The Going Rate

... Greg checking out a fallen apple tree ...

I have written this post so many times in my head, that I thought maybe I had already got it onto the blog.

To check that presumption out, I went to the search engine of this blog to see if I had already put it up. No, the last time I wrote a putting Greg Bates’s name in the labels was in 2010.

I suppose it's alright to do one post every decade so here goes the one that has been turning around in my head.

In the past few months, I needed to go to Calgary, for a doctor's appointment. Usually I can just ride along with someone who is coming from or going to Calgary, , but in this instance there was no designated driver in a designated car. Greg Bates said he would drive me. Rebecca offered her new electric van. On the road, Greg and I were pretty enthralled with its pick up and the way it almost drives itself down the road, leaving plenty of room between us sent the car ahead. We watched how it would, run on all of that electric energy,eEtc. The ride that doesn't seem that long when there's an interesting conversationalist in the car. As Greg was talking I was thinking to myself, too bad I don't have a tape recorder and could record some of these stories he is telling me, because they're truly interesting. But then that thought slipped away as many thoughts do.

Along the way, Greg told me that when his grandchildren go for interviews, he wished they knew the phrase “the going rate” when an employer asks them what pay scale they would like to be on.

... may I have this dance? ...

I have never heard that phrase. 

 I asked Greg how he had learned that phrase. 

He said doesn't everyone know that? 

Then he said, “I learned it from Les Bates, my stepfather. I was going for my first job interview and as I was going out the door Les said to me, when they ask you how much you want to be paid for your work, tell them the going rate. If they tell you no, you will have to be on a pay scale under that figure, then that job is not for you.”

I wouldn't have known to have told any of my children or my grandchildren that phrase, the going rate. 

Then I asked Greg if I could tell this story, he laughed and said yes and any others you can remember.

Those Old Steps

Marcia said that Greg Bates uncovered the steps that used to lead downward from the tongue-and-grove cabin to the beach. He was working on his own hill when he found them. It was easy for me to bring back memories of those old times when thinking about those steps. They were the ones that Sean Bates rebuilt every year.

... the darkness of climbing the stairs on the path in the woods ...

I walked so many little children up to the cabin using that stair short-cut. The pitch of the path was steep but it was the uneven rise of the stairs that caused the most trouble. My other children would be running ahead, but the smallest one always had short legs couldn't make the height from one step to another. I would help them, though now I only have memories of me holding onto one of their hands, their bodies dang to the steep side, as though they would tumble down that hill, but battling to get both feet under them again.

Half-way up that path bees had built a hive. When we would walk children by that spot there was often a bee or two in the air that someone would try to swat away. I would be saying, just live peaceably with the bees, but their little hearts were beating and their hands were wildly waving the bees off.

One day, when Bonnie McLoone was walking her daughter, Amanda, back up to the house, Amanda so young that she could hardly talk, she spoke in a tiny voice, "There's the damn bee patch!" 

That is one of the times when Bonnie was alerted that Amanda was picking up more vocabulary than she had intended her to have.

Those are also the same steps Doral Pilling came up just about the last time he had been fishing. It was growing dark. His bones were aching. He didn't know why. “The insides of my bones were aching,” he would say. “I have to live with that. How can doctors fix an ache on the inside of your bones.”

When Doral got to the stairs that last time, he was so tired he couldn't climb them, so he came up them on his hands and knees. So dark he couldn't see in the trees, so he made his asset by braille.  Fish in hand, of course.

Thank you, Sean. Your yearly step repair helps me hold a lot of memories. Long after my children could walk the steps on their own, I would pass that place half way up to the cabin and look for the bees. I would even tell others as we climbed past that spot, “Look, that is where the damn bee patch used to be,” and I would look down and point to the left as though the bees were still present.

I am glad Greg uncovered the stairs again. I don't want to bury those memories.

Arta

Secwepmec Gothic – Hand Saw

"Welcome to my new office."

Bonnie and I took a walk on the road that has been graded and caped with gravel.

She has travelled the road before.

This was my first time.

Outloud, I was admiring the side of the road that has been brushed.

I was admiring the ditching, surprised that the water can now continue to the bottom of the hill – no pooling along the way.

I was admiring the gorgeous new view that has been opened up. 

And most of all I was admiring and curious about the thin line of smoke rising from Marcia’s property.

So much of the brush is gone that we could see a small figure beside a fire. Knowing it could only be Greg we approached. He called out, “Welcome.”

It wasn’t long before he was explaining to us how he keeps the fire going.

He has a large circle of rocks there – each probably more than 2 feet by 2 feet, and irregular in shape (which is what give the circle such beauty).

Because I love rocks, even moving rocks, I spent a long time admiring the ones the circle his firepit.

Inside of the rocks is a circle of stumps, all sitting about 2 ½ feet high. They are drying out, he says. After a day or two by the fire, they can be split and he puts new logs there to dry out. Inside of those round logs, he has his twigs and sticks burning, fueled by a torch from the outside propane tank.

There is a crackling sound as they burn. I get closer, but I can’t feel the heat. I think to myself, no use bringing tofu-furters up here for a party.

"May I hold your hand saw", I ask,sensing
a good photo shot with a nod to American Gothic.

“I have to keep putting twigs on top of the fire and occasionally pushing it down to keep it going,” Greg said, giving us a demo. “I am going to get as much burning done as I can before I leave for Calgary on Friday.”

I asked if we could take a picture.

“Sure,” he said, posing beside the fire.

The lot has a breathtaking view which I enjoyed for as long as I was there.

It looks so good because Paul Vike pulled out the large stumps when he was here with his bull dozer.

And it looks good because Greg is doing all of that burning. And it looks good because it just is good.

"I cut each of the roots off before
throwing the stump in the fire."

Thinking to begin our walk back home, we heard sounds from the lot to the south of us, which is also above us.  

High-south. 

Thinking it was Shauna and David calling to us, we walked up to their home, only to find it was them out walking their dogs. 

... piece by piece into the fire ...

They weren’t calling to us at all.

So curious when the dogs run to us. I take a firm stance with my feet because if it is going to be dog-bumps-human, I am going to go flying.

But the largest dog stops a few feet ahead of me, his tongue hanging out, dripping and panting for approval.

The huge dog can be outrun by the little mutt who is only 18 inches high and he circles me a few times, probably a victory run for the large slow dog to see.

We visit for a while with the younger Pilling couple.

David’s lot was brushed three years ago and now the undergrowth is over three feet high and continuing to climb upward.

“I am going to have to rent a brush saw next year,” he said, “so I can maintain our view.”

David and Shauna had not been calling our names, we found out. 

They had been calling their dogs. But it was hard to tell over the crackling of Greg’s fire, and the rumbling of the CPR. 

Arta

A Walk in Two Voices

... the engine appears on the tracks ...

Bonnie pulled out one of the many maps of LaRue’s 60 acres saying that she was going to chart all of the walks around the property that she was planning to take.

Looking at the map, I imagined that she would plot trails along the 66 foot road, mark paths along Pilling’s Road, along the Grandfather’s Trail, walk the section down old Sicamous Road, trod a beach walk along a ¼ of a mile of loose gravel, and, perhaps take the hardly known trail from the Ramp Camp past Shady Beach, cross on top of the three wooden planks over a stream, and into Sandy Beach.

But when I looked at that map, I thought about a lecture I had gone to where Indigenous mapping had been done on the back of a bear hide.

That trail started in central Alberta, went down through the Porcupine Hills and into the US.

The presenter had followed the trail, that wasn’t measured in the length of miles, but more in terms of which landmark preceded the one before and after it.

... Arta rests in the forest ...

I began to wonder what a page would look like if I were to do mapping in my fall walks in this fashion.

On today’s walk I started giving my own names to places; the spot where a five-clump birch had fallen over, all file boles still attached to the roots, but it had fallen across the path where we were walking.

I could see where the trail maintenance people had cut out four foot lengths of wood to let us by. 

I look at how the birch boles stretched out on the other side of the trail, past the cuts.

Another spot, one might be familiar with, is the fork in the trail behind David and Shawna’s house, the one where a person can easily go straight ahead instead of turning left, and thus miss that trail altogether, and just end up walking the steep embankment of that first creek, the one where LaRue has a walking easement now for its Lot Licencees.

A shame to miss that fork, since there are charming landmarks along the trail that leads to Shady Beach.

... Greg on his way to Sicamous ...

I don’t have a good name for one of the spaces where previous holiday-ers left the debris from their parties where they were practicing shooting their guns: pierced plastic 4 litre jugs, a bull’s eye ring now deteriorating on the ground, pellet pock-marked pop cans.

No sin in using them as a target. 

A case to be made for at least laziness in leaving the debris behind. 

I always have the impulse to bring a bag and clean the forest up in that spot, but one wiser than I has told me to leave it alone so that all can witness what happens when others don’t take care of the forest.

A spot that would be on my metaphorical bear skin map is always the place that leads south down to the creek where there is a chance to cup my hands and get a cool drink of water.

... mushrooms as a fried egg ...

Along the steep embankment, is a fir sapling, whose branches were twisted back and forth among its other boughs, none of them cut, but instead braided out of the way of passers-by. 

A couple of years have passed now and that bowed bole is crescent shaped, and I enjoy the interlacing pattern of the boughs in that space.

I’ve walked this trail with others, for some reason Cindy (Crabtree) Bowe and Ria Meronek came to mind as I walked the trail today.

I thought about how memories of other loved ones are imprinted along the trail, not just the actual walks that I have taken with them, but photos I have studied of other families as they have walked that trail.

Bonnie is the one who spotted mushrooms.

I was treading on them, not really seeing them. I was walking three feet behind her and on occasion I wanted to have her stop and take a picture with her superior camera, pictures of the tiniest of mushrooms once I saw them, far smaller than a baby finger fingernail.

But what good would a picture have been, I thought. 

There was no other forest measurement to let viewers know how really tiny those mushrooms were.

... an eagle soars by ... now only a smudge on a photo ...

We were walking under the forest cover of many tall Douglas fir trees.

I had to position my legs and my cane in a three-point stance and hang on to another tree so I could run my eye along the bole to the very tip of the tree.

I used my camera to get a picture, but was laughing at myself for I had to take a picture of the top third, the middle third, and the bottom third.

I wanted to touch the bark, because it’s crevices were so brown and dark and deep, and I wondered if anyone else will take that tree as a marker in the forest.

If you do, you’ll find the tree still standing, just where you leave LaRue’s property and walk up the steep incline of Crown Land that takes a person to the end of Old Sicamous Trail. 

That tree has been there a long time, but probably not 200 years. 

 

... Annis Siding ends ...

When I first came to the property in the early 1960’s I would walk through the forest with Doral and on occasion we would come to a pile of deteriorating garbage, old cans now rusted away so that only half the can was left. 

I have a three-sided glass bottle at my house that I picked out of this pile.

I cleaned it up and still use to put fresh flowers in.

Doral told me it was the debris from old work camps that I was looking at. 

Glen has explained to me that the property is an old-growth forest that has been logged, so I know that the remnants when the land was an ancient forest are now gone.

... bleached bones on the trail ...
Is one a scapula?

As we walked home along the shore a couple of days ago, Bonnie alluded to a story we found that had been written by early settlers.

A team of horses had broken away and for some reason had run into the water and the driver who had been hired by the farmer, instead of abandoning the horses, rode with them trying to save them, and all perished -- drowned.

The writer of that column hypothesized that sometimes you can see the horses and the driver galloping along the top of the water. 

I’m not that kind of romantic story teller.

I always think, too bad that fellow lost his life in the service of his master, rather than spending what years he might have had left enjoying this part of the earth as so many before him have done.

Arta

Photo Credit: Bonnie Johnson

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

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)

The Bishop of Orleans

The following was written by Greg Bates for the Bow Valley Ward Newsletter. I am putting it on the family blog for people to read who may have missed the newsletter.

=====

We read The Book of Mormon, as we read the other scriptures, for the eternal truths it contains, the words of the Saviour and his prophets.

We begin reading the scriptures before perhaps we understand their significance. We read them while making life changing decisions. We read them when we experience success and happiness. We read them during times of sadness and sorrow. The words do not change, but our understanding of them does. The Book of Mormon ends with Moroni writing about testimony, concluding with his farewell.

What does the Bishop of Orleans have to do with Moroni and Book of Mormon? Well, nothing, really. Charlemagne chose a man by the name of Theodulph to be the bishop of Orleans. Among his many accomplishments, Bishop Theodulph wrote the words to the hymn, "All Glory, Laud, and Honor," Hymn 69 in our hymn book.

Theodulph was born just over 300 years after Moroni wrote his farewell.

Published in the Bow Valley Ward Newsletter, June 1, 2020 

Note from Arta:

If you click on the link above for the music to this son and wish to try out the words to the song, here they are below

All Glory, Laud and Honor

All glory, laud, and honor
To thee, Redeemer, King
To whom the lips of children
Made sweet hosannas ring
Thou art the King of Israel
Thou David's royal Son
Who in the Lord's name comest
The King and Blessed One

The company of angels
Are praising thee on high
And mortal men and all things
Created make reply
The people of the Hebrews
With palms before thee went;
Our praise and love and anthems
Before thee we present

To thee, before thy passion
They sang their hymns of praise;
To thee, now high exalted
Our melody we raise
Thou didst accept their praises;
Accept the love we bring
Who in all good delightest
Thou good and gracious King

Out of the Best Books

The following was written by Greg Bates for the Bow Valley Ward Newsletter.  I am putting it on the family blog for people to read who may have missed the newsletter.

====

The Mongol Sack of Baghdad, 1258

The siege of Baghdad in 1258 was a great tragedy. It was not the first time enemies had laid siege to the city, nor would it be last, but it was by far the most destructive, by far the most devastating.

At the time, Baghdad was one of the world's great centres of culture and learning. Its people, its great buildings including some 36 libraries containing thousands of priceless books and manuscripts, the work of countless scientists and scholars, destroyed, The tragic loss of life overshadowed all, but the loss of knowledge and of learning had an impact for centuries.

Why should such a tragedy matter to us? Given the perilous journey of our own scriptures with lost manuscripts and a burned printing press, we can perhaps appreciate in some small way how close we came to losing many great and precious truths we benefit from and take comfort in.

The "Olive Leaf" is just one example. Olive Leaf was the name given to the 88th section of the Doctrine and Covenants. The section contains a wealth of inspired truths and divine wisdom. One of many which inspires me is verse 118, which reads in part;

". . . Yea seek ye out of the best books words of wisdom; seek learning, even by study and also by faith."

And what are we admonished to learn out of the best books? Well among other things:

"Of things both in heaven and in the earth, and under the earth; things which have been, things which are, things which must shortly come to pass; things which are at home, things which are abroad; the wars and the perplexities of the nations, and the judgments which are on the land, and a knowledge also of countries and of kingdoms------"

In another lifetime, while attending university, I read an essay, a long essay, that helped set me on my life's course. The essay, entitled, Lament for a Nation, discussed " . . . the perplexities of the nations . . .." the perplexities of our own nation, Canada.

What does the term "best books" mean? Some 50 years ago, the Church published an anthology entitled, "Out of the Best Books". As the preface to Volume 2 states " . . . this volume includes material that will be stimulating to all members of a family who are ready for serious reading".

The anthology includes poems, short stories, essays and selections, as well as reprints, from some of the greatest writers and artists of the western world as well as Asia. No doubt many LDS students who struggle with Milton and Shakespeare take comfort in knowing that at least they are reading out of the best books.

It has never been easier to pick up a book. In addition to printed works, there are e-readers, smart phones, tablets, laptops, and desktops all offering an unprecedented amount of reading material online. There has never been a better time to read, never a better time to read "out of the best books".

• Published in the Bow Valley Ward Newsletter, June 1, 2020

Resolve

Greg wrote this piece for the Bow Valley Ward Newsletter.  I asked him if he would let us see it here.

=====

Like most agrarian societies, the Romans celebrated the annual return of the sun, the time of year we call Winter Solstice.

The Roman's called their celebration Saturnalia. Saturnalia, or more precisely, the early Christians' reaction to it, is the origin of our observance of Christmas.

Saturnalia was followed by another celebration called Calend.

Calend marked the beginning of the Roman civil year, when protocols were renewed. Not only is Calend the origin of the word calendar, it is also the origin of our custom of making New Year's resolutions . . .. January 1, 2020, seems so long ago.

As church members we don't have to wait until the New Year to make resolutions. We have many opportunities throughout the year. General, stake/district and ward/branch conferences, with their inspired messages, offer us opportunities to renew our faith. Monthly Fast and Testimony meeting is also another opportunity. Our weekly Sacrament meeting is yet another.

In truth, we are offered the opportunity to make resolutions every day. Retiring for the night, contemplating what happened during the day, and rising on the morrow to a new day, we have the opportunity to renew, to rededicate, to resolve . . . just for today.

~Greg

First published in the Bow Valley Ward Newsletter

The End of a Reno

I have had a reno going on at my house.

Greg: centre and left    Wyona: centre
Winners against the skyline in the distance

Not the best time for a renovation to happen. 

The case in point, I have been holding off for a couple of years too long.

It’s urgency has gone from nice-to be-done to absolutely necessary, even before the pandemic moved to North America.

Now the upstairs bathroom reno is finished, the new shower is installed, and I am waiting for the first shower to taken.

That will be the contractor’s proof that nothing will leak anymore.

Or maybe the home owners proof.

The new water softener downstairs will need salt, and so on my grocery list was three 40 pound bags of water softening salt – more than I can push or carry. I had to shop. Greg came along as my legs and arms today. We went to Costco. I don’t know why we like to go to the early morning opening on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. The line is no shorter when we come out than when we go in, though the clerks have told Wyona that in those early hours, the old people who get in an hour before the regular Costco hours, move really slowly through the store. That clerk probably already knows that the speed she is seeing is absolutely the fastest we can go.

... the line at Costco snakes along newly constructed
outside-of-the-building isles in the early morning hours ...

The first week we went at the ungodly (for some of us) hour of being in the line at 8 am, we stood for an hour in the line up. The wind up there on the prairie is pretty cold.

 Greg said he could see a headline “200 Seniors Freeze to Death”.

 We who live on the upper plateau of the river valley aren’t used to the sweeping wind that comes in across the tops of the foothills where Costco is situated.

Going to Costco used to be a social journey for Wyona and me.

Now we can’t get close enough together in the line-up to talk and we don’t see each other in the store, only as we spot one another – me at the cheese isle and Wyona near the produce area. In fact, social distancing means we just don’t get together – only when Moiya makes a three-way call to us and we are all on the telephone together. That time is actually quite satisfying.

Photo Credit for all pics: Lurene Bates        LtoR: Lurene, Arta, Wyona, Greg
... the moment when we wait for two pizza's from a deserted take-out ...

I have to give Costco a high five for marketing that includes social distancing.

There are lots of sign inside and outside of the store doors.

Costco has found a way to make the line snake up and down the side of the building, which belies the amount of time it will take to get in – there have to be at least 3 long lines to the snake.

Maybe four.

As well, I go in one side of the cooler that holds the vegetables, around a circle and back out the same door but on the opposite fascia of the door. I would say that over ½ of the customers were wearing home made masks (which I see as a gift to those they might cough even-in-the-vicinity-of other customers).

When I am home and my groceries are put away, I look at the bill: clementines, fresh figs, 2 dozen eggs, a kale salad, a baja salad, doulble smoked gouda cheese. I acknowledge, a feast.

As well, I bought water-softener salt.

Arta

Grievances: Real or Imagined

... Lurene and Tim at his birthday party ...

Sometimes grievances, real or imagined can get in the way of happiness.

But I don’t seem to carry my grievances (real or imagined) that way.

I find myself waking up every morning, just thrilled to have another day ahead of me – even if that day includes going to the dentist, which my life included today.

I feel that little pinch that comes with the freezing and think how lucky I am to have a dentist and good dental care.

... Marcia and Arta wearing necklaces designed by Wyona ...

My life is rich.

I wake up early.

I have a chance to do exercises, which I detest, but I still love doing them, since doing them is better than letting my joints get stiff, or not being able to walk at all.

Now it is the middle of December, or just about.

Wyona and Greg, the last of the 6 guests at Tim's birthday party

I have all of my Christmas decorations out, at least the ones I am getting out.

Not that I want them out. Decorating takes so long: little tiny ornaments on trees, finding batteries for small trains that will play tinny Christmas melodies, using the glue gun to repair ornaments that are broken now.

Everything Christmas decoration that stands (as opposed to hangs) is on my island.

To me it looks like an unholy potpourri of objects collected over 50 years.

But my grandchildren like to touch them, or turn on the batteries to them -- and that is what Christmas is about.

... Tim, good-naturedly posing with his birthday hat on ..

I can still name the places where the ornaments were purchased and about most of them I can remember the prices. That makes me laugh.

I try to group them by colour so that they don’t look like I have just come from a garage sale – all the white and silver ones in the same place. It doesn’t help much.

Zoe looked at my decorations last night.

She brought over her new game of Azul, but before playing it with me, she turned every battery operated decoration on, and then off and she also took apart my Nativity Nesting Dolls, which turn out to be a lot of fun.

Zoe beat me four games straight.
Sometimes she doubled my score.
Ouch to that for me.

Not only is there the puzzle of getting them apart, but then they have to be regrouped so that the wisemen stand together, and so that the animals are with the shepherds.

I noticed that just about everyone touches the nativities moves the characters into a slightly different position.

I like to do that myself – to other people’s nativities.

For Christians, Christmas – the most wonderful time of the year.

Arta

November 11

I have been thinking about November 11th and what it is that I do to participate in the commemorative remembrances of that date.

The obvious one is buy and wear a poppy.

This year I saw three beaded poppy pins in Rebecca’s office, ones that she had purchased at Indigenous craft fairs and there were laying on that small strip of her bookshelves that run along where the books are standing.

She gave me one of those to wear which wearing has deepened my feeling about the day coming up.

I like to tuned into the CBC’s broadcast of the Remembrance Day Ceremony on parliament hill.

I always read the short memoirs of veterans and war brides in the newspaper, usually the Calgary Herald, but this year the The Times Colonist.

As I have been out walking, I have wondered why there is no food celebration around this day. Oh, I could buy something decorated with poppies, or even make a poppy seed chiffon cake but in our family we have never marked larger family gatherings with this day.

The most celebratory moments of this weekend have always been when I am around Greg Bates. If someone asks him to read “In Flanders Fields”, he can do the poem from memory. I wonder why I have never taken the time to memorize it. Well, actually, I have, but then I forget the second and third stanza.

But Greg doesn't.

At any point of the day, in any day of the year, Greg can say this poem by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
  Between the crosses, row on row,
  That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
  Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
  In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
  The torch; be yours to hold it high.
  If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Waiting for 42nd Street

From Marcia:

I am waiting for 42nd Street to start.

I was there for my first time but Wyona, Greg and Zach were there for their 2nd time this week.

The show was so great.

Marcia

One Foot in the Mud

Tonight seems to be so far away from this morning. I don’t feel that the two points are connected in any way. In between there was a long walk, orange-glazed buns at Moiya's, haunting the local thrift shop, finding more flour on sale at Save-On-Foods ($6.99 for 20 lbs), eating a Chapman’s double chocolate ice-ream bar with Zoe, playing Sherriff of Nottingham with David Camps, and finishing the evening at a soirée with Wyona, Glen and Moiya.

Greg has been seen moving this dirt
for many days now.

In the morning, I thought I was going to walk the property with Marcia, calling out “bear, bear” as we chatted our steps away. I had forgotten that this morning Greg was going to show us where there has been a mini-mud slide off of Lot 12. There had been rain at 6:30 am and again a sprinkling of it just before 7 a.m. That didn’t stop Greg, Marcia, Ceilidh and me from walking down the Bates’path that is lined with mini-sweet peas and toward the route that would take us to the place where the Robertson Stream crosses the footpath that leads to the meadow.

Greg stepped into the stream to show us where the culvert was. The water was pure, running clean and clear. The culvert was plugged. Somehow Greg lost his footing. His foot sunk mind calf into silt. He leaned backward to stabilize himself and pulled his foot out, but he was far less dry when he became sure footed again.

Not to have us miss out on the fun ahead, he kept going forward. I could feel the slosh, slosh every time his right foot hit the ground. “These were my best boots.” That is all he said as he lead us through the meadow to look at the culvert there – it will be a major job to take the deadfall and roots out of that culvert. In fact, the water has found a way around it.

Two points in the path that we walked were exquisitely beautiful. One was a tree that had fallen over the path, but the bole was so high that we could walk under it. “No use cutting that one with a chain saw. It is so stunning there,” he said.

The other magnificent spot was at a steep climb. Greg paused to show us a fallen Douglas fir that stretch breathtakingly upward toward the highway. Oohs and ahhs at its length. He told us that the hole it left when it fell was so large that he thought the path was ruined and that we wouldn’t be able to use it again. Glen came up with his chain saw to see if there was anything that could be done. Glen cut off the root and when it fell, the stump fell back into its original place, making it safe now to take that path and filling the biggest hole you ever saw. For years people will be stopping at that spot, pointing to the repair job and explaining about the clever way that the path was fixed.

The sun was reflecting through the trees and sparkling as it refracted through the dew on the ferns. I was breathless with the beauty around me. I was also full of gratitude to Greg and Glen for maintaining the path. I wonder if there will be a statue some day, erect to honour them – one man with a chain saw and the other with a shovel.

Greg said that the caption on this picutres
should read
Don't Buy the Wrong Kind of Dirt

We were on a verdant pathway through virgin forest where every step seemed to produce a different picture. I was mad that I left my camera at home.

Marcia had to get home to work. We took the easier path to return, one along the railroad track, but even the track caused us to stop and wonder. The pile of grain on the ties reminded me of the literature I have been reading – more bears are being hit by trains because the bears come to eat the grain that falls off as the train travels along and drops it. I don’t know how to measure how much was there – cups and cups for we bent down to the mound of grain and ran our fingers through it. Marcia remembered how she had tried to chew grain as a child, for she had been told if she did it would turn to gum. She never could get it to taste like Hubba Bubba.

The next pile of grain had been there a long time, and was just beginning to sprout. There was that starchy smell of wet grain. Greg was telling how some Canadian alcohol is made from fermented grain mash -- remarking that this looked like it was well on its way to that.

Ceilidh letting me take a pic for my phone contacts.
I am going to try texting her more, now that we
are spending so much time together.
I do not know how her parents had the courage to part with her.

We dropped Marcia off at 4,500 steps. I felt as though we had travelled miles and miles by then.

But that didn’t stop Ceilidh and me from travelling down to the beach where the Pillings had planted a willow.

We were not only surprised by its growth, but by the logs that have been beached there and surround it now.

I showed Ceilidh how to return home by using the path by the stream that runs by my house.

She says that the next time she leaves home, she is wearing different footwear.  She left, thinking she was going fishing with Uncle Art and instead ended up on our hike with us.  Not a good place for flip-flops.

And that is the story of my lovely morning.

Arta

Forbidden Broadway

Forbidden Broadway
Photo: The Quardian

From Greg:

Unfortunately, our London visit is drawing to a close.  

We have had unusually nice weather which means I have been wandering around London instead of visiting museums and art galleries.

I have spent my evenings catching up to Wyona in the show department.  

So far, I have seen Miss Saigon, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels and Once, all so I could understand Forbidden Broadway.  Here is a review of that play. 

Wyona has been hard at work designing jewellery.  Every day she heads off to Portobello in search of pearls and gem stones suitable for her creations.

Greg

Snow in May

... my neighbour's deck and birch tree -- May 3rd...

Greg and I drove back together from the Shuswap.

 I told him the only regret I had on leaving is that I hadn’t had time to go to D Dutchman Dairy for a scoop of their ice-cream. He wheeled right around and we stopped by the outlet which was at its best. No big loads of tourists pouring out of buses. Just us, walking up and down the glass cases, trying to figure out which would be the best flavour to order. Greg was modest – a one-scooper. I choose the size which they call enormous – and well worth every bite. And having tasted so many of the varieties in my life, I already have my opinion about what is best, though that opinion may vary when I walk up and down the isle, trying to decide how to pick only two flavours.

... the climbing area in our backyard playground ...

Greg and I were on our way back to Alberta. I like driving with him. He never breaks the speed limit. He always stops for a cookie and some milk – either at Golden or at Revelstoke ... or if I am lucky, at both places. He is a pleasant conversationalist. If I am lucky he will talk about politics. Or maybe even the news.

... Ride-A-Duck is seen behind a snowed in trike ...

Spring in Alberta could look like a day in any of the seasons.

For example, when we woke up the next morning, it could have been winter with that 10 centimeters of snow.

I don’t care if it falls or not. I faithfully plant my sweet pea seeds on April 1st.

I took a course where the instructor said that this is the thing to do ... and what is the use of taking a course, if you don’t listen to the teacher. This year I planted the Dominion Day package – just white and red.

They shall bloom before July 1st, or they will suffer.

Arta

Deep Fissures

... looking up to the main curve in the road ...

April 28, 2014

On the way home from the opera Moiya drove slowly along Pilling’s Road, showing me where the three culverts are on that stretch.

I know the one by the drop off that we call Moose Pees in Stream.

That is the place where Bonnie and David stopped one day to watch a moose forage and drink water.

One of the other culverts couldn’t take all of the water that was driving down the side of the road and so it travelled on down to the culvert that empties into the stream by my place.

white pipe taking overflow from full culvert
... helping the water get across the road  ...

I was thinking that the culvert had been plugged up because I should have gone in and emptied out the silt around it, but Dave Wood said no.

 ... Greg straightening the plastic ...

They could hear the rocks pounds in the culvert as they were carried along by the strength of the water. By the time I got out here, Dave, Graham and Glen has spent a long time unplugging that culvert so that the water could run freely through it again.

...looking down the fissure ...

I think the debris they took out is 3 feet high and six feet long.

Every time I take a shovel full of it now, to carry it away so that the area can be mowed this summer, I think of all of the work those guys did, getting it out of the water.

A bigger worry is the two fissures in the road.

The Pig Roast cinder-blocks
being put to good use to contain the water.

I walked off the one that begins by the culvert at the curve in the road as you round the cover at my house.

Thirty paces.

The one that is further down the road, in front of Moiya’s and Wyona’s is even longer.

Dave's truck parked at bottom of Missionary Reach

The CPR came out on Friday to see what they could do, but they have no equipment that they can divert here and the work that has to be done can only be done when the ground is dry.

No one of us wants that part of the hill to slide – not LaRue and not the CPR. Rob (Bobcat Rob) ditched the road right by the hill and Glen and Dave lined it with plastic.

Dave pounding rebar into south side of hill

Sunday I noticed that the stream had pooled just at the bottom of the Missionary Reach and was spilling over onto the plastic lining and moving about half-way down it.

I went back up to the top to check again and the water seemed to be coming faster. Indeed, on my second look the water was now off the plastic and running down the ditching that had been done.

... now is not the time to miss the nail ...

I walked up to tell Dave and though he wasn’t home, he did arrive an hour later.

By now it was raining. I saw his truck at the bottom of the hill and him running back up to the truck.

... plastic lines the culvert ...
rocks hold the plastic down

The rain was mixed with pellets of snow.

Dave thought he should get another couple of plastic rolls to lay in the ditches that were now filling so he made a quick trip into Parkland Building Supplies where he also got come rebar to hold the plastic into the south side of the hill.

So, we are all asking the question, why is this happening?

Is it because of the clear cut above us and the water no longer being held on the hill as it was in times past.

 ...Arta picking up rocks, only the size she can heave ...

A second theory is that the hill has been compromised down by the track with too much water.

That is why there is a fissure above, on the road,.

Perhaps the land above is now unable to be supported because it is so wet at the bottom of the hill.

 ... a pause for a candid ...
Dave now out of his Sunday Suit and into work clothes
Greg in his burning the trash outfit.
Arta wearing C.I.A.U Women's Basketball Championship "88 t-shirt

At any rate, the plastic in the ditch is to stop the water from soaking into the hill, thus making the fissure grow bigger.

We are scientific.

I was trying to measure how deep the fissure is with the empty tube from the plastic.

I thought four feet, perpendicularly.

Dave measures it horizontally, putting his boot in at the same place every time.

He thought it had opened up another couple of inches.

Arta