l6bv2DU/w400-h225/20201005_200114.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This wedding text, done in calligraphy, came with mom and dad to Canada.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwwCxYRVqetxoOzVv-nx8xcLSeITihu_6lu5TyDtyjcEzy0M0jWeknD3KDgDZd2NjKuFBNBNo2GmskooGtc3carG_kdo3Gdagx46CJWugx9WUwO1ysRBsTdEil_oP3VuWjEYla4864uZ8M/s878/406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="473" data-original-width="878" height="344" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwwCxYRVqetxoOzVv-nx8xcLSeITihu_6lu5TyDtyjcEzy0M0jWeknD3KDgDZd2NjKuFBNBNo2GmskooGtc3carG_kdo3Gdagx46CJWugx9WUwO1ysRBsTdEil_oP3VuWjEYla4864uZ8M/w640-h344/406.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The wedding text hung in the living room of their first home in Smithville, Ontario, and in every home after that. It is in the top right corner of this photo, which must have been taken at Christmas, judging from the sprigs of spruce decorating the room.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>Okay, mom, I’m sorry, I’ll change that...later. I was getting ready for bed, and since it was late, I figured I could add God’s role to my blog in the morning. After all, who reads a blog at midnight? The fix would wait till I was ready. </p><p>So I went to bed. Only to wake up several hours later knowing I’d better do it mom’s way if I wanted to get a good night of rest. So 1:30 a.m. found me sitting at my computer, inserting another paragraph – the most important key to their survival. </p><p>I have tried very hard in my 7 years of blogging to not “preach a sermon.” I know my readers range all over the map in terms of spirituality. I respect that. In my own spiritual journey, I also have ranged all over the map. The older I get, the more I know that I don’t know much for sure anymore. It’s such a relief, to tell you the truth, not to have to defend my version of God. I write about God occasionally, because the Creator is real to me, but I know that I also have readers that don’t believe in a Higher Power. You voice and your beliefs are important to me, too; they help me to stretch and grow. For sure, I hope that my musings will stimulate spiritual growth, whatever that means to you. </p><p>And what does spirituality mean, anyway? I did a little research, and found this: “Spirituality is a broad concept with room for many perspectives. In general, it includes a sense of connection to something bigger than ourselves, and it typically involves a search for meaning in life." (<a href="https://www.takingcharge.csh.umn.edu/what-spirituality">https://www.takingcharge.csh.umn.edu/what-spirituality</a> ) </p><p>There's also this quote: “...the spiritual dimension tries to be in harmony with the universe, and strives for answers about the infinite, and comes into focus when the person faces emotional stress, physical illness, or death.” </p><p>Ahhhh! That’s US, isn’t it? All of us in this together, facing emotional stress, possible illness and death. This isn’t just about surviving day to day to day to day to day...we can figure that out – where to get the toilet paper, how to get tested when we feel ill, how to keep ourselves busy. But we need more than that to thrive and find joy. </p><p>To catch a vision of the big picture, to place ourselves inside that picture, and to recognize that we are connected to everything ever created (and, for me, the One who created it), that is what is going to sustain us in the long run. It’s about mystery -- how we human beings originated in stardust, how the flutter of a butterfly’s wings in Mexico can impact the weather in Canada, how a network of microscopic roots in soil communicate with each other for the benefit of the plants. </p><p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfuOMeKDVDjF4pF_5Y3V_5WDK1t5O1uhfZ7wC57bHa2LwfAbKx2TxYGmX639ANgL1QCVpooL4Jgrs9EckBKBOvO4Orvf-nPOVGMSA5do70CVX6lwA8k8cv2B_czM8DUUzr4qJfFI-_DbEU/s251/butterfly+migration.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfuOMeKDVDjF4pF_5Y3V_5WDK1t5O1uhfZ7wC57bHa2LwfAbKx2TxYGmX639ANgL1QCVpooL4Jgrs9EckBKBOvO4Orvf-nPOVGMSA5do70CVX6lwA8k8cv2B_czM8DUUzr4qJfFI-_DbEU/s0/butterfly+migration.jpg" /></a></div> <p></p><p>It’s about million-year old rocks breaking down into the sand on our favourite beach, about galaxies ever expanding, about people willingly laying down their lives for a belief that's sacred to them.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE-UvwtfcsBUnKeYG44zND86UGYebtOBCdNIHAkCHstEPMBktR07N4X7XprYlF_aVW2c1UbLb-v-FDLSF8Nl9aEOUsefb1xp3qdfNJKi69-NNI3kmSc9U8YLqsokE-7fnLN5vinkyo3QRY/s290/tiananmen+square.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="174" data-original-width="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE-UvwtfcsBUnKeYG44zND86UGYebtOBCdNIHAkCHstEPMBktR07N4X7XprYlF_aVW2c1UbLb-v-FDLSF8Nl9aEOUsefb1xp3qdfNJKi69-NNI3kmSc9U8YLqsokE-7fnLN5vinkyo3QRY/s0/tiananmen+square.jpg" /></a></div> <p></p><p>These are unfathomable mysteries, and these mysteries are what propels us in our spiritual search. Looking at the big picture changes our perspective. We are, after all, not the centre of the universe. We belong to each other.<br /></p><p>Spirituality, says the aforementioned website, is one of 6 components that contribute to our wellbeing. But for mom and dad, it was the most important thing. (That’s why mom shook her finger in my face: how could I have forgotten that?) It is what got them through tough times. For me, too, it is the foundation from which I view the world. </p><p>I certainly don’t have all the answers, so I take comfort from these words of contemplative priest Thomas Merton: </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9sDQTE7R7gqSEO_h0BCf9pCcGyeA34E9yg2-gJt8zfU7UFLFzytZFj7IfBIebjA4cVr1UqYV8aDgeqRDUHvXIga-6HHHZLt0WeEbgiNuqbwFN-8inRKpRocRipjh72EYEWN6L5ptfinY_/s1024/Thomas+Merton+quote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9sDQTE7R7gqSEO_h0BCf9pCcGyeA34E9yg2-gJt8zfU7UFLFzytZFj7IfBIebjA4cVr1UqYV8aDgeqRDUHvXIga-6HHHZLt0WeEbgiNuqbwFN-8inRKpRocRipjh72EYEWN6L5ptfinY_/s320/Thomas+Merton+quote.jpg" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>And so we move into October, one step at a time. </p><p><i>There are many interesting and helpful resources about spirituality and emotional wellbeing (which are closely connected) on this website: <a href=" https://www.takingcharge.csh.umn.edu/ "> https://www.takingcharge.csh.umn.edu/</a></i></p>Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-74526136328722152382020-09-18T20:25:00.018-07:002020-09-19T02:05:22.228-07:00View From the Crow's Nest: I listen to mom<p> In my last blog, I wrote about nostalgia. This week, I’m in the throes of it.<br /><br />I’ve been translating my mom’s letters which she wrote to her family in Holland when they first arrived in Canada in October, 1949. My grandfather saved these letters and returned them to us years later. What a blessing!</p><p>I am using these letters to write some family history, as well as telling my own story. Even though I have few memories of the three years we lived in our first home in Canada, I have heard and read the stories so often that they feel real to me. <br /> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpYpLuOKpv158aaAOgX_P7CkxfBIBKVz2pZNzsnLpCOPWNygrxcxU78cj3najRP2sWpPXPe79PfwNTeOsR_6AChyphenhyphenV4ctE2lOxKMaE_V6rya52KNBW-zaz_4-HIqawBasaPAll_DDaKLk5_/s800/mom+letter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpYpLuOKpv158aaAOgX_P7CkxfBIBKVz2pZNzsnLpCOPWNygrxcxU78cj3najRP2sWpPXPe79PfwNTeOsR_6AChyphenhyphenV4ctE2lOxKMaE_V6rya52KNBW-zaz_4-HIqawBasaPAll_DDaKLk5_/w400-h225/mom+letter.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the second letter they wrote to Holland, describing how they left the ship and had to make their way through New York to Grand Central Station to catch the train to Canada.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>In the third letter she writes, I am 16 months old, and there’s a little sister on the way. We have moved into a drafty old farm house outside Smithville in Ontario. Dad is the hired man for a farmer who has his own dairy. They have only a little money, for sure not enough to buy a car. Their whole family is in Holland, so there’s no loving community to support them, no happy visits on special occasions. Dad’s income is $20 a month, 2 quarts of milk a day, the house in which they live, and as much firewood as they need. Electricity is unreliable, since it is on a line from the barn and dairy which gets first dibs, so brownouts happen often. No TV, radio, or phone. No refrigerator. No cabinets or counter in the kitchen. There are two bedrooms, but one is so cold that in wintertime ice forms on the walls and mold grows there as well,so we end up living in three rooms: the kitchen, the living room, and the bedroom, all heated by a wood stove in the kitchen. </p><p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzv19poz5qDNWTRYzTLG7orrN9PfQ5jcXtnzvwRd17dILRWRwQ-ZsH8NjAjW5V18T21zq5680J5140pMzK8KlqKTND9sd9g2FM6cO-zeig9A85LQLkvCtpR2m82Yr4qNLKe3xJPdPp5UVB/s856/398.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="479" data-original-width="856" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzv19poz5qDNWTRYzTLG7orrN9PfQ5jcXtnzvwRd17dILRWRwQ-ZsH8NjAjW5V18T21zq5680J5140pMzK8KlqKTND9sd9g2FM6cO-zeig9A85LQLkvCtpR2m82Yr4qNLKe3xJPdPp5UVB/w400-h224/398.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The house, probably built in the 1800s, was very drafty. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>I try to picture it – a young family with only rudimentary language skills in English, living in the boonies without a vehicle or communication devices and few amenities. It’s a picture of isolation, economic hardship, loneliness, lack of freedom to do what they'd like, community experienced only at a distance. <br /><br />Does this sound familiar? This week, I once again read and heard in the news about the deprivations imposed on us as a society by the pandemic – isolation, economic hardship, loneliness, lack of freedom to do what we want, community experienced only at a distance. I confess, I whine about this too. And yet, Mom and dad had been through something like this 70 years ago. How did they handle it?<br /><br />The first clue, which is a phrase I find in more than one of her letters, are the words, "God has directed our paths, and we trust in this." Mom and dad were looking at the big picture, the long story. Their strong faith helped them survive many disappointments and difficulties. It's something I need to remember when I think this pandemic is NEVER going to end. We are living in a small moment in time; this is not the whole story. That change in perspective makes all the difference.
Another clue is that Mom wrote letters, faithfully, every week, to her family for many, many years. So many of her letters begin with these words: “It’s Sunday afternoon, and I have a few minutes of peace to begin a letter to you..” and on the heels of that, her expressed thankfulness for the family letters that we received every week. Immigrants were isolated, but letters were a life-line. In it, they could tell the news, good and bad; they could express their worries and anxieties; they could even tell their family about the loneliness they experienced. Mom wrote, “When I got your letter this week with all the news, I confess I really wished I could be there with you for a little while; I felt sad. But then after a while, I recalled all that we have here, and the new life that lies ahead of us.” <br /><br />It’s all about communication. In our day and age, we have so many lines of communication open to us, with email and social media, telephones and newsletters, even socially distanced coffees on the patio with friends and family. We have so many opportunities to share our stories, our joys and sorrows, to reach out to those who are lonely. I read again those lines of mom: “I felt sad. But then after a while, I recalled all that we have here, and the new life that lies ahead of us.” <br /><br />The second clue is that I don’t read much complaining about the things Mom did not have. Instead, I read things like this: “There are a lot of apples laying under the tree. I picked them up and made applesauce. Otherwise, they’d just go to waste.” </p><p>“Mrs. P (the minister’s wife) gave me a man’s jacket made of tweed. I took it apart and made a coat and hat for Jelleke (<i>that’s me!</i>). It will keep her warm this winter.” </p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo8oE5VwHTHyCtmBMp7q3fECdN0ak7TB8AvDIlJG-IZnvONcr0eNgCUHO_9Q2x0RiFmOE3Cva_kDfn4QggsYy-SpiyYBsxOCxmbdT2r_BF5hdekT1dIZdXvSoECC7zlwqjwJW6glzPoaJG/s1109/417.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1109" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo8oE5VwHTHyCtmBMp7q3fECdN0ak7TB8AvDIlJG-IZnvONcr0eNgCUHO_9Q2x0RiFmOE3Cva_kDfn4QggsYy-SpiyYBsxOCxmbdT2r_BF5hdekT1dIZdXvSoECC7zlwqjwJW6glzPoaJG/w400-h260/417.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">this is the little coat mom made for me.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table> </p><p>And this, in the springtime: “For the first time in my life, I planted a garden! It will be so good to eat the fresh vegetables, like spinach, potatoes and beans, that we grow ourselves.” And this: “The neighbours slaughtered a pig, and were going to throw out the head and the trotters. Imagine that! We got a pail full of those cuts they didn’t want, and we will make head cheese...” <br /><br />So yes, now I’m in the throes of nostalgia and walking in my mom’s footsteps. It’s one way to cope with the pandemic. My children and grandchildren don’t need warm winter clothing, but they do need masks, and I am their production line.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUCYyD-saKWaDTk_hWPzfV6qpBw3d1b1ILm7-gWQqohIOjjaU28NrU1brhMO2o-kvZhfmsj7QZ2v29ydHa5MLf39rxs4m33q0ClM4zttwv6EFo1qZQ0SJr-gohNHDlIFWw2QJ1qPpg01p6/s800/mom+masks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUCYyD-saKWaDTk_hWPzfV6qpBw3d1b1ILm7-gWQqohIOjjaU28NrU1brhMO2o-kvZhfmsj7QZ2v29ydHa5MLf39rxs4m33q0ClM4zttwv6EFo1qZQ0SJr-gohNHDlIFWw2QJ1qPpg01p6/s320/mom+masks.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All these beautiful ladies were off to school this week, suitably dressed! <br /></td></tr></tbody></table> </p><p>This morning, I brought out the canning kettle and made applesauce, using some of the apples that had fallen on the ground. I took the garlic, onions, zucchini and tomatoes that our garden produced and made tomato sauce. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWBnVxEyuRaPWIF071-8lS6rKt4Wg3qxCKTd17hW6s0MLc1G69ESKnNSkWgLjDrqreYHIBImtAKYcbcKctaRQO1GdJPcTw0yg043e9xdgrlzkkfQc55SENAcNZeIolpwA_-3T4r9bO2sOE/s1066/mom+sauce.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1066" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWBnVxEyuRaPWIF071-8lS6rKt4Wg3qxCKTd17hW6s0MLc1G69ESKnNSkWgLjDrqreYHIBImtAKYcbcKctaRQO1GdJPcTw0yg043e9xdgrlzkkfQc55SENAcNZeIolpwA_-3T4r9bO2sOE/s320/mom+sauce.jpg" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkuZJbjPQv8bNJRo1jfdJrGncFR08X32mkYQTSCI-nzesGrMUPNI5XgITeDks5ta49G02XDxTeqLqjbMMRssi4BtLVU9pq-cdEQfmkwWPXuXgkyIGxxPRGaGyamuT9bWqoAs4fMwij-pNm/s800/mom+utensils.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkuZJbjPQv8bNJRo1jfdJrGncFR08X32mkYQTSCI-nzesGrMUPNI5XgITeDks5ta49G02XDxTeqLqjbMMRssi4BtLVU9pq-cdEQfmkwWPXuXgkyIGxxPRGaGyamuT9bWqoAs4fMwij-pNm/s320/mom+utensils.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ladle and perhaps the funnel, too, were my mom's.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table> <p></p><p>I draw the line at head cheese...but then again, I don’t know of anyone slaughtering a pig!<br /></p><p><br />So, Mom, it’s been so good hanging out with you today, you, looking over my shoulder and reminding me of the important things. I listened, Mom. You’ve taught me well. I recall all that we have here, and all that lies ahead of us, and I am thankful. <br /></p>Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-7335457585310945972020-09-09T11:00:00.000-07:002020-09-09T11:00:41.539-07:00View from the Crow's Nest: I take a walk down memory lane.<div class="separator"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0iVMQ68U1VpJql9O_Udtmf29HogbSarysStTCHgLHHhXkwzDQ9ClIh6blIm5N8vjG-WiFlTtQ9yaouQkgsc8x3HEz15gz0Mef0v3SjXkukMCtQWoA2Vb-cTCEobIe_PvZSICiBkjD4mQg/s800/311a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>My mind has been wandering lately, sorting through memories of simpler times. <br /></div><p><br />As the news keeps telling us, “we’ve never been through anything like this before.” It’s a perfect storm of pandemic fears, political squawking, racial unrest, and climate-change emergencies... enough, enough, we cry, our hands held out as a shield. <br /><br />We want to go back to simpler times. <br /><br />And so, in our imaginations, we go back. We ask each other, “Remember when...?” and we are off and running down the road called nostalgia, which means, literally, <i>nostos</i> (from the Gk. return home) and <i>algos </i>(pain) – a painful longing to return home – to better times. <br /><br />Some of it is nostalgia for things we took for granted just 6 months ago: Remember when you could go grocery shopping without a mask? Remember when the libraries were wide open? Remember when you could take a holiday trip that was limited only by the time and money you had? Remember when you could hug a friend?<br /><br />And some of it may be nostalgia for a time when we were children and could view the world as a great place to explore instead of a source of anxiety. Remember when you hopped on your bike and rode through the neighbourhood alone without worrying about stranger-danger? </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrgXylg31eR8t1FXg1YkeWY2McQ9L7_KZsIV-9dY1_C-ilQOc74WhQES6gID5eJ5u4IdpMKaEZolZ0TLOqBNY6glo9vn8dCp3UijYnlnytWHZb3Vv4rxgjMNwlNeahnThwaeDcei-NUYcz/s769/464.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="626" data-original-width="769" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrgXylg31eR8t1FXg1YkeWY2McQ9L7_KZsIV-9dY1_C-ilQOc74WhQES6gID5eJ5u4IdpMKaEZolZ0TLOqBNY6glo9vn8dCp3UijYnlnytWHZb3Vv4rxgjMNwlNeahnThwaeDcei-NUYcz/w400-h325/464.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>Remember swinging back and forth over the water on an old tire at the town swimming hole? </p><p>Or our nostalgia may lead us back to times when our children were younger.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbpGC6Lblip_cduG_e1te_eTTo3uFmN4paGCu0fr3lB0Cr7G1LAkB1GE-VWluVZ2jvhuH9sN9Cq_5SRY-arafiSZ4haUElP3yhF3jHXA8cAE7BxH5ZaGMAIW6E8HaoV6LgZXBSnX9b04nO/s1010/img060.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="679" data-original-width="1010" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbpGC6Lblip_cduG_e1te_eTTo3uFmN4paGCu0fr3lB0Cr7G1LAkB1GE-VWluVZ2jvhuH9sN9Cq_5SRY-arafiSZ4haUElP3yhF3jHXA8cAE7BxH5ZaGMAIW6E8HaoV6LgZXBSnX9b04nO/w400-h269/img060.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>or our parents were still alive</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuHcfIi-DHAey5om54CMeNC-wIlxnempav9z-DyC_svcatagUq2Lp7uDT4cV1lBS9fCH4EcwmL54YmHvvHPLrimn3G4ha3AeHmKLA0nA0eWz05UhyphenhyphenUEoI0uk7hxW1yFI3D92nV_b6ykwOt/s737/dad+9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="737" data-original-width="570" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuHcfIi-DHAey5om54CMeNC-wIlxnempav9z-DyC_svcatagUq2Lp7uDT4cV1lBS9fCH4EcwmL54YmHvvHPLrimn3G4ha3AeHmKLA0nA0eWz05UhyphenhyphenUEoI0uk7hxW1yFI3D92nV_b6ykwOt/w309-h400/dad+9.jpg" width="309" /></a></div> <p></p><p>or we lived in a different home or town. Ah, yes, nostalgia. And how does that make you feel, as you lean back into those memories? Good or bad?<br /><br />Nostalgia used to be considered a mental disease – it was a topic of serious medical study. People were placed in asylums, and even died of it. In retrospect, academics now believe nostalgia was misdiagnosed: it was a form of PTSD, which affected mostly people forcibly displaced from their homes – soldiers, housemaids, refugees, for instance. The cure was simple: send the sufferers home again. But often that was not possible, just as it is not possible for us to go back to the way it used to be.<br /><br />These days, nostalgia is again the subject of serious study. “Nostalgia has been shown to counteract loneliness, boredom and anxiety,” reports the New York Times. “It makes people more generous to strangers and more tolerant of outsiders. Couples feel closer and look happier when they’re sharing nostalgic memories.”<br /><br />This is because when we travel back in imagination to simpler times, or memorable events shared with others, we end up with a stronger feeling of belonging. We remember cherished experiences, and that reminds us our lives have continuity and meaning. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJhwY5zfq7M7purEEIwyUbsN4f8ihP6KYiuczV2IeKkAM92jNZ0RX3trRLKdDZOV7ci_FIclgVmEevTD9zH_3k602kcv2ZLWovbPcMljboFqpUdY8Uo0zfsDAmJEmTQ6KuSh-IrBX-e_FO/s640/dad+12.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJhwY5zfq7M7purEEIwyUbsN4f8ihP6KYiuczV2IeKkAM92jNZ0RX3trRLKdDZOV7ci_FIclgVmEevTD9zH_3k602kcv2ZLWovbPcMljboFqpUdY8Uo0zfsDAmJEmTQ6KuSh-IrBX-e_FO/w400-h268/dad+12.JPG" title="A gathering of mom's siblings and spouses at the occasion of their 50th anniversary." width="400" /></a></div>In this photo, for instance, I am sitting in the middle of a gathering of four of mom's siblings and spouses at the occasion of their 50th anniversary. We belonged to each other. We still do, even if five of them are no longer with us. I am so grateful for this memory.<br /><p></p><p>The research shows that even if subjects were depressed and sad
before they indulged in nostalgia, they felt more connected, happier,
and optimistic after they’d spent some time sorting through memories. We
begin to have a different perspective on the troubles we are going
through. We remember that life has not always been like this, and it
won’t always be like this. We have hope that we can return to better
times. To quote Charlie Chaplin – the “Little Tramp” – who was
perpetually down on his luck: “Nothing is permanent in this wicked
world, not even our troubles.”<br /><br />Nostalgia: a prescription for
sadness, loneliness and anxiety in these tough days. Take a dose several
times a week, say the experts, and you will feel better! You can even
play it forward by creating good memories today that will provide raw
materials for nostalgia in the future. Building “nostalgia-to-be
memories”, it’s called.<br /><br />In this time of pandemic, I’ve noticed
more of that going on. I see parents taking evening walks with their
children, and families sitting at the beach together. Teenagers are
having a great time jumping off rocks at the local swimming hole or
tubing down the river. They are building memories. I see a local
senior’s group spaced out in the shade of a tree at a local park,
sipping from their thermoses while sharing news, gossip, and yes,
probably memories of better times. Early this morning, out on my walk, I
saw grandparents playing at the playground with a whole passel of
grandchildren, including one toddler still in his sleeper, wearing rubber
boots. There's always one in the crowd who doesn't want to get dressed. It called up some nostalgic memories for me, and yes, it felt
good!</p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0iVMQ68U1VpJql9O_Udtmf29HogbSarysStTCHgLHHhXkwzDQ9ClIh6blIm5N8vjG-WiFlTtQ9yaouQkgsc8x3HEz15gz0Mef0v3SjXkukMCtQWoA2Vb-cTCEobIe_PvZSICiBkjD4mQg/s800/311a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> </a><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0iVMQ68U1VpJql9O_Udtmf29HogbSarysStTCHgLHHhXkwzDQ9ClIh6blIm5N8vjG-WiFlTtQ9yaouQkgsc8x3HEz15gz0Mef0v3SjXkukMCtQWoA2Vb-cTCEobIe_PvZSICiBkjD4mQg/w400-h300/311a.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We love this photo, which was recreated several times over the years, only with more clothes on the young fellow in the green chair. And since then, two more grandies take part in the traditional photo.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> How about you? Do you have some nostalgic memories that could make your day? <br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p><br /><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/09/science/what-is-nostalgia-good-for-quite-a-bit-research-shows.html">https://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/09/science/what-is-nostalgia-good-for-quite-a-bit-research-shows.html</a><br /><br />https://mashable.com/2018/05/19/nostalgia-deadly-mental-illness/ <br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0iVMQ68U1VpJql9O_Udtmf29HogbSarysStTCHgLHHhXkwzDQ9ClIh6blIm5N8vjG-WiFlTtQ9yaouQkgsc8x3HEz15gz0Mef0v3SjXkukMCtQWoA2Vb-cTCEobIe_PvZSICiBkjD4mQg/s800/311a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0iVMQ68U1VpJql9O_Udtmf29HogbSarysStTCHgLHHhXkwzDQ9ClIh6blIm5N8vjG-WiFlTtQ9yaouQkgsc8x3HEz15gz0Mef0v3SjXkukMCtQWoA2Vb-cTCEobIe_PvZSICiBkjD4mQg/s320/311a.jpg" width="320" /></a> <br /></div>Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-36755986063330684502020-08-24T11:29:00.006-07:002020-08-24T11:33:11.107-07:00View from the Crow's Nest: I learn a lesson in living<p>It was a somber start to the day: rain pouring down from low grey clouds. Somber, too, because we were heading to Vancouver to attend an “inurnment” – placing the ashes of a dear friend Eileen beside the ashes of her husband John, who had died several years earlier. Now they were gone, both of them, our friends for more than 40 years. Eileen had died in April, and because of the pandemic, we weren’t able to go and say good-bye beforehand. Because of the pandemic, as well, this ceremony couldn’t be held until now, 4 months later. The weather matched the sad feelings we had as we made the journey on slick roads to board the ferry. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCV00m6sOY77tW4FM3aqwZg85wGFmUIGdCpFWlR6j0qj6cB2I_KeOeEFlm4EEInQqvt8dj-ob3YI0lweebGJts05KDM4H65Ahbw1Zo0jbcBp6DJ4T-XLby41i_3hWftukxhrkmJF2CAycR/s1280/lesson+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCV00m6sOY77tW4FM3aqwZg85wGFmUIGdCpFWlR6j0qj6cB2I_KeOeEFlm4EEInQqvt8dj-ob3YI0lweebGJts05KDM4H65Ahbw1Zo0jbcBp6DJ4T-XLby41i_3hWftukxhrkmJF2CAycR/w512-h288/lesson+1.jpg" width="512" /></a></div><p><br />Living on the island is wonderful, but ferries make things more difficult, especially in these days of pandemic, when numbers allowed on board are limited. We were fortunate to be able to board within an hour of arriving at the terminal. But passengers were advised to remain in their cars for the duration of the 90 minute trip, and to wear masks if they needed to visit the restrooms. Usually, the atmosphere on a ferry, especially in the summer, is festive – people are often on holidays and love watching the scenery glide by. But not now. The sense of adventure didn’t reach us, either, parked down in the hold. We doom-scrolled through our cell phones, assaulted by bad news stories. We ate our packed sandwiches in silence. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXKJaY0WIAOwzmEWdcivN_P9m2NgXrYTa0oGp3EYiFzx8WwjYpCxiSpOMz573lfjQexWzSxk2IZ6qy8fScsn5bom7Jsh1qfoMTN0-lD5CeqFyBtoVurdke2Z6niL7cGQymA4raOWPb6hg4/s804/lesson+4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="603" data-original-width="804" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXKJaY0WIAOwzmEWdcivN_P9m2NgXrYTa0oGp3EYiFzx8WwjYpCxiSpOMz573lfjQexWzSxk2IZ6qy8fScsn5bom7Jsh1qfoMTN0-lD5CeqFyBtoVurdke2Z6niL7cGQymA4raOWPb6hg4/w512-h384/lesson+4.jpg" width="512" /></a><br /></div><p>It was still raining when we reached Vancouver and made our way to the hotel in a high-rise area but close to the seawall. A peek out the window grimly revealed the sights and sounds of construction all around us. A Covid-aware poster told us what we couldn’t have here: no coffee maker, no pool, no hot tub, no restaurant, no bar. We unpacked. The ceremony would take place the following morning, so we had 20 hours to fill in a small room in a rain-soaked city. Books, Sudoku, Cribbage, TV... they would have to keep us amused. We lay down for a rest.<br /><br />And then: the sun came out. <br /><br />Vancouver in the rain: somber and dreary. But Vancouver in the sunshine invites you out to play. We pulled on our jackets and walking shoes and set out to see what we could see, and to find an interesting outdoor place for dinner. We got rained on periodically, but we persevered. We watched people – parents pushing strollers, cyclists, joggers, a nurse supporting an older gentleman on his daily walk, kids chatting on benches; we watched little water taxis zipping around on the bay, we explored our way around the neighbourhood.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS6BWN4VVIAOUcuN5UvO2YP5e58H2Xw58A1G83KSejonz3OJlXdnCItT958SwDdNVvI09APBib0a2XmTVyDHdqSoFfm4NPUKpbefJSr8zToxYMlxYG5efyCccUrvrrEqh1vhDksn_adzWf/s550/lesson+5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="366" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS6BWN4VVIAOUcuN5UvO2YP5e58H2Xw58A1G83KSejonz3OJlXdnCItT958SwDdNVvI09APBib0a2XmTVyDHdqSoFfm4NPUKpbefJSr8zToxYMlxYG5efyCccUrvrrEqh1vhDksn_adzWf/s0/lesson+5.jpg" /></a></div> <p></p><p> </p><p>We settled on a Persian restaurant with an outdoor patio and had an excellent meal. </p><p>The ceremony itself, the next day, was also wonderful. All of it was held outdoors, including a high tea around a courtyard fountain. We donned our masks and said good-bye, yes, but we also celebrated, told stories, shared our emotions. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQLgv9UlGk7no7R0Yt7pz-Xrf-4ggpJJE5aALRF3zvQW9EoLFQSInxFvezmrwrwfAWiQFB6rZ4sBO9pxgqiqVQWNtqRfZcnnlteGk2caBc8Z-Nuq6Ee-IBrspCZSRb2kzbvAsNQkTU2M0V/s800/lesson+10.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQLgv9UlGk7no7R0Yt7pz-Xrf-4ggpJJE5aALRF3zvQW9EoLFQSInxFvezmrwrwfAWiQFB6rZ4sBO9pxgqiqVQWNtqRfZcnnlteGk2caBc8Z-Nuq6Ee-IBrspCZSRb2kzbvAsNQkTU2M0V/s640/lesson+10.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKOsmTTG7DnBqeRfB9cq_dyP_titm7AI-Z4-JdrlwML5A_2srFEZ9NfzaB1jGOL_MYVpYW8S034hjpXz9VGy12SYNI8eXD1ObYbNPbrqUGiLcPkhjmA3sgr4yN1f-Vc79YvynwcOc7sKHj/s1066/lesson+9.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1066" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKOsmTTG7DnBqeRfB9cq_dyP_titm7AI-Z4-JdrlwML5A_2srFEZ9NfzaB1jGOL_MYVpYW8S034hjpXz9VGy12SYNI8eXD1ObYbNPbrqUGiLcPkhjmA3sgr4yN1f-Vc79YvynwcOc7sKHj/s640/lesson+9.jpg" /></a></p><p>And then I remembered back to a day when I was staying with Eileen,
who was dying. I was her companion/meal-maker and friend for 10 days
when she needed a little extra support. She said to me one morning,
“Enough about dying. Today I want to live. Let’s go to Granville
Island.” And we did, she on her scooter, and I on foot, taking the Sky
Train and water taxis, zooming around that funky neighbourhood of shops
and restaurants, enjoying ourselves thoroughly.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX_SKHw7brDJpu8zQbBdh51fghlm32dQmz237PzpU3rCFWyfNeNR4Iqu2ccXBtKcE_1LeIHg9O5DjXVyDZalZf5swjSo26x7RHh5zTBlyvOynQuekwaolmUoe9EW-FvKyoEzn4whg8rPNp/s800/two+chics+out+on+the+town+Mar.+8%252C+2019.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX_SKHw7brDJpu8zQbBdh51fghlm32dQmz237PzpU3rCFWyfNeNR4Iqu2ccXBtKcE_1LeIHg9O5DjXVyDZalZf5swjSo26x7RHh5zTBlyvOynQuekwaolmUoe9EW-FvKyoEzn4whg8rPNp/s640/two+chics+out+on+the+town+Mar.+8%252C+2019.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> <p></p><p>Perhaps Eileen’s words have a message for us in these days of pandemic, racism, climate change, and political divisiveness. These are indeed somber times, and we do need to take that seriously. But we also have the precious gifts of life, love, friendship, community and more. To honour her grit, her determination, and her courage, I need to remember that today, every day, is for living. Even rainy days. <br /><br />Each cloudy moment had a touch of silver, reminding us of the adventure that life is. <br /><br />PS: The return journey on the ferry was one of those silvery moments that will remain etched in my memory. We were the second last car that got on the ferry, and were parked outside at the back of the ship. The sun was shining, the breeze was warm, and the scenery gliding by spectacular. We took the folding lawn chairs out of our trunk and set them up to fully take advantage of the opportunity we’d been given to have a 2 hour “mini-cruise” experience. In the absence of wine, we snacked on potato chips. Now that’s living! <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg72ESNQ0G4KChn1xI-NpKO6XbmXFXPUFIvFqLKRCCixyDgM4h131h2uOetIKnk9i9FDfAvwsIZtcZjzraeNTOY_M4ehBqn9x6CtzTX8dFu3OqF1zx1tsXadxSF2kbb24P5P3EavKNMwUGv/s1066/lesson+8.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1066" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg72ESNQ0G4KChn1xI-NpKO6XbmXFXPUFIvFqLKRCCixyDgM4h131h2uOetIKnk9i9FDfAvwsIZtcZjzraeNTOY_M4ehBqn9x6CtzTX8dFu3OqF1zx1tsXadxSF2kbb24P5P3EavKNMwUGv/s640/lesson+8.jpg" /></a></div><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419991330810453663.post-88865335152366956062020-08-02T11:17:00.000-07:002020-08-02T11:17:03.386-07:00View from the Crow's Nest: I watch the second chickenThe other day, I read an interesting story on FB. The story comes from the book <b><i>The Opposite of Worry</i></b> by L.J. Cohen.<br /><br />The gist of the story is this: a scientist is investigating the cycle of fear and recovery and does an experiment involving chicks. He takes the chick out its box and gives it a “hawk-eye”, imitating a hungry predator. When he places the chick back in its box, the chick huddles motionless for about a minute, then cautiously pops up and begins moving about because she believes the danger is over.<br /><br /><div>Then he repeats the experiment, but this time he gives two chicks the hawk eye at the same time. Then he placed them together in a box. This time both chicks remained immobilized for about five minutes. Presumably the chicks are taking their cues for impending danger from each other, and it takes much longer for them to feel safe. You might say they were “egging each other on” in the cycle of fear. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi13-JBaGcMBiXaDGcmUDrWIdpuUzNYDOfz6_feS1sh8C7I5anCigqKJHwkCAp2zWSu5q3V53mP1BFQ1TcFn7FLM8Xgp3JzlpKLpT6bT6HrYu4rJl7ipf3NQOucJqXZFXJQQVvHuii9HRDR/s259/chicks+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi13-JBaGcMBiXaDGcmUDrWIdpuUzNYDOfz6_feS1sh8C7I5anCigqKJHwkCAp2zWSu5q3V53mP1BFQ1TcFn7FLM8Xgp3JzlpKLpT6bT6HrYu4rJl7ipf3NQOucJqXZFXJQQVvHuii9HRDR/w405-h304/chicks+2.jpg" width="405" /></a></div><div><br /></div><br /><div>In the last round, the experimenter lets one chick wander around the box while immobilizing the other with a hawk-eye. This time when the first chick is returned to the box, the fear-recovery cycle was short - the chick popped back up after mere seconds. The frightened chicken looked to the second chicken to see that all was safe. Since the second chicken was walking around happily, the first chicken felt that all was well. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgehRb4aBm5Ku0XtsVbXuxqa8pBzJi1rtnkZkhp1ECL1T0jHM2S79xM0I7Em5DdLR832hAfAPM8l42Xk4rnbSr2vOnVFAzDqpBX0cV8kGlTQyBoPWpgLb1ja8gY65cXURMabie5nmSvjTvJ/s284/chicks+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgehRb4aBm5Ku0XtsVbXuxqa8pBzJi1rtnkZkhp1ECL1T0jHM2S79xM0I7Em5DdLR832hAfAPM8l42Xk4rnbSr2vOnVFAzDqpBX0cV8kGlTQyBoPWpgLb1ja8gY65cXURMabie5nmSvjTvJ/s0/chicks+5.jpg" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><div>So. It’s time for some truth telling. This month I have been the first chick, the Chicken Little who cries that the sky is falling. I’ve been given the hawk-eye by society, and I am almost paralyzed. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhag1z12J8QQ92T8XviGmBQWJ-tIEHkFp6z3w3rLwLTfu5DrJwVeieiFUJ7seTViqyFKbvsc77IKWc5BOpyOhcz20tHp6m5pj4_2R7TkyTXTgMEbZOhBD2vGJFm_QOll4J3a6DgeBqy4STe/s310/chicken+little+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="310" data-original-width="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhag1z12J8QQ92T8XviGmBQWJ-tIEHkFp6z3w3rLwLTfu5DrJwVeieiFUJ7seTViqyFKbvsc77IKWc5BOpyOhcz20tHp6m5pj4_2R7TkyTXTgMEbZOhBD2vGJFm_QOll4J3a6DgeBqy4STe/s0/chicken+little+2.jpg" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>The pandemic, the horrible political situation in the US, and a growing realization that I cannot stay in my safe little bubble in the studio forever, has finally caught up with me. I’m guessing that many of you, too, have hit this wall at some time in the last months. Maybe you are there now. </div><br />As I’ve recorded in this blog, I walked tall through March, April, May and June. But July has been an epic fail. No unfinished projects got finished. I haven’t been walking or writing hardly at all. And it feels as though there are few daily delights to make my heart sing. What has happened to my resolve to dwell peacefully in these troubled times? Why do I feel so flat? I woke up this morning telling myself, “Enough of this! I need to recalibrate.” <br /><br />The story about the chickens pointed out what I might do: instead of huddling helplessly waiting for the sky to fall, I needed to look around for a Second Chicken, the one that is sending out a message of hopefulness. Maybe I can take my cue from her, rather than from the noise and tumult that is swirling around me.<br /><br />Are there such voices? Oh, yes there are! Thank God for that. Just scrolling through my FB today I came across several wonderful and inspiring posts that I want to share with you. <br /><br /><div>First, I read the Op-ed written only a few days before he died by civil rights marcher and US Representative John Lewis. I can only imagine how easy it would have been for Lewis to throw up his hands in despair: he’d been beaten, jailed, and persecuted back in the 50s and 60s for his civil activism, but has yet to see the dream of equality become a reality. And yet, he begins his essay with these words: “I want you to know that in the last days and hours of my life you inspired me. You filled me with hope ... when you used your power to make a difference in our society... Though I may not be here with you, I urge you to answer the highest calling of your heart and stand up for what you truly believe. In my life I have done all I can to demonstrate that the way of peace, the way of love and nonviolence is the more excellent way. Now it is your turn to let freedom ring...So I say to you, walk with the wind, brothers and sisters, and let the spirit of peace and the power of everlasting love be your guide.” There are more inspiring words here, and if you haven’t already, I urge you to read it. John Lewis was my first Second Chicken, speaking encouragement, challenge, and hope into my turmoil. <br /></div><div><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2020/07/30/opinion/john-lewis-civil-rights-america.html?action=click&module=Opinion&pgtype=Homepage">https://www.nytimes.com/2020/07/30/opinion/john-lewis-civil-rights-america.html?action=click&module=Opinion&pgtype=Homepage</a></div><br /><div>And then I saw a video entitled <span style="background-color: #fcff01;"><i><b>Ibi’s Fireflies.</b></i></span> It is a beautiful combination of art, music, dance, storytelling, and even science.</div><div> <br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPtvbhXKNywc_OhWT7yZ_AM2aBr6edSf9YCFBHi0cNmkv2mpBjr61Y_q1yJOLGRMumi8WbY1aC3TxT-RCOE_bhU8rVXHow5n4Chg0ZItAgbKg1l2hz0RNd4hxNZ3-5F8CFQHaqo56JEg7v/s226/chicks+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="223" data-original-width="226" height="349" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPtvbhXKNywc_OhWT7yZ_AM2aBr6edSf9YCFBHi0cNmkv2mpBjr61Y_q1yJOLGRMumi8WbY1aC3TxT-RCOE_bhU8rVXHow5n4Chg0ZItAgbKg1l2hz0RNd4hxNZ3-5F8CFQHaqo56JEg7v/w354-h349/chicks+3.jpg" width="354" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Watching it lifted my heart. Ibiyinka Alao, the Nigerian artist who put it together, says, “The heart is like a jar containing fireflies, and one’s capacity to love makes these fireflies into stars...In the middle of disasters, we look to beauty for hope.” Ibi is another Second Chicken, reminding us that there is so much beauty and love in the world, so much to be grateful for. Here’s a link to the video. It’s 17 minutes long, so settle in and enjoy.</div><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uCHXdHkVs9Q">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uCHXdHkVs9Q</a><br /><br /><div>And then, I took a walk in the woods. As usual, I emerged half an hour later with a different perspective. If I keep looking up to see if the sky is falling, I will never see the beauty, grace, love, all the good things happening around me, even lying at my feet. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3mW9LZ4umDLFrjxSPrTrpaldsyTH8xEXwD91Z_PG0PDxcw4DXVGV-jTzn6OxY3lggRuA9c7962cRgnkn2JelDftke85alqDeKOsR-k7wcBthO4jWXlbbV37neaJGjlZxepX3P9GKAXCwA/s1885/20200602_110659.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1885" data-original-width="1060" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3mW9LZ4umDLFrjxSPrTrpaldsyTH8xEXwD91Z_PG0PDxcw4DXVGV-jTzn6OxY3lggRuA9c7962cRgnkn2JelDftke85alqDeKOsR-k7wcBthO4jWXlbbV37neaJGjlZxepX3P9GKAXCwA/s640/20200602_110659.jpg" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>It’s okay to cower for a while in my box, acknowledging that there is danger, but then, it is time to join all the Second Chickens of this world in spreading a message that encourages and inspires. This is how we abide in these trying times.</div><br />I first read the story of the chickens on this web page:<br /><a href="http://dojustice.crcna.org/article/interdependence-and-hope-be-second-chicken">http://dojustice.crcna.org/article/interdependence-and-hope-be-second-chicken</a><br />The author, Mike Hoogeterp, urges the church to be the Second Chicken, and gives ideas about how it can do this.<br />Crow: Day Onehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747532571355923628noreply@blogger.com0