Iqaluit Bound

I thought Rebecca had gone to Iqaluit. Then I get this email from Mary:

I spoke with Rebecca. Three days in a row she has been in a plane above Iqaluit but unable to land. Yesterday they tried to land 5 times before heading back to Ottawa. Crazy. Absolutely crazy. Her plane today has been delayed to noon. We’ll see if they manage to take off given the fog in Iqaluit is the same today as 3 previous days. She is working hard, introducing herself and getting to know everyone else who is trying to get to Iqaluit, though they are not the people she was going to Nunavut to see.

And now for my wish for the day. I want to do some blogging. I am fascinated by the trips others are taking. My own life is full, though, right in my backyard. Not many people get to have a grandchild knock on their back door and ask if they want to come out and play. Michael was only allowed to go to the backyard not to knock on my door. But he found a pair of scissors in the sweet peas and asked his mother  if he couldn't at least knock and give those to me.

Yes.

 I was cutting flowers, couldn't keep everything in my hands, and so I hid those scissors down in the foliage so that a little person wouldn't find them and use them before I got back to them.

Oh boy! Life is interesting whether a person is hovering over Iqaluit, or hiding in the shadows of the colesium looking for shade, or tucking tools away so little people won't find them.

 Every day, somehow a joy.

The last event in our house every evening is that Richard brings that tiny newborn over here so we can hear her last cries of the day. Those are the hours when there is no stopping the weeping of a new baby.

Richard shows me a dance that will stop Betty Blanche from crying. Two steps forward,  one backward piroueette, now 2 steps backward and the same pirouette.   Repeat five times.

Her crying stops and she relaxes into his shoulder.  "Stops them from crying everytime, at least in our family," says Richard.

I am hoping to find time today to blog ... about my real life.

 Arta