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.

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.

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

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.

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

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)

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.

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.