A Small Beauty

A cluster of tiny insects flies outside my window this evening. There are thousands of little bodies twinkling in a cloud of movement that is backlit by the setting sun, and framed by dark spruce boughs.

They circle forever counter-clockwise, wheeling on and on in an air show of tiny sparkles.

There are always two diamond dust rings, one large and one small. The tiny ones slip from one swirl of bodies to the other, but each whirling disk holds fast to its appointed size. The whirling cycles are gossamer but have more momentum than the most powerful of hurricanes.

Why do they dance? Are they hunting? Are they chanting incantations to the setting sun? Perhaps they are a living key that releases the sun from its daily toil.

Whatever they may be, the miniature circling clouds are delicate, wild and weaving magic in the pink light of evening. They bring me happiness.

An Ancient Lesson

Fairy tales were not originally meant to entertain but rather to teach. This story haunts me and shadows some of my dreams. If I can hold the lesson in my heart I will become a better person.

Prince LLewelyn had a favorite greyhound named Gellert that had been given to him by his father-in-law King John. He was a gentle as a lamb at home but a lion in the chase. One day LLewelyn went to the chase and blew his horn in front of the castle. All the other dogs came to his call but Gellert did not answer. So he blew another blast and called Gellert by name but still the greyhound did not come. Prince LLewelyn would wait no longer and rode off to the hunt. He did not enjoy the day because the swiftest and boldest of his hounds, Gellert was not there.

He turned back to the castle in a rage. When he got to the gate, the hound came near to him. He was startle to see that his lips and fangs were dripping with blood. The greyhound crouched down at his feet as if surprised or afraid of how his master greeted him.

Now the Prince had a little son a year old with whom Gellert used to play. A terrible thought came to his mind. He ran toward the nursery where he found the cradle overturned and daubed with blood.

LLewelyn was terrified and sought for his everywhere. He could not find him but only saw signs of a terrible conflict in which blood had been shed. At last he felt sure that dog had destroyed his child. Shouting to Gellert "Monster, thou hast devoured my child" he drew out his sword and plunged it into the greyhound's side, who fell with a deep yell still gazing into his master's eyes.

As Gellert raised his dying yell, a little child's voice answered it from beneath the cradle, and LLewelyn found his child unharmed and just awakened from sleep. But just beside him was the body of a great gaunt wolf all torn to pieces and covered with blood.

Too late, LLewelyn learned what had happened while he was away. Gellert had stayed behind to guard the child and had fought and slain the wolf that had tried to destroy LLewelyn's heir.

In vain was LLewelyn's grief, he could not bring his faithful dog to life again. So he buried him outside the castle walls within sight of the mountain of Snowdon, where every passer-by could see his grave, and raised over it a great cairn of stones. To this day the place is called Beth Gellert or the grave of Gellert.

The history of the story traces it's journey to Wales from Bhuddhistic India. It is taken from Celtic Fairy Tales by Joseph Jacobs. The names in the story have become Welsh over the centuries - linked to actual locations and given names.

My Life in Six Words

Love

Loss

Tumbling Blocks

Happy Creativity

Farewell to a fine friend

Two days ago we said a final good-bye to a dear friend, Calvin.

Calvin Curley was a man with a strong moral compass. A brave and gentle man. His life was lived with honour and great enthusiasm. He descended from a line tough-minded, unbendingly upright Orkney ancestors. Calvin carried on these traits with pride. He showed a great strength in dealing with all of life's circumstances. He faced many challenges in his time-always with grace and humour.

Although he did not feel that farming was his vocation, he worked the land out of respect for his much-loved parents. Family was a primary concern in his life. He was father to a flock of children, those born to him and his wife Anita, and children of the heart who came to the farm in time of need. He loved them all in his deep and quiet way.

Children grown, he and Anita moved to Swift Current Saskatchewan. At 65 he became a real estate agent, putting all the energy he had previously used farming into this enterprise. It was a venture at which he was very successful. Although he sold many homes, Calvin counted his real success in his bonds with an ever-widening circle of friends.

Generally a spontaneous soul, Calvin grounded himself through the rituals and mysticism of the Roman Catholic Church and the Knights of Columbus. These together fed his glory in tradition and the spiritual aspect of his life.

Calvin contracted West Nile virus a number of years ago. Through Anita's fierce loyalty , determination and support, he moved slowly back from near death. He moved from coma to convalescence, from bed-ridden to wheel chair to walker, from being unable to care for himself to being able to look after most aspects of personal care. It was an enormous mountain to climb yet he and Anita scaled it hand-in-hand throughout the years. As Calvin's recovery progressed he and Anita moved to Camrose AB to be closer to family.

Despite the limitations caused by the virus, Calvin loved to travel and spend time out of doors. He was a welcome guest at our home in Saskatoon. He would sit on the deck off the kitchen and watch the birds and wildlife with great relish. He would survey the trees, flowers, sunrise to sunset commenting "Its paradise. Its paradise."

In the early days of his recovery, Calvin was in a wheel chair. One afternoon he was angling for a better view of our firepit area. His chair started to roll slowly forward. It gained momentum and was soon flying down a grassy hill. As he gathered speed the expression on his face was one of both terror and joy. As he rolled to a stop at the bottom, he laughed and said in his understated way. "Now that was quite a ride. Thought I was doing pretty good keeping 'er upright." Then he said "Don't tell Anita or she'll put an anchor on this thing."

No matter what the situation, Calvin always found a way to have good time. When he first 'graduated' to a walker he would trundle across the gravel and onto the lawn with Anita keeping him erect by holding the back of his belt. Despite the pain and indignity of the process Calvin would spend the 'hike' commenting on the play of the dogs, the beauty of the grounds and the wonder of butterflies.

Calvin had a way of drawing people into his sphere. One Saturday when he was visiting our little condo in Langley BC, we went to the open air market in Fort Langley. Anita and I were exploring the booths. At one point, we realized Calvin had disappeared. We eventually found him leaning on his walker and chatting with a new-found friend. The conversation was typical Calvin -the weather, hot issues in world affairs, the ridiculousness of free trade, and the state of farming in the west. Anita and I continued to explore for a good 45 minutes before he was ready to conclude the animated discussion with his conversation partner ( a fellow who was also a former farmer).

On another occassion, we went to a BC mountain lake in Sasquatch Park. Now independant of Anita's helping hand on his belt, Calvin slowly worked his way a considerable distance across grass, sand and gravel to a picnic table that overlooked the lake. Having a good perspective on the families playing in the water, he settled down with great contentment. There he sat enjoying the pleasure of being in the sun and consuming a pound or two of fresh cherries. During that visit he said his goal was to eat his weight in cherries and fresh blueberries. Whenever we passed a fruit stand he would ask if we thought we might need a few more pounds. Anita would laughingly scold and he would continue to eat his way through bags of cherries.

When I phoned Camrose, Calvin would always start of the conversation talking about the weather (the farm never truly left him). Next he would tell me about the latest 'doings' of one of his well-loved children or grandchildren. Often he also found a funny story to tell. Sometimes these tales would be about himself -droll tales about making 'macaroni ' crafts at the seniors' centre, silly word pictures of times when his walker got stuck in bizzare locations and jimmying about til he found a way out.

Calvin's great entertainment was watching game shows. Perhaps this was a reflection of his experience in life - the process is always the same but the outcome is always a gamble.

The last 6 years of Calvin's life were tearful, joyful, fearful and courageous.
Whatever the situation, his days held moments of laugher. With Anita as he loving and devoted companion, he lived with profound dignity. As a team he and Anita are a model we can all be proud to emulate.

Calvin now rests in the cemetary at Masefield in south western Saskatchewan. Close to the land, close to his roots and close to the parents he loved.

We salute you dear friend.

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.

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."

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.