Parachute Games

Having a parachute to play with turns out to be a task of learning how to cooperate.

Having a parachute also is a task of finding enough people to hold the ends of the parachute while others take their turns running under it.

Or over the top of it.

Or wanting to be encircled in it.

I would't have had the idea of curling up at the middle of the parachute and then having its ends twisted until I was wrapped in a little ball.  I felt like we were doing the Maypole tree but in reverse, that is from the ground up, not the top down.

But apparently this is what everyone in the back yard wanted to do.

Everyone except Betty who wanted to take a flying run across it, though who knows why.

A great toy.

I am looking forward to more spring fun with our parachute!

Arta

Purple Tea Lights

... I had to buy 12, not 2 ..

... Michael extinguishing match with a wet finger ...

... Alice wondering if it would really work ...

Long ago I purchased some purple tea lights that match the pastel hellow and purples of Easter ornaments.

I bought them at a grand sale – 90% off, so I overbought.

One day as Michael walked by them in my kitchen, I thought, here is a chance for him to learn to light matches. So I took down a box of matches and let him go to work.

I should have thought, if Michael comes in the back door, won’t Alice and Betty be far behind.

I hadn’t thought that far ahead.

He had just got the knack of striking the match on the side of the package and keeping it level so that it wouldn’t burn his fingers, when in came Alice and Betty.

So I split the kids onto 3 different sides of the free standing counter and then I supervised, either getting a lit match into Betty’s hand or showing Alice how to hold the package firm enough that she could strike the match along it’s flint side and get a flame to occur.

I don’t think I taught my own kids to light matches, for it took me a while to get my own rhythm at having 3 children at different levels of expertise holding matches.

... my German tea light ...

We spent part of the afternoon lighting candles, blowing them out, lighting them again, blowing them out.

One of the skills I hadn’t thought about teaching was how to blow the candles out so that there isn’t wax all over the counter from the power of their breath.

Betty didn’t get to practice the skill of lighting the back matches first and working forward.

... Alice with a successful strike ...

I just gave her one candle to light.

She got the same thrill with that, that the others got with having more fire to work with.

I thought I had everything contained but at one point I looked over and Alice had gone to the china cabinet and taken out a small German wooden tea light, one with a house and small wooden people standing around it.

I have never put a candle to the wick of the tea light it holds – but Alice had it out and into use in the split second that I was distracted by something Betty was doing.

All I could think of was, “it just goes to prove that they know where more things are in my house than I do”.

... a place for used matches ...

Arta

Church Parking Lot

I thought my morning walk would be more interesting if Michael and Alice were riding along beside me on their bikes, or ahead of me, or behind me. There is just a long stretch between my house and the Children’s Hospital, my preferred walking and exercise route. So we walked their bikes across Crowchild Trail, but when we got to the church parking lot, suddenly there was this big patch of black pavement, split into four large sections – west of the church, east of the church, north of the church and then the corridors that connects all of them. Of course they wanted to be turned loose there. The parking lot has huge iron gates that are mostly closed, so the chance of cars coming in there is next to zero. Walking that pavement may not be the perfect ground for me, but watching them ride their bikes is more entertainment than I had thought it would be.

Our Back Yard
April 28th a day we didn't go biking.
In fact, it was hard to find the bikes
under all of this snow.

Alice can’t help but try to keep up with Michael: his spins, his braking, his exploration of the lips that slide off of sidewalks onto pavement, the breaks on the curbs that give him space to ride on the just beginning to green lawns.

If he tries them, she has to try them.

One of her accidents was more than she could bear and she wanted me to call her mom to bring the car and get her.

There was blood. No shredding of the knee of her leotard, but her knee beneath the leotars was bleeding from a cement scrape. I did have Michael at my side, wondering why I don’t always carry band-aids. Apparently his mother always does. He is like the voice of a conscience that I no longer wish to carry.

Michael rides until he is breathless, back and forth on the pavement, and then spilling onto the lawn, splayed out there, resting, arms stretched out on the grass and his legs straight down. I go over and show him how he can bend them up and get a little relief for his back. He complies and then must like it for he stays that way while he catches his breath.

On the way home Michael pedals ahead of us and beats Alice to their front door. That fact is worse than the spills Alice has taken in the parking lot. She wants to be first at least part of the time. Her flood of tears begins just as we pass the coffee bistro on the corner. Like clockwork wailing begins just at that curb. Some of the outdoor patrons idly drinking coffee stare at us. There is nothing I can do, though it looks like I am the cause of her unhappiness.

I have watched her carefully as she rides, each knee just barely missing the handle bars and her shoulders are crouched down. That bike is not going to last her the whole season, though it is hard to know when to get her a new bike. At her rate of growth, she just barely gets comfortable on a bike before she has outgrown another it and needs another set of wheels.

Arta

Athens - Wyona and Greg

Athens 

I planned another day off the ship in Athens, taking the bus, metro, tram and heading off to the Acropolis Museum which Greg was keen to see.

.... trolley in Athens ...

We headed for the tourist information, found out that we should take bus 843 not 859 like google said and we found out where to buy the bus ticket.

We were so smart, took the bus, took the metro, got off the metro but could not find a tram stop.

I asked a girl who got off where the tram stop was located.

We saw it but had to cross three lanes of traffic to a medium, cross another three lanes, cross the tram tracks, run up a path next to the tram tracks and there was the tram stop.

We made it.

Tram 3 came and we took it.

The ride was amazing.

We went by the sea, up some interesting streets and saw that all the buildings were five or more stories all the windows had balconies covered by large awnings, spied the ‘Hop On Hop Off’ a number of times so we knew we picked a good route.

... Athens apartments with awnings ....

When I went on google the night before all the stops were in Greek and written using the Greek alphabet.

So I carefully copied all the stops we needed in Greek.

Greg went up to check the map while we were on the train to see if we were on the right track to get us to the Acropolis Museum.

photo taken from bus in Athens; notice how long and hilly

After coming back and sitting down, he told me my Greek was perfect so we were on the right track, and we should get off one stop before the end of the ride.

Trouble was, the tram stopped two stops too soon and the tram track was blocked off. After walking, too long for me, I saw a bus 40.

This was the same bus I saw at the bus stop near the ship.

I informed Greg that I could not walk any farther so I was taking that bus 40 back to the ship.

by the sea on tram ride

Asked a Chinese girl which side of the street I should be on to get back to Piraeus, the port.

Followed her instructions and waited for the bus while Greg walked on without me.

The bus went through some pretty scary streets but I just took a seat, watched people get on and off the bus and held onto my bag.

So 50 stops and one hour later I was the last person on the bus and got kicked off but there was the ship and a smile on my face.

Safe at last!

Wyona

More from Wyona

Photos which were not in my messages of Naples and Athens

.... trolley in Athens ...

... Athens apartments with awnings ....

photo taken from bus in Athens; notice how long and hilly

by the sea on tram ride

A Note from Curtiss Pilling

Hi Arta: 

At Kay Crabtree's funeral I told the congregation how, during high school study hall time, I used to hide a western pocketbook or magazine behind my textbook.  

One day the principal wondered what I found humorous in a Science text and caught me with a Mad Magazine. There was a cartoon about a summer cabin.  Later my cousin was building a cabin and I wrote this "Summer Cabin" poem. Kay heard me do it and liked it. 

Every time he would see me, quite often he would say "so they burned the damn thing down" as only Kay could say it. 

One Sunday I wrote this short note to him, the family found it and wanted me read at his funeral.

~ ~ ~

KAY

There’s some folks you meet that you wonder about,

Are they really on the square?

Can you count on them to just be the same

Anytime and anywhere?

Do they know you well one day

and seem to be your friend

But tomorrow they might walk right by

As if their neck won’t bend?

That’s what I like about you,

anywhere, anytime, any day,

You’re always fun and friendly,

you really are O Kay!

Curtiss Pilling

July 2009

~ ~ ~



-->

SUMMER CABIN

We bought a Summer Cabin to fill a lifelong dream

Located on a boating lake, close to a fishing stream.

We planned how every summer we'd spend our time in play,

We'd boat and fish a little, then in the sunshine lay.

But the first year we discovered that the raindrops could get in

So we covered those old shingles with a new roof made of tin.

Next year we decided 'fore the playing would commence

To "spruce up" the place a little bit, we built a brand new fence.

Then something must've happened when we left there in the fall

"Cuz next year we did the sewer system, sceptic tank and all.

Last year it got a paint job, and we added a sundeck,

An’ replaced two rooms of carpet cuz the old ones looked like heck.

But this year on vacation, we'll get a hotel there in town,

When we figured the cost an' all the hard work, we burned the damn thing down!

Curt Pilling

Summer 1993

My Birthday is Coming

sitting in the plaza
... waiting for the Marble Slab Creamery to open ...

 I know that the best way to have a happy birthday for me is to plan it myself: think up an idea and execute it.

Now I could really care less about my birthday and in a perfect world, I would let it come and go.

But I noticed that Betty, Alice and Michael perked up when the first part of my sentence began with, “My birthday is coming …” and before I knew it, the second part of the sentence said, “… and I am having an ice cream party.” 

Right away they knew to start giving me two or three flavours each that I might choose to bring to the party. Michael wants vanilla with Nerds covering the top of the cone. He doesn’t care if it is a sugar waffle cone or not, but no glass bowls, please. Alice is staying with Tiger, Tiger, probably until she sees what Michaels looks like and then she will switch over. Betty is undecided.

On our trip today, Michael and I explored Aspen Landing and found a Marble Slab Creamery. Our noses were against the door until the woman who was opening the shop came over to ask us what we needed. We told her we were just window shopping and that we knew she didn’t open until 11 am, which was lucky for me, since Alice had picked the new shoes she wanted and we were on the road before then.

Anyway, my birthday is coming. If you will be around, please give me the flavour of your heart’s desire.

On the Absence of Colour

There was a time when having white hair was a sign of aging.

And indeed, women have been able to look ten years younger when they have applied dye to their hair.

Still, some women just go with the natural look.

I met up with Narda Nelson and Brenda Card, both of whom have hair as white as mine.

We are separated by decades as far as real years go.

LtoR: Narda, Arta, Brenda

So for us, white is a colour to be celebrated, except that white is not really a colour at all.

Absence of colour is to be celebrated.

Jean Card: March 5-1921 – April 9, 2019

March 6, 1921 - April 9, 2019

Mike Card’s grandmother died.

Of course Richard wanted to go to the funeral, since Mike’s grandmother had talked to him the same way she talked to Mike: frankly, giving lots of good advice.

I came to the funeral pay my respects and Alice wanted to go to the funeral as well, so her mom got her dressed up in church clothes and away we went.

Jennifer Logan gave the biography for Jean and her granddaughter, Caitlin Logan gave the gospel message.

LtoR: Arta Johnson and Mike Card

There were some take-aways which Richard and I discussed long after the funeral was over.

Take away number one: Jean like a good funeral.

The criteria was a short programme and lots of good food, so that was the intention of those who spoke.

After some funeral biographies I am left feeling, I wish I had known this person better. 

Mike told me we would look better in black and white
so he took an alternate picture.
Fewer skin blemishes, he said.
I think Jean would have laughed at that.

This was the case for me at this funeral.

Jean was a brilliant woman, graduating from school at the age of 14, but they had to wait until she was older to give her a diploma.

Jean was a child born during the depression and knew well the phrase, “use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.

She married a career military man and so she became accustomed to moving her children and her household, sometimes at a minutes notice and she did this for the course of his career.

I think I was touched by two things.

When they moved back to Calgary, she taught at Van Horne, a school that gathered together teens with multiple problems.

She taught in the Home Economics room – training people to make beds or simple meals. Many students kept in contact with her long after they had graduated.

The miracle of her room was that often there were people sitting in class who were not registered to be there. Jean gathered everyone in.

While she was teaching there, she also went back to school since she her training had only been one year at the Normal School back in the 1930's.  Jean got her degree while teaching and still taking care of her family.  Once at church a man spoke on the evils of working mothers.  Jennifer remembers her mother approaching the man and letting him know that a woman could work, take care of her family, take courses at the university and still have time to crotchet the yellow dress her 9 year old daughter was wearing that day.

The other outstanding sentence for me at the funeral came from the talk by her grand daughter who said, "I lived with my grandmother for four years. I love her.

Alice wondering how long the funeral will be.
She doesn't know the answer is short and good food.

Caitin’s words reflected how she treasured this woman who had to have been at least 60 years her senior. I consider that some small feat.

Although good music was not a criteria for a good funeral, there was that also for Jean Card: a professional string quartet – 2 violins, a cellist and a pianist – all of whom were her relatives.

... Alice's hair finished off with a white ribbon...

Richard did like one other phrase that Caitlin reported Jean would use with people, a phrase from Thoreau: by wasting one’s time, one does injury to eternity.

Thus, Jean’s knitting needles were always moving, doing projects for others.

As I said, an acquaintance for me, a distance relative for Kelvin and a person I wish I had known better.

Arta

Living Next Door

The kids next door needed to have their teeth cleaned today. Miranda asked me if I wanted to go along to the dentist. That would make the ration of kids to adults would be 3:2 and not 3:1. This was an event not to be missed, if only to celebrate paying big bucks for a day’s work. Writing a cheque to the dentist is only rivaled by having to go to court and pay for a lawyer. Both sometimes necessary; both come with peeling hundreds of dollars out of one’s wallet. The kids were astonished at the cost. We explained that everyone has to be paid: the receptionist, the hygienist, the financial controller, the janitor, even the dentist. Still, the whole experience seem astronomical in terms of cash.

I played Lego’s in the dentist’s waiting room since a beautiful Lego table was set up . I also read to the girls, beautiful books, classics like “The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein were at hand.

Betty, learning to light a tea light.

Whom else but grandmother will teach you
how to use a match.

As I was turning pages, Betty’s hands were pushing mine away, trying to do the turning, and I noticed her palms.

So dirty. I got the kind of glimpse of her hands that made me think instinctively, I have got to get her into the bathroom next door and wash her hands.

I have to lure her away from the dental office.

She refused to go.

I said I am going anyway by myself.

She followed.

When she follows after saying no, I always think, go figure.
Then I had to show her how much fun it is to wave my hand under the soap spout and that it is OK to take not just one or two, but three piles of creaming green soap on my hands, and then scrub, scrub, scrub. She followed but the soap did nothing. Still those dark creases on her hands like the gummy part of duck tape. I took her hands and began to work them myself picking that dirt off, which is when I had my aha moment. That little three year old girl’s hands have been on the geodome monkeybar-like structure in our back yard so much that she has created heavy callouses on the palms of her hands. Oooh, poor little thing.

I don’t know what I was thinking about. I have seen her hanging from the top bars, her feet not quite touching the ground, swinging her legs back and forth and reaching out her little foot to get stability on some part of that rounded structure. I am pretty sure if I lined up all three kids, it would be a toss-up as to which set of palms is the most calloused. No use trying to clean those marks up.