Crucifixion

As followers of Christ, we are not specifically asked to remember Christmas, but we have turned it onto the biggest production on the calendar. It has been secularized, watered down, and commercialized to the point where it is palatable to the politically correct world. Take Jesus out, turn it into 'goodwill' and 'peace on earth' and Santa Claus and there is something for everyone.
This process is not that easy with Easter. This is the most important 3 days for Christians because through the death and Resurrection of Christ, our sins were forgiven, our future was secured, and we have promise of Resurrection for ourselves. This is not politically correct because these benefits, although free gifts for the asking, are exclusively for true believers. This weekend is not as well observed and celebrated by the masses because it has not been that easy to take Jesus out of Easter. And maybe God knew that when He instructed us through his word, to remember. We cannot blame non-Christians for not observing Easter, it means nothing to them, unless they celebrate new life in the form of bunny rabbits and freshly hatched chicks.
In the next few days, let us remember, and then examine our faith. Do we really believe, and if we do, how is that impacting our lives. Easter is ALL about Jesus and no amount of Easter Lilies or chocolate can ever change that!

* The photo is not mine. It belongs to "dtcchc" a church media designer who posted this photo on Flikr.

Our Very Own Daffodils March 18 '08

Ready
Set
BLOOM!

Closed

We step out into the cool spring breezes and are fooled yet again. It should be warmer, but we pull the zipper of our coat up to the top, we tug our hat downward for protection, and we thrust our glove less hands into our pockets to preserve what little warmth is left in them. We long to put our faces to the sun, throw off the jacket, and soak up the warmth of the spring sunshine. So it is with these poor cold Tulips who were beckoned to new life by a few early rays, but have been fooled. It is simply too cold to open their faces and expose their inner workings. Perhaps another day.

Old and New

I was accused of 'pasting' these Tulips into the foreground of the picture. I assure you, this is one photo. I did manipulate the colour, obviously. To me, this picture represents the juxtaposition of old and new. How many new, fresh crops of spring Tulips has this old barn seen? Tulips peak very quickly and their glorious beauty can be missed by a day or two. The old barn, on the other hand, keeps on aging gracefully and its peak will last for many years to come.

Past Prime

Perhaps it was at the turn of the century, but there was a time when this barn was new. The site was carefully selected, the lumber sawn or purchased, and each board placed and fastened with care. Through the years and the seasons, it served it's purpose well until one day it was decided the effort and cost of maintaining it was not worth the effort. It has been left to the ravaging elements of wind, rain, and sun. It will collapse soon, or be torn down. My fascination with old barns lies in the stories that are untold and the character lines that show so well from a lifetime of giving shelter.

The parallels to a person's life are striking and obvious.

A Cold Day in spring

First the Snow Drops, then the Crocuses, and now the Daffodils, in spite of the very cool weather, are daring to peak out from the protective cocoon of their buds. The growth hormones of these early spring flowers are triggered by the few warm rays of spring sunshine, and actually thrive in the cool weather of March. An extended cool spring will give these flowers life well into April. Their stems, leaves, and petals are sturdy, unlike some of the very delicate summer blossoms. I believe I would still number these among my favourites even if they were not the first flowers of summer promise, but were to somehow show up in autumn.

Near Death

Today's post is another in my series on lessons of life I have learned in the everyday world of my work. I do not consider it morbid. At my age, I have seen and experienced enough to know that that cliche "Death is part of life" rings very true. All death related experiences we have help us to deal with our own inevitable demise. This trilogy may even help you, as it has helped me.



It is only natural that in the course of decades of dealing with people, that I would sooner or later have a brush with death, not my own, but someone for whom I was working. The mainstay of my business has been working for retired folks. These are people who have done decorating, for the most part, themselves, and as they age, they find the work too difficult, or they find themselves in a financial position where they can afford to hire out the jobs they used to do themselves. The statistics on death and dying indicate that women live longer than do men, and this has certainly been my experience over the years, judging by the number of widows I have had the pleasure of working for. I have always found them congenial, sometimes very lonely, and always appreciative of the fact that there was once again a man in the house, if only for a few days. There have been many times when I have been called upon to do those mundane tasks that the departed husband used to do, but have been neglected, due to his passing. Changing a light bulb in a difficult location, tightening knobs and handles, gluing loose drawers, lubricating squeaks and keyholes, moving furniture and or picture hooks and adjusting doors are just a few of the many tasks I have performed in this capacity.

I used to come across the odd widow that could not even write a cheque and had to pay in cash, as her husband had always done all the financial tasks and she was too old to learn the basics of household bookkeeping. Many times I have written out my own cheque and the widow had simply signed it. I always had a fear that these poor souls would one day be taken advantage of by some unscrupulous character.

It sometimes surprised me how soon after the husbands death I was called in to do some work. It was usually a case of the wife wanting a paint job, but the husband was holding back for one reason or another. In his absence, there was now no holding back. In other cases, there was now insurance money for the things the wife could never afford before. Indeed, one lady explained to me through teary eyes that it was her husbands wish that the home be decorated the way she wanted, after he died.

I first met the Friesens just after they had retired and moved from Manitoba to the west coast. It had been their dream and had been made possible by the fact that they had purchased a number of rental homes in Winnipeg and the extra income that this business venture provided, enabled them to make the move and also purchase a beautiful luxury townhouse in the nicest part of town. I worked for them for several weeks and got to know them quite well.
It was about 10 years later that I got a call from Mrs. Friesen informing me that they were down sizing due to their age and the fact they were having difficulty negotiating the stairs in their townhouse. Mr. Friesen had suffered a heart attack and because he had little strength, would need to be in and out of his bed throughout the day and stairs were not an option.
They still required something very nice so opted to move into the top floor suite of a new condominium, a corner unit facing south-west, the most desirable unit in the structure. The construction had been delayed, but because they had sold their previous home, they had to vacate so they were able to obtain a short term lease on a condo within eyesight of their new one. This was very handy as they came daily to the construction site to see to it that their unit was customized to their specifications. The building contractor's painters were relieved of their duties for this particular suite and I moved in to do a custom paint and wallpaper job. I saw her everyday, and him about every other day, only because the elevator in the new building was already operational.

I was doing the finishing touches one sunny afternoon, when I heard the sirens wailing. This was not an unusual occurrence, so I paid little attention, until I heard the sirens stop their blaring in the street just below where I was working. I put down my tools and went to the window, where I had a bird's eye view of all the proceedings. The attendants were in the older condo for some time. I was only mildly interested because I knew several people who lived there besides the Friesen's, and I was curious. There were people congregating in the foyer of the building and then I saw Mrs. Friesen. My blood ran a little cold as I saw her slowly walking beside the gurney that was being carefully wheeled out to the waiting ambulance. I recognized the snowy head of her husband. He had been carefully wrapped in a white sheet and was lying very still.

My first concern, strangely enough, was whether or not I should continue working. If the husband was indeed dead, or was no longer able to come home, would this suite still be their home? If someone else bought it, would they want these colours and wallpapers? I reasoned that the home did belong to them and they would not want to leave it in an unfinished state, so I continued working. It was eerie, because I was hanging the wallpaper in his room, the wallpaper he had chosen, and was looking forward to enjoying when they would move in, in a matter of days.

Several hours went by, and I heard someone quietly enter the suite. I was deep in thought and was surprised by Mrs. Friesen. She asked me if I knew who it was that was taken by the ambulance. I said I did and I inquired about her husband. She told me he was dead on arrival and the staff at the hospital had been unable to revive him.
It was awkward for me but she was gracious and assured me that this had been expected and she was prepared for it, as well as someone could be. She asked me to finish his room, and as it was the last thing to do in order to complete the job, she had a cheque ready for me and just like that, it was over.

There was a sadness that came over me as I took a last look around. The suite was beautiful, not only as a result of all the hard work, but because it was the culmination of a dream and plan, made by two people in the last years of their lives, a dream only she would be able to enjoy. She lived there for a number of years, by herself, and then I lost track of her. I still drive by that location now and then and always look up to that corner suite and the memories come back.
Another similar story unfolded in the Clearbrook Village, a very large retirement condominium complex built on the location of the High School I attended for the last three years of my formal education. The Hieberts were in their eighties but still quite perky and knowing what they wanted. Mrs. Hiebert had her heart set on a wallpaper for her kitchen that was a riot of bright red strawberries on a pure white background. She had apparently wanted something like this for many years and her husband had finally relented, and I was called to do the job. They were sweet on each other and he did a rare and wonderful thing for her the day I was to hang the paper. Because the kitchen would be slightly out of commission, he offered to take her out for the evening meal. Apparently this was an extremely rare occasion and she was giddy with excitement and anticipation. They left shortly after I did and I was eager to hear of her experience the next day.

The following morning as I arrived and buzzed the intercom, I sensed something was wrong when he answered the call and there was something different in his voice. As I entered their suite, he told me what had happened. As they were walking out of the main front door lobby, his wife stumbled on the door mat just inside the door, fell to the hard tiled floor and broke her hip. She was transferred to hospital where she underwent surgery and he was going to go immediately to visit her and come back with a report on her condition. I was grateful that it was not more serious as it would be shame for her to lose the joy of seeing her newly decorated kitchen. She had been truly excited about the prospect of being surrounded by strawberries.
When Mr. Heibert finally returned, he was dejected and related the sad news to me. His dear wife had trouble coming out of the anaesthetic and lost some brain function. The doctors were not sure what the long term issues would be.

Several weeks went by and the back-ordered wallpaper for the bedroom arrived. I made arrangement to come and complete the job and it happened to fall on the day that she was coming home from the hospital for the first time, but just for a short visit. Mr. Heibert was sure that coming home would be just the thing that she would need to jog her memory and get her back on the path to recovery. He knew that she had loved the strawberry wallpaper so much that the excitement of seeing it would perk her up and she would be fine. I remember the scene so well as the care givers wheeled her into the suite. I hardly recognized her. She was thin, frail, and there was a vacant look in her eyes. I had done extensive work at a home for the infirm and I saw that look many times, especially on the Alzheimer’s ward. I could hardly bear to see what happened next. Mr. Heibert lovingly wheeled her into the kitchen for the long anticipated ‘unveiling’. Her reaction brought tears to my eyes and a defeated slump to Mr. Heibert’s shoulders. She looked without seeing, and without any emotion in her voice simply said, “That’s nice”. His faint hope of her recovery was gone, and in its place came a sadness that was unmistakably written in his face.

She did not stay long, I was finished by the end of the day, and I only met him one other time about a year later. I asked him how he was doing. He told me that his wife had passed away and he was going into an old folks home soon. He was not the same man I had met a year ago. It was not long after that my sister, who was the director of nursing at the home he went to, told me that he too had passed away. All I could think about was that there might be a possibility the two of them could meet in a lovely field of strawberries in Heaven.
There is another story I would like to include in this chapter because it happened very nearby to the Friesen's original townhouse. That, however, is the only similarity. It involves a widow and how she resolved a very sticky problem.

In my travels around my community, I make observations of the various neighbourhoods and Strata Title Developments and usually make queries. I do this because I am sometimes asked questions regarding things like strata corporations, and which condo or townhouse development is well run and where are there problems and where is there good management and harmony. These are very important things to know before moving into a community such as this. It also makes for interesting conversation to pass the time as I am working.
This particular townhouse complex was very attractive, had an excellent location, and all units had a great view of a lake in the center of town and was in easy walking distance to the trails that surrounded that lake. But looks can be deceiving, as I found out when I asked a few pertinent questions of Mrs. Warkentine.

Apparently, there were quite a number of residents who were seriously considering selling and moving. That was difficult to understand, considering the location and beauty of the property. It seems that when neighbours are at odds with each other and there is no prospect of resolution of those difficulties, people lose hope and just want to leave. The problem was the president of the residents Strata committee. This development had no outside management, but took care of all their own affairs right on sight with an elected board. The president seemed all right, at first, but power went to his head and he was making life torture for the 30 owners in the complex.

I do not even know what the issues were and that was not the point of contention anyway. The personality clashes were the biggest problems. There was confrontation, anger, vengeance, gossip, and myriad of other sins going on in that place, all traceable to one man. The president.
As Mrs. Warkentine relates it, things came to a head one night at a council meeting that went long into the night and got very nasty. She had tried many times to reconcile, compromise, and forgive, all in the interests of keeping peace and holding on until they could vote this guy out when his term expired. She was at her wits end. After the meeting that night, with tears streaming down her face, she kneeled down at her bedside and prayed. As she tells it, “Lord, you know how we have all tried to get along with this man. You know who is right and who is wrong. You know that we are going to lose all our good people if something is not done soon. I can no longer do anything about this in my own strength, so I am giving it over to You, God. Please give a solution and give a solution soon. Please. Amen"

Apparently, she fell into a deep sleep, confident that the solution was at hand, as she is woman of strong faith. In the middle of the night, she was startled by the sounds of ambulance sirens, not in the distance as usual, but coming up the driveway which went right past her bedroom window. She arose, got partially dressed and raced to the front door to see where the vehicle would stop. It seemed to stop at the entrance to the presidents unit, but she was not able to confirm that until she actually walked to the location. There were several other neighbours gathered already and soon the stretcher was wheeled out. The body was completely covered, obviously dead. When she saw the president's wife, she knew immediately that it was the president who was indeed deceased. She was stunned as she made her way back to her home.

As she told me the story, her eyes welled with tears, and in a weak whisper, she said, "I didn't ask the Lord to kill him. I feel so guilty."

As this had only happened the previous week, her nerves were still raw and she had not fully processed what had happened. I tried to assure her that yes, her prayer was answered, but in a most unexpected way. She should not feel guilty, because if indeed it was an answer to her prayer, God made the decision to take his life, not her. She was not easily consoled.
Several years later, I returned to do some more work for her. I tentatively asked how life in the complex was. She answered with a cheery smile, "Just wonderful." She offered no details but her meaning was apparent.

I have learned from these incidents that our lives are not in our hands. Having plans and dreams are good, but does not guarantee that we will see them come to fruition. And we should be prepared for death at any time. That means that if we are to leave a positive legacy, we had better be working on it constantly or we could be snatched away in the midst of something negative, and who wants to be remembered for leaving this world when nobody liked them.

Daffodils

I see today that our first Daffodil blooms are evident. It is so cold and miserable out there that I thought I would search my archives for a spring Daffodil shot and post it instead of braving the elements and getting down in the mud and dirt for a photo of a single bloom. Last year, our spring fresh Daffy's got a dump of snow on them! It was later in the year too because the Cherry Blossoms were out at the same time. Will there be a repeat of this global warming event this year?

East Meets West

Don't ask too many questions about this photo. There is no hidden meaning or any significance whatsoever, other than I shot the scene, dabbled with it in photo shop, and thought it was a colourful abstract rendition of a row of statues with balloons hanging in the foreground. For those who seek meaning in everything, how's this? My nephew and his wife and child were in Thailand for a few weeks. This might be how I am identifying with them. Sorry, that's all you get.

Apple Shop

I know. It is spring and here I am posting an autumn picture, complete with apple harvest. I was not the only one who was out of synch with the seasons, because this was taken in Feb. at the Seattle Garden and Flower show. It was my favourite display, and it was all I could do to keep from jumping into the display and crunching into one of those beautiful apples. Is this where the expression "forbidden fruit" comes from? Before anybody corrects me, I know the source of this expression is Genesis Ch. 3

Clean Sweep

I was quite taken by these cleverly made straw brooms, not all of which had single handles. The work is cut in half by using a forked handle and constructing a broom on each stem, thus twice as much sweeping power. The broom has fallen out of favour over the years. Curlers no longer use them, and built in vacuum cleaners have all but eliminated the need for them. Even outdoors, the leaf blower has negated the need for a good old straw broom. This very organic, carbon emissions free, and nostalgic tool can, however, still be used for sweeping things under the carpet.

River Wild

I thought it time for something entirely different. I was hiking in the Adam's River canyon last summer when I heard a lot of whoopin' and hollerin' coming from around the bend. I no longer had time to un-case my camera and aim it, when this bunch of crazies came scooting down the rapids. As you can see, every one of them was having the time of their life. I caught up with them later and got a few email addresses. After sending about a dozen photos, you would think I would get at least one acknowledgement. Had I been on this photo, I would have wanted to frame it.

Mellow Yellow

This lovely Garden scene is courtesy of the Seattle Garden show. I had a hankering to ease myself into that yellow chair and have myself a little snack after having had to trudge through the gardens all day. What is it with wine and cheese? Rotten and soured milk curds, together with rotten and fermented grapes? Too much of one will give you gastro intestinal distress, and too much of the other will make you dizzy, light-headed and slow witted. But in moderate amounts they will make you feel sophisticated and avant-garde.

Fade to Red

After multiple attempts, I have finally succeeded in posting today's pictures. The red represents my frustration level. I had so much fun creating these two versions of the red Tulip bucket, and after finishing them, I was faced with the possibility of not being able to share them. Have you ever felt that you had something to share, but could not? A secret you promised not to reveal, an expression of love for somebody, a joy which might be an embarrassment to tell to others? The degree to which we open up to others reveals much about our character. Too much and it becomes annoying, too little and we are accused of being reticent, and just enough becomes endearing. I have been on the annoying end of the scale most of my life, I'm afraid.

Orchid Clones

This will be the last of my orchid orgy for a while. I have more, but I think you get the idea by now. Like many good things we find in life, we discover and then we indulge. How much better to ration out the pleasure, make it last, savour it, keep some for later, in anticipation. Maybe that is why the flowers only bloom in the summer.

Clarification

For those of you who are puzzled, confused, dazed, unimaginative, or all of the above, a little clarification may be needed. Yes, a baby is on its way, but the bundle will not really belong to me, as in, well, neither I nor my wife is pregnant. Not that anybody really would have believed that anyway. Her name would have to be Sarah in order for that to happen, and mine, Abraham. But, we are not too young or too old to be grandparents again. That leaves only one possibility, and that is a sibling for our two grandsons. This is very exciting and changes things in a big way for all of us, but in particular for the new mom. There is much fodder for future blogs in this new development, but for now, a great big congratulations to Rachel and Keith, and lots more for us to pray about.

Announcing!

There is something very special happening! In keeping with my love of floral photography, I am posting this picture today, and even though it is not one of my photographs, (I wish it was) it depicts the excitement running through our family this week. Look carefully, because a picture is worth a thousand words. (Click on it to make it larger if you have to)

Fragrance

Not sure if I really like this photo, but the original cried out for something other than what it was. In case it does not inspire you, as it does not inspire me, here is a line I read today that I thought was beautiful.

"FORGIVENESS IS THE FRAGRANCE THE VIOLET SHEDS UPON THE HEEL THAT CRUSHES IT."

Orchids on Black

In case you were wondering why I have isolated the blossom on a black background, the reason is twofold. The well defined edges of an orchid can be lost in a cluttered background. Black always makes the elements of a photo 'jump out' and the eye can concentrate on the beauty and intricacies of this amazing flower without distraction. The other reason is that a photographer must always consider the background when shooting. The backdrop to the display of Orchids at the Seattle Flower show is rows and rows of potted plants with many gardeners milling about with shopping bags and carts and husbands in tow. Not always a pretty sight and certainly very distracting.

Orchids

Funny thing about Orchids is that the plant itself is usually very spartan and ugly, with a few thick leaves at the base and one long spindly stem holding up a single blossom. But goodness, what a blossom! God's creation is characterized by variety and this is so evident in flowers, but of all the flowers, the Orchid is the one that demands close inspection. The intricacies of its construction, the various shapes and sizes, and the building materials, all make this a most unusual sight. Many Orchids, like this one, look like they are made of plastic as they glisten in the light and have a 'wet' look. And yet, they have a delicate quality about them that says, "Look but do not touch."

Putting Your Best Foot Forward

There is something sad about having to throw away an old pair of running shoes. I do not 'run' in my shoes, but I do put a lot of miles on them and in so doing, I get rather attached to them. There is nothing that feels or fits better than well worn shoes, especially the ones that never required that 'breaking in' period. I could list a dozen cliches that would fit (no pun intended) the picture above, but let it be said that when I wore the new ones for the first time yesterday, I almost threw them out instead of the old ones.

Surrounded by Gnomes

The 'Healing Hand Cream' lady was trying to get my attention, but so were the gnomes. There seemed to be thousands of them, but I'm sure there were only 900 or so. They all reminded me of the Travelocity gnome, beckoning me to a warm vacation, filled with sun, surf and Vitamin D. I was not sure if it was a good idea, but I turned my back to the gnomes. My 'itch' ruled the moment and I turned fully to the promise of healing cream for my woes. So convincing was she, that I yanked out the credit card and told her to 'lay it on me'. Actually, she applied the magic potion to my gardener wife's rough hands, but all the while, again standing on one leg, I was only thinking of slathering it on my 'itch'.

Sage Advice

There are more than gardens at the garden show. There are hundreds of kiosks that sell everything from hand lotions for gnarled and weathered gardener's hands, to, well, garden gnomes. I thought a gnome was a gnome. Wrong. There are a multitude of shapes and sizes but they all look like they are from the same gene pool. I am studying them while trying not to look too interested in the hand-cream lady (for the sake of my 'winter itch' of course) when I hear a "Psssst!" I bent down and here was this gnome (pictured) trying to get my attention. I knelt down to hear what he was trying to tell me.

"You should have gone to Hawaii you dummy!"

A Seattle Beach

Now here we were in the middle of Seattle, in the middle of February, in the middle of the afternoon and it put me in the middle of a dilema. Was this the beach holiday we should have taken? Sand , surf, beach umbrellas, tropical sun, and flip flops? My 'winter itch' was causing me to stand on one leg while scratching that leg with the other leg ('cmon, use your imagination) and almost losing my balance. You see, the 'itch' always goes away when we go to hot sunny climates in the winter. It is the Vitamin D, the real thing, not the tablets, or gallons of fortified milk that solves the problem. Yuma just didn't do it. Not enough sun and not enough heat. So the dilema is : do I admit I made a mistake. ALL guys make mistakes. It's just us married guys that find out sooner.

Lunch Is Served

These gardeners are funny people. Having lunch outdoors and eating a salad out of your own garden is totally understandable. But check out the utensils! And I wouldn't be surprised if there was dirt under that salad!

Carbon Neutral Camping

The assignment given me by my gardner wife was to capture the flowers on digital memory. But I am a guy and look what I found among the flowers at the Seattle Flower and Garden Show! This mini trailer sleeps two comfortably (?) and the hatchback opens to a kitchen complete with sink and cupboards. Sadly, there is no media room with big screen TV.

Flowers on the brain

If you click on the picture to make it larger, and look closely, you will see that the vases are two glass heads with faces. They have flowers on the brain as did we on Friday when Lis and I went to the Seattle Flower and Garden show. As I am not the gardener in the family, merely the chauffeur, I was thrust into an alien environment populated by nothing but other gardeners and millions of plants. The outdoors is brought indoors in a very big way and I was impressed with the twittering bird calls, the waterfalls, the man-made rock formations and the infinite variety of Orchids. Somebodies batteries on her camera were not checked before we left home so my role as chauffeur was expanded to photographer as well. Actually it was the primary reason for me coming at all, so I enjoyed my duties.

An Evening of History

Last night we attended the 'launch' of a book and film about the gulag letters, something to which I referred, in several posts, a while back. Dr. Ruth Derksen Siemens has finally completed her project and it is indeed a labour of love and an insight into a very difficult period of time for the Mennonite people.

During many years of informal polls, Dr. Ruth discovered that there was widespread knowledge of Hitler, the holocaust, and the six million Jews who were killed during the Nazi regime. However, almost nobody knew who Joseph Stalin was, nor had they knowledge of the millions who perished in the gulags spread throughout the northern former Soviet Union nor that it was going on until as recently as 1970!

The evening was inspiring as the packed house paid close attention to all that was said. After the video was done, Joel Stobbe played (cello) two of the favourite hymns from that era and a faint accompaniment was detected as those in attendance reminisced almost silently with their muted humming. By the last stanza of the final hymn, the sound had grown to a beautiful four part harmony as only Mennonites can do. It was an emotional moment and unforgettable. The stories must be kept alive and with endeavors such as "Through the Red Gate" and the book "Remember Us" the coming generations will have no excuse.

Click on the link on the side bar to access the website where books and DVD's can be purchased and you can get more information about the project.

Creating Art

An artist, with a blank canvas before him, must have a starting point and I would think that it would be his imagination, that creative spot in the human mind, that conjures up images and pictures, that then get translated into art via brush and paint. Because I have very little imagination, I have to start somewhere else. Do not misunderstand me. I am not saying I am an artist. However, there are images that my eye picks up and in my own mind they are art or they are not. (Beauty is in the eye of the beholder etc)

We were at an art show of sorts yesterday, and with all the variety of artful endeavours displayed, I realised that what is art to some, is not to others. So, for me to create something that I consider art, is an amazing accomplishment for me because of my limited ability to see it in my minds eye first. And that is what is so great about Photoshop. I start with one of my photos and 'play' with it, using different techniques as a true artist would use different tools and mediums and when it 'looks right' I simply save it. There is much experimentation and mostly it turns out bad, but when it comes together, it satisfies.

Love Technology!

As some of you know, we have very dear friends from England who we met in Puerto Vallarta a few years ago. Michael and Jan's tropical vacation was delayed this last year due to some a very serious health issues and subsequent treatment. They finally got to go to the Maldives this week. Michael sent me the link to the live webcam at Kuredu http://www.kuredu.com/community/kuredu-island-livecam.aspx and told me that he would be standing with Jan, in front of the webcam, at 8am on Feb. 2oth, his birthday. Local time was 10pm. I waited by my computer this morning and you can imagine how thrilled I was to see it actually happening before my eyes. I called Lis over and we watched the picture 'refresh' a number of times. I 'captured' this shot and noticed that Michael was holding a cell phone to his ear. "How wonderful! He is phoning his kids!" says I. A second later, our phone rings. What an incredible thrill to hear Michael and Jan's voices as we watched them 'refresh' every minute on the computer screen. They received a chocolate cake from the waiter at dinner that night and were on their way to their home on stilts over the water to eat chocolate cake and watch the stars. How we wish we could have been there to share the moment with them! (Michael is wearing the traditional native garb, not a skirt. No, he is not a cross dresser) Michael and Jan, you really made our day!

Stolen Art

With all this business of stolen art masterpieces in Europe this week, I have a confession of my own to make. I found some pictures on my computer that were not taken by me, but by my better half. I felt justified in putting my 'terryography' logo on it because I spent considerable time with this image in Photoshop. It does not at all resemble the original. I have no idea of the significance of the statue, who it is, or what it represents, but I like the 'feel' of it. It was at the Van Dussen Garden show in Vancouver last year. I should consider attending this event so I do not have to steal photos any more.

A Tribute to Funk's Supermarket

The year was 1964. I was a punk teenager and had just moved to Clearbrook the day before. I went to check out 'downtown' and ended up in Funk's Supermarket. Being a wealthy guy from the prairies, I made a purchase. It was a 5 cent bag of salted and roasted Sunflower Seeds. They were all the rage back then. The cashier informed me of a contest that was closing that afternoon. All I had to do was fill out a slip of paper with my name and phone number and I would enter a draw for 'valuable' prizes. I felt a little guilty, having only spent a nickel, but what the hey. Nobody knew me. I was the new kid in town.

Only hours later I got a call telling me I was the lucky winner and could pick up my prize any time before Saturday. It was a valuable prize because in spite of having used it off and on for 43 years, this travel alarm clock still works like a charm.

This month, Funks Supermarket is shutting down. It is the end of an era, for sure, and the landmark of Clearbrook, a reference point for giving direction to just about anywhere, will soon come down.

I can here it now. "You want to know how to get there? Well, do you know where Funks used to be?"

By the way. Thanks for the clock.

A Pain in the Neck

It was with a bit of apprehension that I pulled up to the address and gingerly exited my car. It was only a few hours ago that I had called to make the appointment and was surprised that I could get on so soon. I really had no idea what to expect, but was willing to try anything to get some relief.
A few days earlier I had been in conversation with one of my customers regarding aches, pains and chiropractors. I had been to my doctor several years ago about the pain in my neck, which was progressively getting worse. Anti-inflammatories and pain killers were what he ordered, never once concerning himself about the origins or root causes of the pain. My customer sympathised and then told me her story, also about a sore neck. She now had relief and suggested I see Mrs. Banman who could fix just about anything.
After having tried so many different therapies and spending literally thousands on chiropractors, I was willing to try anything, especially if it had worked on someone else with a similar problem. I had not even asked what it was, exactly, that Mrs. Banman did, that brought about such wonderful results. I was trusting, and desperate.
I was a bit surprised at who came to the door. She looked familiar, but probably only because she had that typical old Russian peasant look, which is so predominant in our community. With a heavy accent, she acknowledged me and ushered me into her front entry. I was confronted by a strong odour of frying fish and horse liniment. It was going to be a hot day and she had all the drapes pulled tight and windows closed to keep the heat out. It also kept the odours in.
I followed her very large frame down the hall, trying to avert my eyes lest she suddenly turn and see me staring at her huge maternal stores. She led me to her ‘treatment room’. Four treatments later, I would change the name of that room, but for now, it was a converted den with a very narrow massage table against one wall, a squat bookshelf, and an oversize leather recliner with a wooden chair facing it. On a small table beside the recliner was the source of the strongest of the two odours in Mrs. Banman’s home. There was an assortment of bottles, tubes, and jars, all containing various strengths of balms, oils, lubricants, and liniments.
I was still in the process of assessing my surroundings when she mumbled something about my pants. Having not caught the comment at all, I asked her to say it again.
“Take off you pants,” she said a little louder.
Naturally taken aback, I repeated the statement back to her and she said, “That’s vat I told you”.
“There must be some mistake,” I countered. Thinking she had me mixed up with another one of her patients, I said, “My name is Terry. I called you this morning about my neck.”
“Ja, take off you pants.”
“I’m sorry, but my neck needs work and I do not see what my pants being off have to do with that! If it is all the same to you, I would prefer to keep them on.”
Very assertively she replied, “Do you vant to get better? Then take off you pants. I have to massage your legs.”
By this time, I am laughing inside and telling myself that I really don’t have to be here. “What on earth has that go to do with my neck?”
And just as she was about to explain, I got it. I had not yet seen the chart on the wall in my peripheral view, but it came clear. It was a reflexology chart, and a large one.

“I vill verk on your neck, but from the bottom to the top.”
“ Aha. I get it. You will massage my feet and in that way you will loosen up my neck. Ok, next time I come, I will wear shorts.”
She sat me down on the big brown recliner and extended the foot rest. She slipped off the sandals I was wearing and I was glad I had taken a shower not that long ago. She grabbed the largest of the jars beside me and dolloped out a large quantity of grease. Immediately the strong odour stung my nostrils and instantly cleared my sinuses. She slathered the grease on my feet and up my ankles and then began massaging. I knew right away that she had done this before, and many times. Her hands were well practiced, powerful, and knew the exact spots, both the ones that tickled and the ones that gave sharp pain. She was just warming up. I knew the appointment was for one hour, so I settled in and told myself I was going to have to get used to it. I didn’t.
“Now I vill verk on your neck.”
Finally, I thought, we are getting to the nub of the issue. I was about to prop myself up so I could move to the massage table, but she made no indication that I was about to go anywhere. With a plump, greasy finger, she pointed to the chart beside her and showed me ‘the neck’. It was, according to reflexology, the outer, lower edge of the big toe. She grabbed it between her thumb and fore finger and squeezed mightily as the toe bone slid between her fingers. There had to be a big nerve right there because I just about jumped out of the recliner.
“See?” she said, “ That shows that your neck is not good.”
“ No, that shows that my toe is not good. My neck is up here,” I protested as I pointed to that part of my body between the shoulder and the head. Quickly glancing up at the chart I said, “If I break your middle toe and it hurts like crazy, does that mean you have bad kidneys?”
At that she laughed, and the excesses of her body rippled and swayed at the effort. At least she had a bit of a sense of humour, but I was getting worried, because to this point, she had yet to look at or touch my real neck, where the real pain was. As if she was reading my mind, she inquired about my neck and asked if I was feeling any relief. I was not and I did not hesitate to tell her.
With that pronouncement, she perhaps decided that she should placate me and at once told me to take my shirt off and to get onto the massage table, face down. I am sure it was a table designed for small children, because all manner of parts of me were hanging off the ends and sides. She struggled to squeeze herself between the recliner and the massage table and in the process was pressing her ample warm flesh against my arm, which was already crowded for room. I faced the wall, reluctant to find out exactly which soft parts of her were becoming familiar with the back of my hand. She did not seem to mind one bit and after a few squirts from the liniment tube, leaned over me even further and began rubbing the horse medication into my shoulders and neck. Ah. Finally my neck was getting some much needed attention.
But, far from soothing and relaxing the stiff, painful muscles, the discomfort was growing. I wondered at that point if she had ever heard of the real massage tables, the ones with a hole for your face? The big problem for me at that point was the fact that I was on my stomach and my head was twisted to the side, something that I had not dared to do for many years already due to the nasty after effects.
With her hands finally feeling my neck and realising the extent of the stiffness, she declared to me that she had treated necks much worse that mine and that she would be able to fix me in three more treatments. She was so self assured, and she was so good at telling people what they wanted to hear, that I believed her. So, when the agony was finally over, I consented to coming back in three more days.
Fortunately, I had an old blanket in my vehicle and was able to throw it over the driver's seat to keep from contaminating everything with grease on my short drive home. I slithered out of my clothes when I got home and with plenty of soap and hot water, was finally able to degrease my body. My feet were feeling tingly and good. My neck was stiff and sore. More that it had been in quite some time. At that point in time, I was desperately wishing that my toe and neck were interchangeable, like the chart said they were.
The next three treatments were similar with a few exceptions. She tried to defend her science by getting me to feel both my big toes for the sake of comparison. The left toe, according to the wall chart, represented the right side of the neck. The right toe, the left side of the neck. The almost imaginary lump on the left side of the left toe, was the wonky neck, and it was here that she concentrated her efforts. I maintain to this day that the lump was a result of trauma inflicted in the first treatment. The pressure and continual rubbing on that spot almost forced me to walk out several times. I will admit that it got my mind off my painful neck. In that sense, it did work, at least temporarily.
She would talk as she massaged. I heard about every alternative practitioner in our community. She knew them all, what they did and how good their results were or were not. I was warned about many other old Russian women. "Stay avay from them. They vill hurt you."
During the third treatment, she was perhaps suspecting that I was not going to get any better so she brought up the subject of eel treatments. She told me how first the Chinese, and later the Russians used live eels to suck the toxins out of a patients body and all sorts of good things happened as a result.
" Let me understand this," I said. " The eels suck the bad poisons right through the skin? Where do they go, these poisons? Is there a lot of blood that comes with the poisons? Do the wounds heal OK? And what about the eels? Do they then die because they are full of poison?"
The laugh came from the deep and almost caused a tsunami. I thought my queries would put the idea to rest but she surprised me when she asked me if I wanted to try it.
"You have eels? Here?" I was thinking of the smell of fried fish that hung around like a tiresome neighbour.
She bent forward, as far as her lap would allow, and reached down to the bottom of the book shelf. Red faced from the exertion of hoisting her upper body to a sitting position, she proudly thrust forth the box.
"Look. I ordered these from Russia and they arrived last week. I vant to try them."
"Surely not eels," I thought to myself, but deadly curious. She carefully opened the box and there in four rows of six, were perfectly identical, thick, rounded, glass cups, maybe two inches deep and two inches in diameter. These 'eels' looked innocent enough. I asked her how they worked and she explained that each cup was heated with a candle as it was held up side down. Then, quickly, the cup was placed on one's slightly moistened back, (with liniment, no doubt) and as the cup and trapped air cooled, it created suction, much like an eel would. My mind conjured up burn rings and massive hickies so I was hoping my question would deflect her enthusiasm.
"Where do the toxins go?"
"They are sucked out of your body."
"But to where? Do they have to be washed off of your skin? What do they look like?"
" It is OK. You no like to try them, I try them on somebody else."
She put them away, obviously disgusted with me for my lack of faith. "Stupid man!" was the look on her face.
On the fourth treatment, she asked again if my neck was better. She seemed puzzled at my negative answer, as if she had never run into this situation in her life. After the usual toe bashing, she suddenly grabbed my arm and began to manipulate it up and down, backwards and forwards. It was the arm (shoulder) that I had dislocated 25 years previously. She detected the 'thump' as she rolled the socket back and forth.
"Aha! Vy didn't you tell me you had a sore arm?"
" I didn't know I had one," I said apologetically. "Besides, that's my left arm and it is the right side of my neck that is sore."
She looked mystified and utterly forlorn. She had finally met a monster she could not conquer. I had planned on reminding her that she was going to fix me in four treatments, but I suddenly felt sorry for her. After the many stories she told me of her successes, I wondered if she would ever tell anyone my story. Probably not.
With my neck as sore as ever, I left the torture chamber for the last time. As I slipped my greasy feet back into my sandals, she told me I should maybe go see a chiropractor. But not Mrs. Quiring! She would hurt me.
"Besides," she announced, "me and my husband are going fishing and I cannot work on you any more this summer."
She had no trouble taking the twenty from my outstretched hand. I turned to leave, looking over my shoulder before I walked out the door, only to see her waddling to the kitchen, presumably to fry up some fish.

Two Lips

I keep going back to my Tulip photos. They are my favourite flower, both to look at and to photograph. I see the Daffodils in our garden, in a sheltered spot tucked up agains the east side of the house, are shooting their spikes, heavenward. I saw a Magnolia tree today, with buds popping out all over. The Alder tree in our neighbours yard is dangling down with allergy inducing buds. Can we use the 'S'word yet?

Relaxing

Here is an old Indian proverb I came across.

On being Lazy: Sitting is better than standing. Lying down is better than sitting. But death is the best of all.

An Uncommon Winter

The last of the snow in the shady spots has finally reverted back to that which it should be, and we can reflect on a winter of unusually abundant snow falls. Fortunately, accumulations were not great, and I can take great comfort in the fact that I did not shovel one time. Should have, perhaps, a time or two, but did not. I can be stubborn. And on principle, I concluded that if the globe is warming, there should at least be a benefit of no longer having to shovel snow.

Slippery Slopes of Childhood

The distant memories of childhood eventually fade. I found this out as I reviewed my stories, looking for one to post today. As I read it, I was amazed that I had written it only a few years ago, but had already forgotten some 0f the details. I hope you enjoy reading it.

Life was not an endless summer full of adventure and discovery. Real life was interrupted every fall by the drudgery of school. On my first day of grade one, little did I realize that I and the kids in my class would spend the next nine years together. There were two classes of us, but there was little exchange in the make up of our group over that span of time. For the first two years we had silver haired Miss Bell Thompson as a baby-sitter / teacher. Right from the opening clang of the hand bell on the first day of school, with mothers in tow, we just knew she meant business. It was the pursed lips and squinty eyes that revealed her philosophy of teaching. Her blue and white outfits that gave off strong odors of deodorant and perfume looked too much like a uniform that indicated she would be more of a drill sergeant than a surrogate mother. She did, however, have a talent for conveying the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic that laid a good foundation for us all.

That is, all but the Funk twins. I suppose they were the only ones who were not intimidated. Their special genetic gift in life was a high pain tolerance. We just knew something was coming down when Miss Thompson let her agitation show by digging in her ear with a bobby pin. Douglas and Donald were identical twins and took great pleasure in confusing her. Being a self assured woman who had by that time amassed about a hundred years of teaching experience, she knew how to kill two birds with one stone. Rectifying the defiance and wreaking revenge for interrupting the class. The twins were masters of switch and blame, which only works if you are identical twins. They had probably mastered this technique at home. It was great entertainment for the rest of the class. We sat there, truly in awe, as both boys were punished, and punished severely for something probably only one of them did. The pain was meted out right there in front of all the students and it usually consisted of several very hard raps on the back of the hands with a wooden ruler, on edge. It was the 'on edge' part that kept me on the straight and narrow for most of my first two years under Miss Thompson. It happened on an almost weekly basis and the frustration on the part of the whip master was getting more evident as time went by. You see, the problem was that Donald and Douglas would not flinch a muscle during the ordeal, but more than that, they would look back over the classroom and actually smile as wood crushed bone and flesh, at least by the sound of things.

We knew for a certainty that no pain was ever experienced by these classmates, when we saw them get into their first fight. With each other. They seemed the best of friends, the way I and my brother would treat each other if, indeed, I had a brother. But I did not have a brother so I was so confused when I saw them turn on each other with hatred, usually only lasting until they had exhausted their energy tearing each other apart. And tear each other apart they did. Literally. Ears half torn off, bits of scalp pealed back, red and swollen eyes from the gouging, blood running down the chin from the cut lips and their good school clothes tattered and shredded and covered in grass and mud and blood stains. It was brutal. I suppose that a rap on the knuckles from a wooden stick doesn't hurt much when your ear is dangling on your shoulder.

The opposite extreme was Marion Rode. She was a pleasant enough girl, but my goodness, she knew everything. I had thought the purpose of school was to learn stuff. What was she doing there? She was at the top of the class for the rest of her life and we knew if we had a score on a test that was anywhere near her score, we had accomplished a near miracle. She came from a large family who had a very, very large mother. Rumor had it that she went into the hospital one day due to sever pains in her 'stomach'. She came out with a new baby in her arms, a complete surprise to her. She should have known though. It was nine months and ten minutes since her last one. At least it was a really good gene pool because every one of those kids was the pride and joy of Miss Thompson, whose favorites were always the ones who could ace the math quizzes.

I found it quite a coincidence that there were three Terrys in our class, but a really amazing coincidence that all three of us were left handed. It was a policy in those days to have one left-handed desk in each classroom. The educators of the day were finally giving in to the fact that some people are born right brained and there is not a whole lot they can do about it. It took several days, but we finally had three left handed desks, one for each Terry. Dragging a blotter behind the fountain pen was bad enough, but having your left arm hang down while you were trying to write was bad cause to give a failing grade in penmanship.

I got along with the two Terrys, but never became fast friends. There was a famous Toronto Maple Leaf hockey player named Bobby Bonn, whose claim to fame was playing in a Stanley Cup final with a broken leg. This was the stuff of true heroes and Terry Nackenascheny live in the actual house that Bobby Bonn grew up in on the east side of town. The old paint worn three story house became a sort of shrine for us young wannabe hockey players. This made that Terry somewhat of a hero too. By default. The other Terry had glasses at age six already, but we thought it was because his dad was a teacher at the local High School. If your kid had glasses, he looked more scholarly, and this was appropriate for a teacher's kid. The other theory was that he was a coward and wearing glasses virtually guaranteed him a spectators role only, when the after school fights broke out. His dad was an alcoholic and when the word got out, Terry was always making excuses for him. It was natural and I felt a little sorry for him, except when he beat me in chess.

Most of the students in the Lanigan Public School were farm kids. There eventually developed an 'us versus them' attitude between town and country kids. We were just jealous. The farm boys never came to school in the first week in September like the rest of us. They had to help bring the harvest in on the farm. Indeed some of them never ever came back to school at all. Like Gordon Turner who sat behind me and talked to himself when he was supposed to be doing his work. The front end of a combine fell on his head and killed him outright. Keith Vernard was hauling cattle with his brother when the truck left the road and flipped over, expelling both brothers and all the cattle. The ensuing stampede crushed Keith and he never survived. Kenny Shenko never came back one fall day either. He hung himself in his Dad's barn. He had just been on my team in a spirited game of Prisoner's Base in the school gym the day before. Kids' had tended to avoid him because his clothes were permeated with barnyard smells.

The farm kids were generally poorer than those of us from town but made up for it in smarts and in physical strength. They excelled in track and field competitions, but did not do well in team sports. But they got a ride in the bus every day. I thought it would be a pure pleasure to have a ride in a school bus everyday, twice a day. Some of these kids were a half hour drive out of town so I don't know why spending an hour a day on a bumpy country road in an old bus with no springs appealed to me. These kids, for the most part, had parents who shopped at my dad's store so I instinctively knew that I should be nice to them. Over the years I made connections between my dad's farm customers and which kids belonged to them and eventually knew everyone in town and most people within a radius of five miles. We, as a family, sat down one evening to do a town census. We named every man, woman and child in town, added them up, and came up with 575. We did not go beyond the town limits and knew many hundreds more in the farm lands.

Farming was what sustained this town and not until 1965 was there any other economic base. That is when the potash mine was developed.
The main school was a granite monstrosity with oversized halls and very high ceilings. Having been built in the early part of the century, it was somewhat ornate, much in the style of a government building. It was on a rise and was looking down protectively on several smaller one room school houses and a portable or two. There was no sanitation system as we know it today. The row of toilet cubicles were built over a cavernous septic tank and anyone who had the great misfortune of dropping something into the toilet was assured of saying good-bye to it forever. It could be a painful good-bye because you could see it and almost reach it, but the thought of doing so was too repulsive.

The gray water from the wash basins was collected from under the counter as needed, by the janitor, and dumped in front of the school so it could run down the slope and feed the fringes of grass along the third base line of the ball diamond. In winter, it became the frozen version of a water slide. You were not cool unless you could sail down the entire length of the ice sheet while standing. Being uneven and rough, it was quite an accomplishment and only the most coordinated boys could pull it off. On one such attempt, I fell half way down and instead of finishing the slide on my butt, I attempted to walk back up. My feet disappeared from under me and I landed on my face. Why my face? I was unconscious for while and I remember wanting to stay that way in order to avoid the excruciating pain around my eye.

What resulted was the most incredible black eye in the history of Lanigan Public school which was the topic of conversation for months. I hated it because those who saw it and were not aware of how it came to be, asked questions. "I'd hate to see the other guy" became so predictable. And, no, I was not looking through a keyhole. While the tough guy persona was enjoyable, it soon faded as the embarrassment of “I slipped on a slop pile" took over. While the colours eventually faded from black to purple to yellow, the hard swelling around my left eye took many years to gradually subside. It was a constant reminder to stay away from slippery slopes.

Getting Through the Day

I sometimes wonder about the ducks that stay here for the winter. Do they have a 'one day at a time' mentality? If they do, then I was thinking like a duck today. My arm and neck were very sore from my fall and it was a very difficult day for me. One day at a time, and like a duck, I too will soon be enjoying spring. And having a strong left arm again. Lizzy, hand me the Tylenol, would you please?

Ouch!

I slipped and fell on some ice yesterday. My left arm (I am left-handed) was not working well all day, but there was no pain or discomfort. As with many soft tissue injuries, the after effects were delayed. I would rather be out in nature taking photos than trying to function this way. I imagine tomorrow will be a real challenge. Oh well, there is no colour out there right now anyways. We must get out to the Mt. Vernon Tulip Festival again this spring.

Deterioration of Autumn

There are times when we see only what we want to see. We separate the nice words, the pretty pictures, the most vibrant coulours, and tend to ignore everything else, even though it is part of the whole picture. But this makes the picture incomplete as is the above photo. I isolated the best of the Autumn colours and left the rest black and white. Nice to look at but somehow incomplete and not real. As a Christian, I see this happening in the church. New, exciting, different, and revolutionary concepts, all to make the message relevant, attractive and contemporary. But beware the black and white elements, although not as evident and attractive, still need to be seen, to complete the picture.

Melt Down

Just having fun in Photoshop, but perhaps this is a world adjusting to Global Warming.

Touching

The Harrison Lake Sand Sculpting Competition brings some very talented people to the area. I do not know if this was an original piece of art, but it really caught my attention. It is not always easy to determine what the artist had in mind. I suppose good art evokes different things in each of us. There is a poignancy here, but I am not sure why. Giving the original photo this treatment emphasised that aspect of the child/adult interaction. I would find it interesting to hear some of your interprations of this sculpture.

My Daughter

Today is my beautiful daughter's birthday. She is a bit older than this picture would imply, but in my heart she will always be my little girl.

Somewhat Puzzling

Camera against my face, I am lying flat on the patio, looking up into the inner workings of these wonderful Angel Trumpet blossoms, and almost being overcome with the beautiful fragrance wafting downward. Although this plant comes in peach also, it is only the yellow blossoms that will give off the evening fragrance. Now that is puzzling!

Either Or

I have gravitated toward some of my Black and White photos recently and it may have something to do with a conversation I had. We were discussing character traits and I was saying how I am a black and white person. I like things cut and dried. Either or. Simplified. But, life is not like that, although that would be my preference. It is actually all that 'stuff' in the middle ground that makes life complicated and interesting. I have discovered that in my new Photshop program, there is a tool for changing a colour picture to a B&W, but that tool has a myriad of options and slider bars that give me an infinitisimal number of choices regarding the tonal character of the black and white. How much like life! Even the black and white is not cut and dried.