Friday, November 13, 2009

Rage

Today's prompt for The One Minute Writer is Accident. This is the story that emerged in response.

He brought the red mustang to a slippery halt at the stop sign. Rain reflected off the street and dripped lazily off the maple leaves leaning over the road. On the windshield ribbons of white stick substance groped the sleek glass. High pitched howls confused his senses

Distorted faces glowed through the rain sluicing across his side window. The door swung open. Fierce female hands ripped him from the seat and tossed him onto the pavement. In a melee of limbs, he was struck again and again. Hands, feet, elbows and knees pummeled his prone form. Lips split, nose broke, scalp lacerated and ribs cracked under the blows.

As his mind began to darken, he heard a woman's voice pitched deep, almost a growl.
" Girls, get off him! Get the hell back to the gym. " He of was aware of long arms and a tall body creating a barrier forcing back the band of thugs. Moving into consciousness and a world of pain he moved slug-like across the asphalt.

"Get in the car get in the car. Drive! drive!" the woman commanded.

He pulled himself into the still running vehicle. It took a brief moment for his twisted swollen foot to find the gas pedal. Then he was off. Shaking and drooling blood as he drove the car, wild and weaving down the road.

The woman, shuddering with adrenaline, watched until he was out of sight. Long strings of damp toilet paper, used to blind the windshield before the attack, clung to her feet and legs. She released a long, slow breath that she seemed to have held for hours. She returned to the building and the gymnasium. It was going to be a long night talking down the girls hopped up on rage.

Unfortunately this is a true story. One of many painful events in my experience working with Toronto's Department of Parks and Recreation in the late 60's. In this case, I was able to control my little mob because I had already 'proven' myself as the boss the night they attacked me in the darkened gym. It is not often that I think about my size and strength but on that occasion I was decidedly grateful to my peasant ancestors for my genetic heritage.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Grandmothers' Insight

I recently heard an interview on the marvelous Vancouver Co-op Radio that moved me profoundly. The woman being interviewed was Agnes Baker Pilgrim - (Takelma Siletz) of Grants Pass, Oregon, USA. She is known as Gandma Aggie. An aboriginal who is the eldest member of her tribe, Aggie is the elected leader of the International Council of the 13 Grandmothers.

These brave souls have taken leadership in renewing values that have grown rusty in this age of politics and technology. Their statement of mission demonstrated to me how entangled I have become in my own tiny world which is made up of my family, friends and my daily concerns.

The Grandmothers' Mission Statement




The grandmothers and two young ambassadors.

We, THE NATIONAL COUNCIL OF THIRTEEN INDIGENOUS GRANDMOTHERS, represent a global alliance of prayer, education and healing for our Mother Earth, all Her inhabitants, all the children, and for the next seven generations to come. We are deeply concerned with the unprecedented destruction of our Mother Earth and the destruction of indigenous ways of life. We believe the teachings of our ancestors will light our way through an uncertain future. We look to further our vision through the realization of projects that protect our diverse cultures: lands, medicines, language and ceremonial ways of prayer and through projects that educate and nurture our children.

Grandmother Aggie cited a personal example of how the Council members honour their connection to the earth. She told listeners how concerned she became as reports of diminishing salmon stock came year after year. She knew that there had once been a ceremony practiced by the tribes living in the north west region of the coast. She did some research and found records of the event in old writings. She worked with an aboriginal group and gained permission from the Oregon Forestry Service to hold the ancient Salmon Ceremony in a secluded riverbank area. The ceremony is a celebration of the gift of food given by the salmon to sustain life. The salmon is cooked over fires using traditional methods. Prayers of thanks are given to the earth and the fish for the gift of life and that which sustains life. The bones and skin of the fish are ritually returned to the river. Grandmother Aggie said that this process mimics and honours the cycle of the salmons' life. She told how the mature salmon return to the streams and rivers of their birth. When the salmon have completed spawning the adults die. Their bodies decompose and provide nutrients for the next generation.

She reported that the salmon count in Oregon increased the year following the revival of the ancient ritual. The ceremony is now an annual event.

This is one small example of how the grandmothers are taking action to change the world one step at a time. Some of their other efforts are much more ambitious. They have taken on the Pope and the political leaders of many nations.

There are a number of websites for the 13 Grandmothers. I found www.grandmotherscouncil.com/INTRO.html the most informative.

Some of the sites have franchised the Grandmothers and offer tee-shirts, mugs
and other items. Originally I felt this was not in keeping what they stood for but I assume that this is one of the ways thier projects are funded.

Whatever the rationale, I am grateful that their work continues. As Grandma Aggies says "We will go on until our hearts lie on the ground."

Sunday, September 27, 2009

My Little Wren Goddess


Miss Montgomery
Grade 1 Kimberly Public School 1956-57

She was a petite woman inclined toward solid, Celtic stoutness. She had a strong featured face. Pleasant but not pretty. Her upper lip was graced by a few slender black lengths of silk. Her dark hair was inclined to waves especially when out winter classroom filled with the farmyard humidity of wet mitts, boots, knitted hats and scarves; all roasting on the big silver painted steam radiators. She favoured dark colours; navy or grey skirts paired with brown or navy cardigans. Her blouses were invariably white with sharp-pointed well-starched collars.
Her most interesting feature (in the eyes of a child) was her wooden leg, a souvenir from the war. She would use it to stomp out emphasis for an important point in instruction. She always wore thick, ankle covering leather shoes, their multitude of shiny black grommets laced securely. Her shoes had tree stump heels that aided in the percussion of her steps as she moved across the creaking wooden floors of the classroom.
Her posture was always very straight and her chin up. By some sort of implicit agreement, the pupils never talked about her leg. My family and I assume the other householders in the early to mid fifties, drummed into their children that RESPECT was required for those who fought in the war.
We knew she had been ‘overseas’ and had somehow lost a limb for ‘the cause’ as the war was referred to in the 1950s. I realize now that she was probably a field nurse. But at the time I pictured her wearing a dead-green helmet, like the one in my grandfather’s trunk. I saw her clad in uniform and puttees. I imagined her thrusting forward with rifle and bayonet rifle, she charged forth through barbed wire. I saw her firing the rifle and screaming battle cries at the ‘enemy’.
Rumour was that she lost her fiancée during an important battle. This was seen as a great tragedy since the culture of the day felt that a woman without a man was incomplete. On the other hand, women who remained dedicated to dead fiancée soldiers were deemed to be noble in the extreme.
At the front of the classroom there was a union jack which hung listlessly from its brass embellished oak flagstaff. Once a week Miss Montgomery would discuss the meaning of the flag, “Red is for courage, blue is for truth and white is for purity of heart,” she would tell us. The stripes, she said, represented the St. George Cross of England and the St Andrew Cross of Scotland”. I don’t remember why the saintly symbols of Ireland and Wales. I do remember, that she told us the blue background was a reminder of the oceans that linked the ‘Great Empire’ of England. Anyone who couldn’t promptly recite those salient details regarding the flag had to stay in at recess.
Even in Grade One we were expected to be able to list off the Commonwealth Countries for East to West around the Globe. A huge map of the world with the Empire’s holdings depicted in a peculiar orangey pink, hung in pride of place directly above the chalk board.
Every morning before class began; we rose to sing ‘God Save the King’ and, shortly after the first few months of Kindergarten, ‘God Save the Queen’. A picture of who watched us with a shy smile from her place of honour by the door.
The original version of ‘Oh Canada’ followed the British anthem. We were accompanied by music scratched out with a thick needle on an elderly record player that wavered feebly over the school loud speakers. A primitive intercom was set up with tremendous fanfare during my grade one year. It was considered a great privilege to be the student chosen on a particular morning to drop the needle into the groove. After all we were doing it for the pretty, young Queen.
As we warbled away with the anthems, Miss Montgomery was on the lookout for disrespect. She was quick with her pool cue of a pointer which was prodded sharply between the shoulder blades of anyone who did not stand at attention, showed signs of distraction or forgot the words to the anthems. Her pointer left shameful chalky spots on one’s back so everyone knew you’d failed in your duty.
During the recitation of The Lord’s Prayer she kept an eagle eye out for those who didn’t bow their heads properly, fidgeted or opened their eyes. I thought that she must have special permission from God so she could keep her eyes open to watch us during the recitation.
On special occasions such as parents’ night, school assembly, or spring tea, Miss Montgomery wore her immaculate Legion jacket, an armed forces beret complete with a magnificent multi-coloured crest embroidered on the front, and all her ribbons and medals. In my eyes, she was a miniature general. My, but she was impressive.
She was very supportive of the Red Cross and every month throughout the school year we had a volunteer day when we would fold lint-filled muslin bandages, presumably for stricken refugees.
Every three months, we were required to fill plain, string-tied, muslin bags supplied by the Red Cross with our donations. The bags required of a bar of soap, a flannel (facecloth), toothpaste, tooth brush, nail brush, safety pins, iodine, sticky plasters and comb.
The best part of charitable activities involved shoe box packages. For those we brought shoe boxes to house special gifts for the refugee children. We gathered mitts, scarves, scribblers, a skinny little 6 pack of crayons, a half dozen HB pencils, an eraser (pink only), chocolate bars, a small toy and any other small bits we could squeeze into the oblong containers. My tall father had very big feet and therefore I always had the largest shoebox. There was always plenty of room for indulgences such as hard candy or a tiny bottle of scent.
Miss Montgomery was particularly passionate about these little assembly line projects. She would do a slow march around the classroom assessing the contents of our boxes. So that no one was shamed, we learned to bring extras for the children in our class whose families could not afford the toiletries. I don’t know how she conveyed that message to us but it settled in our little brains quite firmly. My favourite contribution of extras was crayons. The Five and Dime store always kept a good supply on hand. I think they were 10¢ each.
She was rigorous in her demands for tidy packing. Demonstrating how to fold, wrap and place the items. No doubt this was to assure that there was optimum space for all the add-ins. We however thought that poor results would see us staying in at recess for years to come.
The girls would make boxes that included tiny dolls and pink hair clips. The boys would prepare packages with a more masculine emphasis. They would stuff whistles and dinky toys between the soft rolls of knitting and ensured, whenever possible, the items were some shade of blue or red rather than the pastel colors designated for much despised, girls.
After each box was finished we would colour a picture on the outside lid “to make it cheerful,” Miss M said. “and to show the children overseas that we are thoughtful and talented.”
I remember that she kept a large stack of snowy tissue in our supplies’ cupboard. She would smooth one piece in the top of each of our boxes. She looked like the jeweller who had a shop on Kingston road, wrapping diamonds in fine silk.
As we laboured at our charitable work, we were surrounded by the smell of chalk, eraser crumbles, blue ink, dust, floor wax and mildew.
Miss Montgomery, though a Canadian, spoke often of the cliffs of Dover in England. Did her lover take her there? In my mind, I saw her with her anonymous soldier sitting on a blue plaid blanket and picnicking. Listening to her words, I could imagine those gleaming white buttresses of shoreline. I was delighted to learn those heights were made of chalk. Did they smell like the chalk of our classroom? Did they sprinkle the sea air with white powder to be whirled about in the eddy of seagull wings? Had she brought suitcases of cylindrical stones home for use on our blackboard?
I wondered if there were also great coloured mountains of wax in this place called England. Is that where our crayons came from? Did bright wickless candles role in avalanches off the slippery sides?

After each session with the Red Cross bags and the shoe boxes, Miss Montgomery would read us a story from one of the countries she had visited in the war. It was the boys and girls in these places, she told us, to which our packages and parcels would travel. Of all the countries she mentioned, I remember only Holland and that was because of the wonderful story of Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates. The original novel written by Mary Mapes Dodge was published in 1865. Miss Montgomery was not one for watered down versions. It took many months for her to finish the tale. She read to us in its original, old-fashioned and complicated English.
I also recall this country because we had a classmate who came from Holland. Her family lived in the Netherlands during the war but had come to Canada when she was a baby. Her last name was Dejong and for several years, her family spoke only Dutch. This was an amazing thing to me. How did they know what they were saying if they didn’t use English? Did their brains work in a different way? Miss Montgomery knew the answer to that. She said, “Words stand for the pictures we see in our heads, the things in the world around us and the way we feel, even if the words sound different, the pictures are the same.”
I adored this complicated lady for her brave stance in a confused world but also because she was the keeper of the Dick and Jane books from which she taught us to read. Magic. Pure magic. I cannot describe my joy in the process of learning to match the shapes of letters to the sculpture of words. She unlocked mighty secrets for me. She was a warrior magician. A goddess dressed in dull plumage.
After I left grade one, I would watch for her doing her slow march along the halls or patrolling in the school yard. She was my touchstone. When she monitored the winter schoolyard before classes or at recess, Miss Montgomery wore a navy coat that tangled around her ankles catching on the top hooks where her laced shoes ended. A smooth, crimson wool scarf piled like a scarlet snow drift around her short neck. Her head covering was a navy beret, stiff, well-brushed and lint-free at all times.
She carried a large brass bell with a wooden handle in her leather gloved hands. It was so heavy she had to use two; black leather-gloved, hands to ‘ring’ us back to class. Oddly, I remember that she had rubbery black boots that fit over her shoes covering all but the very high collars which supported her ankles. The front of these boots was shaped like an inverted beak and fastened off to the side with an elastic loop and a shiny black button. In my eyes, they were a fascinating contrivance.
One day, when I was in grade four, she disappeared, never to return. Did she go to Flanders to search for the grave of her lost love? Did she stand on the cliffs of Dover and watch the seagulls soar? I’ll never know.
It took some time for me to adjust to the loss of her presence. As happens with the fortunate young, in time, other beloved teachers stepped forward fill void. But be sure of this, I never forgot my small wren of a goddess who taught me the magic of words.
Reader please note: Miss Montgomery really was my grade one teacher at Kimberly Public School in East End Toronto. She did indeed create the thoughts and pass on the learning outlined in this little tale. But please remember this is a child’s story and may not be historically accurate.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Writing Straight Up

I have my writing shoes on and am work/walking at my treadmill desk. I love this great concept that incorporates a desktop and a treadmill. My ‘desk’ is fastened to the front bars of mill above the programming modules. I sense that Arthur Slade, the author who introduced me to this idea, must have been a more athletic type than I am. (No pun was intended but I like it so I will keep it.) At first I am wobbling, then doing a drunken two step and now I am marching along. My desk keeps sliding into my belly button and my mouse is on a rampage, spinning and circling like a mad crane. These shoes are made for writing

Ten minutes later....

The physical challenges are under control and the treadmill world is stabilised. I can trot like a horse or plod like a Meg either choice seems to keep the writing going.

I have given the treadmill her own name. It is clear to me that we are going to develop some intimacy as time goes by and I would feel badly referring to her as It. She is Wilda The Walking Wonder. The exciting aspect of my relationship with Wilda, is that she spontaneously introduces inclines in her orientation every once in awhile. I then stumble up hill toward my desk top. This is good. It shakes new thoughts loose and plops them out to be considered.
The monitor is perched on the window sill. Viewing it from eight feet away is odd. As long as I bump up the point size to 18 it’s easy to see. At that distance, there is definitely no screen radiation firing molecules into my system.

The most challenging aspect of this set-up is that I am not linked to Face Book. I wonder, “What am I missing as I stroll along to somewhere going nowhere?” Will I get lonely as I work/walk? A writer is an independent soul but we like to touch the outside world for brief visits. No obligations-just insights into the world.

One hundred and twenty minutes later....

Arthur assured me that the machine would auto stop after an hour but so far this has not happened. I did step off a couple of times because I couldn’t get my wireless keyboard to connect (You have to hold the connect button down for a looonnnnnggg time!). Surely Wilda, didn’t note my departure and up the ante by extending the time before a break.
Do you think my internal editor (Miss Monkey Mind) is messing with the keyboard? Perhaps she is attempting to distract me with wonky equipment functions. Is she afraid to start the process? She knows that the writing today will be strictly stream-of-consciousness and she won’t be able to interfere. Poor Monkey you lose.

From my usual office with a view, I look out over the river to the west and our lovely yard to the east. The treadmill is, unfortunately too heavy to heft up three flights of stairs. The result? I am working in the exercise room which is located on the lower walk-out level. This cedar clad space is not as bright as my upstairs study but smells wonderful. Here I look North. I have a cosy view of a little cobble-stone patio which peeks through the leaves. The forest at this side of the house accommodates a generous gathering of trees. The woody conference is hosted by a seasoned forty foot spruce tree and his Scotch pine relatives. Faithful attendees include: honey bushes, lilacs, elders, three story high Saskatoon berry trees, 14 foot pin cherries, poplars, and other arboreal varieties of unknown origin.

Little birds zoom outside the windows; wrens, chickadees and, at this time of year, nuthatches. They swim in the green shadows eager to collect the pine nuts that fall so generously from the spruce trees. Does it make them spruce nuts if they come from spruce trees? Somehow that sounds rude. The sun beams through the woods, making white on white stripes on the garden chairs that husband Rob made several years ago. These deep seated Muskoka chairs have mellowed in the adversity of weather (as we all tend to do). Now they blend happily into the framework of cobbles, lilacs, Virginia creeper and spruce.

The window is open as I walk and write. I can smell the fecund scent of fall decay. The Baba Yaga in me likes it. It imparts a sense of safety and a promise of renewal. For me smell evokes wonderful images particularly of times past. I must admit though, I hate the odour of rotting pin cherries and their ilk. When this type of berry rots, it tangs of blood not earth.
After several hours of churning her belt Wilda finally tired. I think she did notice my time away to fix the keyboard. It was hours before she stopped to cool her motors and gave me a moment to down some icy limeade and stretch my tight calves.

Ten minutes later....

The break is over and I begin once more. Oops! I almost lost my stream of consciousness there. No, I am not going to pass out. My mouse was moving stealthily toward the spell check icon. “Miss Monkey Mind, behave yourself”, I say. “This is a streaming exercise and you are not invited”. Fortunately the menu bar is too small to read from the mill. I caught the trap as I leaned forward and squinted at the monitor. And thus I am saved.
There are lots of typos and goofy sentences staring back at me from the screen. The urge to spell-check and edit is almost overwhelming. My fingers are not used to the rocking of walking while writing.

Sixty Minutes Later....

Walk. Walk. Walk. Work the body work the brain. Wilda, my purring companion and I have taken the first steps toward new adventures. I feel so good that I promise Monkey Mind I will spell check tomorrow.



The sun has paled and the birds are at rest. I’ll leave you to muse on my journey to nowhere that is somewhere in my heart. I know I will continue with my Writing Straight Up.

Sunday, September 20, 2009




Lipstick circa 1950

Scarlet lipstick. That was the hallmark of the woman of the fifties. Fire-hot, glistening mouths were visible from blocks away. Words were etched in bloody frames, too often appropriate to the gossipy topics their owners’ loved.

In that time, lips moved front and centre, out of proportion in otherwise bland, Ivory soap-scrubbed faces. No one wore eye shadow or mascara aside from actresses, dancers or ladies of the night and other persons of scandalous intent.

Lipstick smeared teeth with coagulated cherry streaks were the trade mark of the honest woman too busy and distracted with children to spend the time blotting and powdering the greasy stuff.


On Sundays, churches were filled with vampire teeth not belonging to the damned but to the saintly. How unsettling it was for the children to see ancient ladies grinning with radish-tipped dentures.

What an odd sense of propriety these crimson mouthed matrons had. Did they not realise that ruby lips were intended to entice men with visible reproduction of the engorged dark peony coloured labia slick with the want of sex? It’s highly unlikely that they figured it out but Charles Revlon understood and built an empire on the mimicry of blood filled genitalia.


Image is courtesy of Artist Sheila Norgate.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Autumn in the Hamlets

This morning I was out picking Battleford apples from one of our trees. My feet were bare, the grass was lush and sparkling with dew. I couldn't stretch to the top branches where the biggest gems lurked, but a good shake showered me with a sweet storm of fruit. I felt like someone from a Gene Stratton Porter novel. Absorbed in the soul of nature.


The manchurian elms and the poplars are vying to see which can exhibit the most magnificent tansluscent lemon color. The Virgina creeper wins out however. With her scarlet robes she really stands out in the crowd. But like all else in life her glory will fade as the deep blood red of the Japanese maples appear. Virginia the scarlet

Riverside Hamlet is quiet today as everyone heads out to do whatever it is one does to prepare for the nasty cold that will soon arrive. We took a little drive down the road and around the fields to buy fresh corn from the Coles. They live in Furdale, another Hamlet but one that makes Riverside look like a metropolis.

The sun has warmed the earth of their corn fields and the scent of rich earth and green smell of corn rows erase all else from the air. We will eat only corn for supper, an annual indulgence. I will bake the corn in the husks. This a process, I believe, makes the kernels sweeter and more tender.

As we passed harvested fields, we enjoyed seeing a rabble of cranes and geese settled in the golden stubble. They had come together for a rare treat of sun-toasted grain and a good gossip.
The combine that prepared the feast.

Cranes sound as if they have a thousand frogs chorusing in their long neck. Geese reply with inelegant twanging nasal honks. Perhaps they were all Country singers in another lifetime.
A late arrival to the party.

The apples picked this morning are glowing in the late afternoon light breathing through the west kitchen window. Molecules of apple aroma dance throughout the room. A comforting yet enlivening smell.
So ends another day on the outskirts of Saskatoon.

All photography is by R.E. (Rob) Morgan


Friday, September 18, 2009

Freedom from Self

The waste basket is the writer's best friend



Singer is one of my favorite writers. His stories are fables that delve into the arcane heart to find the real meaning of existence. He is a story teller who respects a rich Jewish tradition. His writing is an homage to ancient wisdom yet he adds his own touches to the tapestry of words. I can see him scribbling away refining and refining as he eliminates the dross and seeks the gold. I am sure his basket overflowed with superfluous words and unimportant thoughts.


Life works in a similar fashion. In our mid-teens a strange manifestation takes place. A translucent cloak enwraps us and distorts our view of life. In our cocooned world of self-design, we see ourselves as the center of the matrix. There is a simplicity of thinking that was black/white and totally ego-bound. Those who peopled the world outside our center are perceived as either friends or enemies. Events and interactions are viewed as either glorious affirmation of our worth or devastating holocausts designed to destroy us.


As we mature, we are called upon to eliminate the deceitful constructs of youth. As the days pass, the sheaves of psychic skin that overgrew our eyes, our hearts and our souls begin to shed. At first the shreds fall infrequently and blow way in the wind unnoticed. But soon the hurts, sorrows and scars accelerate the cloak's decay. In our middle years the shedding may take on the proportions of a hurricane. Confused, in pain from the tearing way, we may seek refuge in the well worn paths of behaviour from our adolescent years but as the giant funnels continue to strip away the layers, our heart's sight begins to clear. The sheets of protection tossed into the universal wastebasket. It is through this process we realise the events of life are not for us or against us but just ARE. Like the weather or the weeds what is, Is.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

He Wore Stilts but Refused the Highhorse

I have a dearly loved adopted cousin whose last name is Routh. He is the father of three adult children and numerous grandchildren. I recently discovered that his last name meant abundance and sent him a note to tell him. In the note I was referring to progeny but he sent me the following story about his father in response.
"Abundance can be displayed in many ways. If we go back to World War II a young Canadian non-com serving in England looked up a family named Routh in an attempt to trace his roots.
The Englishman gentleman assisting him asked the Canadian his name, "Bud" he replied. "Is that your full proper name?" inquired the British Routh. "No." Bud responded. After a momentary pause he reluctantly stated, "It is Horace Clair." Bud Routh on stilts & son circa 1964
At this point the Brit proudly asserted, "You are named after the Knight in the family, Sir Horatio Routh." "No, I'm named after my Father." was the disbelieving young man's quick reply.
Sure of the continuance of the lineage to the Lord, the Englishman said, "Then he was named after the Knight." At this point Bud Routh asked the only logical question, "What was he Knighted for?"
Family history tells us the English Routh's chest swelled and with overflowing pride announced, "He carried the rations through at the battle of Waterloo."
Here's where the other concept of, Routh meaning Abundance, enters the equation..... My Dad darted back, "A true Routh then, always thinking of his stomach!" There was little else that the English Routh wished to exchange with the Colonial Routh after that."
This story reveals so much about Ron's father. In my heart he is always laughing and telling wonderful funny stories, often poking fun at himself and the crazy things he had done, usually with hilarious outcomes attached. He had a robust spirit that was firmly grounded in the earth. He was not afraid to push the boundaries but he was most himself when he was savoring his homemade wine or sausage, working his eay through huge potluck dinners, calling square dances or dancing them.
I remember summer regattas where he and my father rigged canoes with amazing contraptions (no standard paddles allowed) and raced along the rocky shores of Lake Ontario near Pickering. The day wasn't complete until someone went in 'the drink'. The first to tip his fantasmagorical creation was always followed by the other who would leap with a tremendous Whoop! into the icy water.
I also remember the Routh Outdoor Drive-in Theater. Bud and my Dad would rig up a wooden frame, tack on a sheet and then we would all settle to watch home movies. These performances were side splittingly funny, especially with the accompanying narrations from Bud and my Father. When the evening was over, we would go home stuffed with popcorn and sides still aching from the laughter.
Compared to a man like that, a Knighthood, however honestly won, seems small in comparison.
Thank you for sharing your story with us, Ron. Be sure your abundant progeny read it.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Compulsive Writing

Its been only three days since I determined that it was time to return to the writing life. Already I fear I may need counselling.

Natalie Goldberg, in her wonderful book Old Friend from Far Away, suggests that we prime the pump with I remember.... Initially I thought this was a great idea but now I find I am 'automatic writing' as my mind commands my fingers on the keyboard without any consultation with ME. Thus far I have pages and pages of memory lists and one tiny story which has yet to mature. Do I continue my lists? Try to force a real story? Abandon all hope? Continue to let it flow? You are my counsellor and I hear you asking "What do you want?"

Thank you wise one. I know now what to do.

The lists of I remember... feel good to me and so far my internal editor has been forced into inactivity because there are no sentences, structure, or plot to impede me. The lack of criticism from my internal task master allows me to feel more confident about what is to come. The real treasure in this process is the characters that are coming back into my life. There were some very fine humans in my history and some devilishly bad ones. I am enjoying meeting them again. I think I will continue, for awhile, to indulge this delicious process. As a counter balance, I promise to continue to create small stories that will someday grow up to be full tales of life.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Games Are More Than They Seem

Kim Ayres has an interesting, well written blog. This is one of his recent comments.

9 months, 3 days and untold numbers of espressos later and I've finished Extreme Su Doku: Bk. 2, by Wayne GouldI can't remember how long book 1 took me, but I now have book 3 at the ready.

These Sudoku books have become a part of my life over the past couple of years. There's a wonderful meditative quality when my mind is so occupied, that for the duration I'm no longer thinking about anything else - fears, concerns and anxieties are nudged out the way. It's almost become another form of self medication, only with less harmful side effects.
Kim Ayres

I am heartened by Ayres' Sudoku addiction. I am also delighted by his rationalization for the participation in what appears to be a 'useless' occupation. You see, I have become attached to several facebook based games. I thought I was wasting time playing Farmville, Farm Town and Barn Buddy but now I know that I am actually meditating. How sublime!

You can view Kim's blog at http://kimayres.blogspot.com/

Cliff Jumping

If we listened to our intellect, we'd never have a love affair. We'd never have a friendship. We'd never go into business, because we'd be too cynical. Well, that's nonsense. You've got to jump off cliffs all the time and build your wings on the way down. Annie Dillard

I like Annie Dillard. Her use of language is direct and evocative. The quote I posted above is both brave and wise. She made me realise that I am a cliff jumper even though I viewed my life as ordinary. Sometimes I am cynical because I do have an active 'monkey' in my brain which works overtime some days. When it comes to big things however my desire to fly takes over even when my wings are torn and battered.

The edge of the cliff led me to found a thirty-six year business which created change in many circles and supported my family and me in good style. It brought me to the prairies and away from a hard and lonely relationship with family. It has dropped me into two marriages which both taught me some excellent facts about life and opened up new ways of thinking - although my feathers were singed rather severely by both experiences.

The will to create life even in dire economic circumstance, delivered two interesting, exciting and beautiful girls into this world and I still consider that creation to be my most important and most wonderful. They, in their turn, have taken the plunge in to midair, and now between them, mother 5 children.

My third marriage, a flight of great faith, has been the best teacher and has given the most happiness. I am grateful for this relationship. It has given me time to grow new feathers and strengthen my intellectual muscle for the next series of flights.

I made tiny leaps when I bought and sold various homes and commercial properties. The first house in Regina, was the scariest but it got easier with each successive change. It turned out to be a profitable effort.

I cut my waist -length hair in 1974 which gave me a whole new, improved view of myself. I had thought I would be less of a woman with less hair but in fact, the action put my childhood behind me. This step was every bit as challenging as striding into the real estate pool.

I did some mighty cliff jumping when I decided to retire. For more than three decades I was the President of my own firm and called the shots. My actions affected my employees and me. The consequences of a really poor decision or strategy had the potential to hurt a lot of families. I loved and hated the situation in equal measure. So much pressure. Even in success there is the dark fear that it cannot be repeated. When I grew too weary to continue, I closed down my corporate world in order to rest and rebuild. I have still not recovered from that fall but I know in time, the bruises will disappear. For who am I now that I am just myself without a role in life?

With help of Natalie Goldberg's wonderful books. I will free myself from the writing for profit mindset that launched my business. I have determined that I will teach myself how the recapture the wonder of the world and write about it with honesty and trust. Wish me well as I prepare my baby wings for one more time.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Time for a neck rub darling

I read a little factoid from which we all could benefit.

Researchers at Brigham Young University in Utah selected two groups of married women between the ages of 20 and 39 to take part in a study on the effects of touch as a healing tool.

One group was given half-hour massages ( primarily covering the head, neck and forehead) by their spouses three times a week. The women who received the massage produced close to twice the level of the hormone oxytocin as the control group who didn't receive massages. Oxytocin reduces stress indicators in the blood and lowers blood pressure. It also promotes bonding between partners. The bonus was that the men in the study who received massages from their wives experienced the same results as the women. The study covered 34 couples and was lead by biochemist Daniel Simmons.

I believe that many people have experienced the benefits loving touch but it is a landmark to show that blood chemistry and other physical responses demonstrate that our insincts are accurate.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Good and evil grow up together and are bound in an equilibrium that cannot be sundered. The most we can do is try to tilt the equilibrium toward the good.
Eric Hoffer, philosopher/author (1902-1983)

Well deer, its luxury living this year

Deer heart, wish you were here.....

The frequent summer rains have made the trees, grasses and other vegetation on our acreage exceptionally lush this year.

One young deer in particular comes often to dine off our bounty.

She is completely unafraid of our presence. In fact, I think she often comes just to pose for Rob, our in-house photographer. Her coat is as sleek as I have ever seen on a deer in the wild. She looks almost groomed.




Well, one little drink won't hurt

One of the great privileges of living where we do, is the close contact we have with nature. There is something very special about having a wild animal, be it deer or squirrel, come up to the deck to greet us when we have our evening glass of wine.

To encourage these creatures, we keep the about two thirds of the property in wild grass. We also have more than 100 trees and shrubs to provide food and shelter. At certain times of the year we are visited by flocks of migrating birds and of course, we have our special birdie buddies who stay with us year round.

At night we are sung to sleep by the coyotes.

We are truly blessed.


Out for an evening stroll

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Prayer Flight

I read today about a group of 50 rabbis and Kabbalah mystics who have taken spiritual action to protect Israel from the devastating effects of the h1n1 virus. The holy men circled Israel in a chartered plane offering prayers for the abolishing illness. An integral part of the ceremony was the blowing of ram's horns (shofar) seven times. It is said that shofars were first used by the Jews to bring down the walls of Jericho for centuries the horns have been used to make high moments in the Judaic life such as introducing the arrival of the new year, signalling the Shabbat which is the Jewish holy day and ending the fast at Yom Kippur.

I was awed by the faith of these religious people that they would re-enact an ancient battle tactic as described in the Torah to fight a tiny enemy that destroys from within one's self and believe that in marking this ritual, God would stop the progress of the disease.

I wonder though, if their prayers would truly please the creator of all things when the scope of the prayer seemed to focus on only one small nation in a threatened world. I am making this assumption because the three previous prayer flights were very precisely calculated: to protect Israel from invasion by the Nazi's in 1948, the second to prevent action against the country during the Gulf war and the third to avert a wave of terrorist attacks in 1996.

Perhaps I am a petty theologian but it seems to me that a chorus of universal prayer blanketing our world would be more pleasing the creator that the prayers so many offer that are so focused on the self.

Friday, May 22, 2009

Happy Anniversary Don and Jean

Yesterday was my aunt and uncle's 55th wedding anniversary. Congratulations to you both.

Love takes many forms but the fulfillment of a lifetime of partnership is perhaps one of the most challenging and most rewarding.
My aunt asked in a recent email what I remembered about that day. I was surprised by how much I did recall.

I remember the smooth feel of the fabric in the stylish little dress I wore. There was a delicate rustle when I moved. My mind has made the colour of the tiny confection pale lilac but that is not too certain. I know I had new white shoes with straps and shiny buckles. They were a little stiff and made my toes clump on the ground.
I remember the smell of flowers and that Aunt Jean's red hair glowed like soft flower petals. She wore a dress that made her look like the princess from England.

I remember Uncle Don giving me a hug. And Dad holding me in his arms when I became upset with excitement. I also remember lots of noisy old people (of course at 4 everyone is old!). And there was Grandad Catton smelling of cigarettes and laughing with some of his cronies. Grandma Catton had powder on her face which made her skin look like exotic velvet and she smelled of lily of the valley. I seem to remember a veil on her hat. I think my mother wore a navy blue dress but that may be from another time.

Not a very romantic recollections perhaps but certainly evocative of a family celebration. Family imprints a wealth of images on tender little hearts. We must remember this...We are the artists who make memories on those delicate canvases. Only our best and most loving actions will do.
Blessings on Uncle Don and Aunt Jean. May your love carry you forward with joy.

Saturday, March 14, 2009

On the Wings of Spring

Spring Forecasting, Nature's Way

There is a warm breeze blowing today and the temperature has reached -4 Celsius. This a luxurious break after a week when the temperatures were running below -30.
Although the days have been filled with brittle cold we have been given signs that winter will be moving on. For the past two weeks we have been host to large flocks of bohemian wax wings. They love the berries that grow on our saskatoon berry, sand cherry, pin cherry, sour cherry and elder bushes. The waxwings prefer their delicacies freeze-dried it seems. The older and darker the fruit, the happier they are to consume it. Despite the sophisticated masks, this contingent of feathered creatures wear, they are more mischievous than mysterious.


The elegant athletes of Cirque du Soleil would be envious of the way these silk and velvet bohemians move through the air and pattern the blue spring skies. The rrapturous visual fantasy is however given an edge by their twittering conversations. So much to say and so little time to say it.....


These acreage guests are a curious lot. All week I have been lugging junk items out to the truck to take to the dump. Every time I struggle out the door with another load they gather in gleeful gales and swirl above my head. They are delighted by the entertainment I provide and return the favor by breaking off in ballet troupes each dancing skyward to a different symphony.


Rob is as enchanted by these lovely birds as I. The pictures you see in today's blog are a small sampling of the shots he took while waiting for supper one evening. It was actually amusing to watch them settle themselves for their portraits. It is evident that they are a little vain, but then when you look so fine can blame you.


Wednesday, March 11, 2009

A Tribe of Ancients

A friend, Bill Garner fashioned a whimsical tribe of ancients last year. Full of wild energy and unpredictable forms, they inspired me to write the following little story.

How the Westerlings came to be

The Ancients tell us that of all his wondrous store, the treasure most highly prized by the powerful Norse god, Thor, was a crystal which held all the tales ever told and ever to be told by the people of the earth.

One day Loki, Thor’s flame-haired, trickster brother, stole the crystal from its place of honour. Thor saw him sneaking away with the crystal in his arms. Angered beyond control, Thor raised Mjööllnir, his mighty hammer and hurled it at his thieving brother. Loki, ever nimble, used the Lore crystal to shield himself from the blow. Loki escaped unharmed but the crystal was shattered into dust. So forceful was Thor’s strike, that the sparkling grains were blasted across the northern oceans and fell upon the plains and forests in the heart of the New World.

The nomads of the plains and woodlands saw the shining veil of dust float to earth and were entranced. They named the gleaming drifts ‘the snow that does not melt’. Drawn by the mystical power of crystal remnants, each placed a generous sprinkling of the powder into the sacred medicine bags which hung about their necks. Loki laughed with delight when he saw this.

While the nomads slept, he enchanted the crystal remains. Through his spell, each grain of sparkling dust drew a little soul-strength from the sleepers. It took on aspects of their love, hate, serenity, anger, wisdom and ignorance. These tiny souls then drew upon the objects in the medicine bags to give themselves form. When the moon began to fade, they crept from the bags and silently began their journeys throughout the western lands. In this way the Westerlings came into being.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Happy Birthday Daddy


Yesterday marked the 80th year since my father's birth. His life was not long. He died of cancer in 1973 at the age of 42.

I miss him still and wish with all my heart that his grandchildren could have tasted the intoxicating joy he felt for life. There will likely be many stories about Albert Henry Catton as this blog continues but for now I say " Thank You. You have been a steady light in my tumultuous life. When happiness eluded me, I heard again your laughter. When courage failed me, I would remember your fiercely determined approach to the hard things in life. When love seemed lost for all time, I would hear you beautiful voice saying my name "Margie" with all the love in the world. And oh my Daddy! - when I want to fly on glistening wings, I remember the feelings I had when you were filled with song. I will never forget the power of your deep bass soaring with the pleasure of the anthems we shared in Mr. Sutton's choir."
God Bless.


Under the Easter Bonnet


I received an email last night from a friend who wondered what I looked like under my Easter hat. I was thirteen and looked like this. This was my Gidget phase. Although my French teacher called me Gigi.

My Grandfather Jinks took this photo on the Ferry. We were on our way to Toronto Island for a picnic. You can see the basket beside me. I spent many happy days on the Island with him and Grandmother.
The gardens on the Island could make me believe in fairies. The flower petals, perfect and glowing with jeweled color, were definitely the fine cloth used to fashion the fairy garments I saw in old family tomes.
I was particularly charmed by the lovely little stone bridges that crossed the canals. White swans would float across the mirrored surfaces of the waterways. I would ache with the loveliness of it all. This brought to me in real life the ancient lands of lords and ladies that I read about in my mother's childhood books.
Grandad convinced me that if I looked carefully I could see Buffalo on the other side of Lake Ontario but I don't remember being able to site that distant shore.
To catch a glimpse of the Island as it is today go to http://www.toronto.ca/parks/island/index.htm

Sunday, March 8, 2009

Me as a Sunday School Teacher


In the last post, I mentioned that the Anglican Church had a great influence on my life. This photo, was taken on Easter Sunday, 1964. It shows me with my first Sunday School class. We were on an outdoor learning experience. The picture was taken in the back garden of my home. We collected a massive amount of pussy willow branches and some early blooming flowers to take back and make into mini-bouquests for the children's mothers. The theme that day was taken from the old hymn All Things Bright and Beautiful.
Just imagine all these adorable little children are 50 now.
I made that huge hat with the help of Mrs. Burslem, a retired milliner who lived two houses down from us. I look like I'm headed to Asquith for the Crown Derby races.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Sheila Norgate - My Friend the Artist

Today's blog will introduce you to my creative friend, Sheila Norgate. Our
history together goes back to the Sunday School Nursery class at St. Saviour's
Church in Toronto. Our respective families had British roots and naturally,
we were raised as Anglicans. A reality that still informs our lives.

Sheila stepped out of the rat race a number of years ago and began a passionate encounter with paint and canvas. I love her work. It speaks to the gypsy in me.

Her use of colour reminds me of the covers on the wonderful books my Grandmother Jinks' Aunties used to send me from England. The books contained many stories of families travelling in wooden caravans and having wonderful adventures.

Sheila's images evoke the folk art I saw on those embellished gypsy caravans (always pulled by spunky ponies). They are, to me, naive and yet very strong. Like the proud, powerful creations that reveal the heart of the nomad. The simplicity of the images is deliciously spiced with her witty and often droll commentary printed on the canvas using ancient printing type.

Sheila has graciously shared two of her images for this spot. These are two favorites of mine but you can see many more on her website. I asked her to provide a little 'back story' for each painting.


Heart Vintage Longing

This piece is about my love of the heart (no pun intended) visually and spiritually/emotionally and my love of all things vintage. The vintage refers to how far back the longing goes....






Dog and Friend

'Dog and friend' is inspired by the fact that for many years my partner and I had our dog Rosie and we also had a bird (cockatiel) named "deva" . They really got quite close over the 7 or so years they cohabited. We have pictures to prove it!! The dog would be sleeping on the couch and deva would fly over and land next to her and sleep too.

To see more of Sheila's work go to www.http://sheilanorgate.com

Thursday, March 5, 2009


I'm sure you remember the thrill of satisfaction that comes when you are in a bump car and you actually get bumped. It was always a favorite activity for me at the annual Canadian National Exhibition. There's a lovely little bubble fear/delight that wells up in your gut and wobbles upward until it is released in a major belly laugh.

Just as Yahia Lababidi says our direction is often determined through collisions. I remember very well a collision that took place 37 years ago in a bar in Regina, Saskatchewan. It happened some time in March. At the time I was doing political commentary with CBC radio.

My 'collider' was a brainy, brash and beautiful Australian woman named Helen McFarland who held a senior position with the provincial government. A group of us sat in a hotel lounge relaxing after a day of vicious meetings regarding urban land use and its effects on society. In the midst of lively, idealistic talk, Helen turned to me and said " You do know you're a coward don't you?"

Now in those days of my intense and idealistic youth those words were a serious slap. Our companions grew very quiet and waited to see what was going to happen. Helen and I are not lacking in physical stature, punishingly articulate and fierce as Valkyries. Helen rose from her seat and stood to her full height, just shy of 6'. She said " You hide behind words. You hide behind your journalistic commentary. You don't create change with that mind of yours, you just observe." With that she strode over to the bar.

I was shocked - never before had I been called to task for cowardice. What about the risks I took to get the stories? What about the risks I took in making public statements that challenged the status quo? Did she know what it cost me to do the things I did?

Helen came back from the bar with two glasses of white wine and her personal blank check with my name on it. "Get going girl. Incorporate a business and use your brilliant mind to create change. Get out of the bloody stands and into the game." We clicked our glasses and downed the wine. No more was said between us that day.

It was three more months before I spent that cheque and incorporated my business. When I gave Helen a copy of my incorporation certificate, her only comment was "What took ya?"

That was almost four decades ago and the business lives on still influencing change. I lost track of Helen when she moved back to Australia and settled herself in what she described as a dinky little place. Wherever you are Helen, thanks for the collision.
Like cars in amusement parks, our direction is often determined through collisions. -Yahia Lababidi, author (b. 1973)

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Woman's work - the manifestation of love.


I am crocheting a rag rug using some of Robbie's old summer shirts. We don't need a rug and I don't know where it will find a home when it is complete. But this is an important process that strengthens my links to this special friend of my soul.

I find the process of deconstructing the shirts and re-forming them into a useful creation brings me close to him. Each garment evokes memories of particular summer moments.

The green plaid with the cedar stain on it brings back the hot, blue sky that was the overseer of his efforts as he created our wonderful English garden and surrounded it with a high cedar panel fence to keep the deer away from the flowers. I can see him working in quiet contentment as our yellow dog lies in the shade of the ash tree looking on. The two of them hypnotized by the swishing rhythm of the brush.

The blue McKnight tartan shirt brings back a fall day when we are gathering the dead or pruned branches from the acreage and burning them is the fire pit in the hollow under the willow tree. It is twilight and his shirt echoes the warm velvet blues of the sky. Yellow-0range flame reflects on his face and hands. He is like a creature born in this glen, strong, still and at one with his surroundings.

As I work the ragged strips of cloth the images continue. I am happy in these moments. It is like a moment of co-creation - what was, what is and what will be. All from the making of a simple rug. Each stitch has meaning and a peculiar beauty.

My maternal grandmother made such rugs for the floor of her log home in the tiny northern village of Clute, Ontario. This was the home my grandparents built to live out the recession. Her rag rugs were a necessity for providing warmth to wood plank floor laid on hard-packed soil. I am blessed that I have no such need but still I am driven to recreate useful things from weary cloth.
The process is woman's work, a manifestation of our love for others and the simple beautiful humble treasures of our life.

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Techno Granny Takes a Leap

This is an event I have been thinking about for years. Although I am, by choice and trade a writer, starting a blog has been an intimidating step for me and now I'm on my way! At this stage in my life, its time to stop being shy and step into the light where my children and grandchildren can see the real me.

Throughout life, we develop a wardrobe of roles that we put on as the need arises. While some of those roles fit well and others are too large or too small, we do our best to shape them to the needs of those around us. This is the time in my life when I have an opportunity to custom tailor a special gown just for me. This blog will be part of the process.

Welcome aboard. Grandma's steppin' out!

Thank you to my talented friend " The recovering nice girl" who inspired me to begin this adventure.