Yellow Tansy or Common Tansy

... the common tansy with a stem of roses ...

"I found the name of the  yellow flower.  Common tansy or yellow tansy," Mary texted me.

I have been searching my flower books to find out the name of that flower.

It is in full bloom up and down the roads and along the foot paths.

I pulled one stalk to bring it into the house as a specimen.

The roots wouldn't come up and when I bent the stalk and twisted it, the fibers were too tough, so finally I was yanking at it.

Once inside the house , someone else stuck the common tansy in with Moiya's sweet peas, though when I went to take a picture of it, the flower wasn't there and had been  moved over to the vase that holds LaRue.

LaRue is the name of the rose bush at the northwest corner of my south porch -- a bush that had been cut back so much that there was a question as to whether it would live or die.

... a cutting from the roses brought into the house today ...

This was the same year that LaRue changed directors, who discovered that LaRue had more bills to pay than money to pay them with.

"Will LaRue live or die?"

That was the question of the two people gardening at that moment.

"Let's call this rose bush LaRue, and we will watch if its root system is enough to sustain it."

So always, when I am weeding or dead heading, or cutting blossoms from that bush, I am filled with gratitude for life in a bush and in a corporation.

Arta

Bees and Berries

Photos from Mary

 ...a  close up of bee sleeping in a hollyhock ...

I know this is similar to the photo underneath.
But I can't get over the wonder of a handful of berries picked on the way up from a nice swim in the lake.

Rhiannon asked me if I need to stop at every blackberry bush on the way up from the lake.

This is the second snake I have caught this summer.
This tiny snake musked me.
I felt loved.

A Bank of Sweet Peas

... Betty leans over the geraniums ...

Moiya has sweet peas from one end of her front deck to the other, the only interruption in their smooth flow being a set of stairs in the middle of the veranda.

The flowers climb more than six feet high and hang onto netting that hangs from the railing.

Moiya keeps the flowers cut so they keep growing.

Sometimes she delivers a bouquet to Wyona and then one to me.

That is a lot of cutting.

Moiya was gone to Calgary for 5 days and she invited me over to pick some of the flowers while she was gone. 

 ... Betty by the porch stairs ...

The pastel colours of the petals began to fill our hands and we worked our way from the east to the west along Moiya’s vines.

I took a pair of scissors, two pair really, and Betty along with me.

I thought she might cut a flower or two.

I have to half keep my eye on her.  The scissors might as easily cut off a lock of her hair as a stem of sweet peas.

I showed her how to cut the flowers, just the way that my mother taught me, tracing my finger to the bottom of the stem where they spring out of the vine and then cutting them in the fork that is there.

Betty is too young to know how to do that, but it only took her one demo from me and then she set out to cut herself a bouquet, working silently beside me, standing on Moiya’s rock planter, reaching into the vine, cutting beautiful long stems.

The air was redolent with the smell of sweet peas.

If ever I want to feel close to my mother, I can do so while cutting sweet peas.

She is the one who showed me how to run my fingers to the bottom of the stem, how to gather a bouquet in one hand while holding scissors in the other, and how to transfer the flowers to the Tupperware sweet pea vase (a cross grate on the top held the flowers apart).

Moiya said the same thing to me – she rarely is out by the sweet peas but she doesn’t think of Wyora.

Arta

Stewarding the Trailhead at Sicamous, BC

... view of Sicamous Bay below ...

I saw Glen’s white truck leaving the property and then it backed up and came down my driveway.

“Wanna come to the trailhead. There is a tree down on the bicycle path there and I have to fix it. Only a short walk in. One I think you can do.”

Getting there was exactly as he had described: take the first road to the left after you get on the Trans-Canada, turn close to the Sicamous bridge but before it.

... the trail steward backpacking his chain saw in to work ...

The road climbs quickly past a property where a space for trailers can be rented, -- fabulous view there of Sicamous Bay -- and then there is a parking lot of sorts, probably only for n4 cars.

And a sign that says, Please don’t Block the Road, so vehicles get tucked to the side and in our case we began to walk up the trail to the downed tree.

Oh yes, there is a sign that says, Bear Warning.

... the chain saw? ... 
... always sharp, always full of gas ...

That sign is to remove liability from the organization that maintains the trail: we told you there were bears.

 “I haven’t seen any sign of bears here, lately,” he said. "But that doesn’t mean there are no bears.”

He seemed serious about his portion of the trail and we walked part of it: the inclines where pedalling is good work for the heart; the small slopes where a biker can feel the thrill of speed going downhill, and then the sharp incline again.

... post chain saw, 2 shoes full of sawdust ...

“Listen for bikers who are on the trail. They will be coming at a speed that can hurt you.”

Glen was behind me, and then I couldn’t see him – how could he got lost when he was behind me, I wondered since he was out of my sight.

But he was putting up a sign: WANTED.

And on the next line, “a crew of people willing to help with trail maintenance” and his phone number on tear-off tags.

... see the height of the goldenrod and in the distance
Sicamous Bay is at the centre of the picture ...

I fingered one but no use ripping it off – I know his number.

I wanted to know how able bodied a person needs to be and how often this crew will be out working.

“We will be a well-oiled team in the fall, not now,” he said optimistically.

“I used to find good bikes, about 10 years old, for half of their new price, but that is gone,” he went on.

“Add 30 percent to that old price, and there are no new bikes around. The manufacturers are sold out so you can’t even order them. COVID has turned biking into a popular sport around here.”

“Why not,” I thought.

Twenty miles of trails between Sicamous and Salmon Arm, maintained by volunteers.

They maintain a beautiful ride along the top of the ridge.

“Laynie came in April with her kids but she wasn’t in shape to ride. She got on the stationary bike at first, and now she rides along the ridge in the mornings. Sometimes we go out at 5 am and are back in time for work. Fit as a fiddle,” he said.

And he went on.

... golden rod at the trail's head ...
... look centre and above for 2 bees ...

“This is not an ancient growth forest, nor a cathedral forest. This is an old growth forest. If you look for large old stumps, now deteriorating and covered with moss, you will be able to see where trees were taken out, maybe 100 years ago,” and he continued, “The first thing a forester learns is how to look up.”

 I did look up to see a cedar, now dead, but still reaching for the heavens; a fir with a long bole, and branches only at the top of the canopy.

The sun spiraled down through cedar boughs and broken birch branches, streams of light splaying through the rotting wood and landing on the forest floor.

The deadfall he had come after was half-way onto the path – a bit of a danger for an inexperienced biker.

... the fallen tree is cut in 3 large chunks to clear the trail ...

He cut it with his chainsaw, three big pieces at a time, pushing them to the lake side of the trail, full body pushes, large pieces of wood.

As we walked, he showed me new cuts – other places where he has been cleaning up the trail.

“I have been wondering if the older sets of cousins would like to come up here, climb to the summit, have a picnic and feel the forest. “

... looking up to see how high the trees reach ...

“We should do trails like these on the property,” someone said to him.

“But why, when the trails are already here for everyone, a quick walk through an old growth forest.”

A trip to add to my gratitude list.

Arta

Rail Maintenance

From Rebecca:

What a treat to sit on the deck today at Glen's, and watch the machinery doing its work.

 It was like watching an episode of Mighty Machines.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AFo6k4bELE8

Rebecca

Flip Flop

... pegs are numbered one to nine ...
... the die rolled 5...
... I can flip down 5 or 4+1 or 2+3 ...

Bonnie introduced us to Flip Flop, a game she bought at a fair where people were raising money for some good causes.

The game is beautiful, partly because it has the charm of both wood and fabric in its set-up.

“I think this game will help with math,” Bonnie said, so I roped in Michael.

It wasn’t long before Alice was leaning over my shoulder, since there is plenty of laughter in rolling the die and sorting out which pegs will add up to that number.

The game is easy: flop down the peg when the roll of the die can add up to that number or is that number. And then what is left when you can no longer flip down the markers, that number is the score you get against you.

... all the pegs have been flipped down ...
... and I get 10 points subtracted from my score ...
... what a joy! ...

Now what was fun about the game is that it wasn’t long before Betty was by our side, watching how to do that and even roping me into playing a game with her on her own.

I always see so many hands when I play: three pair weaving over and under each other, reaching for the die or to flip down a peg, or one of their hands policing the hands of the other.

I often bend the rules when someone young is beside me. In this game it is not so much the score, but the fun of combinations of numbers.

I am sure there must be other math games like this one, but this is the first time I have learned to love the combinations of numbers up to twelve.

I am a late-to-the-joys-of-math grandmother.

Arta

Bonnie and I in Stillness

Photo Credit: Tonia Bates

Lightning in a Summer Storm 2020

An uncommon stillness permeates the house, the lake side balcony, the crushed grass footpaths through the green lawn, the zip line, even the sound of the Campbell Springs Creek.

I look for the chickens. They have gone to live with David and Shauna Pilling

 I look for Michael, Alice and Betty Johnson.
They returned to Alberta after a five month stay here.

The teens are gone as well.   I can still hear the echoes of them, the gaming sometimes lasting until the sunrise comes: Duncan, David, Naomi, Diego, and Rhiannon.

Only Bonnie and I are here for a few days.

We never feel this stillness with other families here. We look out the window for those who still need care-giving, and listen at the doors which might open with their laughter.

 But it is just not here.

For now, just Bonnie and I, the two of us enjoying what in music might be called the rests – the sound of no sound.

Some of my grandchildren and their parents (the Brooks) will return, this time with new friends, but living in the cabin next door. I think of how to practise social distancing when people out of my bubble arrive again.

And I think of leaving to go back to Alberta soon, just to see the hip surgeon and then to have a quick return here. When I call his office. I hear the recorded message: the wait list time to see him is 16 to 18 months with a referral. I am not going to miss this last appointment. Sixteen to 18 months is long term planning that I don’t do in the summer now that I have a spectacular new hip.

Waking up to the sunrise and the smell of the trees and the breeze off of the water seems enough for me.

The unknown, what is head of me doesn’t seem daunting.

So off to Calgary on a Monday and back here on a Thursday. How sweet can that be!

Arta

The Slug Stroll

Photo Credit: Xavier Brooks

Shaena Jakob's Midnight Slug Collection

Today Leo left for Lethbridge with his precious cargo of teens: Xavier, Naomi, Shaena Jakob, Mikaela and Cyra.

I love to hear what kids have enjoyed most as they leave the property.

Naomi said that laying in one of the floating tube on the water was pretty high on her list, as were the hammocks, though not the three-sided hammock.

She finds the regular hammocks easier to hang out in and easier to slip out of.

Shaena Jakob is Xavier’s friend who flew to Lethbridge from Ottawa this summer. She is the woman who collected slugs one midnight, slug by slug. First one, then another. Soon she had 17 in her hand, charmed that they would take to her, as she did to them.

“Wasn’t it hard getting all of the slug slime off?” That is the question most of midnight-travelling friends asked as well.

I was more interested in why she collected them. She said slugs are just so interesting.  I thought to myself, while in the past, others may have collected slugs to pour salt on them (a past practise I remember of others, not me), she carefully studied them, and then let them go.

“How long did it take for them to leave?” I asked.

 “About an hour, maybe 45 minutes. Forty-five minutes for the fast ones. I just said, ‘Ya! You go. And then I watched them travel away,” she said.

The above experience was report to me by Shaena, not experienced by me.

Arta

The Blackberry -- edible

In August across BC, ‘almost every bird and most people 
are eating blackberries,’ said UBC forestry professor Peter Arcese. 
‘I hate to say it, but you can imagine a rain of seed 
coming down from the birds.’ Photo by Christopher Cheung.

The Tyee had a featured story  by Christopher Cheungon on the Himalayan blackberry which I found interesting to read.

As Rebecca said to me, "Thank-you to The Tyee.  Where can you find a current article like that in today's news."

For some reason the article matched up in our minds with a set of cards Rebecca has about plants that are native to the Pacific Northwest.

And the story matches up with the berries on like side hill here at the cottage, a  hill full of prickly vines and berries just ready to be picked.

Mary brought me two handfuls of blackberries this morning, and then Xavier, Naomi and their friends Shaena, Mikaela and Crya brought me another clamshell full of berries just as they were leaving to go back to Alberta today.

Blackberry heaven.

Later in the day Mary ate some raspberry jam, but remarked that it was not home made as she wished it might have been.  If people keep picking the blackberries, I just may get some jars of jam up.  I know I could just buy some blackberries at the store and do this.  But for some reason, I am looking forward to getting the berries from my owns vines -- invasive vines.

Arta

PS  If  you want to know more about the salmonberry, as opposed to the thimble berry which is on the land where we are, click here.

The Line - a play by Jessica Blank and Eric Jensen

Erik Jensen and Jessica Blank (Joseph Marzullo/Media Punch)

In the Onstage article in The New Yorker (Aug 3 & 10), attention is brought to a play called "The Line", streaming on YouTube through September 1st.

The article goes on to say, "also available with Spanish subtitles, in closed captioning and sign language and audio description for the visually impaired.  So far, more than twenty-eight thousand people have watched the play, likely a far larger audience than the physical theatre could have accommodated over the course of a run."

The play is only an hour, done in the form of a documentary style of play-making which involves interviewing the real people they depict ....

I watched the first 1/2 hour last night and am going to finish it tonight.

Compelling.

The article says "an urgent, heartrending hour, ... maybe dramatized truth can slip through a window when the doors of reasons have been slammed."

The play is by Jessica Blank and Erik Jensen about New York City health-care workers battling COVID-19.

In the cool of the evening

Red light, green light
as the shades of night creep across the lawn..

This evening, Grandmother Joan Turnbull was over giving the kids supper and having playtime with them.

Richard and Miranda were cleaning up after another flood.

They have had so many floods that they no longer try to ascribe guilt to any party, though this time Richard says it was him who forgot to turn off the water from a slow drip he had on it to the lawn.

At any rate, I slipped over to dinner, which I never would do if I had remembered that it was Joan's night with the kids.

After I had finished eating, I played "Here to Slay" with Michael and Joan went outside to watch the girls ride their bikes up and down the street.

I am  not good with modern board games, but Michael is so young that I can get him to play both his hand and then help me with my hand, so that is satisfying for me.

Simon says, "Turn around."
Fun to watch Betty's hair fly in the wind.
Observe Alice's feet.  Is she headed east or west?

When the shade finally began to cross my yard, we went outside where the girls plays on the swings and the two grandmothers had Michael say everything he wanted to say.

Then all of them wanted to play on the lawn with the grandmothers.

Play is not good for me if I need a cane to stabilize me, so I watched and Joan played What Time is it Mr. Wolf, and Red Light, Green Light.

A grand evening was had by all.

Arta

On going to Calgary

Greg and I stop to get gas at Golden
on the way to Calgary.
The sun is blinding even with glasses on.
The sun is hot; an instant skin tan.

Greg drove me back from the Shuswap yesterday.

I had to get some x rays this morning at the Foothills Professional Building (EFW).

He drove me there at 8 am and the lab was empty.

I walked right in.

The woman told to me to leave my top on, take off my jeans, leave my underwear on and tie the gown at the waist.

I rehearsed in my mind what she had said.  "Put this on, tie it around my waist which will keep the lower part of my body from being exposed, right to the ankles," I reason.  I thought, "How great is this; just a sort of wrap around."

She then handed me a bundle.

The thought, "How forward thinking of this office."

I slipped off my jeans and tied the gown around my waist. It gaped quite a bit. I definitely wasn't covered, so I decided to wear it as a side sarong. When the technician came she looked at me with a wrinkled brow.

Greg is driving Rebecca's new electric car.

The charging unit at the first Petro Can fails to work.

He moves to the other charging station.

It works.  

And the charge is free.

We laugh.

I said, "It doesn't quite fit but just this lower part of my leg is exposed and that is ok."

She pointed to the sleeves on the gown which were hanging like pockets around my waist and said, "Those are sleeves. You were supposed to put your arms through them."

I had a thought, wondering if she had considered how I had made it to 80 years old and not known that those were sleeves.

I said, "I thought you told me to take the gown and tie it around my waist."

She couldn't really hear those words through my mask and she chose to soldier on down the hallway.

I tried to follow her.

I walk straight forward with a dignity I did not feel, making my way to the x-ray room, gown gap at my side leg and dragging close to the floor.

"Careful you don't trip," she said.

Next time?

My arms will go through the armholes and then I will tie the gown at the waist, just as I have for the last 60 years, except for this time.

Arta

Cover for Don't look Back in Anger

Image from Maiya Sykes Website

Wow to this rendition of Don't look Back in Anger from Scott Bradlee's Post Modern Jukebox.

I love the line, "step outside because it's summertime in bloom".

Arta

Facebook Resistance

 

 ... sweet peas, a gift from my sister, Moiya ...

Facebook has its detractors.  

I don’t dislike Facebook.  

I just don’t find going out there satisfying.  

That is, until I find out that Rebecca posts out there regularly.  

And Catherine posts out there regularly.  

And I want to know what they are doing; as well I do not want them to have the burden of sending me another email when they have already made some public declaration or other: “ the sunset is exquisite tonight”, “here is a picture of us picking up Catie from the airport”; “look at the beauty of the public park that these volunteers have been working on”. I want to see all of these pictures.

In my religious congregation, and new, during Covid times, the Bishop set up a Facebook page.  I could feel my initial resistance to Facebook again; but I reasoned myself into joining for all the same  old reasons:  I want to know what is going on; I don’t want to burden someone with telling me something I can go find out myself. 

I think there is a bigger reason for me joining my ward Facebook page.  If I project and try to think of when I might get back to church, my most conservative answer is, maybe never.  The pandemic may last longer than I have years to live, 5? 7? 10?  As the virus mutates no one knows what is going to happen.  When I am optimistic the answer is I will be back to church, maybe in one year, perhaps the fall of next year,  but that would be my best guess.  I am in the cohort who should wait until I hear “all’s clear” before I attend again. 

Perhaps I will never be able to go back.  So how am I going to experience religious community, I reason, unless I go to Facebook.  And I have added an extra step for me.  If I want to get community, I should think about how I am going to give it.  

How to do this electronically is one of the questions that circulates in my mind in the early morning hours of the days.  Like now.

For fun I have imaged I am a ward Facebook missionary.  “We have a nice spot out there?  Why don’t you join?” or “I know you hate Facebook, but this is a nice substitute for going to church, if you used to like that.”  I have taken severe rebuffs, since I took the initial chance to ask again, but I have asked for those punches.  

I invited a relative whom I know hates Facebook.  They said, “Maybe it is good for you, but not for me.”  When someone stands in their truth, I have to take off my missionary badge.  

They are right.  Not for them.  

But yes, it is good for me.

Arta

Thoughts on Greg's Article

... the last daisies of the summer still bloom in my garden ...

Pandemic history begins in 1914.  

That is not the title of a recent article Greg Bates wrote for the Ward Newsletter.  

Still, it is what I got from his article – a list of world events that have acted upon us, and we with them since 1914.  

I liked the article because many words and phrases he uses brought up a long history from the 1950’s and on for me.

I didn’t know Greg Bates was a writer.  I didn’t know he had edited a newsletter.  I didn’t know he was an artist, even though Wyona has often said, when I am admiring one of her watercolours, “I am not the artist.  I only have craft.  Greg is the artist”.   When I think about Greg, I think of him as a dancer.  When Wyona and he cruise, they dance from 10 pm until the band stops playing, which is much longer than an old couple should stay up waltzing, doing the samba or jiving. 

“Where did you learn to dance?” I asked him 

“I went to Scouts”, he said.  “Scouts in the Sixth Ward.  Ken Dolan was the scout master.  Ruth and Ken didn’t have children, so they had time to do things couples might not do after they are married.  And one of them is dance.  They may have danced professionally, and maybe taught for he could teach scouts how to dance.”

“Didn’t you think dancing was a little odd at scouts?”

“I didn’t really think anything of it.  I didn’t know what any other troops did, and Ken made it seem normal to learn to dance.  Added to that, the church held a regular Saturday Night dance.  The protocol was to go to the dance, dance with many girls, and hope take drive home the one I really liked.

What a way for a 12 year old boy to learn to dance.

This summer I have watched Greg deep in the act of grandfathering, sometimes walking his loved ones down paths he has clear for them in the early spring.  

And occasionally he writes an article that invites me to think in a new ways.

Arta

Bee Silhouettes

...the shadows of bee balm and bees ...

From Bonnie Johnson

Arta and I are sitting out on an old railroad station bench on the front porch at the lake. 

We came outside to watch the host of dragonflies as they were speeding past the window, drawing our minds away from our conversation. 

I tried to capture the swarm of bees feasting on the Bee Balm growing in in Arta's garden.  

I was distracted by the movement of their shadows dancing through the silhouettes of the long stems, leaves, and pink blossoms on blindingly white fiberglass of the freshly washed porch.

I don't know if my picture capture the shadows of some of the bees.

... Arta's bee balm garden ...

.. a bee feasts on the flower on the left ...

A New Beginning? by Greg Bates

Photo: Arta

Greg Bates has another article published in the Bow Valley Ward Newsletter. He has given me permission to republish it here.

Arta

=========

Recent events have prompted many to look for answers beyond the daily outpouring of news and views. In order to better understand what is happening, many are turning to the past even though, as Mark Twain reportedly said, "History doesn't repeat itself, but it rhymes."

Looking at the recent past, the 20th Century for example, a number of historians mark the beginning of that century not in the year 1900, but 1914. Why do they do this?

The 20th Century was truly transformational. Almost all that we now take for granted was invented or came into general use during that 100 year period including electricity, running water, indoor plumbing, central heating, refrigeration, the telephone, automobile, airplane, radio, motion pictures, television, modern materials and modern medicines, computers, the internet, etc.

But there is another side to the 20th Century, a darker side. Imagine for a moment you were born in 1900. You are 14 when World War I breaks out. It ends in 1918 with 22 million lives lost. That same year, the 'Spanish Flu' pandemic strikes. Fifty million people die.

You are 29 when recoveryfrom these twin disasters falters with the onset of the Great Depression. Countries are near collapse along with the world economy. 

You are 39 when World War II erupts. Seventy-five million people perish in this war, including 6 million in the Holocaust.

You are 47 when the world descends into another war, the Cold War. This war, which lasts for 44 years, is marked by conflicts around the globe: the Iron Curtain, the arms race, the Korean War, the Berlin Blockade, the U-2 Incident, the Cuban Missile Crisis, Vietnam, Angola, Afghanistan.

You are 57 when another pandemic known as the 'Asian flu' breaks out, claiming over a million lives. 

You are 68 when yet another pandemic, the 'Hong Kong flu', breaks out, claiming another one million. The century finally draws to a close with Y2K and the Dot-com crash.

Why do some historians say the 20th Century began in 1914? Because all that went before 1914 was swept away. When will future historians mark the beginning of this century? Will it be the year 2000 or 2020?

In 2018, the Church made a announcement which was introduced by the following statement:

"For many years, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has been working on a home-centered and Church-supported plan for members to learn doctrine, fortify faith, and foster heartfelt worship."

In addition to introducing a new resource, "Come Follow Me", the Church announced a number of changes including changes to Sunday services.

One might have asked at the time how these changes were intended to help us in the future? Perhaps now we have at least a partial answer. Following the counsel of our Church leaders will guide us into the new, uncertain 21st Century.

As the Apostle Paul wrote: " . . . but we glory in tribulations also; knowing that tribulation worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope:" (Romans 5: 3 - 4)

ILRU Six Vignettes read by Val and Rebecca

Painting: Val Napolen

Raven Series

On the blog site of the Indigenous Law Research Unit is a post about a  series of conversations written by Val Napoleon, and read aloud by Val and Rebecca Johnson.

There are six vignettes.

I have only had time to look at the first, but I am surely going to listen to the other five, and also read Val Napoleon's paper, which I have only skimmed, but which I shall read again, probably taking notes.

Just my kind of thing.

Arta

Daisy Ointment

Photo Credit: Miranda Johnson

I woke up this morning to read email dialogue between Miranda  and Rebecca Johnson.

What could have seemed more natural?

I have listened to the women talk back and forth often through the summer.

I was hearing more talk about getting daisy-infused oil into a beeswax potion to be used during the winter for bruises.


Last nightBonnie and I had beren thinking about Miranda, how different the house seems with one of the adult voices gone.

Photo Credit: Miranda Johnson

Bonnie had been thinking of the game Arbortum, in particular, since she and Miranda had played it together.

Miranda had previously played that game with Bonnie, Bonnie saying that Miranda was beating her roundly.

There are similar strategies in p
I was doing the same thing to Bonnie last night, only with the board game Lost Cities.

I was also a good opponent, until I stopped to show her some of my strategies, after which the game playing became much harder for me.

Photo Credit: Miranda Johnson

We played card games last night, too tired to continue viewing the Stratford Festival On-line's production of Love's Labour's Lost.

"Have you seen this show," Bonnie had questioned.

"Well, of course," I idly answered.  I feel as though I must have, since I did know the title.  But the show was new to me, a show written around the time of a 1607 pandemic, which closed Shakespeare's theatre and so all he could do was write.  And well he did, writing King Lear during that time.  I wonder if his daughters had ever gathered daisies for folk medicine, specifically bruises, for in the show, he is destined to get many of them.

Arta

Going live, virtually

The article Virtual Church During Global Pandemic went live earlier this week on Canadian News about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.  Below is the link to that article

https://news-ca.churchofjesuschrist.org/article/virtual-church-during-global-pandemic

Catherine Jarvis is the one who pulled this article together. She says that in writing this article the most important thing she learned

was that our connections to God and to each other are only limited by our creativity. Although this pandemic has been challenging on many levels, during this time I have come to a deeper appreciation of the importance of God's love in my life and of how my connections to the larger community, including my Latter-day Saint congregation are essential. It is in those connections to others that love is experienced, given and received.

I love the nine pictures that accompany the article.  For a few years now, I have been wanting to think about my relationship to my church as horizontal rather than vertical.  That it to say, it has always seemed to me that the road ran from Alberta down to Utah when it comes to Mormonism.  I have been hoping that the road might run coast to coast, at least for a few trips.

In other words, I have been wanting conversation with other Canadian Mormons. mainly to develop a group conversation about the work our church might do in light of the findings of the Truth and Reconciliation Commision.

I purchased the new book by the Pretes to accomplish this.  The book isn't that satisfying if read for that purpose, though I am loving it for other reasons.

Better for me, I love the photos that accompany Catherine's article.  This may be the first time in my life I have felt my Canadian religious identity. I studied the You Tube screen shot, hoping to recognize a name I knew.

I loved listening to the Canadian Mormon Virtual Choir singing "Love One Another" (there is a link to this in the text).  The 1 1/2 minutes it took to look at that link was not  time lost during my day.  I have been wanting to ask if an of my Albertan friends know any of the people singing.  I don't know any of them.

I know Cornetta, the woman with the family ages 17 to 4, for she was the first person to tend Catherine's kids for an extended period of time when they were about 1 1/2.  But I have only known her by name, so it was so good to see her face.  Catherine told me that on Christmas Day she can always count on getting a phone call from Cornetta -- something she can't count on from me or from the rest of her siblings.  We know we are family in other ways.  Cornetta and Catherine reaffirm their deep connection with a phone call on that holy day.  For some reason that makes Cornetta feel like family to me.

I love the paragraph about the woman who connects with the children in her Primary by email and other electronic platforms.  Just love it!

I think Natalie Berg's paragraph about Sunday in the Park is just a riot.  The picture could be repainted by Seurat, or could easily fade into a musical Sondheim style.

Well, that is the short way of saying what is in my heart the long way.

Arta

Decorative until Delicious

From Richard Johnson

... Richard pausing for a quick photo shoot ...

The story begins on Tuesday.

I was encouraging Miranda to make her plans for the transition of the chickens from our place up to Shauna and David Pilling’s Place.

The chickens free-range all day long and sleep in the coop at night.

And the chickens don’t come to me voluntarily as they do to her.

So my plan was to lock them in at night so they would be easily reachable from the side door of the coop in the morning.

David Wood dropped by to discuss
how Richard had done fibreglass repair on the deck.

The next morning, they all escaped to free range again.

At noon on Friday, Arta started pointing out that maybe the kids shouldn’t be out and about while I was performing the processing and eviscerating of 2 of the roosters whom the new owners of the chickens did not want, so Friday at 4 pm, Arta offered to take the kids to the basement for a couple of hours.

I went out to try to catch the 2 roosters that had been identified for extinction.

... four of the chickens marching to the compost ...
Welly and Perry were the chickens who died.

I used a long-handled rake to try to herd them up to their coop so I could lock them in and have access to them again, but one kept getting away.

I called five-year old Betty over to help me herd one towards the door while I kept the rest inside.

She got the chicken moved towards the door and to the inside. I don’t think she knew she was walking it to the slaughter.

I watched a lot of You Tube videos in advance, 2 hour’s worth, preparing for the dirty deed.

As Arta picks raspberries in the early morning,
the leaves are dappled with sunlight and,
the chickens come out of the coop,
getting all of the low berries
before she does.

I wish I hadn’t watched that last 5 minute video while the children were in the same room on Friday.

I didn’t need to.

But I was just like a Scout or a Venture, checking I had everything in my backpack.

At that point Michael said, “Dad could you please turn down the sound.”

It was the word ‘slit’ he heard on the video.

He went out on the porch to cry.

... grey rooster, beautiful and so camouflaged ...

From the video’s I learned there are 2 options: one is to hang the chicken by the feet; the second is to insert it into an upside-down traffic cone.

I have never lived on a farm and I didn’t know what I was doing.

As I was crawling into the chicken run with a knife in one hand and a rake in the other (me on my hands and on my knees in the chicken droppings), I closed the door behind me and decided that trying to drag a chicken while backing out from this position, would put me in more trouble than I wanted.

... the rooster who crows at 5 am, 7 am and 5 pm ...

I used a rake to scoop one of the roosters to me, got it on the ground with a gloved hand, the head into the ground and beside it I would just drive the knife into the dirt and that is how I would finish the job.

I am left-handed.

It worked splendidly, but with one hand still on the head, the other on the knife and no hand on the body, I experienced the rare experience of a chicken with its head cut off and that large gigantic body flipping and flopping towards me like a fireman’s hose out of control.

Frustrated, but with one rooster to go, I couldn’t get any dirtier.

I raked another rooster towards me and made sure to hold the body afterwards on the second rooster.

I threw the heads out of the run and the bodies out and crawled backwards out of the fecal matter, into standing position only to see a mother and 10 children right on the road beside the chicken coop.

... black rooster ...

Shame?

Afraid?

I was not sure how to respond to killing two roosters and being seen by a Sunday School class or maybe they were just a little pile of second-cousins-to-my-kids that walked by.

I yelled out to Michelle Wood, their guardian for the afternoon, “I got one,” and turned to carry my chickens back to the house.

I had protected by own kids by having them downstairs, and I had terrorized the children of other families.

I took my 2 chickens to the lake side of Arta’s house and started dipping them in boiling water to defeather them.

Not 5 minutes after I started the task, Uncle Dave Wood came around the corner.

... the results of the defeathering ...

Me, still in trauma from the Wood’s grandchildren walking by, I couldn’t even remember his name and called him Uncle Glen.

When I recovered from that, I asked him if Michelle had sent him over.

He said no, he hadn’t been debriefed about the children running into the slaughtering event and he stayed 45 minutes wanting to talk about the fiber glassing on the deck that I had just finished.

... gizzard? or did I still not get it ...

I was glad to talk to someone so that I didn’t have to think about what I was doing.

At one point he asked if I were going to take out the gizzard, pointing out that I hadn’t done one step in the process.

About 90% of the way through their defeathing and gutting Arta popped out of the kitchen door and said, “The kids are coming up for snacks. Hide the chickens.”

If only she had done that for the Wood grandchildren.

We decided not to cook them Friday night but put them into the fridge for a Saturday crock pot.

As I am writing this, Nora (7), Evangeline (7) and Sidney Wood (10) just popped by to ask where the chicken coop was and if I were the person who had killed them, to which I replied, “Two are in the crock pot and the rest of the chickens moved up to Dave and Shauna’s place.”

And I sent the children off to play.

Richard Johnson

P.S. Next year, Hei-hei, Shy, Coco, and Heart-Heart will be laying eggs at Shauna and Dave Pilling’s place.

Authors Note: Only 2 of the 6 chickens in this story were injured.