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.

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.

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.

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

Freedom from Self

The waste basket is the writer's best friend

Isaac Bashevis Singer

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.