Friday, November 30, 2007
Cure for the Winter Blues
With the forecast for cold and snow this weekend, I am getting a yen to head south again. This was our Palm Springs home for two weeks almost two years ago. We shared accommodations with friends and had a great time with relatively little cost. Do I have volunteers to shovel my driveway in my absence?Thursday, November 29, 2007
Pure Gold
I believe the colours this fall lasted longer than usual. Perhaps the trees were healthy and strong with all the moisture and were reluctant to shed their leaves. Eastern Canada can boast amazing fall colours only because their forests consist mainly of deciduous trees and there is so much colour. We have the same thing here but only in patches. The big Maple tree at Dunach school is always spectacular, as you can see here.Wednesday, November 28, 2007
More Growing up in Sask.
It does not take a long time to find and make friends in a small town. There are only a few kids your age and if it is not them, it is nobody. When all concerned come to this realization, the process is quick and efficient. At that time, there were only three boys to choose from, two from my end of town and one from across town. There were kids older and younger, kids who were siblings of friends, and the odd visitor. We only all came together for school or for impromptu sporting events, namely road hockey, softball, and tackle football. The warm summer evenings saw kids congregate for 'Kick the Can' which often lasted well into the darkness of the evening, but only the west end kids participated because it would be too dark for the others to make their way home after sunset. The street lights were few and far between, and not all of them worked all of the time. A kid can't just play all day. There comes a time when the introduction of work has to take place. It was a foreign concept to my friends, but my parents, having been raised the way they were, were determined to instil within me a strong work ethic at a very early age. Had we lived on a farm, I would have been mucking barns, weeding gardens, chasing pigs and cows around the barnyard or doing some other such activity to contribute to the smooth management of the farming operation. But operating a retail grocery store presented countless opportunities for my Dad to put me to work. I have to admit that most of the time I really enjoyed it.
My duties became numerous and as I worked alongside my Father, I was relieved that I did not have to do household chores at the beck and call of my Mother. She was more of a slave driver and a perfectionist and the little rewards at the store could not be had at home. My Father had a sweet tooth and at all times had a stash of goodies on the go somewhere in the store. As I discovered these secret places over the years, I would sneak a bit for myself, taking care not to pilfer too much or the game would be up. I was naïve to think I could fool him. He knew, but he was a soft touch. He had a weakness for Liquorice Allsorts and Chocolate Macaroons. Being his son, I did too. How convenient.
The work of keeping the shelves filled became my duty. As the products disappeared from their places, I would make my way into the warehouse at the back of the store, find the appropriate box, and bring back enough items to fill the blank spaces in the shelves. The larger, more durable goods, such as soaps, cereals and paper products were kept in the big spooky barn-like warehouse, while the canned goods and more perishable items were kept in a hidden aisle between the two main shelves that ran the length of the store. The height of the shelves was around six feet so if I stood on a box and peered over the top of the shelf, I could not only see what was required to replenish the stock, but I could also spy on the goings on in the store.
That leads me to another important task. I was to ‘keep an eye on certain people’ when they were shopping in the store. It seems they had sticky fingers and my Dad would not say that they were not welcome in his store, but he believed if they were watched, they would be discouraged from stealing and would pay for most of what they came to get. This was a favourite pastime of mine and I soon got to know which people could be caught in the act. My instructions were to let my Dad know and leave it at that, but my detective juices would begin to flow and I found it to be a great adventure to catch people in the act of stealing. I constructed various blinds and hiding places with peep holes and soon felt I was spying on the whole world. This was supposed to be an activity that was to occupy my spare time only, but I managed to integrate the Dick Tracy side of me in almost all I did in the store. One thing it did for sure, and that was to instil in me a strong ethic of "Thou Shalt Not Steal".
There were several memorable occasions when customers were caught red handed doing their evil deed. The first one I caught was George Sharp. He was an elderly gentleman who was known all over town as a cigarette thief. My Dad pointed him out to me early in my detective career and told me to never take my eye off him. He was tall and gaunt and wore a dirty black trench coat, no matter the season or the weather. The great black folds and oversized pockets were perfect for his intentions. He would saunter into the store, hoping it would be busy and we would be distracted. I don't remember him ever buying anything, but come he would. I did not want to make it too obvious that I was watching him so I would pretend to be straightening things out in the display cases, all the while using my peripheral vision to scope out his tactics. Almost everyone smoked in those days and there was a large display case containing every cigarette brand imaginable. The back of the case was facing an aisle and as I was looking at the case, knowing he was behind it and knowing his yellow stained fingers were craving a fresh new pack of smokes, there it came. The bony skeletal hand reached over the back of the shelf and so quickly, I almost missed it, gripped several packages and withdrew immediately, probably plunging into the dark recesses of the trench coat pocket. I was shocked and thrilled at the same time. I actually saw someone breaking the law, stealing from my Dad, and sinning against God. Wow! He actually did it. I was frozen with fear that he had seen me witness his misdeed. I walked around to the side he was on, just in time to see him innocently squeezing some ripe bananas, deciding not to buy any today, and then making a hasty retreat to the door. I ran to my Dad and told him what I had witnessed and he must have taken some action because although I saw George around town many times after that, I don't recall him ever coming into our store again.
Another incident that was a little devastating for me was catching my own friends in an elaborate scheme to get some free chocolate at my Dad's expense. It started out innocently enough when Vernon Guenther wandered into the store one summer afternoon and strangely did not go for the candy counter but made his way to the baking section. It did seem strange that an eight year old boy, whose only knowledge and interest in baking consisted of eating it, would gravitate to that particular section of the store. I followed him, asking what it was he was looking for. He told me his Mom had sent him to get something for baking and he was just checking out the price. His Mom, I knew, did not shop at our store, so I thought it strange except for the fact that word was going around town that we had better prices than the other stores in town. He seemed so unsure and undecided that I eventually left him alone and went to do other things. After several minutes he left, out the front door, and never did buy anything. As I made my way to the back of the store where I had been sweeping the floor, a movement caught my eye and I spotted a hand reaching in through the back door which had been propped open for ventilation. I raced to the door just in time to catch a glimpse of Vern's buddy and my best friend running away from the store, clutching a bag of chocolate chips which had been conveniently dropped there. I didn't even bother trying to catch them but told my Dad. He then had the difficult task of phoning the parent's of both boys and arranging for restitution and hopefully, retribution. Neither parents shopped at our store so it was not a great loss in terms of Public Relations.
By far the most memorable detective adventure was the day my Dad took me aside and told me, with a wicked grin on his face, to, "Watch this!"
The perpetrator was near the back of the store when she did the deed, unawares that my Dad had just witnessed a not so subtle shoplifting event. That was when he hatched a plan and made me privy to it. He went to the phone and with the technology of the day, or lack thereof, he made the phone ring. He had a brief but phoney conversation, before calling the lady in question to the front of the store.
"Mrs. Nash. That was your husband Joe on the phone just now. He just called from across the street at the Lumber Yard and he asked me to tell you that he is in a big hurry to get home and to finish your shopping right now and get over there."
My Dad knew this couple and had seen Joe park his farm pickup across the street and walk into the lumber yard while his wife ambled across the street and into our store. He also knew that she had stolen from him many times before but he had never confronted her. He also knew that when Joe said "jump", his wife jumped, or there would be a price to pay.
The shoplifter came slowly to the front and my Dad had only to say "Joe said RIGHT NOW!"
The next few seconds gave us the biggest laugh we had ever had. She began to walk quickly out the door, seeming to pinch her legs together. There was muffled crackling of cellophane coming from under her dress, and as she descended the steps onto the sidewalk and across the street, she began to run. She ran with her knees locked together, but you could easily tell that the prize was rapidly slipping downward. This in turn made her pinch her legs together all the tighter. By the time she managed to stumble across the street to her husband's truck, the bag of crushed Christie's Chocolate Wafer cookies was very much exposed and she nervously looked back to see if there were any witnesses. There were. But they were laughing so hard they could barely see through the tears. I couldn't help but wonder who would eat those cookies now, knowing where they had been. What a waste?
My duties became numerous and as I worked alongside my Father, I was relieved that I did not have to do household chores at the beck and call of my Mother. She was more of a slave driver and a perfectionist and the little rewards at the store could not be had at home. My Father had a sweet tooth and at all times had a stash of goodies on the go somewhere in the store. As I discovered these secret places over the years, I would sneak a bit for myself, taking care not to pilfer too much or the game would be up. I was naïve to think I could fool him. He knew, but he was a soft touch. He had a weakness for Liquorice Allsorts and Chocolate Macaroons. Being his son, I did too. How convenient.
The work of keeping the shelves filled became my duty. As the products disappeared from their places, I would make my way into the warehouse at the back of the store, find the appropriate box, and bring back enough items to fill the blank spaces in the shelves. The larger, more durable goods, such as soaps, cereals and paper products were kept in the big spooky barn-like warehouse, while the canned goods and more perishable items were kept in a hidden aisle between the two main shelves that ran the length of the store. The height of the shelves was around six feet so if I stood on a box and peered over the top of the shelf, I could not only see what was required to replenish the stock, but I could also spy on the goings on in the store.
That leads me to another important task. I was to ‘keep an eye on certain people’ when they were shopping in the store. It seems they had sticky fingers and my Dad would not say that they were not welcome in his store, but he believed if they were watched, they would be discouraged from stealing and would pay for most of what they came to get. This was a favourite pastime of mine and I soon got to know which people could be caught in the act. My instructions were to let my Dad know and leave it at that, but my detective juices would begin to flow and I found it to be a great adventure to catch people in the act of stealing. I constructed various blinds and hiding places with peep holes and soon felt I was spying on the whole world. This was supposed to be an activity that was to occupy my spare time only, but I managed to integrate the Dick Tracy side of me in almost all I did in the store. One thing it did for sure, and that was to instil in me a strong ethic of "Thou Shalt Not Steal".
There were several memorable occasions when customers were caught red handed doing their evil deed. The first one I caught was George Sharp. He was an elderly gentleman who was known all over town as a cigarette thief. My Dad pointed him out to me early in my detective career and told me to never take my eye off him. He was tall and gaunt and wore a dirty black trench coat, no matter the season or the weather. The great black folds and oversized pockets were perfect for his intentions. He would saunter into the store, hoping it would be busy and we would be distracted. I don't remember him ever buying anything, but come he would. I did not want to make it too obvious that I was watching him so I would pretend to be straightening things out in the display cases, all the while using my peripheral vision to scope out his tactics. Almost everyone smoked in those days and there was a large display case containing every cigarette brand imaginable. The back of the case was facing an aisle and as I was looking at the case, knowing he was behind it and knowing his yellow stained fingers were craving a fresh new pack of smokes, there it came. The bony skeletal hand reached over the back of the shelf and so quickly, I almost missed it, gripped several packages and withdrew immediately, probably plunging into the dark recesses of the trench coat pocket. I was shocked and thrilled at the same time. I actually saw someone breaking the law, stealing from my Dad, and sinning against God. Wow! He actually did it. I was frozen with fear that he had seen me witness his misdeed. I walked around to the side he was on, just in time to see him innocently squeezing some ripe bananas, deciding not to buy any today, and then making a hasty retreat to the door. I ran to my Dad and told him what I had witnessed and he must have taken some action because although I saw George around town many times after that, I don't recall him ever coming into our store again.
Another incident that was a little devastating for me was catching my own friends in an elaborate scheme to get some free chocolate at my Dad's expense. It started out innocently enough when Vernon Guenther wandered into the store one summer afternoon and strangely did not go for the candy counter but made his way to the baking section. It did seem strange that an eight year old boy, whose only knowledge and interest in baking consisted of eating it, would gravitate to that particular section of the store. I followed him, asking what it was he was looking for. He told me his Mom had sent him to get something for baking and he was just checking out the price. His Mom, I knew, did not shop at our store, so I thought it strange except for the fact that word was going around town that we had better prices than the other stores in town. He seemed so unsure and undecided that I eventually left him alone and went to do other things. After several minutes he left, out the front door, and never did buy anything. As I made my way to the back of the store where I had been sweeping the floor, a movement caught my eye and I spotted a hand reaching in through the back door which had been propped open for ventilation. I raced to the door just in time to catch a glimpse of Vern's buddy and my best friend running away from the store, clutching a bag of chocolate chips which had been conveniently dropped there. I didn't even bother trying to catch them but told my Dad. He then had the difficult task of phoning the parent's of both boys and arranging for restitution and hopefully, retribution. Neither parents shopped at our store so it was not a great loss in terms of Public Relations.
By far the most memorable detective adventure was the day my Dad took me aside and told me, with a wicked grin on his face, to, "Watch this!"
The perpetrator was near the back of the store when she did the deed, unawares that my Dad had just witnessed a not so subtle shoplifting event. That was when he hatched a plan and made me privy to it. He went to the phone and with the technology of the day, or lack thereof, he made the phone ring. He had a brief but phoney conversation, before calling the lady in question to the front of the store.
"Mrs. Nash. That was your husband Joe on the phone just now. He just called from across the street at the Lumber Yard and he asked me to tell you that he is in a big hurry to get home and to finish your shopping right now and get over there."
My Dad knew this couple and had seen Joe park his farm pickup across the street and walk into the lumber yard while his wife ambled across the street and into our store. He also knew that she had stolen from him many times before but he had never confronted her. He also knew that when Joe said "jump", his wife jumped, or there would be a price to pay.
The shoplifter came slowly to the front and my Dad had only to say "Joe said RIGHT NOW!"
The next few seconds gave us the biggest laugh we had ever had. She began to walk quickly out the door, seeming to pinch her legs together. There was muffled crackling of cellophane coming from under her dress, and as she descended the steps onto the sidewalk and across the street, she began to run. She ran with her knees locked together, but you could easily tell that the prize was rapidly slipping downward. This in turn made her pinch her legs together all the tighter. By the time she managed to stumble across the street to her husband's truck, the bag of crushed Christie's Chocolate Wafer cookies was very much exposed and she nervously looked back to see if there were any witnesses. There were. But they were laughing so hard they could barely see through the tears. I couldn't help but wonder who would eat those cookies now, knowing where they had been. What a waste?
Mascot Rant
I just cannot help myself, I feel a rant coming on.Didn't you just know that the 2010 Olympic Mascots choosen by VANOC would stir up controversy? I apologise if you like them. You can stop reading now.
I find this to be the height of political correctness, one of my pet peeves of this generation. Are the mascots not supposed to be representative of Canada, something that will identify the 2010 Olympics with things Canadian? Well, it does, really. It shows our greatest national identity marker ... lack of identity.
There is nothing real about Canada, according to these choices, because all three are fictional. Canadian identity is fictional. We have Sumi, an imaginary spirit roaming the forests, supposedly of aboriginal origins, then there is Quatchi, a sasquatch (and we all know how real these guys are) and then Miga, a fish/bear who is perhaps a missing link in the evolutionary myth.
All three are sort of Oriental looking, and although there is nothing wrong with looking Oriental, I don't think the Chinese are going to have Caucasian looking mascots.
If the appeal was strictly to children then they hit the jackpot imitating Pokemon, but looking back at other Canadian Mascots I think we could have done better. The '76 Montreal Olympics had the cute little flag bannered Beaver named Amik. And who could forget the endearing Polar Teddy Bears of Hidy and Howdy of the Calgary winter Olympics of '88? These were mascots representative of things Canadian.
It is too late now but I would like to have seen something like a lumberjack dressed in a red plaid shirt with an Olympic sized ax over his shoulder. Now that is not only Canadian, but British Columbian as well. Besides, our forest industry needs a big shot in the arm right now.
Oops, I just thought of it. That would be politically incorrect because that would be a representation of deforestation which is leading to global warming etc. etc.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Rain Forest
A warm August day was driving us to the cooler spots in the garden, but even here, the breezes were pushing the heat into the shade. A sunshine shower, or an irrigation sprinkler inadvertently left running? Either way, it was being in the right place at the right time, and but for the sensitive electronics of the camera, the photographer would be sitting on the bench.Monday, November 26, 2007
In Loving Memory
Mika Bergen, who loved to grow DahliasFebruary 3 1921 - November 21 2007
For Henry and Heidi: When the sunshine of God's love meets the showers of our sorrow, the rainbow of promise appears.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
A Rose
We were out for a walk today, enjoying the sun, but noticing how low it is in the sky. Two months from now, it will be thus. For the next two months it will be darker and the days shorter, the landscape dull and colourless, the sky mostly drab and grey, and I will find colour and cheeriness where I can, in my photos.
We have one rose left in our garden as of today. Not bad for November, but before you are too impressed, this is not it. Our lone winter rose is frost damaged on the edges and needing sunshine to show off its true beauty. This rose was photographed and slightly altered in summer. I have a vast collection of rose photos, to hold me through the winter. Country Church
Those who travel Highway #3 have seen this church many times. To drive off the main road and get a closs-up photo seems like it might be trespassing so I resorted to a telphoto lens. The church I attend is a bit larger than this one, but God's light shines on it just the sameSaturday, November 24, 2007
Miss Thompson
Two comments on the photo of my old school got my juices going and I have written a little description of my first day of school with the legendary Miss Thompson, the Grade one and two teacher, in Lanigan, since the invention of wheat.
Miss Thompson
I was clutching my mom's hand tightly as we both stood in the doorway at the top of the steps. On either side, young students and their mothers were jostling for position as Miss Thompson was about to open the door to the one room school house. It was with fear and anxiety that I was about to embark on my 12 year journey through the school system.
My older sister had survived Miss Thompson, in fact, had survived two years of her before I even arrived on the scene. That gave small comfort as I saw and heard the door handle turning. I had seen this woman before, but only from a distance, and was glad for the distance because she looked austere and threatening.
She was referred to at my home as 'Belle' Thompson, but I was instructed to only call her 'Miss Thompson'. The penalty for breaking this rule was sure death, or at least I thought so. Rumours abounded regarding the unusual torture and punishment this woman could mete out and my sister's run-in with her proved it. She had come home with 'wet pants' after having been 'shook up' by Belle, er, I mean, Miss Thompson.
These 'shake ups' were legendary and there was not a student she ever taught, with the exception of her all time favourite 'pet' Marion Rode, who was not on the receiving end of at least a mild one of these. For the slightest misdemeanour, she would grab the child by the shoulders and violently shake back and forth, as if to drive some sense into the kid. Fortunately, whiplash had not yet been invented or law suits would have abounded.
I had expressed misgivings about attending a class with such a cruel taskmaster at the head, but my mother assured me that she was really a nice lady and a very, very good teacher and all her students did really well. Just behave and everything will be fine.
Just behave, just behave, became my internal mantra.
The door suddenly swung open and there she was. From my perspective, that of a 6 year old, she was a large woman, both tall and thickly built. Her hair was silver, almost blue somehow, and I wondered how one got blue hair. She had a stern face but was wearing a big smile, looking rather fake, probably just trying to impress the parents and infuse some confidence in the children. Her navy cotton print dress was a little snug on top and I could see that she was a bit top heavy. Her face had a powdery look, her lips were too red, and she was a pioneer when it came to blue eye shadow. She was not exactly what I had expected, but what choice did I have, but to accept her for what she was. I would have sooner rejected her, but by this time my mom was pushing my hand out of hers and steering me toward one of the three left handed desks in the classroom. She put us to work right away and after a very brief talk with the parents, they were shooed out of the building and she had us to herself.
The smile suddenly disappeared! We then got 'the lecture', regarding boots, coats, hats, books, pencils and behaviour. It was a no nonsense attitude she was displaying and I knew what was good for me. I was not going to be the first one to try out her patience or her tolerance level. The test came soon enough as the Funk twins started fooling around. What was this? A strapping on the first day of school? No problem. It set an example, a precedent, a level of behaviour, beyond which there was no turning back. The rest of us huddled in fear as the awful noises came from the cloak room.
Thwack.
I had been strapped by a belt at home often enough to recognize that dreaded sound. But there was no whimpering or crying out to follow. Just silence. All eyes were on the cloak room door as Miss Thompson stepped out, red faced and obviously very agitated. Behind her sauntered Donald Funk, a big grin on his face, displaying to the whole class who was the toughest kid in school, as if we hadn't just found out.
He plunked down at his desk, staring down at the large red and growing welts on the backs of his hands. Miss Thompson sat at her desk too, but got out a large bobby pin and began picking in her ears.
I just knew I had a story to tell at the supper table that night!
Miss Thompson
I was clutching my mom's hand tightly as we both stood in the doorway at the top of the steps. On either side, young students and their mothers were jostling for position as Miss Thompson was about to open the door to the one room school house. It was with fear and anxiety that I was about to embark on my 12 year journey through the school system.
My older sister had survived Miss Thompson, in fact, had survived two years of her before I even arrived on the scene. That gave small comfort as I saw and heard the door handle turning. I had seen this woman before, but only from a distance, and was glad for the distance because she looked austere and threatening.
She was referred to at my home as 'Belle' Thompson, but I was instructed to only call her 'Miss Thompson'. The penalty for breaking this rule was sure death, or at least I thought so. Rumours abounded regarding the unusual torture and punishment this woman could mete out and my sister's run-in with her proved it. She had come home with 'wet pants' after having been 'shook up' by Belle, er, I mean, Miss Thompson.
These 'shake ups' were legendary and there was not a student she ever taught, with the exception of her all time favourite 'pet' Marion Rode, who was not on the receiving end of at least a mild one of these. For the slightest misdemeanour, she would grab the child by the shoulders and violently shake back and forth, as if to drive some sense into the kid. Fortunately, whiplash had not yet been invented or law suits would have abounded.
I had expressed misgivings about attending a class with such a cruel taskmaster at the head, but my mother assured me that she was really a nice lady and a very, very good teacher and all her students did really well. Just behave and everything will be fine.
Just behave, just behave, became my internal mantra.
The door suddenly swung open and there she was. From my perspective, that of a 6 year old, she was a large woman, both tall and thickly built. Her hair was silver, almost blue somehow, and I wondered how one got blue hair. She had a stern face but was wearing a big smile, looking rather fake, probably just trying to impress the parents and infuse some confidence in the children. Her navy cotton print dress was a little snug on top and I could see that she was a bit top heavy. Her face had a powdery look, her lips were too red, and she was a pioneer when it came to blue eye shadow. She was not exactly what I had expected, but what choice did I have, but to accept her for what she was. I would have sooner rejected her, but by this time my mom was pushing my hand out of hers and steering me toward one of the three left handed desks in the classroom. She put us to work right away and after a very brief talk with the parents, they were shooed out of the building and she had us to herself.
The smile suddenly disappeared! We then got 'the lecture', regarding boots, coats, hats, books, pencils and behaviour. It was a no nonsense attitude she was displaying and I knew what was good for me. I was not going to be the first one to try out her patience or her tolerance level. The test came soon enough as the Funk twins started fooling around. What was this? A strapping on the first day of school? No problem. It set an example, a precedent, a level of behaviour, beyond which there was no turning back. The rest of us huddled in fear as the awful noises came from the cloak room.
Thwack.
I had been strapped by a belt at home often enough to recognize that dreaded sound. But there was no whimpering or crying out to follow. Just silence. All eyes were on the cloak room door as Miss Thompson stepped out, red faced and obviously very agitated. Behind her sauntered Donald Funk, a big grin on his face, displaying to the whole class who was the toughest kid in school, as if we hadn't just found out.
He plunked down at his desk, staring down at the large red and growing welts on the backs of his hands. Miss Thompson sat at her desk too, but got out a large bobby pin and began picking in her ears.
I just knew I had a story to tell at the supper table that night!
PhotoShop Fun
I manipulated this ordinary photo about 30 different ways until it 'grabbed' me. Over the edge? Maybe, but so much better than the original.
White Rock trains are everbody's favourites. Just jump off the track in time! More PhotoShop playing here for the lighting effects and imagination for the sound effects. Did you remember to put your penny on the track?Indian Pipe
We were hiking on the southern shores of Hayward Lake, the sun was all but hidden by the dense forestation, when we came upon a knoll covered in small shrubs and plants that only grow in low light conditions. There, at the base of a filtered shaft of sunlight, something caught our eye. They were very fragile and reminded us of mushrooms, but were albino-like flowers. I took a few photos and later searched the internet for a clue as to what they were. I had no luck, so went to a university botanical sight. I up-loaded the pictures to one of the experts who would respond to my email. He was quite enthusiastic and told me I had come across a very rarely seen variety of 'Indian Pipe'. Very unusual to spot because only very rarely are the conditions just right for them to bloom and when they do, they come up very quickly and then deteriorate and fade just as quickly.More Barns
This is one of the prettiest barns in the area and I caught it on a bright and sunny day when I happened to have my camera with me. If you cannot guess where it is, you need glasses. :-)
This is a small after thought on a rather larger barn very near Chilliwack. I find old and weathered barn boards very attractive and wonder why anyone would ever paint a barn.
Oh, OK. Maybe this is why someone would want to paint a barn. The only barn that looks better than an old weathered one is a freshly painted red one.
This is a small after thought on a rather larger barn very near Chilliwack. I find old and weathered barn boards very attractive and wonder why anyone would ever paint a barn.
Oh, OK. Maybe this is why someone would want to paint a barn. The only barn that looks better than an old weathered one is a freshly painted red one.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Mt. Baker
A 'good real estate view' is always one that includes Mt. Baker. The mountain itself is in the USA, but the best views by far are from Canada.Grassy Hillside
Here is my younger Grandson, about the age when I first began registering memories. Will he remember running out into the grassy meadow and trying to be patient while his Grandad set up his camera?
Sumas Prairie Barn
Do I like barn photos because we live in an agricultural community, because my friend's dad built so many of the barns in this area, or because they represent low tech? It is pretty basic, being a shelter for animals and for their food. Straightforward, simple, and efficient. They look good to me even on a grey day.Thursday, November 22, 2007
Pastureland
If you were an American and you had never crossed the border but only seen this view from 0 Ave., what would you think lay beyond? Does all of Canada look like this? You might think so because the ridge of high ground all but obscures the great land beyond. We are more than this, but this is a good start.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Poppy
It is still November so here is a poppy in remembrance, much more fragile than the ones we pin on our lapels.
Driver Education
Here is the first little story of my boyhood recollections in Lanigan Sask.
Chapter 1
" I heard that there are several boys your age living very near by. Would you like to meet them?" my mother asked one day over lunch.
I thought I had seen one just that morning. He was in the street riding a tricycle and looked friendly enough. My Mother was eager to get me out from underfoot and the best way to do that was to get me going with a friend or two. My older sister and I did not get along well and besides, playing with girls was something I refused to do.
I sauntered out the back screen door into the side yard where the big old green Plymouth was parked. It was not used much these days, except when my Dad would deliver a load of groceries to someone who did not have their own transportation. This was usually done in the evenings, after work, and I would often get to ride along. It was a hot day and as I walked past the car, I noticed that the windows had been left open. The doors were very big and heavy and I had great difficulty opening them, but with the windows open, it was an easy task getting in. I had never been specifically told that the car was off limits, but still a little pang of guilt hit me as I climbed in the driver's window. It was my great dream to one day be at the controls of a car and actually drive it. Until that day, which always seemed so far off, I would be content to pretend. I was unable to see through the windshield, but that did not prevent me from cranking the wheel one way and then the other, racing down the highway, swerving around the corners, and raising billowing clouds of dust behind me as I flew through the countryside. The foot pedals had always been a mystery to me, I could never quite see what Dad was doing when I would detect a flex of his knee but I knew it had something to do with braking and also with moving the lever on the steering column, something called changing the gears.
So, to be true to my fantasy, I too had to change gears. I strained body and legs to reach the pedals and, almost sliding off the seat, managed to press both pedals to the floor simultaneously. With a mighty push of my right arm, the gear shift lever slid upwards and clicked into a new position. That wasn't so hard, I thought. But wait. I had a sensation of movement. I couldn't really be driving because the engine was not running. The keys were not even in the ignition and I knew that was a prerequisite. But I was definitely moving, very slowly, but creeping backwards down the slight decline to the street. My first concern was the trouble I was going to be in when Mom saw that the car was not parked where she had left it. But a much larger concern soon overcame me and fear coursed through my body as visions of death and a totally demolished car filled my imagination. For there, just up the street, came the town grader, straight for our place, blade down, engine growling and it seemed to me to be an unstoppable beast, bearing down on all in it's path. I gauged by my direction and speed and the speed of the grader, that it would only be a matter of a minute or less and my world would come crashing in. I struggled with the door, but must have pushed down the lock knob in my efforts to climb in the window. But my greater concern was for the car. I had no idea how to stop it. And if I did not stop it, my Dad's car would be no more. He could not deliver the groceries, his business would fail, and we would become poor and destitute, starving to death in our ratty old house. I resorted to the old tried and true thing to do when panic sets in. I screamed at the top of my lungs.
Whether anyone heard me or not was irrelevant, for two things happened. They were both miracles in my estimation. The back end of the car was just beginning to protrude onto the street, when suddenly it came to an abrupt halt. The street was slightly raised and halted the momentum of the car. At almost the exact same time, the grader stopped, the hard packed dirt ceasing its curl off the end of the polished steel blade. The engine wound down and actually stopped. I was frozen in terror and could not let go of the steering wheel. I don't know who came to the window first, the grader operator or my Mom, but there they were, both staring down at me.
"Son, you had better get this car off the road so I can finish my job," he said, as if it was totally in my control to do so.
"Move over, Terry," my Mom gently said. "I'll drive it back up the driveway."
I do not recall her saying much beyond that, but it came to my attention that when we left the car, the windows were shut tightly and the doors locked securely. In my mother's wisdom, she must have realized that I needed no chiding, as I had just had a terrifying experience that would have taught me much more than any words she could have said. I am sure she and Dad had a good chuckle over it as they discussed the day’s activities later that evening.
The next day when I did meet the neighbour boy for the first time, we were kicking dirt and wondering what to do.
“How about we go for a drive in your car?" he suggested.
We all discovered how quickly news spreads in a small prairie town.
Chapter 1
" I heard that there are several boys your age living very near by. Would you like to meet them?" my mother asked one day over lunch.
I thought I had seen one just that morning. He was in the street riding a tricycle and looked friendly enough. My Mother was eager to get me out from underfoot and the best way to do that was to get me going with a friend or two. My older sister and I did not get along well and besides, playing with girls was something I refused to do.
I sauntered out the back screen door into the side yard where the big old green Plymouth was parked. It was not used much these days, except when my Dad would deliver a load of groceries to someone who did not have their own transportation. This was usually done in the evenings, after work, and I would often get to ride along. It was a hot day and as I walked past the car, I noticed that the windows had been left open. The doors were very big and heavy and I had great difficulty opening them, but with the windows open, it was an easy task getting in. I had never been specifically told that the car was off limits, but still a little pang of guilt hit me as I climbed in the driver's window. It was my great dream to one day be at the controls of a car and actually drive it. Until that day, which always seemed so far off, I would be content to pretend. I was unable to see through the windshield, but that did not prevent me from cranking the wheel one way and then the other, racing down the highway, swerving around the corners, and raising billowing clouds of dust behind me as I flew through the countryside. The foot pedals had always been a mystery to me, I could never quite see what Dad was doing when I would detect a flex of his knee but I knew it had something to do with braking and also with moving the lever on the steering column, something called changing the gears.
So, to be true to my fantasy, I too had to change gears. I strained body and legs to reach the pedals and, almost sliding off the seat, managed to press both pedals to the floor simultaneously. With a mighty push of my right arm, the gear shift lever slid upwards and clicked into a new position. That wasn't so hard, I thought. But wait. I had a sensation of movement. I couldn't really be driving because the engine was not running. The keys were not even in the ignition and I knew that was a prerequisite. But I was definitely moving, very slowly, but creeping backwards down the slight decline to the street. My first concern was the trouble I was going to be in when Mom saw that the car was not parked where she had left it. But a much larger concern soon overcame me and fear coursed through my body as visions of death and a totally demolished car filled my imagination. For there, just up the street, came the town grader, straight for our place, blade down, engine growling and it seemed to me to be an unstoppable beast, bearing down on all in it's path. I gauged by my direction and speed and the speed of the grader, that it would only be a matter of a minute or less and my world would come crashing in. I struggled with the door, but must have pushed down the lock knob in my efforts to climb in the window. But my greater concern was for the car. I had no idea how to stop it. And if I did not stop it, my Dad's car would be no more. He could not deliver the groceries, his business would fail, and we would become poor and destitute, starving to death in our ratty old house. I resorted to the old tried and true thing to do when panic sets in. I screamed at the top of my lungs.
Whether anyone heard me or not was irrelevant, for two things happened. They were both miracles in my estimation. The back end of the car was just beginning to protrude onto the street, when suddenly it came to an abrupt halt. The street was slightly raised and halted the momentum of the car. At almost the exact same time, the grader stopped, the hard packed dirt ceasing its curl off the end of the polished steel blade. The engine wound down and actually stopped. I was frozen in terror and could not let go of the steering wheel. I don't know who came to the window first, the grader operator or my Mom, but there they were, both staring down at me.
"Son, you had better get this car off the road so I can finish my job," he said, as if it was totally in my control to do so.
"Move over, Terry," my Mom gently said. "I'll drive it back up the driveway."
I do not recall her saying much beyond that, but it came to my attention that when we left the car, the windows were shut tightly and the doors locked securely. In my mother's wisdom, she must have realized that I needed no chiding, as I had just had a terrifying experience that would have taught me much more than any words she could have said. I am sure she and Dad had a good chuckle over it as they discussed the day’s activities later that evening.
The next day when I did meet the neighbour boy for the first time, we were kicking dirt and wondering what to do.
“How about we go for a drive in your car?" he suggested.
We all discovered how quickly news spreads in a small prairie town.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Another Morning Glory
In my collection of pictures, there are a handful of favourites. This is one of them. This Morning Glory vine was creeping up my neighbours chimney. The brick was not exciting me as a backdrop for so lovely a pair of blossoms, but I clicked away anyway. I did a bit of PhotoShop work to somehow change the drab grayness of the brick and this is what I came up with. The darkened background has a warmth and depth to it that actually enhances the twin blue blossoms without distorting the true beauty of the flowers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)